aassTS5l5L2. Book -H^ _. tXJPYRIGHT DEPOSIT ued Semi-Monthly Number 76 March 20, 1395 1 w m ODE ON intimations! i OF IMMORTALITY 1 AND OTHER POEMS | i BY s WILLIAM WORDSWORTH ir/TH BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH 1 AND NOTES § 1 n HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY ^ ^ Boston : 4 Park Street New York : 11 East 17TH Street ^ ^ g Chicago: 15S Adams Street U \ 2rtE JSibcrsitic ^rrss, (Camfiritige 1 '■> Entered at the Post Office. Boston. Mass.. as second-class matter Single Numbers FIFTEEN CENTS Double Numbers THIRTY CENTS Yearly Subscription (18 Numbers) $2.50 SOME LITERARY MASTERPIECES REQUIRED FOR ADMISSION TO AMERICAN COLLEGES. FOB THE YEARS The Sir Roger de Coverley Paj^ers. In Riverside Litera- 1695 l6;i* tiire Series, Nos. 60, 01. Paper, 15 cents eacho In one volume, cloth, 40 cents. Irving's Sketch Book. In Riverside Literature Series, 1895 Nos. 51, 52. Paper, 15 cents each. In one volume, cloth, 40 cents. Webster's First Bunker Hill Oration. In Riverside Literature Series, No. 56. 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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 humbleness, 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 par- ticular 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. 5 As if the wind blew many ways, I heard the sound, — and more and more ; It seemed to follow with the chaise, And still I heard it as before. At length I to the boy called out. 10 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 ; 10 WILLIAM WORDSWORTH, 15 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, 20 Sitting behind the chaise, alone. " My cloak I " 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. 25 "What ails you, child?" She sobbed, "Look here ! " I saw it in the wdieel entangled, A weather-beaten rag as e'er From any garden scarecrow dangled. There, twisted between nave and spoke, 30 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 ? " 35 " To Durham," answered she, half wild. " Then come with me into the chaise." Insensible to all relief Sat the poor girl, and forth did send Sob after sob, as if her grief 40 Could never, never have an end. LUCY GRAY. 11 "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. 45 " 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 50 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 ; 55 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, 60 The little orphan, Alice Fell ! LUCY GRAY; OR, SOLITUDE. Oft I had heard of Lucy Gray : And, when I crossed the wild, I chanced to see, at break of day, The solitary child. 12 WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 5 No mate, no comrade Lucy knew ; She dwelt on a wide moor, — The sweetest thmg that ever grew Beside a human door ! You yet may spy the fawn at play, 10 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 ; 15 And take a lantern, Child, to light Your mother through the snow." " That, Father ! will I gladly do : 'T is scarcely afternoon, — The minster-clock has just struck two, 20 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. 25 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 : 30 She wandered up and down ; And many a hill did Lucy climb : But never reached the town. LUCY GRAY. 13 The wretched parents all that night Went shouting far and wide ; 35 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, 40 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. 45 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 : 50 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, . 55 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 60 Upon the lonesome wild. 14 WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 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. The little girl who is the heroine I met within the area of Go- derich Castle, in the year 1793. I composed it while walking iu the grove at Alfoxden. My friends will not deem it too trifling to relate, that while walking to and fro I composed the last stanza first, having begun with the last line. When it was all but finished, I came in and recited it to Mr. Coleridge and my sister, and said, " A prefatory stanza must be added, and I should sit down to our little tea-meal with greater pleasure 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 ? 5 1 met a little cottage girl : She was eight years old, she said ; Her hair was thick with many a curl That clustered round her head. She had a rustic, woodland air, 10 And she was wildly clad : Her eyes were fair, and very fair ; — - Her beauty made me glad. WE ARE SEVEN. 15 " Sisters and brothers, little Maid, How many may you be ? " 15 " How many ? Seven in all," she said. And wondering looked at me. " And where are they ? I pray you tell." She answered, " Seven are we ; And two of us at Conway dwell, 20 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." 25 " 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, 30 " 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 ; 35 If two are in the churchyard laid Then ye are only five." *' Their graves are green, they may be seen," The little Maid replied, " Twelve steps or more from my mother's door, 40 And they are side by side. 16 WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. " My stockings there I often knit, My kerchief there I hein ; And there npon the ground I sit And sing a song to them. 45 " And often after sunset, Sir, When it is light and fair, I take my little porringer, And eat my supper there. " The first that died was sister Jane ; 50 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, 55 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, 60 And he lies by her side." " How many are you, then," said I, " If they two are in heaven ? " Quick was the little Maid's reply, '' O Master ! we are seven." 65 " 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 I " THE PET LAMB. 17 THE PET LAMB. A PASTORAL. The dew was falling fast, the stars began to blink ; I heard a voice ; it said, " Drink, pretty creature, drink ! " And, looking o'er the hedge, before me I espied A snow-white mountain-lamb with a maiden at its side. 6 Nor sheep nor kine were near ; the lamb was all alone, And by a slender cord was tethered to a stone ; With one knee on the grass did the little maiden kneel. While to that mountain-lamb she gave its evening meal. The lamb, while from her hand he thus his supper took, 10 Seemed to feast with head and ears ; and his tail with pleasure shook. " Drink, pretty creature, drink ! " she said, in such a tone That I almost received her heart into my own. 