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^sUct ^oj^mn
OF
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH
EDITED, WITH NOTES
BY
M. F. LIBBY, B.A.
Mng^/itA Master of thf yameson Avenue Coll, Inst., Teronte
'Co?ne eut Into t\vt light of thlnaa-
liCt Watupc be yoxip teaehcp."
TORONTO
THE COPP, CLARK COMPANY, Limited
£39a
-■WoRDJ,WO»T»l % Sr
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18930 6
Iil09
Entered according to Act of the Parliament of Canada, in the year one
thousand eight hundred and ninety-two, by Thk Copp, Clark Oa
hmnitD, in tlie Office of the Minister of Agriculture. *
ikouni ^ « '^Tl '*' '"•'""'^^''^ '^d.antag, of a „ery sensible.
*«.T „:;;;* V""" ""*/*"* «'* «'"^'^ '^"^y^^ the Greek
tragic poets, he made ua read Shakespeare and Milton as lessons ■
<«ultheg were the lessons, *oo. which re<:yired most time and trouble
to bring up, so as to escape his censure. I learnsd from him that
S^rUT/ f "if!" ''^'"*^'"' •-«'-^'i'. that of the wildest
TmJ,* L^ "^ * '"""' "'*''""''' '''that of science: and more
difficult, because more subtle, more complex, and dependent upon
more, and more fugltlae causes. "In the truly great po4.ts " he would
^'^ tr 'I " ''^"""' «"'»"«*'«' ""< only for eoery word, but fo.-
th* position of every word,"
-Coleridge's "Blographla Uterarla."
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«-■'
PREFACE.
At first sight the extreme simplicity of the greater number
of these selections from Wordsworth may app<)ar to make
editing and annotating almost superfluous, but a closer vie'V'
will reveal the truth that the poet's eimplicity is not the dir*x5t
method of childhood, but rather of a profound (however suo-
cesaful) manhood guided by both instinotWe and acquired rules
of art
Glasses in our schools may be expected to understand the
thoughts and feelings of the simpler poems here more readily
than they would understand the average work of poets like
Coleridge and Byron ; while the more difficult poems hor« can
hai'dly prove so obscure as the most difficult poems of other
gi-eat poets.
Indeed the simplicity of these poems is likely to be the chief
stumbling-block to those who study them. It is in storm,
passion, and excess, that the untrained find most to interest
them whether in picture, play, or real life. So in poetry, the
warlike lines of Scott, the straining and heaving cadences of
Byron, and the morbid, tear-starting beauty of parts of Lon^:-
fellow and Tennyson, seize upon the young student with powet*
and stir him into feeling. But these poets are to Wordsworth
as wine to water, as a scene of revelry to a homely evening,
as a Christmas dinner to a fiugal meal.
Is it the nature of boys and girls to prefer the plain, whole-
some, healthful thoughts and feelings of this poet, thoughts
that never err from the line of truth and good sense, and
feelings that never stir the heart to undue activity, is it their
nature to prefer these to the tumult and excitement of more
VI
',"'• I m^^^mtf^^mmmmmmmfi
PRErACB.
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popular writers] Is it poeeible to make them love the frui^:l
and Puntan diet of Wordsworth without firet making them as
simple, as wise, and as passionless? However one may reply to
these questions one will not deny that the reverence, and
nio<lesty, and love of all good and beautv found in this poet's
works are qualities that every right-minded pupU mv.y M led
to res,,ect, and that a study of tl ese verses cannot fail to do
good m a land where reverence for the Wordsworthian virtues
18 said by the thoughtful to be far from conspicuous
I
r-
TABLE OF CONTENTS.
Introduction, Prrfaos. v
Mattherr Arnold's Essay on Wordsworth T 9
PoKMS. — 1. The Reverie of Poor Susan „ . . . 88
2. We are Seven 84
3. Lncy Gray 36
— ^ 4. Michael 4J
5. Hart-Leap WeU 66
6. FideUty. 62
7. The Leech-Gatherer 66
8. To the Daisy . 73
9. lo the Same , 76
10. To a Highland Girl 76
1 1 . Steppiug Westward 78
12. The Solitary Reaper 73
13. At the Grave of Bums 81
14. Near the Residence of Bums.. 84
15. To the Cuckoo 86
16. Yiarrow Visited 87
17. To a Sk%- Lark 90
18. To the Same 91
19. Ode to Duty . . 95
20. Ode on Intimations of Immortality 98
21. Character of the Happy Warrior 103
22. 'I'iutern Abbey 109
23. The Fountain 114
24. Peele Castle 1 17
26. The French Revolution 119
26. A Poet's Epitaph 120
27. The Third Sonnet 125
28. The Sixth Sonnet 125
29. The Seventeenth Sonnet 126
30. The Nineteenth Sonnet. 126
31. The Twentieth Sonnet 127
32. The Twenty-Third Sonnet 127
33. The Twenty-Fourth Sonnet , 123
^
VUl
CONTENTS.
J
foMUB— Continued. muta
34. The Twenty- Fifth Sonnet. 12»
85. The Twenty-Sixth Sonnet 12:
38. The Twenty-Ninth Sonnet 129
THK OOMMKNTART.
Chapter I. Memoir of Wordaworth 137
Chapter II. Tile Definition of Poetry 149
Chapter III. The Study of a Poem 166
Chapter IV. Critical Estimates of Wordsworth 181
Chapter V. Poems selected for Sight- Work 209
Chapter VI. Questions on the Selections 221
Chapter VIL Notes— The Reverie of Poor Susan 243
We are Seven 245
Lnoy Gray 245
♦ Michael 247
Hart-Leap Well 249
FideUty 251
The Leech-Gatherer 252
To the Daisy 253
To the Same 255
To a Highland Girl 256
Stepping Westward 267
The Solitary Reaper. 257
At the Grave of Burns 258
Near the Residence of Bums 260
To the Cuckoo 260
Yarrow Visited 261
To a Sky-Lark 268
To the Same % 268
OdetoDuty 270
Ode on Intimations of Immortality. 272
Character of the Happy Warrior. 278
Tintem Abbey , 278
TheFonntain. 280
PeeleOastie 281
The French Revolution .^282
A Poet's Epitaph 288
The Third Sonnet 289
The Sixth Sonnet .289
The Steventeenth Sonnet 289
CONTENTS. . jji
Ohapter VII. Notes— C«;i<»n«Krf,
The Nineteenth Sonnet 29()
The Twontioth Sonnet. 290
The Twenty-Third Sonnet ' 290
The Twenty- Fourth Sonnet 290
The Twen^-Fifth Sonnet 290
The Twenty-Sixth Sonnet \\\ 291
The Twenty'Ninth Sonnet jj9j
mm
\'
THE KEY-NOTE OP THESE SELECTIONS.
"Mif heart leaps up when t behold
A rainbow in the sku •
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 dh I
The child Is father of the man;
And I eould wish my days to be
Bound each to each by natural piety.
9804.
" ^ -»* / -"' ,}%f} • ^"■!l.'v i (|a ' < : "' '* ""«' ^
If
MATTHEW ARNOLD'S ESSAY ON
- WORDSWORTH.
I remember hearing Lord Macaulaj say, after "Wordsworth's
deatli, when subscriptions were being collected to found a
memorial of him, that ten yeara earlier more money could
have been raised in Cambridge alone, to do honour to Words-
worth, than was raised now all through the country. Lord
Macaulay had, as we know, his own heightened and telling way
of putting things, and we must always make allowance for it.
But probably it is tn;e that Wordsworth has never, either
before or since, been so accepted and popular, so established in
pobaession of the minds of all who profess to care for poetry,
as he was between the years 1830 and 1840, and atOambiidge.
From the very first, no doubt, ue had his believers and wit-
nesses. But I have myself heard hi*n declare that, for he
knew not how many years, his poetry had never brought him
in enough to buy his shoe-strings. The poetry-reading public
was very slow to i*eoognise him, and was very easily drawn
away from him. Scott effaced him with this public, Byroa
effaced hlra.
The death of Byron seemed, however, to make an opening
for Wordsworth. Scott, who had for some time ceased to
produce poetry himself, and stood before the public as a great
novelist ; Scott, too genuine himself not to feel the profound
genuineness of Wordsvorth, and wiih an instinctive recogni-
tion of his firm hold on nature and of his local tinith, always
admired him s^lcerely, and praised him generously. The in-
fluence of Coleridge upon young men of ability was then
powerful, and was still gathering strength ; this influence told
.
10
ESSAY ON WORDSWOBTII.
f^ntirely in favour of Wordsworth's poetry. Cambridge was a
place where Coleridge's influence had great action, and where
Wordsworth's i)oetry, therefore, flouiished especiaJly. But
even amongst the general public its sale grew large, the
eminence of its author was widely recognized, and Bydal
Mount became an object of pilgiamage. I remember Words-
worth relating how one of the pilgrims, a clergyman, asked him
if he had ever written anything besides the Guide to the Lftiea.
Yes, he answered mod€«tly, he had written verses. Not every
pilgrim was a reader, but the vogue was established, and the
stream of pilgrims came.
Mr. Tennyson's decisive appearance dates from 1842. One
cannot say that he effaced Wordsworth as Scott and Byron
had effaced him. The poetry of Wordsworth had been so long
before the public, the suffrage of good judges was so steady
and so strong in its favour, that by 1842 the verdict of
posterity, one may almost say, hud been already pronounced,
and Wordsworth's English fame was riecure. But the vogue,
the ear and applause of the great body of poetiy-readers, never
quite thoroughly perhaps his, he gradually lost more and more,
and Mr. Tennyson gained them. Mr. Tennyson drew to
himself, and away from Wordsworth, the poetry-reading public,
and the new generations. Even in 1850, when Wordsworth
died, this diminution of popularity was visible, and occasioned
the remark of Lord Macaulay which I quoted at starting.
The diminution has continued. The influence of Coleridge
has waned, and Wordsworth's poetiy can no longer draw
succour from this ally. The poetry has not, however, wanted
eulogists ; and it may be said to have brought ita eulogists
luck, for almost every one who has praised Wordsworth's
poetry has praised it well. But the public has remained cold,
or. at least, undetermined. Even the abundance of Mr. Pal-
grave's fine and skilfully chosen specimens of Wordsworth, in
the Golden Treasury/, surprised many readers, and gave offence
SSSAV ON WORDSWORTH.
11
to not a few. To tenth-rate critics and compilers, for whom
)any violent shock to the public taste would be a temerity not
to be lisked, it is ( ill quite permissible to speak of Words-
wcrth'a poetry, not only with ignorance, but with impertinence.
On the Continent he is almost unknown.
I cannot think, then, that Wordsworth has, up to this time,
at all obtained his deserts. " Glory," said M. Kenan the other
day, "gloiy after all is the thing which has the best chance of
not being altogether vanity." Wordsworth was a homely mtin,
i and himself would certainly never have thought of talking of
I glory as that which, after all, has the best chance of not being
taltogetiher vanity. Yet we may well allow that few things are
lless vain than real glory. Let us conceive of the whole gioup
[of civilised nations as being, for intellectual and spiritual
[purposes, one great confederation, bound to a joint action and
working towards a common result; a confederation whose
iniembers have a due knowledge both of the past, out of which
[they all proceed, and of one another. This was the ideal oi
[Goethe, and it is an ideal which will impose itself upon the
ithoughts of our modern societies more and more. Then to be
3Cognised by the verdict of such a confederation as a master,
For even ac a seriously and eminently worthy workman, in one's
[own line of intellectual or spiritual activity, is indeed glory ; a
floiy which it would be difficult to rate too highly. For what
Bould be more beneficent, more salutary ? The world is for-
[warded by having its attention fixed on the best things ; and
lere is a tribunal, free from all suspicion of national and pro-
incial pak^Jutility, putting a stam[) on the best things, and
Fl-ecommending them for general honour and acceptance. A
ition, i^ain, is furthered by recognition of its real gifts and
successes ; it is encouraged to develop them further. And here
is an honest verdict, tolling us which of our supposed successes
really, in the judgment of the great impart al world, and not
mr own private judgment only, auccesaes, and which are not
12
ESSAY ON WORDSWORTH.
I
It is so epsy to feel piide and satisfaction in one's own things,
HO hard to make sut-e that one is right in feeling it 1 We have
a great empire. But so had Nebuchadnezzar. We extol the
" unrivalled happiness " of our national civilisation. But then
comes a candid fiiend, and remarks that our upper class u
materialised, our middle class vulgarized, and our lower class
brutalised. We are proud of our painting, our music. But we
find that in the judgment of other people our painting is
questionable, and our music non-existent. We are proud of
our men of science. And here it turns out that the world is
with us ; we find that in the judgment of other people, too,
Newton among the dead, and Mr. Darwin among the living,
hold as high a place as they hold in our national opinion.
Finally, we are proud of our poets and poetry. Now poetry
is nothing less than the most perfect speech of maa, that in
which he comes nearest to being able to uBleFthe truth. It
is no small thing, therefore, to succeed eminently ia poetry.
And so much is required for duly estimating success here, that
about poetry it ii perhaps hardest to arrive at a sure general
verdict, and takes longest. Meanwhile, our own conviction of
the superiority of our national poets is not decisive, is almost
certain *x) be mingled, as we see constantly in English eulogy
of Shakspeare, with much of provincial Infatuation. And we
l^now what was the opinion current amongst our neighbours
the French, people of taste, acuteness, and quick literary tact,
not a hundred ^years ago, about our great poets. The old
Biographie Universelle noticeu the pretensioi^ of the English to
a place for their poets among the chief poets of the world, and
says that this is a pretension which to no one but an English-
man can ever seem admissable. And the scornful, disparaging
things said by foreigners about Shakspeare and Milton, and
about our national over-estimate of them, have been often
quoted, and will be in every one's remembrance.
A great change has taken place, and Shakspeare ia now
B8SAY ON WORDSWORTH.
13
generally recognized, even in France, as one of the greatest of
poets. Yes, some anti-Gallican cynic will say, the French
rank hira with Comeille and with Victor Hugo! But let mo
have the pleasure of quoting a sentence about Shakspeare,
which I met with by accident not long ago in the Correspond-
arU, a French review which not a dozen English people, 1
suppose, look at. The writer is praising Shakspeare's prose.
With Shakspeare, he says, "prose comes in whenever the
subject, being moi-e familiar, is unsuited to the majestic Eng-
lish iambic." And he goes on : " Sliakspeare is the king of
poetic rhythm and style, as well as the king of the i-ealm of
thought ; along with his dazzling prose, Shakspeare has suc-
ceeded in giving us the most varied, the most harmonious
vorse which has ever sounded upon the human ear since the
verse of che Greeks." M. Henry Cochin, the writer Of this
sentence, deserves our gratitude for it ; it would not be easy to
praise Shakspeare, in a single sentence, more justly. And
when a foreigner and a Frenchman writes thus of Shakspea e,
[and when Goethe says of Milton, in whom there was so much
[to repel Goethe rather than to attract him, that " nothing has
ever been done so entirely in the sense of the Greeks as Sain-
\.S(m Agonistes" and that " Milton is in very truth a poet whom
we must treat with all reverence," then we underatand what
[ constitutes a European recognition of poets and poetry as oon-
tiudistinguished from a merely national recognition, and that
in favour both of Milton and of Shakspeare the judgment of
^the high court of appeal has finally gone.
I come back to M. Bemm's praise of glory, from which I
ptarted. Tes, real glory is a most serious thing, glory authdnti-
icated by the Amphictyonic Court of final apjjeal, definitive
|glory. And even for poets and poetry, long and difficult as
may bo the process of arriving at the right award, jhe right
[award comes at last, the definitive glory rests where it is
[deserved. Eveiy establishment of such a real glory is good
''PWIi^iipPiPUPWIIiipBP
14
pv
ESSAY ON WORDSWORTH.
:|\
'f
uiid wholesome for mankind at large, good and wholesome foi
the nation which produced the poet crowned with it. To the
poet himself it can seldom do harm, for he, poor man, is in his
gmve, probably, long before his glory crowns him.
Wordsworth has been in his grave for some thirty years,
and certainly his lovers and admireis cannot flatter themselves
that this great and steady light of glory as yet shines over him.
He is not fully recognized at home ; he is not recognised at all
abroad. Yet I firmly believe that the poetical performance of
Wordsworth is, after that of Shakspeare and Milton, of which
all the world now recognises the worth, undoubtedly the most
considerable in our language from the Elizabethan age to the
pi-esent time. Chaucer is anterior ; and on other grounds, too,
he cannot well be brought into the comparison. But taking
the roll of our chief poetical names, besides Shakspeare and
Milton, from the age of Elizabeth downwards, and going
through it, — Spenser, Dryden, Pope, Gray, Gbldsmith, Cow-
per, Burns, Coleridge, Scott, Campbell, Moore, Byron, Shelley,
Keats (I mention those only who are dead), — I think it oei*tain
that Wordsworth's name deserves to stand, and will finally
stand, above them all. Several of the poets named have gift6
and excellences which Wordsworth has not But taking
the performance of each as a whole, I say that Wordsworth
seems to me to have Jeft a body of poetical work superior in
power, in interest, in the qualities which give enduring fresh-
ness, to that which any one of the others has left.
But this is not enough to say. I think it certain, further,
that if we take the chief poetical names of the Continent since
the death of Moli^re, and, omitting Goethe, confront the re^
maining names with that of Wordsworth, the result is the
same. Let us take Klopstock^ Lessing, Schiller, Uhland,
Biickert, and Heine for Germany ; Filicaia, Alfieri, Manzoni,
and Leopardi for Italy; Racine, Boileau, Voltaire, Andrtf
Ohenler, B^ranger, Lamartine, Musset, M. Yiotor Hugo (ha
■88AT ON WOIU>SWORTH.
15
has been ho long celebrated that although he still liyefi I may
be permitted to name him) for France. Several of thetio, again,
haye evidently gifts and excellences to which Wordsworth can
make no pretension. But in real poetical achievement it
geems to me indubitable that to Wordsworth, here again,
belongs the palm. It seems to me tJiat Wordsworth has left
behind him a body of poetical work which wears, and will
wear, better on the whole than the performance of any one of
these personages, so far more brilliant and celebrated, most of
them tnan the homely poet of Rydal. Wordsworth's perform-
ance in poetry is on the whole, in [;ower, in interest, in the
qualities which give enduiing freshness, superior to theira.
This is a high claim to make for Wordsworth. But if it is
a just claim, if Wordsworth's place among the poets who have
appeared in the last two or three centuries is after Shakspeare,
Moliire, Milton, Goethe, indeed, but before all the rest, then
in time Wordsworth will have his due. We shall recognise
him in his place, as we recognise Shakspeare and Milton ; |ind
not only we ourselves shall recognise him, but he will be
recognised by Europe also. Meanwhile, those who recognise
him already may do wellj^perhaps, to ask themselves whether
there are not in the case of Wordsworth certain special
obstacles which hinder or delay his due recognition by othei-s,
and whether these obstacles are not in some measure remova-
able.
The JSxcuraion and the Prelude, his poems of greatest bulk,
are by no means Wordsworth's best work. His best work is
in his shorter pieces, and many indeed are there of these which
are of firet-rate excellence. But in his seven volumes the pieceo
of high merit are mingled with a mass of pieces very inferior
|o them ; so infeiior to them that it seems wonderful how the
lame poet should have produced both. Shakspeare frequently
lines and passages in a strain quite false, and which are
itirely unworthy of him. But one can imagine his smiling if
iWHP
16
ESSAY ON WORDSWORTH.
( u.
,,.
■}'
±'iit
one oould meet him in the Elysian Fields and tell him so;
smiling and replying that he knew it perfectly well himself,
and what did it matter t But with Wordsworth the case is
different. Work altogether infeiior, work quite uninspired,
flat and dull, is produced by him with evident unconsciousness
of its defects, and h^ presents it to us with the same faith and
seriousness as his best work. Now a drama or an epic fill the
mind, and one does not look beyond them ; but in a collection
of short pieces the impression made by one piece requires to be
continued and sustained by the piece following. In reading
Wordswot-th the impression made by one of his fine pieces is
too often dulled and spoiled by a very inferior piece coming
after it.
Wordsworth composed vei-Mes during a space of some sixty
years ; and it is no exaggeration to say that within one single
decade of those years, between 1798 and 180S. almost all his
really first-rate work was produced. A mass of inferior work
remains, work done before and after this golden i>iime, imbed-
ding the first-rate work and clogging it, obstructing our approach
to it, diilling, not unfrequently, the high-wrought mood with
which we leave it. To be recognized far and wide as a great
poet, to be possible and receivable as a classic, Wordsworth
needs to be relieved of a great deal of the poetical ba^age
which now encumbers him. To administer this relief is indis-
pensable, unless he is to continue to be a poet for the few only^
a poet valued far below his real worth by the world.
There is another thing. Woi*dsworth classified his poemi
not according to any commonly received plan of arrangement,
but according to a scheme of mental physiology. He has .
poems of the fancy, poems of the imagination, poems of senti- ~
ment and reflection, and so on. His categories are ingeniou'^^'
but far-fetched, and the i*esult of his employment of ihei^^
unsatisfactory. Poems are separated one from another whicf
possess a kinship of subject or of treatment far more vital an ^
R88AY ON W0BD8W0BTII.
17
deep than the supposed unity of mental origin which wiia
Wordsworth's reason for joining them with others.
The tact of the Greeks in matters of this kind was infallible.
We may rely upon it that we shall not improve upon the classi-
fication adopted by the Greeks for kinds of poetry ; that their
categories of epic, dramatic, lync, and so forth, have a natunil
propriety, and should be adlieied to. It may sometimes soera
doubtful to which of two categories a |K)em belongs ; whether
this or that poem is to be called for instance, narrative or lyric,
lyric or elegiac. But there is to be found in every good poem
a strain, a preciominant note, which determines the poem as
belonging to one of these kinds ratlior than the other ; and
here is the best proof of the value of the classification, and of
the advantage of adhering to it. Wordsworth's poems will
never produce their due effect until they are freed from their
present artificial arrangement, and grouped more naturally.
Disengaged from the quantity of inferior work which now
obscures them, the best poems of Wordsworth, I hear many
people say, would indeed stand out in gj-eat beauty, but they
would prove to be very few in number, scarcely more than half-
a-dozen. I maintain, on the other hand, that what strikes me
with admiration, what establishes in my opinion Wordsworth's
superiority, is the great and ample body of powerful work
which remains to him, even after all his inferior work has been
cleared away. He gives us so ilmch to rest upon, so much
which communicates his spirit and engages ours !
Thi \ is of very great importance. If it were a comparison of
single pieces, "or of three or four pieces, by each poet, I do not
say that Wordsworth would stand decisively above Grey, or
^illlLS, or Coleridge, or Keats, or Manzoni, or Heine. It is in
ipler body of powerful work that I find his supericrity.
work iti^elf, his work which counts, is not all of it, of
of equal value. Some kinds of poetry are in themselv^
kinds than othei's. The ballad kind is a lower kind ;
18
BSHAY ON WOKDaWOUTH.
fche didaotio kind, still more, is a lower kind. Poetry of this
latter sort, cuuiitB, too, sometimeB, by its biographioal interest
partly, not by its poetical interest pure and simple ; but then
this can only be when the poet producing it has the power And
importance of Wordsworth, a power and importance which he
assuredly did not establish by such didactic poetry alone.
Altogether, it is, I say, by the great body of poweiful and aig-
niticant work which ramains to him, after every reduction and
deduction has been made, that Wordsworth's superiority ia
proved. v
To exhibit this body of Wordsworth's bast work, to clear
away obstructions from around it, and to let it speak for itself,
is what every lover of Wordsworth should desire. Until this
has been done, Wordsworth, whom we, to whom he is dear, all
of us know and feel to be so great a poet, has not had a fair
chance before the world. When once it has been done, he will
make his way best not by our advocacy of him, but by his own
wort^ and power. We may safely leave him to make his way
thus, we who believe that a superior worth and power in poetry
finds in mankind a sense responsive to it and disposed at last to
recognize it. Yet at the outset, before he has been duly known
and recognized, we may do Wordsworth a service, perhaps, in
indicating in what his superior power and woi*th will be found
to consist, and in what it will not.
Long ago, in speaking of Homer, I said that the noble and
profound application of ideas to life is the most essential part
of poetic greatnesa I said that a great poet receives his dis-
tinctive character of superiority from his application, under the
conditions immutably fixed by the laws of poetic beauty and
poetic truth, fjx)m his application, I say, to his subject, what,
ever it may be, of the ideas
" On man, on i^atore, and on human life,"
which he has acquired for himself. The line quoted is Wore
K88AY ON WOKD8WOKTH.
19
worth's own j and liiH HUj»eriority aris«i from hiH powerful use,
iu his best pieces, his powerful Hpi)lication to his subject, of
ideas " on man, on nature, and on human life."
Voltaire, with his signal acuteness, most truly remarked that
" no nation has treated in poetry moral ideas with moi-e energy
and depth than the English nation." And he adds : " There,
it seems to me, is the great merit of the English poets." Vol-
taire does not mean, by " treating in poetry moral ideas," the
comi>osing moral and didactic poems : — that brings us but a very
little way in poetry. He means just the same thing as was
meant when I spoke above " of the noble and profound appli-
cation of ideas to life ; " and he means the application of thene
ideas under the conditions fixed for us by the laws of poetic
beauty and poetic truth. If it is said that to call these ideas
moroU ideas it is to introduce a strong and injurious limitation,
I answer that it is to do nothing of t^ e kind, because moral
ideas are really so main a part of human life. The question,
how to live, is itself a moral idea ; and it is the question which
most interests every man, and with which, in some way or
other, he is perpetually occupied. A large sense is of couitie
to be given to the term moral. Whatever beai-s upon the
question, ** how to live," comes under it.
*' Nor love thy life, nor hate ; but, what thou liv'st,
live well ; how long or «hort, permit to heaven."
.'?'.
In those few lines, Milton utters, as every one at once per-
ceives, a moral idea. Yes, but so too, when Keiits consoles the
forward-bending lover on the Grecian Um, the lover arrested
and presented in immortal relief by the sculptor's hand bei'ore
he can kiss, with the line,
•* For ever wilt thou love, and she be fair" —
he utters a moral idea. When Shakespeare says, that
20 nSAT ON WORDSWOktTB.
'* We are auch nttm
As dreamt are made of, and our little life
^ Is rounded with a sleep,"
he utters a moral idea.
Voltaire was right in thinking that the energetic and pro-
found treatment of moral ideas, in this large sense, is what dis-
tinguishes the English poetry. He sincerely meant praise, not
dispraise or hint cf limitation ; and they err who suppose that
poetic limitation is a necessary consequence of the fact, the fact
being ^p^nted as Voltaire states it. If what distinguishes the
greatest poets is their powei'ful and profound application of
idjaa to life, which surely no good critic will deny, '-.hen to pre-
fix: to the term ideas here the term moi'ai makes hardly any
difference, because human life itself is in so preponderating a
degree moral.
It is important^ therefore, to hold fast to t^is : that poetry
is at bottom a criticism of life ; that the grveatness of a })oet lies
in a powerful and beautiful application of ideas to life, — to the
question : How to live. Morals are often treated in a narrow
and false fashion, they are bound up with systems of thought
and belief which have had their day, they are fallen into the
hands of pedants and professional dealers, they grow tiresome
to some of us. ^\We find attraction, at times, even in a poetry
of revolt against them ; in a poetry which might take for its
motto Omar Kheyam's words : " Let us make up in the faivem
for the time which -^e have wasted in the mosque/' Or we find
attractions in a poetry indifierent to them, in a poetry where the
oont«ntb may be what they will, but where the form is studied
and exquisite We delude ourselves in either case ; and the
best cure for oar delusion is to let our mi^ds rest upon that
grreat and inexhaustible word lifsj until we Ijam to enter into
its meaning. A poetry of revolt against moral ideas is a poetry
of revolt against life ; a poetry of indifierenoe towards moral
ideas is a poetry of iudifference towards life
{.
SK
ai:»"at.''isi
iH
ESSAY ON W0BD8W0RTH.
31
£pictetnB had a happy figure for thiiigH like t)ie play of the
senses, or liteiury form and finish, or argunientiitive ingenuity,
in comparison with " the bes^ and master thing " for us, as he
called it, the concern, how to live. Some people were afraid of
them, he said, or they disliked and undervalued them. Such
people were wrong ; they were unthankful or cowardly. But
the things might also be over-prized, and treated as final when
they are not. They bear to life the relation which inns bear to
home. '' As if a man, journeying horiie, and finding a nice inn
on the road, and liking it, were to stay for ever at the inn !
Man, thou hast forgotten thine object ; thy journey was not to
this but through thia. ' But this inn is taking.' And how
many other inns, too, are taking, and how many fields and
meadows I but as place|i of passage merely. You have an
object, which is this: to get home, to do your duty to your
family, friends, and fellow-countrymen, to attain inward free-
dom, serenity, happincsi, coiitentment. Style takes your fancy,
arguing takes your fancy, and you forget your home and want
to make your abode with them and to stay with them, on the
plea that they ore taking. Who denies that they are taking?
but as places of passage, as inns. And when I say this, you
suppose me to be attacking the care for style, the care for argu-
ment. I am not ; I attack the resting in them, the not looking
to the end which is beyond them."
Now, when we come acrobS a poet like Th^phile Qautier, we
have a poet who has taken up his abode at an inn, and never
got farther. There may be inducements to this or that one of /
US, at this or that moment, to find delight in him, to cleav^ to
him ; but after all, we do not change the truth about him, — wo
only stay ourselv^ in his inn along with him. And when we
oome across a poet like Woi-dsworth, who sings,
** Of trath, of grandeur, beauty, love and hope.
And melancholy fear sabdaed by faith,
Of blewed oonaolatious in dJ>atre8B,
1/
J^ I I.
I !
\ i- I 'I
•
m
22 KS8AY ON WORDSWORttt.
Of moral strength and intellectual power.
Of joy in widest commonalty Bprr>ad " —
then we have a poet iutent on " the best and master thing,"
and who prosecutes his journey home. We say, for brevity's
sake, that he deals with life, because he deals with that in
which life really consists. This is what Voltaire means to
praise in the English poets, — this dealing with what is really
Ufa But always it is the mark of the gi*eatest poets that they
deal with it ; and to say that the English poets are i-emarkable
for dealing with it, is only another way of saying, what is true,
that in poetry the Engush genius has especially shown its
power.
Wordsworth deals with it, and his greatness lies in his deal- ,
irg with it so powerfully. I have named a number of cele-
brated i>oet8 above all of whom he, in my opinion, deserves to
be placed. He is to be placed above poets like Voltaire, Dry-
den, Pope, Lessing, Schiller, because these famous personages,
with a thousand gifts and merits, never, or scarcely ever, attain
the distinctive tuioent and utterance of the high and genuine
poets —
*' Quiqne pii vatet et Phoebo digna locuti,"
at all. Bums, Keats, Heine, not to speak of others in our
list, have this accent ; — who can doubt it 1 And at the same
time they have treasures of humour, felicity, passion, for which
in Wordsworth we shall look in vain, W^here, then, is Words-
worth's superiority 1 It is here; he dsals with more of life
than they do ; hadeals with li/e,as^j^hQle, mora-poweifully.
No Wordsworthian will doubt this. Nay, the fervent
Wordsworthian will add, as Mr. Leslie Stephen do<», that
Wordsworth's poetry is precious because his philosophy if
Bound ; that his " ethical system is as distinctive and capable of
exposition as Bishop Butler's ; " that his poetiy is informed by
wFiSBffln
KSSAY ON WORDSWORTH.
n
ideas which *' fall spontaneously into a scientific system of
thought " But we must be on our guard against the Words-
worthians, if we want to secure for Wordsworth his due rank
as a poet The Wordsworthians are apt to praise him for the
wrong things, and to lay far too much stress upon what they
call his philosophy. His poetry is the reality, his philosophy,—
so far, at least, as it may put on the form and habit of "a
scientific system of thought," and the more that it puts them
on, — is thb illusion. Perhaps we shall one day learn to make
this proposition geneml, and to say : Poetry is the reality,
philosophy the illusion. But in Wordswoith's case, at any
rate, we cannot do him justice until we. dismiss his formal
poilosophy.
ITie Bxcuraion abounds with philosophy, and therefore the
Excursion is to the Wordsworthian what it never can be to the
disinterested lover of poetry,— a satisfactory work, ** Duty
exists," says Wordsworth, in the Excursion ; and then he pro-
ceeds thus : —
.... *' Immutably ntrvive,
For onr support, the measures and the forms.
Which an abstract Intdlligenoe supplies,
Whose kingdom ita, where time and space are not."
And the Wordsworthian is delighted, and thinks that here is a
sweet union of j>hilc3ophy and poetry. But the disinterested
lover of pootry will feel that the lines carry us really not a step
farther than the proposition which they ^ould interpret ; that
they are a tissue of elevated but abstract verbiage, alien to the
very nature of poetry.
Ol let us come dii-ect to the centre of Wordsworth's philo-
sophy, as ^'an ethical system, as distinctive and capable oi
syttematic exposition as Bishop Butler's " :
i:
ti-
24 ESSAY OK WORDSWORTH.
.... " One adequate support
For the calami tius of mortal life
Exists, one only ; — an assured belief
That the procession of our fate, howe'er
Sad or disturbed, is ordered by a Being
Of infinite benevolence and power ;
Whose everlasting purposes embrace
All accidents, converting them to good."
That is doctrine such as we hear in church too, religious and
pliilosophic doctrine ; and the attached Wordsworthian loves
pussjiges^of such doctrine, and brings them forward in proof of
his poet's excellence. But however irue the doctrine may be,
it has, as hero presented, none of the characters of poetic truth,
the kind of truth which we require from a |K)et, and in which
Wordsworth is really strong.
Even the "intimations" of the famous Ode, those corner-
stones of the supposed philosophic system of Wordsworth, —
the idea of the bigh instincts and affections coming out in
childhood, testifying of a divine home recently left, and fading
away as our life proceeds, — this idea, of undeniable beauty as
a play of fancy, has itself not the character of poetic truth of
the best kind ; it has no real solidity. The instinct of delight
in Naturo and her beauty had no doubt extraordinary strength
in Wordsworth himself as a child. But to say that univeraally
this instinct is mighty in childhood, and tends to die away
afterwards, is to say what is extremely doubtful. In many
people, perphaps with the majority of educated persons, the
love of nature is nearly imperceptible at ten years old, but
strong and operative at. thirty. In general we may say of
these high instincts of early childhood, the base of the alleged
systematic philosophy of Wordsworth, what Thucydides says of
the early achievements of the Greek race : — " It is impossible
to speak with certainty of what is so remote; but from all that
we can really investigate, I should say that they were no very
great things.''
■gfV-tr^^^-^'^'^
KS8AT ON WORDSWORTH.
26
Finally the " scientific system of thought " in Wordsworth
^ves us at least such poetry as this, which the devout Words-
worthian accepts :—
*' O for the ooming of that glorioas time
When, prizing knowledge as her aoblest wealth ^
And best protection, this Imperial Realm,
While she exacts allegiance, shall admit
An obligation, on her part, to teach
Them who are bom to serve her and obey ;
Binding herself by statute to secure,
For all the children whom her soil maintains,
The rudiments of letters, and inform
The mind with moral and religions truth." '
Wordsworth calls Voltaire dull, and surely the production of
these un-Yoltairian lines must have been imposed on him as a
judgment ! One can hear them being quoted at a Social
Science Congress ; ofte can call up the whole 3cene. A great
room in one of our dismal provincial towns ; dusty air and
jaded afternoon daylight ; benches full of men with bald heads
and women in spectacles ; an orator lifting up his face from a
manuscript written within and without to declaim these lines
of Wordsworth ; and in the soul of any poor child of nature
who may have wandered in thither, an unutterable sense of
lamentation, and mourning, and woe !
" But turn we," as Wordsworth says, " from these bold, bad
men," the haunters of Social Science Congresses. And let us
be on our guard, too, against the exhibitors and extollers of a
**^scientifio system of thought " in Wordsworth's poetry. The
poetry will never be seen aright while they thus eL.hibit it.
The cause of its greatness is simple, and may be told quite
simply. Wordsworth's poetry is great because of the extra-
ordinary power with which Wordsworth feels the joy offered to
UB in nature, the joy offered to us in the simple primary
affsotioiui and duties ; and because ot the extraordinary power
i i » l Hi > Ui l | l jlj | lrti r
m^
9smm
20
ESSAY ON WOKDSWOftTH.
rt' i
I
m
t-f-
witli which, in case after case, he shows us this joy, and
renders it so as to make us share it.
The source of joy from which he thus di-aws is the truest
and most unfailing source of joy accessible to man. It is also
accessible universally. Wordsworth brings us word, tlierefore,
according to his own strong and characteristic line, he brings
us hia word
" Of joy in widest commonalty spread. "
Here is an immense advantage for a poet Wordsworth tells
of what all seek, and tells of it at its truest and best source,
and yet a source where all may go and draw for it.
Nevertheless, we are not to suppose that everything is
precious which Wordsworth, standing even at this perennial
and beautiful source, may give us. Wordsv/orthians are apt
to talk as if it must be. They will speak with the same
reverence of T/ie Sailor^a Mother ^ for exan^)le, as of Lucy Gray.
They do their master harm by such lack of discrimination.
Lucy Gray is a beautiful success; The Sailor^a MotJier is a
failure. To give aright what he wishes to give, to interpret
and render successfully, is not always within Wordsworth.'^
own command. It is within no poet's command ; here is the
part of the Muse, the inspiration, the God, the "not ourselves."
In Word worth's case, the accident, for so it may almost be
called, of inspiration, is of peculiar importance No poet,
I)erhaps, is so evidently filled with a new and sacred .energy
when the inspiration is upon him ; no poet, when it fails him,
is so left " weak as is a breaking wave.." I remember hearin<'
him say that "Goethe's poetry was not inevitable enough."
The remark is striking and true ; no line in Goethe, as Goethd
said himself, but its maker knew well how it came there.
Wordsworth is right, Goethe's poetry is not inevitable; not
inevitable enough. But Wordsworth's poetry, when he is at
his besty is inevitable, as inevitable as Natuce herself. II
fiSSAir ON MTORDSWORTB.
27
might seem that Nature not only gave him the matter for his
|)oem, but wrote his poem for him. He has no style. He waa
too conversant with Milton not to catch at times his master's
manner, and he has fine Miltonic lines ; but he has no assured
poetic style of hw own, like Milton. When he seeks to have
a style he falls into ponderosity and pomposity. In the
Excuirgion we have his style, as an artistic product of hii own
ci-eation; and altliough Jeffrey completely failed to recognise
Wordsworth's real greatness, he was yet not wrong in saying
of the Excuo'sionf as a work of })oetic style : " This will never
do." And yet magical as is that power, which Wordsworth
has not) of assured and possessed poetic style, he has something
which is an equivalent for it.
Every one who has any sense for these things feels the
subtle turn, the heightening, which is given to a poet's verse
by hsB genius for ptyle. We can feel it in the
" After life's fitful fever, he sleeps well " —
of Shakespeare ; in the '
. " though iali'n on evil days,
On evil days though fall'n, and evil tongues " —
of Milton. It is the incomparable charm of Milton's power of
poetic style which gives such worth to Paradise Regained^ and
makes % great poem of a work in which Milton's imagination
does not soar high. Wordsworth has in constant possession,
and at command, no style of this kind ; but he had too poetic
a nature, and had read the great poets too well, not to catch,
as I have already remarked, something of it occasionally. We
find it not only in his Miltonic lines; we find it in such a
^brase aa this, whwe the manner is his own, not Milton'i
«... "the fierce confederate stoim
Of wnrrow barrieadoed evermore
Witiiiii the walk of oitiea i "
wm
i^mm
Iw
iVt
28
BS8AY OS WORDSWORTH.
II
i;
k
=11
although even here, perhaps, the power of style, which is
undeniable, is moi'e pro|:>erly that of eloquent prose than tho
subtle heightening and change wrought by genuine poetic
style. It is style, again, and the elevation given by style,
which chiefly makes the effectiveness of Lcuxiameia. Still the
right sort of verse to choose from Wordsworth, if we are to
sense his true and most characteristic form of expression, iB a
line like this from Michad : —
« And never lifted np a single stone."
There is nothing subtle in it, no heightening, nor stuay of
poetic style, strictly so called, at all; yet it is expression of the
highest and must truly expressive kind.
Wordsworth owed much to Burns, and a style of perfect
plainness, relying for effect solely on the weight and force of
that which with entire fidelity it utters. Burns could show him.
9
** The poor inhabitant below
Was qnick to learn and wise to know.
And keenly felt the friendly {^w
And softer flame ;
Bat thonghtless follies laid him low
And atain'd his name."
Every one will be conscious of a likeness here to Wordsworth ;
and if Wordsworth did gi'eat things with this nobly plain
manner, we must remember, what indeed he himself would
always have been forward to acknowledge, that Bums used it
before him.
Still Wordsworth's use of it has something unique and
nnmatchable. Nature herself seems, I say, to take the pen
out of hiis hand, and to write for him with her own bare, sheer,
penetrating power. This arises from two causes; from the
profound sincereness with which Wordsworth feels his sul^ec^
and also from the profoundly sincere and natural character of
ESSAY ON WORDSWORTH.
29
his subject itself. He can aiid will treat such u subject with
nothing but the most plain, ^rst-hand, almost austere natural-
His expression may often be called bald, as, for instance,
IIUSS.
in the poem of ResohUion and Independence ; but it is bald as
the bare mountain tops are bald, with a baldness which is full
of grandeur.
Wherever we meet with the successful balance, in Words-
worth, of profound truth of subject with profound truth oi
execution, he is unique. His best poems are those which most
perfectly exhibit this balance. I have a warm admiration for
Loiodameia and for the great Ode; but if I am to tell the
very truth, I find Lokodameia not wholly free from something
artifical, and the great Ode not wholly fioo from something
declamatory. If T had to pick out poems of a kind most
{ierfectly to show Wordsworth's unique power, I should rather
choose poems such as Michael, The Fountain, The Highland
Reaper. And poems with the peculiar and unique beauty
which distinguishes these, Wordsworth produced in considerable
number ; besides very many other poems of which the worth,
although not so rare as the worth of these, is still exceedingly
high.
On the whole, then, as I said %t the beginning, not only is
Words* Torth eminent by reason of the goodness of hiei best
work, but he is eminent also by reason of the great body of
good work which he has left to us. 'With the ancients I will
not com{)are him. In many respects the ancients are far above
us, and yet there is something: that we demand which they can
never give. Leaving the ancients, let us come to the poets and
poetry of Christendom. Dante, Shakespeare, Moli^re, Milton,
Groethe, are altogether larger and more splendid luminaries in
the poetical heayen than Wordsworth. But I know not where
else, among the modems, wo are to find his suj^eriors.
To disengage the poems which show his power, and to pi-esent
tbem to the English-speaking public and to the world, is the
m^wnpHVwpHpvnpi
m
30
B88AY ON WOKDSWORTH.
iM:;.
object of this yolumo. I by no means say that it contains all
which in Wordsworth's poems ia interestiAig. Elxcept in thu
oase of Mar(/areiy a stoi-y composed separately from the rest of
the ExGurnion, and which belongs to a different part of England,
I have not ventured on detaching portions of poems, or on giving
any piece otherwise than as Wordsworth himself gave it But,
under the conditions imposed by this reserve, the volume con-
tains, I think, everything, or nearly everything, which may best
serve him with the majority of lovers of poeU-y, nothing which
may disserve him.
