D POEMS' 
 
 WORDSWORTJ 
 
 JOSEPH B.SEABURY 
 
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 SILVER, BURDETT & COMPANY, Publishers 
 NEW YORK BOSTON CHICAGO 
 
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 
 
The Silver Series of Classics 
 
 SELECTED POEMS 
 
 WILLIAM WORDSWORTH 
 
 EDITED, WITH INTRODUCTION AND NOTES 
 BY 
 
 JOSEPH B. SEABURY 
 
 SILVER, BURDETT AND COMPANY 
 
 NEW YORK BOSTON CHICAGO 
 

 THE "BRARY GF 
 CONGRESS, 
 
 Two Cuwas Receive* 
 
 MAR, 13 1902 
 
 CoPvmoHT ENTRY 
 
 ojAr. <f-iqty- 
 
 CLAS4J O/XXc. N». 
 COPY B. 
 
 Copyright, 1902, 
 By SILVER, BUBDETT AND COMPANY 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 INTRODUCTION : 
 
 Wordsworth — the Man 
 
 Wordsworth — the Poet 
 
 Estimates 
 
 The Excursion . 
 
 7 
 16 
 26 
 29 
 
 POEMS : 
 
 The Excursion : Book I . 
 
 Alice Fell ; or, Poverty . 
 
 Lucy Gray ; or, Solitude . 
 
 We are Seven 
 
 The Daffodils . 
 
 To the Daisy 
 
 To the Same Flower 
 
 To the Small Celandine . 
 
 To a Skylark 
 
 To a Nightingale 
 
 To the Cuckoo . 
 
 She was a Phantom of Delight 
 
 Three Years she Grew 
 
 Expostulation and Reply. 
 
 Stepping Westward . 
 
 The Solitary Reaper 
 
 Sonnet composed upon Westminster Bridge 
 
 To Sleep 
 
 It is a Beauteous Evening, Calm and Free 
 Sonnet : The World is too much with us 
 
 5 
 
 33 
 
 62 
 64 
 
 67 
 69 
 70 
 73 
 
 75 
 77 
 79 
 79 
 80 
 81 
 83 
 84 
 85 
 86 
 87 
 87 
 88 
 
6 CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Sonnet : Most Sweet it is with Unuplifted Eyes . 88 
 
 A Poet's Epitaph ... .... 89 
 
 Extempore Effusion upon the Death of James Hogg . 91 
 
 Resolution and Independence ...... 92 
 
 Ode to Duty 97 
 
 Character of the Happy Warrior .... 99 
 
 My Heart leaps up 102 
 
 The Fountain 102 
 
 Ode : Intimations of Immortality 105 
 
 Laodamia 113 
 
 / Lines composed above Tintern Abbey .... 119 
 
 NOTES 125 
 
INTRODUCTION. 
 
 WOEDS WORTH — THE MAN. 
 
 Wordsworth was constitutionally averse to giving in 
 
 distinct form, or with any detail, the story of his life. He 
 
 was the last man to write an autobiography ; as he himself 
 
 expresses it : — 
 
 "lam not one who much or oft delights 
 In personal talk." 
 
 And yet, much of the life of this great poet, his mental 
 and spiritual aspirations, and the wide range of his studies, 
 are chronicled in his poems. They picture his surround- 
 ings, the atmosphere in which he lived, the episodes of his 
 career, the crises through which he passed. No poet re- 
 flects his environment so completely as does Wordsworth. 
 
 It is an easy task to set forth the salient events in his 
 life, but to reproduce him as he was, to look upon the 
 man himself, is difficult. In our effort to find a true 
 portraiture of his personal appearance, we must depend 
 upon the descriptive powers of his friends. 
 
 Thomas De Quincey, who was his neighbor at Gras- 
 mere for a quarter of a century, informs us that Words- 
 worth was somewhat above medium height, of indifferent 
 figure, with "narrow and drooping shoulders." 
 
8 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 His face was meditative, but full of force. Its central 
 feature was the eyes. " I have seen them assume an ap- 
 pearance the most solemn and spiritual that it is possible 
 for the human eye to wear," said De Quincey. 
 
 Leigh Hunt, another friend and companion of Words- 
 worth, bears similar testimony: "I never beheld eyes 
 that looked so inspired, so supernatural. One might im- 
 agine Ezekiel or Isaiah to have had such eyes." They 
 were gray in color, sympathetic, penetrating. His was 
 "the eye that was in itself a soul." 
 
 Among the wooded hills of Cumberland, at Cockermouth 
 on the Derwent, April 7, 1770, these eyes first saw the 
 light. It was the year that Hegel, the philosopher ; John 
 Foster, the preacher; George Canning, the orator; and 
 Thorwaldsen, the sculptor, were born. It was the year 
 that Goldsmith's "Deserted Village" was published; in 
 American history, the year of the " Boston Massacre." 
 
 John Wordsworth, the poet's father, was attorney-at- 
 law and legal agent of Sir James Lowther, afterward 
 first Earl of Lonsdale. His mother was Anne Cookson, 
 daughter of a mercer in Penrith. William was the sec- 
 ond of five children. His mother died when he was 
 eight years old; his father, when he was thirteen. At 
 the age of eight he was sent to a school at Hawkshead, 
 Lancashire. Here he spent nine years "among a people 
 of simple habits, and scenery of a sweet and pastoral 
 dignity." During this susceptible period he formed a 
 close friendship with the mountains, the valleys, the lakes, 
 and the rivers of his native district. Here the deep pas- 
 sion of his devotion to the beautiful in nature began to 
 
INTRODUCTION. 9 
 
 appear. As lie tells us in the "Prelude," his favorite 
 amusements were hunting, fishing, boating, skating. He 
 enjoyed long walks among the hills and about the lakes. 
 He knew the people among whom he lived ; learned their 
 ways ; felt their common losses and pleasures ; noted the 
 habits of the domestic animals ; watched with eager de- 
 light the flight of the birds. 
 
 His surroundings induced a receptive attitude of mind, 
 and an insight into life at its uniform level which breaks 
 out so spontaneously into poetic song. It is here that 
 he learned that "homely humanity" which gives such 
 artlessness and genuineness to his poems. 
 
 In the year 1787, when the poet was seventeen, he entered 
 St. John's College, Cambridge. In point of numbers and 
 scholarly attainment, it ranked second among the colleges of 
 the University. His career as a student was not a distin- 
 guished one. He chafed under official restraint and devel- 
 oped that " stiff, moody, and violent temper " of which he 
 speaks and which his mother had noted in his childhood. 
 Failing to adapt himself to the coercive curriculum of the 
 college, he outlined a course of study for himself. 
 
 Wordsworth observed carefully the movements of his own 
 mind. His intellectual powers expanded under the impulse 
 of his own will. While at the University he read largely 
 the great masters of English, — Chaucer, Spenser, Milton, 
 Shakespeare. 
 
 Upon graduation (1791) he spent a year in France. It 
 was the period of the French Revolution. He threw him- 
 self into its exciting scenes with all the enthusiasm of his 
 chivalrous nature. Thus far he had been accustomed to 
 
10 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 the quietude of a rural and intellectual environment; now 
 he touched the beating heart of a nation in the throes of 
 a great upheaval. He was by nature patriot as well as 
 poet, and he embraced the radical views of republican inde- 
 pendence. These he expressed boldly, but in after life in 
 modified form. 
 
 In 1792 Wordsworth returned to England. Some of his 
 friends hoped he would enter the priesthood of the church, 
 but for this calling he claimed no aptitude. He had one 
 purpose, one absorbing ambition, — literature. His earliest 
 poems, entitled "Descriptive Sketches" and "The Even- 
 ing Walk," he published in 1793. He took this step, as he 
 himself says, " with great reluctance," and to show that he 
 "could do something." 
 
 At this time he projected the scheme of issuing a monthly 
 "Miscellany," which should contain "critical remarks on 
 poetry, the arts, painting, gardening, etc., besides essays 
 on morals and politics." A ponderous undertaking! The 
 scheme failed. A bequest of £900 from Eaisley Calvert, 
 who urged him to make poetry his life work, came as an 
 opportune stroke of good fortune and made a life solely 
 given to literature a tangible reality. A few years later, 
 the heirs to the estate of Lord Lonsdale, who owed the 
 poet's father a goodly sum for professional services, paid 
 the entire amount, including interest. With this sum in 
 hand, Wordsworth could give himself more freely to his 
 favorite pursuit. As Lowell observes, "the timely help 
 which he received made it honest for him to write poems 
 that will never die, instead of theatrical critiques as ephem- 
 eral as play-bills, or leaders that led only to oblivion." 
 
INTRODUCTION. 11 
 
 The literary life of Wordsworth is gracefully interwoven 
 with that of his sister Dorothy, who was his congenial com- 
 panion for many years. The manual effort of writing was 
 irksome to the poet ; but his sister was a most sympathetic 
 and painstaking amanuensis. She was devotion itself ; her 
 life and that of the poet were of one fabric. All visitors at 
 Wordsworth's home agree in praising its abounding intel- 
 lectual life. De Quincey is among those who have extolled 
 it. He describes the poet's sister as of " warm, even ardent 
 manner," with an eye open to all that was engaging, 
 quickly responding to the beautiful in nature and art, 
 quick to note all the poet said or quoted, " consumed by a 
 subtle tire of impassioned intellect." Mr. J. C. Shairp, writ- 
 ing of her, says that she was "so little of a literary lady, 
 so entirely removed from being a blue-stocking, that she 
 was ignorant of many books and subjects which, to most 
 educated persons, were quite commonplace. ... It was she 
 who maintained for him a saving intercourse w T ith his true 
 self, opened for him the obstructed passage between head 
 and heart, whence in time came genuine self-knowledge and 
 peace. She it was who softened and humanized him, 
 opened his eyes to the more hidden beauties, his heart to 
 the gentler affections." 
 
 These two kindred minds formed that sweet domestic 
 felicity which led Coleridge to say, " This is the happiest 
 family I ever saw." In his home life, Wordsworth realized 
 his own sentiment, " so much of earth, so much of heaven." 
 Innocent, ardent, loving, Dorothy W r ords worth seemed to 
 enter the hidden portals of nature whose secrets were 
 disclosed to her. All the deep discoveries of her heart she 
 
12 
 
 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 laid at the poet's feet. No words can express more exqui- 
 sitely than his own his appreciation of her fidelity : — 
 
 " She gave me eyes, she gave me ears, 
 And humble cares and delicate fears, 
 A heart, the fountain of sweet tears, 
 And love, and faith, and joy. 11 
 
 In 1795 the two Wordsworths settled at Kacedown, Dor- 
 setshire, in Southern England, where they remained for two 
 years. The poet lived in seclusion. He began his work 
 in a half-hearted way, waiting, as it were, for the complete 
 control of his Muse. His imperfect poetical productions 
 show a distrustful, a semi-industrious spirit. This unnat- 
 ural epoch in his career speedily came to an end through 
 a visit from Coleridge, who had seen in Wordsworth's ear- 
 liest poems a prophecy of that "original poetic genius" 
 which afterward so completely fascinated English readers. 
 
 The presence of Coleridge at Eacedown marks the 
 beginning of Wordsworth's fame as an English poet. 
 In his struggles to find a way out of the entangling 
 mazes of his introspection, Coleridge was his guide, his 
 new genius, his better self. Wordsworth read to him his 
 story of the ruined cottage, afterward incorporated into 
 the first book of the "Excursion." It charmed his ad- 
 miring visitor, who declared it had " a character by books 
 not hitherto reflected." His judicious praise gave new 
 courage to the disheartened poet. As a result of the 
 new companionship, Wordsworth (1798) issued "Lyrical 
 Ballads," containing twenty-three poems, the first being 
 Coleridge's "Ancient Mariner." The remaining poems 
 were from the pen of Wordsworth. 
 
INTRODUCTION. 13 
 
 After a year's absence in Germany, William and Doro- 
 thy Wordsworth settled at Grasmere, in Westmoreland. 
 No region could be more congenial to the poet, for it 
 was near the place where he was born, and which he so 
 fondly loved. While living there, he was married to 
 Mary Hutchinson, a former pupil. Of their union, live 
 children were born, of whom three died young. The 
 personal virtues of Wordsworth's wife are written in 
 immortal verse, in the poem, " She was a Phantom of 
 Delight." 
 
 In 1812 Wordsworth removed to Allan Bank, and in 
 1813 to Eydal Mount These places are near the charm- 
 ing English Lakes. Here Coleridge and Southey were 
 frequent visitors and, with our poet, gave the name to 
 the "Lake School of Poetry." It was the object of this 
 coterie of poets to withstand the formal and inflexible 
 mannerisms of the poetry of the day. Wordsworth, him- 
 self a populist of the best type, maintained that the true 
 poet should set forth, in his poetic strains, the emotions 
 of the popular heart. His poetry should be a transcript 
 of life among the common people. He should avoid the 
 stilted phrases and the high-sounding metaphors of the 
 schools and come down to the dialect' of the home and 
 the street. Into this theory he threw himself with char- 
 acteristic impetuosity. It is possible that he went to too 
 great an extreme of literalness in his intense desire to 
 popularize poetry, and yet he clad the homeliest scenes 
 of domestic life with a certain native fascination that is 
 irresistible to the unprejudiced reader. He chose the 
 exact idioms of the people ; he translated homespun life 
 
14 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 into homespun phrase. He dignified the common toil of 
 the toiler; everyday occurrences, the most ordinary as- 
 pects of nature, were transfigured by his magic touch. 
 The simplicity of his style was all the more striking 
 because it was in such strong contrast to the studied 
 elaboration of the poetry of his time. 
 
 The conscientious purpose of the "Lake Poets" was 
 misunderstood by the critics. The Edinburgh Review 
 selected Wordsworth for its special ridicule, and pub- 
 lished a travesty on his style. No doubt this had much 
 to do with the diminution of the sale of his poems, but 
 the poet kej^t a sweet temper; he persevered; he wrote 
 and published. He grew in breadth of poetic feeling 
 and knowledge of men; in sympathy with their needs; 
 in responsiveness to the awakening of the universal soul. 
 No subject was too trivial for him; he was the prophet 
 of the commonplace. This kindliness of spirit toward 
 humanity was sure to triumph over the rancor of the 
 critic and the cynic. 
 
 The success of the " Lake School of Poets " was preemi- 
 nently Wordsworth's success. He attempted what at first 
 sight seemed the impossible, — to produce a revolution in 
 poetry. At the same time it was necessary to overcome 
 prejudice, and to bring his readers into a favorable and 
 receptive relationship with himself. It was a work of 
 education quite as much as inspiration, but he conquered 
 all prejudices and won an enviable place in the affections 
 of the people. 
 
 It is not the purpose of this sketch to give in detail the 
 literary product of the fifty-two years spent among the 
 
INTRODUCTION. 15 
 
 green hills of Westmoreland and by her sparkling waters. 
 The number of Wordsworth's poems runs far into the 
 hundreds. We may note them in classification only. He 
 wrote ballads, narrative poems, lyrics, poems akin to the 
 antique style, odes, sonnets, and poems reflective and 
 elegiac. Although he lacked a sense of humor, and strains 
 of pleasantry are absent from his lines, he possessed the 
 art of interpreting life in a way that no one has equaled 
 in his generation or in ours. 
 
 We may picture the poet of the world's heart dwelling 
 among the forests and beside the lakes of his beloved 
 Grasmere. His was the ideal life of the meditative poet, 
 a smooth and unvexed current of satisfied ambition. The 
 rural setting of his life's work was in full accord with his 
 intellectual and emotional nature, and yet he was not 
 wholly removed from the business of the world. In 1813 
 he was appointed Distributor of Stamps for the County 
 of Westmoreland, an office which he could fill largely by 
 deputy. De Quincey speaks of the appointment as an 
 instance of the remarkable good luck which waited upon 
 Wordsworth through his whole life. " In our view it is 
 only another illustration of that scripture which describes 
 the righteous as never forsaken," are the words of Lowell. 
 
 Wordsworth received a pension of £300 from the 
 English government, this being the third time his fortune 
 was increased. It may be that De Quincey's observation 
 was not far from the truth. Wordsworth's highest honor 
 came in the year 1813, when he was made poet laureate, 
 succeeding his friend Southey to that merited distinction. 
 
 Wordsworth died at Rydal Mount, April 23, 1850, — the 
 
16 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 anniversary of the birth and the death of William Shake- 
 speare. Wordsworth was buried in the churchyard at 
 Grasmere. Upon that enchanting region he has written 
 his name in imperishable characters. Annually hundreds 
 of visitors pass in solemn meditation before the sacred spot 
 where lies his dust, and pause in respectful silence before 
 the plain marble slab bearing the poet's name. Near by 
 are the ivy-mantled church, the abrupt hill, the sparkling 
 waterfall, the quiet-flowing Eotha. It is the shrine of a 
 poet whose praises ages to come will continue to sing. 
 
 WORDSWORTH — THE POET. 
 
 As some great painters have painted their own portraits, 
 so some eminent writers have left us sketches of them- 
 selves, their style, their place in literature. These autobio- 
 graphical touches have not always been modest, or free 
 from egotism; and many of them have given the author a 
 rank quite as high as he deserves. In contrast with these 
 poets, Wordsworth writes of himself with becoming re- 
 serve: "I yield to no one in love for my art. I therefore 
 labor at it with reverence, affection, and industry. My 
 main endeavor as to style has been that my poems should 
 be written in pure, intelligible English." 
 
 This is the first quality that impresses the reader of 
 Wordsworth's poems, — their thorough workmanship. He 
 never wearied of remodeling, reconstructing, and polishing 
 his verse. He had a fixed standard of literary merit, and 
 labored unceasingly to bring each poem up to that standard. 
 Self-reliant as he was, confident of his true position in his 
 
INTRODUCTION. 17 
 
 relation to the reader, he always carried within himself such 
 deference for his subject, and such a strong desire to give 
 his thought adequate expression, that no poem was beneath 
 his conscientious effort. Poetry was, in his view, invested 
 with a sort of divine flavor ; it demanded the best that was 
 in him ; he could not profane it by an indifferent, an inex- 
 act, a languid style. 
 
 "In Wordsworth were the very highest powers of the 
 poetic mind." Lowell, in thus speaking of our poet, did not 
 forget the four great masters of English verse that had pre- 
 ceded him, — Chaucer, Spenser, Shakespeare, and Milton. 
 As each of these writers was eminent in his sphere, so 
 Wordsworth was in his. Comparisons are futile; a just 
 estimate is essential. The opinion of some of our best 
 judges is that Wordsworth is the fifth in the order of Eng- 
 lish poets. In him were the true qualities of poetic senti- 
 ment, and in him flowed the deep currents of poetic feeling. 
 
 He protested against all the factitious devices which 
 buttressed life about him. It was an era of which Carlyle 
 said, "Our age is mechanical." Against this tendency 
 Wordsworth entered his plea for contemplation. He called 
 a halt in the rushing tide of business and bade men think ; 
 to be as well as to do. He would do away with much of 
 the apparatus, the useless furniture of life, its costly 
 trappings, its artificial paraphernalia. He had a deep- 
 felt philosophy of life which he sought to impress upon 
 his age : man is deathless, his being is super-mundane. 
 Into his magnificent Ode, instinct with immortality, our 
 poet has compressed the sublime realities of the origin of 
 human life : — 
 
18 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 ' ' Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting : 
 The soul that rises with us, our life star, 
 
 Hath had elsewhere its setting, 
 
 And cometh from afar. 
 
 Not in entire forgetfulness, 
 
 And not in utter nakedness, 
 But trailing clouds of glory do we come 
 
 From God, who is our home ; 
 Heaven lies about us in our infancy." 
 
 Wordsworth was a true poet of nature. " I, a Worshiper 
 of Nature," lie exclaims, not in sentimentality but in strict- 
 ness of faith in the natural and in the supernatural. He 
 believed in " Nature's self," which is " the breath of God," 
 or, as Goethe expresses it, "nature, the living garment of 
 the Deity." 
 
 The extraordinary hold Wordsworth had upon the entire 
 century to which he belonged is due to his marvelous power 
 to interpret nature. All the strings of this aeolian harp 
 vibrate with life as the breezes of nature play through 
 them. The current of his feeling runs deep. The purest 
 in nature, that which seems to be hidden from the ordinary 
 beholder, he sees with soul-eyes. Some of his poems are 
 outbursts of song as he greets some messenger from the 
 sky. " 0, blithe newcomer," he sings, and again : — 
 
 " Ethereal minstrel; pilgrim of the sky ! 
 Dost thou despise the earth where care abounds?" 
 
 All poems of address are, in their initial words, an uplift- 
 ing, passionate admiration for the chaste in nature's holy 
 realm, the songful, the gayly attired, the modest, the free. 
 His penetrating eye detects action where we see languor ; 
 brilliant color where we see only a blank. 
 
INTRODUCTION. 19 
 
 Wordsworth clothed with sacredness the common things 
 of life. The earth is not a cold clod, but — 
 
 " Mother earth, her mirth, her tears, 
 Her humblest mirth and tears," 
 
 are lyric personalities to his open soul. He diffuses his 
 being through every avenue of nature. He makes a confi- 
 dant of the " fair river," " the green earth," " the misty 
 
 mountain." 
 
 ' ' Knowing that nature never did betray 
 The heart that loved her," 
 
 he trusts her absolutely. It is said that Wordsworth lacked 
 the sense of smell, but no one ever possessed a clearer per- 
 ception of the hidden perfume that was in the flower : — 
 
 " 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." 
 
 How sweetly he sings to the daisy ! how charmingly he 
 discourses to the celandine ! Few poems in our language 
 are lovelier than "The Daffodils." 
 
 " I wandered lonely as a cloud 
 That floats on high o'er vales and hills, 
 When all at once I saw a crowd, 
 A host, of golden daffodils ; 
 Beside the lake, beneath the trees, 
 Fluttering and dancing in the breeze." 
 
 When the mantle of vision actually falls upon him, he 
 sings as one inspired. His thoughts move upon a high 
 plane; his words come with startling rapidity. As Mat- 
 thew Arnold suggests, not only does Nature give him the 
 
20 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 matter of his poem ; she seems to write his poem for him. 
 Wordsworth, in advanced years, commenting on his 
 early life, speaks of the hour when the consciousness of 
 the infinite variety of natural appearances, which had been 
 unnoticed by the poets of any age or country, first broke 
 upon him : " I made a resolution to supply, in some degree, 
 the deficiency." That resolution, fully carried out, made 
 him our foremost poet of nature. The unity and consist- 
 ency of his poems, which are their chief characteristic, are 
 due to his living for a lifetime in fraternal intimacy with 
 nature. 
 
 That which was within said to that which was with- 
 out, — to the great mass of mountains, the world of leaf 
 and blossom, — "we are friends, we are one." To the poet's 
 discerning eye, Helvellyn and Skiddaw, his companions 
 for nearly eight decades, were like Hermon and Tabor, 
 filled with rejoicing. The secret of his melodious song 
 was in his own soul, but its themes, its setting, its visible 
 shapes, abode in the rugged slope of the mountains, the 
 liquid flow of the river. He was familiar with the chang- 
 ing phenomena of nature, with the full round of the sea- 
 sons, and all the pleasures and charms which each brings. 
 He was a part of the soil, the lakes, the fauna and flora, of 
 Westmoreland. He acted upon his own theory that " it is 
 essential for every poet that would peacefully possess his 
 faculty in these modern times, to associate himself with 
 some appropriate spot or tract of scenery, the whole influ- 
 ence of which he may thoroughly exhaust and incorporate 
 with his verse." 
 
 Wordsworth's view of nature was broad and far-reaching. 
 
INTRODUCTION. 21 
 
 In the clear expanse of field, the placid stream, the pellucid 
 air, in the bold outline of the mountain, he took exquisite 
 delight. The " poet of the twilight," speaking from the 
 heart of nature to the heart of man, made his noblest 
 songs the media between the visible and the invisible, 
 the material and the spiritual. He had one maxim : 
 let us seek truth ; let us enter into the temple of truth 
 through the vestibule of nature. Wordsworth put his 
 ear down to the earth and listened to the throbbings of 
 nature's heart. 
 
 As typical of his relation to nature we may quote the 
 following representative lines : — 
 
 " For I have learned 
 To look on nature, not as in the hour 
 Of thoughtless youth, but hearing oftentimes 
 The still, sad music of humanity, 
 Nor harsh, nor grating, though of ample power 
 To chasten and subdue. And I have felt 
 A presence that disturbs me with the joy 
 Of elevated thoughts ; a sense sublime 
 Of something far more deeply interfused, 
 Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns 
 And the round ocean and the living air 
 And the blue sky and in the mind of man.'" 
 