'T was little Barbara Lewthwaite, a cliild of beauty rare ! I watched them with delight, they were a lovely pair. 15 Now with her empty can the maiden turned away. But ere ten yards were gone, her footsteps did she stay. J^ WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. Right towards the lamb she looked ; and from a shady place I unobserved could see the workings of her face : If nature to her tongue could measured numbers bring, 20 Thus, thought I, to her lamb that little maid might sing : — " What ails thee, young one ? what ? Why pull so at thy cord ? Is it not well with thee? well both for bed and board ? Thy plot of grass is soft, and green as grass can be; Rest, little young one, rest ; what is 't that aileth thee? 25 " What is it thou would st seek ? What is wanting to thy heart ? Thy limbs, are they not strong ? And beautiful thou art : This grass is tender grass ; these flowers they have no peers ; And that green cord all day is rustling in thy ears ! " If the sun be shining hot, do but stretch thy wool- len chain, 30 This beech is standing by, its covert thou canst gain; For rain and mountain -storms ! the like thou need'st not fear, The rain and storm are things that scarcely can come here. THE PET LAMB. 19 " Rest, little young one, rest ; tliou hast forgot tlie day When my father found thee first in places far away ; 35 Many flocks were on the hills, but thou wert owned by none. And thy mother from thy side for evermore was gone. " He took thee in his arms, and in pity brought thee home : A blessed day for thee ! then whither wouldst thou roam ? A faithful nurse thou hast ; the dam that did thee yean 40 Upon the mountain - tops no kinder could have been. "Thou know'st that twice a day I have brought thee in this can Fresh water from the brook, as clear as ever ran ; And twice in the day, when the ground is wet with dew, I bring thee draughts of milk, — warm milk it is and new. 45 " Thy limbs will shortly be twice as stout as they are now. Then I '11 yoke thee to my cart like a pony in the plough ; My playmate thou shalt be ; and when the wind is cold. Our hearth shall be thy bed, our house shall be thy fold. 20 WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. " It will not, will not rest ! — Poor creature, can it be 50 That 't is thy mother's heart which is working so in thee? Things that I know not of belike to thee are dear, And dreams of things which thou canst neither see nor hear. " Alas, the mountain-tops that look so green and fair ! I 've heard of fearful winds and darkness that come there ; 55 The little brooks that seem all pastime and all play- When they are angry roar like lions for their prey. " Here thou need'st not dread the raven in the sky ; Night and day thou art safe, — our cottage is hard by. Why bleat so after me ? Why pull so at thy chain ? 60 Sleep, — and at break of day I will come to thee again ! " — As homeward through the lane I went with lazy feet. This song to myself did I oftentimes repeat ; And it seemed, as I retraced the ballad line by line. That but half of it was hers, and one half of it was mine. c5 Again, and once again, did I repeat the song ; " Nay," said I, " more than half to the damsel must belong. For she looked with such a look, and she spake with such a tone. That I almost received her heart into my own." THE IDLE SHEPHERD-BOYS. 21 THE IDLE SHEPHERD-BOYS; OR, DUNGEON-GHYLL FORCE.^ A PASTORAL. The valley rings with mirth and joy ; Among the hills the echoes play A never, never ending song, To welcome in the May. I s The magpie chatters with delight ; The monntain raven's youngling brood Have left the mother and the nest ; And they go rambling east and west In search of their own food ; 10 Or through the glittering vapors dart In very wantonness of heart. Beneath a rock, upon the grass, Two boys are sitting in the sun ; Their work, if any work they have, 15 Is out of mind, — or clone. On pipes of sycamore they play The fragments of a Christmas hymn ; Or with that plant which in our dale We call stag-horn, or fox's tail, 20 Their rusty hats they trim : And thus, as happy as the day, , Those shepherds wear the time away. Along the river's stony marge The sand-lark chants a joyous song ; 1 Ghyll, ill the dialect of Cumberland and Westmoreland, is a short, and for the most part a steep, narrow valley, with a stream running through it. Force is the word universally em- ployed in these dialects for waterfall. — W. W. 22 WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 25 The thrush is busy in the wood, And carols loud and strong^. A thousand lambs are on the rocks, All newly born ! both earth and sky Keep jubilee, and more than all, 30 Those boys with their green coronal ; They never hear the cry. That plaintive cry ! which uj) the hill Conies from the depth of Dungeon-Ghyll. Said Walter, leaping from the ground, 35 " Down to the stump of yon old yew We '11 for our whistles run a race." Away the shepherds flew ; They leapt, — they ran, — and when they came Right opposite to Dungeon-Ghyll, 40 Seeing that he should lose the prize, " Stop ! " to his comrade Walter cries. James stopj^ed with no good will : Said Walter then, exulting, " Here You '11 find a task for half a year. 45 " Cross, if you dare, where I shall cross, — Come on, and tread where I shall tread." The other took him at his word, And followed as he led. It was a spot which you may see 1 50 If ever you to Langdale go ; Into the chasm a mighty block Hath fallen, and made a bridge of rock ; The gulf is deep below ; And, in a basin black and small, 55 Receives a lofty waterfall. THE IDLE SHEPHERD-BOYS. 23 With staff in hand across the cleft The challenger pursued his march ; And now, all eyes and feet, hath gained The middle of the arch. 60 When list ! he hears a piteous moan. Again ! — his heart within him dies ; His pulse is stopped, his breath is lost, He totters, pallid as a ghost, And, looking down, espies 65 A lamb, that in the pool is pent Within that black and frightful rent. The lamb had slipped into the stream, And safe without a bruise or wound The cataract had borne him down 70 Into the gulf profound. His dam had seen him when he fell. She saw him down the torrent borne ; And, while with all a mother's love She from the lofty rocks above 75 Sent forth a cry forlorn. The lamb, still swimming round and round, Made answer in that plaintive sound. When he had learnt what thing it was That sent this rueful cry, I ween 80 The boy recovered heart, and told The sight which he had seen. Both gladly now deferred their task ; Nor was there wanting other aid : A poet, one who loves the brooks 85 Far better than the sages' books, By chance had hither strayed ; And there the helpless lamb he found By those hugh rocks encompassed round. 