I have spoken lightly of Wordsworthians : and if we are to
got Wordsworth recognised by the public and by the world, we
must recontiLiend bim not in the spirit of a clique, but in the
spirit of disinterested lovers of poetry. But I am a Words-
worthian myself. I can read with pleasure and edification
Peter Bell, and the whole series of Hocleauistical Sonnets, and
the address to Mr. Wilkinson's spade, and even the TharUcsgiviny
Ode ; — everything of Wordsworth, I think, except Vaudracour
and Julia. It is not for nothing that one has been brought up
in the veneration of a man so truly worthy of homage ;. that
one has seen him and heard him, lived in his neighbourhood
and been familiar with his country. No Wordsworthian has a
tenderer affection for this pure and sage master than I, or is less
really offended by his defects. But Wordsworth is something
more than the pure and sage master of a small band of devoted
followers, ai>i i^ ought not to rest satistied until he is seen to
be what he is. He is one of the very chief glories of English
Poetry ; and by nothing is England so glorious as by her ])oetry.
Let us lay aside every weight which hinders our getting him
recognised as this, and let our one study be to biing to pass, as
widely as possible and as truly as possibly his own word oon-
ceming his poems: — "They will co-operate with the braiign
tendencies in human nature and society, and will, in their
degrc^) be efficacious in making men^wiser, better, and happier."
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POEMS OF BALLAD FORM
" 'Tta all men's office to aptak patience
To those that wring under the load of sorrow."
—Much Ado a:}out Kiothing.
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SELECTIONS.
THE REYERIB OF POOR SUSAN.
At the oomer of Wood Street when daylight appears,
Hangs a Thrash that sings load, it has oung for three years :
Poor Susan has passed by the spot, and has heard
In the siknoe of morning the song of the Bird. «ttiiK &
IHb a note oC enohuitment ; what ails her t She
A mountain asoending, a vision of trees ;
Bright volames of vapour through Lothbury glide^
And a river flows on through the vale of Cheapaide.
Green pastaree she views in the midst of the dale,
Down which she so often has tripped with her pail ;
And a single small Oottage, a nest like a dove's,
The one only dwelling on earth that she lovea
She looks, and her heart is in heaven : bat they ladej
The mist and the river, the hill and the shade :
The stream will not flow, and the hill wiU not rise,
And the oolours have all passed away from het eyes.
WE ARE SEYBN.
>A si»F*p1«* diild,
That lightly draws its breath.
And feels its life in every limb.
What should it know of death t
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34 WORD8WO&TH.
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 f
** How many t Seven in all,*' she said,
And wondering looked at me.
10
" And whore are they f I pray yon tell.**
She answered, " Seven are we ;
And two of us at Conway dwell.
And two are gone to 3e&.
** Two of ns in the churchyard lia^
My sister and my brother ;
And, in the churchyard cottage, I
Dwell near them with my mother.''
" Tou say that two at Conway dwell,
And two are gone to sea,
Yet ye are seven ! — I pray you tell,
Sweet Maid, how this may ba*'
S5
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1
Then did the little Maid reply,
" SeT9n boys and girls are we;
Two of us in the churchyard lie.
Beneath the ohnrohyard tre^.**
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«* You rtm about, my little Maid,
Your limbs they are aliye ; ^
If two are in the churchyard laid,
Then ye are only five."
ft
" Thdr gravee are green, they may be seen/'
The little Maid replied,
"Twelve atepe or more from my mother'a door, 49
And they are aide by side.
** My stockings there I often knit^
My kerchief there I hem ;
And there upon the ground I sit—
I sit and sing to them.
'* And often after sunset, Sir,
When it is light and fair,
I take my little porringer.
And eat my supper thei'e.
<* The iir&^< that died was little Jane ;
In bed she moaning lay.
Till Qod released her of her pain ;
And then she went away.
** So in the churchyard she was laid ;
And, when the grass was dry, 05
Together round her grave we played,
My brother John and L
" And when the ground was white with snow,
And I could run and slide,
My brother John was forced to go, ^q
And he lies by her aide."
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36 :^**"'* WORDSWORTH.
" How many are you, then," said I.
" If thoy two are in Heaven 1 "
The little Maiden did reply,
** O Master I we are seven.*'
" But they ara dead ; those two are dead t
Their spirits are in Heaven ! "
Twas throwing words away : for still
The little Maid would have her will.
And said, " Nay, we are seven I **
«(
LUCY GRAY,
OR, SOU'OItu
Orr I had heard of Lucy Gray :
And, when I crossed the wild,
I chanced to see at break of day
The solitary Child.
No mate, no comrade Lucy knew ;
She dwelt on a wide moor,
— ^The sweetest thing that ever grew
Beside a human door 1
You yet may spy the fawn at piay
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.'*
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LUCf ORAT.
<< That, Father 1 will I gladly do :
TRs scarcely afternoon — •
The Mixi8tep«lock has just straok two.
And yonder is the Moon."
At this the Father raised his hook.
And snapped a faggot-band ;
He plied his work ; — and Luoy took
The lantern in her hand.
Not blither is the mountain roe :
With many a wanton stroke
Her feet disperse the powdery snow,
That rises up like smoke.
The mow came on before its time :
She wandered up and down ;
And many a hill did Luoy climb ;
But neyer raaohed the town.
The wretched parents all that night
Went shoating 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 thoy saw the bridge of wood,
A forlong 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
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Half braathleM from the steep hill's edge
They tracked the footmarks small ;
And thioagh the broken hawthom-hedg^
And by the long stone-wall ;
And then an open field they croRsed :
The marks were still the sarao ;
They tracked them on, nor ever lost ;
And to the Bridge they cama
They followed from the snowy bank
Those footmarkS; one by one,
Into the middle of the plank ;
And farther there were none !
— Tet some maintain that to this day
She is a living child ;
That you may see sweet Lucy Gray
Upon the lonwome wild.
O'er K^ugh and smooth she trips along
And never looks behind ;
And sings a solitary song i
That whistles in the wind.
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65
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NARRATIVE POEMS.
"4 MfM may find Mm mho a mrmm filta,
Ami tun dtl'gkt Mo a teurlfiM."
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MICHAEL.
li
A PASTORAL POEM.
It from ihe public way you turn your steps
Up the tumultuous brook of Green-head Qhyll,
You will suppose that with an upright path
Your feet must struggle ; in such bold asoent
The pastoral mountaiua front you, face w> face.
But, courage I for around that boLterous Brook
The mountains have all opened out themselves,
And made a hidden valley of their own.
No habitation can be seen ; but they
Who journey hither find themselves alone
With a few sheep, with rocks and stones, and kites
That overhead are sailing in the sky.
It is in truth an utter solitude ;
Nor should I have made mention of this Dell
But for one object which you might pass by,
Might see and notice not. Beside the brook
Appears a straggling heap of unhewn stonei! I
And to that place a story appertains,
Which, though it be ungamished with events.
Is not unfit, I deem, for the fireside,
Or for the summer shade. It was the first
Of those domestic tales that spake to me
Of Shepherds, dwellei-s in the valleys, men
Whom I already loved ; — ^not verily
I For their own sakes, but for the fields and hills
[Where was their occupation and abode.
And hence tiiis tale, while I was yet a Boy
Careleia of books, yet having felt the power
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42 WOBDBWORTH.
Of Nature, by Jihe gentle agency
Of natural objects led me on to' feel
For paarions that were not my own, and think
(At random and imperfectly indeed)
On man, the heart of man, and human life.
Therefore, although it be a history
Homely and mde, I will relate the same
For the delight of a few natural hearts ;
And, with yet fonder feeling, for the sake
Of yoathfiil Poets, who among these Hills
Will be my second self when I am gone.
Upon the Fore8t4dde in Grasmere Yale
There dwelt a Shepherd, Michael was his name ;
An old man, stout of heart, and strong of limb.
His bodily frame hac'i 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, ou 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 1 "
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.
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50
55
60
mCRAXL.
43
35
45
Anil gnmdj that num em, who should sappose
Thftt the green YaHeySy and the Streams and Rooks, 65
Wen things indifferent to the Shepherd's thoughts.
Fwld% where with cheerful spirite he had breathed
The oammon air ; the hills, which he so oft
Had dimbed with vigorous steps ; which had impressed ,
So many incidents upon his mind ''O
Of hardship, skill or courage, joy or fear ;
Which, like a book, preserved the memory
Of the dumb animals, whom he had saved,
Had fed or sheltered, linking to such acts.
The certainty of honourable gain, 75
Those fields, those hills — what could they Iea.s1 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 himselt >ill 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,
I That small for flax; and if one wheel had rest.
lit was because the other was at work.
The pair had but one inmate in their house,
An only Ohild, who had been bom 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, 95
That they were as a proverb in the vale
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44
WORDSWORTH.
For endless industry. When day was gone,
Anti fi-om their occupations out of doora
The Son and Father were come home, even then
Their labour did not cease ; unless when all 100.
Turned to their cleanly supper-board, and there,
Each with a mess of pottag*; and skimmed milk,
Sat round their basket piled with oaten cakes,
And their plain home-made cheese. Yet when their meal
Was onded, Luke (for so the Son was named) 105
And his old father both betook themselves
To such convenient work as m\ght 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, 110
Or other implement of house or field.
Down from the ceiling by the chimney's edge,
That in our ancient uncouth country style
Did with a huge projection overblow
Large space beneath, as duly as the light 1 1 5
Of day grew dim the Housewife hung a Lamp ; «
An aged utensil, which had performed
Service beyond all othere of it« kind.
Early at evening did it burn and late,
Surviving comrade of uncounted Hours, 120
Which, going by from year to year, had found,
And left the couple neither gay perhaps
Box cheerful, yet with objects and with hopes.
Living a life of pj^ger industry.
And now, when LuKB had reached his eighteenth year 125
There by the light of this old lamp they sat,
Father and Son, while late into the night
The Housewife plied her own peculiar work.
Making the cottage through the silent hours
MICHABL. 45
Muimur as with the sound of Hummer flies. 130
This Light was famous in its neighbourhood,
And was a public symbol of the life
That thrifty Pair had lived. For, as it caanceil,
Their Cottage on a plot of rising ground
Stood single, with large prospect, North and South, 135
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„ 140
Both old and young, was named Thk Bvawiwq j3tar.
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 — 145
^ Less from instinctive tenderness, the same
1 Blind spirit, which is in the blood of all —
I Than that a child more than all other gifts,
I Brings hope with it, and forward-looking thoughts,
I And stirrings of inquietude, when they 150
By tendency of nature needs must fail.
Exceeding was the love he bare to him.
His Heart, and his Heai't's joy 1 For oftentimes
Old Michael, while he was a babe in arms,
Had done him female service, not alone 1 55
For pastime and delight, as is the use
To acts of tend^ynfiH S j and he had ix>cked
rHis cradle with a woman's gentle hand.
And, in a later time, ere yet the Boy 100
Had put on boy's attire, did Michael love,
Albeit of a stem unbending miud,
46
WOBMWORTB.
To hftTB the Toang-one in hJa sight, when he
Had work by his own door, or when he sat
With sheep before him on his Shepherd's stool, 165
Beneath that large old Oak, which near their door
Stood,- and, from its enormoo^ breadth of shade
Chosen for the shearer^s covert from the sun,
Thence in onr rustic dialect was called
The Clipping Tbbb,* a name which yet it bean. 170
There, while they two were sitt^*^ 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 175
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 np
A healthy lad, and carried in cheek
Two steady roses that were fi\ » j«)ars old, 180
Then Michael from a winter coppice out
With his own hand a sapling, which he hooped
With iron, making it <*hroughout in all
Due requisites a perfect shepherd's Staff^
And gave it to the Boy ; wherewith equipt ] 85
He as a watchman oftentimes was placed
At gate or gap, to stem or tnm the flock ;
And, to his offic~ prematurely called, ,
T here stood the Urch in, as you will divine^
Somethi ng between a hinderance a nd a help; 190
And for ihls cause not always, I bSievST
Receiving from his Fathm* hire of praise ;
Though nought was left undone which staff, or voioe^
Or looks, or threatening gestures, could perform.
*CU|qpiiiK ii ^M ""^"^ ^BmaA in the Morib of Fngliail lor dNwrfav.
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MicniAa. 47
But noon as Luke, full ten yean old, oould itund 1 95
Againat the moantain blaata ; and to the heighta,
Not fearing toil, nor length of wearj wayi,
He with hia Father dailj went, and they
Were aa oompanions, whj should X relate
That objects which the Shepherd loved before 1 200
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 bom again t
Thus in his Father's sight the boy grew vp : 206
And now, when he had reached hb eighteenth year,
He was his comfort and his daily hope.
Whilk in this sort the simple Household lived
Fro day to day, to Michael's ear there came
Distranfnl tidings. Long before the time 210
Of which I speak, the Shepherd had been bound
In sare^ for his Brother's Son, a man
Of an industrious life, and ample means,—*
But unforseen misfortunes suddenly
Had preat upon him, — and old Michael now
Was summoned to disohsi*ge the forfeiture,
A grierous 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 ^20
That any old man ever could have lost
As soon as he had gathered ao much strength
That he oould look his trouble in the face.
It seemed that his sole refuge was to lell
A portion of his patrim<mial fields. 225
Snoii was his first reaolve; he thought again,
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WORDSWORTH.
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 230
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 gr&ve.
Our lot is a hard lot ; the sun himself
Has scarcely been more diligent than I ; 235
And I have lived to be a fool at last
To my own family. An evil Man
That was, and made an evil choice, if he
Were false to us ; and if he were not false,
Tliera are ten thousand to whom loss like this 240
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 ; thd land 245
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,
Anothtir Kinsman — he will be our friend
In this distress^ He is a prosperous man 'J5C
Thriving in trade — and Luke to him shall go,
And with his Kinsman's help and his own thrift
He quickly will repair ihis loss, and then
May come again to us. If here he stay,
What can be done 9 Where every one is poor, 255
WLat can be gained 1 " At this the Old man paused,
And Isabel a&t, silent, for her mind
Was busy, looking back into past times.
There's Richard Bateman, thought she to hei'self,
|i."e was a Parish-boy — at the Church-door 260
wm.
10
MIOUABL.
They made a gathering for him, shillings, pence,
And halfpennies, wherewith the neighbours bought
A basket, which they filled with pedlar's wares;
And, with this basket on his arm, the Lad
Went up to London, found a Master there,
Who, out of many, chose the trusty Boy
To go and overlook his merchandise
Beyond the seas : where he grew wondrous rich.
And left estates and monies to the poor,
And, at his birth-place, built a Chapel floored
With marble, which he sent from foreign lands.
These thoughts, and many others of like sort.
Passed quickly through the mind of Isabel,
And her face brightened. The Old Man was glad.
And thus i-esumed : — " Well, Isabel ! this scheme.
These two days, has been meat and drink to ma.
Far more than we have ?ost is left us yet.
We have enough — I wish indeed that I
Were younger, — but this hope is a good hoi)e. -
— 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 coui go, the Boy should go to-night."
Here Michael ceased, and to the fields went fol-th
With a lif?ht heart. The Housewife for five days
Was restless morn and night, and all day long
Wrought on with her best 5ngers to prepare
Things needful for the journey of her son.
But Isabel was glad when Sunday cftimo
To stop her in her work : for when she lay
By Michael's side, she through the two last nigbtn
Heard him, how he was troubled in his sleep :
And when they rose at morning she could see
That all hia hopes were gone. That day at noon
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290
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WORDSWORTH.
She said to Luke, while they two bj themselves
Wei-e 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 ;
I And Isabel, when she had told her fears,
Recovered heart That evening her best fare
Did she bring forth, and all together sat
Like happy people round a Christmas fiwt
With daylight Isabel resumed her work ;
And all the ensuing week the house appeared
As cheerful as a grove in Spring : at length
The expected letter from their Kinsman came,
With kind assurances that he would do
His utmost for the welfare of the Boy ;
To which, requests were added, that forthwith
He might be sent to him. Ten times or more
The letter was read over ; Isabel
Went forth to show it to the neighbours round ;
Nor was there at that time on English land
A prouder heart than Luke's. When Isabel
Had to her house returned, the Old Man said,
**He shall depart to-morrow.** To this word
The Housewife answered, talking much of things
Which, if at such short notice he should go,
Would surely be forgotten. But at length
Sh^ gave consent, and Michael was at ease.
Near the tumultuous brook of Green-head Gbyll,
In that deep Valley, Michael had designed
To build a Sheep-fold ; and, before he heard
The tidings of his melancholy loss,
196
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305
310
315
320
325
MICHAEL.
51
For this name 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 ; 33U
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 bii*thy 33")
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 1 should speak
Of things thou canst not know of. After thou 340
First earnest 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 loned thee with increasing love. 345
Never to living ear came sweeter sounds
Than when I heard thee by our own fireside
Fin t uttering, without words, a natural tune;
When thou, a feeding babe, didst in thy joy
Sing at thy Mother's breast. Month followed month, 360
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, Lnke : among these hills,
Ab well thou knowest, in us the old and young 355
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 uike it so-^I see 360
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52
ORDSWORTH.
I
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
BeyQiijd»^ib^gj^mmon li fe of ma n, T gj jyll
Remamhnr thern wKnTInvBd me iiT.TiT^uth.
Both of them sleep together : here thejTlived,
As all their Foi-efathers had done ; and when
At length their time was come, they were not loth
To give their bodies to tho family mould.
I wished that thou shouldst live the life they lived
But, 'tis a long time to look back, my Son,
And see so little gain from threescore years.
These fields were burthened when they came to me ;
Till I was forty yeans of age, not more
Than half of my inheritance was mine.
I toiled and toiled ; God blessed me in my work.
And till these three weeks past the land was free.
— It looks as if it never could endura
Another Master. Heaven forgive me, Luke,
If I judge ill for thee, but it seems good
That thou shouldst go." At this the Old Man paused ;
Then, pointing to the Stones near which they stood.
Thus, aft«r 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 :
Vp to the heights, and in among the storms,
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390
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MICHAEL. 53
Will I without thee go again, and do 395
All worke which I was wont to do alone,
Before I knew thy face. Heaven blesa thee, Boy !
Thy heai-t these two weeks has been beating fast
With many hopes. — It should be so — Yes — yes —
I knew that thou couldst never have a wish 400
To leave me, Luke ; thou hast been bound to me
Only by links of love : when thou art gone
What will be left to us !— But, I forget
My purposes. Lay now the corner-stone.
As I requested ; and hereafter, Luke, 405
When thou ai-t gone away, should evil men
Be thy companions, think of me, my Son,
And of this moment; hither turn thy thoughts,
And God wilF strengthen thee : amid all fear
And all temptation, Luke, I pray tliat thou 410
Mayst 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 I'etumest, 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 stoopec^ down.
And, as his Father had requested, laid - 420
The tiret stone of the Sheep-fold. At the sight
The Old Man's grief broke from him ; to his heart
He pressed his son, he kiss^ him and wept ;
And to the house together they returned.
— Hushed was that House in peace, or seeming peace, 425
Ere the night fell : — with morrow'.s dawn the Boy
Begun his journey, and when he had reached
It
415
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WORDSWORTH.
The public way, he put on a bold face ;
And all the neigliboui-s, as he passed their dooi's,
Came forth with wishes and with farewell prayers,
That followed him till he was out of sight.
430
A good report did from their Kinsman oo& 3,
Of Luke and his well-doing : and the Boy
Wrote loving letters, full of wondrous news.
Which, as the Housewife phrased it, were throughout 435
"The prettieist letters that were ever seen."
Both parents read them with rejoicing heai'ts.
So, many months passed on : and once again
The Shepherd went about his daily work
With confident and cheerful thoughts ; and now 440
Sometimes when he could find a leisure hour
He to that valley took his way, and there
Wrought at the Sheep-fold. Meantime Luke began
To slacken in his duty ; and, at length
He in the dissolute city gave himself 445
To evil courses : ignominy and shame
Fell on him, so that he was driven at last
To .seek a hiding-plaoe beyond the seas.
, There is a comfort in the strength of love ;
^i^will make a thing endurable, which else 450
j Would overset the brain, or break Ihe 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 455
Of an unusual strength. Among the rocks
He went, and still looked up towards the sun.
And listened to the wind ; and, as before.
Performed all kinds of labour for his Sheep,
MIOBABt..
And for the land his small inheritanoe.
And to that hollow Dell from time to time
Did he repair, to build the Fold of which
Hia flook had need. Tb not forgotten yet
The pity which was then in eveiy heart
For the Old Man— and 'tis believed by all
That many and many a day he thither went,
And never lifted up a single stona
66
460
405
There, by the Sheep-fold, sometimes was he seen
Sitting alone, with that his faithful Dog,
Then old, beside L m, lying at his feet. 470
The length of full seven years, from time to time,
He at the building of this Sbeep-fold wrought, -^^^
And left the work unfinished when he died, ^P^H
Three years, or little moi-e, did Isabel
Survive her Husband : at her death the estate 476
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 480
That grow beside their door ; and the romains
Of the unfinished Sheep-fold may be seen
Beside the boisterous brook of Qreen-head GhylL
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HART-LEAP WELL
Uwrt-Laap Weil ia a mnall ipriof of water, about five milee from Riohmond in York-
ihlre, and near the side of the road that leads from Biohmond to Askrigir. Its name
^is derived from a remarlcsble Chase, the memory of which is preserved by the monu-
ments spoken of in the second Part of the following Poem, whioh monuments do
DOW exist as I have there deeoribed tbem.
The Knight had ridden down from Wensley Moor
With the slow motion of a summer's cloud ;
He turned aside towards a vassal's door.
And ** Bring another hone ! *' he cried aloud. 5
** Another horse t " — ^That shout the vassal heard
And saddled his btsst steed, a comely gray ;
Sir Walter mounted him ; he was the third
Which he had mounted ort that glorious day.
Joy sparkled in the prancing cou7*ser'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 tii'ed 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 stem ;
But breath and eyesight fail ; and, one by one.
The dogs are stratched among the n^ountain fern.
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HABT-LKAP WBLL.
67
Where is the throng, the tamalt of tiie racet
The bugles that so joyfully wet« blown )
— This Chase it looks ^t like hh earthly Chase ;
Sir Walter and the Hart ai-e left alone.
The poor Hart toils along the mountain side ; 30
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 : 35
He neither cracked his whip, nor blew his horn,
But '3'ased 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 tliat it iB yeaned ; 40
. 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. * 40
And now, too happy for repose or rest,
(Kever had living man such joyful lot !)
Sir Walter walked all round, north, south, and west,
And gazed and gazed upon that darling spot
And dimbing up the hill — (it was at least 50
Nine rods of sheer ascent) Sir Walter found
Three several hoof-marks which the hunted Beast
Had left imprinted on the grassy ground.
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W0HD8W0UTH.
Sir Walter wii)ed hia face, and cried, " Till now
Such siglit was never neen by living ejes :
Three leaps have borne him from this lofty brow,
Down to the vary 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 pilgiim's cot,
A place of love for damsels that are coy.
u
A cunning artist will I have to frame
A basin for that Fountain in the dell I
And they who do make mention of the same,
From this day forth, shall call it Haet-lbap Well.
" And, gallant Stag I to make thy praises known,
Another monument shall here be raised ;
Three several Pillars, each a rongh-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 w ^ the dancers and the minstrel's song
We will make merry in that pleasant Bower.
" Till the foundations of the mountains fidl
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 I"
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 suid,
And fiur and wide the fame thereof did ring.
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80
UART-LRAP WILL.
59
•5
Ere thrioe the Moon into her 'port had iteered,
A Oup of stone received the living Well ;
Three Pillan 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 Uall,
A leafj 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 vule. —
But there is matter for a second rhyme^
And I to this would add another tale.
85
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95
PART SECOND.
Thb moving acddent is nob my ti-ade :
To fi'eeze the blood I have no ready arts : '
'Tis my delight, alone in summer shade,
To pipe a simple song for thinking hearts.
As I from Hawes to Richmond did re[)air,
It chanced that I saw standing in a dell
Three Aspens at three cornei-s 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 ttoue-Pillar on a dark hill-top.
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WORDSWORTH.
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The treoa were gray, with neither arras nor head ;
Half-wasted tbe square Mound of tawny groen ;
So that you ju&t 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,
Moi-e doleful place did nevei* eye survey ;
It seemed as if the spring-time came aot 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.
The Shepherd stopped, and that same story told
Which in my former rhyme I have reheai-sed.
" A jolly place,'* said he, " in times of old 1
!Qut 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 1
" 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 lip within that Cup of stone ;
And oftentimes, when all are fast asleep,
This water doth send forth a dolorous groan.
lift
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HART-LSAP WBLL
'' Some mj that here a murder has been done,
And Llood cries cut for biood : but, for my part,
IVa gueased, when Vr& been sitting in the sun,
T7iat it was all for that unhappy Hart.
I4<i
" What thoughts must through the Creature's brain have past !
£ven from the topmost stone, upon the steep,
Are but three bounds — and look, Sir, at fc)-' st— l4 5
— O Master ! it has been a cruel leap.
" For thirteen bours he ran a desperate race ;
And in !ssy dmpie ^nind we cannot tell
What cause the Hart might have to love this place^
And come and make his deathbed near the Well. 150
125
" Here on the griiss perhaps asleep he sank,
Lulled by the Fountain in the summer-tide ;
This water was perhaps the fii-Rt he drank
When he had wanderad from his mother's side.
130
135
" In April here beneath the scented thorn 155
He heard the birds their morning carols sing ;
And he, perhaps, for aught we know, was born
Not half a furlong from that iself-same spring.
" Now, here is neither grass nor pleasant shade ;
Tlie sun on drearier hollow never shone ; 1 60
So ^ill it be, as I have often said,
Till Trees, and Stones, and Fountain^ al! are gona" .
" Gray-headed Shepberdj thou hast spoken well ;
Small difference lies between thy creed and mine :
This Beaefc not unobserved by Nature fell; 165
His death was moui-ned by symimthy divino.
. ,«J|.i,>u III. i„„W4iiiuj^B^|!5^(5W5iip^
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62
WORDSWORTH.
" The Being, th&fc is in the clouds and air,
That is in the green leaves among the groves,
Maintains a deep and reverential c«re
For the unoffending creatures whom he loves. 17C
'• The Pleasure-house is dust : — behind, before.
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, 175
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, I8'>
Never to blend our pleasure or our pride
With sorrow of the meanest thing that feels."
FIDELITY.
A BARfciNO sound the Shepherd hears^
A cry as of a dog or fox ;
He halts — and searches with his eyes
Among the scattered rocks ;
And now at distance can discern
A stirring in a brake of fern ;
And instantly a dog is seen,
Glancing through that covert grew.
FIDBUTT.
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 t
It was a cove, a huge recess.
That keeps, till June, December's snow ;
A lofty precipice in front,
A silent tai.-n* below !
Far in the bosom of Helvellyn,
Bemoie from public road or dwelling
Pathway, or cultivated land ;
From trace of human foot or hand.
63
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20
26
There sometimes doth a leaping fish
Sena 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 binds it fast
30
Not free from boding thoughts, a while
The Shepherd stood : then makes his way
Towards the Dog, o'er rooks and stones,
As quickly as he may ;
35
'Tarn to»«MallMM« or Lftk*, nHMtljr h^ up in (Im mountaim.
64
WORDSWORTH.
Nor fur had gone before he found
A human skeleton on the gix)iind ; 40
The appalled discoverer with a siglj
Looks round, to learn the history.
From those abrupt and perilous rocks
The Man had fallen, that place of fear 1
At length upon the Shepherd's mind 45
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. 50
But hear a wonder, fo whose sake
This lamentable tale I tell I
A lasting monument of words
This wonder merits well.
The Dog, which still was hovering nigh, 55
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, 60
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 65
Above all human estimate.
r
1
THK LSBOH-OATHERBR.
65
THE LEECH-GATHERER;
OR,
RESOLUTION AND INDEPENDENCE.
Thbrb was a roaring in the wind all nigtit;
The rain came heavily and fell in flood^;
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 ullsd with pleasant noise of waters.
All things that love the sun are out of doors ;
The sky rejoices in the morning's birth ;
The grass is bright with rain-drops ; — on the moors
The Hare is running races in her mirth ;
And with her feet she from the plashy earth
Raises a mist ; that, glittering in the sun,
Runs with her all the way, wherever she doth run.
I was a traveller then upon the moor ;
I saw the Hare that raced about with joy ;
I heard the woods and distant waters roar ;
Or heard them not, as happy as a boy :
The pleasant season did my heart em[)loy -.'
My old remembrances went from me wholly ;
And all the ways of men, so vain and melancholy 1
10
15
20
But, as it sometimes chanceth, from the might 25
Of joy in minds that can no further go,
As high as we have mounted in delight
In our dejection do we sink us low,
To me that morning did it happen so;
And feai-s and fancies thick upon me came ; 30
Dim sadness — and blind thoughts, I know not, nor could name.
"^ppn
■WPW^H^
w^lpi"pli«p^pli«lilp
i«ipl«ip
66
WORDSWORTH.
I heard the Skj-lark warbling in the sky ;
And I bethought me of the playful Hare :
Even such a happy child of earth am I ;
Even as these blissful creatures do I fare ;
Far from the world I walk, and from all care ;
But there may come another day to me —
Solitude, jmin 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 calj
Love him, who for himself will take no heed at all 1
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 plow, along the mountain-side :
By our own spirits are we deified ;
We Poets in our youth begin in gladness ;
But thereof comes in the end despondency and madness.
Now, whether it were by peculiar grace, -
A leading from above, a something given,
Yet it befel, tliat, in this lonely place,
When I with theia untoward thoughts had striven,
Beside a pool bare to the eye of heaven
I saw H Man before me unawares :
The oldest man he seenied that ever wore grey haiiu
As a huge Stone is sometimes seen to lie
Couched on the bald top of an eminence ;
Wondor to all who do the same espy.
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40
45
60
65
60
THB LBEOH GATHBKER.
67
By what means it could thither oorne, 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 mora than human weight upon his frame had cast.
Himself he propped, his body, limbs, and face.
Upon a long grey ^taff 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 waters, 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."
A gentle answer did the Old-man make,
In courteous speech which forth he slowly drew :
And him with further words I thus bespake,
** What occupation do you there pursue 1
This is a lonesome place for one like you.'*
He answered, while a flash of mild surprise
Broke from the sable orbs of his yet vivid eyes.
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WOBD8WOIITU.
His words came feobly, 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 iu Scotland use,
Religious men, '-^ho 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 Gk)d's good help, by choice or chance ;
And in this way he gained an honest maintoii^iince.
The Old-man still stood talking by my side;
But noi^ 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 drc^am ;
Or like a man from some far region sent,
f£o give me human sti-ength, by apt admonishment.
My former thoughts returned : the fear that kiils ;
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
Ue travelled; stirring thus about his feet
1
05
100
105
110
115
120
125
THB LBEOH OATHERBU.
69
The waters of the Pools whera they abida
" Once I could meet with them on every side ;
But they have dwindled long by slow decay ;
Tet still I persevere, and find them where I may."
While he was talking thus, the lonely place, 130
The Old-maa's shape, and speech, all troubled lue :
In my mind's eye I seemed to see him pace
About the weary mooi*s continually.
Wandering about alone and silently.
While I these thoughts within myself pursued, 135
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 HO
In that decrepit Man so firm a mind.
" God," said I, " be my help and stay secure ;
I'll think of the Leech-gai<herer on the lonely moor 1 **
I
< ^> • ^ •>,. u i V J ^ III <! I ini 'tw^f^^fmmmmifmmmmfWi'ifi'mimKfmmtmii
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LYRICAL POEMS.
"Higher ttltl and higher,
From the eurth thou apringeat,
Uha a cloud of fire ;
The blue deep thou wingest,
And ahglng ttill doat aoar. and aoarlng euar alngeat."
—Shellay.
TO THE DAISY.
In youth from rock to rock I went,
From hill to hill in discontent
Of pleasui-e high and turbulent,
Most pleased when most uneasy ;
But now my own delights I make.—
My thirst at every rill can slake,
And gladly Nature's love partiike
Of thee, sweet Daisy !
Thee Winter in the garland weara
That thinly decks his few grey hairs ;
Spring parts the clouds with softest airs.
That she may sun thee ;
Whole summer-fields are tliine bv ri^'ht :
And Autumn, melancholy wight !
Doth in thy cximson head delight
When rains are on thee.
In shoals and bands, a morrice train,
Thou greet'st the traveller in the lane,
Pleased at his greeting thee again ;
Yet nothing daunted,
Nor grieved, if thou be set at nought :
And oft alone in nooks remote
We meet thee, like a pleasant thought.
When such are wanted.
Be violets in their secret mews
The flowers the wanton Zephyrs choose ;
Proud be the rose, with rains and dews
78
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7^ WORDSWORTtt.
Her head impearling.
Thou liv'st with less ambitious aim,
Yet hast not gone without thy fime ;
Thou art indeed by many a claim
The Poet's darling.
If to a rock from mins he fly,
Or, some bright day of April sky,
Tmj^risoned by hot sunshine lie
Near the green holly,
And wearily at length should faro ;
He needs but look about, and there
Thou art I — a friend at hand, to scare
His melancholy.
A hundred times, by rock or bower.
Ere thus I have lain crouched an hour,
Have I derived from thy sweet power
Some apprehension ;
Some steady love ; some brief delight ;
Some memory that had taken flight ;
Some chime of fancy wrong or right ;
Or stray invention.
If stately i)assion8 in me bum,
And one cliance look to Thee should turn,
I drink out of an humbler urn
A lowlier pleasure ;
The homely sympathy that heeds
The common life our nature breeds ;
A wisdom fitted to the needs
Of hearts at leisure.
Fresh smitten by ti^e^ morning ray,
When thou art up, alert and gay,
Then, cheerful Flower 1 my spirits play
•^^.
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TO THE SAME.
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With kindred gladness :
And when, at dusk, by dews opprest
Thou siuk'st, the image of thy rest
Hath often eased my pensive breast
Of careful sadness.
And all day long I number yet.
All seasons through, another debt,
Which I, wherever ihou art met,
To thee am owing ;
An instinct call it, a blind sense ;
A happy, genial influence,
Coming one knows not how, nor whence,
Nor whither going.
Child of the Year 1 that round dost run
Thy course, bold lover of the sun.
And cheerful when the day's begun
As lark or leveret.
Thy long-lost praise* thou shalt regain ;
Nor be less dear to ^'uture men
Than in old times ; — then not in vain
Art Nature's favourite.
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TO THE SAME.
Bright flower, whose home is everywhere 1
A Pilgrim bold in Nature's cai*e.
And oft, 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
"Hie forest through !
* 8m, In Obauow vaA Um ddtr Poets, tiie boooun formerly pftid to thii flower.
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WORDSWORTH.
And wherefore 1 Man is soon depreat ;
A thoughtless Thing ! who, once unbiest,
Does lifcf;le on his memory rest,
Or on his reason ;
But Thou would'st teRch him how to find
A Shelter under evory wind,
A hope for times that are unkind
And every season.
IC
15
TO A HIGHLAND GIRL.
(at INVERSNEYDE, upon loch LOMOND.)
Sweet Highland Girl, a very shower
Of beauty is thy earthly dower !
Twice seven consenting yeara have shed
Their utmost bounty on thy head :
And these grey Rocks ; this household Liwn ;
These Trees, a veil just half withdrawn ;
This full 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 coverte [)eep
When earthly cares are laid asleep I
Yet, dream and vision as thou art,
I bless thee with a human heart :
God shield thee to thy latest years I
Thee neither know I nor thy peers ;
And yet my eyes are filled with tears.
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TO A RIOBLAND GIRL.
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With earnest feeling I shall pray
For thee when I am far away :
For never saw I mien, or face.
In which more plainly I could trace
Benignity and home-bred sense
Ripening in perfect innocence.
Here scattered like a random seed,
Remote from men, Thou dost not need
The embairaased 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 su)iles, by human kindness bred !
And seemliness complet.©, 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 stiife
That gives thy gestures grace and life !
So have I, not unmov(;(l in mind,
Seen birds of tempest-loving kind,
Thus beating up against the wind.
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What hand but would a garland cull
For thee who aiii so beautiful 1
O happy i)leasure ! here to dwell
Beside thee in some heathy dell ;
Adopt your homely ways, and dresi^
A Shepherd, thou a Shepherdess 1
But I could frame a wish for thee
Moi'e like a grave reality :
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WORDSWORTH.
Thou art to me but as a wave
Of the wild sea : aad I would have
Some claim upon thee, if I could,
Though but of common neighbourhood.
What joy to he"-r thee, and to see I
Thy elder Brother I would be,
Thy Father, any thing to thee I
Now thanks to Heaven I that of its gmce
Hath led me to this lonely place.
Joy have I had ; and going hence
I bear away my recomi>ense.
In spots like these it is we prize
Our Memory, feel that she hath eyes :
Then, why should I be loth to stir 1
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 I from Thee to part ;
For I, methinks, ♦'ill I grow old,
As fair before mc all behold,
As I do now, the Cabin small.
The Lake, the Bay, the Waterfall ;
And Thee, the Spirit of them all I
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STEPPING WESTWARD.
While my Fellow-traveller and I were walkiogr by the side of Looh Katrine, one fine
evening after sunaet, in our road to a Hut where in the course of our Tour we had
been hospitably entertained some weelts before, we met, in one of the loneliest parts
of that solitary region, two well-dressed Women, one of whom said to us, by way of
greeting, " What, you are stepping westward?"
" What, you are stepping westukird t '*-
—-'T would be a wildi'*h H«t:v i ,
«
Ym.**
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THE SOLITARY REAPER.
mimm
TUE SOLITARY REAPER.
If we, who thus together roam
111 a sti-ange 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 ho had none.
With such a Sky to lead him on 1
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 eudiea* way.
79
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THE SOLITARY REAFKR.
Behold her, single in the field.
Yon solitary Higldand Lass !
Reaping and singing by herself ;
Stop here, or gently pass !
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WORDSWORTH.
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 chant
So sweetly to reposing bands
Of Travellera in some shady hannt,
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 plaintisre 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 !
What'er the theme, the Maiden sang
As if her song could have no ending :
I saw her singing at her work.
And o'er the sickle bending ; —
I listened till I had my fill,
And when I mounted up the hill,
The music in my heart I bore,
Long after it was heard no inoro.
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At TBI GRAVE OF BURNS.
81
AT THE GRAVE OF BURNS,
1803.
SEVEK YEARS AFTER HIS DEATH.
I SHiVKH, Spirit fierco and bold,
At thought of what I now beliold :
As vapoure breathed from dungeons cold
Strike pleasure dead,
So sadness con' i from out the mo'ild
Where Burns is laid.
And have I then thy bones so near.
And thou forbidden to appear 1
As if it were thyself that's here
I shrink with pain ;
And both my wishes and my fear
Alike are vain.
Off weight — nor press on weight ! — away
Dark thoughts ! — they came, but not to stay ;
With chastened feelings would I pay
The tribute due
To him, and aught that hides his clay
From mortal view.
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Fresh as the flower, whose modept worth
He sang, his genius " glinted " forth,
Rose like a star that touching earth,
For so it seems,
Dotb glorify its humble birth
With matchless l)fiamH.
25
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^2 WORDSWORTtt.
The piercing eye, fche thoughtful biow,
The atrnggling heart, where be thoy now ?-
Full soon the Aspirant of the plough,
• The prompt, the brave,
Slept, with the ol>scure«t, in the low
And silent grave.
Well might I mourn that He was gone,
Whose light I hail'd when first it shone,
When, breaking forth as nature's own.
It showed my youth
How Verse may build a princely throne
On bumble truth.
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Alas I where'er the cun^nt tends,
Regret puiT ds and with it blends,
Huge Criffe/s hoary top ascends
By Skiddaw seen, —
Neigh boui-s we were, and loving friends
We might have been :
True friends though di ersely inclined;
But heart with heart, and mind with mind,
Where the main fibre s are entwined,
Thro-igh Nature's skill,
May even by contraries be joined
More closely still.
The tear will start, and let it flow ;
Thou "poor Inhabita t below,"
At this dread moment— -even so —
Might we together
Have sate and talked wlicre gowans blow,
Or on wild heather.
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I 'lli i inja l
AT TUB JRAVK OF liUHNS.
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What treasures woi:Ul have then been placed
Within my reach ; of knowledge graced
By fancy what a rich repaat !
But why go on I—
Oh I spare to sweep, thou mournful hiast,
His grave grass-grown.
There, too, a Son, \M joy and pride,
(N( H oe weeks past the Stripling died,)
Lies gathered to his Fatlier's side,
Soul-mt ing si^jht I
Yet one to which is not dttnied
Som< Bad deligu£.
For hs is safe, a quiet bed
Hath early found among the dead.
Harboured where none can be misled,
Wronged, or distrest ;
And surely here it may be said
That such are blest.
And oh for Thee, by pitying grace
Checked oft-times in a devious race,
May He, who halloweth the place
Where Man is laid,
Reoeive thy Spirit in the embrace
For which it prayed I
Sighing I turned away ; but ere
Night fell, I heard, or seemed to hear,
Music that sorrow comes not neai',
A ritual hyma,
Ghaunted in love that casts out fear
By Semphim.
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84
WOBDSWORTH.
THOUGHTS
SUOa^STED THE DAY POLLOWINO, ON THE BANK. OF NITH,
NEAR TiSE poet's RESIDENCE.
Too frail to keep the lofty vow
That must have followed when his brow
Was wreathed — " The Vision " tells us how —
With holly spray,
He faultercjd, drifted to and fro,
And pas&ed away.
Well might raoh ^.houghts, dear Sister, throng 10
Our minds when, lingering all too long,
Over the grave of Bums we hung
In social grief ^ —
Indulged as if it were a wrong
To seek relief.
But, leaving each unquiet theme
Where gentlest judgments may misdeem,
And prompt to welcome every gleam
Of good and fair.
Let us beside this limpid Stream 20
Breathe hopeM air.
Enough of sorrow, wreck, and blight :
Think rather of those moments bright
When to the consciousness of right
His coi?rse was true, 25
When wihdom prospered in his sight
And virtue grew.
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THOUGHTS.
Yes, freely let our hearts expand,
Freely as in youth's season bland,
When side by side, his Book in hand,
We wont to stray,
Oar pleasure varying at oommand
Of each sweet Lay.
How ofb inspired must he have trode
These pathways, yon far-stretchiug roarl !
There lurks his home ; in that Abode,
With mirth elate,
Or in his nobly-pensive mood,
The Rustic sate.
Proud thoughts that Image overawes,
Before it humbly let ns pause.
And as^ of Nature, from what cause,
And by what rules
She trained her Buiiis to win applause
That shames the Schools.
Through busiest street and loneliest glen
Aie felt the flashes of his pen :
He rules mid winter snows, and when
Bees fill thoir hives i
Deep in the general heart of men
His power survives.
What need of fields in some far clime
Where Heroes, Sagos, Bards sublime,
And all that fetched the flowing rhyme
From genuine springs,
Shall dwell together till old Time
Folds up his wings I
55
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WOftbSWOEttt.
Sweet Meroy ! to the gates of Heaven
This Minstrel lead, his sins forgiven ;
The rueful oonfliot, the heart riven
With vain endeavour^
And memory of Earth's bitter leaven
EfEaoed for ever.
But why to Him oonfine the prayer,
When kindred thoughts and yearnings bear
On the frail heart the purest share
With all thaw live «—
The best of what we do and are,
Just Qod, foigive !
TO THE OUOKOO.
BUTHB New-oomer 1 I have heaid,
1 hear thee and rejoice.
O Ouokoo I shall I <sdl thee Bird,
Or but a wandering Voice t
While I am lying on the grass
Thy twofold shout I hear ;
From hill to hill it seems to pass,
At onoe far off and near.
Though babbling only, to the Yals^
Of sunshine and of flo^^ers,
Thou bringest unto me a tale
Of viabnary hours.
Thrioe weloome^ darling of the Spring t
Even yet thoa art to me
Ko Bird : but an invisible Tiiin|^
A voioe, a mystery •
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tarbow visited.
The same whom in my School-boy days
I listened to; that Cry
Which made me Look a thousand ways
In bosh, and tree, and sl^.