 With all his poetic fancy, he was sometimes too realis- 
 tic, writing with ludicrous, mathematical precision. The 
 
 couplet, — 
 
 "I've measured it from side to side, 
 'Tis three feet long and two feet wide," 
 
 was so exact that he omitted it, but only at the solicitation 
 of friends. It is, however, very Wordsworthian. 
 
22 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 He was convinced that no poet can be great unless he 
 follows his own bent. This mental drift may, however, 
 become enslaving. Wordsworth's desire for naturalness, at 
 times, made this very naturalness unnatural, artificial, 
 and stilted. 
 
 Wordsworth was distinctively the poet of the spirit of 
 man. Man and nature were closely allied in his mind. 
 " Wordsworth is the poet of nature because he possesses 
 the kinship between nature and man by reason of their 
 common origin and life in God." He regarded it as his 
 mission to show that life is pervaded with beauty, whose 
 heart beats with the rapture of the Eternal. Nothing 
 seems lifeless or valueless, for in each and every object 
 are the " Wisdom and Spirit of the Universe." As man 
 stands highest in the order of creation, so man is the 
 supreme passion of Wordsworth's pen. He interpreted 
 nature not for its own sake, but for the sake of man, whose 
 every condition, circumstance, emotion, appealed to him. 
 The homely incidents of rural life, — the child at play, 
 the woes of the afflicted, the merriment of the gay, the 
 pathos of the disappointed, the soldier on crutches, the 
 vagrant beggar, the tattered cloak of a poor girl, a 
 wooden bowl, a drum, a spade, — all find in him an 
 interpreter. 
 
 Wordsworth took nothing second-hand. He was the 
 poet of man, whose life he knew and whose lot he shared. 
 He sketched in their native dialects the actual experiences 
 through which men pass. He sang them in such a way 
 as to reflect them as they are, not as they might be or 
 ought to be. He saw and combated not imaginary but 
 
INTRODUCTION. 23 
 
 existent evils. His intellectual sanity was vitalized by 
 his human sympathy. He was nobly loyal to man 
 wherever he found him. His patriotism was without the 
 alloy of personal ambition. Among his choicest sonnets 
 are those dedicated to liberty. They come from the quiet 
 walks of a recluse, but have been called the most perma- 
 nent record in English literature of the war with Napo- 
 leon. In his youth Wordsworth partook of the highest 
 hopes of the great reformers for universal emancipation. 
 He lived to see all slaves in the British Colonies set free. 
 
 His poems teach us that in provincial minds are to 
 be found faculties strongly intellectual. Beneath the 
 coarse corduroy there breathes a true patriotism, a fine 
 sentiment. By his genius in painting life about the 
 hearthstone and at the spinning wheel, our poet has 
 done much to enthrone manhood and womanhood, to abate 
 the unseemly rivalry for social rank. In Wordsworth's 
 view, the distinction of station based upon the accident 
 of birth, or the possession of wealth, is meretricious and 
 despicable. Let the blood in human veins be the health- 
 ful red of sturdy thinking and noble doing, and the man 
 is at once a member of the nobility. 
 
 Wordsworth has been called a " lonely man ; his life a 
 long soliloquy." It is rather a long colloquy with nature 
 and man in their simplicity. He looked out upon — 
 
 "the fretful stir 
 Unprofitable, and the fever of the world." 
 
 He knew its stress of competitive overwork, its strife, its 
 bitter heartburnings. He was a prophet of the work-a-day 
 
24 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 world. It is noticeable that as he grew older, a change 
 passed over him. Sadness crept into his poetry ; not bald 
 pessimism, but a spiritless lament. This passing from 
 buoyancy to somberness was too speedily registered in his 
 poetry, which fell off in its true poetic flavor and in its 
 hold upon the people. Within fifteen years (1798-1813) 
 his great work was done. This is the period of his master- 
 pieces, although from time to time after this he produced 
 a poem of great literary merit. 
 
 The philosophic tastes, which Wordsworth possessed to 
 so fine a degree, appear repeatedly in his poems. His brain 
 was high-arched ; it could compass great subjects. With 
 an art that was masterful, he introduced into many of 
 his poems some of the deepest philosophies of life. Some 
 of these philosophic unfoldings appear incidentally, and for 
 that reason are all the more effective. 
 
 There are three poems which stand out from the great 
 mass of his poetic material in gravity of importance and in 
 breadth of treatment, — " Ode to Duty," " Lines composed 
 above Tintern Abbey," and " Ode on Intimations of Immor- 
 tality." They reach the highest pinnacle of his reflective 
 imagery. In the first of this trio of poems, .the author 
 recognizes the supremacy of God, as a personal Deity. Man 
 is allied with Him by a love of truth and freedom. Duty, 
 " Stern Daughter of the Voice of God," summons man to 
 service for God, not for a pantheistic image of Divinity : — 
 
 " Give unto me, made lowly wise. 
 The spirit of self-sacrifice." 
 
 The second of these poems, " Lines composed above 
 Tintern Abbey," describes the fond delight of the heart 
 
INTRODUCTION. 25 
 
 returning to its early joy. What fascinating allusions to 
 natural scenery are found here! How closely the poet 
 connects " the landscape with the quiet of the sky " ! He 
 follows " the lines of sportive mood run wild " ; he casts 
 himself into the lap of that dear region which he loved. 
 After giving the splendid picture its full glory in words, 
 he passes on to consider the change wrought in him during 
 his long absence. "The still, sad music of humanity," 
 with its "ample power to chasten and subdue," mingles 
 with the memories of the past. 
 
 The last of the three poems, "Ode on Intimations of 
 Immortality," is regarded by many as the finest poem in 
 the English language. Man existed before he was upon 
 the earth, therefore he will exist after he leaves it. All 
 these poems have many quotable lines that have passed 
 into our language, into the social and ethical philosophy 
 of our time. 
 
 No other poet seemed to care so little for style. Matthew 
 Arnold claimed that he had none. The truth is, Words- 
 worth was so filled with the momentum of his thought as 
 to make the " music of mere meter " secondary to the 
 deeper flow of ideas, the swaying governance of truth. 
 Our poet believed it was " the tendency of meter to divest 
 language, to a certain degree, of its reality." 
 
 In order to read Wordsworth appreciatively we must 
 rise to a high moral and spiritual vantage-ground. We 
 must come to know and feel that nature has a voice ; that 
 man is not a machine, but a soul into whose innermost 
 being enter feelings that cannot be treated lightly. Love 
 is the medium of insight into nature and man. Words- 
 
26 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 worth, from spiritual motives of the highest order, by 
 intuitions of beauty and truth unsurpassed in the entire 
 range of modern poetry, has defined for us the world that 
 lies about us. 
 
 His fame, built on a great purpose, — to open to us the 
 unseen and shape into form the vague and the intangible, — 
 is impregnably fixed. Shining through all his poems, which 
 at times reach the sublimest heights of poetic vision, we 
 see the noble character of the man, of whom Tennyson 
 declares that the laurel crown was greener because worn 
 by a poet of such moral elevation. 
 
 ESTIMATES. 
 
 " I firmly believe that the poetical performance of Words- 
 worth is, after that of Shakespeare and Milton, of which 
 all the world now recognizes the worth, undoubtedly the 
 most considerable in our language from the Elizabethan age 
 to the present time. Chaucer is anterior, and on other 
 grounds, too, he cannot well be brought into the compari- 
 son. But taking the roll of our chief poetical names, beside 
 Shakespeare and Milton, from the age of Elizabeth down, 
 and going through it, — Spenser, Dry den, Pope, Gray, 
 Goldsmith, Cowper, Burns, Coleridge, Scott, Campbell, 
 Moore, Byron, Shelley, Keats (I mention those only who 
 are dead), — I think it certain that Wordsworth's name 
 deserves to stand, and will finally stand, above them all. 
 Wordsworth seems to me to have left a body of poetical 
 work superior in power, in interest, in the qualities which 
 give enduring freshness, to that which any of the others 
 
INTRODUCTION. 27 
 
 have left. No poet, perhaps, is so evidently filled with 
 a new and sacred energy when the inspiration is upon 
 him. He is one of the chief glories of English poetry, 
 and by nothing is England so glorious as by her poetry. 
 Let us lay aside every weight which hinders our getting 
 him recognized as this, and let our one study be to bring 
 to pass, as widely as possible and as truly as possible, 
 his own word concerning his poems : ' They will cooperate 
 with the benign tendencies in human nature and society, 
 and will, in their degree, be efficacious in making men 
 wiser, better, and happier.'" — Selected. 
 
 "Wordsworth's mission has been a lofty one and loftily 
 fulfilled, — to raise the mean, to dignify the obscure, to 
 reveal that natural nobility which lurks under the russet 
 gown and the clouted shoe; to extract poetry from the 
 cottage, from the turf-fire upon its hearth, and from the 
 solitary shieling, and from the mountain tarn, and from 
 the gray ancestral stone at the door of the mansion, and 
 from the lichens of the rock, and from the furze of the mel- 
 ancholy moor It was to interweave the deductions 
 
 of a subtle philosophy with ' the short and simple annals 
 of the poor.' And how to the waste and meaningless 
 parts of creation has he, above all men, given a voice, an 
 intelligence, a beauty. The sweet and solitary laugh of a 
 joyous female, echoing among the hills, is to the ear more 
 delightful than the music of many forests. A wooden bowl 
 is dipped into the well, and comes out heavy, not merely 
 with water, but with the weight of his thoughts. 
 
 "A village drum, touched by the strong finger of his 
 
28 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 genius, produces a voice which is poetry. A thorn on the 
 summit of a hill, 'known to every star and every wind 
 that blows/ bending and whispering over a maniac, becomes 
 a banner staff to his imagination. A silent tarn collects 
 within and without it the sad and terrible histories of a 
 sea, and a fern-stalk floating on its surface has the interest 
 
 of a forest of masts 
 
 "If he skates, it is ' across the image of a star.' Icicles 
 are to him things of imagination; a snow-ball is a Mount 
 Blanc ; a day-dream among the hills of more importance than 
 the dates and epochs of an empire." — George Gilfillan. 
 
 " There are those who refuse to call Wordsworth a great 
 poet, for the reason that there are so many commonplace 
 and prosaic pages in his collected works. But there are 
 two reasons for calling him great which these critics over- 
 look. First, the large body of genuine poetry which these 
 works contain ; and, secondly, the rare bent and insight 
 which these works have communicated to literature. The 
 Sonnets of Wordsworth constitute of themselves our noblest 
 collection after those of Shakespeare and Milton, and there 
 is a grave and serious beauty even in poems as long as 
 the ' Prelude' and the 'Excursion.' His chief claim to 
 greatness, however, is this, that he has not only appre- 
 hended and expressed the divinity of nature as it had 
 never been apprehended and expressed before, but that 
 he has done this in such a way as to mold and change the 
 poetry of the country and of the world and to begin a new 
 epoch in the history of literature." — A. H. Strong. 
 
INTRODUCTION. 29 
 
 It may be that his manly chant, beside 
 
 More dainty numbers, seems a rustic tune ; 
 
 It may be that thought has broadened since he died 
 Upon the century's noon : 
 
 Enough that there is none since risen who sings 
 
 A song so gotten of the immortal soul, 
 
 So instant from the vital point of things 
 
 Which is our source and goal : 
 
 And though at touch of later hands there float 
 
 More artful tones than from his lyre he drew, 
 
 Ages may pass ere trills another note 
 
 So sweet, so great, so true." 
 
 — William Watson. 
 
 ' He spoke and loosed our hearts in tears ; 
 He laid us as we lay at birth, 
 On the cool flowery lap of earth ; 
 Smiles broke from us and we had ease ; 
 The hills were round us, and the breeze 
 Went o'er the sunlight fields again ; 
 Our foreheads felt the wind and rain, 
 Our youth return' d ; for there was shed 
 On spirits that had long been dead, 
 Spirits dried up and closely furl'd, 
 
 The freshness of the early world." 
 
 — Matthew Arnold. 
 
 THE EXCURSION. 
 
 The "Excursion" is Wordsworth's longest poem. It was 
 published in 1814, although large portions of it were writ- 
 
30 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 ten several years before. Wordsworth intended to use it 
 as the second part of a still longer poem to be called " The 
 Recluse." Of this larger work we have, besides "The 
 Excursion," only the closing lines of the first part. Words- 
 worth planned, but did not produce, the third part. His 
 conceptions of human life, intended for this portion, found 
 their way into some of his later poems. 
 
 " The Excursion " is the record of Wordsworth's purpose 
 to build up something on which his fame might perma- 
 nently rest. He believed that in order to do this he must 
 write on philosophical subjects, though he disclaimed all 
 " intention of formally announcing a system." If the poet 
 succeeds in stirring up in the mind " clear thought, lively 
 images, and strong feelings," the reader can frame his own 
 system. 
 
 In the four books that comprise " The Excursion," sub' 
 jects of a somewhat recondite nature are treated under 
 the following divisions, viz., Book I. "The Wanderer"; 
 Book II. "The Solitary"; Book III. "Despondency"; 
 Book IV. "Despondency Corrected." Instead of calling 
 these poems philosophy, we may better characterize them 
 as casuistry under a philosophic mode of treatment, in un- 
 scholastic and unpedantic language. 
 
 Wordsworth discussed some of the deepest problems in 
 philosophy; but he never assumed to be profound. The 
 dedication of this poem to the Earl of Lonsdale is full of 
 genuine respect, as this quotation shows : — 
 
 " Oft through the fair domains, illustrous peer! 
 In youth I roamed on youthful pleasures bent 
 And mused in rocky cell or sylvan tent, 
 
INTRODUCTION. 31 
 
 Beside swift-flowing Lowther's current clear. 
 — Now, by thy care befriended, I appear 
 Before thee, Lonsdale, and this work present ; 
 A token (may it prove a monument !) 
 Of high respect and gratitude sincere." 
 
 This production of the man with the "wizard imagina- 
 tion" was pronounced "madness." It was the madness 
 which Seneca regarded a proof of genius. Wordsworth 
 presents a fine example of judicious disregard of the carp- 
 ing criticisms of his day. He was actuated by a strict 
 literary conscientiousness which would not yield to the 
 floods of caustic criticism that surged about him. 
 
 Jeffries said of " The Excursion," " This w T ill never do." 
 But it has done well, and holds its own against the echoes 
 of remonstrance that come down to us from the day it was 
 given to the world. As a narrative poem, it lacks dramatic 
 action, which is so prominent a feature of Matthew Arnold's 
 " Sohrab and Kustum," but as a work of broad ethical 
 thinking, chaste spirit, and refined diction, it is of the 
 choicest mold. That a common peddler should converse 
 like a sage, treat the most obscure themes as if he were 
 versed in philosophy, is an incongruity, but the trend of 
 the poem is strong, healthful, wise. 
 
 When one thinks of the varied charm of this poem, he 
 chooses it without hesitation as worthy the attention of the 
 student of English literature. How genuine its intimacy 
 with Nature ! how graphic and at times uplifting its recital 
 of her graces ! " what haunting memories hover around us, 
 deep and eternal, like the undying baritone of the sea ! " 
 How r intense and absorbing the thought ! how broad the 
 
32 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 philosophy of life! how accurate the diagnosis of human 
 motive ! how penetrating the insight into the emotions of 
 the heart ! how vivid the description of domestic devotion, 
 the pathos of domestic sorrow ! 
 
 This discriminating pastoral will amply repay the close, 
 sympathetic study of the student. 
 
SELECTED POEMS OF WORDSWORTH. 
 
 The Excursion — Book First. 
 THE WANDERER. 
 
 ARGUMENT. 
 
 A summer forenoon — The author reaches a ruined cottage upon a 
 common, and there meets with a revered friend, the wanderer, of 
 whose education and course of life he gives an account — The wan- 
 derer, while resting under the shade of the trees that surround the 
 cottage, relates the history of its last inhabitant. 
 
 'Twas summer, and the sun had mounted high 
 
 Southward the landscape indistinctly glared. 
 Through a pale steam ; but all the northern downs, 
 In clearest air ascending, showed far off 
 A surface dappled o'er with shadows flung 5 
 
 From brooding clouds ; shadows that lay in spots 
 Determined and unmoved, with steady beams 
 Of bright and pleasant sunshine interposed ; 
 To him most pleasant who on soft cool moss 
 Extends his careless limbs along the front 10 
 
 Of some huge cave, whose rocky ceiling casts 
 A twilight of its own, an ample shade, 
 Where the wren warbles, while the dreaming man, 
 Half conscious of the soothing melody, 
 With side-long eye looks out upon the scene, 15 
 
 By power of that impending covert, thrown 
 d 33 
 
34 SELECTED POEMS OF WORDSWORTH. 
 
 To finer distance. Mine was at that hour 
 
 Far other lot, yet with good hope that soon 
 
 Under a shade as grateful I should find 
 
 Rest, and be welcomed there to livelier joy. 20 
 
 Across a bare wide common I was toiling 
 
 With languid steps that by the slippery turf 
 
 Were baffled ; nor could my weak arm disperse 
 
 The host of insects gathering round my face, 
 
 And ever with me as I paced along. 25 
 
 Upon that open moorland stood a grove, 
 The wished-for port to which my course was bound. 
 Thither I came, and there, amid the gloom 
 Spread by a brotherhood of lofty elms, 
 Appeared a roofless hut ; four naked walls 30 
 
 That stared upon each other ! — I looked round, 
 And to my wish and to my hope espied 
 The friend I sought ; a man of reverend age, 
 But stout and hale, for travel nnimpaired. 
 There was he seen upon the cottage-bench, 35 
 
 Recumbent in the shade, as if asleep ; 
 An iron-pointed staff lay at his side. 
 
 Him had I marked the day before, — alone 
 And stationed in the public way, with face 
 Turned toward the sun then setting, while that staff 40 
 Afforded, to the figure of the man 
 Detained for contemplation or repose, 
 Graceful support ; his countenance as he stood 
 Was hidden from my view, and he remained 
 Unrecognized; but, stricken by the sight, 45 
 
 With slackened footsteps I advanced, and soon 
 A glad congratulation we exchanged 
 At such unthought-of meeting. — For the night 
 We parted, nothing willingly ; and now 
 
THE WANDERER. 35 
 
 He by appointment waited for me here, 50 
 
 Under the covert of these clustering elms. 
 
 "We were tried friends : amid a pleasant vale, 
 In the antique market- village where was passed 
 My school-time, an apartment he had owned, 
 To which at intervals the wanderer drew, 55 
 
 And found a kind of home or harbor there. 
 He loved me ; from a swarm of rosy boys 
 Singled out me, as he in sport would say, 
 For my grave looks, too thoughtful for my years. 
 As I grew up, it was my best delight 60 
 
 To be his chosen comrade. Many a time, 
 On holidays, we rambled through the woods : 
 We sat, — we walked ; he pleased me with report 
 Of things which he had seen ; and often touched 
 Abstrusest matter, reasonings of the mind 65 
 
 Turned inward ; or at my request would sing 
 Old songs, the product of his native hills ; 
 A skillful distribution of sweet sounds, 
 Feeding the soul, and eagerly imbibed 
 As cool refreshing water, by the care 70 
 
 Of the industrious husbandman, diffused 
 Through a parched meadow-ground, in time of drought. 
 Still deeper welcome found his pure discourse ; 
 How precious, when in riper days I learned 
 To weigh with care his words, and to rejoice 75 
 
 In the plain presence of his dignity ! 
 
 Oh ! many are the poets that are sown 
 By Nature; men endowed with highest gifts, 
 The vision and the faculty divine ; 
 Yet wanting the accomplishment of verse, 80 
 
 (W T hich, in the docile season of their youth, 
 It was denied them to acquire, through lack 
 Of culture and the inspiring aid of books, 
 
36 SELECTED POEMS OF WORDSWORTH. 
 
 Or haply by a temper too severe, 
 
 Or a nice backwardness afraid of shame) 85 
 
 Nor having e'er, as life advanced, been led 
 
 By circumstance to take unto the height 
 
 The measure of themselves, these favored beings, 
 
 All but a scattered few, live out their time, 
 
 Husbanding that which they possess within, 90 
 
 And go to the grave, unthought of. Strongest minds 
 
 Are often those of whom the noisy world 
 
 Hears least ; else surely this man had not left 
 
 His graces unrevealed and unproclaimed. 
 
 But, as the mind was filled with inward light, 95 
 
 So not without distinction had he lived, 
 
 Beloved and honored, — far as he was known. 
 
 And some small portion of his eloquent speech, 
 
 And something that may serve to set in vieAV 
 
 The feeling pleasures of his loneliness, 100 
 
 His observations, and the thoughts his mind 
 
 Had dealt with, I will here record in verse ; 
 
 Which, if with truth it correspond, and sink 
 
 Or rise as venerable nature leads, 
 
 The high and tender muses shall accept 105 
 
 With gracious smile, deliberately pleased, 
 
 And listening time reward with sacred praise. 
 
 Among the hills of Athol he was born ; 
 Where, on a small hereditary farm, 
 An unproductive slip of rugged ground, HO 
 
 His parents, with their numerous offspring, dwelt ; 
 A virtuous household, though exceeding poor ! 
 Pure livers were they all, austere and grave, 
 And fearing God ; the very children taught 
 Stern self-respect, a reverence for God's word, 115 
 
 And an habitual piety, maintained 
 With strictness scarcely known on English ground. 
 
THE WANDERER. 37 
 
 From his sixth year, the boy of whom I speak, 
 In summer, tended cattle on the hills ; 
 But through the inclement and the perilous days 120 
 Of long-continuing winter, he repaired, 
 Equipped with satchel, to a school that stood 
 Sole building on a mountain's dreary edge, 
 Kemote from view of city spire, or sound 
 Of minster clock ! From that bleak tenement 125 
 
 He, many an evening, to his distant home 
 In solitude returning, saw the hills 
 Grow larger in the darkness ; all alone 
 Beheld the stars come out above his head, 
 And traveled through the wood, with no one near 130 
 To whom he might confess the things he saw. 
 
 So the foundations of his mind were laid. 
 In such communion, not from terror free, 
 While yet a child, and long before his time, 
 Had he perceived the presence and the power 135 
 
 Of greatness ; and deep feelings had impressed 
 So vividly great objects, that they lay 
 Upon his mind like substances, whose presence 
 Perplexed the bodily sense. He had received 
 A precious gift ; for, as he grew in years, 140 
 
 With these impressions would he still compare 
 All his remembrances, thoughts, shapes, and forms ; 
 And, being still unsatisfied with aught 
 Of dimmer character, he thence attained 
 An active power to fasten images 145 
 
 Upon his brain ; and on their pictured lines 
 Intensely brooded, even till they acquired 
 The liveliness of dreams. Nor did he fail, 
 While yet a child, with a child's eagerness 
 Incessantly to turn his ear and eye 150 
 
 On all things which the moving seasons brought 
 
38 SELECTED POEMS OF WORDSWORTH. 
 
 To feed such appetite, — nor this alone 
 
 Appeased his yearning : — in the after-day 
 
 Of boyhood, many an hour in caves forlorn, 
 
 And 'mid the hollow depths of naked crags 155 
 
 He sat, and even in their fixed lineaments, 
 
 Or from the power of a peculiar eye, 
 
 Or by creative feeling overborne, 
 
 Or by predominance of thought oppressed, 
 
 Even in their fixed and steady lineaments 160 
 
 He traced an ebbing and a flowing mind, 
 
 Expression ever varying ! 
 
 Thus informed, 
 He had small need of books ; for many a tale 
 Traditionary round the mountains hung, 
 And many a legend, peopling the dark woods, 165 
 
 Nourished imagination in her growth, 
 And gave the mind that apprehensive power 
 By which she is made quick to recognize 
 The moral properties and scope of things. 
 But eagerly he read, and read again, 170 
 
 Whate'er the minister's old shelf supplied ; 
 The life and death of martyrs, who sustained, 
 With will inflexible, those fearful pangs 
 Triumphantly displayed in records left 
 Of persecution, and the covenant — times 175 
 
 Whose echo rings through Scotland to this hour ! 
 And there, by lucky hap, had been preserved 
 A straggling volume, torn and incomplete, 
 That left half-told the preternatural tale, 
 Romance of giants, chronicle of fiends, 180 
 
 Profuse in garniture of wooden cuts 
 Strange and uncouth; dire faces, figures dire, 
 Sharp-kneed, sharp-elbowed, and lean-ankled too, 
 With long and ghostly shanks, — forms which once seen 
 Could never be forgotten ! 
 