24 WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. He drew it from the troubled pool, 90 And brought it forth into the light : The shepherds met him with his charge, An unexpected sight ! Into their arms the lamb they took, Whose life and limbs the flood had spared ; 95 Then up the steep ascent they hied. And placed him at his mother's side ; And gently did the bard Those idle shepherd-boys upbraid, And bade them better mind their trade. RURAL ARCHITECTURE. There's George Fisher, Charles Fleming, and Reginald Shore, Three rosy-cheeked schoolboys, the highest not more Than the heisrht of a counsellor's baof. To the top of Great How ^ did it please them to climb : 5 And there they built up, without mortar or lime, A Man on the peak of the crag. They built him of stones gathered up as they lay ; They built him and christened him all in one day. An urchin both vigorous and hale ; 10 And so without scruple they called him Ralph Jones. 4. Great Ho"w is a single and conspicuous hill, which rises towards the foot of Thirlinere, on the western side of the beauti- ful dale of Legberthwaite, along the hign road between Keswick and Ambleside. — W. W. THE REVERIE OF POOR SUSAN. 25 Now Ealph is renowned for the length of his bones ; The Magog of Legberthwaite dale. Just half a week after, the wind sallied forth, And, in anger or merriment, out of the north, 15 Coming on with a terrible pother, From the peak of the crag blew the giant away. And what did these schoolboys ? — The very next day They went and they built up another. — Some little I 've seen of blind boisterous works 20 By Christian disturbers more savage than Turks, Spirits busy to do and undo : At rememberance whereof my blood sometimes will flag; Then, light-hearted boys, to the top of the crag ; And I '11 build up a giant with you. THE REVERIE OF POOR SUSAN. This arose out of my observation of the affecting music of these birds, hanging in this way in the London streets, during the freshness and stillness of the spring morning. At the corner of Wood Street, when daylight appears, Hangs a thrush that sings loud, it has sung for three years : Poor Susan has passed by the spot, and has heard In the silence of morning the song of the bird. 5 'T is a note of enchantment ; what ails her ? She sees A mountain ascending, a vision of trees ; 26 WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. Bright volumes of vapor through Lothbury glide, And a river flows on through the vale of Cheapside. Green pastures she views in the midst of the dale, 10 Down which she so often has trij^ped with her pail, And a single small cottage, a nest like a dove's. The one only dwelling on earth that she loves. She looks, and her heart is in heaven : but they fade, The mist and the river, the hill and the shade : 15 The stream will not flow, and the hill will not rise. And the colors have all passed away from her eyes ! POWER OF MUSIC. An Orpheus ! an Orpheus ! yes, Faith may grow bold, And take to herself all the wonders of old ; — Near the stately Pantheon you '11 meet with the same In the street that from Oxford hath borrowed its name. 5 His station is there ; and he works on the crowd, He sways them with harmony merry and loud ; He fills with his power all their hearts to the brim, — Was aught ever heard like his fiddle and him ? 7. Lothbury and Cheapside are streets in the heart of the city of London. 1. Orpheus was the hero in Greek mythology whose music was so powerful that even the stones fell into place in building when he played on his lyre. POWER OF MUSIC. 27 What an eager assembly ! what an empire is this ! 10 The weary have life, and the hungry have bliss ; The mourner is cheered, and the anxious have rest ; And the guilt-burdened soul is no longer opprest. As the moon brightens round her the clouds of the night, So he, where he stands, is a centre of light ; 15 It gleams on the face, there, of dusky-browed Jack, And the pale-visaged baker's, with basket on back. That errand-bound 'prentice was passing in haste, — What matter ! he 's caught, — and his time runs to waste ; The newsman is stopped, though he stops on the fret ; 20 And the half -breathless lamp-lighter, — he 's in the net! The porter sits down on the weight which he bore ; The lass with her barrow wheels hither her store ; — If a thief could be here, he might pilfer at ease ; She sees the musician, 't is all that she sees ! 25 He stands, backed by the wall ; — he abates not his din ; — His hat gives him vigor, with boons dropping in. From the old and the young, from the poorest ; and there ! The one-pennied boy has his penny to spare. Oh, blest are the hearers, and proud be the hand 30 Of the pleasure it spreads through so thankful a band! 28 WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. I am glad for him, blind as he is ! — all the while If they si3eak 't is to praise, and they praise with a smile. That tall man, a giant in bulk and in height, Not an inch of his body is free from delight ; 35 Can he keep himself still, if he would ? Oh, not he! The music stirs in him like wind through a tree. Mark that cripple who leans on his crutch ; like a tower That long has leaned forward, leans hour after hour ! That mother, whose spirit in fetters is bound, 40,While she dandles the babe in her arms to the sound. Now, coaches and chariots ! roar on like a stream ; Here are twenty souls happy as souls in a dream : They are deaf to your murmurs, — they care not for you. Nor what ye are flying, nor what ye pursue ! TO A BUTTERFLY. FIRST POEM. My sister and I were parted immediately after the death of our mother, who died in March, 1778, both being very young. Stay near me ; do not take thy flight ! A little longer stay in sight ! Much converse do I find in thee, Historian of my infancy ! TO A BUTTERFLY. 29 5 Float near me ; do not yet depart ! Dead times revive in thee : Thou bring'st, gay creature as thou art ! A solemn image to my heart, My father's family ! 10 Oh ! pleasant, pleasant were the days, The time, when, in our childish plays, My sister Emmeline and I Together chased the butterfly ! A very hunter did I rush 15 Upon the prey : — with leaps and springs I followed on from brake to bush ; But she, God love her ! feared to brush The dust from off its wings. SECOND POEM. I 'vE watched you now a full half hour Self -poised upon that yellow flower ; And, little Butterfly ! indeed I know not if you sleep or feed. 5 How motionless ! — not frozen seas More motionless ! — and then What joy awaits you, when the breeze Hath found you out among the trees, And calls you forth again ! 