To seek thee did I often rove
Through woods and on the green ;
And thon wert still a hope, a love ;
Still longed for, never seen.
And I can listen to thee yet ;
Can lie upon the plain
, And listen, till I do beget
That golden time again.
O blessed Bird i the earth we pace
Again appeara to be
An unsubstantial, faeiy place ;
That is fit home for Thee I
20
YARROW VISITED,
sbftevbe: 18i4.
And is this — Yarrow I — Th48 the Stream
Of which my fancy cheiished,
So faithfully, a waking dream t
An. image that hath perished 1
O that some Minstrel's harp were aear,
To utter notes of gladness,
And chase this silence from the air,
Tbuki fills my heart with sadnem I
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TTOBDSWOBTH.
Yet why 1 — a silvery cuiTent flows
With uncontrolled meandarings ;
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 featui-e of those hillfi
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 I that excludes
All profitless dejection ;
Though not unwilling here to admit
A pensive recollection.
Where was it that ttie famous Flower
Of Yarrow Vale lay bleeding ?
His bed perchance was yon smootd mound
On which the herd is feeding :
And haply from this crystal pool,
Now peaceful as the morning.
The Wdter-wraith ascended thrice—
And gave his doleful warning.
Delicious is the Lay that sings
The haunts of happy Lovers,
The path that leads tham 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 {
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YABROW VISITED.
But thou, that didst appear so fair
To fond imagmation,
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.
Th&u Region left, the Yale unfolds
Rich groves of lofty stature,
With Yarrow winding through the pomp
Of cultivated nature ;
And, rising from those lofty groves,
Behold a Ruin hoary !
The shattered front of Newark's Towers,
Renowned in Border story.
Fair scenes for childhood's o|)ening bloom.
For sporti ve 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 1
And what if I enwreathed my own 1
Twere no offence to reason ;
The sober Hills thus deck their brows
To meet the wintry SMSon.
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WORDBWOBTH.
I see — ^bui not by sight alone.
Loved Yarrow, have I won thee j
A ray of Fancy still survives —
Her sunshine plays upon thee 1
Thy ever-youthful waters keep
A course of lively pleabure ;
And gladsome notes my lips can breathe,
Accordant to the measure.
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The vapours linger around the Heights,
Thoy 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, YaiTOw !
Will dwell with me — to heighten joy,
And cheer my mind in sorrow.
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TO A SKY-LARK.
Up with me ! up with me into the clouds !
For thy song, Lark, is strong ;
Up with me, up with me into the cloud'i !
Singing, singing.
With clouds and sky about thee ringing,
Lift me, guide me till I find
That spot which seems so to thy mind !
I have walked through wildernesses dreary,
And to>day my heart is weary ;
Had I now the wings of a Faery,
Up to thee would I fly.
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^ To hear the lark begin hia flight,
And, singing, startle the dull night,
From his watch'tomr in the akies.
Till the dappled dawn doth Hae."
—L' Allegro.
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TO A 8KT-LARK.
Thero's madneBS about thee, and joy divine
In that song of thine ;
Lift me, guide me high and high
To thy banqneting-plaoe in the sky.
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Joyous as morning,
Then art laughing and sooraing ;
Thou hast a nest for thy love and thy rest^
And, though little troubled with sloth.
Drunken Lark 1 thou would'st be loth
To be such a traveller as I.
Happy, happy Liver,
With a soul as strong as a mountain River
Pouring out praise to the Almighty Giver,
Joy and jollity be with us both 1
Alas ! my journey, niggi 1 lud uneven.
Through prickly moors or dustv ways must wind
But hearing thee, cr others of thy kind,
As fiill of gladness and as free of heaven,
I, with my fate contented, will plod on.
And hope for higher raptures, when Life's day is done.
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TO A SKYLABK.
EJrHMBiAL Minstrel ! Pilgrim of the sky {
Dost thou des|Hse the earth where cares abound 1
Or, while the wings aspire, are heart and eye
Both with thy nest upon the dewy ground 1
Thy nest which thou canst drop into at will,
Tho^e quivering winyi composed, that music still 1
7
92 WOBDSWORTH.
To the last point of vision, and beyond,
Mot^nt, daring Warbler I that love-prompted strain,
(Twixt thee and thine a never-failing bond)
Thrills not the leis the bosom of the plain :
Yet might'st thou seem, proud privilege 1 to sing
All independent of the leafy spring.
Leave to the Nightingale her shady wood ;
A privacy of glorious light is thine ;
Whenoe thou dost pour upon the world a iBood
Of harmony, with instinct more divine ;
Type of the wise who soar, but never roam ;
True to the kindred points of Heaven and Home I
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POEMS
AKIN TO THE ANTIQUE
AMD
ODES.
"Then (last ttralnj
Of Duty, ekoMH laws, oontroUIng oholct,
Action and Jon I— An Orphio aong IndtotI,
A aong d olnn of high and paaalonate thought*
T0 thtir own mualo chantadl"
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ODE TO DUTY.
Jam non ooniilio bonus, sed mora e6 perdaotns, ut non tantam reotft fawn pomitn
sed nM raoti facere non possiin.'
Stbrk D; .ughter of the Voice of Gkxi i
O Duty 1 if that name thou love
Who art a light to guidOy a rod
To check the errii; g, and reprove ; I
Thou, who art victory and law
When empty terrors overawe ;
From vain temptations dost set free ;
And calm'st the weary strife of frail humanity I
There BXf> who ask not if thine eye ^^^Kbk: lU
Be or^ them ; who, in love and truth.
Where no misgiving is, rely
Upon the genial sense of youth :
Glad HtMirts 1 without reproach or blot ;
Who do thy work, and kuow it not : -^^B 15
Long may the kindly impulse last I
But Thou, if they should totter, teaoh them to stand fast !
Serene will be our days Mid bright.
And happy will our nature be,
When love is an unerring lights ^^^^^Hb^^^K 20
And joy its own security.
And they a blissful course may hold
Bven ROW, who, not unwisely b(4d,
live in the spirit of this creed ;
Yet seek thy firm luppcnrty according to their need. 25
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96
WO&DSWOBTB.
I, losing freedom, and untried ;
No sport of every random gnat^
Yet being tc 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 disturbanoe of my soul,
Or strong oompunotion in me wrought^
I supplinate for thy control ;
But in the quietness of thought :
Me this unchartered freedom tires ;
I feel the weight of chanoenlflsires :
My hopes no more must change their name,
I kng for a repose that ever is the same.
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Stem Lawgiver ! yet thou dost wear
The Godhead's most benignant graoe ;
Ncr know we any thtjiig so fair
As is the smile upon thy feuw :
Flowers laugh before thee on their beds
And firagranoe in thy footing treads ;
Thou dost preserve the Stars from wrong ;
And the most ancientHeavens, through Thee, arc f«'<98hand strong.
Ti
Tl
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It
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To humbler functions, awful Power I
I call thee : I myself commend
Unto thy guidance from this hour ;
Oh, let my weakness have an end i
Give into me^ made lowly wiae,
The pirit of selfHutorifice ;
ThB confidence of reason give ;
And in th« light of truth thy bondman ki me live I
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ODK 09 INTIMATIONS OV I11M0BTALIT7.
ODE ON INTIMAllONS OF IMMORTALITY
FROli BSC0LLB0TI0N8 OF KAltLT OHILDHOO!).
Tekue was a time when meadow, grove, and stream,
The earth, and every common sight.
To me did seem
Apparelled in celestial lights
The glory and the freshness of a dream.
It is not now as it hath been of yore ;—
Turn whereeoe'er I may,
By night or day.
The things which I have seen I now can see no mora
^^^V The Rainbow comes and goes,
And lovely is the Rose ;
The Moon doth with delight
Look round her when the hea^ns are bare ;
Waters on a starry night
Are beautiful and fair ;
The sunshine is a glorious birth ;
But yet I know, where'er I go.
That there hath passed away a glory from the earth.
^ HI.
«
Now, while the birds thus sing a joyous song,
And while the young Lambs bound
Aa to the tabor's sound,
To me alone there came a thought of grief :
A timdy utterance gavs that thought r^ief, -
And I egsin am strong :
H
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25
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98
WOBDeWO&TH.
JLasC
c Catanaits blow their trumpets from the steep ; 30
No more AaXi grief of mine the season wrong ;
I hear Uie Echoes through the mountains throng,
The Winds oome to me from the fidds of sleep,
And all the earth is gay ;
Land and sea 35
Give themselves up to jollity, «_,^.^_^
And with the heart of May f^HK
Doth every beast keep holiday ; —
Thou child of joy,
Shout round me, let me hear thy shouts, thou happy. Shepherd-
boy!
IT.
Te blessed Creatures, I have heard the call
Te to each other make ; I see
The heavens laugh with you in your jubilee ;
My heart is at your festival, 45
My head hath its coronal,
The fulness of your bliss, I feel —I feel it all.
O evil day 1 if I were sullen
While the Earth herself is adorning
This sweet May-morning, 50
And the children are pulling
On every side.
In a thousand valleys far and wide,
Fresh flowers ; while the sun shines warm,
Aud the babe leaps up on his mother's arm :~~ 55
I hear, I hear, witti joy I hear !
— But there's a Tree, of many <me,
A single Field which I have looked upon,
Both of 'hem speak of something that is ^ne ;
The Pansy zt my fe^t ^0
Doth the same tale r^eat : .
mmm
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ODB ON mnilATIONt Of IMMOBTAUTT.
99
WhiUier is fled the visional^ gleam t
Where is it now, the glory and the dream f
T.
Our birth is bnt a sleep and a forgetting :
The soul that rises with ns, our life's Star,
Hath had elsewhere its setting,
And Cometh from afar :
Not in entire forgetfulness,
And not in utter nakedness,
But '^ railing clouds of glory do we come
From God, who is our home :
Heavmi lies about us in our infancy I
Shades of the prison-house begin to close
Upon the gTowing 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
■PHK Is on his way attended :
At length the Man perceives it die away.
And &de into the light of common day.
VI.
Earth fills her lap with, pleasures of her own ;
Teamings she hath la her own natural kind.
And even with something of a moUier^s mind,
And no unworthy aim,
The homely Nurse doth all she can
To make her foster-^hild, her inmate Man,
Forget the glones he hath known,
And that imperial palace whence he came.
-I
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i :
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90
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100
tHrOBDsWORTlt.
TIL
Behold the Child smong his new-bom blissesy
A six years' darling of a pigmy size 1
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 hnman life,
Shaped by himself with newly-leamM art ;
A wedding or a festival,
A mourning or a funeral.
And this hath now his heart,
And unto thici he frames his song :
Then will iie fit his tongiie
To dialogues of business, love, or strife ;
But it will not be long
Ere this be thrown aside.
And with new joy and pri de
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.
VIIL
Thou, whose exterior semblance doth belie
Thy soul's immensity;
Thou best Philosopher, wlio yet dost keep
Thy heritage, thou Eiye among the bHnd,
That, deaf and silent, read'st the etemnl deep.
Haunted for ever by the eternal mind, —
Mighty Prophet I Seer Uest I
95
100
105
110
ODB ON IMTIlCAtlOHl Of UtMORTALITT.
101
On whom those tmths do rest,
Which we are toiling all our lives to find,
In darkness lost, the darkness of the grave ;
Thou, over whom thy immortality
Broods like the day, a ma&ter o*er a slave,
A presence which is not to be put by ;
Thou little Child, yet glorious in the might
Of heaven-bom freedom on thy being's height,
Why with such earnest pains dost thou provoke
The years to bring the inevitable yoke.
Thus blindly with thy blessedness at strife ?
Full soon thy soul shall have her earthly freight.
And custom lie upon thee with a weight,
Heavy as iroat, and deep ahnost as life 1
IZ.
O joy ! that in our embers
Is something that doth Kvo,
That nature yet remembers
What was so fugitive 1
The thought of our past years in me doth bref4
Perpetual benediction : not indeed
For that which is most worthy to \ye blest ;
Delight and liberty, the simple creed
Of childhood, whether busy or at rest.
With new-fledged hope still fluttering in his breast
Not for these I raise
The song of thanks and praise ;
But for those obstinate questionings
Of sense and outward things.
Fallings from us, vanishings ;
Blank misgivings of a Creature
Moving about in worlds liot realised,
High instincts before which our mortal Nature
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136
140
U5
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102
WOKD8W9KTU.
Did tremble like a guilty thing surprised :
But for those first affections,
Those shadowy reooUeotiomi,
Which, be they what they may,
Are yet the fountaiii 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 1
Hence, in a season of calm weather.
Though inland far we be.
Our souls have sight of that immortal sea
Which brought us hither.
Can in a moment travel thither,
And see the children sport upon the shore.
And hear the mighty waters rolling eveimore.
GO
165
170
175
Then sing, ye Birds, sing, sing a joyous song 1
And let the young Lambs bound
As to the tabor's sound 1
We in thought will* join your throng.
Ye that pipe and ye that play,
Ye that through your hearts today
Feel the gladness of the M!ay 1
What though the radiance which was once so bright
Be now for ever taken fi"om my sight.
Though nothing can bring back the hour
Of splendotkr in the grass, of glory in the flower ;
180
185
wmm
■H
OHARAOTEE OW TBI HAPPT WARRIOR.
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 fiuth that looks through death,
In years that bring the philosophic mind.
XL
And O, ye Fountains, Meadows, Hills, and Gi-oves,
Think not of any severing of our loves 1
Yet in my heart of hearts I feel your might ;
I only have relinquished one delight
To live bene'^th your more habitual sway.
I love the Brooks which down their channels ftet,
Even more than when I tripped lightly as iliey ;
The innocent brightneira of a new-born Day
Is lovely yet;
The Clonds 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 palmn ai'e won.
Thanks to the human heart by which we live,
Thanks to its tenderness, its joys, and feai-s,
To me the meanest flower that blows can give
Thoughts that do often lie too deep for ipara.
103
190
195
200
205
210
215
OHABACTBR OF THE HAPPY WARRIOR.
Who is the happy Warrior? Who is he
That every man in arms should wish to be t
'It 18 the generous Spirit, who, when brought
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104
WOBD8WORTH.
• -^
Among the tasks of real tife, hath wrought
Upon the plan that pleased his childish thought:
Whose high endeavours are an inward light
That makes the path before him always bright :
Who, with a natural instinct to disoem
What knowledge can perform, is diligent to learn ; 10
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 I
Turns his necessity to glorious gain ; 15
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 20
Her feeling, rendered more compassionate;
Is placable — because occasions rise
So often that demand such sacrifice ;
More skilful in self-knowledge, even mora pura
As tempted more ; more able to endure, 25
As more exposed to suffering and distress ;
Thence, also, more alive to tenderness.
— Tis he whose law is x«ason ; who depends
Upon that law as on the best of friends ;
Whence, in a state where men an tempted still 30
To evil for a guard against worse ill,
And what in quality or act is best
Doth seldom on a right foundation rast^
He fixes good on good alone, and owes
To virtue every triumph that he knows : 40
— Who, if he rise to stp^Hoa of command,
Rises by open means, and there will stand
On honourabl« terms, or dse retire,
10
15
20
15
iO
[0
OHABAOTCB Of TBI HATrT WAmUOR.
And in himself possess his own desire;
Who oomprahends his tnist, end to the same
Keeps fSuthfnl with a singleness of aim ;
And therefore does not stoops nor lie in wait
For wealthy o^ honciiTS, or for worldly state ;
Whom they must follow; on whose head mast fall,
Like showers of manua. if they oome at all :
Whose powers shed round him in the oommon strife,
Or mild oonoems of ordinary life,
A constant ioiiuenoe, % peculiar grace ;
But who, if he be caUed upon to face
Some awitd 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 forasaw ;
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 ftculty for storm and turbulence,
Is yet a Soul whose maeter-faias leans
To homefelt pleasures and to gentle scenes ;
Sweet images 1 which, wheresoever he be.
Are at his heart; and such fidelity
It is his darling passion to approve ;
More brave Tor this, that he hath much to love :
Tis, finally, the man, who^ lifted high,
Conspicuous object in a Nation's eye.
Or leSt unthou^tof 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 :
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50
55
60
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70
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106
WORMWORTR.
Whom neither shape of danger can diamay,
Nor thought of tender happinew betray ;
Who, not content that former worth stand fiist, 76
1xK>ks forward, persevering to the last,
Prom well to better, daily self-mirpast :
Who, whether praise of him must walk the earth
For ever, and to noble deeds give birth,
Or he mast go to dust without his fame, 80
And leave a dead unprofitable name,
Finds oomfort in himself and in his cause ;
And, while the mortal mist is gathering, draws
His breath in confidence of Hf*aven's applause :
This is the happy Warrior ; this is he 90
Whom every man in arms should wish to be.
'.
REFLECTIVE AND ELEGIAC
POEMS.
fat**."
—UtaU.
J
, -'■SBi^Vi-*«#S.
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LINES,
wxvosed a few miles above tintern abbey, on reyisitino
the banks of the iftb during a tour.
July 13, 1798.
Five years have past ; five summers, with the length, 5
Of five long winters 1 and again I hear
These watem, rolling from their mountain-springs
With a sweet inland murmer.* — Once again
Do I behold these steep and lofty olifEs,
That on a wil<) secluded scene impress 10
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 ^camore, and view
These plots of cottage-ground, these orchard-tufts, 15
Which at this season, with their unripe fruits,
Are clad in one green hue, and lose themselves
Among the woods and copses, nor disturb
The wild green landscape. Once again I see
These hedgerows, hardly hedgerows, little lines - 20
Of sportive wood run wild : these padtoml 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, 25
Or of soma Hermit's cave, where by his fire
The Hermit sits alone.
These beauteous Forms,
Through a lonq^ absence, have not been to me
•n* ihwr to MlaflMlMl fcgr tiM tidM a
100
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110
WORDSWORTH.
As is a landscape to a blind man's eye :
But oft, in lonoly 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 fa^^^^npr f.hA Wrh ;
And passing even into my purer mind,
With tranquil restoration : — feelings too
Of unremembered pleasure : such, perhaps,
As have no slight or trivial influence
3n that best portion of a good muu s life,
lis little, nameless, unremembered acts
3f kindness and of lo^'e. 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 weaiy weight
Of all this unintelligible world,
Is lightened : — that sei'ene and blessed mood
In which the affections gently lead us on, —
Until, the breath of this corporeal frame
And even the motion of our human blood
Almost suspended, we ar<i 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 tbee,
O sylvan Wye I Thou wanderer thio' ilio wo-mIs,
35
40
45
50
CO
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LINES.
■iililPPHi
111
70
76
80
How often has my spirit turned to thee !
And now, with gleams of half oxtinguislied thought, 65
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 pleasui-e, but with pleasing thoughts
That in this momsnt 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 tuo sides
Of the deep rivere, and the lonely streams,
Wherever nature led : more like a man
Flying from something that he di-eads, 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,
iff he mountain, and the deep and gloomy wood,
laTheir colours and their forms, were then to mo
iJAn ap[)etite ; a feeling and a love,
iTliat had no need of a remoter charm.
By thought supplied, or any interest
Unborrowed from the eye. — That time is past.
And all Its aching joys are now no more.
And all its diaay raptures. Not for this
Faint I, nor mourn nor murmur ; other gifts
Have followed, for such loss, I would believe^
Abundant recompense. For I have learned
To look on nature, not as in the hour
*0f thoughtless youth ; but hearing oftentimes
85
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95
;'i««^JSK!Wi^* »;«"iiW»'"
'•W^
1112
WOBDSWOBTfi.
J The still, Md, music of humanity, •
pTor harsh nor grating, though of ample power
To chasten and subdcte. 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
Prom 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 hearty and soul
Of all my mond being.
•> Nor perchance.
If I were not thus taught, should I the more
Suffer my genial spirits to decay :
For thou art with me, here, upon the banks
Of t i 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 fonner pleasures in the shooting lights
Of thy wild eyes. Oh I yet a little while
May I bahold in thee what I was once.
My dear, dear Sister ! and this prayer I make.
100
105
y
110
116
120
125
*Tliii Una hM m dam veMmbUuioe to m »«*HniM« Hm of Tooof, tho
pmMlon o( tvhlofa I do nol NOoUoak.
ttOMl 9X'
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lliiPiPI"P«iillH
LtKS.
Elnowing that Natare never did betray
Tho heart that loved her ; 'tis her privil^e,
Through all the years of this our life, to lead
From joy to joy : for she can so inform
The mind that is withiu us, so impress
With quietness and beauty, and so feed
With lofty thoughts, that neither evil tongues,
Bash judgments, nor the sneers of selfish men,
Nor greeting where no kindness is, nor all
The di'eary 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 mountikin winds be free
To blow against thee : and in after years,
When these wild ecstasies shall be matured
Into a sober pleasure, when thy mind
Shall be a mansion for all lovely forms,
Thy memory be as a dwelling-place
For all sweet sounds and harmonies ; oh ! then,
If solitude^ or lear, or pain, or grief, «
Should be thy portion, with what healing thoughts
Of tender joy wilt thou remember me.
And these my exhortations I Nor, perohanoe '
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 i and that I, so long
A worshipper of Nature, hither came
Unwearied in that service : rather say
WiUi warmer love, oh I with far deeper zeal
Of holier love. Nor wilt thou then forget,
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135
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145
150
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114
WORDSWORTH.
That after many wanderings, many years
Of absence, these steep woods and lofty cliffs,
And this green pastoral landscape, were to me
More dear, both for themselves and for thy sake !
165
THE FOUNTAIN.
A CONVERSATION.
We talked with open heart, and tongue
Affectionate and true,
A pair of Friends, though I was young,
And Matthew seventy-two.
We lay beneath a spreiiding oak,
Beside a mossy seat ;
And from the turf a fountain broke,
And gurgled at our feet
" Now, Matthew ! " said I, " let us match
This water's pleasant tune
With some old Border-song, or Catch,
That suits a summer's noon ;
" Or of the Church-clock and the chimes
Sing here beneath the shade,
That half-mad thing of witty rhymes
Which you last April made I "
In silence Matthew lay, and eyed
The spring beneal^ the ti'ee ;
And thus the dear old man replied,
The grey-haired man of glee :
10
15
20
THE FAIRY GLtN.
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''Down to the vale this water steei^
How merril J it goes I
Twill mmniiir on a thoaaand jeara,
And flow at now it flown.
" And here, on this delightfol day,
I cannot ohooee bat think
How <^ a yigorous man, I lay
Beside this Fountain's brink.
** My eyes are dim with childish teara^
My heart is idly stirred,
For the same sound is in my eara
Which in those days I heard.
«Thus fares it still in our decay :
And yet the wiser mind
Mourns less for what age takes away
Than what it leaves behind.
''The Blackbird in the snmmcr trees,
Tte Lark upon the hill,
lot loose their carols when they please^
Are quiet when they will
** With Nature neyer do lA^y wage
A fooUsh strife ; they see
A happy youth, and their old age
Is beautiful and froe :
"But we are pressed by heavy laws;
And often, glad no more^
We wear a fiioe «if joy, beoaose
Ws have been f^ of yore.
116
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40
45
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116 WORDSWOBTa
'* If there be one who need bemoan
His kindred laid in earth,
The household hearts that were his own.
It 18 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 1
I live and sing my id^'e songs
Upon these happy plains,
"And, Matthew, for thy children dead
rilbeasontotheel"
At this he grasped my hand, and said,
" Alas I that cannot be."
We rose up from the fountain-side ;
And down the smootibi descent
Of the green sheep- track did we glide ;
And through the wood we w^it ;
And, ere we came to Leonard's-rock,
He sang those witty rbymes
About the crazy old churdi-clock,
And the bewildered chimes.
BP»«B'"«^HP
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■UEGUO iTANSAS. 117
t-
ELEOIAO STANZAS,
■UOOnraD BT A PIOTURB OF PBXLB C I'LE, IN A STORM,
PAnrTED BT SIB OBOROB JtK\UMONT.
I WAS thy neighbonr onoe, thoa ragge<l Pile !
Four ■ammer weeks I dwelt in sight of thee :
I saw thee every day ; and all the while
Thy Form was sleeping on ^ glassy sea.
So pure the sky, so quiet was the air t
So like, so very like, was day to day I
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 oould have fancied that the mighty Deep
Was evea the gentlest of all gentle things.
Ah 1 THBN, 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 laud,
The consecration, and the Poet's dream ;
I would have planted thee, thou hoaiy Pile,
Amid a world how different &om this 1 -
Beside a sea that could not cease to smik ;
On txanqnil land, beneath a sky of bliss.
A Piotare had it been of lasting ease^
Elyaan quiet, without tcnl or strife ; S5
No motioa but the maving tide^ a breeze,
Or meielj silent NatmiPB bieathing lifei
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118
WOBDSlrOETB.
/
/
/^
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, 30
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 35
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, 40
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.
*tis a passionate Work — ^yet wise and well,
Well chosen is the spirit that is here ; 45
That Hulk which labours in the deadly swell,
That rueful sky, thid pageantry of fear 1
And this huge Castle, standing here sublime,
1 love to see the look with which it braves^
Cased in the unfeeling armour of old time, 50
The lightning, the fierce wind, and tmmpling waves.
Farewell, farewell tho heart that lives alone,
Housed, in a dream, at distance from tile Kind 1
Such happiness; whenever it be known,
Is to be pitied ; for 'tia surely blind. 55
mm ^
^
numoa msvoLunov.
But wdoome fortitiide^ and pattont dwer,
And frequent sights of what v to be bonw 1
Such sightB, or wotfle, as are heibife ue h^re.-*
Not without hope we suffer aii.i ire mourn.
119
.if!'!
j^A
FBBNOH KBVOLTJTION.
AS IV AFPBARBD TO BMTHITSIASTS AT ITS OOMMBNOICMBNT.
Oh ! pleasant exercise of hope and joy I
For mightj were the auxiliars, which then stood
Upon our side, we who were strong in love I
Bliss was it in that dawn to be alive,
But to be jroung was very heaven I — Oh ! times,
In which the meagre, stale, forbidding ways
Of custom, law, and itatute^ took at onoe
The attraction of a oountry in Romanes I
When Reason seeiL m1 the most to assert her rights
When most intent on making of herself
A prime enchantress — to assist the work.
Which then was going forward in nor name !
Not &voured spots alone, but the whole earth,
The beauty wore of promise — ^that which sets
(As at some moment might not be unfelt
Among the bowers of paradise itself)
The budding rose above the rose foil blown.
What temper at the prospect did not wake
To ha p pi ne ss unthought of 1 The inert
Were roused, and lively natures mpt away I
Thoy who had fnd their childhood upon dreams.
The playfeUows of ftotcy, who had made
All powers of mriftomt, 8ub<alty and strength
10
10
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120 WORDSWORTH.
Their miniBtera, — who in lordly wise had stirred
Among the grandest objects of the sense,
And dealt with whatsoever they found there
As if they had within some lurking right
To wield it ; they, too, who, of gentle mood, 30
Had watched all gentle motions, and to these
Had fitted their own thoughts, schemers more mild,
And in the region of their peaceful selves ; —
Now was it that both found, the Meek and Lofty
Did boti find .helpers to their heart's desire, 35
And stuff at hand, plastic as they could wish ;
Were called upon to exercise their skill.
Not in Utopia, subterranean Fields,
Or some secreted Island, Heaven kno »vb vnere 1
But in the very world, which is the world 40
Of all of us, — the place where in the end
We find our happiness, or not at all 1
A POET'S EPITAPH.
Art thou a Statesman, in the van
Of public business trained and bred ?
— ^First learn to love one living man ;
Then may'st thou think upon the dead.
A Lawyer art thoul — draw not nigh I
Qo, carry to some fitter place
The keenness of that practised eye,
The hardness of that sallow face.
Art thou a Man of purple cheer t
A rosy Man, right plump to see ?
Approach ; yet, Doctor, not too near
This grave no cushion is for thee.
10
K)
THE SKYLARK'S HOUR.
4]
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A POBf^fl TOITAPB.
Or art thou one of gallant pride^
A Soldier, and no man of chaff t
Welcome I — ^bat lay thy sword aside.
And lean upon a peasant's staff.
Physician art thon t One, all ejes^
Philosopher I a fingering slave,
One that wonld peep and botaniae
Upon his mother's grave t
Wrapt closely in thy sensnal fleece,
O turn aside,— and take, I pray, -
That he below may rest in peace,
That aljeot thing, thy soul, away 1
A Moralist perchance appears ;
I^, Heaven knows how I to this poor sod ;
And he has neither eyas nor earg ;
Himpelf his world, and his own Qod ;
One to whose smooth-rubbed soul can cling
Nor form, nor feeling, great or small ;
A reasoning, self-sufficing thing,
An intellectual All-in-all 1
Shut dose the door ; press down the latch ;
Sleep in thy intellectual crust ;
Nor lose ten tickings of thy watch
Near this unprofitable d'ust.
But who is He, with modest looks.
And dad in homely mseet brown t
He mnrmnn near Uie running brooks
A mudo sweeter than their own.
imx
16
20
25
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30
35
40
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H« is retired as D^vnitide dew,
Or fonntam in a noon-day grove s
And yon mnut love him, ere to 70a
He will aeem worthy of your love.
The outward shows of sky and earth,
Of hill and valley, he has viewed ;
And impulses oi deeper birth
Have come to him in solitude^
In common things that round us lie
Some random trutluB he can impart ; —
The harvest of a quiet eye
That broods end sleeps on his own heart
But he is weak ; both Man and Boy,
Hath been an idler in the land ;
Contented if he might enjoy
The things which others understand.
— Oome hither in thy hour of strength ;
Gome, weak as is a breaking wave 1
Here stretch thy body at full length ;
Or build thy house upon this grave !
45
50
55
60
55
60
SONNETS.
Seon mt tkt Sotmtt; OrHte. ton Aom fromnmt,
Mtm/ltaa of H» Jutt honouni »ftk tklo kty
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SONNETS.
in.— On thb Extinction op thk Vbnetiax Republic.
Once did she hold the gorgeous East in fee;
And was the safeguard of the West : the worth
Of Venice did not fall below her birth, 5
Venice, the eldest ChUd of Liberty.
She was a Maiden Citj, bright and free ;
No guile seduced, no force could violate ;
And, when She took unto herself a Mate,
She must espouse the everlasting Sea. * 10
And what if she had seen those glories fade.
Those tiUes vanish, and that strength decay ;
Yet shall some tribute of regi-et be paid
When her long life hath reached >* final day :
Men are we, and must grieve when even the Shade
Of that which once was great, is passed away.
VI.-THOUOHT OF A Briton on the Subjugation ^r
Switzerland.
Two Voices are there ; <me is of the Sea^
One of the Mountains ; each a mighty Voice :
In both from age to age Thou didst rqoioe, g
They were thy chosen Music, Liberty I
There came a Tymat, and with holy glee
Thou fought'st against Him ; but hast vainly striven-
Thou from the Alpine holds at length are driven, '
Where not a torrent murmurs heud bj thea ' lo
Of om deep hltai thme ear hath bean bereft :
136 *
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i26 WOJUMWORTH.
Then deare, O cleave to that which still is left ;
For, highHBOuIed Maid, what sorrow would it be
That Mountain Floods should thunder as before,
And Ocean bellow from his rooky shore,
And neither awful Yoioe be heard by thee I
10
XVn.— To Thomas Olarkson, on the Final Passino of thi
Bill for thb Abolition of thb Slave Trade,
March 1807.
Clarkson 1 it was an obstinate hill to climb :
How toilsome — nay, how dire it was, by Thee 5
Is known, — ^by none, perhaps, so feelingly ;
But Thou, who, starting in thy fervent prime.
Didst first lead forth this pilgrimage sublime.
Hast heard the constant Voice its charge repeat,
Which, out of thy young heart's oracular seat, 10
First roused thee. - O true yoke-fellow of Time,
Duty's intrepid liegeman, see, the palm
Is won, and by all Nations shall be worn I
The bloody Writing is for ever torn,
And Thou henceforth shall have a good man's calm, 15
^ A great man's happiness ; thy zeal shall find
Repose at length, firm Friend of human kind 1
XIX.
Scorn not the Sonnet ; Critic, you have frowned,
Mindless of its just honouni ; with this key
Shakespeare unlocked his heart ; the melody
Of this small lute gave ease to Petrarch's wound ;
A thousand times this pipe did Tasso sound ;
Camoens soothed with it an exile's grief;
•omim. 137
The Sonnet glittered a gay myrtle leaf
Amid the cypress with which Dante crowned
His visionary brow : a glow-worm lamp, 10
It cheered mild Spenser, called fix>m Faery-land
To struggle through dark ways ; and, when a damp
Pell round the path of Milton, in his hand
The Thing becaYne a trumpet, whence he blew
Soul-animating strains— alas, too few 1 15
XX.
NuKS fret not at their convent's narrow room,
And Hermits are contented with their cells,
And Students with their pensive citadels :
Maids at tfie Wheel, the Weaver at his loom,
Sit blithe and happy ; Bees that soar for bloom,
High as the highest Peak of Furness Pells,
Will murmur by the liour in foxglove bells:
In truth, the prison, unto which we doom
Ourselves, no prison is : and hence to 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 thero, as I have found.
10
XXTIL — Personal Talk.
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^usquaintance, ladies bright,
(.-^
5
i^
I
IM WORMWOBtA.
Sons, mothers, maideiui withering on the stalk,
Thew all wear out of me, like forms with chalk
Painted on rich men's floors for one feast-nights
Better than suoh discourse dotli siloaoe long,
Long, barren silence, square with my desii*e j
To sit without emotion, hope, or aim.
In the loved presence of my cottage-fire,
And listen to the flapping of the flat..j,
Or kettle whispering its faint undersong.
15
20
$i
n
XXIV. — Continued.
Wings have we, — and as far as we can go
We may find pleasure : wilderness and wood,
Blank ocean and mere sky, support that mood
Which with the lofty sanctifies the
Dreams, books, are each a world; au.. ^ooka, we know.
Are a substantial world, both pure and good.:
Round th«se, with tendrils strong as flesh and blood,
Our pastime and our happiness will grow.
There find I personal themes, a plenteous stow^
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.
XXV. — CONCLUDBD.
Nor can I not believe but that hereby
Great gains are mine ; for thtun I liv^ reiQot^
From evil-speaking ; rancour, q«ver sought^
Oomes tp m« not ; malignant tratb, or Ue.
10
15
5
I
loviini.
1S9
H'jnoe hATe I genial Maaom, henoe have I
Smooth passions, smooth diaooarse, and joyona thought:
And thus from day to day my little boat
Rocks in its harbour, lodging peaceably.
Blessings be with them— and eternal praise, 10
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 £5ladly would I end my mortal days. 15
XXVI.— To Sleep.
A FLOOK of sheep that leisurely pass by,
One afte jne ; the sound of rain, and bees
Murmuring; the fall of rivers, winds and seas,
Smooth fields, white sheets of water, and pure sky,
By turns have all been thought of, yet I lie
Sleepless ; and soon the small birds* melodies
Must hear, first uttered from my orchard trees *
And the firat Cuckoo's melancholy cry.
Even thus last night, and two nights more, I lay,
And could not win thee, Sleep 1 by any stealth :
So do not let me wear to-night away :
Without Thee what is all the morning's wealth t
Come, blessed barrier between day and day,
Dear mother of fresh thoughts and joyous health I
10
15
XXIX. CoMPOsrao UPON Westminster Bridge, SkpT. 3,
1803.
Eabth has not anything to show more fair ;
Pull would bo be of fipul who could pass by
■"IP^»"fPB|
■■PHI
190 WORDSWORTH.
A sight so toQohing in im majesty :
This City now doth like a garment wear
The beaoty of the morning ; silent» bare,
Ships, towers, domes, theatres, and temples lie
Open nnto 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 owii sweet 'will :
Dear God 1 the very houses seem asleep ^
And all that mighty heart is lying still !
10
16
»ERWENTWATER AND SKIDDAW.
'ifcS S/'^ "Sw ifta,Ji» fltti«i"«
COMMENTARY.
" You misht read all the bookt In the British Muaeum (If^m mtuld lloe lottg
§nough) and remain an utterly 'Illiterate ' uneducated person ; but If yon read
ten pages of a good booh, letter by letter,— that Is to say, with real aocurany,—
you are forevermore In some measure an fduoaied person. The entire differ-
ence between education and non-education fas regards the merely Intellectual
part of It) consists In this accuracy. "
--Utiskim.
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lo not bUm/ed by a love of Eurlpldoa and Virgil to
the merits of Shakespeare and Tenns/son,
aro qffectlonatelg dedicated
to
ADAM 0ARRUTHER8, Es^ t
Is
CHAPTER I.
MEMOIR OF WORDS¥rORTH. ' j
Mark Antony.— Hla tift was genUt; and the elementt
80 mixed In him, that Mature might stand up,
And eag to a// the mrU, "Thie rnu a manl"
—Shtdieepeare'a Jullae (kuear.
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55
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CHAPTER L
MKMOIK.
]
Every great English poet has had a great lesson peculiarly
his own to offer to his readers ; however varied and voluminous
his works, some dominant and central idea has given unity to
them all and made them, as one may say, a single song of many
notes. Milton's trumpet- voice proclaims the power and sub-
limity of the spirit world as conceived by the Puritan imagina-
tion ; Pope asserts the superiority of reason as man's governing
faculty ; Byr^n stands for passion and liberty, even to excess ;
Shelley calls us to a revolt against conventionality and super-
stition ; the inscrutable and god-like Shakespeare, while
scorning any single truth, has taught us above all things to
know the world rather than to judge it.
In fiction, also, this singleness of purpose has marked the
efforts of our greatest novelists. Scott revived chivalry : he
exerted his wonderful gift of historic imagination to show us
*'the storied past"; Dickens taught us the beauty and power
of a warm and loving heart, the sweetness of cheerfulness and
sentiment; Thackeray satirized all who make pretences, and
exhibited the folly and meann^is of sham and deceit ; George
Eliot was imbued with the importance of hump/a life, and piade
us feel that it is as important in one class of society a^ in
another.
Many gifted writers have failed to be great because they have
fidled to grasp 'any great central idea to give forth as a new and
impoi*tant truth for humanity. Many writers, on the other
hand, have gi*a8ped truths of the highest vtilue, and grasped
them with wonderful power and ongLoality, and yet, because of
the want of artistic gifts, have failed to give ua beautiful litMtawy
works. Carlyle with his Wesson of hiurd woik and naoere work
187
wm
138
WORMWORTH.
might have been a Rublime poet had he not lacked beauty of
ezpremion ; Emerson's great truth that the broadest view of a
subject is the most truthful and enlightening, might have made
him a great novelist had he possessed as much knowladon^ of
story-telling as some of our weakest novelists.
The originality and importance to humanity of an author's
great dominant idea, together with his gift of conveying that
idea in a powerful form, go a long way toward making his rank
and influence. Oray's idea that the villagers sleeping peace-
fully in their narrow cells under the twilight shadows of the
churchyard at Stoke were worth writing beautifvilly about, has
been considered so great an idea that Qray is a great poet
though he wrote only a handful of verses.
Bums found that Gray's idea had nort been exhausted ; he
used the same great truth with so much love and warmth and
life that he may be said to have made it his own. Perhaps
this idea can never be exhausted until sorrow and poverty
shall cease.
But, while a little work on such a tntth has made such
names as Qray and Bums, all the art of a Longfellow has
failed to male an equal fame where no such powerful
mission was felt, it is only when we find the great teacher and
the great artist in the one man that we see a Spenser or a
Tennyion.
It has never been claimed for Wordsworth that his art was
equal to that of poets like Shelley and Swinburne ; when he
first claimed attention for his verses h^ was sneered at as no
gifted artist, however scanty his thought, is ever sneei'ed at ;
and yet he is reckoned among our first poets by a great
majority of capable critics. Some rank him among the first
three, some among the first five ; a few still sneer at his claims.
Of his rank we shall speak again, but it must be certain that
the great mission of thi» poet has appealed profoundly to the
MIMOIB.
139
V thoughtful cUuases; otherwise, with his small pretensions to
skill as a vei-sifier he oould never hold the plaoe he does.
If one were asked what subjects literature may deal with, one
might conclude roughly that humami/y and naiur^ and the
ttnge ew wor ld would cover the whole ground. Shakespeare has
gone a long way toward covering all this ground, but he has
certainly made human nature his own particular subject. ^^
Milton has told us of the invisible powers, and his name is in a
sense identified with that division of the literary field. Now,
it would seem tJiat until ^. '^ordsworth came the other part of the
field had never been appropriated, and he made it his c.^^.
Milton tells us to look within us and above for light and guid-
ance; our path is that of Christicm^ we must keep our eye
upon the end of the narrow way ; Shakespeare tells us to look
around us, to know our fellow-man, his actions and his motives ;
to learn how to live rather than how to die ; our path is among
men, our duty to our Creator is our duty to those among
whom He has placed us. But Wordsworth tells us to look for ^
the image of our Maker in the grass, the rocks, the starlit
water; the daisy, the skylark, the innocent hart, are our
examples because they draw their joy and peace from the source
of it, and our wisdom is to see that the simple living of thase
is our guide to present and eternal happiness ; our path is not
among men so much as among the hills, the valleys, the
meadows, along the streams, under the open sky of heaven.
Milton was a man of books, Shakespeare was a man of the
world, Wordsworth was neither. Milton was a man of strong
ecclesiastical and scholastic opinions, Shakespeare has ex-
pressed no opinions, Wordsworth's opinions are the opinions
of Nature herself.
When we say that Wordswortli is one of the three greatest
poets, we mean that he has appropriated one of the three great
divisions of the whole field of literary effort with so much
power and suoc^s that no other poet has ever been thought of
^
FTi
miam
■««
Ud
irORDgWOBTR.
aa his rival. The substance of ihe views tkit people of a
scholastic and ecclesiastical turn of mind hold oonoeming the
unseen world may be found in the Paradise Lost and the
Paradifs Regained. All that men think about each other (and
mufoh more) may be found in Shakespeare's Plays. All our
tenderness for flowers, birds and natural objects generally is
voiced in Wordsworth, he tells us our ideal relation to nature,
we are to love nature and to learn from her. Nature teaches
us peace, happiness and duty. The stars in their orbits are
youug and strong through obeying the law of their nature ; if
we obey the law of our nature we shall be young and strong
always. If the stars could break the law ruin would result.
Duty, then, is our guide, but though our guide not our task-
master ; we are to regard the law of duty as the law of perfect
liberty ; liberty is the light to do right — ^to obey duty ; the right
to do wrong is mere license. Liberty brings peace and happiness,
even a bright wholesome joy, but noc pleasure. Pleasure is
something to be feared, it is unknown to the flower, and the
bird, and the star. Joy is the highest state of happiness that
brings no reaction, no misery or depi'ession ; pleasure is to be
shunned, it biings depression, remorse, decay.
Itisill be seen that the poet is not so much the poet who
glorifies nature as the poet who interprets man's relation to
nature. No more striking lesson could be had than to contrast
Shelley's verses about the skylark with Wordsworth's. Shelley's
song is indeed " harmonious madness," tremendous, wild and
passionate ; Wordsworth's song is far more passionate than is
usual with him, indeed, it may be said to reach the highast
pitch of lyrical enthusiasm he permits himself, yet it ends thus :
*" I, on the earth will go ploddmg oo.
By myself, oheerfuUy, till the day is done."
He does not wish to indulge in the wildness of joy though he
MSMOIB.
141
envies the strong heart of this fftvourite of nature, a creature to
whom the intoxication of joy i' not an excess.