 In his heart, 185 
 
THE WANDBKEK, 39 
 
 Where fear sat thus, a cherished visitant, 
 
 Was wanting yet the pure delight of love 
 
 By sound diffused, or by the breathing air, 
 
 Or by the silent looks of happy things, 
 
 Or flowing from the universal face 190 
 
 Of earth and sky. Bnt he had felt the power 
 
 Of Nature and already was prepared, 
 
 By his intense conceptions, to receive 
 
 Deeply the lesson deep of love which he, 
 
 Whom Nature, by whatever means, has taught 195 
 
 To feel but intensely, cannot but receive. 
 
 Such was the boy, — but for the growing youth 
 What soul was his, when, from the naked top 
 Of some bold headland, he beheld the sun 
 Rise up, and bathe the world in light ! 
 
 He looked : 200 
 Ocean and earth, the solid frame of earth 
 And ocean's liquid mass, in gladness lay 
 Beneath him : — Far and wide the clouds were touched, 
 And in their silent faces conld he read 
 Unutterable love. Sound needed none, 205 
 
 Nor any voice of joy ; his spirit drank 
 The spectacle : sensation, soul, and form, 
 All melted into him ; they swallowed up 
 His animal being ; in them did he live, 
 And by them did he live ; they were his life. 210 
 
 In such access of mind, in such high hour 
 Of visitation from the living God, 
 Thought was not ; in enjoyment it expired. 
 No thanks he breathed, he proffered no request ; 
 Rapt into still communion that transcends 215 
 
 The imperfect offices of prayer and praise, 
 His mind was a thanksgiving to the power 
 That made him: it was blessedness and love! 
 
40 SELECTED POEMS OF WORDSWORTH. 
 
 A herdsman on the lonely mountain tops, 
 
 Such intercourse was his, and in this sort 220 
 
 Was his existence oftentimes possessed. 
 
 then how beautiful, how bright, appeared 
 
 The written promise ! Early had he learned 
 
 To reverence the volume that displays 
 
 The mystery, the life which cannot die ; 225 
 
 But in the mountains did he feel his faith. 
 
 All things, responsive to the writing, there 
 
 Breathed immortality, revolving life, 
 
 And greatness still revolving ; infinite : 
 
 There littleness was not; the least of things 230 
 
 Seemed infinite ; and there his spirit shaped 
 
 Her prospects, nor did he believe, — he saw. 
 
 What wonder if his being thus became 
 
 Sublime and comprehensive ! Low desires, 
 
 Low thoughts had there no place ; yet was his heart 235 
 
 Lowly ; for he was meek in gratitude, 
 
 Oft as he called those ecstasies to mind, 
 
 And whence they flowed ; and from them he acquired 
 
 Wisdom, which works through patience; thence he 
 
 learned 
 In oft-recurring hours of sober thought 240 
 
 To look on Nature with a humble heart, 
 Self-questioned where it did not understand, 
 And with a superstitious eye of love. 
 
 So passed the time ; yet to the nearest town 
 He duly went with what small overplus 245 
 
 His earnings might supply, and brought away 
 The book that most had tempted his desires 
 While at the stall he read. Among the hills 
 He gazed upon that mighty orb of song, 
 The divine Milton. Lore of different kind, 250 
 
 The annual savings of a toilsome life, 
 
THE WANDERER. 41 
 
 His schoolmaster supplied ; books that explain 
 
 The purer elements of truth involved 
 
 In lines and numbers, and, by charm severe, 
 
 (Especially perceived where nature droops 255 
 
 And feeling is suppressed,) preserve the mind 
 
 Busy in solitude and poverty. 
 
 These occupations oftentimes deceived 
 
 The listless hours, while in the hollow vale, 
 
 Hollow and green, he lay on the green turf 260 
 
 In pensive idleness. What could he do, 
 
 Thus daily thirsting, in that lonesome life, 
 
 With blind endeavors ? Yet, still uppermost, 
 
 Nature was at his heart as if he felt, 
 
 Though yet he knew not how, a wasting power 265 
 
 In all things that from her sweet influence 
 
 Might tend to wean him. Therefore with her hues, 
 
 Her forms, and with the spirit of her forms, 
 
 He clothed the nakedness of austere truth. 
 
 While yet he lingered in the rudiments 270 
 
 Of science, and among her simplest laws, 
 
 His triangles they were the stars of heaven, 
 
 The silent stars ! Oft did he take delight 
 
 To measure the altitude of some tall crag 
 
 That is the eagle's birthplace, or some peak 275 
 
 Familiar with forgotten years, that shows, 
 
 Inscribed upon its visionary sides, 
 
 The history of many a winter storm, 
 
 Or obscure records of the path of fire. 
 
 And thus before his eighteenth year was told, 280 
 Accumulated feelings pressed his heart 
 With still increasing weight ; he was o'erpowered 
 By Nature ; by the turbulence subdued 
 Of his own mind ; by mystery and hope, 
 And the first virgin passion of a soul 285 
 
42 SELECTED POEMS OF WORDSWORTH. 
 
 Communing with the glorious universe. 
 
 Full often wished he that the winds might rage 
 
 When they were silent : far more fondly now 
 
 Than in his earlier season did he love 
 
 Tempestuous nights, — the conflict and the sounds 290 
 
 That live in darkness. From his intellect 
 
 And from the stillness of abstracted thought 
 
 He asked repose ; and, failing oft to win 
 
 The peace required, he scanned the laws of light 
 
 Amid the roar of torrents, where they send 295 
 
 From hollow clefts up to the clearer air 
 
 A cloud of mist, that, smitten by the sun, 
 
 Varies its rainbow hues. But vainly thus, 
 
 And vainly by all other means, he strove 
 
 To mitigate the fever of his heart. 300 
 
 In dreams, in study, and in ardent thought, 
 Thus was he reared ; much wanting to assist 
 The growth of intellect, yet gaining more, 
 And every moral feeling of his soul 
 Strengthened and braced, by breathing in content 305 
 The keen, the wholesome air of poverty, 
 And drinking from the well of homely life. 
 — But, from past liberty, and tried restraints, 
 He now was summoned to select the course 
 Of humble industry that promised best 310 
 
 To yield him no unworthy maintenance. 
 Urged by his mother, he essayed to teach 
 A village-school, — but wandering thoughts were then 
 A misery to him ; and the youth resigned 
 A task he was unable to perform. 315 
 
 That stern yet kindly spirit, who constrains 
 The Savoyard to quit his naked rocks, 
 The free-born Swiss to leave his narrow vales, 
 
THE WANDERER. 43 
 
 (Spirit attached to regions mountainous 
 
 Like their own steadfast clouds,) did now impel 320 
 
 His restless mind to look abroad with hope. 
 
 — An irksome drudgery seems it to plod on, 
 Through hot and dusty ways, or pelting storm, 
 A vagrant merchant under a heavy load, 
 
 Bent as he moves, and needing frequent rest ; 325 
 
 Yet do such travelers find their own delight ; 
 
 And their hard service, deemed debasing now, 
 
 Gained merited respect in simpler times ; 
 
 When squire, and priest, and they who round them dwelt 
 
 In rustic sequestration — all dependent 330 
 
 Upon the peddler's toil — supplied their wants, 
 
 Or pleased their fancies, with the wares he brought. 
 
 Not ignorant was the youth that still no few 
 
 Of his adventurous countrymen were led 
 
 By perseverance in this track of life 335 
 
 To competence and ease : — to him it offered 
 
 Attractions manifold ; — and this he chose. 
 
 — His parents on the enterprise bestowed 
 Their farewell benediction, but with hearts 
 Foreboding evil. From his native hills 340 
 He wandered far ; much did he see of men, 
 
 Their manners, their enjoyments, and pursuits, 
 
 Their passions and their feelings ; chiefly those 
 
 Essential and eternal in the heart, 
 
 That, 'mid the simpler forms of rural life, 345 
 
 Exist more simple in their elements, 
 
 And speak a plainer language. In the woods, 
 
 A lone enthusiast, and among the fields, 
 
 Itinerant in this labor, he had passed 
 
 The better portion of his time ; and there 350 
 
 Spontaneously had his affections thriven 
 
 Amid the bounties of the year, the peace 
 
 And liberty of nature ; there he kept 
 
44 SELECTED POEMS OF WORDSWORTH. 
 
 In solitude and solitary thought 
 
 His mind in a just equipoise of love. 355 
 
 Serene it was, unclouded by the cares 
 
 Of ordinary life ; unvexed, unwarped 
 
 By partial bondage. In his steady course, 
 
 No piteous revolutions had he felt, 
 
 No wild varieties of joy and grief. 360 
 
 Unoccupied by sorrow of its own, 
 
 His heart lay open ; and, by nature tuned 
 
 And constant disposition of his thoughts 
 
 To sympathy with man, he was alive 
 
 To all that was enjoyed where'er he went, 365 
 
 And all that was endured ; for, in himself 
 
 Happy, and quiet in his cheerfulness, 
 
 He had no painful pressure from without 
 
 That made him turn aside from wretchedness 
 
 With coward fears. He could afford to surfer 370 
 
 With those whom he saw suffer. Hence it came 
 
 That in our best experience he was rich, 
 
 And in the wisdom of our daily life. 
 
 For hence, minutely, in his various rounds, 
 
 He had observed the progress and decay 375 
 
 Of many minds, of minds and bodies too ; 
 
 The history of many families ; 
 
 How they had prospered ; how they were o'erthrown 
 
 By passion or mischance, or such misrule 
 
 Among the unthinking masters of the earth 380 
 
 As makes the nations groan. 
 
 This active course 
 He followed till provision for his wants 
 Had been obtained ; — the Wanderer then resolved 
 To pass the remnant of his days, untasked 
 With needless services, from hardship free. 385 
 
 His calling laid aside, he lived at ease: 
 But still he loved to pace the public roads 
 
THE WANDERER. 45 
 
 And the wild paths ; and, by the summer's warmth 
 Invited, often would he leave his home 
 And journey far, revisiting the scenes 390 
 
 That to his memory were most endeared. 
 
 — Vigorous in health, of hopeful spirits, undamped 
 By worldly-mindedness or anxious care ; 
 Observant, studious, thoughtful, and refreshed 
 
 By knowledge gathered up from day to day ; 395 
 
 Thus had he lived a long and innocent life. 
 
 The Scottish church, both on himself and those 
 With whom from childhood he grew up, had held 
 The strong hand of her purity ; and still 
 Had watched him with an unrelenting eye. 400 
 
 This he remembered in his riper age 
 With gratitude, and reverential thoughts. 
 But by the native vigor of his mind, 
 By his habitual wanderings out of doors, 
 By loneliness, and goodness, and kind works, 405 
 
 Whate'er, in docile childhood or in youth, 
 He had imbibed of fear or darker thought 
 Was melted all away ; so true was this, 
 That sometimes his religion seemed to me 
 Self-taught, as of a dreamer in the woods ; 410 
 
 Who to the model of his own pure heart 
 Shaped his belief, as grace divine inspired, 
 And human reason dictated with awe. 
 
 — And surely never did there live on earth 
 
 A man of kindlier nature. The rough sports 415 
 
 And teasing ways of children vexed not him ; 
 
 Indulgent listener was he to the tongue 
 
 Of garrulous age ; nor did the sick man's tale, 
 
 To his fraternal sympathy addressed, 
 
 Obtain reluctant hearing. 
 
 Plain his garb ; 420 
 
4G SELECTED POEMS OE WORDSWORTH. 
 
 Such as might suit a rustic sire, prepared 
 
 For Sabbath duties ; yet he was a man 
 
 Whom no one could have passed without remark. 
 
 Active and nervous was his gait ; his limbs 
 
 And his whole figure breathed intelligence. 425 
 
 Time had compressed the freshness of his cheek 
 
 Into a narrower circle of deep red, 
 
 But had not tamed his eye ; that, under brows 
 
 Shaggy and gray, had meanings which it brought 
 
 From years of youth ; which, like a being made 430 
 
 Of many beings, he had wondrous skill 
 
 To blend with knowledge of the years to come, 
 
 Human, or such as lie* beyond the grave. 
 
 So was he framed ; and such his course of life 
 Who now, with no appendage but a staff, 435 
 
 The prized memorial of relinquished toils, 
 Upon that cottage-bench reposed his limbs, 
 Screened from the sun. Supine the wanderer lay, 
 His eyes as if in drowsiness half shut, 
 The shadows of the breezy elms above 440 
 
 Dappling his face. He had not heard the sound 
 Of my approaching steps, and in the shade 
 Unnoticed did I stand some minutes' space. 
 At length I hailed him, seeing that his hat 
 Was moist with water-drops, as if the brim 445 
 
 Had newly-scooped a running stream. He rose, 
 And ere our lively greeting into peace 
 Had settled, " J T is," said I, " a burning day : 
 My lips are parched with thirst, but you, it seems 
 Have somewhere found relief." He, at the word, 450 
 Pointing towards a sweet-brier, bade me climb 
 The fence where that aspiring shrub looked out 
 Upon the public way. It was a plot 
 
THE WANDERER. 47 
 
 Of garden ground run wild, its matted weeds 
 
 Marked with the steps of those, whom, as they passed, 455 
 
 The gooseberry trees that shot in long, lank slips, 
 
 Or currants, hanging from their leafless stems, 
 
 In scanty strings, had tempted to o'erleap 
 
 The broken wall. I looked around, and there, 
 
 Where two tall hedge-rows of thick alder boughs 460 
 
 Joined in a cold damp nook, espied a well 
 
 Shrouded with willow-flowers and plumy fern. 
 
 My thirst I slaked, and, from the cheerless spot 
 
 Withdrawing, straightway to the shade returned 
 
 Where sat the old man on the cottage-bench ; 4G5 
 
 And, while, beside him, with uncovered head, 
 
 I yet was standing, freely to respire, 
 
 And cool my temples in the fanning air, 
 
 Thus did he speak : " I see around me here 
 
 Things which you cannot see : we die, my friend, 470 
 
 Nor we alone, but that which each man loved 
 
 And prized in his peculiar nook of earth 
 
 Dies with him, or is changed ; and very soon 
 
 Even of the good is no memorial left. 
 
 — The poets, in their elegies and songs 475 
 
 Lamenting the departed, call the groves, 
 
 They call upon the hills and streams, to mourn, 
 
 And senseless rocks ; nor idly ; for they speak, 
 
 In these their invocations, with a voice 
 
 Obedient to the strong creative power 480 
 
 Of human passion. Sympathies there are 
 
 More tranquil, yet perhaps of kindred birth, 
 
 That steal upon the meditative mind, 
 
 And grow with thought. Beside yon spring I stood, 
 
 And eyed its waters till we seemed to feel 485 
 
 One sadness, they and I. For them a bond 
 
 Of brotherhood is broken : time has been 
 
 When, every day, the touch of human hand 
 
48 SELECTED POEMS OF WORDSWORTH. 
 
 Dislodged the natural sleep that binds them up 
 
 In mortal stillness ; and they ministered 490 
 
 To human comfort. Stooping down to drink, 
 
 Upon the slimy foot-stone I espied 
 
 The useless fragment of a wooden bowl, 
 
 Green with the moss of years, and subject only 
 
 To the soft handling of the elements : 495 
 
 There let it lie ; — how foolish are such thoughts ! 
 
 Forgive them ; — never, never did my steps 
 
 Approach this door but she who dwelt within 
 
 A daughter's welcome gave me, and I loved her 
 
 As my own child. Oh Sir ! the good die first, 500 
 
 And they whose hearts are dry as summer dust 
 
 Burn to the socket. Many a passenger 
 
 Hath blessed poor Margaret for her gentle looks, 
 
 When she upheld the cool refreshment drawn 
 
 Prom that forsaken spring ; and no one came 505 
 
 But he was welcome ; no one went away 
 
 But that it seemed she loved him. She is dead, 
 
 The light extinguished of her lonely hut, 
 
 The hut itself abandoned to decay, 
 
 And she forgotten in the quiet grave. 510 
 
 " I speak," continued he, " of one whose stock 
 Of virtues bloomed beneath this lowly roof. 
 She was a woman of a steady mind, 
 Tender and deep in her excess of love ; 
 Not speaking much, pleased rather with the joy 515 
 Of her own thoughts : by some especial care 
 Her temper had been framed, as if to make 
 A being, who by adding love to peace 
 Might live on earth a life of happiness. 
 Her wedded partner lacked not on his side 520 
 
 The humble worth that satisfied her heart : 
 Frugal, affectionate, sober, and withal 
 
THE WANDERER. 49 
 
 Keenly industrious. She with pride would tell 
 
 That he was often seated at his loom, 
 
 In summer, ere the mower was abroad 525 
 
 Among the dewy grass, — in early spring, 
 
 Ere the last star had vanished. — They who passed 
 
 At evening, from behind the garden fence 
 
 Might hear his busy spade, which he would ply, 
 
 After his daily work, until the light 530 
 
 Had failed, and every leaf and flower were lost 
 
 In the dark hedges. So their days were spent 
 
 In peace and comfort ; and a pretty boy 
 
 Was their best hope, next to the God in heaven. 
 
 " Not twenty years ago, but you I think 535 
 
 Can scarcely bear it now in mind, there came 
 Two blighting seasons, when the fields were left 
 With half a harvest. It pleased heaven to add 
 A worse affliction in the plague of war : 
 This happy land was stricken to the heart ! 540 
 
 A wanderer then among the cottages, 
 I, with my freight of winter raiment, saw 
 The hardships of that season : many rich 
 Sank down, as in a dream, among the poor ; 
 And of the poor did many cease to be, 545 
 
 And their place knew them not. Meanwhile, abridged 
 Of daily comforts, gladly reconciled 
 To numerous self-denials, Margaret 
 Went struggling on through those calamitous years 
 With cheerful hope, until the second autumn, 550 
 
 When her life's helpmate on a sick-bed lay, 
 Smitten with perilous fever. In disease 
 He lingered long ; and, when his strength returned, 
 He found the little he had stored, to meet 
 The hour of accident or crippling age, 555 
 
 Was all consumed. A second infant now 
 
50 SELECTED POEMS OF WORDSWORTH. 
 
 Was added to the troubles of a time 
 
 Laden, for them and all of their degree, 
 
 With care and sorrow ; shoals of artisans, 
 
 From ill-requited labor turned adrift 560 
 
 Sought daily bread from public charity, 
 
 They, and their wives and children, — happier far 
 
 Could they have lived as do the little birds 
 
 That peck along the hedge-rows, or the kite 
 
 That makes her dwelling on the mountain rocks ! 565 
 
 " A sad reverse it was for him who long- 
 Had filled with plenty, and possessed in peace, 
 This lonely cottage. At the door he stood, 
 And whistled many a snatch of merry tunes 
 That had no mirth in them ; or with his knife 570 
 
 Carved uncouth figures on the heads of sticks — 
 Then, not less idly, sought, through every nook 
 In house or garden, any casual work 
 Of use or ornament ; and with a strange, 
 Amusing, yet uneasy, novelty, 575 
 
 He mingled, where he might, the various tasks 
 Of summer, autumn, winter, and of spring. 
 But this endured not ; his good humor soon 
 Became a weight in which no pleasure was ; 
 And poverty brought on a petted mood 580 
 
 And a sore temper : day by day he drooped, 
 And he would leave his work — and to the town 
 Would turn without an errand his slack steps ; 
 Or wander here and there among the fields. 
 One while he would speak lightly of his babes, 585 
 
 And with a cruel tongue : at other times 
 He tossed them with a false, unnatural joy : 
 And 't was a rueful thing to see the looks 
 Of the poor, innocent children. ' Every smile/ 
 Said Margaret to me, here beneath these trees, 590 
 
THE WANDERER. 51 
 
 ' Made my heart bleed.' " 
 
 At this the wanderer paused ; 
 And, looking up to those enormous elms, 
 He said, " 'T is now the hour of deepest noon. 
 At this still season of repose and peace, 
 This hour when all things which are not at rest 595 
 
 Are cheerful ; while this multitude of flies 
 With tuneful hum is filling all the air ; 
 Why should a tear be on an old man's cheek ? 
 Why should we thus, with an untoward mind, 
 And in the weakness of humanity, 600 
 
 From natural wisdom turn our hearts away ; 
 To natural comfort shut our eyes and ears ; 
 And, feeding on disquiet, thus disturb 
 The calm of nature with our restless thoughts ? " 
 
 He spake with somewhat of a solemn tone : 605 
 
 But, when he ended, there was in his face 
 
 Such easy cheerfulness, a look so mild, 
 
 That for a little time it stole away 
 
 All recollection ; and that simple tale 
 
 Passed from my mind like a forgotten sound. 610 
 
 A while on trivial things Ave held discourse, 
 
 To me soon tasteless. In my own despite, 
 
 I thought of that poor woman as of one 
 
 Whom I had known and loved. He had rehearsed 
 
 Her homely tale with such familiar power, 615 
 
 W T ith such an active countenance, an eye 
 
 So busy, that the things of which he spake 
 
 Seemed present ; and, attention now relaxed, 
 
 A heartfelt chillness crept along my veins. 
 
 I rose ; and, having left the breezy shade, 620 
 
 Stood drinking comfort from the warmer sun, 
 
 That had not cheered me long, ere, looking round 
 
52 SELECTED POEMS OF WORDSWORTH. 
 
 Upon that tranquil ruin, I returned, 
 
 And begged of the old man that, for my sake, 
 
 He would resume his story. 
 
 He replied : 625 
 
 " It were a wantonness, and would demand 
 Severe reproof, if we were men whose hearts 
 Could hold vain dalliance with the misery 
 Even of the dead ; contented thence to draw 
 A momentary pleasure, never marked 630 
 
 By reason, barren of all future good. 
 But we have known that there is often found 
 In mournful thoughts, and always might be found, 
 A power to virtue friendly ; were 't not so, 
 I am a dreamer among men, indeed 635 
 
 An idle dreamer ! 'T is a common tale, 
 An ordinary sorrow of man's life, 
 A tale of silent suffering, hardly clothed 
 In bodily form. — But without further bidding 
 I will proceed. 
 
 " While thus it fared with them, 640 
 To whom this cottage, till those hapless years, 
 Had been a blessed home, it was my chance 
 To travel in a country far remote ; 
 And when these lofty elms once more appeared, 
 What pleasant expectations lured me on 645 
 
 O'er the flat common ! — With quick step I reached 
 The threshold, lifted with light hand the latch ; 
 But, when I entered, Margaret looked at me 
 A little while ; then turned her head away 
 Speechless, — and, sitting down upon a chair, 650 
 
 Wept bitterly. I wist not what to do, ' 
 Nor how to speak to her. Poor wretch ! at last 
 She rose from off her seat, and then, — Sir ! 
 I cannot tell how she pronounced my name : — 
 With fervent love, and with a face of grief 655 
 
THE WANDERER. 53 
 
 Unutterably helpless, and a look 
 
 That seemed to cling upon me, she inquired 
 
 If I had seen her husband. As she spake 
 
 A strange surprise and fear came to my heart, 
 
 Nor had I power to answer ere she told 660 
 
 That he had disappeared, — not two months gone. 
 
 He left his house : two wretched days had past, 
 
 And on the third, as wistfully she raised 
 
 Her head from off her pillow, to look forth, 
 
 Like one in trouble, for returning light, 665 
 
 Within her chamber-casement she espied 
 
 A folded paper, lying as if placed 
 
 To meet her waking eyes. This tremblingly 
 
 She opened, — found no writing, but beheld 
 
 Pieces of money carefully enclosed, 670 
 
 Silver and gold. ' I shuddered at the sight,' 
 
 Said Margaret, ' for I knew it was his hand 
 
 That must have placed it there ; and ere that day 
 
 Was ended, that long anxious day, I learned, 
 
 From one who by my husband had been sent 675 
 
 With the sad news, that he had joined a troop 
 
 Of soldiers, going to a distant land. 
 
 — He left me thus, — he could not gather heart 
 
 To take a farewell of me ; for he feared 
 
 That I should follow with my babes, and sink 680 
 
 Beneath the misery of that wandering life/ 
 
 "This tale did Margaret tell with many tears : 
 And, when she ended, I had little power 
 To give her comfort, and was glad to take 
 Such words of hope from her own mouth as served 685 
 To cheer us both. But long we had not talked 
 Ere we built up a pile of better thoughts, 
 And with a brighter eye she looked around, 
 As if she had been shedding tears of joy. 
 