10 This plot of orchard-ground is ours ; My trees they are, my sister's flowers : Here rest your wings when they are weary, Here lodge as in a sanctuary ! Come often to us, fear no wrong ; 15 Sit near us on the bousrh ! 30 WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. We '11 talk of sunshine and of song, And summer days, when we were young ; Sweet childish days, that were as long As twenty days are now. THE SPARROW'S NEST. Behold, within the leafy shade. Those bright blue eggs together laid! On me the chance-discovered sight Gleamed like a vision of delight. 5 I started, — seeming to espy The home and sheltered bed. The sparrow's dwelling, which, hard by My father's house, in wet or dry, My sister Emmeline and I 10 Together visited. She looked at it and seemed to fear it ; Dreading, tho' wishing, to be near it : Such heart was in her, being then A little prattler among men. 15 The blessing of my later years Was with me when a boy : She gave me eyes, she gave me ears ; And humble cares, and delicate fears ; A heart, the fountain of sweet tears ; 20 And love, and thought, and joy. TO A SKYLARK. 31 TO A SKYLARK. 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, 5 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 ; 10 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 15 To thy banqueting-place in the sky. Joyous as morning. Thou art laughing and scorning ; Thou hast a nest for thy love and thy rest, And, though little troubled with sloth, 20 Drunken Lark ! thou wouldst be loth To be such a traveller as I. Happy, happy liver. With a soul as strong as a mountain river Pouring out praise to the Almighty Giver, 25 Joy and jollity be with us both ! 20. So we sometimes say that one is intoxicated with joy. 32 WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 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, 30 1, 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 ? 5 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 10 Of harmony, with instinct more divine ; Type of the wise who soar, but never roam ; True to the kindred points of Heaven and Home. TO A NIGHTINGALE. O Nightingale ! thou surely art A creature of a " fiery heart : " — These notes of thine, — they pierce and pierce : Tumultuous harmony and fierce ! 5 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 ; TO THE CUCKOO. 33 And sbeacly bliss, and all the loves 10 Now sleeping in these peaceful groves. I heard a stock-dove sing or say His homely tale, this very day : His voice was buried among trees, Yet to be come at by the breeze : 15 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 ; 20 That was the song, — the song for me ! TO THE CUCKOO. BLITHE New-comer ! I have heard, 1 hear thee and rejoice. O Cuckoo ! shall I call thee Bird, Or but a wandering Voice ? 5 While I am lying on the grass Thy twofold shout I hear, Prom hill to hill it seems to pass. At once far off, and near. Though babbling only to the vale, 10 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 15 No bird, but an invisible thing, A voice, a mystery ; 34 WILLIAM WORDSWORTH, The same whom in my schoolboy days I listened to ; that cry Which made me look a thousand ways, 20 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, 25 And I can listen to thee yet ; Can lie upon the plain And listen, till I do beget That golden time again. O blessed Bird ! the earth we pace so 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 When first she gleamed upon my sight ; A lovely apparition, sent To be a moment's ornament ; 5 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, 10 To haunt, to startle, and waylay. THREE YEARS SHE GREW. 35 I saw her upon nearer view, A sjDirit, yet a woman too ! Her household motions light and free, And steps of virgin liberty ; 15 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, 20 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 traveller between life and death ; 25 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 sjjirit still, and bright 30 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 ; This child I to myself will take ; 5 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 36 WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. The girl, in rock and plain, 10 In earth and heaven, in giade 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 15 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 20 To her ; for her the willow bend ; Nor shall she fail to see, Even in the motions of the storm, Grace that shall mould the maiden's form By silent sympathy. 25 " 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 30 Shall pass into her face. " And vital feelings of delight Shall rear her form to stately height, Her virgin bosom swell ; Such thoughts to Lucy I will give 35 While she and I together live Here in this happy dell." A SLUMBER DID MY SPIRIT SEAL. 37 Thus Nature spake. — The work was done. — How soon my Lucy's race was run ! She died, and left to me 40 This heath, this cahn and quiet scene ; The memory of what has been, And never more will be. SHE DWELT AMONG THE UNTRODDEN WAYS. She dwelt among the untrodden ways Beside the springs of Dove, A maid whom there were none to praise, And very few to love : 5 A violet by a mossy stone Half hidden from the eye ! Fair as a star, when only one Is shining in the sky. She lived unknown, and few could know 10 When Lucy ceased to be ; But she is in her grave, and oh ! The difference to me ! A SLUMBER DID MY SPIRIT SEAL. A SLUMBER did my spirit seal ; I had no human fears : She seemed a thing that could not feel The touch of earthly years. 38 WILLIAM WORDSWORTH, 5 No motion has she now, no force ; She neither hears nor sees ; Rolled round in earth's diurnal course, With rocks, and stones, and trees. I TRAVELLED AMONG UN'KNOWN MEN. I TRAVELLED among unknown men, In lands beyond the sea ; Nor, England ! did I know till then What love I bore to thee. 5 'T is past, that melancholy dream ! Nor will I quit thy shore A second time ; for still I seem To love thee more and more. Among thy mountains did I feel 10 The joy of my desire ; And she I cherished turned her wheel Beside an English fire. Thy morning showed, thy nights concealed, The bowers where Lucy played ; 15 And thine too is the last green field That Lucy's eyes surveyed. THE DAFFODILS. THE DAFFODILS. I WANDEEED lonely as a cloud That floats on high o'er vales and hillsy When all at once I saw a crowd, A host, of golden daffodils ; s Beside the lake, beneath the trees. Fluttering and dancing in the breeze- Continuous as the stars that shine And twinkle on the milky way, They stretched in never-ending line io 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 : 15 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 brouoht: For oft, when on my couch I lie 20 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. 