We have purposely said nothing of Wordsworth's life up to
this point It is not uncommon in memoirs to see such expres-
sions as these: **an uneventful career," " a quiet and uninter-
esting life." Frankly then our poet never was a poacher, he
never tramped through Europe supporting himself by playing
a flute, he did not lead a band of disorderly Suliotes in the war
of Greek Independence, nor was he drowned from a yacht at
the age of thirty. No such amusing, exciting, or tragic tales
are told of himu Nor had he any remarkabl e eccentricities to
endear him to the reader ; he did not quarrel with his wife,
nor keep a pet bear, nor eat like a savage, nor drink tea ex
cessively, nor ruin himself with opium ; he did not commit
suicide, nor die of a broken heart, nor at an early age. On
the other hand he was a quiet, kindly, well-balanced man, of
excellent habits and character ; he lived in peace with all
men, was a good neighbour and citizen, and through eighty
long years kept plodding on cheerfully till his day was done.
Not an eventful life in the common sense of the term ; not an
interesting life if one compare it with the life of a fiction-hero
and on the same grounds of judgment. His own great dom-
inant truth of book and life was that all morbid excitem^it,
all passion, whether of pleasure or grief, is unmanly, undutiiul
and evil ; he would have condemned no great tragic htory if
true and natural, but the morbid desire for all undue excite-
ment was in his eyes the great evil of the world. He is the
antithesis of Byron, he is the antithesis of Baudot and de
Maupassant, he is the antith^is of cynicism and pessimism
and of everything that destroys hope, and prevents efifort, and
paralyzes faith and love and health. No hlaa^ heart will be
simulated into an hour's attention by his pen ; no eye that
cannot, with CSarlyle see the fifth act of a tragedy in the
death oi every peasant, and weep over the field-mouse and the
m
■If
m
Ul
WOBDBWOBTU.
uprooted daisy with Burns, will see what this poet has to
nhow. But let no rash oritio oonolude that what he has no
eyes to see has no visible existence. There are thousands of
" Wordsworthians " and tens of thousands who feel that life is
better worth living, and plodding less irksome, and simplicity
. more charming, because Wordsworth lived uneventfully antl
plodded cheerfully, and despised luxury. Surely the best that
any poet can do is to make millions of people regard their
daily ooramonplace existence as being beautiful and worthy of
" them and even ideal : and surely the worst any writer can do
is to make the people despise their poor surroundings, feel
wretched, envious, discontented, hopeless.
Had Wordsworth been of the latter class he might more
consistently have died a tragic early death after a tragic or
melodramatic life ; being of the former class preeminent, he
has left us only a simple record which the greatest of his readers
might wisely envy.
At Oookermouth, in April, when the buds break, in the year
1770, Wordsworth was bom. His father, an attorney, was
law-agent to the ^rl of Lonsdale. Both parent were of good
birth and educauon, both were wise, refined and capable. The
mother died leaving her boy only eight years of age, very
young to be motherless, but not too young to have got a strong
impress of her love and wisdom. He received his earliest
lessons at a dame-school in Penrith; at nine he was sent to
Hawkeshead Qrammar School in Lancashire ; at seventeen, to
St. John's College, Cambridge. He was graduated Bachelor of
Arts in 1791, about a century ago. The year before, he had
travelled in Europe with a College friend, Jones, and after his
graduation he went to France, where he remained about a year-
and-«rhalf^ studying the French language, which he mastered
thoroughly, and the political situation of those stirring times.
At first he was an ardent Bepublioan, but disgusted with the
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excesses of *ihe BeTolutionists, he returned to England and
rapidly lecaiae a staimob^ not to say reactionary Oonservatiye.
Though poor, ho had rela,tiye8 who made him an allowance
on which he could live. His friends wished him to study for
holy ordera, but he felt a strong desire to live by writing, and
soon published a small volume of verse. A frieud, Raisley
Calvert,, for whom ha feifc a profound attaohme '. ieJ after a
lingering illness, in which Wordsworth had Uow-. much de-
votion to hina. Cklvort having great faith in tu^ ; >ung poet'd
genius left him j£^00, to enable him to follow literature without
depending upon his relatives.
In 1757, Wordsworth met Coleridge, and the two ambitious
young poets formed a strong friendship. They agreed to write
a book of poems together, Coleridge to write about the super-
natural, and Wordsworth to lend the charm of poetry to
commonplace objects. This book appeared in *98 and contained
" The Ancient Mariner," a ballad so powerful in preaeuting the
strong reality of the Invisible world that it carries more con-
viction of the existeixce of unseen ^.nd spiritual forces than
even Milton's sublime works. The book (Lyrical Ballads,
Vol. I.) was a flat failure however, and Wordsworth's part of
io was much reviled by the critics.
After its publication the poets and Wordsworth's sister went
to Germany to study. This visit to the continent had a,
striking influence upon Coleridge but Wordsworth returned
without any strong marks of German culture. On his return
to Engldud in 1799, he settled down to live in seclusion si
poet-philosopher. He always lived near the Eixgiish lakeu,
though in three or four different sj,H>ts. In 1813, he went to
Bydal Mount, the residence most famously associated with his
name.
In 1802, the Wordsworth's got X8,500 in settlement of a
lawsuit against the Earl of lx>risdalle, amd the poet's share was
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144
woBDSwomrH.
sufBcient to warrant him in marrying ; so at the age of thirty*
two he was married to his own oouain, Mary Hutchinson, with
whom as a child he had gone to school and played at Penrith.
Their union was most happy. In his verses he often refers to
her kindness and wisdom ; there were five children, of whom
the father was yery fond, some of his sweetest verses desoribe
his daughters. In 1813 he got a Government appointment as
Distributor of Stamps for Cumberland and Westmoreland ;
this brought him about £500 a year, and the work was done
by a deputy. In 1827 Sir George Beaumont, friend and
patron of Wordsworth, died, leaving him XI 00 a year as a
legacy.
Wordsworth worked steadily away with little enooui'a^-
ment except from a circle of cultivated friends such as Cole-
ridge, Southey, De Quincey, and Arnold of Rugby, until about
1839, when he got more recognition. In 1840, he was pen-
sioned by Sir Robert Feel, (the minister who never read
poetry) receiving £300 yearly. In 1843 he was offered the
honour of Poet Laureate upon the death of Southey ; he declined
the post because of his great age, but, being assured that no
duties would be required of him, that the Queen heartily
approved of his appointment, and that she could select for the
place '' no one whose claims for respect and honour on account
of eminence as a poet " could be placed in competition with his,
he withdraw his objections and honoured the English laurel by
wealing it for his few remaining yeara
When, a few years later, the present venerable Laureate
inbeiited that decoration, he wrote with beautifhl sincerity of
his wreath aa —
, ** Tl^is lanrel greener from the brows
Of him that utter'd nothing baae."
In 1850, once more in Ai)ril, the stai* which had risen ill
1770 was again upon the horiason. He had never known ill
MKMOIR.
U5
f,
ness, but tlti^ -witness of foursoore left him unable to throw off
a cold, hence, on the 23rd of the month of buds, that beautiful
and perfect life returned unto God who gave ic In a moment
he returned from hia journey far inland to that —
"^Immortal sea
Which brought us hither."
He lies enshrined in a great temple. ' Its roof is fretted with
the clouds and stars, its carpet is the daisied grass, its pillars
are the ancient hills, its music the "murmuring Rotha*' and
the restless wind. There, in the Grasmere churchyard he lies,
surrounded by his dear dalesmen, his wildflowers, and his birds.
What solemn pomp of stately edifice could equal the eternal
temple of nature. "What noble company of the dead could be
so sweet to his ashes aa that rustic fellowship. Were ever life,
diath and burial-place more beautifully harmonious with a great
man's teaching than these] What dramatic touch, what
strange or eccentric story but would mar the steady consistent
life-record of this great, earnest, serious, humourless man.
A good citizen, good husband and father, good friend, good
neighbour, good poet — ^it is this that makes his life dull,
uneventful, undramatic ; it is this, that makes him worthy of
the highest praise — *' This was a man.*
M
"The dew la on the Lotus/ RIae great Suit I
And lift my leaf and mix me with the wave.
Om Mani Padme Hum, the Sunrise comes I
The dew-drop slips into the shining seat"
■Pill
CHAPTER II.
THE DEFINITION OF VoETRY.
"In dnama we are true poeta ; we oreaU the peraone of the drama;
we gloe them appropriate figures, faoea, costume; they are perfect In their
organs, attitude, manners : moreouer, they spaah after their own characters,
not ours ;— they speak to us, and we listen with surprise to what they say.
Indeed I doubt If the best poet has yet written any fiue-aat play that can
compare in thoroughness of inoention with the unwritten play In flue
acts, eomposed by the dullest snorer on the floor of the watch-house."
—Emerson
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CHAPTER II.
THK DEnNITION OF POBTBT.
When students begin to study Botanj or Hydrostatics they
naturally inquire for the definition of Botany or Hydrostatics
so that they may grasp the meaning and aims of the new-
subject and its province of investigation; but every student
begins the study of pqietry with » more or less definite under-
standing of what a poem is, hence the formal defiinition of poem
and poetry are usually passed over without direct notice. If,
however, a more scientific mind should ask What is poetry ? or
What ore the eharacteriatio marks of a poem f it is probable that
the question would meet with so great a variety of replies as
to leave the questioner in a state of perplexity far deeper than
he had at first e^iperienoed.
It is certain that many could say it is useless to seek for a
rigid definition of a poem ; nature tells her favoured few when
they find the true metal and they do not care to divulge the
secret nor to publish any tests by which less favoured readers
may attempt the assay. But it is fairly certain that careful
and even scientific scrutiny, with assaying tests and formulsB,
do ndl lessen but increase our knowledge of poetry and our
delight in it ; it is also well known that many of our greatest
poets, notably Wordsworth, have written learned essays upon
the scientific aspects of their art and upon these grounds we
may conclude that the hasy and indolent view w^hich ui^es us
not to attempt oloce observations for the sake of definition is
merely a labour-saving caprice of those v~ho would be critics
without canons of criticism, and oracles without the authority
of unquestioned knowledge. If then we err in attemptii^ a
eoientific definiticm of poetry we err under the {woteotion <^
mt
160
WORDSWOBTH.
such writers as Aristotle, Horace, Pope, Wordsworth, Goethe,
Schiller, Ruskin, Poe, Swinburne, Matthew Arnold and a legion
of others of almost equal fame.
All well-constructed definitions begin by placing the species
to be definea in the genus or family to which it belongs. We
have no difficulty lu ascertaining that a poem is a work of art.
Poems are one species of this genus, while pictures, musical
pieces, pieces of statuary and of architecture are other species
of the same large group. We know that a fine art is a method
of appealing to the soul through the senses, as painting through
the eye, and music through the ear ; our inquiry then leads us
to seek for the special mark or test which difierentiates the art
of [)oetry from the other fine-ai-ts. We see at once that in the
means used there is a decided difference between any two arts.
Music uses combinations of sounds to arouse oui* thoughts and
feelings ; painting uses colours, lights and shadows ; sculpture
uses marble and differs from painting in using the white solid
while painting uses the coloured surface.
Poetry is quite different from these, at first sight so different
that we doubt whether we should call it an art ; it uses words
for its material and at fii-st they seem to appeal to none of the
senses. Of course we see printed words and they appeal, as
bite of printing, to the eye, but unless thcj printing is very
artistic they are not works of art merely considered as they
appeal to the eye. Take for example the lines : — ^
*« Fair laughs the mom, and soft the zephyr blows,
While proudly riding o'er the azure realm
In gallant trim the gilded vessel goes,
* Youth on the prow, and pleasure at tlie helm."
TOie mere fact that these irregular black characters on the
white paper appeal to the eye does not make them a work of
art J but, if these characters, on accouno of their conventional
power as symbols of ideas, rouse in the mmcTs eye a picture of
TUK DEFINITION OF POBTRt.
161
:i
the gilded vessel against the azure sea, of gay maiiners and
reckless captain, the lines become as truly a work of art as if
the same picture were raised by colours skilfully spread on
canvas. After all it is not the eye ^which sees but the mind, and
though the pictures of words undoubtedly require more activity
of the sensuous imagination than the pictures of paint, they
are as truly (and probably in highly imaginative minds as
vividly) visible, as the most powerful painting. How power-
fully is tbis claim of poetry to be ranked among the arts, s*»fc
I rth by the actors when they represent the words of the poet
uu the stage; what single other art can then vie with the
art of words in powerful and comprehensive mastery of the
human faculties; now every art is tributary, the hero is a
stui ue, a painting, the scene is a triumph of architecture, the
grand rhythm of the metre, if it be a masterpiece by our
greatest poet, is more thrilling and moving than the tones of
the sweetest and most, powerful organ.
It would seem then that poetry is that means -of appealing
to the soul of man which uses words as its medium of com-
munication ; but no sooner do we reach this conclf.ijion than
we are confronted by the unquestionable fact that our natures
may be dee{)ly stirred by prose and that the definition makes
nothing of a well-known distinction which diffei-entiates pi-ose
and poetry. Moreover w'e have used an expi-ession " appealing
to the soul of man" which is so vague and uncertain as to
invalidate the definition from a scientific point of view.
Neglecting the second objection for the moment let us look
at the first. It cannot be doubted that prose is capable of
stirring our emotions deeply; think of the passage in, the
"apology of Socrates" ha translated by Jowett, where tlie great
ancient is described as speaking of the trials and sorrows of
life ; think of Burke's defen*^ of his pension where he speaks
of his personal misfortunes ; or of the noble passage in which
he pays a chivalrous tribute to Marie Antoinette ; read agaiu
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WOBOBWOBTH.
I ',
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if ■:
the ending of the second preface of Sesame and TAUm or tbe
passage on "failure" in The Mystery of Life, read the puniah-
ment of Squeers in Nicholas Nicklehy, or the quan-el between
Adam Bede and Donnithorne, the concluding lines of Southey's
Life of Nelson or Irving's sketch of TJie Pride of the Village ;
above all perhaps, veaA the parts of Carlyle's writings which
treat of death and sorrow and then say whether or not prose
is a means of appealing to the soul of man.
What then is that mark which enables us to distinguish
poetry from preset In the high and intellectual sense there is
none. But though proHe at its very height may bi said to be
essentially one with poetry, there is a feelii.g, common to all
people, that when an author's thoughts and feelings reach so
lofty and elevating » pitch as to stir the feelings and thoughts
of all other men . whom they may be communicated, they
should be expres^iod in music; hence the most <^levated pro-
ductions of the mind have generally been expressed musically
and when even the highest thoughts and emotions are expressed
without this beautiful cadence men call the expression poetry
only with a grudging feeling and usually they express a certain
disapprobation by calling it merely prose. But, nevertheless
they hold in high honour the writings of men who, lacking the
gift of song, have done their best lo express their noble
thoughts adequately without it, and many have wished to call
the most powerful prose by the name which is usually reserved
for musical language. Now the eai of the reading public is
not so cultivated as it might be, hence they iiave not called all
musical writing of the beet thoughts, poetry. Unless there is
a muRic they can easily detect, a very regular cadence or falling
of accents or stress, they do not call the writing musical; hence
they mean by poetry, that means of apj mling to the soul of
mim which uses words arranged in a regularly musical, o^-
metrical way, as its 'means of communication. Some think
YHK DEFINITION OW POITRT.
163
more of the sound than of the appeal to the soul of aum, but
t hey are not of the best class perhapa
But what is meant by *' appealing to the Bv)ul"t Even the
most lotimed have various views as to the meaning of the word
soul." Probably however the majority of thoughtful people
une it in the sense <>f <Hhe immortal part of man." The soul
may include the stronger feelings of love and hate, joy and
sorrow, admiration and indignation, love of truth and hatred of
the fnlse low and mean ; also the love of right for right's sake
and the hatred of wrong because it is not right ; and the joy
and pleasure in .symmetry and harmony and activity and life,
and the grief and ]min in the ugly malicious and Htolid and
dead. When we say soul we may mean everything in us
except the material — ^the body; but we usually mean the
reason, and the better, more refined and elevated emotions. A
soulless person is one who is lacking in these qualities ; a dull,
low, unjust, narrow person with no sense of beauty.
It will be seen that if poetry appeals to the soul and '' the
soul" is so very uncertain a term, the term poetry must be
equally ambiguous and uncertain, and in fact such is the case.
Some of the accepted definitions are so fi*amed as merely to
avoid the real issue ; some meet the di^culty in a bold but
one-sided manner ; few or none are so broad and tolerant as to
satisfy all who read and call the verses they like, poetry •
One enthusiastic reader loves Swinburne and thinks that
poetry, in the true sense of the word, always appeals to the
sensuous love of the beautiful. Another reads Charles Wesley
and is sui-e, equally, that real poetry is always employed in con-
veying ideas of worship, praise and supplication : each may
deride the other reader. A third admires Pope and feels con-
vinced that any poetry that is merely an appeid to the senses or
to the mora) fraction erf* a man is one-sided, to him i eason is
first and the only rc^l poetry is ratiocinatire. " There is no
ratiocinative poetry " says Black the novelist, hence Pope is no
iii
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WOHD8WORTH.
■I
poet. " I would define in brief, the poeti7 of words as thn
rhythmical creation of beauty ; its sole arbiter is taste ; with
the intellect or with the conscience it has onlv collateral n*--
lations; unless incidentally, it has no concern whatever with
duty or trutii," says Poe : hence verses in . hich duty and truth
are preeminent are not poetry, and Wesley, Havergal, and even ,
Browning are no poets. Thf^^e, in spite of great names are
but narrow views : the term poetry is but a word and those who
ardently desire to apply it to the works of their favourite
authors should have that simple privilege: at b^t the definition
of it is but arbitrary. If one were to define a natural species,
a£ AoTM, none would dispute the application of the term to indi-
vidual examples hence the definition, if not easy, is possible ;
but, in defining poetry the right of a set of verses to be called
a poem is often disputed, hence the impossibility of a satis-
factory defijiition of this artificial species.
The objection that the expression " appeals to the soul '' is
vague and indefinite is unanswerable ; its vagueness and in-
definiteness ariue from infinite difference of opinion as to
the meaning of the word "soul" as concerned with poetry.
S<Hne of the following definitions are popularly received because
they ignore the word entiiely, " Poetry is the concrete ex-
pression of emotion," ("concrete" here, means appealing to
the sensuous imagination) ; " Poetry is the idealization of
the commonplace"; "Poetry is that one of the fine arts
which expresses its special powera and character by means of
language"; "Poetry is the art which has for its object the
creation of intellectual pleasures by means of imaginative and
passionate language, and language generally, though not neces-
sarily formed in regular numbers"; or as Macaulay has it,
"By poetry we mean the art of employing words in such a
manner as to produce illusion ap<m the imi^ina^iion — the art
of doing by words what the painter does by means of colours";
another has it "The language of imagination, or of the emotions^
^1
I s
THE DKf IMITIOM OV POBTBT.
166
rbythmictilly expressed, or language expreHsed in an elevated
style of prose," or ** Whatever embodies the products of the
imagination and fancy, and appeals to those |)Ower8 in others,
as well as the finer emotions, the seneo of ideal beauty."
Emerson's view is origimd and broad-minded but emphatic
as one would expect from his character: "Poetry" Kays he **is
the )>eri)etual endeavour to express the npirit of the thing, to
pass the brute body, and search the life and leaHon which caused
it to exist." Again he says, " the poet discovers that whait
men value aa substances have a higher value as symbols, that
nature is the immense shadow of man." So ingenious, so
important and so largely true are these pi-egnant sentences
that it is profitable to pause and illustrate them. When,
Tennyson aa,y% in Ulysses : —
" The lights begin to twinkle from the rocks,
The long day wanes."
he describes a merely natural appearance; but few readers
would fail to catch the echo of a deeper meaning ; the des-
cription has a high value as a picture of real tangible objects,
but "a higher value" as a symbol of the closing of this our
mortal life.
Sometimes the poet ex})lains his symbolism as when Words-
worth says of the skylark that it is a
" Type of the wise who soar, but nover roam ;
True to the kindred points of Heaven and Home."
In jT/w Cloud Shelley gives no direct intimation of symbolism
but study reveals a profound exam[>le of it in this wonderful
poem. This piece of nature is no less than a symbol of life
and all its vicissitudes, the fleeting moods and passions of the
human heart.
But Emerson's symbolism has a veiy broad and deep mean-
ing. Common Mnse is accepting the world about us at its
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apparent value and acting with a due regard for the importance
of this material world; poetry is that uncommon sense which
sees through the material envelope to the intelligent soul which
made and animates it ; but poetry do^ not reject the common
sense view; the greatest poets Shakespeare, Homer, Bums, had
the strongest common sense side by side with the strongest
ideality — the mere absent-minded idealist is as pitiable as the
most stolid Philistine, though not so gross.
Bi;^t what are we to think of those definitions which insist
upon beauty as the sum and end and height of poetry 1 Has
poetry truly nothing to do with conscience and truth 1 Every
man has a capacity for being pleased by beautiful things,
objects that please him he calls beautiful but whether the
beauty of an object is always something different from its
utility or goodness it is difficult to say.
Few definitions of poetry have been more frequently quoted
with approval thar Foe's formula, " the rhythmical creation of
beauty.*' Similar to this is the dictum of Theodore Watts,
" absolute poetry is the concrete and artistic expression of the
human mind in emotionikl and rhythmical language," These
twc critics are prominent exponents of a very large school ;
Swinburne, Rossetti, Keabi and all poets whose chief appeal is
to the sensuous imagination hold this belief firmly and some of
them have asserted it strenuously. It is important to see
clearly that there are two principal views of the question and
it becomes necessary eventually to choose between them, though
it never becomes necessary to declare the poets of either school
to be distasteful or lacking in genius.
This first class of critics have their fixed and certain tests of
true or absolute poetry :
(a) It must be musical.
(b) It must gratify the love of beauty,
(e) It must stir the emotions.
(d) It must be ooncrete in method.
"^
THB DEFINITION OP POITRT.
167
of
These are their requirements, but of the " beautt/ " the " mttsic "
ard the " emotional power " taste is the sole arbiter ; unless
incidentally poetry has no concern with duty or truth. All
who declare that the aesthetic quality of poetry is its mark and
brand hold these views more or less clearly. Good examples of
work that satisfies these canons may be seen in Kossetti's " The
Blessed Damozel" Keats' "Eve of St. Agnes'* and a great deal
of Hugo's lyrical verse.
It seems incredible that English critics shoftld ever have
come to think and say that poetry should not be moral and
didactic, a * these critics have declared ; ib seems far more in-
credible that so un-English a dogma should have become popular
with a nation
** Who speak the tongue
That Shakespeare spake, the faith and manners hold
Which Milton held."
Indeed it would be quite entirely incredible were it not echoed
to-day on every side so em[)hatically and so assiduovisly that
cne is apt to be ridiculed for rebelling against it and venturing
to asaert, however feebly, that whatever may be true of Italifin
art, or of French art, or of Japanese art, English art alwa^TS was
at its best and seems likely to be at its best most markedly
and characteristically, and essentially, emphatically didactic and
pointedly moral in tone and spirit : and by thit. is meant not
that duty and truth have merely accidental relations to the
beautiful and pleasing quality but that they are and constitute
the pleasure of our greatest masterpieces according to the
judgment of ou»* greatest and wisest men in all ages ; that with
us truth and du'j are so mingled, blended and unified with our
conceptions of the highest beauty, that it is hardly a perversion
of terms to use any one of the three indiscriminately to denote
the highest attitude of the greatest poetry. It is true that
Ouida has written cleverly to satirize the narrowness of the
'■. 11
15d
WORDSWORTii.
English art, that Pee reviled the notion that poetry could have
a well-defined didactic motiYo, that even Coleridge has warned
us that ethical teaching should not narrow our love of beauty
wherever we find it : it is no secret that the French literary
critics sneer at our lack of freedom, as they are pleased to call
our wholesome decency, and that the amorous and military
Italian is puzzled by our hopeless dullness. But while these
taunts are fiequent no English reader should doubt that our
poetry both hgls been and is didactic and moral, nor should he
say that it should be merely aesthetic, while considering that in
so doing he would necessarily repudiate Shakespeare, Milton,
Wordsworth, and Tennyson who have shown always by examples,
and often by precept, that they think poetry at its best must do
more than please and that the great poet must do more than
charm, and charming in doing more. Who then need be
ashamed, who at least of English speech and mind, to say boldly
to all comers that, whatever may be true of European poetry or
of poetry of the Swinburne and Oscar Wilde type, English
poetry is and ought to be strongly intellectual, powerfully and
actively stimulative of good, and pleasing only or chiefly because
of these qualities.
What can be more shocking or unreasonable than to see an
English school-boy praising English poetry for being melodious
and sensuously beautiful, yet ashamed to say that it is powei fully
thoughtful and morally sublime, while that very boy by reason
of the strong English brain and virtuous English blood within
him wants to give the higher praise because he deeply knows
and feels it and doesn't care about the music and merely
sensuous beauty, because they do not greatly appeal to his
character and capacity.
Many may doubt whether this state of things exist. Let
any one read to a class of young students the very best work
of the so called aestheuc school, a picture of heavenly beauty
a[>[jealing to eye, ear and imagination — such a passage as would
THl DEFINITION OF POBTBT.
159
have intoxicated Keats, for example hia own ode, " To the
Nightingale" which can hardly be Burpassed surely in that way.
Let him notice carefully the effect on the class : they will be
pleased a little possibly, perhaps apathetic, at best they Tv^ill
forget the impression in less than a week. Perhaps it may be
argued that the piece is too difficult, but easier pieces will be
equally ineffective. Next read tliem a poem full of thought,
strong, didactic and like a lash to the will ; let it be harsh in
sound, clumsy in imagery, and obscure in meaning, for example
George Meredith's *^ England Before the Storm" Now note
the effect ; nearly every pupil is deeply moved, the room is elec-
tric with intense feeling, every muscle of the undemonstrative
Canadian face is tense with a profound emotion that no other
power on earth ever roused — ^tluat the very parents of these
boys have never suspected in them. Some may conclude that
they need more training in the emasculate, bloodless, brainless
aestheticism of the Theodore Watts school; but, we conclude
that boys who are so built that the dross of ugliness and
coarseness of fibre must be purged out and refined by poetrjf
with brains and morality in it would be wasting their time on
merely aesthetic vei'ses, and it seems to us that in this larger
possession they have all the sensuous love of beauty that go
well with strength and power. We do not want French or
Japanese characters in this country, but English characters of
the best and firmest type. It would be a long stride indeed if
w© could abolish at once and forever that wretched exotic
capiice that " didactic poetry is no poetry, and that aesthetic
poetry is the only poetry " and substitute for it the rule that
poetry in which truth and duty do not mingle in equal pro-
portions with pleasure and beauty is not the poetry that has
made England first in the literature of the whole world ancient
and modem.
It might now be wise to leave the reader to formulate hia
own definition of a poem. At best his definition must be in
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WORDSWORTH.
aooordanoe with his own taste ..ud as the Latin has it "de
gustihus non diaputandwm." Sitting before a few sh^yes of
poetry one finds it difficult to take a narrow view. Shall one
role out Pope t Never, a single couplet would save him, —
*' Honour and shame from no oondition rise
Aot well your part, therv all the honour Um."
I Is Scott a poet I who can read this symbol of the approach
of the night when no man can labour without that indefinable
charm called poetry 1
" The hills grow dark,
On. purple peaks a deeper shade descending ;
In twilight copse the glow-worm lights her spark.
The deer half -seen are to the covert wending."
But here is a volume by George Meredith, he surely is no
poet : what do we read ? He loves England and would warn
her of blindness in neglecting her armaments:
(«
111 '. I
|; ,. :
The day that is the 'c:ht of dajrs
With cannon^fire fo. n ablaze
We spy from any billow's lift ;
And England stilly this tidal drift I
Would she to sainted forethought vow
A space before the thunder's flood.
That martyr of its hour might now
Spare her the tears of blood.
They stand to be her sacrifce,
The sons this mother plays like dice.
To face the odds and brave the fates I
As in those days of starry dates
When cannon cuinon's oounterUast
Awakened, muzzle muzzle bowled,
And high in swathe of smoVe tke mast
Its %htiiig rag outroU<>^«"
i:'- '«•,*,
THE DEFINITION Of POETBT.
161
What care we for bad grammar and outrageoaa diotion,
"fighting rag" alone repays us for all our trouble and we. know
that behind this Poet's forehead is a brain, kept alive bv a
heart.
And so it is from OhatiGer to Kipling, from Milton to
El[avergal, from Shakespeare to Rossetti, we cannot spare one,
we must stretch the definition to include every verse that ever
roused or pleased anyone : we must conclude that poetry is the
metiical expression of any thoughts or feelings that ever roused
the soul of any reader whatever, even if the poet had but
himself for audience. No one has a right to limit this unless
he adds to his definition ** to me " and this is a case where it is
less dogmatic to use the first personal pronoun than to omit it
If we limit poetry (in order to keep a high standard) to the
work of the greatest men, we may very well accept Shelley's
opini<m that poetry is the b^t thoughts of the greatest men
expressed in adequate language; but many would add '^(to me)
adequate language for the best thoughts must be metrical or
highly musical."
If we might venture a new statement (tf the definition it
would be :
Absolute poet/ry is an adequate {raetrioaJ^ tmd Jilting eay
pression in UmgvMge, of thoughts of a high <■ dactic, moral ,
and ms^hetic, value ; amd the tests qf sv^ih poetry wovJd 60, —
(a) It should bo musical, but not necessarily sweet.
(5) Its language should bo in keeping with its meaning.
(c) It should please, the taste.
(d) It should interest the reason.
(«) It should arouse and instruct the conscience.
(/) It should stir the better feelings and strengthen and
refine them.
(^) It should appeal to the mind through concrete symbols
when possible, and through abstractions when necessary.
t. T<B i i i n«iiH)ii| i i i i| ii l lii ni.f i iM i ..
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162
WORDSWORTH.
(h) It should leave a memor of wholesome pleasure and
mental and emotional activity.
(») It should not be morbid in tono, though melancholy
and genius are perhaps inseparable.
Bnt all these tests must be merely relative to the mind and
tastes of each reader.
A poem has merit in proportion as it satisfies these t^Bts. A
few poems seem absolutely perfect.
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CHAPTER III.
MINUTE CRITICISM OF POETRY,
"Potts are standing transporters, whose emploi/ment oonsfsts In speak-
ing to the Father and to matter; In producing apparent Imitations of
unapparent natures, and Inscribing things unapparsnt In the apparent
fabrication of the world." -Zoroaster.
^iB
' The post's eye In a fine phrensy rolling
Glances from earth to heaven pom heaaen to earth ;
And as Imagination bodies forth
The forms of things un/inown, the poets pen
Turns them to shapes, and gives to airy nothing
A local habitation and a namo." —Shakespearm
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CHAPTER IIL
THB STUDY OF A POEM.
It is always wibts to k^eep tlio end of the journejr oonspicu
ously before us; it st! ^ngthetis the step and straightens tho
way. To what end do we study poems in our schools 1 All
lessons in Blnglish have for their object the mastery of out*
mother tongue, and this mastery comprises two simple and
definite elements, the power of recuiing, and the power of
vjritmg or composing English. Since grammar no longer deals
with orthography, etymology and prosody, but only with syntax
or sentence-building, it may be said to help us to write and
speak English ; any value the subject has beyond that of
enabling us to appreciate sound syntax, arises from the fact
that grammar is not altogether an English study, .but to some
extent — an increasingly large extent — a branch of science. It
is not impossible that technical grammar may eventually fall
to the lot of the science-master ; if not, it will remain m the
English division more on account of its subject matter, than on
account of its objects and methods.
In literature we read that we may learn to read, that is to
arrive at a full comprehension of masterpieces of our great
English authors. In rhetoric we i*ead not that we may learn
to read, but that we may learn to write ; that is, we contem-
plate masterpieces that we may through reflection or unconscious
imitation, catch some of the methods by which our great
authors produced their successful works, and apply these
methods to the feeble eflbrts at composition that our work or
ambition i^ay require us to make. Com position is a practical
application of the principle of good writing, as we have
learned them in grammar and rhetoric.
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WORDSWORTH.
Now from this point of view the study of poetry has but
little to do with writing ; rhetoric will uaturally use prose^
examples for its phenomena, inanmuch as prose is what the
great majority would learn to oompose. Though the study of
poetry will tend to improve our thoughts and feelings, and to
elevate our diction, it is best that it should be studied without
much direct reference to composition, because it has an impor-
tant purpose of its own, and because rhetoric is net apart for
the purpose of improving our composing powers.
It may be concluded then that we study poetry exclusively
for the purpose of learning to read the works of our great
authors with appreciation and refined discernment. In the
arguments that follow it will be taken for granted that improve
ment of the taste and understanding are the chief aim with
beginners, and not immediate pleasure. Even should the poetry
class prove duller than should, the student would console
himself with the fact that the drudgery of minute criticism
brings its reward in after life, in the form of superior powers
of grasping and appreciating new poems. Great care should
be taken however, to see that no pupil should, in the discipline
of minute reading, acquire a distaste for all poetry.
The ideal course for a young min in this study would begin
with such poems as children love without urging or much ex-
planation, and would proceed by imperceptible steps upward,
year by year, until the i and could enjoy such works as Ths
Grammarian*8 Funeraiy In Memoriam, and Lear. How practic-
able such a course is, and how blind are we who neglect the
obvious blessings of it to study here and there from year to year
without progress or systematic eflfort. Every boy ')f twelve with
an average imagination can read ocott's poems with delight;
but therii are simpler rhymes for younger or weaker children.
Suppose we begin with Nursery Rhymes and Andnew Lang's
Poetry Book for Children, proceed to Scott and Campbell, and
m^y* of Byron, thence to Longfellow and Tennyson's simpler
tHE STUDY OF A FOEII.
167
poems, and through these aud others on the same level to the
light comedies of Sliakespeare, is it not manifent that the young
student may make a continuous study of poetrj'^ that will kee])
paoe with the age, and ^ .'omote his spiritual growth to the
great and endless benefit of his character and habits f thought 1
Not only is this course ideal : it is perfectly feasibii and even
easy. An anthology of a few hundred [)ages for use in the
public schools, and another, or two or thrt'e others, properly
graded for use in high schools, would accomplish the whole
purpose. Who can fail to remember the ardent desire with
which every piece in the Rea^^er was searched for new thoughtc
and feelings in school daya 1 Is not the wisest coui-se to take
advantage of this natural desire by • utting in the Reader such
a gradation of poems aa will lea/* a pupil to the higher levels of
taste 1 It would be a liberal education to many pupils to ave
even Mackay's " Thousand and One Gems of English Poetry "
in their desks foi use in " spare houi-s."
Having determined that we study poetry in order to make
progress in the comprehension of the best poems, we meet an-
other question which ri^quires a definite answer: Are we to
study each poem in order to make it our own ; that is, are we
to regard the miistery of that particular poem as our object, or
are we to study it in such a way that we may be able to read
other poems more intelligently 1 The importance* of this ques-
tion will be seen immediately. Let us suppose that we read the
beautiful Ode to Immortality, in the present volume, simply
that we may master it for our own complete possession : if we
do, it will be a noble piece of mental furniture for the remainder
of life, and by its presence in the mind will do much to attrsict
great thoughts, and to repel vulgar and commonplace views.
If the reading of it gave no reward but the possession of the
piwe itself, our time Would still be well spent in studying it
minutely. We may read it however, rather Ihat we may study
poetry than the poems ; that is we may appi-oacvi it aa a step
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WORDSWORTH.
toward higher and more difficult work. In the former case we
do well to throw all inductive and socratic methods at^Icile, and
to get all the information we can about its meaning as rapidly
and easily as possible ; in the latter case we do well to do every
thing we can for ourselves, as in a mental gymnasium where
every feat we perform unaided makes us stronger ♦» per
form other and more difficult feats. The second method
ia slower,* but while it gives more trouble, it gives greater
rewards. When the former method is followed, care should
be taken to accept no opinions without caieful consider-
ation, and care should be taken that what is acquired so easily
is not forgotten with equal ease. In the latter method the rule
is, " Let nc one tell you anything that you can learn by your
own efforts." The danger here is that time may be wacrt^ in
work that is really not ri study of poetry at all — for example,
y^ hunting up geographical and historical references which
opght to be given in a convenient form in the notes ; also there
is the danger that your own efforts may never be sufficient to
put you in possestiion of the best qualities of the poem, and
that you will forget that this rule does not forbid you to learn
all that you can learn by any means from any one whatever,
after you have done your best for yourselt Every good student
of arithmetic desires to know whether he has reached 'Hhe
right answer,^ and in order to know that, he turns to the
teacher or " the back of the book ; " just so every good student
of a poem will d^ire to compare his own views with those of
his teacher or his editor ; but he shoidd work out the problem
firsts if ho tootdd improve his potoers of reading with eompre-
Iiensiofi. ^
An old artist was once asked what he thought of the judg-
ment of the ordinary amateur with regard to pictures. He
Implied astutely, '* An ordinray amateur doesn't know wlmt to
look for in a picture." Could any words express better Hie
tjelation of an ordinary reader to a poem ) An (nrdinary readw
mmmm
THE STUDY OP A FOEM.
169
does^nt know what to look for in a poem. Ho is like a be^^gar
kicking precious gold ore aside with his tattered boots be-
cause he does not recognize its worth ; he may even go so far
as to laugh at the miner who tells him of its value.
To tell a good poem from a poor one without assistance, even
the assistance of the author's name, is to l>3 able to read poetry
with true critical acumen. Of course critic? diflfer, tastes differ,
but there are poems, as well as pictures and faces, of undisputed
beauty and worth, and the student is no longer an ordin
ary amateur critic who can discern Jtuch works unaided. Per-
haps then the best way to read poetry is to read some poems
chiefly for their own sakes— these would be acknowledgsd
masterpieces, concerning whose value and power all the world
agree ; and then also to read some poems chiefly for exercise of
the critical powers, avoiding the opinions of others until ws
have reached a — ^not too dogmatic — opinion of our own. In the /
present voulme it would be well to mast<5r the Ode to Duty]
and Th« Ode to Immortality in a reverent spirit of admirarf
tion.
These poems are so sublime and so generally command the awe
and wonder of the cultivated that it would not be amiss in a
young person to entertain an almost superstitious respect for
their genius, even before their merits are realized. Respect for
the authority of universal cultivated opinion is not a mark ot
weakness in a student. With reference, however, to some of the
poems in this collection that are not so famous, greater freedom
of judgment may be exercised, and their rank may be assigned
with a due regard for their merits as discovered by diligent
search. "Censure me in your wisdom," said Brutus^ "but
awake your senses that ye may the better judga"
In order that the beginner may not be quite at a loss as to
how to proceed in studying a poem, a plan is appended below
which may be of some use to those who have not the guidance
of teachers. Any saoh scheme of study must be used with
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WORDSWORTa.
much judgment, and must be regarded not as rigid and dog-
matic, but merely as tentative and saggestive.
No one can be said to understand a poem fully except its
author ; yre understand a poem in proportion as we approach
the author's intentions, mood and thoughts in the creation of
it. The poet proceeded from the thoughts and feelings to the
language, '^e must travel in the other direction. The more
closely we can imagine the author's mind in writing, the more
nearly we see the meaning of his language,
In the author's mind the first considemtions are the choice
of subject and the laiain or c jntral purpose or idea of his wor^- ;
secon d come the various thoughts and emotions that cluster
around this centre ; finally comes the language in which these
are expressed to othei-s. To the ordinary reader the language
as such is of small importance ; even to the student the central
though o or subject of the poem and the various thoughts and
feelings vhich impress him are by far the most important part
— though it is impossible for the educated reader to ignore the
language of the poet. Hence, our plan should be to study the
poem under the following heads :
(a) The choice of subject or central idea.
(6) .The various thoughts and emotions which enlarge upon
the central idea.
(s) The adaptation o£ language to ihe expression of the
poet's mind.
When a poem »l long and complex, it is often wise to con-
sider the parts before consirlering the whole work very fully.
Still the firat glance at a pictui-e or group of statuary should
reveal its general purpose, and so, even a play three houi-s long
phould reveal its general purpose at the first reading, however
jbttd' tinctly.
When the dominant central idea is found, the |)iec(i .ihouM
be analysed, or loosened up into stanzas or p«»ragraphH (or acts
and scenes), and the central idea of eicu ahouM be noted in
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THE STUDY OF A POEM.
171
concise language. The synopsis thus made should be used tc
[jfove that the whola piece has unity as well as variety :
until/ means singleness q/ purpose in a work of art. Also
the order in which the parts are introduced should be observed ;
in narration the natural order is that of time : in ar^ment we
proceed from enunciation to illustration, proof, and conclusion,
from cause to effect, from facts to inference and genemlization ;
in description we proceed from the outline to the details, pre-
serving in the latter a certain climatic order. When a poet
seems to \ iolate the natural order of writing his reasons for so
doing should be investigated ; it is in the departure from the
regular and established way of writing that 've perceive the
individuality or style of the author.
Next test the unity of the paragraphs or stanzas ; those
whose substanoe can be stated in a single clear sentence have
unity ; those which seem to demand a second swntenco on
account of some secondary but important idea are likely to
lack that quality.
It is well to memorize a great deal of poetrj ; nothing h is
80 refining an infiuence upon the taste and the language, as a -
memory stored with noble verses. In memorizing do not com-
mit everything indiscriminately, but consider the value of the
vei*ses. Memorize
(as Passages that have become the common property of
all cultivated people,
(6) Passages that seem to you j be the perfect expression
of some wise thought.
(o) Passages that seem to you to be very tender or beautifu\ ^■
(d) Passages very characteristic of the author, or of the
motive or tone of the poem.
(e) Passages that you think you would often feel like
repeating through life, to give a better expression
to your own thoughts and feeling than you could
give them in your own words.
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(/) P.issages that strikingly illustrate certain qualities of
style and phases of emotion.
In some cases it is well to memorize the poem before studying
it minutely ; generally perhaps it is better to defer the memor-
izing until after the poem has been thoroughly studied.
It is well to understand the claFsification of poc is for this
reaf'on : an artist's succesb must be judged largely by his inten-
tions ; if a poet designs a play for the stage, it is a failure if
it does not please in the theatre ; but if he tells us that bis
play is meant to be read but not acted, he is judged by a
different standard. It is not wise in a critic to say of a short
story, *• this is not a good novel," any more than it is to blame
a schooner for not being a racing yacht. Hence, every student
should know the kinds of poetry, and endeavour to learn the
rules of structure that apply to each kind, so that he may
praise or censure with due regard to the author's intentions ;
the wild and lawless^ frenzy of Gray's Bard is not inappropriate
in an odSf but the same license of language and piuision would
be shocking in an elegy. Matthew Arnold's defence of the
illogical but natural and convenient Greek classification of
(>oems into epic, lyric a-nd dramatic, will commend itself to adl
who have compared ii with more logical but less convenient
divisions.
Although it m not well to consider the fame of the author
when we read poems in a scientific spirit, it is certainly wisi-
to learn all we can of his character, life, and motives, before
considering that we have come into full possession of his works.
This is the univei-sally accepted view, and though it l^ds to
serious abuses it also has many arguments to support it
The danger of reading the life of an author is that the stu-
dent will assume a spurious admiration for his works because
he has accept^ the opinions of ^ biographer without earning
the right eitiier to agree with him or to differ from him. Certain
it is that weakminded readers are in danger of praising raptur-
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tas STUDY of A POEM.
178
ously poems they have nover read, and speaking of poets as
their favourites whom they know only through the " books
about books." And yet the spurious admiration is harmless ;
it is the superstition of the worshipper who has faith because
he cannot know^ and being entirely with literature cannot be
against it also. These same readers, if they had not this faith,
would perhaps be Philistines of a dseper dye. Again is it not
on the whole more conducive to uweetness and light that a
large and wise authority such as the biographers possess should
sway the ign027.nt than their own ugly and petty prejudices?
It is the old question of authority against individual opinion.