54 SELECTED POEMS OF WORDSWORTH. 
 
 We parted. — T was the time of early spring ; 690 
 
 I left her busy with her garden tools ; 
 
 And well remember, o'er that fence she looked, 
 
 And, while I paced along the foot-way path, 
 
 Called out, and sent a blessing after me, 
 
 With tender cheerfulness, and with a voice 695 
 
 That seemed the very sound of happy thoughts. 
 
 " I roved o'er many a hill and many a dale, 
 With my accustomed load ; in heat and cold, 
 Through many a wood and many an open ground, 
 In sunshine and in shade, in wet and fair, 700 
 
 Drooping or blithe of heart, as might befall ; 
 My best companions now the driving winds, 
 And now the * trotting brooks ' and whispering trees, 
 And now the music of my own sad steps, 
 With many a short-lived thought that passed between, 705 
 And disappeared. 
 
 " I journeyed back this way, 
 When, in the warmth of midsummer, the wheat 
 Was yellow ; and the soft and bladed grass, 
 Springing afresh, had o'er the hay-field spread 
 Its tender verdure. At the door arrived, 710 
 
 I found that she was absent. In the shade, 
 Where now we sit, I waited her return. 
 Her cottage, then a cheerful object, wore 
 Its customary look, — only, it seemed, 
 The honeysuckle, crowding round the porch, 715 
 
 Hung down in heavier tufts ; and that bright weed, 
 The yellow stone-crop, suffered to take root 
 Along the window's edge, profusely grew, 
 Blinding the lower panes. I turned aside, 
 And strolled into her garden. It appeared 720 
 
 To lag behind the season, and had lost 
 Its pride of neatness. Daisy-flowers and thrift 
 
THE WANDERER. 55 
 
 Had broken their trim border-lines, and straggled 
 
 O'er paths they used to deck : carnations, once 
 
 Prized for surpassing beauty, and no less 725 
 
 For the peculiar pains they had required, 
 
 Declined their languid heads, wanting support. 
 
 The cumbrous bind-weed, with its wreaths and bells, 
 
 Had twined about her two small rows of peas, 
 
 And dragged them to the earth. 
 
 " Ere this an hour 730 
 Was wasted. — Back I turned my restless steps ; 
 A stranger passed ; and, guessing whom I sought, 
 He said that she was used to ramble far. — 
 The sun was sinking in the west ; and now 
 I sat with sad impatience. From within 735 
 
 Her solitary infant cried aloud ; 
 Then, like a blast that dies away self-stilled, 
 The voice was silent. From the bench I rose ; 
 But neither could divert nor soothe my thoughts. 
 The spot, though fair, was very desolate, — 740 
 
 The longer I remained, more desolate : 
 And, looking round me, now I first observed 
 The corner stones, on either side the porch, 
 With dull red stains discolored, and stuck o'er 
 With tufts and hairs of wool, as if the sheep, 745 
 
 That fed upon the common, thither came 
 Familiarly, and found a couching-place 
 Even at her threshold. Deeper shadows fell 
 From these tall elms ; the cottage-clock struck eight : — 
 I turned, and saw her distant a few steps. 750 
 
 Her face was pale and thin, — her figure, too, 
 Was changed. As she unlocked the door, she said, 
 * It grieves me you have waited here so long, 
 But, in good truth, I 've wandered much of late ; 
 And sometimes — to my shame I speak — have need 755 
 Of my best prayers to bring me back again.' 
 
56 SELECTED POEMS OF WORDSWORTH. 
 
 While on the board she spread our evening meal, 
 
 She told me — interrupting not the work 
 
 Which gave employment to her listless hands — 
 
 That she had parted with her elder child ; 760 
 
 To a kind master on a distant farm 
 
 Now happily apprenticed. — ' I perceive 
 
 You look at me, and you have cause ; to-day 
 
 I have been traveling far ; and many days 
 
 About the fields I wander, knowing this 765 
 
 Only, that what I seek I cannot find ; 
 
 And so I waste my time : for I am changed ; 
 
 And to myself,' said she, ' have done much wrong 
 
 And to this helpless infant. I have slept 
 
 Weeping, and weeping have I waked ; my tears 770 
 
 Have flowed as if my body were not such 
 
 As others are ; and I could never die. 
 
 But I am now in mind and in my heart 
 
 More easy ; and I hope,' said she, ' that God 
 
 Will give me patience to endure the things 775 
 
 Which I behold at home.' 
 
 " It would have grieved 
 Your very soul to see her. Sir, I feel 
 The story linger in my heart ; I fear 
 'T is long and tedious ; but my spirit clings 
 To that poor woman : — so familiarly 780 
 
 Do I perceive her manner, and her look, 
 And presence ; and so deeply do I feel 
 Her goodness, that, not seldom, in my walks 
 A momentary trance comes over me ; 
 And to myself I seem to muse on one 785 
 
 By sorrow laid asleep ; or borne away, 
 A human being destined to awake 
 To human life, or something very near 
 To human life, when he shall come again 
 For whom she suffered. Yes, it would have grieved 790 
 
THE WANDERER. 57 
 
 Your very soul to see her : evermore 
 
 Her eyelids drooped, her eyes downward were cast ; 
 
 And, when she at her table gave me food, 
 
 She did not look at me. Her voice was low, 
 
 Her body was subdued. In every act 795 
 
 Pertaining to her house-affairs, appeared 
 
 The careless stillness of a thinking mind 
 
 Self-occupied ; to which all outward things 
 
 Are like an idle matter. Still she sighed, 
 
 But yet no motion of the breast was seen, 8 oo 
 
 No heaving of the heart. While by the fire 
 
 We sat together, sighs came on my ear, 
 
 I knew not how, and hardly whence they came. 
 
 " Ere my departure, to her care I gave, 
 For her son's use, some tokens of regard, 8 05 
 
 Which with a look of welcome she received • 
 And I exhorted her to place her trust 
 In God's good love, and seek his help by prayer. 
 I took my staff, and, when I kissed her babe, 
 The tears stood in her eyes. I left her then' 810 
 
 With the best hope and comfort I could give : 
 She thanked me for my wish ; — but for my hope 
 It seemed she did not thank me. 
 
 " I returned, 
 And took my rounds along this road again 
 When on its sunny bank the primrose flower 8i5 
 
 Peeped forth, to give an earnest of the spring. 
 I found her sad and drooping: she had learned 
 No tidings of her husband ; if he lived, 
 She knew not that he lived ; if he were dead, 
 She knew not he was dead. She seemed the same 82 o 
 In person and appearance ; but her house 
 Bespake a sleepy hand of negligence ; 
 The floor was neither dry nor neat, the hearth 
 
58 SELECTED POEMS OF WORDSWORTH. 
 
 Was comfortless, and her small lot of books, 
 
 Which, in the cottage-window, heretofore 825 
 
 Had been piled up against the corner panes 
 
 In seemly order, now, with straggling leaves 
 
 Lay scattered here and there, open or shut, 
 
 As they had chanced to fall. Her infant babe 
 
 Had from his mother caught the trick of grief, 830 
 
 And sighed among its playthings. I withdrew, 
 
 And, once again, entering the garden saw, 
 
 More plainly still, that poverty and grief 
 
 Were now come nearer to her : weeds defaced 
 
 The hardened soil, and knots of withered grass : 835 
 
 No ridges there appeared of clear black mold, 
 
 No winter greenness ; of her herbs and flowers, 
 
 It seemed the better part was gnawed away 
 
 Or trampled into earth ; a chain of straw, 
 
 Which had been twined about the slender stem 840 
 
 Of a young apple tree, lay at its root ; 
 
 The bark was nibbled round by truant sheep. 
 
 — Margaret stood near, her infant in her arms, 
 
 And, noting that my eye was on the tree, 
 
 She said, ' I fear it will be dead and gone 845 
 
 Ere Robert come again.' When to the house 
 
 We had returned together, she inquired 
 
 If I had any hope : — but for her babe 
 
 And for her little orphan boy, she said, 
 
 She had no wish to live, that she must die 850 
 
 Of sorrow. Yet I saw the idle loom 
 
 Still in its place ; his Sunday garments hung 
 
 Upon the self-same nail ; his very staff 
 
 Stood undisturbed behind the door. 
 
 "And when, 
 In bleak December, I retraced this way, 855 
 
 She told me that her little babe was dead, 
 And she was left alone. She now, released 
 
THE WANDERER. 59 
 
 From her maternal cares, had taken up 
 
 The employment common through these wilds, and 
 
 gained, 
 By spinning hemp, a pittance for herself ; 860 
 
 And for this end had hired a neighbor's boy 
 To give her needful help. That very time 
 Most willingly she put her work aside, 
 And walked with me along the miry road, 
 Heedless how far ; and, in such piteous sort 865 
 
 That any heart had ached to hear her, begged 
 That, whereso'er I went, I still would ask 
 For him whom she had lost. We parted then — 
 Our final parting ; for from that time forth 
 Did many seasons pass ere I returned 870 
 
 Into this tract again. 
 
 " Nine tedious years ; 
 From their first separation, nine long years, 
 She lingered in unquiet widowhood ; 
 A wife and widow. Needs must it have been 
 A sore heart-wasting ! I have heard, my friend, 875 
 That in yon arbor oftentimes she sat 
 Alone, through half the vacant Sabbath day ; 
 And, if a dog passed by, she still would quit 
 The shade, and look abroad. On this old bench 
 For hours she sat ; and evermore her eye 880 
 
 Was busy in the distance, shaping things 
 That made her heart beat quick. You see that path, 
 Now faint, — the grass has crept o'er its gray line ; 
 There, to and fro, she paced through many a day 
 Of the warm summer, from a belt of hemp 885 
 
 That girt her waist, spinning the long-drawn thread 
 With backward steps. Yet ever as there passed 
 A man whose garments showed the soldier's red, 
 Or crippled mendicant in sailor's garb, 
 The little child who sat to turn the wheel 890 
 
60 SELECTED POEMS OF WORDSWORTH. 
 
 Ceased from his task ; and she with faltering voice 
 
 Made many a fond inquiry ; and when they, 
 
 Whose presence gave no comfort, Avere gone by, 
 
 Her heart was still more sad. And by yon gate, 
 
 That bars the traveler's road, she often stood, 895 
 
 And when a stranger horseman came, the latch 
 
 Would lift, and in his face look wistfully ; 
 
 Most happy, if, from aught discovered there 
 
 Of tender feeling, she might dare repeat 
 
 The same sad question. Meanwhile her poor hut 900 
 
 Sank to decay ; for he was gone, whose hand, 
 
 At the first nipping of October frost, 
 
 Closed up each chink, and with fresh bands of straw 
 
 Checkered the green-grown thatch. And so she lived 
 
 Through the long winter, reckless and alone ; 905 
 
 Until her house by frost, and thaw, and rain, 
 
 Was sapped ; and while she slept, the nightly damps 
 
 Did chill her breast ; and in the stormy day 
 
 Her tattered clothes were ruffled by the wind, 
 
 Even at the side of her own fire. Yet still 910 
 
 She loved this wretched spot, nor would for worlds 
 
 Have parted hence ; and still that length of road, 
 
 And this rude bench, one torturing hope endeared, 
 
 Fast rooted at her heart : and here, my friend, 
 
 In sickness she remained ; and here she died ; 915 
 
 Last human tenant of these ruined walls ! " 
 
 The old man ceased : he saw that I was moved ; 
 From that low bench rising instinctively, 
 I turned aside in weakness, nor had power 
 To thank him for the tale which he had told. 920 
 
 I stood, and leaning, o'er the garden wall, 
 Eeviewed that woman's sufferings ; and it seemed 
 To comfort me while with a brother's love 
 I blessed her in the impotence of grief. 
 
THE WANDERER. 61 
 
 Then towards the cottage I returned ; and traced 925 
 
 Fondly, though with an interest more mild, 
 
 That secret spirit of humanity 
 
 Which, 'mid the calm, oblivious tendencies 
 
 Of nature, 'mid her plants, and weeds, and flowers, 
 
 And silent overgrowings, still survived. 930 
 
 The old man, noting this, resumed, and said : 
 
 " My friend ! enough to sorrow you have given, 
 
 The purposes of wisdom ask no more : 
 
 Nor more would she have craved as due to one 
 
 Who, in her worst distress, had ofttimes felt 935 
 
 The unbounded might of prayer ; and learned, with soul 
 
 Fixed on the cross, that consolation springs, 
 
 From sources deeper far than deepest pain, 
 
 For the meek sufferer. Why then should we read 
 
 The forms of things with an unworthy eye ? 940 
 
 She sleeps in the calm earth, and peace is here. 
 
 I well remember that those very plumes, 
 
 Those weeds, and the high spear-grass on that wall, 
 
 By mist and silent rain-drops silvered o'er, 
 
 As once I passed, into my heart conveyed 945 
 
 So still an image of tranquillity, 
 
 So calm and still, and looked so beautiful 
 
 Amid the uneasy thoughts which filled my mind, 
 
 That what we feel of sorrow and despair 
 
 From ruin and from change, and all the grief 950 
 
 That passing shows of being leave behind, 
 
 Appeared an idle dream, that could maintain, 
 
 Nowhere, dominion o'er the enlightened spirit 
 
 Whose meditative sympathies repose 
 
 Upon the breast of faith. I turned away, 955 
 
 And walked along my road in happiness." 
 
 He ceased. Ere long the sun declining shot 
 A slant and mellow radiance, which began 
 
62 SELECTED POEMS OF WORDSWORTH. 
 
 To fall upon us, while, beneath the trees, 
 
 We sat on that low bench : and now we felt, 960 
 
 Admonished thus, the sweet hour coming on. 
 
 A linnet warbled from those lofty elms, 
 
 A thrush sang loud, and other melodies, 
 
 At distance heard, peopled the milder air. 
 
 The old man rose, and, with a sprightly mien 965 
 
 Of hopeful preparation, grasped his staff ; 
 
 Together casting then a farewell look 
 
 Upon those silent walls, we left the shade ; 
 
 And, ere the stars were visible, had reached 
 
 A village-inn, — our evening resting-place. 970 
 
 ALICE FELL; 
 
 OR, POVERTY. 
 
 Written to gratify Mr. Grahame, of Glasgow, brother of the author 
 of The Sabbath. He was a zealous coadjutor of Mr. Clarkson, and a 
 man of ardent humanity. The incident had happened to himself, and 
 he urged me to put it into verse for humanity's sake. The humble- 
 ness, meanness, if you like, of the subject, together with the homely 
 mode of treating it, brought upon me a world of ridicule by the small 
 critics, so that in policy I excluded it from many editions of my poems, 
 till it was restored at the request of some of my friends, in particular 
 my son-in-law, Edward Quillinan. 
 
 The post-boy drove with fierce career, 
 
 For threatening clouds the moon had drowned, 
 
 When, as we hurried on, my ear 
 
 Was smitten with a startling sound. 
 
 As if the wind blew many ways, 
 I heard the sound, — and more and more ; 
 It seemed to follow with the chaise, 
 And still I heard it as before. 
 
ALICE FELL 63 
 
 At length I to the boy called out. 
 He stopped his horses at the word, 
 But neither cry, nor voice, nor shout, 
 Nor aught else like it, could be heard. 
 
 The boy then smacked his whip, and fast 
 The horses scampered through the rain ; 
 But, hearing soon upon the blast 
 The cry, I bade him halt again. 
 
 Forthwith alighting on the ground, 
 
 " Whence comes," said I, " this piteous moan ? " 
 
 And there a little girl I found, 
 
 Sitting behind the chaise, alone. 
 
 " My cloak ! " no other word she spake, 
 But loud and bitterly she wept, 
 As if her innocent heart would break ; 
 And down from off her seat she leapt. 
 
 " What ails you, child ? " She sobbed, " Look here ! " 
 
 I saw it in the wheel entangled, 
 
 A weather-beaten rag as e'er 
 
 From any garden scarecrow dangled. 
 
 There, twisted between nave and spoke, 
 It hung, nor could at once be freed ; 
 But our joint pains unloosed the cloak, 
 A miserable rag indeed ! 
 
 " And whither are you going, child, 
 To-night, along these lonesome ways ? " 
 " To Durham, " answered she, half wild. 
 " Then come with me into the chaise." 
 
 Insensible to all relief 
 
 Sat the poor girl, and forth did send 
 
64 SELECTED POEMS OF WORDSWORTH. 
 
 Sob after sob, as if her grief 
 Could never, never have an end. 
 
 " My child, in Durham do you dwell ? " 
 She checked herself in her distress, 
 And said, " My name is Alice Fell ; 
 I'm fatherless and motherless. 
 
 " And I to Durham, Sir, belong." 
 Again, as if the thought would choke 
 Her very heart, her grief grew strong ; 
 And all was for her tattered cloak ! 
 
 The chaise drove on ; our journey's end 
 Was nigh ; and, sitting by my side, 
 As if she had lost her only friend 
 She wept, nor would be pacified. 
 
 Up to the tavern door we post ; 
 Of Alice and her grief I told ; 
 And I gave money to the host, 
 To buy a new cloak for the old. 
 
 " And let it be of duffel gray, 
 As warm a cloak as man can sell ! " 
 Proud creature was she the next day, 
 The little orphan, Alice Fell ! 
 
 LUCY GEAY; 
 
 OR, SOLITUDE. 
 
 Oft I had heard of Lucy Gray : 
 And, when I crossed the wild, 
 I chanced to see, at break of day, 
 The solitary child. 
 
LUCY GRAY. 65 
 
 No mate, no comrade Lucy knew ; 
 She dwelt on a wide moor, — 
 The sweetest thing that ever grew 
 Beside a human door ! 
 
 You yet may spy the fawn at play, 
 The hare upon the green ; 
 But the sweet face of Lucy Gray 
 Will never more be seen. 
 
 " To-night will be a stormy night, — 
 You to the town must go ; 
 And take a lantern, child, to light 
 Your mother through the snow." 
 
 " That, Father ! will I gladly do : 
 'Tis scarcely afternoon, — 
 The minster-clock has just struck two, 
 And yonder is the moon ! " 
 
 At this the father raised his hook, 
 And snapped a fagot-band ; 
 He plied his work ; — and Lucy took 
 The lantern in her hand. 
 
 Not blither is the mountain roe : 
 With many a wanton stroke 
 Her feet disperse the powdery snow, 
 That rises up like smoke. 
 
 The storm came on before its time : 
 She wandered up and down ; 
 And many a hill did Lucy climb : 
 But never reached the town. 
 
 The wretched parents all that night 
 Went shouting far and wide ; 
 
66 SELECTED POEMS OF WORDSWORTH. 
 
 But there was neither sound nor sight 
 To serve them for a guide. 
 
 At daybreak on the hill they stood 
 That overlooked the moor ; 
 And thence they saw the bridge of wood, 
 A furlong from their door. 
 
 They wept, — and, turning homeward, cried, 
 " In heaven we all shall meet ; " — 
 When in the snow the mother spied 
 The print of Lucy's feet. 
 
 Then downwards from the steep hill's edge 
 They tracked the footmarks small ; 
 And through the broken hawthorn-hedge, 
 And by the long stone wall ; 
 
 And then an open field they crossed : 
 The marks were still the same; 
 They tracked them on, nor ever lost ; 
 And to the bridge they came. 
 
 They followed from the snowy bank 
 Those footmarks, one by one, 
 Into the middle of the plank ; 
 And further there were none ! 
 
 — Yet some maintain that to this day 
 She is a living child ; 
 That you may see sweet Lucy Gray 
 Upon the lonesome wild. 
 
 O'er rough and smooth she trips along, 
 And never looks behind ; 
 And sings a solitary song 
 That whistles in the wind. 
 
WE ARE SEVEN. 67 
 
 WE ARE SEVEN. 
 
 The little girl who is the heroine I met within the area of Goderich 
 Castle, in the year 1793. I composed it while walking in the grove at 
 Alfoxden. My friends will not deem it too trifling to relate, and 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 I should sit down to our little tea-meal with greater pleas- 
 ure if my task was 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." 
 
 I objected to the rhyme, "dear brother Jem," as being ludicrous; but 
 we all enjoyed the joke of hitching in our friend James Tobin's name. 
 
 A simple child, 
 
 That lightly draws its breath, 
 And feels its life in every limb, 
 What should it know of death ? 
 
 I met a little cottage girl : 
 She was eight years old, she said ; 
 Her hair was thick with many a curl 
 That clustered round her head. 
 
 She had a rustic, w r oodland air, 
 And she was wildly clad : 
 Her eyes were fair, and very fair; — 
 Her beauty made me glad. 
 
 " Sisters and brothers, little maid, 
 How many may you be ? " 
 " How many ? Seven in all," she said, 
 And wondering looked at me. 
 
 " And where are they ? I pray you tell." 
 She answered, " Seven are we ; 
 
68 SELECTED POEMS OF WORDSWORTH. 
 
 And two of us at Conway dwell, 
 And two are gone to sea. 
 
 "Two of us in the churchyard lie, 
 My sister and my brother ; 
 And, in the churchyard cottage, I 
 Dwell near them with my mother." 
 
 " You say that two at Conway dwell, 
 And two are gone to sea, 
 Yet ye are seven ! I pray you tell, 
 Sweet maid, how this may be." 
 
 Then did the little maid reply, 
 " Seven boys and girls are we ; 
 Two of us in the churchyard lie, 
 Beneath the churchyard tree." 
 
 " You run about, my little maid, 
 Your limbs they are alive ; 
 If two are in the churchyard laid 
 Then ye are only five." 
 
 " Their graves are green, they may be seen,' 7 
 The little maid replied, 
 
 " Twelve steps or more from my mother's door, 
 And they are side by side. 
 
 " My stockings there I often knit, 
 My kerchief there I hem ; 
 And there upon the ground I sit 
 And sing a song to them. 
 
 "And often after sunset, sir, 
 When it is light and fair, 
 I take my little porringer, 
 And eat my supper there. 
 
WE ARE SEVEN. 69 
 
 " The first that died was sister Jane ; 
 In bed she moaning lay, 
 Till God released her of her pain ; 
 And then she went away. 
 
 " So in the churchyard she was laid ; 
 And, when the grass was dry, 
 Together round her grave we played, 
 My brother John and I. 
 
 " And when the ground was white with snow 
 
 And I could run and slide, 
 
 My brother John was forced to go, 
 
 And he lies by her side." 
 
 " How many are you, then," said I, 
 " If they two are in heaven ? " 
 Quick was the little maid's reply, 
 "0 Master! we are seven." 
 
 " But they are dead ; those two are dead ! 
 Their spirits are in heaven ! " 
 'T was throwing words away ; for still 
 The little maid would have her will, 
 And said, " Nay, we are seven ! " 
 
 THE DAFFODILS. 
 
 I wandered lonely as a cloud 
 
 That floats on high o'er vales and hills, 
 
 When all at once I saw a crowd, 
 
 A host, of golden daffodils, 
 
 Beside the lake, beneath the trees, 
 
 Fluttering: and dancing in the breeze. 
 
70 SELECTED POEMS OF WORDSWORTH. 
 
 Continuous as the stars that shine 
 And twinkle on the milky way, 
 They stretched in never-ending line 
 Along the margin of a bay : 
 Ten thousand saw I at a glance, 
 Tossing their heads in sprightly dance. 
 
 The waves beside them danced ; but they 
 
 Outdid the sparkling waves in glee : 
 
 A poet could not but be gay, 
 
 In such a jocund company : 
 
 I gazed, and gazed, but little thought 
 
 What wealth the show to me had brought 
 
 For oft, when on my couch I lie, 
 In vacant or in pensive mood, 
 They flash upon that inward eye 
 Which is the bliss of solitude ; 
 And then my heart with pleasure fills, 
 And dances with the daffodils. 
 
 TO THE DAISY. 
 
 Her 1 divine skill taught 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 rustelling ; 
 By a daisy whose leaves spread 
 Shut when Titan goes to bed ; 
 Or a shady bush or tree ; 
 She could more infuse in me, 
 Than all nature's beauties can 
 In some other wiser man." 
 
 G. Wither. 
 1 His Muse. 
 
TO THE DAISY. 71 
 
 In youth from rock to rock I went, 
 From hill to hill, in discontent 
 Of pleasure high and turbulent, 
 
 Most pleased when most uneasy ; 
 But now my own delights I make, — 
 My thirst at every rill can slake, 
 And gladly nature's love partake, 
 Of thee, sweet Daisy ! 
 