40 WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 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 bash or tree ; She could more infuse in me, Than all Nature's beauties can In some other wiser man.'' G. Wither, In youth from rock to rock I went, From hill to hill, in discontent Of pleasure high and turbulent, Most pleased when most uneasy ; 5 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 10 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 ! 15 Doth in thy crimson head delight When rains are on thee. In shoals and bands, a morrice train. Thou greet'st the traveller in the lane ; Pleased at his greeting thee again ; 20 Yet nothing daunted, 1 His Muse. TO THE DAISY. 41 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. 25 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, 30 Yet hast not gone without thy fame ; Thou art indeed by many a claim The poet's darling. If to a rock from rains he fly. Or, some bright day of April sky, 35 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 40 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 ; 45 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, 50 And one chance look to thee should turn, 42 . WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. I drink out of an humbler urn A lowlier pleasure ; The homely sympathy that heeds The common life, our nature breeds; 55 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 60 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. 65 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 ; 70 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 75 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 80 Art Nature's favorite. 80. See, in Chancer and the elder poets, the honors formerly paid to this flower. — W. W. TO THE SAME FLOWER. 43 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, 5 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 10 1 sit, and play with similes, Loose types of things through all degrees, Thoughts of thy raising : And many a fond and idle name I give to thee, for praise or blame, 15 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 20 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. 25 A little Cyclops, with one eye Staring to threaten and defy, That thought comes next, — and instantly The freak is over. 44 WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. The shape will vanish, — and behold 30 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 ; 35 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, 40 Who shall reprove thee ! Bright Floicer ! for by that name at last, When all my reveries are past, I call thee, and to that cleave fast, Sweet, silent creature ! 45 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. It is remarkable that this flower, coming out so early in the spring as it does, and so bright and beautiful, and in such pro- fusion, 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 ; TO THE SMALL CELANDINE. 45 5 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 10 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, 15 Little flower ! — I '11 make a stir, Like a sage astronomer. Modest, yet withal an elf Bold, and lavish of thyself ; Since we needs must first have met, 20 1 have seen thee, high and low, 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. 25 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 30 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 : 8. Common pilewort. 46 WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 35 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 ; 40 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 45 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, 50 Children of the flaring hours ! Buttercups, that will be seen. Whether we will see or no ; Others, too, of lofty mien ; They have done as worldlings do, 55 Taken praise that should be thine. Little, humble Celandine. Prophet of delight and mirth, Ill-requited upon earth ; Herald of a mighty band, 60 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 MY SISTER. 47 TO MY SISTER, It is the first mild day of March : Each miuute sweeter than before. The redbreast sings from the tall larch That stands beside our door. 5 There is a blessing in the air, Which seems a sense of joy to yield To the bare trees, and mountains bare, And grass in the green field. My sister ! ('t is a wish of mine,) 10 Now that our morning meal is done, Make haste, your morning task resign ; Come forth and feel the sun. Edward will come with you ; — and, pray. Put on with speed your woodland dress ; 15 And bring no book : for this one day We '11 give to idleness. No joyless forms shall regulate Our living calendar : We from to-day, my friend, will date 20 The opening of the year. Love, now a universal birth. From heart to heart is stealing. From earth to man, from man to earth, — It is the hour of feeling. 25 One moment now may give us more Than years of toiling reason : 48 WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. Our minds shall drink at every pore Tlie spirit of the season. Some silent laws our hearts will make, 30 Which they shall long obey : We for the year to come may 'take Our temper from to-day. And from the blessed power that rolls About, below, above, 35 We '11 frame the measure of our souls : They shall be tuned to love. Then come, my sister ! come, I pray ; With speed put on your woodland dress, And bring no book : for this one day 40 We '11 give to idleness. SONNET. Most sweet it is with unuplif ted eyes To pace the ground, if path be there or none. While a fair region round the traveller lies Which he forbears again to look upon ; 5 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 10 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. EXPOSTULATION AND REPLY. 49 EXPOSTULATION AND REPLY. " Why, William, on that old gray stone, Thus for the length of half a clay, Why, William, sit you thus alone, And dream your time away ? 