Our own opinion is that, after a fair effort at understanding the
poet's work, the student should make a thorough study of the
poet's life and times. Moreover, it seems likely that having
experienced a reaction from the days when *' Collier's Litera-
ture " took the place of the study of the masterpieces, and
having on account of that reaction abandoned the study of the
history of literature almost entirely, we have reached an
extreme scarcely less detrimental to the best interests of the
study of literature than the former condition had proved :
" truth lies between " : a cultivated reader should have an
intelligent knowledge of the schools of authors and of the
biographies of authors, as well as a thorough acquaintance with
their best productions. There is some use in lists of names
of authors and books. Many a pupil is leaving cur schools
nowadays a positive ignoramus for lack of a few lessons iu
the history of literature.
Having thus finished the general consideration of the poem,
we proceed to a detailed study of its words and sentences as
shown in the table below.
After this it is sometimes helpful to write a critique of the
poem, as if for publication in a review, dealing with the most
striking and original qualities discerned in it.
Finally it is well to consider the poem as an exercise in elocu-
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WORDSWORTH.
tion ; gi*eat care should be taken to read with feeling and
thougbtfulness, and to avoid affectation of all kinds and mere
doclamation.
SomQtimea it is a good means of getting at the style of a
poet to com})are what he says on a subject with the words of
another writer on the aauio subject. Dozens of poems have
been written on the sky-lark ; and it is very often possible for
a well read person to find parallel passages from Shakespeare
and Milton, and Coleridge and Shelley, for comparison with
Wordsworth's poems.
The following table is offered not as exhaustive but merely
as suggestive. Neither is. the order in which the divisions are '
given meant to be followed nor is it intended that all these
divisions should be applied to the study of every poem. It is
hoped liowever, that it will, if kept before the student, prevent
him from leaving the poem before he has considered the most
important topics ; in reading a poem one may become so
absorbed in one phase of it as to leave it without noticing other
important matters. When this scheme is applied to a drama,
it should be supplemented by other divisions, especially (a)
Characterization, and (6) The ha/rmony or keeping ',>etween the
character and his words.
SOME OF THE POINTS TO CONSIDER IN THE STUDY
OF A POEM.
I. — THE CENTRAL IDEA.
1. Tho choice of subject and its relation to the author's
character and genius.
2. The name of the {wem as compared with the central idea.
3. The synopsis by stanzas or sections.
4. The unity of the poem and of the sections.
5. The order of the sections
6. The selection of material — what thr ithor mentions,
what he might have mentioned but omits.
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TIIK STUDY OF A POEM.
175
^•^ 7. The originality of the work : its rdatioa to the period in
wliich it was produced.
8. The harmony of the idea and the literary form selected :
Is the form too insignificant for the thought, or the thought
for the form ?
II. — THE MEMORIZING.
1. Memorize from motives suggested above.
2. Consider the grounds of popularity of hU well-known or
frequently-quoted parts,
III. CLASSIFICATION.
1. Classify poem as epic, lyric, dramatic.
2. Classify poem as descriptive (jw^rceptive), lyrical (feeling),
reflective (thought), epic and dramatic (action).
:3. Define great epic, historical epic, ballad epic, ballad, song,
hymn, ode, elegy, dirge, sonnet, tiagedy, comedy, and make a
I list o fsimilar technicalities.
4. Show clearly that one kind of poem may use devices that
are not permissible in another.
IV. — THE AUTHOR.
1. Give some account of the life, works, stylo, rank and in-
fluence of the author.
2. To what extent do his works reveal his mind (subjective) ;
to what extent do they deal purely with matters outside his
own personality (objective) 1
3. Trace the rise and fall of English poetical power through
its various stages since Chaucer's time.
4. Show the relation of the period in which Wordsworth
wrote to the period preceding it, also to the Victorian period.
V. DETAILED STUDY.
I. Consider peculiarities of spelling, use of capitals, marks of
punctuation.
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womDewoRTH.
2. Consider the appearanoe of the book, and cultivate a taste
in binding, printing, and similar matters.
3. Consider the vocabulary. Poetic words ; prose words ;
precise synonyms; strong, metaphorical and picturesque words;
archaic, long, technical, harsh, obscure, redundant words; words
of interesting origin.
4. Consider diction. Arrangement of words and meaning
of woi-ds and phrases are the most important. Diction may be
verbose, full, foreign, English.
6. Consider the length and deameea of the sente^ices.
6. Consider the relation of the sentences to the lines.
7. Consider the devices of Ian guRge 'which the poet uses to
produce odd and beautiful effects.
It is probably wise to learn the names of these ** figures of
speech," not because hard names help us, but because a know-
ledge of the names leads us to observe the devices moie
frequii y,
(The following list is given partly as an amusing curiosity of
mediaeval pedan^^y. Paronomasia, metaphor, asyndeton, panu
leipsis, proverb, uimile, polysyndeton, allusion, repartee, person-
ification, litotes, anacoenosis, sarcasm, allegory, epanerphosis,
anagram, syllepsis, metonymy, epanorthosis, antonomasia, synec-
doche, apostrophe, apologue, transferred epithet, vision, aposio-
pesis, alliteration, antithesis, hyperbole, enigma, assonance,
oxymoron, climax, catachresis, ecphonesis, anaphora, erotesis,
epizeuxis, epiphora, irony, epanalepsis, euphemism, anadiplosis,
inuendo, hypotyposis, palilogia, zeugma, epanaphora, epigram,
metalepsis, antistrophe, prolepsis, parable, aphaeresis, syncope,
apocope, metathesis, onomatopoeia, imitative harmony, anacolu-
thon, tautology, i*edundancy, invocation, euphuism, anticipation,
httidiadys, hypallage.) - r
. Figures of comparison and contrast, figures of imitation of -
lound, and of repetition for emphasis, should be notioed most.
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THR STUDY OP ▲ POEM.
177
8. Consider the rhyme, metre, and rhythm of the poem, par-
tictilaily the rektion of the versification to the sabject-
matter.
9. Consider the emotions roused by the poem. Rmotions
range from the lofty and elevated sentiments of religion and
sublirhity through the middle octaves of eveiy-day life to the
dark passions of murder, revenge, hatred and jealousy. In
which octaves of the emotional key-board does Wordsworth
playl
VI. — THE CRITIQUE.
1, Write an essay on the poem — point oat its beauties (and
faults or defects) of language, thought, emotion and moral tone.
Vn. — BLOOUTION.
1. Read the poem thoughtfully and with considerable feeling.
2. Write notes on the pauses, emphasis, inflections, rate,
pitch, quality of voice, force, loudness, pronunciation, expres-
sion. ^
VIII. — STYLE.
1. State the respects in which your poet differs from other
poets.
2. What adjectives would ycu use in describing his style of
writing f
It is intended that the poem should be read twice for the
meaning, once for the general, and once for the particular
meaning. Of course the memorizing and the elocution may
require several other readings.
It is the difficulty of carrying all the important considerations
concerning the study of a poem in the mind at once that justi-
fies one in keeping before the eye a table of this sort.
We tidst that some i-eaders may make this table a nucleus
for their own notes and observations regarding the best plai|
for studying a poem.
"iMa
I
V,
CHAPTER IV.
CRITICAL ESTIMATES OF WORDSWORTH.
"/ oanitot tell how the truth may be ;
I toy the tale a$ 'tuiae sold to me. "
—Lay 9t tke Uut UliuitnL
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|-
OSITIOAL ESTIMATES.*
IVom Jame$ BtuseU IxnotU —
Tbe apostle of imagination.
Frofin JELai^Mt —
Nihii hv^nani a me alienum puto is the motto of bis works.
From Sir WaUer SecU—
I do not know a man more to be venerated for uprightness
of ^eart and loftiness of genius,
From Stopford A. Brooke —
The greategt of the English poets of this century ; greatest
not only as a poet, but as a philosopher.
From, FrofeuoT WUion —
Wordsworth's sonnets, were they all in one book, would be
the statesmanX warrior's, priest's, sage's manual.
From EliMheth Barrett [afterwards Mrs. Brutoning] —
Chaucer and Burns made the most of a daisy, but left it still
a daisy ; Wordsworth leaves it transformed into his thoughts.
^om Thonuu Moore —
One of the very few original poets this age (fertile as it is
in rhymers qucUes ego et Clavienut) has had the glory of
producing.
From Bobert Southe}f —
Jeffrey, I hear, has written what his admireiti call a erushing
review of **The Excursion" He might as well seat himself
upon Skiddaw and fancy that he crushed the mountain.
m
i*
a
182
WORDSWORTH.
From Lord Jeffrejf —
This will never do. ... It (" The Excursion ") is longer,
veaker, and earner than any of Mr. Wordsworth's other pro-
ductions ; with less boldness of originality, aSd less even of that
extreme simplicity and lowliness of tone which wavered so
prettily in the "^ Lyidi^al Ballads " between silliness and pathos.
From Haditt —
Fools have laughed at, wise men scarcely understand them
(Wordsworth's Ballads). He takes a subject or a story merely
as pegs or loops to hang thought and feeling on ; the incidents
are trifling in proportion to his contempt for imposing appear-
ances; the reflections are profound, according to the gi-avity
and the aspiring pretensions of his mind.
Wordsworth's manner of using books.
From Thomas De Quincey —
Wordsworth lived in the open air, Southey in his library,
which Coleridge used to call his wife. Southey had particularly
elegant habits (Wordsworth called them iinical) in the use of
books. Wordsworth, on the other hand, was so negligent and
so self-indulgent in the same case that, as Southey, laughing,
expressed it to me some years afterwards, when I was staying
at Greta Hall on a visit, " To introduce Wordsworth into one's
library is like letting a bear into a tulip garden."
WOBDSWOBTHS GENIUS.
From 8. T. OoUridge—
I think Wordsworth possessed more of the genius of a gt*eat
philosophic poet than any man I aver knew, or, as I believe,
has e> sted in England since Milton ; but it seems to me that
he 01 ht never to have abandoned the contemplative position
whicii is peculiarly — perhaps I may ^say exclusively — jtted for
him. His proper title is Spectator ab esUra.
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Wordsworth's healthfulnsss.
From Matthew Arnold-
Time may restore us, in his oonrse,
Gk>etha'8 sage mind and Byron's force ;
But when will Europe's latter hour
Again find Wordsworth's healing ^yower ?
Keep fresh the grass upon his graye,
O Rotha ! with thy living wave !
Sing him thy best, for few or none
Hear thy voice 'right, now he is gone.
WORDSWORTH S UNIQUE DISTINCTION.
From Thomas Carlyle —
The incouiraunicable, the immitigable might of Wordsworth,
when the god has inde3d fallen on him, cannot but be felt by
all, and can but be felt by any ; none can partake and catch it
up. There are men much greater than he ; there are men
much grc£;ter ; but what he has of greatness is his only. His
concentration, his majesty, his pathos have no parallel; none
haye touched precisely the same point as he. -
WORDSWORTH 8 BANK.
From Bohert Southey —
Wordsworth's residence and mine are fiften miles asunder— «
sufficient distance to preclude any frequent interchange of visits.
T have known him nearly twenty years, and for about half that
time intimately. The strength and the character of his mind you
eee in "The Ebccursion;" and his life does not belie his writings;
for in every relation of life and point of view he is a truly
exemplary and admirable man. In conversation he is powerful
beyond any of his contemporaries ; and as a poet — I speak not
from the partiality ot friendship, nor because we have been
aV>8urdly hold up as both writing upon one concerted system of
poetry, but with the most deliberate exeroiae <^ impai*tial
lilpppiiwilppfppplli'
184
W0BD8W0RTB.
jadgment whereof I am ca}>able when I declare my full oon-
viotion that posterity will rank him with Milton.
BXOESSIYB SIMPLIOITT.
From Elizabeth Barrett [aftenjoards Mrs. Browning], —
"Hero- worshippers/' as we are, and sitting for all the critical
pretence — in right or wrong of which we siieak at all — at the
feet of Mr. Wordsworth, recognizing him a£i we do a poet-hero
of a movement eicdential to the bett^ being of poetry, as poet-
prophet of utterances greater than thoE>e who first listened
could comprehend, and of influences most vital and expensive,
we are yet honest to confess that certain things in the " Lyrical
Ballads," which most provoke the ignorant, innocent hootings
of the mob, do not seem to us all heroia Love, like ambition,
may overvault itself, and Betty Foys of the Lake School (so
called) may be as subject to conventionalities as Pope's Lady
Betties. And perhaps our great poet might, through the very
vehemence and nobleness of his hero and prophet work for
nature, confound, for some blind moment, and by an pssociation
easily traced and excused, nature with rusticity, the simple
with the bald, and even fall into a vulgar conventionality in
the act of spurning a graceful one.
A LAMPOON.
From Lord Byron —
We learn from Horace *' Homer sometimes sleeps?"
We feel without him, Wordsworth sometimes wakes —
To show with what complacency he creeps
With his dear " Wi^oners " around his lakes.
He wishM for a ** boat " to sail the deeps —
Of ocean f No, of ur ; and then he makes
Another outcry for a " little boat,"
And drivelB seas to set it well afloat.
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IPRWH
ORITIOAL ESTIMAtSS. l85
If he must £ain sweep o'er th' ethereal plain.
And Pegasus runs restive in his "Wagon,"
Could he not beg the loan of CharWs Wain ?
Or pray Medea for a single dragon t
Or if, too classic for his vulgar K'ain,
He fear'd his neck to venture such a nag on,
And he must needs mount nearer to the moon,
Gould not the blockhead ask for a balloon ?
" Peddlers " and " Boats *• and " Wagons I " Oh ye shades
Of Pope and Dryden, has it come to this ?
That trash of such sort not alone evades
Contempt, but from the bathos' vast abyss
FI ats scum-like uppermost, and these Jack Cades
Of sense and song above your giaves may hiss —
The " little boatman" and his " Pater BelL"
Can sneer at him who drew " Achitophel I '
i»»
*From WhtUier—
WORDSWORTH.
w:bitten on a blank lbaf of his mbmoibs.
Dear friends, who read the world aright,
And in its common forms discern
A beauty and a harmony
The many never learn !
Kindred in soul of him who found
In simple flower and leaf and stone
The impulse of the sweetest lajs
Our Saxon tongue has known, —
Accept this record of a life
As sweet and pure, as calm and gc^
As a long day of blandest June
In green field and in wood.
How welcome to our ears, long pained
By strife of sect and party noise,
The brook-like murmur of hin wmg
Of nature's mmple joys I
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186
WORDSWORTH.
The Tiolet by its mossy stone,
The primrose 1:^ the river's brim,
And chance-Bown daffodil, have fomid
Immortal life through him.
The Punrise on his breezy lake,
The ro£fy tints his sunset brought,
World-seen, are gladdening all the vales
And mountain-peaks of thought.
Axt builds on sand ; the works of pride
And human passion change and fall ;
But that which shares the life of Ood
With him surviveth all.
ruskin's opinion or Wordsworth's powers.
jprotn Budein —
Wordsworth is simply a Westmoreknd peasant, with con-
siderably less shrewdness than most border Englishmen or
Scotsmen inherit; and sense of humor: but gifted (in this
singularly) with vivid sense of natural beauty, and a pretty
turn for reflections, not alwayp acute, but, as far as they reach,
medicinal to tiie fever of the restless and corrupted life around
him. Water to parched lips may be better than Samian wine,
but do not let us therefore confuse the qualities of wine and
water. I much doubt there being many inglorious Miltons in
our country churchyards ; but I am very sure there are many
Wordsworths resting there, who were inferior to the renowned
one only in caring less to hear themselves talk ....
I am by no means sure that his influence on the stronger
minds o^ his time was anywise hastened or extended by the
spirit f)i tunefulness under whose guidance he discovered that
Heayen rhymed to seven, and Foy to boy. Tuneful neverthe*
less at heart, and of the heavenly choir, I gladly and frankly
acknowledge) him ; and our English literature enriched with a
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CRITICAL MTIMATBS.
HWH'PjJipWJ
187
IjjW.JIjlH uiiyMt:-!!*
new and singular virtue in the aerial purity and healthful
rightness of his quiet song ; but a«rial only— not ethereal; and
lowly in its privacy of light.
A measured mind, and calm ; innocent, unrepentant ; help.
' ful to sinless creatures and scatheless, such of the flock as do
not stray. Hopeful at least, if not faithful ; content with
intimations of immortality such as may be in skipping of
Iambs, and laughter of childi-en — incurious to see in the hands
the print of the nails. A gi-acious and constant mind ; as the
herbage of its native hills, fragrant and pure; — yet, to the
sweep and the shadow, the sti-ess and distress, of the greater
souls of men, as the tufted thyme to the laurel wilderness of
Tempfi,— as the gleaming euphrasy to the dark branches of
Dodona.
Wordsworth's fame.
From James Russell Lowell —
Of no other poet except Shakespeare have so many phrases
become household words as of Wordsworth. If Pope has made
current more epigrams of worldly wisdom, to Wordsworth
belongs the nobler praise of having defined for us, and given
us for a daily possession, those faint and vague suggestions of
o«her-worldliness, of whose gentle ministry with our baser
tfature the hurry and bustle of life scarcely ever allowed us to
be conscious. He has won for himself a secure immortality by
a depth of intuition which makes only the best minds at their
best hours worthy, or, indeed, capable, of his companionship,
and by a homely sinceiity of human sympathy which reaches
the humblest heart Our language owes him gratitude .for the
habitual purity and abstinence of his style, and we who speak
ii for having emboldened us to take delight in simple things,
and to trust ourselves to our own instincts. And lie hath his
reward. It needs aot to bid
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i8d WORDSWOitTtt.
" Renowned Oh&uoer lie a thought more nigh
To rare Beaumond, and learned Beaiunond lie
A little nearer Spenser ; "
, for there is no fear of crowding in that little society with
whom he is now enrolled as J^/'th in Uie aucceasion <^ the great
English poeta.
WORDSWOBTH'S OFVIOS.
Vrom J. 0. Shairp —
Perhaps I cannot better sum up the whole matter than by
adopting, if I may, the words of a correspondent. He observes
(1) That while Wordsworth spiritualizes the outward world
more than any other poet has done, his feeling for it is essen-
tially manly. Nature he always insists, gives gladness to the
glad, comfort and support to the sorrowful. (2) There is the
wondrous depth of his feeling for the domestic affections, and
more especially for the constancy of them. (3) He must be
considered a leader in that greatest movement of modem
times — care for our humbler brethren ; his part being not to
help them in their sufferings, but to make us reverence them
for what they are, and what they have in common with us or
in greater measure than ourselves. These are the tendencies
breathed from every line he wrote. He took the commonest
sights of earth and the homeliest household affections, and
made you feel that these which men commonly take to be the
lowest things are indeed the highest.
If he seldom ventures within the inner sanctuary, he every-
where leads to its outei' court, lifting our thoughts into a region
"neighbouring to heaven, and that no foreign hand." If he
was not ujiversal in tho sense in which Shakespeare was and
Qoethe aimed to be, it was because he was smitten with too
deep an enth^isiasm for these truths by which he was possessed.
His eye was too intense, too prophetic to admit of his looking
ORtTICAL BETIMATEa.
189
at life (Irarnatically. In fact, no poet of modern times has had
in him 80 much of the prophet. In the world of nature, to be
a revealer of things hidden, the sanctiHer of things common
the mtei-preter of new and unsuspected relations, the opener of
another sense in men ; in the moral world, to be the teacher of
- truths hitherto neglected or unobserved, the awakener of men's
hearts to the solemnities that encompass <:hem, deepening our
i-everence for the essential sou], apart from accident and circum-
stance, making us eel more truly, more tenderly, more pro-
foundly, lifting the thoughts upward through the shows of time
to which is permanent and eternal, and bringing down on the
transitory things of eye and ear some shadow of time to that
which is permanent and etei-nal, till we
'* Feel through all this fleshly dr«M
Bright shoots of everkstingness."
This is the office which he wUl not cease to fulfil as long as the
English language laats.
THE LOST LEADER.'
JFrom Robert Browning —
1.
Just for a handful of silver he left us,
Just for a ribbon to stick in his coafc—
Found the one gift of which fortune bereft us.
Lost all the otheirs, she lets us devote ;
They, with the gold to give, doled him out silver.
So much was theirs who so little allowed :
How all our copper had gone for his service !
^^— ^ere they purple, his heart had been proud I
•Thi. poem is always taken as referring to Wordsworth. Wordsworth in youth
was a revolutionist, in .«e a strong conservative.* Browning writir.«r of th"/r!^^
aAnlU that he thought o, Wordsworth's change of views. U^^, ^i^:^;^
Jjt^work 01 art with hio. than « i^tack upon that poet ; raU^r ideal Si i"
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IdO WORDSWORTH.
Wo that had loved him so, followed him, honored him,
Lived in his mild and magnificent eye,
Learned his great language, caught his clear accents,
Made him our pattern to live and to die !
Shakespeare was of us, Milton was for us,
Bums, Shelley, were with us,— they watch from their graves !
He alone breaks from the van and the free man,
lie alone sinks to the rear and the slaves 1
u.
We shall march prospering, — not through his presence ;
Songs may inspirit us,— not from his lyre ;
Deeds will be done, — while he boasts his quiescence.
Still bidding crouch whom the rest bade aspire ;
Blot out his name, then, record one lost soul more,
One task more declined, one more footpath untrod.
One more devil's-triumph and sorrow for angels.
One wrong more to man, one more insult to Gcd !
Life's night begins : let him never come back to us !
There would be doubt, hesitation, and pain.
Forced praise on our part —the glimmer of twilight.
Never glad confident morning again !
Best fight on well,— for we taught him— strike gallantly,
Menace our heart ere we master his own :
Then let him receive the new knowledge and wait us
Pardoned in heaven, the first by the throne !
A FRENCH ESTIMATE.
From JB. A. TavM —
Wordsworth's moulds are of bad, common clay, cracked,
unable to hold the noble metal which they ought to contain.
But the metal is really noble, and besides several very beantiful
sonnets, there is now and then a work — among others his
largest, "The Excursion*'— .u which we forget the poverty of
the getting up ^o admire the purity and elevation of the
thought. In truth, the author hardly puts himself to the
CRITICAL XSTIMATRS.
191
ti
ed,
in.
ful
his
of
the
the
trauble of imAgiinng ; b« walks along, and converfleR with u
pious Scotch peddler -thig is the whole of the story. The
l>oet8 of this school ahvays walk, look at nature, and think of
human destiny — it is their permanent attitude. He conTeraes,
then, with the peddler — a meditative character who has been
educated by a long experience of men and things, who sijoaks
very well (too well !) of the soul and of God, and relates to him
the history of a good woman who died of grief in her cottage ;
then he meets a solitary, a sort of sceptical Hamlet — morose,
made gloomy by the death of his family and the disappoint-
ments suffered during his long journeyinga ; then a clergyman,
who took them to a village church-yard and described to them
the life of several interesting people who are buried there.
Observe that just in proportion as reflections and moral dis-
cussions arise, and as scenery and moral descriptions spread
before us in hundreds, so also dissertations entwine their long
thorny hedge-rows, and metaphysical thistles multiply in every
corner. In short, the |X>em is as grave and dull as a sermon.
And yet in spite of this ecclesiastical air, and the tirades against
Voltaire and his age, we feel oui-selves impressed as by a
discourse of Theodore Jouffi-oy. After all, Woixlsworth is
convinced. He has spent his life meditating on these kinds of
ideas — they are the poetry of his religion, race, climate ; he is
imbued with them ; his pictures, stories, interpretations of
visible . nature and human life tend only to put the mind in a
grave disposition which is proper to the inner man. I enter
here as in the valley * f Port Royal : a solitary nook, stagnant
waters, gloomy woods, ruins, grave-stones, and above all the
idea of responsible man and the obscure beyond, to which we
involuntarily move. I forget the careless French fashions, the
customs of not disturbing the even tenor of llie. There is an
imposing seriousness, an austere beauty in this sincere reflection;
we begin to feel respect, we stop, and are moved. This book is
lik*» a Protestant temple — august, though bare and monotonous.
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193
WOKDSWOBTU.
. . . . The verses sustain these serions thoughts by their
i;rHve haimony, as a motet accompanies meditation or pmyer.
1'hey resemble the grand and nionotonouB music of the organ,
which in the eventide, ut the close of Uie service, rolls slowly
in the twilight of the arches and pillars.
:«g
WORDSWORTH IH CONVKESATION.
From Sir Charle$ Oavan Duffff —
On our first day's journey the casual mention of Edmnn<l
Burke induced me to ask Oarlyle who was the best talker he
had met among notable people in London. He said that when
he met Wordsworth fii-st he had been assured that he talked
better than any man in England. It was his habit to talk
whatever was in his mind at the time, with total indifference
to the impression it produced on his hearers ; on this occasion
he kept discoursing on how far you could get carried out of
London on this side and on that for 8ixi)ence. One was disap-
pointed perhaps, but, aff^r all, this was the only healthy way of
talking to say what is sx1;ual]y in your mind, and let sane crcH-
tures who listen make what they can of it. Whether they
understood it or not. Words wortii maintained a stei*n composure,
and went his way, content that the world went quite another
road. When he knew him better, he found that no man gave
you so faithful and vivid a picture of any pei'son or thing which
he had seen with his own eyes
I inquired if Wordsworth came up to this description he had
heard of him as the best talker in England.
Well, he replied it was true you would get more meaning
out of what Wordsworth had to say to you than from anybody
else, Leigh Hunt would emit more pretty, ple£U!ant ingciiious
flashes in an hour than Wordsworth in a day. But in the end
you would find, if woll considei*ed, that you hi^l been rlrio^king
n^npi
laai
CRITICAL BflrnMATBt.
198
perftimed wiit«r In one case, and in tho ot)»er you got the wiue
of a deep, earnest man, who had thought silently and {sinfully
on many things. There was one exoeptioii to your satiafaotion
with the man. When he spoke of poetry he harangued about
meters, cadences, rhythms, and so forth, and one could not be
at the pain of listening to him. But on all other subjeois he
had more smi , • in him of a sound and instmotiye sort Uian
any other literary man in England.
I suggested that Wordsworth might naturally like to ipeak
«f the instnimental part of Itis art, and consider what he had
to say as very instructive, as by modifying the instrument he
had wrought a revolution in English poetry. He taught it to
speak in unsophisticated language, and of the humbler and
more familiar interests of life.
Carlyle said no, not so ; all he had got to say in th^t way
was like a few driblets from the great ocean of German specula-
tion on kindred subjects uy Groethe and others. Coleridge, who
had been in Germany, brought it over with him, and they
titknclated Teutonic thought into a poor, disjointed, whitey-
brown, sort of English, and 1 hat was nearly all. But Words-
worth, after all, was a man of most practical mind of any of
the persons connected with literature whom he had encountered
though his paHtoral pipings wera far from being of the impor-
tance his admii'ers imagined. He was essentially a oold, hard,
silent, practical man, who, if he had not fallen into poetry,
would have done effectual work of some sort in the world.
This was the impi'esbion one got of him as he looked out of his
stern blue eyes, superior to men and circumstances.
I said I had expected to hear of a man of softer mood, more
sympathedc and less taciturn.
Oarlyle said no, not at all ; he was a man quite other than
that; a man of an immense head and great jaws like a
orooodile's cast in a mould dedgned for prodigious work.
1,
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WORDSWORTH.
DE QUINCEY's pen PORTKAIT OP WORDSWORTH.
From Literary Eemini^cencea —
"Wordsworth was, upon the whole, not a well-made man.
His legs were pointedly condemned by all the female connois-
seurs in legs that (;ver I heard lecture upon that topic; not that
they were bad in any way which would force itself upon your
notice — there was no absolute deformity ab&ut them, and un-
doubtedly they had been serviceable legs beyoild the average
standard of human requisition ; for I calculate, upon good data,
that with thtfie identical legs Wordsworth must have traversed
u distance of one hundred and seventy-five to one hundred and
eighty thousand English miles — a mode of exertion which to
him, stood in the stead of wine, spirits, and all other stimulants
whatsoever to the animal spirits; td which he has been in-
debted for a life of unclouded happiness, and we for much of
what is most excellent in his writings. But useful as they
have proved then .selves the Wordsworthian legs were certainly
not ornauiental ; and it was really a pity, as I agreed with a
lady in thinking, that he had not another pair for evening-dress
parties, when no boots lend thair friendly aid to mask our
imperfections from the eyes of female rigorists — the elegantes
/ormarum spectatrices. A sculptor would certainly have dis-
approved of their contour. But the worst part of Words-
worth's person wa« the bust ; there was a narrowness and a
droop about the shoulders which became striking, and had an
effect of meanness when bi-ought into close juxtaposition with
a figure of a most statifesque order .... But the total effect of
Wordswoitli's person was always worst in a state of motibn ;
for according to the remark I have heard from many country
people, "he walked like a cade" — a cade being soma sort of
insect which advances by an oblique motion. Meantime his
faoe — that was one which would have made amends for greater
defects of figur<); it was certainly the noblest for intellectual
effects J.hat, in actual life, I have seen, or at least have con-
^W.
CRITICAL ESTIMATES.
195
soiously been led to notice. Many Buch, or eyen finer, I have
seon among the [x>rtraits of Titian, and, in a later period, among
those of Vandyclr, from the great era of Charles I., as also
from the court of Elizabeth and of Charles II. ; but none which
has so much impressed rae in my own time. It was a face of
the long order, often falsely classed as oval. The forehead was
not remarkably lofty, but it m perhaps remarkable for its
breadth and expansive development Neither are the eyes of
Wordsworth " large," as is erroneously stated somewhere in
"Peter's Letters;" on the contrary they are (I think) rather
sm.dl ; but that does not interfere with their effect, wldch at
times is fine and suitable to his intellectual character .... I have
seon Wordsworth's eyes oftentimes affected powerfully in thk
respect; his eyes are not, under any circumstances, bright,
lustrous, or piercing ; but, after a long day's toil in walking, I
have seen them assume an appearance the most solemn and
spiritual that it is jiossible for the human eye to wear. The
light which resides in them is at no time a superficial light, but
under favomble accidents it is a light which seems to come from
depths below all depths ; in fact, it is more truly entitled to be
held "The light that never was on land or sea" — a light radia-
ting from some fiar spiritual world than any the most idealizing
light that ever yet a painter's hand created. The nose, a little
arched and large, which, by the way (according to a natural phre-
nology existing ctnturies ago among some of the lowest among
the human species), has always been accounted an unequivocal
expression of animal appetites organically strong. And that
was in fact the basis of Wordnworth's intellectual power ; his
intellectual passions were fervent and strong, because they
rested upon a basis of animal sensibility superior to that of
most men, diffused through aU the animal passions (or appe-
tites); and something of that will be found to hold of all poets
who have been great b/ original force and power, not (as Vir-
gil) by meana of fine management and exquisite artifice of com-
^
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WORDSWORTH.
\
196
I)osition applied to tiieir conceptions. The mouth, and the
ragion of the mouth — the whole circumjacencies of the mouth —
were about the atrongetit feature in Wordsworth's face.
thb fivb characteristic defects op
, Wordsworth's poems.
From Coleridge's Biographia Literaria.
The first characteristic, though onJy occasiorud defect, which
I appear to myself to find in these jwems is tfbe inconstancy of
the style. Under this name I refer to the sudden and unpre-
pared transitions from lines or sentences of peculiar felicity (at
all events striking? and original) to a style, not only unimpas-
sioned but undistinguished. He sinks too often and too
abruptly to that style which I should place in the second divi.
sion of language, dividing it into the three species : first, that
which is peculiar to poetry ; second, that which is only proper
in prose; and third, the neutral or common to both. There
have been works, such as Cowley's Essay on Cromwell, in which
prose and verse are intermixed (not as in the Consolation of
Boetius, or the Argenis of Barclay, by the inse-tion of poems
supposed to have been spoken or composed on occasions pre-
viously related in prose, but) the poet passing from one to the
other as the nature of the thoughts or his own feelings dictated.
Yet this mode of composition does not satisfy a cultivated taste.
There is something unpleasant in the being thus oblif^/ed to
alternate states of feeling so dissimilar, and this too in a species
of writing, the pleasure from which is in part derived (rom the
prepiiration and previous expectation of the reader. A portion
of that awkwardness is felt which hangs upon the introduction
of songs in our modern comic operas; and to prevent which the
judicious Metastasio (as to whose exquisite taste there can be
no hesitation, whatever doubts may be entertained as to his
poetio genius) unifonaly placed the €wia at the end of tho
CRrinCAL K8TI HATES.
197
BOMie, at the ^ame time that he almost always mises and impas-
sions the style of thi> recitative immediately preceding. .....
The second defect I could generalize with' tolerable accuracy,
if the reader will pardon an uncouth and new-coined word.
There is, I should say, not seldom a matter-of-factness in certain
poems. This may be divided into, tirat, a laborious minuteness
and fidelity in the representation of objects, and their positions,
as they appeared to the poet himself; secondly, the insertion of
accidental circumstances, in order to the full explanation of his
living characters, their dispositions and actions : which circum-
stances might be necessary to establish the pit)bability of a
statement in real life, where nothing is tal en for granted by the
hearer, but appear superfluous in poetry, where the reader is
willing to believe for his own sake. ......
Third ; an undue predilection for the dramatic form in net'
tain poems, from which one or other of two evils result Either
the thoughts and diction are different from that of the poet,
and then there arises an incongruity of style ; or they are the
same and indistinguishable, and then it presents a species of
ventriloquism where two are represented as talking, while in
truth one man only speaks.
The fourth class of defects is closely connected with the
former ; but ydt are such as arise likewise from an intensity of
feeling disproportionate to such knowledge and value of the
objects ('.escribed, as can be fairly anticipated of men in general,
even of tBe most cultivated classes ; and with which thei-efoie
few only, and those few particularly circumstanced, can be sup-
posed to sympathize : in this class I comprise occasional prolix-
ity, repetition, and an eddying instead of progression oi thought.
As intiances, sef page 27, 28, of the Poems, vol. i.,* and the
first eighty lines of the Sixth Book of The Excursion
Fifth and last; thoughts and imag<'S too great for the subject.
* Hm Anecdote for Fathws.
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198
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TTGRDSWOHTH.
This is an approximation to what might be called mental bom-
bast, as distinguished from verbal ; for as in the latter there is
a disproportion of the expr'sssions to the thoughts, so it. this
there is a disproportion of thought to the circumstance and
occasion. This, by-the-bj, is a fault of which none but a man
of genius is capable. It is the awkwardness and strength ot
Hercules with the distaff of Omphale
SONNET TO WORDSWORTH.'
From SheUvy-^
Poet of Nature, thou hast wept to know
That things depart which never may return :
Childhood and >uuth, friendship, and love's first glow,
Have fled like sweet dreams, leaving thee to mourn,
These common woes I feel. One lost is mine,
Which thou too feel'st, yet I alone deplore.
Thou wert as a lone star whose light did shine
On some fraii bark in winter's midnight roar :
Thou hast like to a rock-built refuge stood
Above the blind and battling multitude :
In honored poverty thy voice did weave
Songs consecrate to truth and liberty.
Deserting these thou leavest me to grieve.
Thus, having been, that thou shouldst cease to be.
COLERIDGE'S ODE TO WORDSWORTH.
Friend of the wise ! and teacher of the good !
Into my heart have I received that lay
More than historic, thai; prophetic lay
Wherein vhigh theme by thee first sung aright)
Of the foundations and the building up
Of a Human Spirit thou hast dared to tell
I
*Tlito Moaal •Qadas to Wordsworth's oonver>}on to oonaerviktire vitwa.
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CRITICAL KSTIMATES.
What may be told to the understanding mind
lievealable ; and what within the mind
By vital breathings secret as the soul
Of vernal grwth, oft quickens in the heart
Thoughts all too deep for words !—
^ Theme hard as high
Of smilos spontaneous, and mysterious fears,
(The first-born they of Reason and twin-birth)
Of tides obedient to external force,
And currents self-determined, as might seem,
Or, by some inner power ; of moments awful.
Now in thy inner life, and now abroad,
When power streamed from thse, and thy soul received
The light reflected, as a light bestowed—
Of fancies fair, and milder hours of youth,
Hyblean murmurs of poetic thought
Industrious in its joy, in vales and glens
Native or outland, lakes and famous hills !
Or on the lonely high-road, when the stars
Were rising ; or by secret mountain streams,
The guides and the companions of thy way !
Of more than Fancy, of the Social Sense
Distending wide, and man, beloved as man.
Where France in all her towns lay vibrating
Like some becalmed bark beneath the burst
Of Heaven'3 immediate thunder, when no cloud
Is visible, or shadow on the main.
For thou wert there, thine own blows garlanded
Amid the tremor af a realm aglow.
Amid a mighty nation jubilant,
When from the general heart of human kind
Hope sprang forth like a full-bom Deity I
Of that dear Hope afflicted and struck down,
So summoned homeward, thenceforth calm and sure
From the dread watch-tower of man's absolute self.
With light unwaning on her eyes to look "
Far on— herself » glory to behold.
A.
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200
V
WORDSWORTH.
The Angel of the yision ! Then (last strain)
Of duty, chosen laws controlling choico,
Action and joy I — An orphio song indeed,
A song divine of high and passionate thought*
To their own music chanted !
O great Bard 1
Ere yet that hat strain dying awed the air,
With steadfast eye I viewed thee in the choir
Of ever-endun-igf men. The truly great
Have all one age, and from one visible ^pace
Shed influence ! They, both in power and act,
Are permanent, and Time is not with them,
. Save as it worketh for them, they in it
Not less a sacred roll, than those of old.
And to be placed, as they, with gradual fame
Among the archives of mankind, thy work
Makes audible a linked lay of Truths
Of Truth profound a sweet continuous lay.
Not, learnt, but native, her own natural notes I
Ah : as I listened with a heart forlorn.
The pulse of my being beat anew ;
And even as life returns upon the drowned.
Life's joy rekindling roused a throng of pains-
Keen pangs of Love, awakening as a babe
Turbulent, with an outcry in the heart ;
And fears self-willed, that shun the eye of hope ;
And hope that scarce would know itself from fear ;
Sense of past youth, and manhood come in vain.
And genius given, and knowledge won in vain ;
And all which I had culled in wood-walks wild.
And all which patient toil had reared, and all.
Commune with thee had opened out — but floweiH
Strewed on my course, and borne upon my bier.
In the same coffin, for the self same grave !
That way no more ! and ill beseems it me,
Who came a welcomer in lierald's guise,
Singing of glory, and futurity.
CatTlCAL ESTIMATES.
To wander back on such unhealthful road,
Plucking the poisons of self-harm ! And ill
Such intertwine beseems triumphal wreaths
Strewed before thy advancing I
Nor do thou.
Sage Bard 1 impair the memory of that hour
Of thy communion witli my nobler mind
By pity or grief, already felt too long I
Nor let my words import more blame than needs.
The tumult rose and ceased : for peace is nigh
Where wisdom's voice has found a listening heart.
Amid the howl of more than wintry storms,
The halcyon hears the voice of vernal hours'
Already on the wing.
Eve following eve.
Dear tranquil tune, when the sweet sense of Home
In sweetest I moments for their own sake hailed
And more desired, more precious for thy song.
In silence listening, like a devoted child,
My soul lay passive, by the various strain
Driven as in surges now beneath the stars,
With momentary stars of my own birth
Fair constellated foam,* still darting off
Into the darkness ; now a tranquil sea.
Outspread and bright, yet swelling to the moon.
And when—0 Friend 1 my comforter and guide 1
Strong in thyself, and powerful to give strength I—
Thy long sustained Song finally closed.
And thy deep voice had ceased— yet thou thyself
Wert still before my eyes, arid round us both
That happy vision of beloved faces—
20i
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the vend with » row-, and Uttle statB of the flame danced and eparkled and went out to
It; and evenr now and then light detachment, of this white cloud-like foam ZZ^
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202 WORDSWOBTR.
Scarce conscious, and yet conscious of its close
I sate, my being blended in one thought
(Thought was it ? or aspiration ? or resolve ?)
Absorbed, yet hanging still upon the sound —
And when I rose, I found myself in prayer.
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CHAPTER V,
SELECTED POEMS FOR SIGHT-WORK.
Tfian pttats from blown roaam ao #*-
0/ ,Aa^o«,y granlU, In a gleaming pass -
Music that gentller on the spirit lies/
Than tired eyelids upon tired eyes;
Music ikat Mngs sweet sleep down from the tlUsfu, shlss."
•—Tkii Lotos-Eutors.
V.
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CHAPTER V.
SELECTED POEMS FOR SIGHT- WORK.
Bebak, Brbak, B&bak.*
Break, break, break,
On thy cold gray atones, O Sea I *
And I would that my tongue could utter
The thoughts that arise in me.
Owell for the fisherman's boy,
That he shouts with his sister at play !
O weU for the sailor lad,
That he sings in his boat on the bay t
And the stately ships go on
To their haven under the hill ;
But O for the touch of a vaniah'd hand.
And the sound of a voice th&«; is still t
Break, break, break.
At the foot of thy crags, O Sea 1
But the tender grace of a day that is dead
Will never come back to me.
1. State and account for the author's mood in this poem. What is
the subject of the poem ? "
2. Describe the scene before the poet's mind, aooounting>for the order
in which he nr^ticee the different objects.
8. Explain how 11. 3-4, 11-12, and 16-16 are respectively connected in
fmse with the proceeding context
4. Show how the poet has harmonised hi« language and versification
with his thoughts and feelings. When qualities of style are exemplified
in the poena ?
Ai Write luief ebcutionary notes (m tibe poraa.
to iibam
qoirtlocvMe toomapHwrietbyMr. Seath,hi 1887. Tb UMwer tbem to
a knowledffB <rf the aHentlid meaolnf of the poem. Nothing hfllps good
than tudi qoMrtiooiiw at tiTftnifaatioM
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206
WORDSWOBTU.
SPEECH BY ULYSSES.
Time .hath, my lord, a wallet at his back,
Wherein he puts alms for oblivion,
A great-sized monster of ingratitudes :
Those scraps are good deeds past ; which are devour'd,
As fast as they are made, forgot as soon
As done : perseverance, dear ray lord.
Keeps honour bright : to have done is to hang
Quite out of fashion, like a rusty mail
In monumental mockery. Take the instant way ;
For honour travels in a strait so narrow,
Where one but goes abreast : keep then the patn ;
For emulation hath a thousand sons
That one by one pursue : if you give way,
Or hedge aside ^m the direct forthright,
Like to an enter'd tide, they all rush by
And leave you hindmost ;
Or, like n gallant horse fall'n in first rank.
Lie there for pavement to the abject rear,
O'er-run «^nd trampled on ; then what they do in present,
Though less than yours in past, must o'ertop yours ;
For time is like a fashionable host
That slightly shakes his parting guest by the hand,
And with his arms outstretch'd, as he would fly.
Grasps in the comer : welcome ever smiles,
And farewell goes out sighing. O, let not virtue seek
Bemuneratior. or the thing it was ;
For beauty, wio,
High birth, vigour of bone, desert in service,
liove, friendship, charity, are subjects all
To envious and calumniating time.
One touch of nature makes the whole world kin.
— T-i(nlu8 and Oreasida. ^
(a) In a prose paragraph of half a dozen lines, express the outline of
thoa|(ht in this extaraot.
(b) Criticise tJM principal similitudes on the following canons ot
eritioismt
;? \
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SELBCTIBD POEMS FOB 8IGHT-W0BK.
207
1. There should be » marked difference between the original and the
eompariton.
2. There should be a marked reiemblanoe in the relevant point of
comparison.
3. TTie comparison should be more effective with the reader than the
onginaL
4. The comparison should not be too obvious.
«. The comparison should not be trite or worn out.
a The oompfcrison should not be degrading to the original,
abliii^ «>"»P»"«on abould not be so elevated as to render the origina!
8. The emotion of the comparison should be in line with that of the
onginaL
9. T^e comparison should lend the charm of novelty, remoteness,
ingenuity. '
10. There should not be a mixture of similitudes in the one figcw.
ENGLAND BEFORE THE STORM.