 Thee winter in the garland wears 
 That thinly decks his few gray hairs ; 
 Spring parts the clouds with softest airs, 
 
 That she may sun thee ; 
 Whole summer-fields are thine by right; 
 And autumn, melancholy wight ! 
 Doth in thy crimson head delight 
 
 When rains are on thee. 
 
 In shoals and bands, a morrice train, 
 Thou greet' st the traveler in the lane ; 
 Pleased at his greeting thee again ; 
 
 Yet nothing daunted, 
 Nor grieved, if thou be set at naught : 
 And oft alone in nooks remote 
 We meet thee, like a pleasant thought, 
 
 When such are wanted. 
 
 Be violets in their sacred mews 
 
 The flowers the wanton zephyrs choose ; 
 
 Proud be the rose, with rains and dews 
 
 Her head impearling ; 
 Thou liv'st with less ambitious aim, 
 Yet hast not gone without thy fame ; 
 Thou art indeed by many a claim 
 
 The poet's darling. 
 
72 SELECTED POEMS OF WORDSWORTH. 
 
 If to a rock from rains he fly, 
 Or, some bright day of April sky, 
 Imprisoned by hot sunshine lie 
 
 Near the green holly, 
 And wearily at length should fare; 
 He needs but look about, and there 
 Thou art ! — a friend at hand, to scare 
 
 His melancholy. 
 
 A hundred times, by rock or bower, 
 Ere thus I have lain couched an hour, 
 Have I derived from thy sweet power 
 
 Some apprehension ; 
 Some steady love ; some brief delight ; 
 Some memory that had taken flight ; 
 Some chime of fancy wrong or right ; 
 
 Or stray invention. 
 
 If stately passions in me burn, 
 
 And one chance look to thee should turn, 
 
 I drink out of an humbler urn 
 
 A lowlier pleasure ; 
 The homely sympathy that heeds 
 The common life, our nature breeds ; 
 A wisdom fitted to the needs 
 
 Of hearts at leisure. 
 
 Fresh-smitten by the morning ray, 
 When thou art up, alert and gay, 
 Then, cheerful flower ! my spirits play 
 
 With kindred gladness : 
 And when, at dusk, by dews opprest 
 Thou sink'st, the image of thy rest 
 Hath often eased my pensive breast 
 
 Of careful sadness. 
 
TO THE SAME FLOWER. 73 
 
 And all day long I number yet, 
 All seasons through, another debt, 
 Which I, wherever thou art met, 
 
 To thee am owing ; 
 An instinct call it, a blind sense ; 
 A happy, genial influence, 
 Coming one knows not how, nor whence, 
 
 Nor whither going. 
 
 Child of the year ! that round dost run 
 Thy pleasant course, — when day's begun 
 As ready to salute the sun 
 
 As lark or leveret, 
 Thy long-lost praise thou shalt regain ; 
 Nor be less dear to future men 
 Than in old time ; — thou not in vain 
 
 Art nature's favorite. 1 
 
 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 commonplace 
 Of nature, with that homely face, 
 And yet with something of a grace, 
 
 Which love makes for thee ! 
 
 Oft on the dappled turf at ease 
 I sit and play with similes, 
 Loose types of things through all degrees, 
 Thoughts of thy raising : 
 
 1 See, in Chaucer and the elder poets, the honors formerly paid to this 
 flower. — W. W. 
 
74 SELECTED POEMS OP WORDSWORTH. 
 
 And many a fond and idle name 
 I give to thee, for praise or blame, 
 As is the humor of the game, 
 While I am gazing. 
 
 A nun demure, of lowly port : 
 
 Or sprightly maiden, of love's court, 
 
 In thy simplicity the sport 
 
 Of all temptations ; 
 A queen in crown of rubies drest ; 
 A starveling in a scanty vest ; 
 Are all, as seems to suit thee best, 
 
 Thy appellations. 
 
 A little cyclops, with one eye 
 Staring to threaten and defy, 
 That thought comes next, — and instantly 
 
 The freak is over, 
 The shape will vanish, — and behold 
 A silver shield with boss of gold, 
 That spreads itself, some faery bold 
 
 In fight to cover ! 
 
 I see thee glittering from afar, — 
 And then thou art a pretty star ; 
 Not quite so fair as many are 
 
 In heaven above thee ! 
 Yet like a star, with glittering crest, 
 Self-poised in air thou seem'st to rest ; — 
 May peace come never to his nest, 
 
 Who shall reprove thee ! 
 
 Bright Flower ! for by that name at last, 
 When all my reveries are past, 
 I call thee, and to that cleave fast, 
 Sweet, silent creature ! 
 
TO THE SMALL CELANDINE. 75 
 
 That breath'st with me in sun and air, 
 Do thou, as thou art wont, repair 
 My heart with gladness, and a share 
 Of thy meek nature ! 
 
 TO THE SMALL CELANDINE. 
 
 WRITTEN AT TOWN-END, GRASMERE. 
 
 It is remarkable that this flower, coming out so early in the spring 
 as it does, and so bright and beautiful, and in such profusion, should 
 not have been noticed earlier in English verse. What adds much to 
 the interest that attends it is its habit of shutting itself up and opening 
 out according to the degree of light and temperature of the air. 
 
 Pansies, lilies, kingcups, daisies, 
 Let them live upon their praises ; 
 Long as there \s a sun that sets, 
 Primroses will have their glory ; 
 Long as there are violets, 
 They will have a place in story : 
 There 's a flower that shall be mine. 
 'T is the little Celandine. 
 
 Eyes of some men travel far 
 For the finding of a star ; 
 Up and down the heavens they go, 
 Men that keep a mighty rout ! 
 I 'm as great as they, I trow, 
 Since the day I found thee out, 
 Little flower ! — I'll make a stir, 
 Like a sage astronomer. 
 
 Modest, yet withal an elf 
 Bold, and lavish of thyself ; 
 Since we needs must first have met, 
 I have seen thee, high and low. 
 
76 SELECTED POEMS OF WORDSWORTH. 
 
 Thirty years or more, and yet 
 'T was a face I did not know : 
 Thou hast now, go where I may, 
 Fifty greetings in a day. 
 
 Ere a leaf is on a bush, 
 In the time before the thrush 
 Has a thought about her nest, 
 Thou wilt come with half a call, 
 Spreading out thy glossy breast 
 Like a careless prodigal ; 
 Telling tales about the sun, 
 When we've little warmth, or none. 
 
 Poets, vain men in their mood ! 
 Travel with the multitude : 
 Never heed them ; I aver 
 That they all are wanton wooers ; 
 But the thrifty cottager, 
 Who stirs little out of doors, 
 Joys to spy thee near at home ; 
 Spring is coming, thou art come ! 
 
 Comfort have thou of thy merit, 
 Kindly, unassuming spirit ! 
 Careless of thy neighborhood, 
 Thou dost show thy pleasant face 
 On the moor, and in the wood, 
 In the lane ; — there 's not a place, 
 Howsoever mean it be, 
 But 't is good enough for thee. 
 
 Ill befall the yellow flowers, 
 Children of the flaring hours ! 
 Buttercups, that will be seen, 
 Whether we will see or no ; 
 
TO A SKYLARK. 77 
 
 Others, too, of lofty mien ; 
 They have done as worldlings do, 
 Taken praise that should be thine, 
 Little, humble Celandine. 
 
 Prophet of delight and mirth, 
 Ill-requited upon earth ; 
 Herald of a mighty band, 
 Of a joyous train ensuing, 
 Serving at my heart's command, 
 Tasks that are no tasks renewing, 
 I will sing, as doth behoove, 
 Hymns in praise of what I love ! 
 
 TO A SKYLAEK. 
 
 FIRST POEM. 
 
 Up with me ! up with me into the clouds ! 
 
 For thy song, lark, is strong ; 
 Up with me ! up with me into the clouds ! 
 
 Singing, singing, 
 With clouds and sky about thee ringing, 
 
 Lift me, guide me till I find 
 That spot which seems so to thy mind ! 
 
 I have walked through wildernesses dreary, 
 
 And to-day my heart is weary ; 
 
 Had I now the wings of a faery, 
 
 Up to thee would I fly. 
 
 There is madness about thee, and joy divine 
 
 In that song of thine ; 
 
 Lift me, guide me high and high 
 
 To thy banqueting-place in the sky. 
 
78 SELECTED POEMS OF WORDSWORTH. 
 
 Joyous as morning, 
 Thou art laughing and scorning ; 
 Thou hast a nest for thy love and thy rest, 
 And, though little troubled with sloth, 
 Drunken lark ! thou wouldst be loth 
 To be such a traveler as I. 
 Happy, happy liver, 
 
 With a soul as strong as a mountain river 
 
 Pouring out praise to the Almighty Giver, 
 
 Joy and jollity be with us both ! 
 
 Alas! my journey, rugged and uneven, 
 
 Through prickly moors or dusty ways must wind ; 
 
 But hearing thee, or others of thy kind, 
 
 As full of gladness and as free of heaven, 
 
 I, with my fate contented, will plod on, 
 
 And hope for higher raptures, when life's day is done. 
 
 SECOND POEM. 
 
 Ethereal minstrel ! pilgrim of the sky ! 
 Dost thou despise the earth where cares abound ? 
 Or, while the wings aspire, are heart and eye 
 Both with thy nest upon the dewy ground ? 
 Thy nest, which thou canst drop into at will, 
 Those quivering wings composed, that music still. 
 
 Leave to the nightingale her shady wood ; 
 
 A privacy of glorious light is thine ; 
 
 Whence thou dost pour upon the world a flood 
 
 Of harmony, with instinct more divine ; 
 
 Type of the wise who soar, bat never roam ; 
 
 True to the kindred points of Heaven and Home. 
 
TO A NIGHTINGALE. 79 
 
 TO A NIGHTINGALE. 
 
 Nightingale ! thou surely art 
 A creature of a " fiery heart " : — 
 
 These notes of thine, — they pierce and pierce 
 
 Tumultuous harmony and fierce ! 
 
 Thou sing'st as if the God of wine 
 
 Had helped thee to a valentine ; 
 
 A song in mockery and despite 
 
 Of shades, and dews, and silent night : 
 
 And steady bliss, and all the loves 
 
 Now sleeping in these peaceful groves. 
 
 1 heard a stock-dove sing or say 
 His homely tale, this very day ; 
 His voice was buried among trees, 
 Yet to be come at by the breeze : 
 
 He did not cease ; but cooed — and cooed ; 
 And somewhat pensively he wooed : 
 He sang of love, with quiet blending, 
 Slow to begin, and never ending ; 
 Of serious faith, and inward glee ; 
 That was the song, — the song for me ! 
 
 TO THE CUCKOO. 
 
 blithe new-comer ! I have heard, 
 
 1 hear thee and rejoice. 
 
 Cuckoo ! shall I call thee bird, 
 Or but a wandering voice ? 
 
 While I am lying on the grass 
 Thy twofold shout I hear, 
 From hill to hill it seems to pass, 
 At once far off, and near. 
 
80 SELECTED POEMS OF WORDSWORTH. 
 
 Though babbling only to the vale, 
 Of sunshine and of flowers, 
 Thou bringest unto me a tale 
 Of visionary hours. 
 
 Thrice welcome, darling of the spring ! 
 
 Even yet thou art to me 
 
 No bird, but an invisible thing, 
 
 A voice, a mystery ; 
 
 The same whom in my schoolboy days 
 I listened to ; that cry 
 Which made me look a thousand ways, 
 In bush, and tree, and sky. 
 
 To seek thee did I often rove 
 Through woods and on the green ; 
 And thou wert still a hope, a love ; 
 Still longed for, never seen. 
 
 And I can listen to thee yet ; 
 Can lie upon the plain 
 And listen, till I do beget 
 That golden time again. 
 
 blessed bird ! the earth we pace 
 Again appears to be 
 An unsubstantial, faery place ; 
 That is fit home for thee ! 
 
 SHE WAS A PHANTOM OF DELIGHT. 
 
 She was a phantom of delight 
 Wlien first she gleamed upon my sight ; 
 A lovely apparition, sent 
 To be a moment's ornament: 
 
THKEE YEAES SHE GREW. 81 
 
 Her eyes as stars of twilight fair ; 
 Like twilight's, too, her dusky hair ; 
 But all things else about her drawn 
 From May-time and the cheerful dawn ; 
 A dancing shape, an image gay, 
 To haunt, to startle, and waylay. 
 
 I saw her upon nearer view, 
 
 A spirit, yet a woman too ! 
 
 Her household motions light and free, 
 
 And steps of virgin liberty ; 
 
 A countenance in which did meet 
 
 Sweet records, promises as sweet ; 
 
 A creature not too bright or good 
 
 For human nature's daily food; 
 
 For transient sorrows, simple wiles, 
 
 Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles. 
 
 And now I see with eye serene 
 The very pulse of the machine ; 
 A being breathing thoughtful breath, 
 A traveler between life and death ; 
 The reason firm, the temperate will, 
 Endurance, foresight, strength, and skill ; 
 A perfect woman, nobly planned, 
 To warn, to comfort, and command ; 
 And yet a spirit still, and bright 
 With something of angelic light. 
 
 THREE YEARS SHE GREW. 
 
 Three years she grew in sun and shower : 
 Then Nature said, "A lovelier flower 
 On earth was never sown ; 
 
 G 
 
82 SELECTED POEMS OF WORDSWORTH. 
 
 This child I to myself will take ; 
 She shall be mine, and I will make 
 A lady of my own. 
 
 " Myself will to my darling be 
 
 Both law and impulse : and with me 
 
 The girl, in rock and plain, 
 
 In earth and heaven, in glade and bower. 
 
 Shall feel an overseeing power 
 
 To kindle or restrain. 
 
 " She shall be sportive as the fawn 
 That wild with glee across the lawn 
 Or up the mountain springs ; 
 And hers shall be the breathing balm, 
 And hers the silence and the calm 
 Of mute, insensate things. 
 
 " The floating clouds their state shall lend 
 
 To her ; for her the willow bend ; 
 
 Nor shall she fail to see, 
 
 Even in the motions of the storm, 
 
 Grace that shall mold the maiden's form 
 
 By silent sympathy. 
 
 " The stars of midnight shall be dear 
 
 To her ; and she shall lean her ear 
 
 In many a secret place 
 
 Where rivulets dance their wayward round, 
 
 And beauty born of murmuring sound 
 
 Shall pass into her face. 
 
 " And vital feelings of delight 
 Shall rear her form to stately height, 
 Her virgin bosom swell : 
 
EXPOSTULATION AND REPLY. 83 
 
 Such thoughts to Lucy I will give 
 While she and I together live 
 Here in this happy dell." 
 
 Thus Nature spake. — The work was done. — 
 
 How soon my Lucy's race was run ! 
 
 She died, and left to me 
 
 This heath, this calm and quiet scene ; 
 
 The memory of what has been, 
 
 And never more will be. 
 
 EXPOSTULATION AND EEPLY. 
 
 " Why, William, on that old gray stone, 
 Thus for the length of half a day, 
 Why, William, sit you thus alone, 
 And dream your time away ? 
 
 " Where are your books ? — that light bequeathed 
 
 To beings else forlorn and blind ! 
 
 Up ! up ! and drink the spirit breathed 
 
 From dead men to their kind. 
 
 " You look round on your Mother Earth, 
 As if she for no purpose bore you ; 
 As if you were her first-born birth, 
 And none had lived before you ! " 
 
 One morning thus, by Esthwaite lake, 
 When life was sweet, I knew not why, 
 To me my good friend Matthew spake, 
 And thus I made reply : — 
 
 " The eye, — it cannot choose but see ; 
 We cannot bid the year be still ; 
 Our bodies feel, where'er they be, 
 Against or with our will. 
 
84 SELECTED POEMS OF WORDSWORTH. 
 
 " Nor less I deem that there are powers 
 Which of themselves our minds impress ; 
 That we can feed this mind of ours 
 In a wise passiveness. 
 
 " Think you, 'mid all this mighty sum 
 Of things forever speaking, 
 That nothing of itself will come, 
 But we must still be seeking ? 
 
 " Then ask not wherefore, here, alone, 
 Conversing as I may, 
 I sit upon this old gray stone, 
 And dream my time away." 
 
 STEPPING WESTWARD. 
 
 While my fellow-traveler and I were walking by the side of Loch 
 Ketterine, one fine evening after sunset, in our road to a hut where, 
 in the course of our tour, we had been hospitably entertained some 
 weeks before, we met, in one of the loneliest parts of that solitary 
 region, two well-dressed women, one of whom said to us, by way of 
 greeting, " What, you are stepping westward ? " 
 
 " What, you are stepping westward ? " — " Yea." 
 
 — 'T would be a wildish destiny, 
 
 If we, who thus together roam 
 
 In a strange land, and far from home, 
 
 Were in this place the guests of chance: 
 
 Yet who would stop, or fear to advance, 
 
 Though home or shelter he had none, 
 
 With such a sky to lead him on ? 
 
 The dewy ground was dark and cold ; 
 Behind, all gloomy to behold ; 
 And stepping westward seemed to be 
 A kind of heavenly destiny : 
 
THE SOLITARY REAPER. 85 
 
 I liked the greeting ; 't was a sound 
 Of something without place or bound; 
 And seemed to give me spiritual right 
 To travel through that region bright. 
 
 The voice was soft, and she who spake 
 
 Was walking by her native lake : 
 
 The salutation had to me 
 
 The very sound of courtesy : 
 
 Its power was felt ; and while my eye 
 
 Was fixed upon the glowing sky, 
 
 The echo of the voice inwrought 
 
 A human sweetness with the thought 
 
 Of traveling through the world that lay 
 
 Before me in my endless way. 
 
 THE SOLITARY REAPER. 
 
 Behold her, single in the field, 
 Yon solitary Highland lass ! 
 Reaping and singing by herself ; 
 Stop here, or gently pass ! 
 Alone she cuts and binds the grain, 
 And sings a melancholy strain ; 
 Oh, listen ! for the vale profound 
 Is overflowing with the sound. 
 
 No nightingale did ever chant 
 More welcome notes to weary bands 
 Of travelers in some shady haunt, 
 Among Arabian sands : 
 A voice so thrilling ne'er was heard 
 In spring-time from the cuckoo-bird, 
 Breaking the silence of the seas 
 Among the farthest Hebrides. 
 
86 SELECTED POEMS OF WORDSWORTH. 
 
 Will no one tell me what she sings ? — 
 
 Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow 
 
 For old, unhappy, far-off things, 
 
 And battles long ago : 
 
 Or is it some more hnmble lay, 
 
 Familiar matter of to-day ? 
 
 Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain, 
 
 That has been, and may be again ? 
 
 Whate'er the theme, the maiden sang 
 As if her song could have no ending; 
 I saw her singing at her work, 
 And o'er the sickle bending ; — 
 I listened, motionless and still ; 
 And, as I mounted up the hill, 
 The music in my heart I bore, 
 Long after it was heard no more. 
 
 SONNET, 
 
 COMPOSED UPON WESTMINSTER BRIDGE. 
 
 Earth has not anything to show more fair : 
 Dull would he be of soul who could pass by 
 A sight so touching in its majesty : 
 This city now doth, like a garment, wear 
 The beauty of the morning ; silent, bare, 
 Ships, towers, domes, theatres, and temples lie 
 Open unto the fields, and to the sky, 
 All bright and glittering in the smokeless air. 
 Never did sun more beautifully steep, 
 In his first splendor, valley, rock, or hill ; 
 Ne'er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep ! 
 The river glideth at his own sweet will : 
 Dear God ! the very houses seem asleep ; 
 And all that mighty heart is lying still ! 
 
TO SLEEP. 87 
 
 TO SLEEP. 
 
 A flock of slieep that leisurely pass by, 
 One after one ; the sound of rain, and bees 
 Murmuring ; the fall of rivers, winds and seas, 
 Smooth fields, white sheets of water, and pure sky ; 
 I have thought of all by turns, and yet to lie 
 Sleepless ! and soon the small birds' melodies 
 Must hear, first uttered from my orchard trees ; 
 And the first cuckoo's melancholy cry. 
 Even thus last night, and two rights more, I lay, 
 And could not win thee, Sleep ! by any stealth ; 
 So do not let me wear to-night away : 
 Without thee what is all the morning's wealth ? 
 Come, blessed barrier between day and day, 
 Dear mother of fresh thoughts and joyous health! 
 
 IT IS A BEAUTEOUS EVENING, CALM AND 
 FREE. 
 
 It is a beauteous evening, calm and free, 
 
 The holy time is quiet as a nun 
 
 Breathless with adoration ; the broad sun 
 
 Is sinking down in its tranquillity ; 
 
 The gentleness of heaven broods o'er the sea. 
 
 Listen ! the mighty Being is awake, 
 
 And doth with his eternal motion make 
 
 A sound like thunder — everlastingly. 
 
 Dear child ! dear girl ! that walkest with me here, 
 
 If thou appear untouched by solemn thought, 
 
 Thy nature is not therefore less divine : 
 
 Thou liest in Abraham's bosom all the year ; 
 
 And worship'st at the temple's inner shrine, 
 
 God being with thee when we know it not. 
 
88 SELECTED POEMS OF WORDSWORTH. 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 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 ! 
 
 This sea that bares her bosom to the moon ; 
 
 The winds that will be howling at all hours, 
 
 And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers ; 
 
 For this, for everything, we are out of tune ; 
 
 It moves us not, — Great God ! F d rather be 
 
 A pagan suckled in a creed outworn ; 
 
 So might I, standing on this pleasant lea, 
 
 Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn ; 
 
 Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea, 
 
 Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn. 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 Most sweet it is with unuplifted eyes 
 
 To pace the ground, if path be there or none, 
 
 While a fair region round the traveler lies 
 
 Which he forbears again to look upon ; 
 
 Pleased rather with some soft ideal scene, 
 
 The work of fancy, or some happy tone 
 
 Of meditation, slipping in between 
 
 The beauty coming and the beauty gone. 
 
 If thought and love desert us, from that day 
 
 Let us break off all commerce with the muse : 
 
 With thought and love companions of our way 
 
 Whate'er the senses take or may refuse, 
 
 The mind's internal heaven shall shed her dews 
 
 Of inspiration on the humblest lay. 
 
A poet's epitaph. 89 
 
 A POET'S EPITAPH. 
 
 Art thou a statist, in the van 
 Of public conflicts trained and bred ? 
 First learn to love one living man ; 
 Then rnay'st thou think upon the dead. 
 
 A lawyer art thou ? — draw not nigh ! 
 Go, carry to some fitter place 
 The keenness of that practiced eye, 
 The hardness of that sallow face. 
 
 Art thou a man of purple cheer ? 
 A rosy man, right plump to see ? 
 Approach ! yet, doctor, not too near : 
 This grave no cushion is for thee. 
 
 Or art thou one of gallant pride, 
 A soldier and no man of chaff ? 
 Welcome ! — but lay thy sword aside, 
 And lean upon a peasant's staff. 
 
 Physician art thou ? — one all eyes, 
 Philosopher ! — a fingering slave, 
 One that would peep and botanize 
 Upon his mother's grave ? 
 
 Wrapt closely in thy sensual fleece, 
 Oh, turn aside, — and take, I pray, 
 That he below may rest in peace, 
 Thy ever-dwindling soul away ! 
 
 A moralist perchance appears ; 
 Led, Heaven knows how ! to this poor sod ; 
 And he has neither eyes nor ears ; 
 Himself his world, and his own God ; 
 
90 SELECTED POEMS OF WORDSWORTH. 
 
 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 ! 
 
 Shut close the door ; press down the latch ; 
 Sleep in thy intellectual crust ; 
 Nor lose ten tickings of thy watch 
 Near this unprofitable dust. 
 
 But who is he, with modest looks, 
 And clad in homely russet-brown ? 
 He murmurs near the running brooks 
 A music sweeter than their own. 
 
 He is retired as noontide dew, 
 Or fountain in a noonday grove ; 
 And you must love him, ere to you 
 He will seem worthy of your love. 
 
 The outward shows of sky and earth, 
 Of hill and valley, he has viewed ; 
 And impulses of deeper birth 
 Have come to him in solitude. 
 
 In common things that round us lie 
 Some random truths he can impart, 
 The harvest of a. quiet eye, 
 That broods and sleeps on his own heart. 
 
 But he is weak ; both man and boy, 
 Hath been an idler in the land, 
 Contented if he might enjoy 
 The things which others understand. 
 