5 " 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, 10 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, 15 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, 20 Against or with our will. " Nor less I deem that there are powers Which of themselves our minds impress ; That we can feed this mind of ours In a wise passiveness. 25 " Think you, 'mid all this mighty sum Of things forever speaking, 60 WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. That nothing of itself will come, But we must still be seeking ? " Then ask not wherefore, here, alone, 30 Conversing as I may, I sit upon this old gray stone, And dream my tiaie away." THE TABLES TURNED. AN EVENING SCENE ON THE SAME SUBJECT. Up ! up ! my friend, and quit your books. Or surely you '11 grow double : Up I up ! my friend, and clear your looks ; Why all this toil and trouble ? 5 The sun, above the mountain's head, A freshening lustre mellow Through all the long, green fields has sj)read, His first sweet evening yellow. Books ! 't is a dull and endless strife : 10 Come, hear the woodland linnet. How sweet his music ! on my life, There 's more of wisdom in it. And hark ! how blithe the throstle sings ! He, too, is no mean preacher : 15 Come forth into the light of things, Let Nature be your teacher. She has a world of ready wealth. Our minds and hearts to bless, — SONNET. 51 Spontaneous wisdom breathed by health, 20 Truth breathed by cheerfulness. One impulse from a vernal wood May teach you more of man, Of moral evil and of good, Than all the sages can. 25 Sweet is the lore which Nature brings ; Our meddling intellect Misshapes the beauteous forms of things, — We murder to dissect. Enough of Science and of Art ; 30 Close up those barren leaves ; Come fortli, and bring with you a heart That watches and receives. 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 ! 5 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 ! I 'd rather be 10 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. 62 WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. YARROW UNVISITED. See the various Poems the scene of which is laid upon the banks of the Yarrow ; in particular, the exquisite Ballad of Hamilton beginning, — "Busk ye, busk ye, my bonny, bonny Bride, Busk ye, busk ye, my winsome Marrow ! " From Stirling Castle we had seen The mazy Forth unravelled ; Had trod the banks of Clyde and Tay, And with the Tweed had travelled ; 6 And when we came to Clovenford, Then said my " icinsome Marroio^'' " Whate'er betide, we '11 turn aside, And see the braes of Yarrow." " Let Yarrow folk, frae Selkirk town, 10 Who have been buying, selling. Go back to Yarrow, 't is their own ; Each maiden to her dwelling ! On Yarrow's banks let herons feed, Hares couch, and rabbits burrow ! 15 But we will downward with the Tweed, Nor turn aside to Yarrow. " There 's Galla Water, Leader Haughs, Both lying right before us ; And Dryborough, where with chiming Tweed 20 The lintwhites sing in chorus ; There 's pleasant Tiviot-dale, a land Made blithe with plough and harrow : Why throw away a needful day To go in search of Yarrow ? 9. Frae. Scottish for /row. YARROW UNVISITED. 53 25 " What 's Yarrow but a river bare, That glides the dark hills under ? There are a thousand such elsewhere, As worthy of your wonder." Strange words they seemed of slight and scorn ! 30 My true-love sighed for sorrow ; And looked me in the face, to think I thus could speak of Yarrow ! " Oh, green," said I, " are Yarrow's holms. And sweet is Yarrow flowing ! 35 Fair hangs the apple f rae the rock. But we will leave it growing. O'er hilly path, and open Strath, We '11 wander Scotland thorough ; But, though so near, we will not turn 40 Into the dale of Yarrow. " Let beeves and homebred kine partake The sweets of Burn-mill meadow ; The swan on still St. Mary's Lake Float double, swan and shadow ! 45 We will not see them ; will not sfo To-day, nor yet to-morrow ; Enough, if in our hearts we know There 's such a place as Yarrow. " Be Yarrow stream unseen, unknown ! 50 It must, or we shall rue it : We have a vision of our own ; Ah ! why should we undo it ? The treasured dreams of times long past. We '11 keep them, winsome Marrow ! 54 WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 55 For when we 're there, although 't is fair, 'T will be another Yarrow ! " If care with freezing years should come, And wandering seem hut folly, — Should we be loth to stir from home, 60 And yet be melancholy, — Should life be dull, and spirits low, 'T will soothe us in our sorrow. That earth has something yet to show, The bonny holms of Yarrow ! " YARROW VISITED. SEPTEMBER, 1814. And is this — Yarrow ? — Tliis the stream Of which my fancy cherished. So faithfully, a waking dream ? An image that hath perished ! 5 Oh, that some Minstrel's harp were near, To utter notes of gladness. And chase this silence from the air, That fills my heart with sadness ! Yet why ? — a silvery current flows 10 With uncontrolled meanderings ; Nor have these eyes by greener hills Been soothed, in all my wanderings. And, through her depths. Saint Mary's Lake Is visibly delighted ; 15 For not a feature of those hills Is in the mirror slighted. YARROW VISITED. 65 A blue sky bends o'er Yarrow vale, Save where that pearly whiteness Is round the rising sun diffused, 20 A tender, hazy brightness ; Mild dawn of promise ! that excludes All profitless dejection ; Though not unwilling here to admit A pensive recollection. 25 Where was it that the famous flower Of Yarrow Vale lay bleeding ? His bed perchance was yon smooth mound On which the herd is feeding : And haply from this crystal j)ool, 30 Now peaceful as the morning, The Water-wraith ascended thrice. And gave his doleful warning. Delicious is the lay that sings The haunts of happy lovers, 35 The path that leads them to the grove, The leafy grove that covers : And pity sanctifies the verse That paints, by strength of sorrow. The unconquerable strength of love ; 40 Bear witness, rueful Yarrow ! But thou, that didst appear so fair To fond imagination, Dost rival in the light of day Her delicate creation : 45 Meek loveliness is round thee spread, A softness still and holy ; 66 WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. The grace of forest charms decayed, And pastoral melancholy. That region left, the vale unfolds 50 Rich groves of lofty stature, With Yarrow winding through the pomp Of cidtivated nature ; And, rising from those lofty groves. Behold a ruin hoary ! 