The day that is the night of days.
With cannon-fire for sun ablaze,
We spy from any billow's lift ;
And England still this tidal drift !
Would she to sainted forethought vow
A space before the thunders flood,
That martyr of its hour might now
Spare her the tears of blood f
Asleep upon her ancient deeds,
She hugs the vision plethora breeds,
And counts her manifold increase
Of treasure in the fruits of peace.
What curse on earth's improvident.
When the dread trumpet shatters rest.
Is wreaked, she knows, yet smiles content
As oradle rocked from breast.
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208 WORDSWORTH
She, impious to the Lord of Hoets,
. The valour of her offspring boasts,
Mindless that now on land and main
His heeded prayer is active brain.
No more great heart may guard the home.
Save eyed and armed and skilled to cleave
Yon swallower wave with shroud of foam,
We see not distant heave.
They stand to be her sacrifice,
The sons this mother flings like dice,
To face the odds and brave the Fates ;
■As in those days of starry dates,
When cannon cannon's counterblast
Awakened, muzzle muzzle bowled.
And high in swathe of smoke the mast
Its fighting rag outrolled.
— Oeorge Meredilhf in tlie Athenaum,
(a) Btate in a sentence the subbtanoe of this poem.
(() State the anbstanoe of each stanza concisely,
(e) Simplify the ex^restdons you find obsoortw
EARTH'S PREFERENCE.
Earth loves her young : a preference manifest :
She prompts them to her fruits and flower-beds ;
Their beauty with her choicest interthreads.
And makes her revel of their merry zest.
As in our East much were it in our West,
If men had risen to do the work of headi.
Her gabbling grey she eyes askant, nor treada
The ways they walk j by what they speak oppressed.
How wrought they in their zenith ? "Tis not writ ;
Not all ; yet she by one sure sign can read :
Have they but held her hvx^ and nature dear.
r^'fm^
mi
SELECTED POEMS POR SIOHT-WORK.
209
They mouth no sentence of inverted wit.
More prizes she her beasts than this high breed
W17 in the shape she wastes her milk to rear.
— Oeorge Meredith,
(a) ExproBs the central thought of this sonnet.
(b) Paraphrase it into simple prose.
THE SEA-LIMITS.
CONSIDER the sea's listless chime :
Time's self it is, made audible, —
The murmur of the earth's own sheU.
Secret continuance sublime
Is the sea's end : our sight may pass
No furlong further. Since time was,
This soimd hath told the lapse of time.
No quiet, which is death'*!,— it hath
The moumf Illness of ancient life.
Enduring always at dull strife.
As the world's heart Ox rest and wrath.
Its painful pulse is in the sands.
Last utterly, the whole sky stands,
Gray and not known, along its path.
Listen along beside tiie sea,
Listen along among the woods ;
Those voices of twin solitudes
Shall have one sound alike to thee :
Hark where the murmurs of thronged men
Surge and sink back and surge again. —
StiU the one voice of wave and tree.
Gather a shell from the strewn beach,
A*id listen at its lips : they sigh
The same desire and mystery.
The echo of the whole sea's speech.
I
210 WORDSWORTH.
And all mankind is thus at h«art
Not anything but what thou art :
And Earth, Sea, Man, are all in each.
— Dante Gabrid RosetH.
(a) Derelop the metaphor "shell" in line 3.
(6) Explain '* Secret continuance suifUme.*'
(c) Explain '* Our sight may paw no furlong further.^
. (d) Explain " J^To qulei, which m death's,"
(e) Explain line 4 and 5, stanza IL
{/) Write notes on the motive, tone, harmony, and melody, of the
poem.
NIGHT AND DEATH.
Mtsterious Night 1 when our first parent kr^ew
Thee from report divine, and heard thy iiaiue,
Did he not tremble for this lovely frame,
This glorious canopy of light and blue 1
Yet 'neath a curtain of t^ mslucent dew
Bathed in the rays of the great setting flame,
Hesperus with the host of heaven came,
And lo I creation widened in man's view.
Who oould have thought such darkness lay concealed
Within thy rays, O Sun, or who oould find,
Whilst fly and leaf and insect stood revealed,
That to such countless orbs thou mad'st ns blind ?
Why do we then shun death with anxious strife,
If Light can thus deceive, wherefore not life ?
— Jostjph Manco White.
(a) Express briefly the central thought of this sonnel
(h) Explain the alluidon in **our first parent knew Oiu fnym, report
divine" asxdva '* Hesperus."
(c) How do you reconcile the expressions "our first parent " and "in
man's view"?
{d) Explain *' such darkness lay concealed within thy beams."
(e) Develop fully the comparison of Night and Death showing all
points of simUarilgf.
SELECTED POEMS FOB SIGHT-WORK.
Whither, 'midst falling dew,
While glow the he&vens with the last steps of day.
Far through their rosy depths dost thou pursue
Thy solitary way ?
Vainly the fowler's eye
Might mark thy distant flight to do thee wrong,
As darkly limned on the crimson sky.
Thy figure floats along.
Seek'st thou the pla^y brink
Of weedy lake, or marge of river wide,
Or where the rooking billows rise and sink
On tho chafed ocean side ?
211
There is a power whose care
Teaches thy way along that pathless coast, —
The desert and illimitable air, —
Lone wandering, but not lost.
All day thy wings have fanned,
At that far height, the cold, thin atmosphere ;
Yet stoop not, weaiy, to the welcome limd.
Though the dark night is near.
And soon that toil shall end ;
Soon shalt thou find a summer home, and rest,
And scream among thy fellows ; reeds shall bend
Soon o'er thy shelter'd nest.
Thou'rt gone ; the abyss of heaven
Hath swallow'd up thy form ; yet on my heart
Deeply hath sunk the lesson thou hast given,
And shall not soon depart.
£te who, from zone to zone,
Guides through the boundless sky thy certain flight,
In the lone way that I must tread alone,
WiU lead my steps aright.
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WORDSWORTH.
1. State fully the circnmstances luider which the different parts
of this poem have professedly been written.
2. Give a fully descriptive title ; .md stats, conni^ctedly and without
the poet's amplification, the leading thoughts.
3. State the poetic (or symbolic) meaning you attach to the long high
flight of the bird and develop its significance in the details.
4. Would the deeper meaning not be obvious without the last stanza?
Is it artistic to enlarge upon obvious abstractions in poetry? Underline
parts in which the poet fails to use the couorete method. Justify the
last stanza. %
6. Poetio imagination consists largely in finding analogies between the
vrorld of mind and the external world ; in seeing deep truths in material
objects : illustrate this from the poem above and from other poems.
Ich teem nicht was soil es bedeuten,
I OANNA tell what has come ower me
That I am sae eerie and wae ;
An auld-warld tale comes before me,
It haunts me by nicht and by day.
From the cool lift the gloamin' draps dimmer.
And the Rhine slips saftly by ;
Tne taps of the mountains shimmer
I' the lowe o' the sunset sky.
Up there, in a glamour entrancin*.
Sits a maiden wondrous fair ;
Her gowden adornments are glancin'.
She is kaimin' her gowden hair.
As she kaims it the gowd kaim glistens,
The while she is singin' a song
That bauds the rapt soul that listens,
Witii ito melody sweet and strong.
The boy, floating by in vague wonder,
la seized with a wild weird love ;
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SELBOTKD POEMS FOR SIOHT-WORK. 213
He sees na the black rooks under,-—
He sees but the vision above.
The waters their waves are flingin'
Ower boatie and boatman anon ;
And this, with her airtful singin*.
The Waterwitch Lurley hath done. .
Alexander Macmillan.
a. Qive any reason why this dialect is suitable for translating Heine's
ballad into English.
b. State the substance of the poem io your own words: suggest a
title for the poem.
c What may be taken as the allegorical or symbolic meaning of this
simple song?
THE CASTAWAY.*
Obscurest night involved the sky,
The Atlantic billows roar'd,
When such a destined wretch as I,
Wash'd headlong from on board,
Of friends, of hope, of all bereft,
His floating home for ever left.
No braver chief could Albion boast
Than he with whom he went.
Nor ever ship left Albion's coast
With warmer wishes sent.
He loved them both, but both in vain ;
Nor him beheld, nor her again.
Not long beneath the whelming brine
Expert to swim, he lay ;
Nor soon he felt his strength decline,
Or courage die away ;
But waged with death a lasting strife,
Supported by despair of life.
*Ttik
Oowper*! lasl poem. It ia founded on an aneodote in Anton'$ V^yagm,
(IfaraliSOUi, 1799.)
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214
WOBDSWORTH.
He shouted ; nor his friends had fedl'd
To check the yessers oouxbe,
But so the furious blast prevaO'd,
That pitiless peif orce
They left their outcast mate behind,
And scudded still before the wind.
SojLte succour yet they could afford ;
And, such as storms allow,
The cask, the coop, the floated cord,
Delay'd not to bestow :
Bub he, they knew, nor ship nor shore.
Whatever they gave, should visit more.
Nor, cruel as it seem'd, could he
Their haste himself condemn.
Aware that flight, in such a sea,
Alone could rescue them ;
Yet bitter felt it still to die
Deserted, and Lis friends so nigh.
He long survives, who lives an hour
In ocean, self -upheld :
And so lon^ he, with unspent power,
His destiny repell'd ;
And ever, as the minutes flew.
Entreated help, or cried — "Adieu I**
At length, his transient respite past.
His comrades, who before
Had heard his voice in every blast,
Could catch the sound no more :
For then, by toil subdued, he drank
The stifling wave, and then he sank.
No poet wept him ; but the page
Of narrative sincere,
That tells his name, his worth, his age.
Is wet with Anson's tear :
And tears by bards or heroes shed
Alike immortalise the dead.
I
aSLKCTED POEMS fOB SIGHT-WORK. 215
I therefore purpose not, or dream.
Descanting on his fate.
To give the melanchofy theme
A more enduring date :
But misery still delights to trace
Its semblance in another's case.
No voice divine the storm allay'd.
No light propitious shone,
When, snatch'd from all effectual aid.
Wo perish'd, each ak e :
But I beneath a rougher sea,
And whelm'd in deeper gulfs than he.
I . State in two or three sentences the line of thought in this poem.
2 Explain the expression " Snch a destined wretch as I."
3. Explain the pronouns of the second staqtsa.
4. Paraphrase the third stanza into simple prose: what is litotes Y
(How is the word pronounced ?)
5. What is the charm of the line " That pitiless perforce" ? (IV. 4.)
6. Compare ''respite" (VIII. 1.) with rqnievef considering teiue not
§<mnd,
7. Why is "descanting" (X. 2.) a well chosen word?
8. How many lines in the eleven stanzas refer to himself directly T
What is gained by the abruptness of the conclusion ? (XI. 4, 5, 6.)
9. Why is a knowledge of the author's life more important when the
author is a lyric poet than when he is a dramatic poet?
10. Pick out short quotable passages sufficiently general and pro<
verbial to rank as aphorisms.
II. Point out expressions in the description of the castaway and his
fate that might apply to Cowper almost without change.
12. Show how the pathos of loneliness is used to intensify the
emotions of sorrow and deq^air.
■'*%'
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2:6
WORDSWORTH.
ODE TO A NIGHTINGALE.
My heart aohes, and a drowsy numbness pains
My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk,
Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains
One minute past, and Lethe-warda had sunk :
'Tis not through envy of thy happy lot,
But being too happy in thy happiness, —
That thou, light-winged Diyad of the trees,
In some melodious plot
Of beechen green, and shadows numberless,
Singest of summer in full-throated ease.
for a draught of vintage, that hath been
Oool'd a long age in the deep-delved earth.
Tasting of Flora and the country-gre^m.
Dance, and ProvenQal song, and sun-burnt mirth I
O for a beaker full of the warm Sou^h,
Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene,
With beaded bubbles winking at the brim.
And purple-stained mouth :
That I might drink, and leave the world unseen,
And with thee fade away into the forest dim :
Fade far away, dissolve, cud quite forget
What thou among the leaves hast never known,
Th6 weariness, the fever, and the fret
Here, where men sit and hear each other groan ;
Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last grey hairs.
Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies ;
Where but to think is to be full of sorrow
And leaden-eyed despairs ;
Where Beauty cannot keep her lustrous ey^s,
Or new Love pine at them beyord to-morrow.
Away ! away ! for I will fly to thee.
Not charioted by Bacchus and his parda.
But on the viewless wings of Poesy,
Though the dull biain perplexes and retards ;
Already with thee ! tender is the night,
i
8BLECTED POEMS FOR SIGHT-WORK.
217
And haply the Queen-Moon ia on her throne,
Cluster'd around by all her starry Fays ;
But here there is no light,
Save what from heaven ia with the breezes blown
Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy ways.
I cannot see what flowers are at ray feet,
Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs^
But, in embalmed darkness, guess each sweet
Wherewith the seasonable month endows
The grass, the thicket, the fruit tree wild ;
White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine ;
Fast-fading violets cover'd up in leaves ;
And mid-May's eldest child.
The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine,
The murmurous haunt of the flies on summer eves.
Darkling I listen ; and, for many a time
I have been half in love with easeful Death,
Oall'd him soft names in many a mused rhyme,
To take into the air my quiet breati ;
Now more than ever seems it rich to die,
To cease upon the midnight with no pain,
While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad
In such an ecstacy I
Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain
• To thy high requiem become a sod.
Thou wast not bom for death, immortal Bird !
No hungry generations tread thee down :
The voice I hear this passing night was heard
In ancient days by emperor and clown :
Perhaps the self -same song that found a path
Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home,
She stood in tears amid the alien com ;
The same that oft-times hath
Charm'd magic casements, opening on the foam
Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn.
-: \
mm
218
WORDSWORTH.
Forlorn t the verj word is like a bell
To toll me back from thee to my sole self t
Adieu ! the fancy cannot cheat so well
Ab she is famed to do, deceiving elf.
Adieu I adieu 1 thy plaintive anthem fades
Past the near meadows, over the still stream,
Up the hill-side ; and now 'tis buried deep
In the next valley-glades :
Was it a vision, or a waking dream ? ^
Fled is that musio : — Do I wake or sleep ?
1. "An ode is a lofty utterance of intense feeling and remarkable for
its elaborate versification." How does this poem answer the description
quoted?
2. "Generally speaking, modem odes are distinguished from other
poems by their form — the character of the feet, the length of the verses,
and the construction of the divisions or stanzas being varied in accordance
with the changes in the flow of the feeling " Uow does the quotation
apply to this ode ?
3. Point out passages in which the musio of the verse seems to fit the
subject-matter closely.
4. The line of thought in this ode is somewhat as follows: (1) The
poet is intoxicated with the happy melody of the bird : (2) He desires
a magic drink that Vill enable him to join the bird in its retreat : (3)
He would leave this poor world of men and dwell with the bird among
the leaves : (4) Without magic wine, but aided by fancy he joins the
bird : (6) He is delighted with the fragrance of his dark retreat : (6) He
oould now die contented, but dead he would be deaf to the bird's song :
(7) The bird is immortal t (8) The spell is broken by the bird's departure.
What is the central idea of all this ? Has it any significance beneath
the surface?
5. Explain the rektion of "That thou" (I. 7.)
6. Explain "drains" (L 3.)
7. Explain the compound words.
8. Comment on the use of epithets.
9. Explain the last three lines of the seventh stansa.
10. Does "mused" (VL 3.) mean fanciful, <nr nuue-inapired, or thought,
hut not given utterance f
CHAPTER VI.
QUESTIONS ON THE SELECTIONS.
"Alt Mop§ abaMhH g$ mHo uUr A«rt.
• Wt art eom*
Whtn I kao9 told thee we shall ««• the $otila
To mlaery doomed, who IntoUeatual good
Haoe loaf --DMna Comedy.
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'
CHAPTER Vt
QUESTIONS.
I.— PEELE CASTLE.
S. J. BMloliffe. Eiq., aA.. Boglidi MMter, London, a L
1. Deaoribe the pictures of Peele Castle presented to the
poet and the painter.
2. What two views of human life correspond to these tvo
pictures f
3. Show that the first picture^ and the first view of life are
mistaken.
4. What caused ^hia change of opiniont Quote anj passages
to illustrate your a iswer.
5. Show that the tone and diction of the poem are character-
istic of Wordsworth.
6. What impressions has the study of the poem left on yon
(1) as to mood (2) as to beauty.
II.~THE POET'S EPITAPH.
A. & Luiff, E^[., B.A., Bof. llMtor, NapuiM a 1.
1. Outline briefly the argument of this posm.
2. Describe in your own words the "types " of stanzas 1-9,
(Statesman, Lawyer, eta) and show how these in some degree
anticipate the character of stanzas 10-15.
3. Compare Wordsworth's conception of the Poet^ with
Tennyson's (in "the Poet** and "the Poet's mind.**)
4. Show how stanzas 12 and 13, are particularly applicable
to Wordsworth himself.
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23)
WORDSWOBTH.
5. Point out the force of the following wordn : — ** Sallow,*' 1.
8, "fingering,'* 1. 18, "smooth-rubbed,** L 29, "rancJlom,** L 60,
'* breaking," L 58.
6. Explain fully what is meant hji —
** Lean upon a peaeant*8 staff.**
" Wouii peep and botiuiize upon his mother*8 grave.**
" An intellectual all in all."
" Impulses of deeper biith have come to him in soliitude.*'
" The harvest of a quiet eye.**
"Contented if he might enjoy the things which others
understand.**
7. Criticise the structure, form and metre of this Poem, and
show the suftability of the metre to a theme of this kind.'*
itL— THE SOLITARY REAPEP^*
in - f^- ^
CephM OdDet, Em|., BJL, Mod. Lang. Master, Ottawa 0. L
L Show the plan of the poem.
S. Show fully the harmony between the thought and the
rhythm and melody in the first stanza. Mention what you
consider the best example of effective change of rhythm in rest
of poem.
(Compare with Lamartine's " O Pire qu' adore mon p^re '* <&c
la the new High School French Reader / It really would be
interesting to you, to compare that sample of Lamartine's
hi^vmonious verae with a pjem by Frechette on the opposite
page. They form a striking contrast in point of melody.)
^8. What aspect of the picture is chiefly emphasized in the
first stania? State effect of this emphasis. (Of coarse I lefer
In -i
lut«re«tinir to U
in i ili paper wera not intandad lor pvUioatton, Imt diay in toft
'tted.~ED.
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22d
to repetition of idea of solitude in " single " " Bolitary," " by her-
self,** "alone** all in harmony with the "melancholy strain.**)
4. Explain the effect of the comparsons in stanza II.
(He has chosen favorite birds of the poets. His own poem
on the Cuckoo might well be read here to enhance the beauty
of the comparison in the pupil's mind. And what more fitting
than the mention of the nightingale in trying to impress us
with the plaintive beauty of the maiden's song.
" Sweet bird that Bhunn'st the noise of folly.
Most musical, most melancholy I *
Thee, chantress, oft the wood among
I woo, to hear thy even-sung.")
6. Note the felicity with which the poet has clothed the
thought i^ stanza III ; and mention what you consider the best
example of the union of thought and diction in the rest of the
poem. (Of course I am thinking of the simplicity and tdrse
Buggestiveness eminently Wordsworthian of " old unhappy, far-
ofl' things . . . ago " " Some natv<ral dorrow," to eiid of
stanza. The last two lines of stanza I. were also in mv mind ;
fine use of profound and over/U/wing. In second part of second
question I was thinking ^f the line '' Breaking the silence of
the seas " — but of course cue main point is to give good reason
for one's choice whatever \i be. They might mention use of
feminine rhymes in last stanza.)
6. What is the tone and effect of the poem 1 (Or what is
the thought, or feeling to which the poet, is giving expression 1)
Compare it in this respect with The Highland Girl,
(It is a sweet a»d melanclioly strain thrilling in its very
simplicity and plaintiveness. It fills the heart with calm,
sooting images and attunes it to a 1h sting sympathy. W«
seem indeed to be listening to the '' still sad music of humanitj,*'
■nil ■iiiitiilliipwBmppBBpi
224
WORDSWORTH.
IV.—HART-LBAP WELL.
L M. Levan, Eaq., B.A., Principal, Owen Sound OoU. Inst
1. Describe tbe metrical structure of this poem.
2. Show clearly the meaning and the poetical value of all
the similes and metaphoi's.
3. Show the force of all the epithets in the poem.
4. In every case where the prose order of words Im not
observed, show why it has been departed from.
5. WBat thought is the poem meant to illustrate t Where
is it expressed ?
6. Why is this poem divided into two parts. Show the
bearing of each part on the central thought.
7. Where has Coleridge treated the same theme ? . What are
the main differences between his mode of treatment and Words-
worth's 1
8. From what characteristics would you judge this poem, if
you had never seen it befoi-e, to be Wordsworth's i
r ■
4
V.^SONNET XIX.
W. H. Schofield, Ebq., B.A., Mod. Lang. Master, Hamilton a I.
1 . Discuss the appropriateness and force of the metaphors in
this sonnet.
2. Explain the allusions in "Petrarch's wound"; "an exile's
grief"; "m?ld Spenser"; "when a damp fell round the path
of Milton"; also the meaning of " The S,onnet glittered . ,
brow."
3. What places do Shakspeare, Petrarch, Tasso, Camd^as,
Dante, Spenser, and Milton occupy as sonneteers 1 When and
where did they live 1 Very briefly state the work of each.
4. What key have we to the strenj^h and su^estiveneB^ of
r
QUESTIONS.
226
Wordsworth's style in the trse of such expressions as ** mindless
of its just honours"; "aglow-worm lamp''; "soul-animating
strains"!
5. Discuss the one^entenoe structure, the impressiveuess of
the ending, and the general effect.
6. What characteristics of Wordsworth as man do we see
here revealed 1
7. Whs^^ are the chief features of Wordsworth's po«]M as
regards (a) theme (6) style (c) influence.
VI.— AT THE GRAVE OF BURNS.
A. W. Burt, Esq., B.A., Principal, Brookville O. L
1. Describe this poem under the heads, subject, matter and
style.
2. What other poems of Wordsworth does it most closely
resoaible 1 Indicate the points of similarity.
3. Compare it with " A Poet's Epitaph."
4. How far d( s it conform with the canons of poetry laid
doT/n by Wordsworth ?
5. What features of its author^s character and genius does
it illustrate 1
6. To what circumstances in the life, character and work of
Bums does it call attention 1
7. Describe the metrica! structure of the poem and discuss
its suitability to the theme.
8. Show the force of the figures of speech in I, 3-4. IV, 3-6.
VI, 5-6.
9. Explain the meaning of the following expressions : "fierce
and bold," I, 1; ''struggling" V, 2 ; "with the obscurest" V, 5;
"^uireut^" VII, 1 1 " when the main fibres are entwined closelT
l .mi I I . I - il'li n
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226
WORDSWOBTR.
stiU" VIIT, 3-6. "this dread moment^*' IX, 3.
hymn," XIV, 4.
"a ritual
VII.— CHARACTER OF THE HAPPY WARRIOR.
John Jeffries, Esq., B.A., Edr. Master, Peterborough O. L
1. With what great field of thought does the poet iu this
poem deal )
2. What is his special theme)
3. To what extent is it an important theme 1
4. What feelings were associated with the thoughts of this
theme.
5. Do the ideas and feelings expressed in this poem appear
to you to be due to some immediate external excitement, or to
be the result of the poet's reflection and constitution ci mind 1
6. I)oes thought or expression appear to have received chief
attention herel
7. Wordsworth has said that a large portion of the language
. of every good poem can in no respect differ from that of proua
Refer to the use of prosaic language in this poem.
8. Discuss the extent and degree of elevation possessed by
the language. . /
9. Matthew Arnold has said that Wordsworth's greatness
lies in his energetic and profound application of ideas to life —
tc the question : How to live. Apply the criticism to this
poem. a
10. Describe the versification.
11. To what category of poetiy does the poem belong t
12. Outline its contents.
QrEsnoNS.
227
iial
bis
his
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to
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VIIL— ODE ON INTIMATIONS OF IMMORTALITY
PROM RECOLLECTIONS OF EARLY CHILDHOOD.
MIm NrilU Spmoe, ax., Sngliah Speoialiat, Purkd«l« a L
1. Explain clearly the philosophical teaching of this ode.
From what school of philosophy did Wordsworth borrow his
ideas on this subject 1 Did he only borrow 1 Or do his ideas
differ in any way from those of the original expounders 1 By
what argument does he support his view 1
2. Discuss the (testhetic as distinguished from the logical
value of the theory and arguments*here given.
3. What modem school of philosophic thought (now attract*
ing a good deal of attention) teaches doctrines not unlike, in
one respect at least, those here stated) Whau living poet has
made similar doctrines the theme of his most famous work 1
4. What are the most impoi*tant theories that ha\ o been held
at one time or another regarding the origin and destiny of the
human soul ? Compare Wordsworth's with these, in so far as
the poetic beauty of the different conceptions is concerned.
5. Make a logical analysis of this ode by stating sis concisely
as possible the theme of each stanza, and showing the develop-
ment of the main thought from stanza to stanza. In which
stanza is the philosophic theory most clearly stated.
6. Is the general tone of the ode characteristic pf Words-
worth Y If so, show the resemblance, if not, the contrast,
between it and some other of his poems, in the details of the
ode, point out, in diction, sentence-structure, or thought, any
Wordsworthian tendencies.
Make a comparison between :
(«) '* Trailing clouds of glory do we come
From Gk)d, who is our home ;
Heaven lies about us in our in&ini^." —
mm
wmmm^mm
228
and
WORDSWORTH.
" I have not so far left the coasts of life
To travel inland, that I cannot hear
That murmur of the outer Infinite
Which unweaned babies smile at in their sleep
When wondered at for smiling." — Mrs. Browning.
and c^lso between the foregoing lines of Mrs. Bi-owning and
, " Btence in a season of calm weather.
.f|_ Though inland far we be
Oii(^souls have sight of that immortal sea
Thati)rought us hitli^r
Can in a moment travel thither,
And see 46e children sport upon the shore,
And hear the m%hty waters rolling evermore."
(b) ** Though nothing can bring back the hour
Of sunshine in the grass, of splendor in the flower."
and
L
'* Our delight in the sunshine on the deep-bladed grass to-day
might be no more than the faint perception of wearied souls, if it
were not for the sunshine and the grass in the far-off years, which
still live in us and transform our preception into love."
— George Eliot,
(c) " To me the meanest flower that blows can give
Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears."
and
and
*' Thee neither know I nor thy peers ;
And yet my eyes are filled with tears."
* — To a Highland Oirl.
(d) "There hath pass'd away a glory from the earth."
'* 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 1
Tl^« sea that bares her bosom to the moon,
QUESTIONS.
229
lay
' it
ich
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."
8. Wordsworth is always a nature-worshipper. Illustrate
from this ode. Corapai'e the descriptions of nature here with
those given by him elsewhere, e.g., in The Excursion.
9. To what extent does Wordsworth observe his own rules
of diction in this odel
10. '*Did I not know for a certainty that this ode was
writ^^en by Wordsworth, I should be much more inclined to
tMok it came fk'om Shelley's pen." Examine this statement.
11. What U3e is made of the principle of contrast in this
o:«e? By what other means is force received?
12' Point out and critically examine any examples of per-
sonification, metaphor, simile, apostrophe, climax, and other
figures of speech which you observe.
13. One of the tests of the poet lies in the figures of speech
by which he beautifies his thought. Applying this test to
Wordsworth and judging from this ode, what status would
you assign to him? Compare his figures in boldness, origin-
ality, power, and beauty, with those of Tennyson, Longfellow,
Coleridge, Shelley, Keats, or any other poets with whom you
are familiar.
14. The saying "Beauty unadorned is adorned the most**
applies as well to literary as to physical beauty. In what sense
is this statement true? Is it, in that sense, applicable to
Wordsworth generally? Is it applicable in this particular
poem?
15. What qualities of sl^le are exemplified in this odet
Point out one marked example of each.
16. By careful analysis, reveal, if possible, the secret of the
wonderful charm of thi& o4e,
^PH^^^
^
230
WORDSWORTH.
'
17. What is ap ode) Name some celebrated odes ia the
English language. What rank does this one hold )
I 18. Show, if possible^ from this ode, how Wordsworth re-
presents the natu/ral as opposed to the artificial school of
English poetry. Of English poets name the one whom you
consider most emphatically opjiosed to Wordsworth.
19. Wordsworth is the poet of the few, Tennyson of the
many. From this ode, show how this is (if it be) the case.
20. Examine the appropriateness of the introductory stanza?
How far does it suggest the main theme? Show how the
two concluding stanzas summarize and apply what has been
developed in the i)receding part of the poem ? Are the
rhetorical laws with regard to the beginning and the end of a
composition well observed.
21. Write what you consider the two finest parts of the ode.
Why do you so consider them ?
22. Make explanatory remarks on the following : —
"Celestial light," "of yore," "the fields of sleep," "the
heart of May," "jubilee," "I hear, I hear, with joy I hear."
(Why the repetition?), "something that is gone," "the visionary
gleam,** "the soul our life's star," "trailing clouds of
glory do we come from God," "shades of the prison-house,"
(quote similar metaphors), "nature's priest," the light of
common day," "the homely nurae," "her foster child," "the
inevitable yoke," " in our embers," " those obstinate question-
ings ^high instincts shadowy recollections," "the foun-
tain light of all our day," "that immortal sea," "my hMi*t of
hearts," " thoughts too deep for tears."
23. Describe the metrical structure of this ode. Examine
its appropriateness. What advantage has the iambic over the
trochaic metre which would make the latter unsuitable for •
composition such as this ?
w
QUESTIONS.
SSI
' IX.— MICHAEL.
W. H. libby. Eaq., B.A., Eng. MMter. OUawa a L
1. Wherein does the poem " Michael " differ from prose in
its language, thought and feeling 1 '
2. Coleridge analyzing Wordsworth's style, assigns it five
characteristic defects, and six characteristic merits, as follows :
Defects — 1. Inconstancy of style : sometimes flat and prosy.
2. Frequent " matter^f-factness."
3. Weak use of dramatic form. (When characters
speak for thenselves they seem unreal — mere
echoes of Wordsworth.)
4. Proli^ty and repetition, r^ulting from an un-
common interest in things not usually con-
V sidered worthy of emphasis.
6. Disproportion between subject in hand and com-
parisons used to illustrate it : not a defect of
strength but a fault of excesa
Merits — 1. Austere use of language — grammatically and
logically.
2. Truth and sanity of thought and sentiments —
absence of exaggeration of feeling and undue
prominence to half-truth&
3. Felicity in single lines and paragraphs.
• 4. Faithful description of nature.
5. Meditative pathos — union of deep thoughtfulness
with sensibility : sympathy with man as man.
6. Imagination in the highest and strict^t sense of
the word — the power to "add the gleam, the
light that never was on sea or land, the con-
secration and the poet's dream " to any sub-
ject even, indeed, espedally, to the most
fiOMmonplace.
233
WOBDBWOBttt.
• "-ft
Matthew Arnold Hays : *' If I had to pidk oat poemB of a
kind most perfectly to show Wordsworth's unique power, I
bhould rather choose poems such as Michael, The Foimtain, The
Hiffhland Reaper.
Illustrate these characteristic defects and merits of Words-
worth's style, by i.'eferences to this characteristic poem. Dis-
cuss the statement that he who likes the poem '' Michael" is
" a Words worthian.**
3» ««It was the first,
Of these domestic tales that spake to me
Of Shepherds, dwellers in the valleys, men
Whom I already loved ; not verily
For their own sakes, but for the fields and hills
Where was their occupation and abode.
And hence this tale, while I was yet a boy /
Careless of books, yet having felt the power
Of Nature, by the gentle agency
Of natural objects led me on to feel
For passions that were not my own, and think
' (At random and imperfectly indeed)
On man, the heart of man, and human life."
What do we learn from these lines of the awakening and
development of the "social sense" of '^man beloved as man""
in Wordsworth, and of the relation of nature and man to his
poetry.
4. In what respects may Michael be called a dramatic poem,
(suited in any way or degree to stage representation) and in
what respects is it strikingly non-dramatic 1
What qualities distinguish Michael, Isabel and Lake from
ordinary peasants) Is it as types or as individuals that Words-
worth selects them for description f Oompare them in this
respect with the characters of Chaucer's Prologue and of.
Shakectpeare's Plays.
I a
I
'he
is-
is
r
^UKSTIONd.
2d3
6. What were Wordsworth's views oonceming poetic diction?
(Read preface to second edition of Lyrical BcUkuls, chapt6i>8
xvii., xviii., adx., Coleridge's Biogra; '»ia Literaria and Minto's
Wordsworth in the Encyc. Brit.) Does his own diction conform
to his theory 1 What &re> the " vulgar errors " with regard to
his views of poetic diction? Is his theory broad enough to
cover the great variety of diction shown in Lnoy Gray, Michael,
and the Ode on Intimations of Immortality ^ Or is some of his
work written in defiance of his reasoned views 1 If you found
him inconsistent would you consider his theory or his practice
the more authoritative in fixing a canon of diction )
6. Compare Shelley with Wordsworth in the matter of the
selection of subject-matter and treatment. Contrast The Cloud
with Michael in these respects.
7. In your own words, and concisely, tell the story of Michael
with the purp<^ of setting forth its value as poetical material.
8. '' He assailod the public taste as ' depraved,' first and
mainly in so far aa it was adverse to simple incidents simply
treated, being accustomed to 'gross and violent stimulants,'
'craving after extraordinary incident,' possessed with a 'degrad-
ing thirst after outrageous stimulation,' * frantic novels, sickly
and stupid Q«rman tragedies, and deluges of idle and extrava-
gant stories in verse.' " — Minto.
Mention with comments works of his period that come within
the meaning of his stricturea How would Shakespeare's
tragediep bear the charge of depraving the public taste by
"sensationalism"? What are the negative (as distinguished
from the actual) merits of the story of Michael as told by
Wordsworth I
mmmmm
m
234
I t
'i !
WORDSWORTH.
X.— ODE TO DUTY.
1. Ib this subject suited to the character and genius of the
poett Compare it with some of his other subjects va this
respect.
2. Write if you can a name for the poem more fully
significant of its central idea, yet artistic and concise.
3. State the principal idea of the poem in one clear sentence.
4. Set forfh the line of thought of the poem more fully :
state the substance of each stanza in a dear sentence.
5. Show that the thought of each stanza has a duty in
working out the thought of the whole work, and show the
effect of deleting any stanza.
6. State witn reasons whether any of the stanzas might in
your opinion be placed ir a different order from that in which
you find them.
7. In selecting material for an Ode to Duty the poet might
have chosen to speak of religious, civic, intellectual, moral,
physical, social and domestic duties ; he might have indicated
what our duties are in regard to many virtues. and rices; none
of this material is ( 'ectly touched upon ; how do you account
for his selection and rejection of material in a subject where
material is so plentiful 1
8. Is there anything original in this poem f Is there any-
thing in the classical literature of Greece and Rome that has
the same spirit as this ode 1 Can you mention any other great
poet who might have written this ode 1 Would the poem if
appearing now for the first time be likely to command as
great admiration as it has in fact commanded 1
9. Is the ode the best form for the material of this po«m f
Wliy should it not have been a sermon or a hymnt Is the
ode a dignified form of verse 't Name other great odes and
compare them with this in form and substance.
QUESTIONS.
2a6
10. State what r^uK>n8 account, in your opinion, for tlic
statement that " all loYers of Wordsworth have, or ought to
have by heart/' the Ode to Duty.
11. Is this ode purely lyrical, or has it dramatic or epic
qualities) Compare it in this respect with Gray's " Thtt Bard."
12. Is it a poem of Perception, Feeling, Thought, or Action ?
13. Is t^e poem intended to impress us chiefly as a work ol
artistic beauty, of elevating morality, or of profound truth ?
14. How does a sonnet differ from an ode? Can you give
any reason why the substance of this ode might not have been
as well embodied in a sonnet)
15. The central idea of this poem might have been worked
out concretely in a tale similar to Micltael. What is the
advantage of this comparatively abstract method ! What
relieves this poem from the charge of being an abstract moral
essay in yerse 1
16. To what extent is this poem subjective t
17. Is the poem a result to any degi*ee of the historical and
social circumstances of Wordsworth's day, or does it rest upon
less fleeting foundations %
18. Is there anything remarkable about the use of capitals or
the punctuation of the poem? If so do these peculiarities seem
to you to be in keeping with the substance 1
19. Are there any words or forms of words used in the ode
that would not be used in (a) prose (of the grade of Macaulay's
Essays) ; (5) conversation ?
20. Are there any words used that Pope, Gray or Tennyson
would reject as unpoetical or prosy f
21. Are there any words that seem to be chosen less from
the fact that they say precisely what the poet means than
because they suit the exigencies of rhyme, metre, rhythm,
euphony, or poetic diction ?
k; ■•,
^ i» li i ^t»i| i ip8pFTCr».w .1 i H,i 1 1 1 ',u..„.,ii ^ges;wsm
I i|
> i:
r >■
M..
4
1 ■ 1
n
i ■ X
23^
WORDSWORta.
22. There sometimes appears a curious felicity of expression
ii. Wordsworth's poems, beautiful junctures of words not in
themselves remarkable for beauty : can you point out such
here)
23. Indicate any epithets or other words that strike you as
strong or picturesque.
24. What proportion of words here are of foreign origin 1
How do the percentages of JEnglish and borrowed woftls in this
work compare with the average percentages of literary works ^
26. In the order of words and phrases are there many
departures from the English prose order ? Whai; is Spencer's
principle of economic order 1 Do the inversions here seem to
be for economy of effort in understanding or from exigencies of
verse 1
26. Explain clearly what Wordsworth means by the following
expressions; simplify for the understanding of a child if
possiblo :
(a) " Daughter of the Voice of 6od"
(b) " Who art victory cmd law
When empty terrors overawed
(c) " Who do thy work ; and know it not"
(d) " The kindly impulse."
(e) " When love is an unerring light."
(f) " No Sport if every random gust."
(g) " Unchartered freedom."
(h) " The weight of chance desires."
(i) " My hopes no more mu<it change their name."
(j ) " Thou dost preserve the stars from wrong'*
(k) " The confidence of reason."
27. Are the sentences used long or short, loose or periodic )
28. Does the length of the sentences fit well with the length
of the line, judging by the number of unstopt and of end-stopt
iinest
i
■»>«ipipipii
Qt}BS<raON8.
287
2. Point out imd name every figure or device of language
used by the poet ir. this ode, and indicate the effect of each.
Develop the conipaiisons by indicating the resemblances and
the differences batween the things compared.
30. If English were to you an unknown tongue, and if this
ode were read to you with good voice, feeling, and general
expression, do you think it would impress you as a pleasant
tune? Would it »tand on its merits as music! Wor; 7 ^he
" tunes of speech " running through it convey to you my i « k-
ling of its tenor, feeling, thought f
31. Justify or criticize the following rhymes: God—rod;
love — rejjrove ; free — h/mnanity ; he — security ; vrise—'iif^ jri/ice.
A famous critic, Palgrave, says. " w© should require finish in
proportion to brevity;** how might Wordsworth have defended
his ode with reference to this canon 1
32. What is the artistic justification of the monotonous
iambic tetrameters ending in a dragging hexameter 1
33. Are all the feet iambio ? Illustrate the truth that em-
phasis may be given by using an irregular foot. In Sir
Galahad Tennyson changes the whole movement of the sense
by this simple device:
" They rdel, they rdll in cl&nging Mats,
And wh^D the tide of cdmbat st&nds,
Pdi'fume and fldwers f&U in shdwei^.
That lightly r4in from l&dies h/lnds."
34. Define satisfactorily the term rhythm. Is meti'e
rhythm? Is rhythm a matter of dwration, intervals^ lotidnesSf
puch, or tone-colour? Is it concerned \vith ayllaJbleSy w&rds^
phraseSy lines or sta.nza8 f Illustrate from this ode.
36. In what n^pects do you fancy you discern h/irmormf ot
keepmg between the subject-matter and the versificaiioik of
this ode!
■ m
fmmmmmi>lt0li
ilMMMifii
MIRplMIMM^IpiMi
^ijillitliiililiiji.llll 1IJII|,I llllliPHWi
238
WOllDSWOttl'H
36. Even the most thoughtful poetry is usually imbued with
emotion : our emotions may be roughly classified as ayJtliirte,
(pertaining to powerful and elevated objects), co>nmon, ({)ertain-
ing to our likes and dislikes for nature and human nature in the
ordinary relations of life), and passionate, (pertaining to the
animal instincts and to the darker phases of the human heart),
Of which order are the emotions af this ode 1 In this respect
is this ode a representative work of the author? Give names
to the main emotions evoked by the ode, and account for their
order.
37. What constitutes the poetic charm peculiar to this poem)
38. Would the moral tone of this poem be universally
regarded as sound and right %
39. Make an elocutionary analysis of the poem on the
following table :
Bate
Pitoh.
ODE TO DUTT.
Stem Daughter of the Voice of God t
Duty I \f that name tliou Ic ve
Who art a l-ght to guide, a rod
To clieck the erring, and reprove ;
Thou, who art victory and law
When empty terrors overawe;
Frrnn. vain temptations dost set fi^ee ;
And calmest the weary strife of frail
humanity I
There are who ask not if thine eye
Be on Hiem ; who, in love and truths
Wliere no misgiimg is, rely
Upon the genial sense of youth :
Glad Hearts ! without reproach or blot ;
Who do thy work, and know it not :
Long may the kindly impulse last !
But Thou, if they should totter, teach
tliem to stand fast /
Serene will be our days and bright^
And happy will our nature be.
When love is an unerring ligfU,
And Joy U* own Mcurity.
Voice.
Foice.
Expres-
SiOD.
QUBSTIONa
239
Rate.
Pitoh.! (Continued).
And thei/ a blissful course may hold
Even now, who, not uawisely hold,
Live in the spirit of this creed ;
Yet seek thy firm support, accordiny to
their need.
I, loving freedom, and untried;
No sport of every random, gvM,
Yei being to myself a guide.
Too blindly have reposed my trust ;
And oft, when in my heart was Jieard
Thy timely mandate, I deferred
The task, in smoother walks to stray :
But tliee I now would serve mvre strictly,
if I may.
Through no disturbance of my soul,
Or strong compunction in me wrought,
I supplicate for thy control ;
But in the quieiness of thoiigfU :
Me this unchartered freedom tires;
J feel tlie weight of chance-desires:
My hopes no more ,iius* change their name,
I lung for a repose that ever is the same.
Stern Lawgiver/ yet thou dost wear
The Godhead's most benignant grace ;
Nor know toe aiythiitg so fair
Ah is the simile upon thy face :
Flowers laugh before thee on their beds
And fragrance in thy footing treads ;
Thou dost preserve the Stars from wrong.
And the most ancient Heavens, through
Thee, are fresh and strong.
To humbler functions, awfid Power !
J call thee : J Tnyself commend
Unto thy guidance from this Iiour ;
Oh, let my weakness have an end /
Give unto me, made lowly toise,
The spirit of self-sacrifice ;
T/te confidmce of reason give ;
And in the liglU of truth thy bondman lei
me live/
Vi^oe. Force.
Expres-
uon.
NoTB. — In the columns at the sides indicate the directions
for reading by such terms as fast, iiodsrate, slow ; high,
middls, low ; pure, orotund ; loud, mediup^ low .- soUmn, /er-
K i mii i p iiii
•MMatH^f
240
WORDSWORTH.
LJ
In the text itself underline the emphatic words ; mnt'lt
rhetorical pauses by vertical lines ; and indicate inflections hy
accents (^ and ').
Add any necessary warnings concerning pronunciation hiuI
articulation.