EXTEMPORE EFFUSION UPON THE DEATH OF HOGG. 91 
 
 — Come hither in thy hour of strength ; 
 Come, weak as is a breaking wave ! 
 Here stretch thy body at full length ; 
 Or build thy house upon this grave. 
 
 EXTEMPORE EFFUSION UPON THE DEATH OF 
 JAMES HOGG. 
 
 When first, descending from the moorlands, 
 
 I saw the stream of Yarrow glide 
 
 Along a bare and open valley, 
 
 The Ettrick shepherd was my guide. 
 
 When last along its banks I wandered, 
 Through groves that had begun to shed 
 Their golden leaves upon the pathways, 
 My steps the border-minstrel led. 
 
 The mighty minstrel breathes no longer, 
 'Mid moldering ruins low he lies ; 
 And death upon the braes of Yarrow 
 Has closed the shepherd-poet's eyes ; 
 
 Nor has the rolling year twice measured, 
 From sign to sign, its steadfast course, 
 Since every mortal power of Coleridge 
 Was frozen at its marvelous source ; 
 
 The rapt one, of the godlike forehead, 
 The heaven-eyed creature sleeps in earth ; 
 And Lamb, the frolic and the gentle, 
 Has vanished from his lonely hearth. 
 
 Like clouds that rake the mountain-summits, 
 Or waves that own no curbing hand, 
 How fast has brother followed brother, 
 From sunshine to the sunless land ! 
 
92 SELECTED POEMS OF WORDSWORTH. 
 
 Yet I, whose lids from infant slumber 
 Were earlier raised, remain to hear 
 A timid voice, that asks in whispers, 
 " Who next will drop and disappear ? n 
 
 Our haughty life is crowned with darkness, 
 Like London with its own black wreath, 
 On which, with thee, Crabbe ! forth-looking, 
 I gazed from Hampstead's breezy heath. 
 
 As if but yesterday departed, 
 Thou too art gone before ; but why, 
 O'er ripe fruit, seasonably gathered, 
 Should frail survivors heave a sigh ? 
 
 Mourn rather for that holy Spirit, 
 Sweet as the spring, as ocean deep ; 
 For her who, ere her summer faded, 
 Has sunk into a breathless sleep. 
 
 No more of old romantic sorrows, 
 
 For slaughtered youth or lovelorn maid ! 
 
 With sharper grief is Yarrow smitten, 
 
 And Ettrick mourns with her their poet dead. 
 
 RESOLUTION AND INDEPENDENCE. 
 
 There was a roaring in the wind all night ; 
 
 The rain came heavily and fell in floods ; 
 
 But now the sun is rising calm and bright ; 
 
 The birds are singing in the distant woods ; 
 
 Over his own sweet voice the stock-dove broods ; 
 
 The jay makes answer as the magpie chatters ; 
 
 And all the air is filled with pleasant noise of waters, 
 
RESOLUTION AND INDEPENDENCE. 93 
 
 All things that love the sun are out of doors ; 
 
 The sky rejoices in the morning's birth ; 
 
 The grass is bright with raindrops ; — 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 traveler then upon the moor ; 
 
 I saw the hare that raced about with joy ; 
 
 I heard the woods and distant waters roar ; 
 
 Or heard them not, as happy as a boy : 
 
 The pleasant season did my heart employ : 
 
 My old remembrances went from me wholly ; 
 
 And all the ways of men, so vain and melancholy. 
 
 But, as it sometimes chanceth, from the might 
 Of joy in minds that can no further go, 
 As high as we have mounted in delight 
 In our dejection do we sink as low ; 
 To me that morning did it happen so ; 
 And fears and fancies thick upon me came ; 
 Dim sadness, and blind thoughts, I knew not, nor could 
 name. 
 
 I heard the skylark warbling in the sky ; 
 And I bethought me of the playful hare : 
 Even such a happy child of earth am I ; 
 Even as these blissful creatures do I fare ; 
 Far from the world I walk, and all from care ; 
 But there may come another day to me, — 
 Solitude, pain of heart, distress, and poverty. 
 
 My whole life I have lived in pleasant thought, 
 As if life's business were a summer mood ; 
 As if all needful things would come unsought 
 
94 SELECTED POEMS OF WORDSWORTH. 
 
 To genial faith, still rich in genial good ; 
 
 But how can he expect that others should 
 
 Build for him, sow for him, and at his call 
 
 Love him, who for himself will take no heed at all ? 
 
 I thought of Chatterton, the marvelous 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 we are deified : 
 
 We poets in our youth begin in gladness ; 
 
 But thereof come in the end despondency and madness. 
 
 Now, whether it were by peculiar grace, 
 
 A leading from above, a something given, 
 
 Yet it befell, that, in this lonely place, 
 
 When I with these untoward thoughts had striven, 
 
 Beside a pool bare to the eye of heaven, 
 
 I saw a man before me unawares : 
 
 The oldest man he seemed that ever wore gray hairs. 
 
 As a huge stone is sometimes seen to lie 
 Couched on the bald top of an eminence, 
 Wonder to all who do the same espy, 
 By what means it could thither come, and whence: 
 So that it seems a thing endued with sense ; — 
 Like a sea-beast crawled forth, that on a shelf 
 Of rock or sand reposeth, there to sun itself ; — 
 
 Such seemed this man, not all alive nor dead, 
 
 Nor all asleep, in his extreme old age : 
 
 His body was bent double, feet and head 
 
 Coming together in life's pilgrimage ; 
 
 As if some dire constraint of pain, or rage 
 
 Of sickness felt by him in times long past, 
 
 A more than human weight upon his frame had cast. 
 
RESOLUTION AND INDEPENDENCE. 95 
 
 Himself he propped, limbs, body, and pale face, 
 Upon a long gray staff of shaven wood : 
 And, still as I drew near with gentle pace, 
 Upon the margin of that moorish flood 
 Motionless as a cloud the old man stood, 
 That heareth not the loud winds when they call, 
 And moveth all together, if it move at all. 
 
 At length, himself unsettling, he the pond 
 
 Stirred with his staff, and fixedly did look 
 
 Upon that muddy water, which he conned, 
 
 As if he had been reading in a book : 
 
 And now a stranger's privilege I took ; 
 
 And, drawing to his side, to him did say, 
 
 " This morning gives us promise of a glorious day." 
 
 A gentle answer did the old man make, 
 
 In courteous speech which forth he slowly drew ; 
 
 And him with further words I thus bespake : 
 
 " What occupation do you there pursue ? 
 
 This is a lonesome place for one like you." 
 
 Ere he replied, a flash of mild surprise 
 
 Broke from the sable orbs of his yet vivid eyes. 
 
 His words came feebly, from a feeble chest, 
 
 But each in solemn order followed each, 
 
 With something of a lofty utterance drest, — 
 
 Choice word and measured phrase, above the reach 
 
 Of ordinary men ; a stately speech ; 
 
 Such as grave livers do in Scotland use, 
 
 Religious men, who give to God and man their dues. 
 
 He told, that to these waters he had come 
 To gather leeches, being old and poor : 
 Employment hazardous and wearisome ! 
 And he had many hardships to endure : 
 
96 SELECTED POEMS OF WORDSWORTH. 
 
 From pond to pond he roamed, from moor to moor ; 
 Housing, with God's good help, by choice or chance ; 
 And in this way he gained an honest maintenance. 
 
 The old man still stood talking by my side ; 
 
 But now his voice to me was like a stream 
 
 Scarce heard ; nor word from word could I divide ; 
 
 And the whole body of the man did seem 
 
 Like one whom I had met with in a dream ; 
 
 Or like a man from some far region sent, 
 
 To give me human strength, by apt admonishment. 
 
 My former thoughts returned : the fear that kills 
 
 And hope that is unwilling to be fed ; 
 
 Cold, pain, and labor, and all fleshly ills ; 
 
 And mighty poets in their misery dead. 
 
 — Perplexed, and longing to be comforted, 
 
 My question eagerly did I renew, 
 
 " How is it that you live, and what is it you do ? " 
 
 He with a smile did then his words repeat ; 
 And said, that, gathering leeches, far and wide 
 He traveled ; stirring thus about his feet 
 The waters of the pools where they abide. 
 " Once I could meet with them on every side ; 
 But they have dwindled long by slow decay ; 
 Yet still I persevere, and find them where I may." 
 
 While he was talking thus, the lonely place, 
 
 The old man's shape, and speech, — all troubled me: 
 
 In my mind's eye I seemed to see him pace 
 
 About the weary moors continually, 
 
 Wandering about alone and silently. 
 
 W T hile I these thoughts" within myself pursued, 
 
 He, having made a pause, the same discourse renewed. 
 
ODE TO DUTY. 97 
 
 And soon with this he other matter blended, 
 
 Cheerfully uttered, with demeanor kind, 
 
 But stately in the main ; and when he ended, 
 
 I could have laughed myself to scorn, to find 
 
 In that decrepit man so firm a mind. 
 
 " God," said I, " be my help and stay secure ; 
 
 I '11 think of the leech-gatherer on the lonely moor ! " 
 
 ODE TO DUTY. 
 
 Stern daughter of the Voice of God ! 
 
 Duty ! if that name thou love, 
 
 Who art a light to guide, a rod 
 
 To check the erring, and reprove ; 
 
 Thou, who art victory and law 
 
 When empty terrors overawe, 
 
 From vain temptations dost set free, 
 
 And calm'st the weary strife of frail humanity ! 
 
 There are who ask not if thine eye 
 Be on them ; who, in love and truth, 
 Where no misgiving is, rely 
 Upon the genial sense of youth : 
 Glad hearts ! without reproach or blot ; 
 Who do thy work, and know it not : 
 Oh ! if through confidence misplaced 
 They fail, thy saving arms, dread Power ! around them 
 cast. 
 
 Serene will be our days and bright 
 And happy will our nature be, 
 When love is an unerring light, 
 And joy its own security. 
 And they a blissful course may hold 
 
98 SELECTED POEMS OF WORDSWORTH. 
 
 Even now, who, not unwisely bold, 
 
 Live in the spirit of this creed ; 
 
 Yet seek thy firm support, according to their need. 
 
 I, loving freedom, and untried, 
 
 No sport of every random gust, 
 
 Yet being to myself a guide, 
 
 Too blindly have reposed my trust : 
 
 And oft, when in my heart was heard 
 
 Thy timely mandate, I deferred 
 
 The task, in smoother walks to stray ; 
 
 But thee I now would serve more strictly, if I may. 
 
 Through no disturbance of my soul, 
 
 Or strong compunction in me wrought, 
 
 I supplicate for thy control ; 
 
 But in the quietness of thought ; 
 
 Me this unchartered freedom tires ; 
 
 I feel the weight of chance-desires : 
 
 My hopes no more must change their name, 
 
 I long for a repose that ever is the same. 
 
 Stern Lawgiver ! yet thou dost wear 
 The Godhead's most benignant grace ; 
 Nor know we anything so fair 
 As is the smile upon thy face : 
 Flowers laugh before thee on their beds, 
 And fragrance in thy footing treads ; 
 Thou dost preserve the stars from wrong ; 
 And the most ancient heavens, through Thee, are fresh 
 and strong. 
 
 To humbler functions, awful Power ! 
 I call thee : I myself commend 
 Unto thy guidance from this hour ; 
 Oh, let my weakness have an end ! 
 
CHARACTER OF THE HAPPY WARRIOR. 99 
 
 Give unto me, made lowly wise, 
 
 The spirit of self-sacrifice : 
 
 The confidence of reason give ; 
 
 And in the light of truth thy bondman let me live. 
 
 CHAEACTEE OF THE HAPPY WAEEIOE. 
 
 Many elements of the character here portrayed were found in my 
 brother John, who perished by shipwreck. His messmates used to 
 call him the Philosopher, from which it may be inferred that the quali- 
 ties and dispositions I allude to had not escaped their notice. He 
 greatly valued moral and religious instruction for youth, as tending to 
 make good sailors. The best, he used to say, came from Scotland ; 
 the next to them, from the North of England, especially from West- 
 moreland and Cumberland, where, thanks to the piety and local attach- 
 ments of our ancestors, endowed, or, as they are called, free schools, 
 abound. 
 
 Who is the happy Warrior ? Who is he 
 That every man in arms should wish to be ? 
 — It is the generous spirit, who, when brought 
 Among the tasks of real life, hath wrought 
 Upon the plan that pleased his boyish thought : 
 Whose high endeavors are an inward light 
 That makes the path before him always bright : 
 Who, with a natural instinct to discern 
 W T hat knowledge can perform, is diligent to learn ; 
 Abides by this resolve, and stops not there, 
 But makes his moral being his prime care ; 
 Who, doomed to go in company with pain, 
 And fear, and bloodshed, miserable train ! 
 Turns his necessity to glorious gain ; 
 In face of these doth exercise a power 
 Which is our human nature's highest dower ; 
 Controls them and subdues, transmutes, bereaves 
 Of their bad influence, and their good receives : 
 
 Lore. 
 
100 SELECTED POEMS OF WORDSWORTH. 
 
 By objects, which might force the soul to abate 
 Her feeling, rendered more compassionate ; 
 Is placable, — because occasions rise 
 So often that demand such sacrifice ; 
 More skillful in self-knowledge, even more pure, 
 As tempted more ; more able to endure, 
 As more exposed to suffering and distress ; 
 Thence, also, more alive to tenderness : 
 
 — 'T is he whose law is reason ; who depends 
 Upon that law as on the best of friends ; 
 Whence, in a state where men are tempted still 
 To evil for a guard against worse ill, 
 
 And what in quality or act is best 
 Doth seldom on a right foundation rest ; 
 He labors good on good to fix, and owes 
 To virtue every triumph that he knows : 
 
 — Who, if he rise to station of command, 
 Rises by open means ; and there will stand 
 On honorable terms, or else retire, 
 
 And in himself possess his own desire : 
 
 Who comprehends his trust, and to the same 
 
 Keeps faithful with a singleness of aim ; 
 
 And therefore does not stoop, nor lie in wait 
 
 For wealth, or honors, or for worldly state ; 
 
 Whom they must follow, on whose head must fall, 
 
 Like showers of manna, if they come at all : 
 
 Whose powers shed round him in the common strife, 
 
 Or mild concerns of ordinary life, 
 
 A constant influence, a peculiar grace ; 
 
 But who, if he be called upon to face 
 
 Some awful moment to which Heaven has joined 
 
 Great issues, good or bad for human kind, 
 
 Is happy as a lover ; and attired 
 
 With sudden brightness, like a man inspired ; 
 
 And, through the heat of conflict, keeps the law 
 
CHARACTER OF THE HAPPY WARRIOR. 101 
 
 In calmness made, and sees what he foresaw: 
 
 Or if an unexpected call succeed, 
 
 Come when it will, is equal to the need : 
 
 — He who, though thus endued as with a sense 
 
 And faculty for storm and turbulence, 
 
 Is yet a soul whose master-bias leans 
 
 To homefelt pleasures and to gentler scenes ; 
 
 Sweet images ! which, wheresoe'er he be, 
 
 Are at his heart ; and such fidelity 
 
 It is his darling passion to approve ; 
 
 More brave for this, that he hath much to love : — 
 
 'T is, finally, the man, who, lifted high, 
 
 Conspicuous object in a nation's eye, 
 
 Or left unthought of in obscurity, — 
 
 Who, with a toward or untoward lot, 
 
 Prosperous or adverse, to his wish or not, 
 
 Plays, in the many games of life, that one 
 
 Where what he most doth value must be won : 
 
 Whom neither shape of danger can dismay, 
 
 Nor thought of tender happiness, betray ; 
 
 Who, not content that former worth stand fast, 
 
 Looks forward, persevering to the last, 
 
 From well to better, daily self-surpast : 
 
 Who, whether praise of him must walk the earth 
 
 Forever, and to noble deeds give birth, 
 
 Or he must fall, to sleep without his fame, 
 
 And leave a dead, unprofitable name, 
 
 Finds comfort in himself and in his cause ; 
 
 And, while the mortal mist is gathering, draws 
 
 His breath in confidence of heaven's applause, — 
 
 This is the happy warrior ; this is he 
 
 That every man in arms should wish to be. 
 
102 SELECTED POEMS OE WORDSWORTH. 
 
 MY HEAET LEAPS UP. 
 
 My heart leaps up when I behold 
 
 A rainbow in the sky : 
 So was it when my life began ; 
 So is it now I am a man ; 
 So be it when I shall grow old, 
 
 Or let me die ! 
 The child is father of the man ; 
 And I could wish my days to be 
 Bound each to each by natural piety. 
 
 THE FOUNTAIN. 
 
 A CONVERSATION. 
 
 We talked with open heart, and tongue 
 Affectionate and true, 
 A pair of friends, though I was young, 
 And Matthew seventy-two. 
 
 We lay beneath a spreading oak, 
 Beside a mossy seat ; 
 And from the turf a fountain broke, 
 And gurgled at our feet. 
 
 " Now, Matthew ! " said I, " let us match 
 This water's pleasant tune 
 With some old border song, or catch 
 That suits a summer's noon ; 
 
 " Or of the church-clock and the chimes 
 Sing here beneath the shade, 
 That half-mad thing of witty rhymes 
 Which you last April made ! " 
 
THE FOUNTAIN. 103 
 
 In silence Matthew lay, and eyed 
 The spring beneath the tree ; 
 And thus the dear old man replied, 
 The gray-haired man of glee : 
 
 " No check, no stay, this streamlet fears ; 
 How merrily it goes ! 
 'T will murmur on a thousand years, 
 And flow as now it flows. 
 
 " And here, on this delightful day, 
 I cannot choose but think 
 How oft, a vigorous man, I lay 
 Beside this fountain's brink. 
 
 " My eyes are dim with childish tears, 
 My heart is idly stirred, 
 For the same sound is in my ears 
 Which in those days I heard. 
 
 " Thus fares it still in our decay : 
 And yet the wiser mind 
 Mourns less for what age takes away 
 Than what it leaves behind. 
 
 " The blackbird amid leafy trees, 
 The lark above the hill, 
 Let loose their carols when they please, 
 Are quiet when they will. 
 
 " With Nature never do they wage 
 A foolish strife ; they see 
 A happy youth, and their old age 
 Is beautiful and free : 
 
 " But we are pressed by heavy laws ; 
 And often, glad no more, 
 
104 SELECTED POEMS OF WORDSWORTH. 
 
 We wear a face of joy, because 
 We have been glad of yore. 
 
 " If there be one who need bemoan 
 His kindred laid in earth, 
 The household hearts that were his own ; 
 It is the man of mirth. 
 
 " My days, my friend, are almost gone, 
 My life has been approved, 
 And many love me ; but by none 
 Am I enough beloved." 
 
 " Now both himself and me he wrongs, 
 The man who thus complains ; 
 I live and sing my idle songs 
 Upon these happy plains ; 
 
 " And, Matthew, for thy children dead 
 F 11 be a son to thee ! " 
 At this he grasped my hand, and said, 
 " Alas ! that cannot be." 
 
 We rose up from the fountain-side ; 
 And down the smooth descent 
 Of the green sheep-track did we glide ; 
 And through the wood we went ; 
 
 And, ere we came to Leonard's rock, 
 He sang those witty rhymes 
 About the crazy old church-clock, 
 And the bewildered chimes. 
 
ODE. 105 
 
 ODE. 
 
 INTIMATIONS OF IMMORTALITY FROM RECOLLECTIONS OF 
 EARLY CHILDHOOD. 
 
 This was composed during my residence at Town-end, Grasmere. 
 Two years, at least, passed between the writing of the four first stanzas 
 and the remaining part. To the attentive and competent reader the 
 whole sufficiently explains itself ; but there may be no harm in advert- 
 ing here to particular feelings or experiences of my own mind on which 
 the structure of the poem partly rests. Nothing was more difficult for 
 me in childhood than to admit the notion of death as a state applicable 
 to my own being. I have said elsewhere — 
 
 "A simple child, 
 That lightly draws its breath, 
 And feels its life in every limb, 
 What should it know of death ! " — 
 
 But it was not so much from feelings of animal vivacity that my diffi- 
 culty came as from a sense of the indomitableness of the Spirit within 
 me. I used to brood over the stories of Enoch and Elijah, and almost 
 persuade myself that, whatever might become of others, I should be 
 translated, in something of the same way, to heaven. With a feeling 
 congenial to this, I was often unable to think of external things as 
 having external existence, and I communed with all that I saw as 
 something not apart from, but inherent in, my own immaterial nature. 
 Many times while going to school have I grasped at a wall or tree to 
 recall myself from this abyss of idealism to 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 subjugation of an opposite character, and 
 have rejoiced over the remembrances, as is expressed in the lines — 
 
 " Obstinate questionings 
 Of sense and outward things, 
 Fallings from us, vanishings ; " etc. 
 
 To that dream-like vividness and splendor which invest objects of sight 
 in childhood, every one, I believe, if he would look back, could bear 
 testimony, and I need not dwell upon it here : but having in the poem 
 regarded it as presumptive evidence of a prior state of existence, I 
 think it right to protest against a conclusion, which has given pain to 
 
106 SELECTED POEMS OF WORDSWORTH. 
 
 some good and pious persons, that I meant to inculcate such a belief. 
 It is far too shadowy a notion to be recommended to faith, as more 
 than an element in our instincts of immortality. But let us bear in 
 mind that, though the idea is not advanced in revelation, there is 
 nothing there to contradict it, and the fall of man presents an analogy 
 in its favor. Accordingly, a pre-existent state has entered into the 
 popular creeds of many nations ; and, among all persons acquainted 
 with classic literature, is known as an ingredient in Platonic philoso- 
 phy. Archimedes said that he could move the world if he had a point 
 whereon to rest his machine. Who has not felt the same aspirations 
 as regards the world of his own mind ? Having to wield some of its 
 elements when I was impelled to write this poem on the " Immortality 
 of the Soul," I took hold of the notion of pre-existence as having suf- 
 ficient foundation in humanity for authorizing me to make for my 
 purpose the best use of it I could as a poet. 
 
 ' ' The child is father of the man ; 
 And I could wish my days to be 
 Bound each to each by natural piety." 
 
 There was a time when meadow, grove, and stream, 
 The earth, and every common sight, 
 To me did seem 
 Appareled in celestial light, 
 The glory and the freshness of a dream. 
 It is not now as it hath been of yore ; — 
 Turn wheresoe'er I may, 
 By night or day, 
 The things which I have seen I now can see no more, 
 
 ii. 
 
 The rainbow comes and goes, 
 And lovely is the rose ; 
 The moon doth with delight 
 Look round her when the heavens are bare ; 
 Waters on a starry night 
 Are beautiful and fair : 
 
ODE, 107 
 
 The sunshine is a glorious birth ; 
 But yet I know, where'er I go, 
 That there hath passed away a glory from the earth. 
 
 in. 
 
 Now while the birds thus sing a joyous song, 
 And while the young lambs bound 
 As to the tabor's sound, 
 To me alone there came a thought of grief : 
 A timely utterance gave that thought relief, 
 
 And I again am strong : 
 The cataracts blow their trumpets from the steep ; 
 No more shall grief of mine the season wrong ; 
 I hear the echoes through the mountains throng, 
 The winds come to me from the fields of sleep, 
 And all the earth is gay ; 
 Land and sea 
 Give themselves up to jollity, 
 And with the heart of May 
 Doth every beast keep holiday ; — 
 Thou child of joy, 
 Shout round me, let me hear thy shouts, thou happy 
 Shepherd-boy ! 
 
 IV. 
 
 Ye blessed creatures, I have heard the call 
 
 Ye to each other make; I see 
 The heavens laugh with you in your jubilee; 
 My heart is at your festival, 
 My head hath its coronal, 
 The fullness of your bliss, I feel, I feel it all. 
 evil day ! if I were sullen 
 While earth herself is adorning, 
 This sweet May morning, 
 
108 SELECTED POEMS OF WORDSWORTH. 
 
 And the children are culling 
 
 On every side, 
 In a thousand valleys far and wide, 
 Fresh flowers ; while the sun shines warm, 
 And the babe leaps up on his mother's arm : — 
 I hear, I hear, with joy I hear ! 
 — But there's a tree, of many, one, 
 A single field which I have looked upon, 
 Both of them speak of something that is gone : 
 The pansy at my feet 
 Doth the same tale repeat : 
 Whither is fled the visionary gleam ? 
 Where is it now, the glory and the dream ? 
 
 Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting : 
 The soul that rises with us, our life's star, 
 
 Hath had elsewhere its setting, 
 And cometh from afar : 
 
 Not in entire forgetfulness, 
 
 And not in utter nakedness, 
 But trailing clouds of glory, do we come 
 
 From God, who is our home : 
 Heaven lies about us in our infancy ! 
 Shades of the prison-house begin to close 
 
 Upon the growing boy, 
 But he beholds the light, and whence it flows, 
 
 He sees it in his joy ; 
 The youth, who daily farther from the east 
 
 Must travel, still is nature's priest, 
 
 And by the vision splendid 
 
 Is on his way attended ; 
 At length the man perceives it die away, 
 And fade into the light of common day. 
 
ODE. 109 
 
 VI. 
 
 Earth fills her lap with pleasures of her own ; 
 Yearnings she hath in her own natural kind, 
 And, even with something of a mother's mind, 
 
 And no unworthy aim, 
 
 The homely nurse doth all she can 
 To make her foster-child, her inmate man, 
 
 Forget the glories he hath known, 
 And that imperial palace whence he came. 
 
 VII. 
 
 Behold the child among his new-born blisses, 
 A six years' darling of a pigmy size ! 
 See, where 'mid work of his own hand he lies, 
 Fretted by sallies of his mother's kisses, 
 With light upon him from his father's eyes ! 
 See, at his feet, some little plan or chart, 
 Some fragment from his dream of human life, 
 Shaped by himself with newly-learned art ; 
 
 A wedding or a festival, 
 
 A mourning or a funeral ; 
 And this hath now his heart, 
 
 And unto this he frames his song : 
 Then will he fit his tongue 
 To dialogues of business, love, or strife ; 
 
 But it will not be long 
 
 Ere this be thrown aside, 
 
 And with new joy and pride 
 The little actor cons another part ; 
 Filling from time to time his "humorous stage" 
 With all the persons, down to palsied age, 
 That life brings with her in her equipage ; 
 
 As if his whole vocation 
 
 Were endless imitation. 
 
110 SELECTED POEMS OF WORDSWORTH. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Thou, whose exterior semblance doth belie 
 
 Thy soul's immensity ; 
 Thou best philosopher, who yet dost keep 
 Thy heritage, thou eye among the blind, 
 That, deaf and silent, read'st the eternal deep, 
 Haunted forever by the eternal mind, — 
 
 Mighty prophet ! seer blest ! 
 
 On whom those truths do rest, 
 Which we are toiling all our lives to find, 
 In darkness lost, the darkness of the grave ; 
 Thou, over whom thy Immortality 
 Broods like the day, a master o'er a slave, 
 A Presence which is not to be put by ; 
 Thou little child, yet glorious in the might 
 Of heaven-born freedom on thy being's height, 
 Why with such earnest pains dost thou provoke 
 The years to bring the inevitable yoke, 
 Thus blindly with thy blessedness at strife ? 
 Full soon thy soul shall have her earthly freight, 
 And custom lie upon thee with a weight, 
 Heavy as frost, and deep almost as life ! 
 
 IX. 
 
 O joy ! that in our embers 
 
 Is something that doth live, 
 
 That Nature yet remembers 
 
 What was so fugitive ! 
 The thought of our past years in me doth breed 
 Perpetual benediction : not indeed 
 For that which is most worthy to be blest j 
 Delight and liberty, the simple creed 
 Of childhood, whether busy or at rest, 
 
ODE. Ill 
 
 With, new-fledged hope still fluttering in his breast : 
 Not for these I raise 
 The song of thanks and praise ; 
 But for those obstinate questionings 
 Of sense and outward things, 
 Fallings from us, vanishings ; 
 Blank misgivings of a creature 
 Moving about in worlds not realized, 
 High instincts before which our mortal nature 
 Did tremble like a guilty thing surprised : 
 But for those first affections, 
 Those shadowy recollections, 
 Which, be they what they may, 
 Are yet the fountain light of all our day, 
 Are yet a master light of all our seeing ; 
 
 Uphold us, cherish, and have power to make 
 Our noisy years seem moments in the being 
 Of the eternal silence : truths that wake, 
 
 To perish never ; 
 Which neither listlessness, nor mad endeavor, 
 
 Nor man nor boy, 
 Nor all that is at enmity with joy, 
 Can utterly abolish or destroy ! 
 
 Hence in a season of calm weather, 
 Though inland far we be, m 
 Our souls have sight of that immortal sea 
 Which brought us hither, 
 Can in a moment travel thither, 
 And see the children sport upon the shore, 
 And hear the mighty waters rolling evermore. 
 
 x. 
 
 Then sing, ye birds, sing, sing a joyous song ! 
 And let the young lambs bound 
 As to the tabor's sound ! 
 
112 SELECTED POEMS OF WORDSWORTH. 
 
 We in thought will join your throng, 
 
 Ye that pipe and ye that play, 
 
 Ye that through your hearts to-day 
 
 Feel the gladness of the May ! 
 What though the radiance which was once so bright 
 Be now forever taken from my sight, 
 
 Though nothing can bring back the hour 
 Of splendor in the grass, of glory in the flower ; 
 
 We will grieve not, rather find 
 
 Strength in what remains behind ; 
 
 In the primal sympathy 
 
 Which, having been, must ever be ; 
 
 In the soothing thoughts that spring 
 
 Out of human suffering ; 
 
 In the faith that looks through death, 
 In years that bring the philosophic mind. 
 
 XI. 
 
 And ye fountains, meadows, hills, and groves, 
 
 Forebode not any severing of our loves ! 
 
 Yet in my heart of hearts I feel your might ; 
 
 I only have relinquished one delight 
 
 To live beneath your more habitual sway. 
 
 I love the brooks which down their channels fret, 
 
 Even more than when I tripped lightly as they ; 
 
 The innocent brightness of a new-born day 
 
 Is lovely yet ; 
 The clouds that gather round the setting sun 
 Do take a sober coloring from an eye 
 That hath kept watch o'er man's mortality ; 
 Another race hath been, and other palms are won. 
 Thanks to the human heart by which we live, 
 Thanks to its tenderness, its joys, and fears, 
 To me the meanest flower that blows can give 
 Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears. 
 
LAODAMIA. 113 
 
 LAODAMIA. 
 
 Written at Rydal Mount. The incident of the trees growing and 
 withering put the subject into my thoughts, and I wrote with the hope 
 of giving it a loftier tone than, so far as I know, has been given to 
 it by any of the Ancients who have treated of it. It cost me more 
 trouble than almost anything of equal length I have ever written. 
 
 " With sacrifice before the rising morn 
 
 Vows have I made by fruitless hope inspired ; 
 
 And from the infernal gods 'mid shades forlorn 
 
 Of night, my slaughtered lord have I required : 
 
 Celestial pity I again implore ; — 5 
 
 Eestore him to my sight — great Jove, restore ! " 
 
 So speaking, and by fervent love endowed 
 
 With faith, the suppliant heavenward lifts her hands ; 
 
 While, like the sun emerging from a cloud, 
 
 Her countenance brightens — and her eye expands ; 10 
 
 Her bosom heaves and spreads, her stature grows ; 
 
 And she expects the issue in repose. 
 
 O terror ! what hath she perceived ? — joy ! 
 
 What doth she look on ? — whom doth she behold ? 
 
 Her hero slain upon the beach of Troy ? 15 
 
 His vital presence ? his corporeal mold. ? 
 
 It is — if sense deceive her not — 't is he ! 
 
 And a God leads him, winged Mercury ! 
 
 Mild Hermes spake — and touched her with his wand 19 
 
 That calms all fear ; " such grace hath crowned thy prayer, 
 
 Laodamia ! that at Jove's command 
 
 Thy husband walks the paths of upper air : 
 
 He comes to tarry with thee three hours' space ; 
 
 Accept the gift, behold him face to face ! " 
 
114 SELECTED POEMS OF WORDSWORTH. 
 
 Forth sprang the impassioned queen her lord to clasp ; 
 
 Again that consummation she essayed ; 26 
 
 But unsubstantial form eludes her grasp 
 
 As often as that eager grasp was made. 
 
 The phantom parts, — but parts to re-unite, 
 
 And re-assume his place before her sight. 30 
 
 " Protesilaus, lo ! thy guide is gone ! 
 
 Confirm, I pray, the vision with thy voice : 
 
 This is our palace, — yonder is thy throne; 
 
 Speak, and the floor thou tread' st on will rejoice. 
 
 Not to appall me have the gods bestowed 35 
 
 This precious boon ; and blest a sad abode." 
 
 " Great Jove, Laodamia ! doth not leave 
 
 His gifts imperfect : — Specter though I be, 
 
 I am not sent to scare thee or deceive ; 
 
 But in reward of thy fidelity. 40 
 
 And something also did my worth obtain ; 
 
 For fearless virtue bringeth boundless gain. 
 
 " Thou knowest, the Delphic oracle foretold 
 
 That the first Greek who touched the Trojan strand 
 
 Should die ; but me the threat could not withhold : 45 
 
 A generous cause a victim did demand ; 
 
 And forth I leapt upon the sandy plain ; 
 
 A self-devoted chief — by Hector slain." 
 
 " Supreme of heroes — bravest, noblest, best ! 
 
 Thy matchless courage I bewail no more, 50 
 
 Which then, when tens of thousands were deprest 
 
 By doubt, propelled thee to the fatal shore ; 
 
 Thou found'st — and I forgive thee — here thou art — 
 
 A nobler counsellor than my poor heart. 
 
LAODAMIA. 115 
 
 " But thou, though capable of sternest deed, 55 
 
 Wert kind as resolute, and good as brave ; 
 
 And he, whose power restores thee, hath decreed 
 
 Thou should'st elude the malice of the grave : 
 
 Redundant are thy locks, thy lips as fair 
 
 As when their breath enriched Thessalian air. 60 
 
 " No specter greets me, — no vain shadow this ; 
 
 Come, blooming hero, place thee by my side ! 
 
 Give, on this well-known couch, one nuptial kiss 
 
 To me, this day, a second time thy bride ! " 
 
 Jove frowned in heaven : the conscious Parcae threw 65 
 
 Upon those roseate lips a Stygian hue. 
 
 " This visage tells thee that my doom is past : 
 
 Nor should the change be mourned, even if the joys 
 
 Of sense were able to return as fast 
 
 And surely as they vanish. Earth destroys 70 
 
 Those raptures duly — Erebus disdains: 
 
 Calm pleasures there abide — majestic pains. 
 
 " Be taught, faithful consort, to control 
 
 Rebellious passion : for the gods approve 
 
 The depth, and not the tumult, of the soul ; 75 
 
 A fervent, not ungovernable, love. 
 
 Thy transports moderate ; and meekly mourn 
 
 When I depart, for brief is my sojourn — " 
 
 " Ah, wherefore ? — did not Hercules by force 
 
 Wrest from the guardian monster of the tomb 80 
 
 Alcestis, a reanimated corse, 
 
 Given back to dwell on earth in vernal bloom ? 
 
 Medea's spells dispersed the weight of years, 
 
 And iEson stood a youth 'mid youthful peers. 
 
116 SELECTED POEMS OF WORDSWORTH. 
 
 " The Gods to us are merciful — and they 85 
 
 Yet further may relent : for mightier far 
 Than strength of nerve and sinew, or the sway 
 Of magic potent over sun and star, 
 
 Is love, though oft to agony distrest, 89 
 
 And though his favorite seat be feeble woman's breast. 
 
 " But if thou goest, I follow — " " Peace ! " he said, — 
 She looked upon him and was calmed and cheered ; 
 The ghastly color from his lips had fled ; 
 In his deportment, shape, and mien, appeared 
 Elysian beauty, melancholy grace, 95 
 
 Brought from a pensive though a happy place. 
 
 He spake of love, such love as spirits feel 
 
 In worlds whose course is equable and pure ; 
 
 No fears to beat away — no strife to heal — 
 
 The past unsigned for, and the future sure ; 100 
 
 Spake of heroic arts in graver mood 
 
 Bevived, with finer harmony pursued ; 
 
 Of all that is most beauteous — imaged there 
 
 In happier beauty; more pellucid streams, 
 
 An ampler ether, a diviner air, 105 
 
 And fields invested with purpureal gleams ; 
 
 Climes which the sun, who sheds the brightest day 
 
 Earth knows, is all unworthy to survey. 
 
 Yet there the soul shall enter which hath earned 
 
 That privilege by virtue. — " 111," said he, HO 
 
 " The end of man's existence I discerned, 
 
 Who from ignoble games and revelry 
 
 Could draw, when we had parted, vain delight, 
 
 While tears were thy best pastime, day and night ; 
 
LAODAMIA. 117 
 
 "And while my youthful peers before my eyes 115 
 
 (Each hero following his peculiar bent) 
 
 Prepared themselves for glorious enterprise 
 
 By martial sports, — or, seated in the tent, 
 
 Chieftains and kings in council were detained ; 
 
 What time the fleet at Aulis lay enchained. 120 
 
 " The wished-f or wind was given : — I then revolved 
 
 The oracle, upon the silent sea ; 
 
 And, if no worthier led the way, resolved 
 
 That, of a thousand vessels, mine should be 
 
 The foremost prow in pressing to the strand, — 125 
 
 Mine the first blood that tinged the Trojan sand. 
 
 " Yet bitter, oft-times bitter, was the pang 
 
 When of thy loss I thought, beloved wife ! 
 
 On thee too fondly did my memory hang, 
 
 And on the joys we shared in mortal life, — 130 
 
 The paths which we had trod — these fountains, flowers, 
 
 My new-planned cities, and unfinished towers. 
 
 "But should suspense permit the foe to cry, 
 
 ' Behold they tremble ! — haughty their array, 
 
 Yet of their number no one dares to die ? ' 135 
 
 In soul I swept the indignity away : 
 
 Old frailties then recurred : — but lofty thought, 
 
 In act embodied, my deliverance wrought. 
 
 " And thou, though strong in love, art all too weak 
 
 In reason, in self-government too slow ; 140 
 
 I counsel thee by fortitude to seek 
 
 Our blest re-union in the shades below. 
 
 The invisible world with thee hath sympathized ; 
 
 Be thy affections raised and solemnized. 
 
118 SELECTED POEMS OF WORDSWORTH. 
 
 "Learn, by a mortal yearning, to ascend — 145 
 
 Seeking a higher object. Love was given, 
 Encouraged, sanctioned, chiefly for that end ; 
 For this the passion to excess was driven — 
 That self might be annulled : her bondage prove 
 The fetters of a dream, opposed to love." — 150 
 
 Aloud she shrieked ! for Hermes reappears ! 
 Round the dear shade she would have clung — 't is 
 
 vain : 
 The hours are past — too brief had they been years ; 
 And him no mortal effort can detain : 
 Swift, toward the realms that know not earthly day, 155 
 He through the portal takes his silent way, 
 And on the palace-floor a lifeless corse she lay. 
 
 Thus, all in vain exhorted and reproved, 
 
 She perished ; and, as for a willful crime, 
 
 By the just gods whom no weak pity moved, 160 
 
 Was doomed to wear out her appointed time, 
 
 Apart from happy ghosts, that gather flowers 
 
 Of blissful quiet 'mid unfading bowers. 
 
 — Yet tears to human suffering are due; 
 
 And mortal hopes defeated and o'erthrown 165 
 
 Are mourned by man, and not by man alone, 
 
 As fondly he believes. — Upon the side 
 
 Of Hellespont (such faith was entertained) 
 
 A knot of spiry trees for ages grew 
 
 From out the tomb of him for whom she died ; no 
 
 And ever, when such stature they had gained 
 
 That Ilium's walls were subject to their view, 
 
 The trees' tall summits withered at the sight; 
 
 A constant interchange of growth and blight I- 1 
 
 1 For the account of these long-lived trees, see Pliny's Natural Histori/, 
 lib. xvi. cap. 44 ; and for the features in the character of Protesilaus see 
 
LINES. 119 
 
 LINES. 
 
 COMPOSED A FEW MILES ABOVE TINTERN ABBEY, ON REVISIT- 
 ING THE BANKS OF THE WYE DURING A TOUR. JULY 13, 
 
 1798. 
 
 No poem of mine was composed under circumstances more pleasant 
 for me to remember than this. I began it upon leaving Tintern, after 
 crossing the Wye, and concluded it just as I was entering Bristol in 
 the evening, after a ramble of four or five days, with my sister. Not 
 a line of it was altered, and not any part of it written down till I 
 reached Bristol. It was published almost immediately after in the 
 little volume, called Lyrical Ballads. 
 
 Five years have passed; five summers, with the length 
 
 Of five long winters ! and again I hear 
 
 These waters, rolling from their mountain-springs 
 
 With a soft inland murmur. 1 — Once again 
 
 Do I behold these steep and lofty cliffs, 
 
 That on a wild, secluded scene impress 
 
 Thoughts of more deep seclusion ; and connect 
 
 The landscape with the quiet of the sky. 
 
 The day is come when I again repose 
 
 Here, under this dark sycamore, and view 
 
 These plots of cottage-ground, these orchard-tufts, 
 
 Which at this season, with their unripe fruits, 
 
 Are clad in one green hue, and lose themselves 
 
 'Mid groves and copses. Once again I see 
 
 These hedge-rows, hardly hedge-rows, little lines 
 
 Of sportive wood run wild : these pastoral farms, 
 
 the Iphigenia in Aulis of Euripides. Virgil places the Shade of Laodamia 
 in a mournful region, among unhappy Lovers, 
 
 " — His Laodamia, 
 It comes. — " 
 
 1 The river is not affected by the tides a few miles above Tintern. 
 
120 SELECTED POEMS OF WORDSWORTH. 
 
 Green to the very door ; and wreaths of smoke 
 Sent up, in silence, from among the trees ! 
 With some uncertain notice, as might seem 
 Of vagrant dwellers in the houseless woods, 
 Or of some hermit's cave, where by his fire 
 The hermit sits alone. 
 
 These beauteous forms, 
 Through a long absence, have not been to me 
 As is a landscape to a blind man's eye : 
 But oft, in lonely rooms, and 'mid the din 
 Of towns and cities, I have owed to them, 
 In hours of weariness, sensations sweet, 
 Felt in the blood, and felt along the heart ; 
 And passing even into my purer mind, 
 With tranquil restoration : — feelings too 
 Of unremembered pleasure : such, perhaps, 
 As have no slight or trivial influence 
 On that best portion of a good man's life, 
 His little, nameless, unremembered acts 
 Of kindness and of love. Nor less, I trust, 
 To them I may have owed another gift, 
 Of aspect more sublime ; that blessed mood, 
 In which the burden of the mystery, 
 In which the heavy and the weary weight 
 Of all this unintelligible world, 
 Is lightened : — that serene and blessed mood, 
 In which the affections gently lead us on, — 
 Until, the breath of this corporeal frame 
 And even the motion of our human blood 
 Almost suspended, we are laid asleep 
 In body, and become a living soul : 
 While with an eye made quiet by the power 
 Of harmony, and the deep power of joy, 
 We see into the life of things. 
 
 If this 
 
LINES. 121 
 
 Be but a vain belief, yet, oh ! how oft — 
 In darkness and amid the many shapes 
 Of joyless daylight; when the fretful stir 
 Unprofitable, and the fever of the world, 
 Have hung upon the beatings of my heart — 
 How oft, in spirit, have I turned to thee, 
 
 sylvan Wye ! thou wanderer thro' the woods, 
 How often has my spirit turned to thee ! 
 
 And now, with gleams of half-extinguished thought, 
 With many recognitions dim and faint, 
 And somewhat of a sad perplexity, 
 The picture of the mind revives again : 
 W'hile here I stand, not only with the sense 
 Of present pleasure, but with pleasing thoughts 
 That in this moment there is life and food 
 For future years. And so I dare to hope, 
 Though changed, no doubt, from what I was when first 
 
 1 came among these hills ; when like a roe 
 I bounded o'er the mountains, by the sides 
 Of the deep rivers, and the lonely streams, 
 Wherever nature led : more like a man 
 Flying from something that he dreads, than one 
 Who sought the thing he loved. For nature then 
 (The coarser pleasures of my boyish days, 
 
 And their glad animal movements all gone by) 
 To me was all in all. — I cannot paint 
 What then I was. The sounding cataract 
 Haunted me like a passion ; the tall rock, 
 The mountain, and the deep and gloomy wood, 
 Their colors and their forms, were then to me 
 An appetite ; a feeling and a love, 
 That had no need of a remoter charm, 
 By thought supplied, nor any interest 
 Unborrowed from the eye. — That time is past, 
 And all its aching joys are now no more, 
 
122 SELECTED POEMS OF WORDSWORTH. 
 
 And all its dizzy raptures. Not for this 
 
 Faint I, nor mourn nor murmur ; other gifts 
 
 Have followed; for such loss, I would believe, 
 
 Abundant recompense. For I have learned 
 
 To look on nature, not as in the hour 
 
 Of thoughtless youth ; but hearing oftentimes 
 
 The still, sad music of humanity, 
 
 Nor harsh, nor grating, though of ample power 
 
 To chasten and subdue. And I have felt 
 
 A presence that disturbs me with the joy 
 
 Of elevated thoughts ; a sense sublime 
 
 Of something far more deeply interfused, 
 
 Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns, 
 
 And the round ocean and the living air, 
 
 And the blue sky, and in the mind of man ; 
 
 A motion and a spirit, that impels 
 
 All thinking things, all objects of all thought, 
 
 And rolls through all things. Therefore am I still 
 
 A lover of the meadows and the woods, 
 
 And mountains ; and of all that we behold 
 
 From this green earth ; of all the mighty world 
 
 Of eye, and ear, — both what they half create, 1 
 
 And what perceive ; well pleased to recognize 
 
 In nature and the language of the sense, 
 
 The anchor of my purest thoughts, the nurse, 
 
 The guide, the guardian of my heart, and soul 
 
 Of all my moral being. 
 
 Nor perchance, 
 If I were not thus taught, should I the more 
 Suffer my genial spirits to decay : 
 For thou art with me here upon the banks 
 Of this fair river ; thou my dearest friend, 
 My dear, dear friend ; and in thy voice I catch 
 
 1 This line has a close resemblance to an admirable line of Young's, the 
 exact expression of which I do not recollect. 
 
LINES. 123 
 
 The language of iny former heart, and read 
 
 My former pleasures in the shooting lights 
 
 Of thy wild eyes. Oh ! yet a little while 
 
 May I behold in thee what I was once, 
 
 My dear, dear sister ! and this prayer I make, 
 
 Knowing that nature never did betray 
 
 The heart that loved her ; 't is her privilege, 
 
 Through all the years of this our life, to lead 
 
 From joy to joy : for she can so inform 
 
 The mind that is within us, so impress 
 
 With quietness and beauty, and so feed 
 
 With lofty thoughts, that neither evil tongues, 
 
 Rash judgments, nor the sneers of selfish men, 
 
 Nor greetings where no kindness is, nor all 
 
 The dreary intercourse of daily life, 
 
 Shall e'er prevail against us or disturb 
 
 Our cheerful faith, that all which we behold 
 
 Is full of blessings. Therefore let the moon 
 
 Shine on thee in thy solitary walk ; 
 
 And let the misty mountain-winds be free 
 
 To blow against thee: and, in after years, 
 
 When these wild ecstasies shall be matured 
 
 Into a sober pleasure ; when thy mind 
 
 Shall be a mansion for all lovely forms, 
 
 Thy memory be as a dwelling-place 
 
 For all sweet sounds and harmonies ; oh ! then, 
 
 If solitude, or fear, or pain, or grief, 
 
 Should be thy portion, with what healing thoughts 
 
 Of tender joy wilt thou remember me, 
 
 And these my exhortations ! Nor, perchance, — 
 
 If I should be where I no more can hear 
 
 Thy voice, nor catch from thy wild eyes these gleams 
 
 Of past existence, — wilt thou then forget 
 
 That on the banks of this delightful stream 
 
 We stood together ; and that I, so long 
 
124 SELECTED POEMS OF WORDSWORTH. 
 
 A worshiper of nature, hither came 
 Unwearied in that service : rather say 
 With warmer love, — oh ! with far deeper zeal 
 Of holier love. Nor wilt thou then forget, 
 That after many wanderings, many years 
 Of absence, these steep woods and lofty cliffs, 
 And this green pastoral landscape, were to me 
 More dear, both for themselves and for thy sake ! 
 
NOTES. 
 
 THE EXCURSION — BOOK I. 
 