55 The shattered front of Newark's towers Renowned in Border story. Fair scenes for childhood's opening bloom, For sportive j^outh to stray in ; For manhood to enjoy his strength, 60 And age to wear away in ! Yon cottage seems a bower of bliss, A covert for protection Of tender thoughts, that nestle there, — The brood of chaste aifection. 65 How sweet, on this autumnal day, The wild-wood fruits to gather, And on my true-love's forehead plant A crest of blooming heather ! And what if I inwreathed my own ! 70 'T were no offence to reason ; The sober hills thus deck their brows To meet the wintry season. I see, — but not by sight alone, Loved Yarrow, have I won thee ; 75 A ray of fancy still survives, — Her sunshine plays upon thee ! YARROW REVISITED. 57 Thy ever-youthful waters keep A course of lively pleasure ; And gladsome notes my lips can breathe, 60 Accordant to the measure. The vapors linger round the heights, They melt, and soon must vanish ; One hour is theirs, nor more is mine, — Sad thought, which I would banish, 85 But that I know, where'er I go, Thy genuine image, Yarrow ! Will dwell with me, — to heighten joy, And cheer my mind in sorrow. YARROW REVISITED. In the autumn of 1831, my daughter and I set off from Rydal to visit Sir Walter Scott, before his departure for Italy. We reached Abbotsford on Monday. How sadly changed did I find him from the man I had seen so healthy, gay, and hopeful a few years before, when he said at the inn at Paterdale, in my presence, his daughter Anne also being there, with Mr. Lock- hart, my own wife and daughter, and Mr. Quillinan, " I mean to live till I am eighty,^' " and shall write as long as I live." Though we had none of us the least thought of the cloud of misfortune which was then going to break upon his head. I was startled, and almost shocked, at that bold saying, which could scarcely be uttered by such a man, sanguine as he was, without a momentary forgetfulness of the instability of human life. But to return to Abbotsford. On Tuesday morning, Sir Wal- ter Scott accompanied us, and most of the party, to Newark Castle, on the Yarrow. When we alighted from the carriages he walked pretty stoutly, and had great pleasure in revisiting these his favorite haunts. Of that excursion, the verses Yarroio Revisited are a memorial. The gallant youth, who may have gained, Or seeks, a " winsome Marrow," 58 WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. Was but an infant in the lap When first I looked on Yarrow ; 5 Once more, by Newark's castle-gate Long left without a warder, I stood, looked, listened, and with thee, Great Minstrel of the Border ! Grave thoughts ruled wide on that sweet day, 10 Their dignity installing In gentle bosoms, while sere leaves Were on the bough, or falling ; But breezes played, and sunshine gleamed, The forest to embolden ; 15 Reddened the fiery hues, and shot Transparence through the golden. For busy thoughts the stream flowed on In foamy agitation ; And slept in many a crystal pool 20 For quiet contemplation : No public and no private care The freeborn mind enthralling, We made a day of happy hours. Our hapi^y days recalling. 25 Brisk youth appeared, the morn of youth, With freaks of graceful folly, — Life's temperate noon, her sober eve, Her night not melancholy ; Past, present, future, all appeared 30 In harmony united. Like guests that meet, and some from far. By cordial love invited. YARROW REVISITED. 59 And if, as Yarrow, through the woods And down the meadow ranging, 35 Did meet us with unaltered face. Though we were changed and changing ; If, then, some natural shadows spread Our inward prospect over. The soul's deep valley was not slow 40 Its brightness to recover. Eternal blessings on the Muse, And her divine employment ! The blameless Muse, who trains her sons For hope and calm enjoyment ; 45 Albeit sickness, lingering yet, Has o'er their pillow brooded ; And care waylays their steps, — a Sprite Not easily eluded. For thee, O Scott ! compelled to change 50 Green Eildon Hill and Cheviot For warm Vesuvio's vine-clad slopes ; And leave thy Tweed and Teviot For mild Sorrento's breezy waves ; May classic Fancy, linking 55 With native Fancy her fresh aid, Preserve thy heart from sinking ! Oh, while they minister to thee, Each vying with the other, May health return to mellow age, 60 With strength, her venturous brother ; And Tiber, and each brook and rill Renowned in song and storv. 60 WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. With unimagined beauty shine, Nor lose one ray of glory ! 65 For thou, upon a hundred streams, By tales of love and sorrow, Of faitliful love, undaunted truth. Hast shed the power of Yarrow ; And streams unknown, hills yet unseen, 70 Wherever they invite thee. At parent Nature's grateful call. With gladness must requite thee. A gracious welcome shall be thine. Such looks of love and honor 75 As thy own Yarrow gave to me When first I gazed upon her ; Beheld what I had feared to see, Unwilling to surrender Dreams treasured up from early days, 80 The holy and the tender. And what, for this frail world, were all That mortals do or suffer, Did no responsive harp, no j^en. Memorial tribute offer ? 85 Yea, what were mighty Nature's self? \ Her features, could they win us, Unhelped by the poetic voice That hourly speaks within us ? Nor deem that localized Romance 90 Plays false with our affections ; Unsanctifies our tears, — made sport For fanciful dejections : DEPARTURE OF SIR WALTER SCOTT. 61 Ah, no ! the visions of the past Sustain the heart in feeling 95 Life as she is, — our changeful life, With friends and kindred dealing. Bear witness, ye, whose thoughts that day In Yarrow's groves were centred ; Who through the silent portal arch 100 Of mouldering Newark entered ; And clomb the winding stair that once Too timidly was mounted By the "last Minstrel " (not the last !) Ere he his tale recounted. 