40. State any features of this poem that seem, to you to be
distinctively Words worthian: could you in fact tell whether or
not the poem deserves to be classed as a great work ? Could
you believe it to be the work of a poet of little genius ? Give
reasons. Write a list of adjectives that may qualify the word
stylsy when style means characteristic literary expression of an
author. From vour list choose such terms as describe Wordfr
worth's style in this poem.
lU 11
|i! Il
CHAPTER VIL
NOTES.
"I wish either to 6« considered as a teacher or as nothing."
— Wordsworth,
IP—
!^
<
Q
O
CHAPTER VIL
NOTES.
Ed
<
a
o
THE REVERIE OF POOR SUSAN.— Page 33.
Of this poem Wordsworth says, "The feeling therein developed gives
importance to the action and situation, and not the action and situation
to the feeling." He adds that his purpose is to excite the interest of the
reader without the use of "gross and violent stimulants."
** Poor Siuan" not only excites our cc .passion for the unfortunate,
but lends dignity to the lower class by showing that they may have
tender and even poetic sensibilities such as the touching recollections
and the vivid imagination of this poor outcast.
Wordsworth's biographer in the English Men of Letters Series, says:
"He became, as one may say, the poet not of London considered as
London, but of London considered as a part of the country. Like his
own Farmer of TUshury Vale —
Li the throng of the Town like a stranger is he,
Like one whose own Country's far over the sea ;
And Nature, while through the great city he hies,
Full ten times a day takes his heart by surprise.
Among the poems describing these sudden shocks of vision and memory,
none is 'T'.ore exquisite than the Reverie of Poor Susan. The picture is
one of those which come home to many a country heart with one of
those sudden revulsions into the natural which philosophers assert to
be the essence of human joy."
The poem exhibits his regard for the common people and his prefer*
ence for nature.
** Reverie-" — ^The French river means to dream. A rev(^ie is a wak-
ing dream. When dream is used in a metaphorical sense it differs from
reverie in the respect that reverie points to inconsecutiveness of thought,
dream to unreality. Absent-minded persons fall into reveries, ambitious
and ardent persons have dreams.
2. "Wood Street." — A street in London running north from
pheM>si4e.
248 -
v
244
WORDSWORTH.
"when daylight appears." — Suggests the wretched condition of
Susan. '
3. "a Thrush."— "The song of the Thrush (or Throstle) is peculiarly
rich, mellow and sustained, and is remarkable for the full purity of its
intonation, and the variety of its notes. "
"three years>" — T^ia caged Thruph seems like a symbolical shadow
of Poor Susan, there is soincthing in common between them. Poets
often use the numbers three and seven. Shakespeare says, "They say
there's a divinity in odd numbers."
5. " silence of morning*" — The only silence known in parts of Lon-
don. A good background for the Thrush's song.
6. "a note of enchantment." — Enchant^ as it happens, comes from
eano, I sing ; what is the association between singing and enchantTne/nt ?
"what ails her?" — What causes this question ?
8. "volnmes of vapour*" — What actual phenomena may ouggest
vapour and river to Susan's enchanted fancy? What would "volumes
of vapour " have meant in Susan's childhood home ?
" Lothbury." — A street behind the Bank of England.
9. " Oheapside." — From M. K cheap meaning trade,
12. "like a dove's." — In what resijects ?
14. " in heaven." — What is meant ?
15. "mist," * river," "hill" and "shade," are in distributive
apposition with " they : " note the expressions in stanza 2 to which
these allude.
16. "will not-" — Suggest! the reluctance with which Susan relin-
quishes her reverie : the roar of Loudon has drowned the enchant-er's
song. »
Show the reason of each stanza in the development of the poem. '^
Tell the story of Susan as suggested to your imagination by this poem.
Would the poem be improved by adding the followiiig stanza as its
conclusion?-!—
*♦ Poor Outcast 1 Return — to receive thee once miore
The house of thy father will open iti^ door.
And then once again, in thy plain russet (;own,
May'st hear the Thrush sing from a tree of its own."
It occurs in the fii^t edition ; what has been gained by its suppression?
NOTES.
240
WE ARE SEVEN.— (1798)— Page 33.
2. In the first edition of the Lyrical Ballads the first line of thia
poem ia —
A nmple child, dear brother Jim :
The following note is by Wordsworth :
" To retam to * We are Seven,' the piece that called forth this note, I
composed it while walking in the grove at Alfoxden. My friends
will not deem it too trifling to relate that while walking to and
fro I composed the last stanza first, having begun with the last line.
When it was all but finished, I came in and recited it to Mr. Coleridge
and my sister, and said, * A prefatory stanza must be added, and j
should .sit down to our little tea-meal with greater pleasure if my task
were finished.' I mentioned in substance what I wished to be expressed,
and Coleridge immediately threw off the stanza thus :
' A little child, dear brother Jem,' etc.
I objected to the rhyme, 'dear brother Jem,' as being IndicrouS)
but we all enjoyed the joke of hitching in our friend, James T 's
name, who was familiarly called Jem."
20. " Conway."— Town in North Wales.
24. "churchyard COttaga*** — State condition of family from evi-
dence in poem.
38, 40. Middle rhyme, a device of emphasis.
52. "released." — ^Does this harmonize with the language of this
simple child of eight ? What preposition usually follows release in such
constructions ?
53. " when the grass wab ^17." — What is this meant to suggest ?
60. ''forced." — Notice the pathos of ^is simple view expressed in
the passive voice.
66. "dead." — No syllable rhymes with dead. Account for irregu-
larities of rhyme in first and last stanzas.
LUCY GRAY.— Page 36.
This ballad occurs in the second volume of the Lyrical BaUads ; the
■econd title. Solitude, is not found in the first editions.
The Modem English ballad had its origin in the ancient ballads of the
Northumbrian dialect. This form of verae has flourished iu the southen)
""' ' ' ~il'''"!S I E ? ^
246
WORDSWORTH.
Scotch and in the nurthom English dialects for ages. Bishop Percy,
bums and Scott, gave the ballad a wonderful vogue in the reign of
Qeorge III., and many more recent writers have given ua excell. ut work
fashioned more or less directly upon the old border songs. The answer
to the question why Coleridge and other modem writers use the
archaisms of the northern ballad- writers in their own ballads, is that
the ballad had flourished so famously in the northern tongue that
modem writers judged it wiae to preserve the forms in which it had
seen great days.
No description of these poems can do so much for the student as even
a careless study of Percy's Beliquea, where he will find such poems as
Sir Patrick Spence, King Cophetva and The Begyar Maid, Oemutua Ihe
Jew of Venice, and many more famous for beauty and literary interest.
The ballad was usually a song of love or war. Its versifi ation is
often, indeed usually, that of Lucy Oray — a quatrain of wo tetrameters
and two trimeters arranged alt«rnately, Usually only the second and
fourth lines rhyme. The weakness ©f the versification of Lucy Gray
arises largely from the fa'' that in more than a dozen instances the
accent falls upon a weak w J, such as a. Hie, to, there, tn, jrom, by ; one
line reads —
*' Into the middle of the plank,"
and unless care is taken to shift the stress away from the syllables to and
of, the effect is absurd. In the last stanza those who feel the beauty of
tho poem will be careful to read it so as to avoid making it sound
ridiculous : (indeed this is true of nearly every stanza : ) to in the first
line of it, itf in the second, and yon in the third will not bear the stress
their position implies.
By common consent a ballad must 1h imple and direct : they usually
open abruptly ; they are fond of the numbers flvree and Mvtn, Cole-
ridge's Ancient Mariner is the greatest ballad in English. Heine's Bal-
lads are perhaps the sweetest and tenderest k^ the world : theru is a
beautiful translation in the Canterbury Series, but the Grerman is very
easy.
2. What attitude does the poet take towards the story, judging from
the first stnnza?
8. Notice all the expressions that impress the feelings of solitude.
12, 13. Account for the apparent irrelevance.
34. "But never reached the town-" ts this abrupt or euphem-
istic?
NOTBS.
247
43. The old reading is interesting,—
** And now they homeward tnmed, and cried,**
The next stanza began with —
'• Then downward from the steep hill's edge,"
Compare these readini;^ with those in the text, and «mdeavoar t put
yourself in the place of th< poet as lie makes the changes.
MIOHAEL.—Page 41.
Much has been said of the slurs and ridicule heaped upon Wordsworth
because of his simple style and homely characters. In the English
Bards and Scotch R^.vinoera, Byron iixlulges in a uoarse and rather
^vitty sketch of the poet, with a pointed allusion to the Idiot Boy, ending
thus:
" So close on each pathetic part he dwells.
And each adventure so sublimely tells,
That all who view the ' idiot in his glory,'
Conceive the bard the hero of the story. "
Wordsworth despised rank, (at least in his earlier days) and his
defence is well expressed by Coleridge when he says, " I honour a wise
and virtuous man without ref« ence to the presence or absenc'c of artifi* .
cial advantages.' In Michael and in poema of similar motive, Words-
worth owes much to Bumo. whom he greatly loved and heartily admired :
he had the power, pre-eminent in Burns of touching the hearts of the
refined classes with a powerful sense of their common humanity, he
"astounded bosoms habitually enveloped in the thrice-piled folds of
social reserve, by compelling them to tremble— nay, to tremble visibly —
beneath the fearless touch of natural pathos." " Is there not th^; fifth
act of a tragedy in every death-bed, though it were a peasant's, and a
bed of heath?" exclaims Carlyle. Wordsworth had the eye of sym-
pathy which makes the Story of Michael as great md significant as the
story of Macbeth, and while we may trust that Shakespeare had the
larger sounder judgment in attaching more importance to the piominent
and, powerful, yet we must revere the grand democratic spirit of Words-
worth, Bums, Coleridge, and Carlyle.
A Pastoral poem is a narrative of simple rustic life, containing des-
criptions of nature, and of the manners and morals of peasants.
4. "Oreen-head Ohyll."-Ghyll or gill, a ravine.
■pppc^
24S
WOBDSWOBTa.
7. "pastoral.** — In its radical
,13. " kites.**— A fierce bird of prey.
82. "led.*— Ta'e....led.
38. " a few natural hearts." — Those who cannot like Wordsworth
for his positive merits, should remember his negative merits : the mean-
ness, the sensationalism, the nasty sentiment, the bad taste, the unnatu-
ral forced literary or bookish point of view are all absent.
46. "bodily flraune" — Contrasted with wwmi in line 46.
47. " frugal." — Not self-indulgent, requiring little pleasure.
63. "subterraneous. "—In the valley.
68-62. These lines are a harmonious symbol of his iuner life ; " the
traveller " is a less heroic type.
71. "hardship, skill or courage, joy or fear"— His own acts.
76. '• Those fields, those hills." — See eight lines above.
W. " The one."— One of them.
" cleanly." — ^They were habitually clean.
" duly." — As regularly as the darkness required ib
" utensil." — L. uten8Uis=G.t for use.
"uncounted." — ^The lamp by long association had become a
friend, a character.
123. "with objects." — ^The worst misery is total lack of interest in
things : but this never comes to these self-respecting people.
125. " by the light of this old lamp."— The lamp may be fancied
to stand as a sjrmbol of constant virtue, oltl-fashioned and far from gay,
but trustworthy : it was a benign influence in the neighbourhood.
130. Worthy of Swinburne in imitative power.
131. "Easedale, Dunmail-Raise." — Ten miles south of Keswick.
142-169. What is the terror of old age from which Luke saved
Michael ?
I6U-I77. To say that this passage is not poetical is to beg the whole
question of Wordsworth's claims : Wordsworth himself was a man of
great intellectual power, and as regards academic culture and Uterary
associations "in the foremost files ; " yet he renounced the unquestioned
fame of works like the Ode to Duty and Lcwdamia, to glory in works
like Michael.
180. Criticize.
181. " coppice>" — A thicket of brushwood.
101.
116.
117.
120.
M0TB8.
249
217. "but**— ^nlya.
\^ 226. "patrimonial." — Tlie continuity of the family adds greatly to
the effect when the Buccossion is disturbed.
229-242. This struf^gle with doubts, murmurs and un charitableness,
makes Michael bnman : but his triumph makes him noble. The refined
morality of line 242 is a greater dignity than wealth or rank. Words-
worth means to tell us.
260. " Parish-boy." — Depending on charity.
269. "monies/' — Expresses Isabel's feelings accurately.
288. "the Boy should go to-night"— Why?
326. " melancholy." — Transferred epithet. ^
356. " in US." — In our casa.
364. Michael has as deep a sense of family continuity as an earL
380. "It looks as if." — The land was so identified with its owner
that his imagination could grapple with no other condition.
389. " Nay, Boy" — Dramatic touch : what does it suggest ?
393. This most pathetic line owes much to the cont,ext.
412. How is innocence a cause of energy in good deeds t
415. What were the parts of this covenant ?
417. "I shall love thee to the last.**— He was eighty-four.
449-461. Coleridge admired Wordsworth for the number and beauty
' of his aphorisms.
455. Cf . line 46.
460. "inheritance." — Appositive.
467. " never lifted up a single stone."— What does this tell in-
directly ?
469. " that." — Cf. line 94, where the clumsy expression **iheone " to
which this clumsy demonstrative refers, is used.
476. " a stranger's hand" — Michael's worst fears in regard to his
boy and his estate are realized.
HEART-LEAP WELL.— (1800)— Page 56.
Of the origin of this story Wordsworth says : " My sister and I had
passed the place a few weeks before in our wild winter journey from
Lockburn on the banks of the Tees, to Grasmere. A peasant whom we
met near the spot told us the story so far as concerned the name of the
mimii
D liE38BBS9BiHHBHBiHV
250
WORDSWORTH.
M
well and tfie hart, and pointed out the stones. Both the stones and the
well are objects that can easily be missed ; the tradition by this time
may be extinct in the neighbourhood : the man who related it to us was
very old." Scott's '* Lady of the Lake " appeared ten years later, and
the firot caato of it gives a description of the chase quite different from
Wordsworth's. But Oowper in The Task, (Book lU.) had spoken
bitterly against the —
*' Detested sport,
That owes its pleasures to another's paui.''
Bums bad wept over a field-mouse or a wounded hare : and many writers
of sensibiL'ty, notably Bishop Butler, had spoken of the kindness men
owe the lower animals. Butler and Agassiz both speak of a possible im-
mortality for animals. While many poets warn us not to be unkind to
helpless creatures, Coleridge takes a more positive strain in the story o*
the murdered' albatross, and in a noble and popular passage says,
" He prayeth well, who loveth wall
Both man and bird and beast.
He prayeth best who loveth best
All thincrs both great and small."
And it is this universal love that makes men like Bums seem the best
of men.
12. ** falcon.**— The bird is also u. hunter.
14. ** rodt" — Band of hunters.
14. " this mornmg." — Vivid use of adjective <7iw.
18. "veering." — Changing direction ; cf. vibraie.
22. " chid."— Chide sometimes means to cause to come or go.
23. "With suppliant gestures."— Not suitable diction.
•28. "not like an earthly Chase-"— Why I
32. " what death he died."— How.
61. ** rods," also written roodU : five yards and a half.
74. Does this stanza exaggerate ?
97. "And I to this would add anotner tale— The unconscious
humour of this appendage suggests the *• happy happy liver " of the
8ky-Lark.
100. "To freeze the blood I have no ready arts."— "I could
a tale unfold whose lightest word, would harrow up thy aonl, freexe thy
young blood,"
NOTES.
251
120l The verbosity of this part throws doubt upon the opinion that
there was *' matter for a second rhyme."
ISO. "finest palace," etc. — Is this stated as a fact?
140. '* And blood cries ont for blood." — la this a genendization
by the shepherd ?
146. "lui« been."— Cf. wm.
148. "my simple mind." — Is this the language a shepherd would
use of himself ? What different meanings has simple t
The last £ve stanzas of the shepherd's speech are imbued with tender
imagination; is Wordsworth false to nature in this? Compare the
characters of Adam and Gorin, (Shakespeare's As You Like Ft, Act 11,
So. 3, and Act 11% Sa 2), with the characters of Wordsworth's
peasants.
167-170. Are these lines intentionally or carelessly vague and peri-
phrastic ?
177. ** the milder day." — " The larger heart, the kindlier hand."
180. "what she shows, and what conceals."— What nature in
an angry mood makes cleai* as well as what she charitably covers over.
FIDELITY.— Page 62.
If tha poet had chosen to call this pv^^m by a less didactic title, it
might be more popular. There is something natural and pleasing about
the order in which the details of the first stanza are told. The descrip-
tion In stauzu. three and. four is 30 picturesque, simple and withaJ.
artistic, that one wishes the poet had given himself over to censucos
Terse, and left moralizing to others. However, the lofty sentx^aent of
the last stanza of the poem tieems to justify Wordsworth's method. The
general regaird for the dog as a faithful companion of man, calls for
poetical expression, and most, people who are not " too clever by half,"
will bks this simple poem on account of the sincere admiration it
expresses for the hero.
Coleridge says of Fidelity: *' The poem is for the greater part written
in language as unraised and naked as any perhaps in the two volumes."
He ci^ attention to the superior style of stanza four, and of the lasli
half of the last stanza. Comparing these parte with the rest of th«
work, he exclaims : '* Can any candid and intelligent mind hesitate ia
determining whic^. of these best represents the tendency and natir*
:, i
262
WORDSWORTH.
character of the poet's genius?" He conoladea that Wordsworth is sadly
cramped by his theories.
27. " cheer."— Sign of life.
29. " sympliony." — Echoing harshly.
51. " whose." — Cf. " a triangle toJiose aides."
Critioize the versification.
a
V
a
THE LEECH-GATHERER.— Page 65.
Of this poem Mr. R. H. Hattoo says it treats of Wordsworth's
favoarite theme — 'the strength which the human heart has, or ought to
have, to contain itself in adverse circumstances." Again he says, " The
Leech-Gatherer ha 3 much leas of buoyancy than the earlier poems, and
sometimes here and there the stateliness of the later style." Coleridge
finds in this work all the characteristic defects and merits of its author.
Wordsworth in a characteristic note says : "I describe myself as having
been exalted to the highest pitch of delight by the joyousness and
beauty of Nature ; and then as depressed, even in the midst of those
beautiful objects, to the lowest dejection and despair. A young poet in
the midst of the happiness of Nature is described as overwhelmed by
the thoughts of the miserable reverses which have befallen the happiest
of all men, namely, poets. I think of this till I am so deeply impressed
with it that I consider the manner in which I am rescued from my dejec-
tion and despair almost as an interposition of Providence. A person
reading the poem with feelings like mine will have been awed and con-
trolled, expecting something spiritual or supernatural. , What is brought
forward? A lonely place, * a pond, by which an old man was, far from
all house or home : ' not stood, nor sat, but was — the iigui'e presented in
the most naked simplicity possible. The feeling of spirituality or
Bupernaturalness is again referred to as being strong in ray mind in this
passage. How came he here ? thought I, or what can he be doing ? I
then describe him, whether ill or well is not for me to judge with perfect
confidence ; but this I can confidently affirm, that though 1 believe God
has given me a strong imagination, I cannot conceive a figure more im-
pressive than that of an old man like this, the survivor of a wife and ten
children, travelling alone among the mountains and all lonely places,
carrying with him his own forlitude, and the necessities which an unjust
state of society has laid upon him. You speyik of his speech as tedious.
Everything is tedious when one does not read with the feelings of the
1
r(
a
w
b«
re
efi
m<
of
fol
to
NOTES.
253
author. . . . It is in the character of the old man to tell his story,
which an impatient re^ader must feel tedious But, good heavens ! snch
a figure, in such a place ; a pious, self-respecting, miserably infirm and
pleased old man, telling such a tale ! "
8. "Stock-dove." — A wild-pigeon.
9. " Jay." — A handsomely coloured bird with a crest.
9. " Magpie>" — Allied to the Jays.
25. " from the might," etc — The excess brings refiction,
46. " Ghatterton." — Thomas Chatterton died by his own hand in
1770, aged seventeen. He pretended to have discovered in a muniment
room at Bristol, the Death of Sir Charles Bavidin, and other poems, by
a monk, Thomas Rowley : these raised a controversy.
49. " Following his plow." — Read Carlyle's Essay on Bums.
50. "By our own spirits are we deified."— The power is from
within, not from circumstances.
52. "despondency and madness."— Is this view Wordsworth's
belief, or a dramatic expression of a mood ?
56. "untoward** — Vexatious.
59. "that ever wore grey hairs." — What characteristic defect?
60. "As a huge Stone."— How is this comparison justified and
rendered credible ?
62. " the same." — What peculiarity of diction ?
65. " Sea-beast." — Why this simile within a simile ?
78. " as a Cloud." — Note all the points of likeness.
137. "blended,"- Observe the change of movement and of emotion
eflfected by the double rhyme.
What is the effect of ending a stanza of pentameters with a hexa-
meter ? Beoareful not to speak too positively of the intellectual value
of sounds.
Indicate the stanzas that seem to you least poetical and most poetical.
*4
TO THE DAISY. -Page 73.
Wither, a poet ridiculed by Pope in the Dunciad, is the author of the
following verses, which Wordsworth prefixed as a keynote to this song
to the Daisy :
■aniMlHiii
254 WORl>SWORftt.
By a daisy whose leaves spread
Shnt when Titan goes to bed,
Or a shady bush or tree, ,
She could more infuse in me
Than all Nature's beauties can
In some other wiser man.
Her divine skill tanght me this.
That from everything I saw
I could some instruction draw,
And raise pleasure to the height
Through the meanest object's sight.
By the murmur of a spring,
Or the least bough's rustling.
It will be observed that the lines are very much in the spirit of our
author, and suggest the conclusion of his great Ode.
This poem ofiFers an example of the general truth concerning Words-
worth's relation to nature — he was less the poet who describes than the
interpreter : the daisy is not merely a sweet little flower, but it is a local
habitation aud a name, a symbol for those airy nothings that lived in hia
own spirit.
8. ** Nature's love partake of thee."— Love nature through this
flower.
18. " morrice train.**— (Sp. mori, =moori8h.) A grotesque holi-
day dance.
26. " mews.'* — ^A confined place.
27. "wanton Zephyrs"— The amorous west- wind.
31. " thy fame-" — Chaucer's verses to the daisy are beautiful.
38. "fare".— To fare at length = to be stretched on the grass. Of.
Gray's Ekffj/.
45. " apprehension."— Not a happy choice of word.
62. " by dews opprest."— " Dew-drops are the gems of morning,
but the tears of mournful eve."
76. "lover of the sun "— />aMy=i>ay'« eye.
77. " leveret."— A young hare.
N<»ris.
355
sf our
(Tords-
Ein the
i local
in hia
h this
J holi-
Cf.
rning,
TO THE SAME.— Page 76.
This is not the second but the third song of this series. Matthew
Arnold omits the second from his selections : it is interesting to compare
it with the other two, in order to judge whether the critic rejected it on
account of inferiority :
TO THE SAME FLOWER.
With little here to do or see
Of things that in the great world be,
Daisy, again I talk to thee,
For thou art worthy.
Thou unassuming common-plaoe
Of nature, with that homely face,
And yet with something of a grace
Which Love makes for thee !
Oft on the dappled turf at ease
I bit and play with similes.
Loose types of things through all degrees,
Thoughts of thy raising ;
And many a fond and idle name
I give to tliee for praise or blame,
As in the humour ot the game,
While I am gazing.
A nun demure of lowly port ;
Or sprghtly maiden of Love's court,
Li thy simplicity the sport
Of all temptations ;
A queen in crown of rubies drest ;
A starveling in a scanty vest ;
Are all, as seems to suit th<^ best,
Thy appellations.
A little Cyclops, with one eye
Staring to threaten and defy,
That uhought comes nejrt — and instantly
The freak is over.
The shape will vanish — and behold
A silver shield with boas of gold,
That spreads itself, some faery bold
In fight to cover 1
t
i
256
WORDSWORTH.
I see thee glittering from afr
Aud then thou art a pretty star |
Not quite so fair as many are
In heaven above thee,
Yet like a star with glittering crest,
Self -poised in air thou seem'st to rest ; —
May peace come never to his nest
Who shall reprove thee 1
Bright flower ! for by that name at last,
When all my reveries are past,
I call thee, and to that cleave fast !
Sweet silent creature.
That breath'st with me in sun and air,
Do thov . as thou art wont, repair
My heart with gladness and a share
Of thy meek nature I
I
TO A HIGHLAND GIRL.— Page 76.
The author is full of enthusiasm for the beauty of a Highland lass
whom he saw in a northerly excursion. One might fancy the motive of
the piece to be nt-^rely an artistic portrait of the child, but there is too
much of
** The homely sjrmpathy that heeds
The common hfe our nature breeds,"
to admit of this opinion. While he takes perhaps a little too superior
and scientific a relation to the girl to strike our sympathies deeply,
there are proofs that he felt that touch of nature which makes the
whole world kin.
6. "consenting-" — In radical sense : in harmony with her well-being.
11. "a qniet road" — In Sonnet XXV. Wordsworth says, "My
little boat rocks in its harbour, lodging peaceably." Road has the stem-
notion of riding; one meaning is a place where boats may ride at anchor.
Sketch a picture (however rudely) indicating the position of each detail
of this picture.
1.3. " together do ye seem."— The girl and her surroundings.
15-16. Notice the light, fanciful, and tender use of a sober imagination.
36. "seemline&a complete." — The pleasing grace of a good heart
NOTEa
257
unsallied by any evil, and having the absence of restraint that Raphael
admired in infants.
37. "about thee" — As if the charm were an illusion, a glamour, not
assignable to her material being : this is the language of one enchanted.
38. "sucll as springs."— The passage has for its general notion:
the girl could not speak English freely, but the very e£fort showed her
beauty in a more interesting light.
60-61. "thee" — " your." — Which pronoun prevails in the poem ?
69. "her" — Memory. At seventy- three the poet writes that his
prophecy that memory would preserve this picture for his pleasure had
" through God's goodness been realized." Cf. line 70 Tintern Abbey,
STEPPING WESTWARD.— Page 78.
The beautiful interpretation of the greeting illustrates the poetio
method :
" In common things that round ns lie
* Some random truths he can impart."
2. "westward." — Compare George Meredith's Earth's Preference,
(page 108r line 4) ; also the Ode on Immortality, (page !)9, line 78). The
east, in his poetic vocabulary signifies heaven from which toe come, toest-
ward signifies toward our destiny.
3. "wildish."— Rather ill-directed.
11. " all."— Adv6rb.
14. "A sound of something without place or bound."— Suggest-
ing a large abstract meaning.
THE SOLITARY REAPER —Page 79.
The date of this work is 1803, When Keats was seven years old this
poem was written, and when Keats was eleven The Solitary Heaper was
published. The similarity in tone, spirit and details between Keats'
Ode to a Nightingale and this work is so obvious as to render their dates
interesting. (See Chapter V.)
17. " Hebrides." — That is, lonely western isles.
mmmimm
mm
258
WORDSWORTH.
I
i
f
AT THE GRAVE OP BURNS.— Page 81.
This touching tribute to the memory of Burns is written, in metre
most strikingly reminding us of that poet : it is the metre of The Moun-
tain Daisy itself, as well as of many of his other songs. There is some*
thing paradoxical in Wordsworth's love of Burns, when we consider the
vulgar estimate of the character of the latter which prevailed in the
early part of this century. It is much to the credit of Wordsworth's
insight that he was one of the first to recognize the greatness of soul of
the plovnnan-poet. The noble essay on Bums by Carlyle, (written be-
fore the prose of the great moralist had become irregular and eccen-
ti'ic) is at once a charming piece of English and wonderful piece of
critical sympathy : the followiug passage gives some idea of the view
held ia common by Carlyle and our author :
'* We had something to say on the public moral character of Bums ;
but this also we must forbear. We are far from regarding him as guilty
before the world, as guiltier than the average ; nay from doubting that
he 7 1 less guilty than one of ten thousand. Tried at a tribunal far more
rigid than that wliere the Plebiacita of common civic reputations are
pronounced, he has seemed to us even there less worthy of blame than
of pity and wonder. But the world is habitually unjust in its judg-
ments of such men ; unjust on many grounds, of which this one may be
stated as the substance : it decides, like a court of law, by dead statutes ;
and not positively but negatively, less on what is done right, than on
what is or is not done wrong. Not the fe,/ inches of deflection from
the mathematical orbit, which are so easily measured: but the raiio of
these to the whole diameter, constitixtes the real aberration. This orbit
may be a planet's, its diameter the breadth of the solar system ; or it
may be a city hippodrome ; nay the circle of a ginhorse, its diameter
a score of feet or paces. But the inches of deflection only are measured :
and it is assumed that the diameter of the ginhorse, and that of the
planet, will yield the same ratio when compared with them ! Here lies
the root of many a blind, cruel condemnation of Bumses, Swifts, Rous-
seaus, which one never listens to with approval. Granted, the ship
comes into harbor with shrouds and tackle damaged ; the pilot ia blame-
worthy ; he has not been all- wise and all-powerful : but to know how
blameworthy, tell us first whether his voyage has been round the Globe,
or only to Ram&gate and the Isle of Dogs.
** With our readers in general, with men of right feeling anywhere,
we are not required to plead for Burns. In pitying admiration he lies
enshrined in all our hearts, in a far nobler m lusoleum than that one of
f
MOTES.
259
|i3
marble ; neither will his Works, even as they are, pass away from the
memory of men. While the Shakespeares and Miltons roll on like
mighty rivers through the country of Thought, bearing fleets of traffick-
ers and aasiduoud pearl-fishers on their waves ; this little Valclusa Foun-
tain will also arrest cur eye : for this also is of Nature's own ami most
cunning workmanship, bursts from the depths of the earth, with a full
gushing current, into the light of day ; and often will the traveller turn
aside to drink of its clear waters, and muse among its rocks and pines 1 "
23. "glinted."— Read Burns' Vhe Daifsy.
29. "be"— Old indicative form.
30. " soon." — See last stanza of The Daisy, by Bums.
31. "The prompt, the brave." — Quick and violent champion of
freedom.
40. "the current."— Of life.
42. "Oriffel."— Near Skiddaw.
43. " Skiddaw."— Hill four miles north of Keswick.
46. "diversely." — Divers (some times spelled diverse) took accent
on first.
48. " the main fibres." — The essential respects.
63. "poor Inhabitant below." — The quotation touchiugly applied
to its author. (See The Bard's Epitaph),
66. " sate."— sat ; rarely sftte.
66. " gowans. " — Gaelic for flower ; espeoially the daisy.
69. "of knowledge graced by fancy what a rich repast."—
Delightful conversation.
77. " devious." — From L. de and via.
86. " ritual." — Music of a noble ceremony.
87. "Seraphim." — Cherubs are infant angels.
Read Campbell's beautifrl Ode to the Memory of Burns : one- stanza
reads :
** deem not, 'midst this worldly strife,
An idle art the poet brings :
Let high Philosophy control,
And sages calm, the stream of life,
'Tis he refines its fountain-springs,
The nobler passions of the soul."
18
2f;o
WORDSWORTH.
i
li
THOUGHTS.— Page 84.
The refineJ humility, the grace and aympathy of judgment shown in
Wordsworth's estimate of the character of Burns, go far to prove that
liuakin's opinion of him as helpful only to the sinless, was shallow and
ill-considered.
The poem is a climax in the radical sense of the word, a veritable
ladder from the humble dwelling of Bums "to the gates of ITeaven,"
and the broad clear atmosphere of the last stauzas is reminiscent of Burns
at his best.
6. " The Vision."— Read the poem by Bums.
17. " Where gentlest judgments may misdeem."— Where the
utmost ohr.rity may be too harsh a judge.
40, " Luage." — His picture of Bums.
45. " shames the Schools." — Conventional poetry.
TO THE CUCKOO.— Page 86.
The pleasing power of the simp jt natural phenomena to arouse those
recollections of early childhood which to him were intimations of another
world, is set forth fully and grandly in his great Ode ; this little poem
bears some such relation to the Ode on Intimations of Immortality, as
Break, Break, Break, bears to the In Memoriam. 'J'he main outlines of
the Ode are her* in miniature, and the elevation of the last stanza shows
that mingling of the child-philosopher ami the student-philosopher which
makes the ending of the Ode so obscurely impressive. In Arnold's
Selections the following stanzas are added under the heading, Thti
Cuckoo Again:
Yes, it was the mountain Echo,
Solitary, clear, profound, ,
Answering to the shouting Cuckoo,
Giving to her sound for sound !
Unsolicited reply
To a babbling wanderer sent ; ,
Like her ordinary cry,
like but oh, how differeni;!
Hears net also mortal life ?
Ifear not we, unthinking creatures 1
Hlaves of folly, love, or strife —
Voices of two different natures ?
;i '
11 il
NOTBS.
2fil
Have not uw too? -yea, w > have
Answers, and we know not whence ;
Echoes from bi'yond the grave,
Recognized iut . gence 1
Often as thy inward ear
Catches uch rebounds, beware 1—
Listen, ponder, hold them dear;
^ For of God, — of God they are.
Wordsworth wrote a !>onnet to the same bird, and a poem entitled
The Cuckoo at Lavema : uotb are interesting for comparison with the
verses above. -
2. " New-Comer."—The l«rk, the cuckoo, and the swallow aru the
birds of early spring.
29. "golden time." — Cf. virio'iary hourt lu line 13.
7 •»
YARROW VISITED. -Page 87.
The famoTiB ballad by Hamilton entitled The Braes of Yarrow^ may
be found in Percy's Reliques, Second Series, Book III, Number 24. It
was itself an imitation of "an old Scottish ballad on a similar subject,
with the same burden to each stanza." The three poems on Yarrow by
Wordswortii, were written r< apectively in the years 1803, 1814, and
1831 : they are the direct otfdpring of Hamilton's ballad, as will be seen
by the allusions to it in the first of them. In the Mother country they
are regarded with great favour, and indeed there is a repose, a strong
unquestionable sense of beaut v, a sober right-minded joy in Yarrow
VisUed, that makes one think of pictures of English landscapes.
For comparison, and on account of their literary interest, the three
poems shoud be read as a series.
YARROW UN VISITED.
(See the various Poems the Soene of which is laid upon the Banks of the Yarrow; in
particular the exquisite Ballad of Hamilton, beg^nin^
" Busk ye, busk ye, my bonny, bonny bride
Busk ye, busk ye, my winsome Marrow 1" — )
Frou Stirling Castle we had seen
The mazy For La unravelled ;
Had trod the banks of Clyde, and Tay,
And with the Tweed had travelled ;
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262
W0BD6W0RTH.
And when we came to aovonfoni,
^en said my *• tvinsorne Marr<no»
*' Whafep betide, we'll turn aside,
And 8ee the Braes of Yarrow."
"^* ^^""^ ^*'^^' •^'^ Selkirk Town,
Who have been buying, selHng.
Go back to Yarrow, 'tia their own ;
•Bach Maiden to her DweUing I
On Yarrow's banks let herons feed.
Hares couch, and rabbits burrow I
But >7e will downward with the Tweed.
Nor turn aoide to Yarrow.
"There's Galla Water, Leader Haughs
Both lying right before us J '
Axid Dryborough where with chiming Tweed
The Lmtwhites sing in chorus ;
There's pleasant Tiviot-dale, & land
Made bUthe with plow and harrow :
Why throw away a needful day
To go in search of Yarrow ?
"What's Yarrow but a River bare,
That ghdes the dark hills Under ?
There are a thousand such elsewhere
As worthy of your wonder."
-^^ange 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 J
"Oh I green," said I, "are Yarrow's Hohns,
And sweet is Yarrow's flowing I
Fair hangs the apple frae the rook,
But we wiU leave it growing.
O'er hilly path, and open Strath,
We'U wander Scotlaml thorough ;
But, thougn so near, we will not turn
Into the Dale of Yarrow.
KOtBS.
" Let beeves and home-bred kine partaLe
The sweets of Burn-mill meadow ;
The swan on still St. Mary's Lake
Float donble, swan and shadow !
We Mrill not nee them : will not go,
To-day, nor yet to-morrow ;
Enough if in our hearts we know
There's such a place as Yarrow.
*' Be Yarrow Stream unseen, unknown }
It must, or we shall roe it :
We h^-ve a vi&ion of our own ;
Ah I why bhould we undo it T
The treasured dreams of times long past,
Well keep them, winsome Marrow *
For when we're there, although 'tis fair,
'Twill be another Yarrow.
J»63
«<
'm"
If Care with freezing years should coma.
And -vrandering seem but folly, —
Shonld 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 Hohns of Yarrow I "
YARROW REVISITED.
[Thp following Stanzas are a memorial of a day passed with Sir Walter Scott, and other
Friendb visiting tlie Banks of the Yarrow under his guidanoe, immediately b^ore
his departure from Abbotsford for Naples.]
Thx gallant Youth, who may have gained,
Or seeks, a *' Mrinsome Marrow,"
Was but an infant in the lap
When first I looked on YarroTr ;
Onoo more, by Newark's Oastle-gate ^
Long left without a warder,
I stood, looked, listened, and with Thee,
Great Minstrel of the Bordar 1
I f
» i
.." I
I
i
f i
i
■■
Grave thoughts ruled wide on that sweet day,
Their dignity installing
In gentle bosoms, while sere leaves
Were on the bough, or falling ;
But breezes played, and sunshine gleamed—
The forest to embolden ;
Reddened the fiery hues, and shot
Tranpparence through the golden.
For busy thoughts the Stream flowed on
In foaming agitation ;
And slept in many u crystal pool
For quiet conteraplation :
No public and no private care
The freebom mind enthralling.
We made a day of happy hours,
Our happy days recalling.
£risk Youth appeared, the Morn of youth.
With freaks of graceful foUy —
life's temperate Noon, he" ' ^ber Eve^
Her Night not melancholy ;
Past, present, future, all appeared
In harmony united,
Like guests that meet, and some from far.
By cordial love invited.
And if, as Yarrow, through the woods
And down the meadow ranging.
Did meet us with unaltered face,
Though we were changed and changing ;
If, then, some natural shadows spread
Our inward prospect over.
The soul's deep valley was not slow
Its brightness to recover.
Eternal blessings on the Muse,
And h©r divine employment I
The blameless Muse, who trains her Sons
For hope and calm enjoyment ;
''«™'"^'''^^'^r'^T''?''"'s'^!'!^"if*w"'"»^IWiwiPi«if|Bpiip;i«iPip^
NOTES.
Albeit sickness, lingering yet.
Has o'er their pillow brooded j
And Care waylays their steps— a Sprite
Not easily eluded.
For thee, O Scott 1 compellel to change
Green Eildon hill and Cheviot
For warm Vesuvio's vine-clad slopes.
And leave thy Tweed and Teviot
For mild Sorrento's breezy waves ;
May classic Fancy, linking
With nat- ve Fancy her fresh aid,
Preserve thy heart from sinking !
! while thoy minister to thee.
Each vying with the other,
May Health return to meUow Age
With Strength her venturous brother ;
And Tiber, and each brook and rill
Renowned in song and story,
With un}m8;';pned beauty shine,
Nor lose one ray of glory 1
For Thou, upon a hundred streams.
By tales of love and sorrow.
Of faithful love, undaunted truth.
Hast shed the power of Yarrow ;
And streams unknown, hills yet unseen,
Wherever they invite Thee,
At parent iture's grateful call,
With gladness must requite Thee.
A- gracious welcome shall be thine,
Such looks of love and honour
As thy own Yarrow gave to me
When first 1 gazed upon her ;
Heboid what I had feared to see,
Unwilling to surrender
Dreams treasured up from early days.
The holy and the te^ider.
265
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266 WORDSWOBTB.
And what, for this frail world, were all
That mortals do or suffer,
Did no responsive harp, no pen,
Memorial tribute offer T
Yea, what were mighty Nature's self?
Her features, could they win us,
Unhelped bj" the poetio voice
T^at hourly speaks within us ?
Nor deem that localized Romance
Plays false with our affections ;
Unsanctifies our tears — made sport
For fanciful dejections :
Oh, no 1 the visions of the past
Sustain the heart in feeling
life as she is — our changeful Life,
With friends and kindred dealing.
Bear witness, Ye, whose thoughts that day
In Yarrow's groves were centred ;
Who through the silent portal arch
Of mouldering Newark e4ter'd ;
And olomL the winding stair that once
Too timidly was mounted
By the " kst Minstrel," (not the last I)
Ere he his Tale reooohted.
Flow on for ever, Yarrow Stream I
Fulfil thy pensive duty,
Well pleased that future Bards should chant
For simple hearts thy beauty ;
To dream-light dear while yet unseon.
Dear to the common sunshine,
And dearer still, as now I feel,
To memory's shadowy moonshine I
Button says : " Mr. Arnold places all the rsally first-rate work of
Wordsworth in the decade between 1798 and 1808. I think he is right
here. But I should put Wordsworth's highest perfection of style mnch
nearer tiie later date than the earlier." In a contrast of the eiwliMt
with the latest TarroWt Hutton shows us with much skill the ohangea
NOTES.
267
that had come orer Wordswortli's style in twenty-eight years. The
fint poem is self-contained, swift, bare and rapid, the third is slow and
Bweet, rich, free and mellow, and gives no anch impression of jwwerful
repression as the first. The criticism may be extended to apply to m
great deal of the poet's earlier and later work.
In the Yarrow UnviiUed^ the poet and his sister decide not to visit
the famous stream for fear their lovely picture of it got from what they
had read and imagined ehould be injured by the sc iie itself. The poet
first visited Yarrow ii. the company of the Ettrick shepherd, Hogg,
author of that sweetest of ballads, Kilmeny : the second poem records
the impressions of this occasion. The third poem is *' a memorial of
tLe very last visit Scott (in company with Wordsworth) ever paid, not
to Yarrow only, but to any scene in that land which he had so loved and
glorified."
Just as the first is strong and almost humourous, the second strong
and sweet, so the third it sweei; and sad, and the three have a unity
which suggests that Wordsworth's life gave vital unity to all his work.
6. "An image that hath perished 1" The imaginary Yarrow of
his first poem.
15. " Saint Mary's Lake."— In Yarrow UnrnsUedt he says :
''The swan on still Saint Mary's liake
Float double, swan and shadow i " *
This is the couplet that Scutt misquoted by pluralisdng swan. \Vords>
worth corrects him, and adds bhat the swan with no companion but its
own reflection is a symbol of the utter loneliness of the scene : but Scott
was misled by taking float for an assertive word in the plural, whereas
it depends on let.
Wordsworth's note concludes with this sentence: "I have hardly
ever known any one except myself who had a true eye for nature — one
that thoroughly understood her meanings and her teachings."
27. "the famous Flower of Yarrow Vale"— The poet w showing
interest in the leg nds of the place ; that they were not so familiar to
him as to Scott is shown by using an expression to denote the youth
who was kUled, which was regularly applied not to the youth but to the
lady.
33. "The Water-wraith."— Mr. Rolfe quotes from an old Yarrow
ballad:
!.
=98=
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WORDSWOKTH.
I I
" Scarce was he gone, 1 r .w his ghost ;
It vanished with a shriek of sorrow ;
Thrice did the water-wraith ascend
And gave a doleful groan through Yarrow."
57. Newark's Towers." — A castle on the banks of the Yarrow near
Selkirk, made famous by Scott's Lay of the Last Minstrel.
Wordsworth uses some pet thoughts again tmcl again. Lines 75*78
make one think of " the light that never was ;" and the last three linea
of the poem remind one of the conclusion of The Highland OirL
TO A SKYLARK.— Page 90.
In the sympathy bred by his love of nature, the poet oontrasta the
happy elevation of the bird with his own lowly lot, and aspires to
heavenly joys and triumphs ; but reflection comes to his aid, and instead
of feeling disappointed when his dream is seen to be an illusion, hc^
determines to take the fact of the bird's joy, not as a call to present
happiness, but as a promise of future raptures.
21. " thou would'st be loth to be such a traveller as I. "—This
expression suffers from some confusion, it probably means that the lark
would not willingly plod as he must, but the concessive clause before
clashes with the meaning.