 Line 2. "Landscape." Altered from the old landskip, as used by 
 Tennyson in "The Princess," Bk. IV. German landschaft. The 
 English scape is from the Anglo-Saxon scapen, to shape. 
 
 Line 3. "Downs." From a Celtic word, dun, a hill of moderate 
 elevation. 
 
 " She went by dale and she went by down." (Tennyson.) 
 
 Line 5. "Dappled." Covered with spots. 
 
 ' ' Oft on the dappled turf at ease 
 I sit, and play at similes. ' ' 
 
 (Wordsworth, "To the Daisy.") 
 
 Line 6. "Brooding." From an Old English word, bredan, allied 
 with the Saxon bredan, to keep warm, to nourish. It suggests the 
 German brod, bread. 
 
 Line 11. "Ceiling." Early forms, cyling, siling, syling : hangings 
 from above one's head ; hence any overhead surface. 
 
 ' ' and now the thickening sky 
 Like a dark ceiling stood." 
 
 ("Paradise Lost," XL 742.) 
 
 Line 15. " Side-long." Note Scott's use of the word : — 
 
 " His frantic chase 
 Sidelong he turns, and now 't is bent 
 Right up the rock's tall battlement." 
 
 ("Rokeby," II. 14.) 
 
 Line 29. " Brotherhood," etc. A figure used by this poet in other 
 
 poems, as in "Sonnet composed at Castle," where the words 
 
 "brotherhood of venerable trees " occur. 
 
 Line 34. " Hale." Anglo-Saxon hdl = whole. 
 
 125 
 
126 NOTES. 
 
 Line 53. "Antique market-village." Reference to Hawkshead, 
 where the poet passed his school days (1779-1787). 
 
 Line 55. " Drew," i.e. withdrew. 
 
 Line 05. " Abstrusest." Used here in a literal sense. Concealed, 
 thrust out of sight, as in " Don Quixote," — " Hidden in the most ab- 
 struse dungeons of Bombay " (I. iv. 15). 
 
 Line 68. "A skillful, "etc. Suggests Shakespeare's familiar phrase, 
 " Concord of sweet sounds." (" Merchant of Venice," V. 1.) 
 
 Line 77. " Many are the poets." From the Greek 71-01777-7^, a maker. 
 Elsewhere (" Personal Traits") Wordsworth has described the mission 
 of 
 
 " The poets, who on earth have made us heirs 
 Of truth and pure delight by heavenly lays. ' ' 
 
 Line 78. " Men endowed." The familiar saying, " Poets are born, 
 not made," is thus corrected by Ben Jonson : — 
 
 " For a good poet's made as well as born." 
 
 ("To the Memory of Shakespeare.") 
 
 Note Wordsworth's further thought in line 80. 
 
 Line 81. "Docile season." Points to the age when the mind is 
 easily taught. 
 
 Line 84. "Temper too severe." A certain seriousness of mind 
 that hampered the free flow of thought in song. 
 
 Line 85. "A nice backwardness afraid of shame." " Nice " = dis- 
 criminating, highly critical. The poet marks here an oversensitive 
 shrinking from ridicule. 
 
 Line 87. "Unto the height," i.e. to the full measure of their ability. 
 
 Line 90. " Husbanding." From the Anglo-Saxon husbonda, mas- 
 ter of the house. 
 
 " For my means, I'll husband them so well, 
 They shall go far." (Shakespeare.) 
 
 Line 94. "Graces." Mental endowments. It may also include 
 embellishments of literary style. 
 
 Line 95. "Inward light." Poetic insight. 
 
 Line 100. " Feeling pleasures." The poet here describes the soul- 
 ful emotions that throb within this man of poetic genius, while he 
 dwells apart from the busy and noisy world. 
 
 Line 104. "Venerable nature." More suggestive and impressive 
 than the word " old." Macaulay speaks of " the venerable stream." 
 
 Line 106. "Deliberately pleased." The poet here pays gracious 
 
NOTES. 127 
 
 tribute to the Muse, who inspires his pen, and who thoughtfully and 
 considerately approves his work. 
 
 Line 108. "Athol." A district in Perthshire County, Scotland. It 
 is 450 square miles in extent. The county itself is the fourth in size 
 in Scotland and surpasses all the other counties in picturesqueness and 
 variety of scenery. 
 
 Line 113. "Austere." This word should not be understood in its 
 ordinary sense, — harsh, severe ; but strict, firm. The reader will note 
 how full and vivid is the poet's description of a typical Scotch home. 
 
 Line 121. "Long-continuing winter." In reading this line one is 
 reminded of the winter season in New England, which "lingering, 
 chills the lap of May." 
 
 Line 122. "Satchel." From the Latin saccas, a bag. "Nyle ze 
 bere a sachel, neither scrip." (Wyclif.) 
 
 Line 125. "Minster." From monos, alone; to live in solitude. 
 Originally a minster was a monastery ; later the church belonging to 
 a monastery. As many such churches became cathedrals, the word is 
 now used of any cathedral church having such an origin.' 
 
 Line 128. " Grow larger in the darkness." Allusion is here made 
 to the well-known fact that in the semi-darkness of evening the dim 
 outlines of surrounding objects are magnified to the eye. 
 
 Line 133. "Communion." Communion with nature is a favorite 
 theme with the poets. Matthew Arnold writes : — 
 " Calm soul of all things ! make it mine 
 To feel, amid the city's jar, 
 That there abides a peace of thine 
 Man did not make, and cannot mar." 
 Line 134. "Long before his time," i.e. earlier in life than one 
 would naturally expect. 
 
 Line 136. "Deep feelings," etc., a twofold statement of a single 
 thought. Our feelings interpret the presence and dominant action of 
 deep thoughts. "External things produced in him such intense feel- 
 ings that he came to regard these impressions as the sole realities, 
 while the very senses though which alone they came appeared sources 
 of obstruction and illusion." 
 
 " Such a holy calm 
 Would overspread my soul that bodily eyes 
 Were utterly forgotten ; and what I saw 
 Appeared like something in myself, a dream, 
 A prospect of the mind." 
 
 ( Wordsworth , ' ' The Prelude. ' ' ) 
 
128 NOTES. 
 
 Line 145. " Active power," i.e. the power of holding in memory, 
 as contrasted with the involuntary capacity for receiving impressions. 
 
 Line 157. " A peculiar eye," i.e. clear, definite, fixed ; a vision that 
 sees afar. 
 
 Line 101. "An ehbing and a flowing mind." Notice the graphic 
 and forcible manner in which the poet makes even the rocks, with 
 their ever varying hues, to shape the changing moods of his mind. 
 
 Line 167. "Apprehensive." Alert, quick to grasp the meaning of 
 life and the moral relationships and measures of visible forces. 
 
 Line 172. " The life and death of martyrs." It is probable that 
 Wordsworth had in mind "Fox's Book of Martyrs," which appeared 
 in 1563. This book was read in all the homes of Scotland. Its 
 author was a devout and earnest defender of the faith, who was born 
 in Boston, Lincolnshire, 1516, and died in London, 1587. 
 
 Line 175. "Covenant." The author here refers to the persecutions 
 of the seventeenth century in Scotland, which grew out of the refusal 
 of the people to accept the Liturgy imposed upon them by Charles I. 
 The Scottish Covenant was a bold statement of the views of the Pres- 
 byterians, to which they vowed adherence even unto death. 
 
 Line 178. "A straggling volume," i.e. a stray roll ; volume from 
 volvo, to roll. 
 
 Line 181 . " Garniture." Anything that furnishes or adorns. "The 
 finest garnitures of art." (Addison.) Here used by the poet to mean 
 illustrations of a weird sort. 
 
 Line 187. "Wanting yet the pure delight of love." The poet 
 alludes to his belief that nature teaches the love of God. He carries 
 over into nature his own consciousness of an ever existent Creator, 
 and makes His pervading presence a divine reality. Wordsworth was 
 not a Pantheist, but he believed in an intimate interrelation between 
 God and nature. 
 
 Line 188. "The breathing air," i.e. the pulsating, palpitating air. 
 The poet sees in the very atmosphere about him evidence of almost 
 human consciousness. 
 
 Line 201. "The solid frame of earth." Suggests Shakespeare's 
 words : — 
 
 " This goodly frame, the earth." (" Hamlet," II. 2.) 
 
 Line 207. " Sensation, soul, and form. " " Sensation " refers to the 
 subtle pleasure produced by the gentler offices of nature, in the delicate 
 fragrance of the flowers and the soft zephyrs ; " form," to the engag- 
 ing pictures of mountain scenery, the sunsets, etc. "Soul" is the 
 
NOTES. 129 
 
 spirit that animates all and brings the entire realm of nature close to 
 the heart of man. 
 
 Line 211. " Access of mind." Increase of mental force. 
 
 Line 213. "Thought was not." The currents of feeling ran so 
 deep as to allow little chance for thought. 
 
 Line 221. " Possessed.'''' Taken possession of ; entranced. " I have 
 been touched, yea, and possessed with an extreme wonder at those 
 four virtues." (Bacon.) 
 
 Line 225. "The mystery." Keference to such Biblical passages 
 as Mark iv. 11, " Unto you is given to know the mystery of the king- 
 dom of God." See also 1 Cor. ii. 7 and Eph. iii. 9. 
 
 Lines 226-232. This noble passage is representative of Words- 
 worth's exaltation of nature as the interpreter of the Deity. Nature 
 makes one feel God and immortality. The Scriptures inspire one with 
 reverence for the Infinite. 
 
 Line 237. "Ecstasies." The mind is pictured as being removed 
 from its normal bearings, lifted up. Astonishment and wonder rule 
 in the observer's soul. 
 
 Line 243. "A superstitious eye." Love in her intensity makes 
 even superstition subserve her ends. 
 
 Line 249. " That mighty orb of song." In Wordsworth's sonnet 
 to Milton are other evidences of his admiration. 
 
 " Thy soul was like a star and dwelt apart." 
 
 Line 250. "Lore." From Anglo-Saxon lav, teaching, learning. 
 These words are used interchangeably in some parts of England. 
 
 Line 253. " The purer elements. " As distinct from the complex, 
 as pure abstract mathematics is distinguished from that which is 
 mixed or applied. 
 
 Line 254. "Charm severe." A fascination which was still depend- 
 ent on hard study. 
 
 Line 277. "Visionary sides." The lofty peak is a reminder of 
 past events, requiring in the beholder visions of the imagination to 
 reproduce them. 
 
 Line 279. "The path of fire." The lightning stroke leaving be- 
 hind it indistinct traces of its course. 
 
 Line 292. "From the stillness of abstracted thought." In the 
 quiet hours of the night, when every sound seems unnaturally magni- 
 fied, he sought relief to his turbulent mind by engaging in abstract 
 meditation. 
 
 Lines 293-297. These exquisite effects produced by the sunlight 
 
130 NOTES. 
 
 falling on ascending mist are seen below the Falls of Niagara, where 
 the rainbow makes a complete circle. 
 
 Line 307. "The well of homely life." The domestic life of all 
 nations was a very fascinating study to Wordsworth. The word 
 " homely " is used here as in Gray's " Elegy " : — 
 
 " Their homely joys and destiny obscure." 
 
 Line 317. "Savoyard." Savoy, the loftiest mountain region of 
 Europe. Northward is the Lake of Geneva ; eastward, Piedmont in 
 France. The Swiss cantons, with their memories of William Tell 
 and Arnold Winkelried, are eloquent of struggle and liberty. 
 
 Line 330. "Sequestration." From the Latin sequester, an arbi- 
 trator. To sequester was to set aside for arbitration. The word finally 
 came to mean simply to set aside. Wordsworth uses the word in one 
 of his sonnets. 
 
 ' ' The sacred book 
 In dusty sequestration wrapt too long." 
 
 Line 346. "Exist more simple in their elements." This poet did 
 not accept some of the scientific claims of his day. The phrase, 
 "modern civilization," was not congenial to his thought. 
 
 Line 359. "No piteous revolutions." Wordsworth no doubt re- 
 ferred to the horrors of the French Revolution. This great crisis in 
 French history made a profound impression upon him. 
 
 Line 370. "Afford to suffer." Used here in the sense of having 
 the capacity to endure sympathetic pain. 
 
 Line 397. "The Scottish Church." The Church of Scotland is 
 Presbyterian, made up of three bodies, the Established Church, the 
 Free Church, and the United Presbyterian Church. 
 
 Line 399. " Purity." The term " Puritan " was originally applied 
 in reproach. The poet here seeks to reclaim the word, referring to 
 the quality of the religious belief of the people. 
 
 Line 408. " Melted all away." Reference here to the fact that the 
 austerity of Puritanism was displaced by the sweetness of his life. 
 
 Line 425. " Breathed intelligence." 
 
 "Bright-eyed fancy, hov'ring o'er, 
 Scatters from her pictured urn 
 Thoughts that breathe and words that burn." (Gray.) 
 
 Line 490. " Mortal stillness." The picture in the poet's mind is 
 water so motionless as to remind one of death. 
 
NOTES. 131 
 
 Line 500. "The good die first.' 1 "He whom the gods favor dies 
 in youth." (Plautus.) 
 
 " Heaven gives its favorites early death, 1 ' so Byron wrote in " Childe 
 Harold, 11 thus repeating the false philosophy of ancient times. 
 
 Line 501. "Dry as summer dust, 11 etc. Mark the great force 
 and vividness of this figure. 
 
 Line 511. " Stock, 11 etc. Here is the figure of a tree with spread- 
 ing branches, shown further in the use of the word " bloomed. 11 
 
 Line 514. " Excess of love. 11 Not going beyond rational limits. 
 
 Line 517. " Her temper. 11 Her native qualities ; her disposition. 
 
 Line 524. " Seated at his loom. 11 This was the age when weaving 
 was done exclusively by a hand machine. 
 
 Line 539. "The plague of war. 11 From the Latin plaga, a blow, 
 used here in the sense of chastisement. 
 
 Line 546. " Knew them not. 11 See Psalm ciii. 16. 
 
 Line 559. "Shoals of artisans. 11 "Shoal 11 is from the Anglo- 
 Saxon scolu, a company. " A shoal of darting fishes. 11 (Tennyson.) 
 
 Line 568. " At the door he stood. 11 Denotes continued action ; it 
 was his custom to stand. So in the use of the verbs " carved " and 
 " mingled, 11 below. 
 
 Line 578. " His good humor. 11 ' Originally used in a medical 
 sense ; moisture, fluid exhalations which determine a person^ physical 
 and mental condition. Hence one^ special state of mind or feeling. 
 
 " He is there ; see what humor he is in." 
 
 (" Merry Wives of Windsor," II. 3.) 
 
 Line 580. "A petted mood. " Pettish, or, more commonly, petulant. 
 
 Line 581. " Temper." Irritable disposition. 
 
 Line 586. "Cruel tongue." Tongue may be traced through the 
 Anglo-Saxon tunga to the Latin lingua. 
 
 Line 588. " Rueful." Lamentable, pitiable. " A rueful specta- 
 cle." (Spenser.) 
 
 Line 594. "Repose and peace." "Repose" is quietness after 
 activity ; " peace," absence of anything that clashes. 
 
 Line 599. "Untoward." The figure is of one who turns his face 
 away from the path he ought to take ; hence to be froward or unruly. 
 See Acts of the Apostles ii. 40. 
 
 Line 628. " Dalliance." To dalhj means, primarily, to trifle, then 
 to waste time in idle deeds ; here " dalliance " means fondling. 
 
 Line 647. "Lifted with light hand the latch." Occasionally the 
 poet uses alliteration. 
 
132 NOTES. 
 
 Line 652. "Poor wretch!" Originally used of one driven out, 
 banished. Hence, one miserable and forlorn ; the word is not asso- 
 ciated with evil or guilt. 
 
 Line 657. " That seemed to cling upon me." With what vigor 
 does the poet here represent the eye riveting itself upon its object. 
 
 Line 701. "Blithe." From an old Saxon word meaning kind, 
 gentle. Then it came to mean merry, gay ; the poet uses it in this 
 sense here and elsewhere, as in the poem " To the Cuckoo." 
 
 Line 703. " Trotting brooks." Wordsworth incloses these words 
 in single quotation marks. The lines referred to are those of Robert 
 Burns : -*. 
 
 " The muse, na poet ever fand her 
 Till by himself he learned to wander 
 Adoun some trotting burn's meander." 
 
 Line 708. "The soft and bladed grass." "Decking with liquid 
 pearl the bladed grass." ("Midsummer Night's Dream," I. 1.) 
 
 Line 717. "The yellow stone-crop." The wall-pepper, so called 
 because it grows upon walls and rocks. 
 
 Line 722. "Thrift." A plant of the genus Armeria, usually of 
 a pink color, resembling the -marsh rosemary ; it is cultivated for 
 borders. 
 
 Line 728. " Cumbrous bind- weed." Common name for the genus 
 Convolvulus. 
 
 Line 744. " Dull red stains." The colored wash used in marking 
 
 Line 766. "What I seek I cannot find." News of her absent 
 husband. 
 
 Line 780. " So familiarly." He brings back to mind her whole 
 bearing with vividness. 
 
 Line 784. "A momentary trance." That which quickly passes 
 away. From the Latin transitus. 
 
 Line 794. " Her voice was low." 
 
 ' ' Her voice was ever soft, 
 Gentle and low — an excellent thing in woman." 
 
 ("King Lear," V. 3.) 
 
 Line 795. " Subdued." Brought into complete subjection. 
 Line 815. "Primrose." A plant of the genus Primula, in which 
 the flowers appear as if on separate peduncles. 
 
 Line 822. " A sleepy hand of negligence." It was the custom of 
 
NOTES. 133 
 
 Elizabethan writers to transpose words as Wordsworth does here. 
 Ben Jonson in his " Sejan " has: "More than ten criers and six 
 noise of trumpets." 
 
 Line 823. " Hearth." The people of northern England early wor- 
 shiped the goddess Hertha, in whose name the place where the 
 household fire was kindled, and about which the family gathered, was 
 held sacred. 
 
 Line 830. "The trick of grief." The habit, the very atmosphere 
 of sorrow. 
 
 Line 836. " Clear black mold." Rich soil, clear of weeds. 
 
 Line 855. "Bleak." The original meaning of this word was, 
 without color, then pale and of a sickly appearance. Here the poet 
 means desolate, void of vegetation, as in this line, " Wastes too bleak 
 to rear the common growth of earth." 
 
 Line 860. "Pittance." From the Latin pittus, pity. The old 
 English word "pittance " means an allowance of food in a monastery. 
 
 Line 871. "Tract." Way, route. "A shorter tract to India." 
 (Cabot. ) 
 
 Line 902. "Nipping." Pinching; as Horatio says in "Hamlet," 
 " It is a nipping and an eager air." 
 
 Line 904. "Checkered." From an old French word, eschequier, 
 a chess-board, which was marked off in squares. In this sense it is 
 used here. "The Court of Exchequer owes its name to the cheque 
 cloth which covers the table, and on which the king's accounts are 
 made up." (Blackstone.) 
 
 Line 924. "The impotence of grief." The debility occasioned by 
 prolonged sorrow. 
 
 Line 927. " That secret spirit of humanity." The marks of human 
 emotion and intelligence which those who have gone leave behind 
 them. 
 
 Line 928. "The calm, oblivious tendencies." It is nature's way 
 to blot out the evidences of man's presence on the earth. 
 
 Line 933. "Purposes." Old French pourjjos, an aim, an end. 
 
 Line 941. " And peace is here." See line 510. 
 
 Line 945. " Into my heart conveyed." See closing couplet of the 
 " Ode on Intimations of Immortality." 
 
 Line 958. " Mellow." Reference to the rich color on ripe fruit. 
 
 Line 961. " The sweet hour." The evening hour. 
 
134 NOTES. 
 
 LUCY GRAY. 
 
 (Page 64.) 
 "Fagot-band.'" A fagot was a bundle of fish placed on a drying 
 platform. The cords with which the fish were bound together were 
 called fagot-bands. 
 
 TO THE DAISY. 
 
 (Page 70.) 
 
 To this poem Wordsworth prefixes a verse from George Wither, an 
 English poet of some note. He was born in Brentworth, Hampshire, 
 June 11, 1588, and died in London, May 2, 1667. For issuing the poem, 
 "Abuses Stript and Whipt," he was imprisoned. His active partici- 
 pation in the Civil War, and his loyalty to Cromwell, occasioned him 
 much abuse and suffering. 
 
 In the verse from Wither, with which the poet introduced this 
 poem, "Titan" is used of the sun, the name being substituted for 
 the Greek Helios, god of the sun. 
 
 TO THE SMALL CELANDINE. 
 
 (Page 75.) 
 A perennial, herbaceous plant of Europe, its foliage covered with 
 a fine powder, and its flowers bright yellow. The common pilewort. 
 
 TO A SKYLARK. 
 
 (Page 77.) 
 "Drunken lark." "So we sometimes say that one is intoxicated 
 with joy." 
 
 EXTEMPORE EFFUSION UPON THE DEATH OF 
 JAMES HOGG. 
 
 (Page 91.) 
 Hogg was born at Ettrick, in the south of Scotland, in 1770 ; called 
 "the Ettrick Shepherd," from his occupation. He began to write 
 songs at twenty years of age. His first poem appeared in 1796. It 
 
NOTES. 135 
 
 has been said of him, " There are few poets who impress us so much 
 with the idea of direct inspiration, and that poetry is, indeed, an art 
 'unteachable and untaught.' " Hogg died in 1835. 
 
 The Yarrow is a river in Selkirkshire, Scotland, twenty-five miles in 
 length, on whose banks the poet Hogg used to tend sheep. 
 
 The border-minstrel was Sir Walter Scott, who died September 21, 
 1832, aged sixty-one years. 
 
 Samuel Taylor Coleridge was a noted man of letters, an astute phi- 
 losopher, a man of vast learning. 
 
 Charles Lamb, a noted English litterateur, humorist, and critic, died 
 December 27, 1834, aged fifty-nine years. 
 
 George Crabbe, an English poet of note in his day. He had a check- 
 ered career. In his poverty and failure as a surgeon he was befriended 
 by Burke, who was instrumental in his publishing "The Library" and 
 thereby becoming known as a poet. He died in 1832, at the age of 
 seventy-eight years. In his introduction to this poem Wordsworth 
 speaks of him at length. 
 
 Hampstead was a well-known rendezvous for literary men and is now 
 a pleasure resort. It is four and one-half miles northwest of St. Paul's, 
 London. 
 
 " For her who, ere her summer faded," etc. Reference is here made 
 to Mrs. Felicia Hemans, an English poet, who died in 1835, aged forty- 
 two years. She is best known by her lyrics. 
 
 RESOLUTION AND INDEPENDENCE. 
 
 (Page 92.) 
 
 Thomas Chatterton (1752-1770), a precocious youth with poetic 
 aspirations ; was fond of solitude and inclined to revery and moodi- 
 ness. He wrote under pressure and produced poem after poem 
 with great rapidity. Reduced to extreme destitution, he took his own 
 life. 
 
 " Of him who walked in glory." Robert Burns. 
 
 LAODAMIA. 
 
 (Page 113.) 
 
 Acastus, according to Greek legend, was the son of Pelias, the 
 Argonaut ; he was the father of Laodamia, who married Protesilaus, 
 
136 NOTES. 
 
 the first to die after touching Trojan soil, as the Delphic oracle had 
 declared. 
 
 Line 19. " Hermes." Son of Zeus, messenger of the gods. 
 
 Line 65. " Parcse " is the Latin name for the Fates, as Moerse 
 was the Greek name. 
 
 Line 66. " Stygian." Wordsworth means dark, dismal, hellish, 
 infernal — a strong descriptive adjective. 
 
 Line 71. "Erebus." In Greek mythology, the son of Chaos and 
 brother of Nox. 
 
 Line 81. "Alcestis." Daughter of Pelias, who, when her hus- 
 band, Admetus, was stricken with disease, gave up her life for his, 
 according to Apollo's promise that in this way his life would be 
 spared. 
 
 Line 83. "Medea." A sorceress, daughter of Aretas and wife of 
 Jason. Ovid, the Latin poet, relates that iEson was rejuvenated by 
 Medea after the return of the Argonauts. 
 
 Line 172. "Ilium." Greek name for Troy. Dr. Schliemann has 
 identified the site of Ilium as lying about one hundred miles north- 
 west of Smyrna. 
 

 
 v\^ 13 
 
 190$ 
 
MAR 13 1902 
 
 1 COPY DEL. TOCAT.DIV, 
 MAR. 13 1902 
 
 MR,