105 Flow on forever, Yarrow Stream ! Fidfil thy pensive duty, Well pleased that future bards should chant For simple hearts thy beauty ; To dream-light dear while yet unseen, no Dear to the common sunshine, And dearer still, as now I feel, To memory's shadowy moonshine ! ON THE DEPARTURE OF SIR WALTER SCOTT FROM ABBOTSFORD, FOR NAPLES. A TROUBLE, not of clouds, or weeping rain. Nor of the setting sun's pathetic light Engendered, hangs o'er Eildon's triple height : Spirits of power, assembled there, complain 5 For kindred power departing from their sight ; While Tweed, best pleased in chanting a blithe strain, 62 WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. Saddens his voice again, and yet again. Lift up your hearts, ye mourners ! for the might Of the whole world's good wishes with him goes ; 10 Blessings and prayers, in nobler retinue Than sceptred king or laurelled conqueror knows, Follow this wondrous potentate. Be true, Ye winds of ocean, and the midland sea. Wafting your charge to soft Parthenope ! TO A HIGHLAND GIRL. (at INVERSNEYDE, upon loch LOMOND.) Sweet Highland Girl, a very shower Of beauty is thy earthly dower ! Twice seven consenting years have shed Their utmost bounty on thy head : 5 And these gray rocks ; that household lawn Those trees, a veil just half withdrawn ; This fall of water that doth make A murmur near the silent lake ; This little bay ; a quiet road 10 That holds in shelter thy abode ; In truth together do ye seem Like something fashioned in a dream ; Such forms as from their covert peep When earthly cares are laid asleep ! 15 But, O fair creature ! in the light Of common day, so heavenly bright, I bless thee. Vision as thou art, I bless thee with a human heart ; God shield thee to thy latest years ! TO A HIGHLAND GIRL. 63 20 Thee neither know I, nor thy peers ■ And yet my eyes are filled with tears. With earnest feeling I shall pi ay For thee when I am far away : For never saw I mien, or face, 25 In which more plainly I could trace Benignity and homebred sense Eipening in perfect innocence. Here scattered, like a random seed, Kemote from men, thou dost not need 30 The embarrassed look of shy distress. And maidenly shamefacedness : Thou wear'st upon thy forehead clear The freedom of a mountaineer : A face with gladness overspread ! 35 Soft smiles, by human kindness bred ! And seemliness complete, that sways Thy courtesies, about thee plays ; With no restraint, but such as springs From quick and eager visitings 40 Of thoughts that lie beyond the reach Of thy few words of English speech : A bondage sweetly brooked, a strife That gives thy gestures grace and life ! So have I, not unmoved in mind, 45 Seen birds of tempest-loving kind Thus beating up against the wind. What hand but would a garland cull For thee who art so beautiful ? Oh, happy pleasure ! here to dwell 50 Beside thee in some heathy dell ; 64 .VILLI AM WORDSWORTH. Adopt your liomely ways, and dress, A Shepherd, thou a Shepherdess ! But I could frame a wish for thee More like a grave reality : 55 Thou art to me but as a wave Of the wild sea ; and I would have Some claim upon thee, if I could. Though but of common neighborhood. What joy to hear thee, and to see ! 60 Thy elder brother I would be. Thy father, — anything to thee ! Now thanks to Heaven, that of its grace Hath led me to this lonely place. Joy have I had ; and going hence 65 1 bear away my recompense. In sj)ots like these it is we prize Our memory, feel that she hath eyes : Then, why should I be loth to stir ? I feel this place was made for her ; 70 To give new pleasure likQ the past, Continued long as life shall last. Nor am I loth, though pleased at heart, Sweet Highland Girl ! from thee to part ; For I, methinks, till I grow old, 75 As fair before me shall behold. As I do now, the cabin small. The lake, the bay, the waterfall ; And thee, the Spirit of them all ! STEPPING WESTWARD. 65 STEPPING WESTWARD. While ray Fellow-traveller and I were walking by the side of Loch Ketterine, one fine evening after sunset, in our road to a hut where, in the course of our tour, we had been hospitably 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 f " — " Yea''' — 'T would be a wildish destiny, If we, who thus together roam In a strange land, and far from home, 5 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 ; 10 Behind, all gloomy to behold ; And stepping westward seemed to be A kind of heavenly destiny : I liked the greeting ; 't was a sound Of something without place or bound ; 15 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 20 The very sound of courtesy : Its power was felt ; and while my eye Was fixed upon the glowing sky, 66 WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. The echo of the voice inwrought A human sweetness with the thought 25 Of travelling 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 ! 5 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 10 More welcome notes to weary bands Of travellers in some shady haunt. Among Arabian sands : A voice so thrilling ne'er was heard In spring-time from the cuckoo-bird, 15 Breaking the silence of the seas Among the farthest Hebrides. Will no one tell me what she sings ? - Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow For old, unhappy, far-off things, 20 And battles long ago : Or is it some more humble lay. Familiar matter of to-day ? Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain, That has been, and may be again? TO SLEEP. 67 25 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 ; 30 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 5 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 steej^, 10 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. A FLOCK of sheep that leisurely pass by. One after one ; the sound of rain, and bees Murmuring ; the fall of rivers, winds and seas, 68 WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. Smooth fields, white sheets of water, and pure sky ; 5 1 have thought of all by turns, and yet to lie Sleepless I and soon the small birds' melodies Must hear, first uttered from my orchard trees ; And the first cuckoo's melancholy cry. Even thus last night, and two nights more, I lay, 10 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 ; 5 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, 10 If thou appear untouched by solemn thought. Thy nature is not therefore less divine : Thou liest in Abraham's bosom all the year ; And worshipp'st at the temple's inner shrine, God being with thee when we know it not. ELEGIAC STANZAS. 69 ELEGIAC STANZAS, SUGGESTED BY A PICTURE OF PEELE CASTLE IN A STORM, PAINTED BY SIR GEORGE BEAUMONT. I WAS thy neighbor once, thou rugged Pile ! Four summer weeks I dwelt in sight of thee : I saw thee every day ; and all the while Thy form was sleeping on a glassy sea. 5 So pure the sky, so quiet was the air ! So like, so very like, was day to day ! Whene'er I looked, thy image still was there ; It trembled, but it never passed away. Ho^w perfect was the calm ! it seemed no sleep ; 10 No mood, which season takes away, or brings : I could have fancied that the mighty Deep Was even the gentlest of all gentle things. Ah ! then, if mine had been the Painter's hand. 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