TO THE SAME.— Page 91.
In Palgrave's Golden Treasury this poem stands immediately before
TTie Skylark, by Shelley. This juxtaposition suggests the likeness and
the unlikeness of the poems and the poets.
Wonlsworth's lines reveal a grt at joy in contemplating the biwl of
morning ; his sober imagination tiiinks out the bird's thoughts, feels its
emotions with tender insight and poetic freshness, endows the gentle
creature with a soul and makes it the emblem of lofty spiritual aspira-
tion : the romantic nightingale sufifers by comparison with this bird of
light and truth : the moralist cannot Conclude this perfect lyiic without <
a homely reference to the instincts of wisdom. The moral is worthy
and apposite, but a trifle prosy, in as much as readers who enjoy the
first sixteen linefe would scarcely need the last two. Yet this is Words-
worth's method faithfirily adher ; no bit of nature is so valuable as
an object of pleasure to the senses ;uid the imagination thut it has not a
higher value as a spiritual symbol, or even a moral symbol.
■i*i
iJbtB^.
^«d
Shelley's Skylark is less the voice of % man than the glorious outburst
of the bird itself translated into English verse, and scarcely either
gaining or losing by the change : it is harmonious madness and upon it
iogio, to say nothing of morality, has about as much claim as upon the
lark's own song : we care no more for the intellectual qualities of it than
for the meaning of an Italian song : wherever sound and sense clash,
sense stands gracefully aside, and beautiful sound prevails. J% well
known critic, the Professor of Logic in the University of Aberdeen, finds
the poem wild and lacking ii^ precision of thought ; This would seem
to be its great charm, would it not, when one considers the harmony of
style and subject matter. Critics have been found with so little fueling
for poetic effects as to lind fault with T/ie Cloud on account of its cease-
less changing of comparisons ; but no doubt they would think badly of
nature herself for the fickleness of her clouds. What has a poet to do
with profound lessons when writing; an inspired ode to a skylark ? Those
who answer — nothing, he should give himself up to an intoxicating
beauty, are disciples of Shelley : but whoever replies, beauty finds its
perfect work only as the hand-maiden of right living, are Words-
worthians.
8. "the last point of vision." — ^The lark wheek npwarti in a
diminishing spiral curve, as if climbing to heaven by a circular stair case :
on the top of this imaginary conical tower the bird pauses to flood the
morning earth with song : frequently the bird is invisible, (having passed
^he point where it subtends the necessary angle for visibility) while its
Strong melodious voice is easUy audible.
10. ** a never-failing bond." — This bird appears to have forgotten
mundane concerns ic its ecstasy of worship, but in fact he is no mere
ascetic, for on the ground far below is a little nest, (often in the imprint
of a horse's hoof or a similar depression) containing his little feathered
offspring, usually four or five in number. It is his love for these as much
as his gratitude for sunlight and glorious skies that prompts his music,
though one might fancy him to disregard the leafy earth and all therein.
16. ** A privacy of glorious light is thine."-— This fine paradox
suggests the isolation of great and elevated minds, and strikes one as %
trifle sabjeotive.
17. The divine nightingale is described by Keats in just the maimer
to set forth Wordsworth's meaning. ( Vide Chapter V.)
'* What do the first vtro stanxas contribute towards bringing out the
main idea ? "
270
WORDSWORTH.
ODE TO DUTY.— Pare 95.
Bein/r good now not by dcniy;n but merely through habit, I desire U> become able not
only to do right but to do nothing that is nut ri^'ht.
Horace's Ode to Fortune [0 Diva Oratvm, /, S5), and Gray's Ode to
AdiJet'nty are the poems upon whiih the poet tells lis he modelled the
Ode to Du*y. While the three odes have a general resemblance, both in
the calm dignity and thoughtful ardudr of their matter, and in a corre«
fipondiug regularity and seriousness of form, the differences are quite
marked. The great sane nobility of the polished pagan shows no touch
of levity where levifcy would be forced, and the seriousness of Horace
has the pathos of a cheerful writer, a pathos free from suspicion of mere .
dramatic effect.
" Before thee stalks stern Fate, who joys to bear
In iron hand ihe wedge — the spikes so dire,"
he says, addressing Fortune. His cynical view appears in the allusion
** white-robed Faith, so seldom found," and the ode ends in a prayer for
the success of Roman arms, embittered by despair of Roman virtue and
religion:
** Our iron age, well worthy of the name,
What has it left undared I — when made a pause in guilt I *2r
Whose altar spared, by piety restrained I "
The Ode to Adversity is a link between the other two ; there is hardly
a sentiment that Horace might not have fslt ; even the language is more
classical than modem, the opening line,
** Daughter o? .Tove, relentless power,"
being a keynote of the style j yet, as will be best seen from the conclud-
ing and most elevated stanza, there is not lacking in this piece a modem
spirit of love and foygivenesa rarely met with in the ancient writings.
In versification ihe resemblance between the two English poems will be
observed :
<<
Thy form benign, Oh goddess, wear,
Thy milder influence impart.
Thy philosophic train be there
To soften, not to wound my heart.
The generous spark extinct revive,
Teacn me to love, and to forgive.
Exact my own defects to scan.
What others are to feel, and know myself a Man."
not
KOTES.
mmm
271
To praise the Ode to Dttty is m needless as to praise Shakespeare's
plays. Vet there is a clanger that one may overlook some of its great
qualities through enthusiasm over the others. The acuteness and com*
prehensiveness of intellect, which diaws a clear line between freedom
and mere license, and finds perfect liberty in a proud submission, the
goodness of heart and will which accepts the implied vestrictions with
enthusiastic cheerfulness, the vigour of imagination which sees the
universal law at work among those young- eyed cherubs the stars of
heaven, the poetry that personifies the abstraction and clothes it with
magnetic beauty, and withal the humility, the sweetness and light, the
virility of this poem give it a rank that seems to us unassailable from
even the most remote and dissimilar points of view, so that one can
imagine Shakespeare, Horace or Plato reading it with as great pleasure
as Lowell or Matthew Arnold.
2. "Stern Daughter of the Voice of God"— Compare from the
Ode to Adversity "daughter of Jove" and "stern, rugged nurse."
The appropriateness of the expression *'of the voicf of God" will be
seen when ono reflects that the Christian view of the Deity would for-
bid the expression precisely analogous to Gray's. Voice means expreMtd
toill, Daughter is required for person itication. Observe the economy of
the order which gives us the concrete image in the first line and the ab-
stract interpretation.in the second.
16. " kindly impul'.Se. " — Coming from inborn virtue,
24. " this creed" — That right instincts are sufficient guides.
38. "unchartered freedom" — Boys are happier under rational
discipline than un/estrained.
48. " the StaXfl" — If a star were to violate a physical law it would
produce untold disaster ; the comparison is not meant to be strictly
scientific, of course. A law is merely a generalized statement of facts,
not an edict that may be disobeyed. Whether or not man has free-will,
the stars have none.
49. "fresh and strong." — The notion th.-.t perpetual youth is the
reward of right living is common in poetry, and, though discouraging
perh&ps to virtuous age, is pleasing and romantic. How often good old
men call themselves boys. Read Oliver . Wendell Holmes on " The
Boys."
66. 'the spirit of self-sacriflce" — The feeling that by not claim-
ing his rights he was rewarded by greater rights. It has been said that
no man has A right to claim all his rights.
272
WORDSWOBTH.
ODE ON INTIMATIO;^S OP IMMORTAUTY.— Page 97.
"To the attentive and competent rea<ier the whole BuflSciontly ex<
plains itself," says WordBworth in speaking of this famous Ode. There
is a general inclination among commentators to accept this saying and
to consider all readers attendee and oom[)etent. Coleridge (quoted by
Mr. Rolfe) says "The ode <vas intended for such readers only as had
been accustomed to watch tie flux and reflux of their inmost nature, to
venture at times into the t\/ilight realms of consciousness, and to feel a
deep interest in the modes of inmost being, to which they know that
the attributes of time and E^pace are inapplicable and alien, but which
yet cannot be conveyed, save in symbols of time and space." So that
if any youthful reader should find that the piece does not "suflficiently
explain itself" he may justly conclude that his incompetency arises
from an insufficient watching of the flux and reflux of his inmost nature,
and an ignorance of metaphysics in general , or, to speak more dearly,
instead of being disoouraged in proportion as he is befogged, he may
resiti assured that the years that bring the philosophic mind will bring
as well his competency to grasp the moaning of this philosophical ode.
The estimate of Matthew Arnold will be found ou page 24 of this book
and deserves careful reading. It is on the whole an adverse verdict :
that is to say it tends to lower the general opinion of great men as to
the rank of the poem. It has great weight as CQming from a man of
great ability who was a devoted admirer of Wordsworth ; still even
Matthew Arnold errs sometimes and we should rather enquire as to the
truth of his views than accept them because they are his, especially
since Emerson, whom Arnold revered, takes a view quite opposed to his.
First of all one should observe that Arnold objects not to 'ae poetry,
but to the philosophy of life, which he finds in the ode. Wordsworth
expressly states the objections of Arnold in language not less forcible:
"To that dream-like vividness and splendour which invest objects of
sight in childhood, every one, I believe, if he would look back, could bear
testimony, and I need not dwell upon it here ; but having in the poem
regarded it as presumptive evidence of a prior state of existence, I think
it right to protest i^ainst a conclusion, which has given pain to some
good and pious persons, that I meant to inculcate such a belief. It is
far too shadowy a notion to J>e recommended to faiilt, as more than an
demjtnt in our instincts of immortality. But let us bear in mind that^
though the idea is not advanced in revelation, there is nothing there
to contradict it, and the fall of man presents an analogy in its favour.
Aooordingly, a pre-existent state has entered into the popular orM4« <^
I
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"^™^"''»W^!P"'TW"PPHP^«'i^"«'"
NOTES.
275
many natious, and, among all persons acquainted with classic literature,
is known as an ingredient in Platonic philosophy. Arohimodea said
that he could move the world if he had a point whereon tc rest hii
machine. Who has not felt the sume aspirations as regards the world
of his own mind ? Having to wield some of its elements when I was
impelled to write this poem on the ' Immortality of the Smtl,' / took
hokl of the notion of pre-existence as having ^sufficient foundation in
humanity for atUhoriang me to make for my purpose thp. beat use of it I
eotUd cut a poet."
The italics are oura, and tlie last three words are especially emphatic
Of course the fact that the poet acknowledg; m the notion of pre-existonca
to be a mere speculation does not answer .\ mold's criticism, but to re-
member the fact is to be in a better pos ion for treating the author
fairly. Arnold is a tenible critic, he brings the form of a poem into
comparison with the chaste perfection of Greek art and the substance of
it into comparison with what he conceives to be absolute and eternal
truth. He judges this piece to be beautiful but to be lacking in that
absolute and established truthfulness which would make it a poem of
the highest order. It is not expedient here to argue this judgment, tut
in order to account for the strange dififerences of opinion among the
ablest judges as to the value of its didactic import, it is only necessary
to say that Matthew Arnold's views of truth were, in the respects that
make this ode important, so far from those of many other critics, that
agreement was out of thp question : and it may be confidently asserted
that if no work can stand as great poetry which is founded on beliefs
concerning other states of life not held by Matthew Ajniold, some very
famous poems muat lose ground.
The line of thought in the poem is somewhat as follows : ( 1 ) The poet
laments his loss of "that dream-like vividness and splendour " with
which children see things about them : (2) Of course he sees that a rain-
bow or a roae, the moon, water by starlight, sunshine, are beautiful, but
their magic loveliness he cannot realize any more : (3) Under the in-
fluence of a perfectly lovely day he shakes ofif the grief caused by the
loss of his childhood gift of perceiving beauty intensely : (4) He almost
convinces himself that he has as deep a sense of the beauty of things as
he ever had, but he has to confess again that the visionary gleam is
gone : (5) The fifth stanza (written two years later than the preceding
four) begins to account for the loss of the '* dream-like vividness and
splendour " of childhood eyes ; it states that iu passing from birth to
Manhood, heaveu largely dies out of XkQ soul and the world takes its
B-r-^
,,aaag'BaaBKi
/
274
W0RD8W0BTH
place : (6) The world i*^ at enmity with our heavenly natare and aedncei
us to lower pleasures and interests : (7) The poet shows how wordly
affairs engross the being of the growing child, but declares that he only
acts his parts — in the soul of his soul he is allied to divinity still : (8
He apostrophizes the child and asks him why he seeks to know the world
when it would be true wisdom to rest content with the beautiful soul he
brought from heaven | (9) He expresses deep joy that even the most
c ucing wordly interests cm never quite destroy the divine nature in a
man, >»nd that every man has at times 'utimations of his heavenly oiigin .
(10) He again surrenders himself t ie influence of a perfect'y lovely
day, (stanza 3) ^nd says that though be cannot feel the pure joy in beauty
that he could before the world had claimed so much of him, yet he feel;
that the centre of his soul is in sjrmpathy with that pure joy, and what
he has lost of it is to some extent compensated b3'' a deep human sym-
pathy, (which he could never have had without being to some degree
worldly) and by a faith tiiat when the world at last loses it power, he
will return to perfect bliss: (11) In conclusion, the poet weighs his
gains and losses since childhood ; he has lost the glory and thv freshness
of his childhood perceptions ; he has retained a great love of beauty
and A prt found sympathy with heaven-bom childhood and nature ; he
has gained through worldly experience, love, human sympathy, thought-
fulness, dad perhaps, but a divine sort of melancholy, such as Milton
loved t he does not strike a balance, hue concludes in a tone of cultured
repose. * ,
The comprehension of this line of thought depends chiefly npon the
clearness with which ono conceives the "celestial light" in which
children bdhold the common objects around them : and how this magic
way of seeiii^ disappears as years advance. It is probably one of those
graces of nature that most fear to mention for fear of n: 3 a sym-
pathetic ear j yet in Wordsworth it was so positively developed that be
wrote of it as freely as if it had been the commonest faculty.
5. '*Tlie earth."— Probably meaning the soil itself— sinoe grass,
trees, water, and common sights, are species of the same genus as ear^i.
9. "hath been."— What is the regular use of tba present perfect
12. " 1 now can see no more "— Se** ThUem Abbey, line, 85.
"the tabor." — A small dmm used as ..a aooompaniment to a
*'tiie fields of sleep"— This much-disputed phrase may mean
*'slMpiQg fields," "the regioci of alebp, the early dawn." Itma^,
NOTES.
however, me«a the h»ppy, droway meadowi where the iheep we
bruwsing And resting.
•^7. " with the heart of May."— With springtime joy and life.
40. ** Shepherd-boy." — Who mj^y be supposed to be quite Aroadiaa
and unworldly.
63. "In a thousand ▼alleys." — A strong bit of imaginative sym>
pathy.
67. " a Tree*"— Who cannot recall a tree that ia dear because it was
seen through the golden mists of childhood ?
63. "ths visionary gleam." — The magic light whioh makes that
tree different fit om othturs.
7'i "Shades of the prison-house." — Claims of the world.
77. " the East " — Stars rise in the East ; hence the metaphor, where
the soul is a star the time of birth is the east
78. ** Priest-" — Worshipper and exponent.
89. "foster-child." — Of noble origin, the child has earth for a
foster-mother.
96. ** Mother's." — Has no reference to foster-mother Earth.
110. '*Actt>t>" — Compare the following speech from Shakespeare's
A* Tou Like It:
** All the world's a stage.
And all the men and women n^erely players i
They have their exits and their entrances ;
And one man in his time plays many parts.
His acts being seven ages. At first the infant,
Mewliug and puking in the nurse's arms.
And tiyen the whining sohool-bc^, with his satchel
And shining morning faoe, creeping like snail
Unwillingly to school. And then the lover.
Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad
Made to his mistress' eyebrow Then a soldier,
Full of strange oaths and bearded like a pard.
Jealous in humor, suddea and quick in quarrel.
Seeking the bubble reputation
Even in the cannon's m^uth. And then the iustioe.
In fur round belly with good capon lined,
severe and beard of formal
eyes
out,
Full of wise saws an i mod«ra instaaoes
276
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.
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112. "personB."-
And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts
To the lean and slippered pantaloon,
With spectacles on nose and pouch on side,
His yoathfal hose, well saved, a world too wide
For his shrunk shank ; and his big manly voice.
Turning again toward childish treble, pipes
And whistles in his sound. Ijasv scene of all, - ,
That ends this strange, eventful history.
In secoad childishness and mere oblivion,
Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything."
Derived from L. per, through, and aonare, to
sound ; persona means a mask, used by an actor, the a actor, then any-
one on the stage of life. Here, of course, persons means actors,
117. "whose exterior semblance doth belie thy sonl's im-
mensity'" — Whose infant clay gives no indication of its high origin
and endowments.
120. "thou Eye among the blind."— Read Earth's Prrfermee,
chap. V.
139-142. I rejoice that in what is left of us after tho world has de-
graded us there is something of divine vitality ; I rejoice that nature
yet remembers what was so fleeting, that is our heavenly instincts.
146-150. In first mastering this stanza, bracket these lines, "Delight
and liberty thanks and praise,*' and read
*• Not indeed _
For that which is most worthy to be blest
• ••••••
But for those obstinate questionings," etc.
Then in line 168 change but to and, so as to co-ordinate lines 151 and
158, thus : ' \
'* But for those obstinate questionings
• t • « • •
And for those first affections."
163. "Fallings from us, vanishings."— Wordsworth explains
this satisfactorily ; he speaks of the opening stanza of We Are Seven,
and adds: "But it was not so much from feelings of animal vivncity
that my difficulty came as from a sense of the indomitableuoss of the
c^irit within me. I used to brood over the stories of Enoch atd Elijah,
and almost to persuade myself that, whatever might become of others,
I should b« translftted, in something of the iame way, to hdftyeo. With
N0TX8.
27i^
;: lading oongenial to this, I was often unable to think of external thinga
as having external existence, and I ecooamnned with all that 1 raw as
something not apart from, bat inherent in, my own immaterial natnre.
Many times while going to school have I grasped at a wall or tree to re<
call myself from this abyss of idealism tc the reality. At that time I
was afraid of such processes. In later periods of life I have deplored,
as we have all reason to do, a w:ibjagation of an opposite character, and
have rejoiced over the remembrances, as is expressec* in the lines —
' Obstinate questionings
Of sense aud outward things,
FalHngs from us, vanishings ; ' etc.**
156. Emphasize mortoL The material nature seemed hiuniliated in
the presence of this high-born aoul.
173. "that immortal sea."— The soul comes, like'astar, from the
east. It reaches the continent of human life and journeys westward^ on
that land. To be far inland is to be at once far from birth, or old, and
far from heaven, or worldly.
175. '* travel thither."— In imagination the soul of the worldly man
may in a moment of supreme elevation have glimpses of his childhood
and see the shore from which h'^ started inland, and from which
children are now starting inland.
177. Worthy of Swinburne in faUne«s of harmony : read slowly,
and with impressive orotund voice.
182. N:>tice the metrical changes in this pasMge.
197. " years that bring the pliilosophic mind-"— When thought
takes the place of the divine, but unconscious, harmony of the infant
soul.
201. "Yet."~StilL
202. " one delight."— Glorious perceptions of sensuous beauty.
203. " To live beneath your more habitual sway."— This line is
not in apposition with one delight, but in contrast, and means — in order
to live under the calming and ennobling influence of nature, not as the
source of rapturous joy, but of serene and supporting strength.
211. "Another race hath been, and other palms are won."—
He had grown up witli his generation ; some had died, some were sue*
cessfni : this experieace had sobered his vision and destroyed the celes-
Hal Ught, but had brought him another kind of vi^iou, the piejai^choly
}^t of j^^t Qttltttre,
<. m m m « f,m^»mnmm -i
; s"i<a*l*B&W«s««.'»».»*afcj-
PP»
Hi
27^
WORDSWORTH.
OHARAOTER OP THE HAPPY WARRIOR.— Page 103.
Oreat thoughts tending to improve our knowledge of right living have
ft beauty of their own ; aside from that beauty this poem is rather
bomely : yet it is dignified and even sublime.
Nelson was in the poet's mind as he wrote, aoi wliere Nelson's
character fell short of his ideal he thought instead, of his own brother
John, who was also a sea-captaiu, though not in the naval service.
Mrs. Jameson said that if one were to read woman for warrior throngh-
out this piece, it would make truth and sense in nearly every line. *
The poem is worth memorizing on account of its delineation of real
greatness from the English point of view.
8. "brilfht" — Clear rather than joyous
18. " bereaves*" — Suggest another word for this.
42. Compare Tennyson's patriotic lays.
60. " master-bias-" — A harsh but efifeotive temporary compound^
LINES WRITTEN ABOVE TINTERN ABBEY.— Page 109.
In the Fifth Royal Canadian Reader may be found this passage :
" With Wordsworth, Nature is no mere machine. There is, he
affirms, a soul in all the world —
** 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."
This presence he identifies with the living spirit of God. According
to Professor Shairp's interpretation of hia meaning. Nature, though mani-
festing itself in various forms, is pervaded by a umty of life and power,
binding it together into one lining whole, and possessing an influence
which strerjns through and stimulates man's life — a spirit icselt in-
visible, though it speaks through visible forms. Its calmness stills and
refreshes man ; its sublimity raises his spirit to noble and enexgetio
thoughts, and its tondemeis, striving in the largest and loftiest things
condescends to the lowest, and is in the hamblest worm and weed as in
the great moven-jnts of the elements and of the stars. Its stability and
order, too, satisfy his intellect and calm his soul. Our mind, receiving
these impressions, adds to them its own thoughts and feelings, and this
union produces the harmony he conceives to exist between Nature and
mankind." *
Myers regards the poem as th«» ** consecrf *J9d formulary of the Words-
wortiiian faith." All that ht^ been said of his relation to Nature is
found in this poem, which is the very gospel of his mission.
Turner gives the following careful abstract of the piece :
" After five long years the poet once more looks upon the syl-
van Wye. Nor, during that absence among far other scenes, has
the memory of a spot so beautiful and quiet ever left him. Nay, more,
it m&y be that to the unconscious influence of those beauteous forms he
owes the highest of his poetic moods -that mood in which the soul
transcends the world of sense, and views the world of being and the
mysterious harmony of the universe. He believes that this is so;
at least he knows how often the memory of this quiet beauty has
cheered the dreariness of life and soothed its fever.
"And now he once more stands beside the real scene of his dreams,
and his present sensations mingle with his past, not without a painful
feeling that the past has in a measure faded and be' >ngs to his former
self, yet feeling that the joy of the present moment will recur through
years to come.
" For although he is no longer his former self, no longer feels the
same all-sufficuig passion for the mere external forms and colours of
nature, is no longer filled with the same gladu^iss of mere animal life,
yet Nature has not forsaken, but only fulfilled her kindly purpose t>o-
wards her worshipper. Taught by her, he has reached a more serene
and higher region ; higher because moro human in its interest, more
thouqhtiful in its nature, more moral in its object.
" And even if he had not reached this higher mood, none the less by
sympathy with his sister could he feel the full joys of his former self.
That she should now be as he was then is his wish and prayer ; for
doubtless she too will be led by Nature, who never leaves her task in-
complete, to the higher and more tranquil mood which is the ripe fruit
' of former flowers. And so, whatever sorrows might befall her in after
tunes, both he and ehe could Mrith joy remember that Nature by such
scenes and by his aid had wrought in her an unfuUng source of o<hii-
fort."
mmm
■in
m
WOttDSWORTB.
20. ** hedgerows." — Rows of shrubs or trees planted (or inolosnre oi
separation of fields.
23-27. Turner nays, " The silence ia made noticeable by the hnmat
life implied by the smoke, but of which there is no other sign." Is thii
the force one should assign to the word uncertain ?
40. These acta have a subtle cause in forgotten sensationa of natural
beauty.
41-55. The calm repose of such a scene soother the spirit and leads to
communion with the very springs of life.
70. From such repose and spiritual light comes the best preparation
for duty.
82-90. This soimds like the i^&'iguage of a lover concerning the glories
of love or of Sir Galahad concerning religious transports. To Words-
worth this passion for Nature wai3 what love and religion are to many —
the passion that seizes and vehemently controls all the faculties. This
IB the best noti we have on the " oel^tial light " of his great Ode.
98. Compare Rossetti, " And oh, the song the sea sings, is dark
everlastingly."
127. ** wild eyes." — Quick and imaginative.
129. " Sister."— Dorothy Wordsworth.
136. "evil tongues." — Oompare that passage of sublime pride in
Milton (P. L. vii, 1. 24), where the aged aad unfortunate poet says :
*• Though fall'n on evil days.
On bvil days though fall'n, and evil tongues ;
In darkness, and with dangers comr>ass'd round.
And solitude."
151. His sister Dorothy ended her days in mental darkness.
THE FOUNTAIN.— Page 114.
Even in this simplo dialogue we lecoguize the superiority of the
dramatic form in the portrayal of character. Those who believe with
Wordsworth that much true poetry is to be found in thu language of
peasants when under the excitement of deep feeling will find poetry in
ThB Fountain.
If this character is t1u> Matthew of the poem of that uame he is a
Boboolmaster of souk 1 ge school; and probably from what we can
learn he resembles mutu or less closely some >ma8ter known by the
poet. He tells us in one place that the characteriatica of Matthew ace
drawn from more than one man.
Kotm
m
3, 4. Be careful to read the first two lines with one eye on the
punctuation.
6- "Friends" — What had they in common ?
9. Why does this detail give ita name to the poem?
21. " dear old mac- " — Evidently not a Squeera.
35-38. DiBCuas Tennyson's saying that " a sorrow's crown of sorrows
is rememWring happier things."
43-46. Compare Earth's Preference, Chapter V.
47. "But, we are pressed upon by heavy laws."—" The days of
our strength are three score years and ten, and if by reason of strength
they be four score years yet is their strength labour and sorrow."
60. "Because we have been glad before."— Because we live in
the past,
54.. " It is the man of mirth." — He has the most to regret.
61. "I."— With playful emphasis.
66. " that cannot be." — His heart was past new ties, though warm
and grateful.
71. "Leonard's rock," — Some local land-mark.
PEELB OASTLK— Page 117.
"Written soon after the death, by shipwreck, of Wordsworth's brother
John. This poem may be profitably compared with Shelley's following
it (in the Oolden Treasury). Each is the most complete expression of
the innermost spirit of his art given by these great poets : — of that idea
which, as in the case of the true painter (to quote the words of
Reynold's), subsists only in the mind : the sight never beheld it, nor
has the hand expressed it : it is an idea residing in the breast of the
artist, which he is always labouring to impart, and which he dies at last
without imparting."
^ Shelley's poem, to which Palgrave in this remarkable note alludes, is:
THE POET'S DREAM.
On a poet's lips I slept
Dreaming like a love-adept
In the sound his breathing kept ;
Nor seeks nor finds he mortal blisses,
But feeds on the aerial kisses
Of shapes that haunt thought's wiMemessea
9ad
WORDSWORTH.
He wiU watch from dawn to gloom
The lake-reflected sun illume
The yellow beea in the ivy-bloom,
Ncr heed nor aee what things may be-
But from these create he can
Forms more real than living man,
Nurslings of Immortality. ^
1G-19. In this immortal stanza the poet seems to come very near the
impossible, he all but enables us to grasp the indefinable halo that
genius alone discerns about the objects it contemplates — that golden
illusion that flits away from common sense to perfect wisdom. That
which Ariel was in the Tempest, that which Coleridge felt and often
tried to tell us
^ "A light, a fair luminous cloud
Enveloping the Earth,"
and again,
" Thie light, this glory, this fair luminous mist,
This beautiful and beauty-making power,"
in another place "A swimiping phantom light," and in a fourth "A
magic light," all these point to the same mystery. Other expressions
of it occur in Wordsworth, notably in the Ode on Immortality : and of
course it is what Sir Joshua tries to say in the note above ; but no one
can say it— so that it may be generally known.
41. "Him whom I deplore." — His brother John.
53. "the Kind. "—Men.
FRENCH REVOLUTION.— Page 119.
There is a wonderful charm about this poem. It is as if one who had
"been a glorious idealist, but no mere dreamer, had awaked from an illu-
siou and had told his dream ; the reasonableness, the nobility, the ^
romance, the God-like enthusiasm for the best the world aspires to, are
told vritb a poetic grace and a persuasive logic that go far to convert the
reader, a^':ain8t his knowledge, into a Revolutionist of the year '89. The
astounding skill of this as a defence of what he regards perhaps as ^
youthful error, is greatly enhanced by his own attitude in the poem, not
the least lint of retraction or apology is evinced, bat rather he would,
say, " Had I resisted the glamour of it, would I not have been less a
man ? " Compare Coleridge's Ode to France where he says, '* O forgiva
those dreams 1 *'
NOTIS.
2S3
Ideal
4. "anziliara" — liberals everywhere.
6. "that da^hl."— Of freedom.
7*10. See Burke's Reflections on th« French Revolution.
38. "Utopia'"-- A work by Thomas More, desoribing an
Rapnblic.
38. " sabterranean Fields"— Alludes to the Happy Valley of
Reuaeku; and reminds one of Lytton's The Coming Race. See note on
Michael, line 63.
39. "'iecreted Island."— Recalling Baoon's The New Atlantis, The
workb mentioned are a few of the numerous " Ideal Common-
wealths " outlined by eminent men ; others are Plato's Republic, Flu*
taroh's Lycargue, Gampanella's Oity of the Sun, Hall's Mundua Alter et
Idem. Montaigne deals with the same subject in his famous Euaye.
41-42. The sound statesmanlike tone of the last lines, shows that he
has fundamentally right views of social reform. Compare Shakespeare's
allusion to ideal republics in The Tempest, Act U, Sa 1.
A POET'S EPITAPH.— Page 120.
-4n this defenoe of the poet, Wordsworth represents the statesman,
the lawyer, the doctor of divinity, the soldier, the doctor of medicine,
the student of natural philosophy, and the student of moral philosophy,
as approaching the poefs grave ; each in turn is dismissed as unworthy
of the right even to pay his respects to the hallowed poetic dust : iSn-
ally a poet approaches the resting-place of his brother bard, and is
warmly welcomed and bid to come, go, and remain at will.
In his enthusiasm to express the central idea — ^that the poet is the
noblest of mankind — the author has neglected to lend grace to the form
of his work, hence its stiffness and monotony, not to say narrowness, of
tone : in these respects it does not bear comparison with Bums' Bard's
Epitaph, upon which it is modelled : it is difficult to defend an inferior
imitati<ni.
THE BARD'S EPITAPH.
Is there a whim-inspired fod,
Owre fast for thought, owre hot for rule,
Owre blate to seek, owre prood to snool.
Let him draw near ;
And owre this grassy heap sing dool.
And dx«p a tear.
mmmmimiifmmmm
w^m^iK^mmff
wm
■mppnpiPiRpvimpvi
'mmm
284 IHiltf WORDSWORTIt.
Is there a Bard of rustic song,
Who, noteless, steals the crowds among
That weekly this area throng,
O, pass not by I
Bat, with a frater-feeling strong.
Here, heave a sigh.
Is there a man whose judgment clear,
Oan others teach the coarse to dteer.
Yet runs, himself, life's mad career
Wild ad the wave ;
Here pause — and, thro' the starting tear,
Survey this grave.
The poor Inhabitant below
Was quick to learn, and wise to know.
And keenly felt the friendly glow,
And softer flame ;
Bat thoughtless follies laid him low.
And stain'd his name 1
Reader, attend — whether thy soul
Soars fancy's flights beyond the pole.
Or darkling grubs this earthly hole.
In low pursuit ;
Know, prudent, cautious^ self-control
Is wisdom's root.
10. Compare the following passage from Thomson's Seasons {AiUumn,
line 565 ) :
*' Perhaps some doctor, of tremendous paunch.
Awful and deep, a blauk abyss of drink,
Outlives them all ;. and from his buried flock
Retiring, full of rumination sad,
Laments the weakness of these latter times.''
This passage describes a fox-hunting parson at a hunt dinner, drinking
the gentlemen of his parish under the table. Wordsworth's doctor lived
after the Evangelical movement^ we may presame, and was a degenerate
successor of thp ,ther.
25. " abj ect. "—Materialist.
*13. " AU-in-all. "—Not recognizing the inadequacy of hia philosophy.
KOtKS.
nn.
38. " with inodest looks, and clad in homely russet brown"—
A-ldrich, in a pretty little tribute to Shakespeare, deaoribes him in neai-
ly the same words :
** The doublet's modest gray or brown.
The slender sword-hilt's plain device,
What sign had these for prinoe or clown ?
Few turned, or none, to scan him twice."
44-45. Highly subjective.
46-63. The poetic function as described here reminds one of Shakes-
peare's often-quoted lines on tl^e same subject.
SONNETS.~Page 126.
Wordsworth published between three and four hundred sonnets,
^ihake&peare one hundred and fifty-four, Milton only twenty-three, of
'jrhioh six nre Italian. The chief subjects of Wordsworth's sonnets are
Liberty, Church History, and thoughts suggested by Nature ; many,
how aver, have other subjects. His mastery over this form of verse is so
complete that it may be compared to an instrument which he command-
ed fio entirely as to make it express liis mind perfectly. It is well
known that as a versifier he was very unequal : it would be absurd to
say that the poet who wrote Yarrow Revisited and the Ode on Immortal-
ity was not a versifier, yet from wrong theories or other causes his
poeliiy is often crude in form and unmuBical : it may have been on ac-
count of his limitations as an inventor of forms that he used the sonnet
so often. Still, it was natural that a writer of profound reflective
power should seize upon this simple conventional form as a ready mould
for his^ thoughts.
H The word sonnet (a little strain) once applied to any short song,
espi "^iaUy a love-song. It became limited, however, to poems of four-
teen lines, and eventually to these, only under certain other conditions
as to form and rhyme.
The name is now applied to two principal forms, which may for con-
venience be called the Shakespearean and the recent. Tliese classes
have two characteristics iu common — both require that the sub-
ject-matter shall consist of one complete thought or sentiment,
and both require that the form should be fourteen iambic
pentameters. The Shakespearean sonnet differed from recent son-
in rhyme-arrangement, Shakespeare's sonnets having the ar>
■IMIfll
s
' V."^'*\
286
WORDSWORTIt.
rangement uhahedede fe fyo, while recent iontieti follow the
ammgemcnt abbaabbaedoded (allowing, however, dome lati-
tude in the arrangement of the e d rhymes). There ia another
important dffference also, not so easy to define. The Shakeaperean aon-
net usually oonaists of some poetical symbol and the application of it to
the main thought: the symbol occupies the twelve lines of alternate
rhyme, and the application the rhyming couplet at the end, so that one
may usually get the main thought by merely reading this concluding
couplet. The recent sonnets are different in this respect, the diviwion
between the symbol and the application (when these occur) usually being
at the end of the octave. Frequently, however, the octave explains the
whole thought, while the aesUt is used for some quiet reflection npon
that thought. The recent sonnets are modelled upon the Italian sonnet
used by Milton. The er%mples chosen to illustrate tliese truths are
chosen as striking examples of their classes, and as likely to illustrate
in a pointed manner the changes already described.
SHAKESPEARE'S THIRTIETH SONNET.
When to the sessions of sweet silent thought
I snnmion up remembrance of things past,
I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought,
And with old woes new wail my dear time's waste ;
Then can I drown an eye, unused to flow.
For precious friends hid in death's dateless night.
And weep afresh love's long-since-cancelled woe.
And moan the expense of many a vanish'd si>;ht :
Then can I grieve at grievances foregone.
And heavily from woe to woe tell o'er
The sad, account of fore-bemoaned moan.
Which I new pay as if not paid before.
Bnt if the while I think on thee, dear friend.
All losses are restored, and sorrows end.
SHAKESPEARE'S NINETIETH SONNET.
Then hate me when thou wilt ; if ever, nov ;
Now while the world is bent my deeds to cross,
Join with the spite of fortune, make me bow.
And do not drop in for an after-loss :
Ah I do not, when my heart hath sc&ped this sorrow,
Gome in the rearward of a oonquer'd woe
N0TI8.
387
To linger ont * purposed overthrow.
If thou wilt leave me, do not leave me last,
When other petty griefs have done their spite,
But in the onset come ; so shall I taste
At Hrst the very worst of fortune's might ;
And other strains of woe, which now seem woe,
Compared with loss of thee will not seem so.
MILTON'S EIGHTEENTH SONNET,
ON THX ULTK MAflSAORS IN PUDMONT.
Atxkos, Lord, Thy slaughter'd saints, whose bones
lie Boatter'd on the Alpine mountains cold ;
Even them who kept Thy truth so pure of old.
When all our fathers worshipp'd stocks and stones.
Forget qot : in Thy book record their (groans
Who were Thy sheep, and in their ancient fold
31ain by the ^bloody Piedmontese, that roU'd
Mother with infant down the rocks. Their moans
The vales redoubled to the hills, and they
To heaven. Their martyr'd blood and ashes sow
O'er all the Italian fields, where still doth sway,
The Mple tyrant ; that from these may grow
A hundred fold, who, having leam'd Thy way.
Early may fly the Babylonian woe.
MILTON'S NINETEENTH SONNET.
ON HIS BLINDNSSa.
Wh>n I consider how my light is spent
Ere half my days, in this dark world and wide,
And that one talent which is death to hide,
Lodged with me useless, though my soul more bent
To serve therewith my Maker, and present
My true account, lest He, retumi::g, chide ;
** Doth God exact day-labour, light denied ? "
I fondly ask : but Patience, to prevent
That murmur, soon replies, " God doth not need
^thsr man's yrotk, or Bis own gifts ; who best
"(^rpi^^lll^lljpii i.Jlli(, ^pjp imjiil iipilliii It ) % I B ■» ^" JWPWMjiijH^w-"*^' '^ ■,■"-■ W'-r^vv P",f 1-
j(;"M"
288
WORDSWCSTH.
B«-.ar His mild yoke, they serve Him best ;' Hia state
Is kingly : thousands at His bidding speed.
And post o'er land and ocean without rest ;
They also serve who only stand and waiL"
ROSSETTl'S BEAUTY AND THE BIRD,
She fluted with her mouth as when one sips,
And gently waved her golden head, inclin'd
Outside his cage close to the window-blind :
Till her fond bird, with little turns and dips.
Piped low to her of sweet companionships.
And when he made an eud, some seed took sho
And fed him from her tongue, which robily
Peeped as a piercing bud between her lips.
And like the child in Ohaucer, on whose tongue
The Blessed Mary laid, when he was dead,
A grain, — who straightway praised her namj in song : ,
Even so, when she, a little lightly red.
Now turned on me and laughed, I heard the throng
Of inner voices praise her golden head.
I
MATTHEW ARNOLD'S SHAKESPEARE.
Others abide our question. Thou art free.
We ask and ask. Thou smilest, and art still,
Out-topping knowledge. For the loftiest hill,
Who to the stars uncrowns his majesty.
Planting his steadfast footsteps in the sea,
Making the Leaven of heavens his dwelling-place.
Spares but the cloudy border of his base
To the foiled searching of mortality ; .^^^^..
And thott, who didst the stars and suube»^^Know,
Self-schooled, self-scanned, self-honored, self-secure.
Didst tread on earth unguessed at. — Better so 1
All pains the immortal spirit must endure,
All weakness which impairs, all griefs which bow,
Find their sole speech in that victorious brow.
N0TE8L
289
It will be observed that ftven Milton does not show so marked a tarn
at the ninth line as the later poets. It has been said that Milton's son-
nets shoot rapidly oS like a rocket, and then fall, breaking in a shower
id brightness ; some of them, however, have been move aptly deecribed
as a trumpet call to duty. The recent sonnets have been weU compared
to a waving rising (in the otUave) and gently subsiding as the thought
spends itself in beauty. One of the most perfect of the latter class is
the sonnet To Night, in chapter* V.
Wordsworth's sonnets stand somewhere between Milton's and Matthew
Arnold's in form and manner ; though those who know Wordsworth
only by his pther works will be surprised at the grace and sweetness of
■uoh sonnets as that To Lady BeauworU, which Hutton so justly praises.
in.— On the Extinction of thb Venetian Republic.
3-4. "Since the first dominion of man was asserted over the ocean,
three thrcnes of mark beyond all others have been set upon its sands,
the thrones of Tyre, Venice, and England."
6. "Eldest Child of Liberty."— " Founded by Christians" in
"the year 421." Bead Ruskin's Stones of Venice, first appendix to
Vol I.
10. " espouse the everlasting Sea."— There was a ceremony called
the Bridal of the Sea, in which Venice figured as the bride.
15. "even the Shade."— In 1797, by the Peace of Campo Formio,
Venice was given to Austria. Encyc. Brit., Vol. XIII, page 485.
VI. — Thought or a Bkiton on the Subjugation of Switzerland.
7. " a Tyrant."— Napoleon.
12. " that which still is left."—*' And ocean mid his uproar wild
speaks safety to his island-child." Read Coleridge's Ode to the Depart-
ing Year,
XVII.— To Clarkson.
4. "Olaikson."— Thomas Clarkson, 1760-1846, wrote and worked
aroinst slavery. In 1794 his health broke down from overwork, also at
one time he lost his sight, but he recovered health and sight and died
at eighty-six.
9. ** \ Olce."— See line 12.
The activity and energy of the octave, and the peace and calm of the
86stet remind one of the third stanza of Shelley's Cloud.
«
li|«M
VHiiaipiilPPPiiP
L
^^^ WOBDSWOmTH.
XIX — SooRN Not thb Sonnct,
4. "nnlocked his heart."-Hi8 play. «r» objeotiye, his sonnet*
■HDjective. See Browning's ffozue.
6. "Petrarch's wound."— Francesco Petrarca, 1604-1674, one of
four great Italian poets, and the first true reviver of learning in medi«.
val ?:urope. He had a sad bat romantic attachment to a lady whom he
writes of as Laura.
6. " OamoeilS."--The Portuguese epic poet. Bis masterpiece is the
JAUiad, He died m great poverty and was caUed " the great.** The
Portuguese accent his name on the second, the English on the firat
6. "TaSEO."— 1644-1695 ne of the four great Italian poets. Tasso
was a great though ill-balanced genius : a master of love-lyrics.
8-9. "myrtle, cypress. "-The myrtle, sacred to Venus, was the
wreath of blrodless victors; the cypress is emblematic of grief and
death.
10. ''visionary."— AUudes to the visions of Hell. Purgatory, and
^ 11. "from Faery-land."-AnaUusion to Spenser's great poem, and
to a sonnet (the 80th) referring to the sonnet.
14. "a trumpet."— Milton's sonnet to Cromwell will explain this
term.
XX.— Nuns Pekp Not.
7. ''Pnmess Pells"- Fellsaremoors.
. V'/**^^**^®'"~'''^ ^^^^^ <®' ^*"*« ^^ rose-colour) flower common
in England.
XXni.— Pebsonal Talk.
18- " forms with chalk. "— For dance-figuves.
20. "undersong."— Refrain or acoompanjjaent.
XXIV, — GonmswtfK
14. *• Lady."— Desdemona.
16, **TJjiai^"'-'In the Faery Queen,
XXV. — GoiroLin>n>.
2. "Nor can I not. "—What figure of speech?
«. " genial seasons."— Genial is a pet word of Wordsworth's.
18. "l^eavenly lays."— Specify.
XXVI.~To Slbxp.
pll«vf^.S.^^';,:^^^<>^y ^ " ^ ««» of 1^ h.. .
thitle^i^oll^**^"'-'''"^"^ Shakespeare «.d other poeto<«
XXIX.— CoMPOSM) UpOK WKSnONSTM BRIDOa
18. " fi calm so deep."— What miikes this a paradox ?
1ft. Aocount for th)« mvocation.
ssi^HB
riNia
mmm'9^I^IHmmm^i9^'wmi~-^gmmmmmm^^^
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