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TEXT-BOOK OF POETRY; 
 
 FBOM 
 
 ¥ORDS¥ORTH, COLERIDGE, BURNS, BEATTIE, 
 GOLDSMITH, AND THOMSON. 
 
 KETCHES OF THE AUTHORS' LIVES, 
 NOTES, AND GLOSSARIES. 
 
 FOR USE IN SCHOOLS AND CLASSES. 
 
 BY THE 
 
 Eev. HEIsTEY N. HUDSON. 
 
 B O S T O IST: 
 
 PUBLISHED BY GINN BROTHERS. 
 
 1875. 
 
 :i2 1875 r^cn) 1 
 

 Entered according to Act of Congress in tlie year 1875, 
 
 By HE:N^KY IN". HUDSOI^, 
 
 In tlie Office of tlie Librarian of Congress, at Washington. 
 
 J. F. Loughlin, Book, Job, and Music Printer, 18 Post-Office Square, Bostou. 
 
PREFACE 
 
 It is really as important that people should be disposed to read 
 what is good, as it is that they should know how to read. For the 
 ability to converse wdth books is as liable to abuse as any other gift, 
 and is in fact as much abused at this very time, and that too to the 
 injury of the readers themselves, both in mind and heart. It is 
 abundantly in proof that, of the books now appearing from day to 
 day, the meanest and the worst, those made up of the cheapest and 
 the foulest sensational flash, are read a great deal the most. The 
 reason of this surely must be that, while people are taught to read, 
 due care is not taken to plant and cherish in them right intellectual 
 and literary tastes. In our education, therefore, it is of prime con- 
 cern that such tastes should be early set or quickened in the mind; 
 that while we are giving people the ability to converse with books, 
 no pains should be spared to inspire them with the love of books 
 that are good. Once possess them with a genuine, hearty love of 
 a few first-rate authors, and then their culture in all its parts, so far 
 as books can minister to it, is duly cared for: that love, those tastes, 
 will become a sort of instinct, to prompt and guide them to Avhat is 
 wholesome and pure. And in this, as in other things, the ways of 
 purity and health are also the ways of lasting and ever-growing 
 pleasure and delight. The abiding, uncloying sweetness, the liv- 
 ing, un withering freshness of books in which conscience presides, 
 truth illuminates, and genius inspires, are the proper food and de- 
 lectation of a chaste and well-ordered mind; and to have a due sense 
 and relish of those qualities, is at once the proof and the pledge 
 of moral and intellectual health: for here it may with special fit- 
 ness be afiirmed that "love is an unerring light, and joy its own 
 security." 
 
 It is on this principle, it is with a constant view to this end, that 
 I have worked in selecting and ordering the contents of the present 
 volume. These are the thoughts that prompted, and have through- 
 out governed, the undertaking. In my own teaching, I have long 
 felt the want of such a text-book, and have supplied the lack there- 
 of as I best could. As for the reading-books, of which so many are 
 in common use, I neither could nor would have any thing to do with 
 them. I have no faith in them whatsoever: the very principle of 
 
 iii 
 
IV PREFACE. 
 
 them I hold to be radically vicious and wrong. Assuredly, the 
 right way of teaching English literature, so as to develop the intel- 
 lectual tastes, is by using authors, and not miscellaneous literary 
 chips, such as the books in question are made up of. Both experi- 
 ence and the reason of the thing amply instruct us that a mere col- 
 lection of scraps and specimens gathered from a multitude of writ- 
 ers is rather a hindrance than a help to the end proposed; because 
 in such a course the pupil does not stay long enough with any one 
 author to catch his spirit, to find his virtue, or to feel at home with 
 him. In such a rapid flight from author to author, no true intel- 
 lectual loves or taste&can possibly germinate in the mind: for these 
 loves are like our domestic loves, which grow from long intercourse 
 of heart with heart and soul with soul in the familiar atmosphere of 
 home, and the companionship of faces endeared by time. In short, 
 these current reading-books are alike tedious in the use and worth- 
 less in the result: no mental delight can spring up from their pages : 
 for any purpose but a mere mechanical pronouncing of words and 
 sentences, they are sheer impertinences. On the other hand, a 
 taste for a good author is a thing of slow and silent growth, and can 
 by no means be extemporized: to the forming and fixing of it 
 nothing will serve, but that the author's virtue just soak into the 
 mind from communing with him through many a studious and 
 thoughtful hour. Such is indeed the method, such the process of 
 all fruitful converse with intellectual and moral beauty, the only 
 way to drink-in the efficacy thereof; a converse which Milton so 
 well describes as "beholding the bright countenance of truth in 
 the quiet and still air of delightful studies." 
 
 The upshot of all which is that, for the ends of culture, instead 
 of a course of nibbles and snatches over a wide, miscellaneous field 
 of authorship, we should take a very few of the best authors, and 
 then use them a great deal. A taste for Shakespeare or Words- 
 worth alone, once thoroughly set in the mind, will readily guide 
 him who has it to other good authors, and will at the same time 
 keep him away from the bad by a spontaneous disgust of them. 
 
 The contents of this volume, as will at once be seen, are all 
 drawn from six authors. Nor does this list include any author 
 now living. I set out with the determination not to admit any 
 author who had not fairly won the rank of a classic; a thing that is 
 seldom if ever done during an author's life : generally a hundred 
 years is little time enough for settling so grave a question. And it 
 is a fixed principle with me, that none but the very best authors 
 should be taken for the use to which this volume is addressed; 
 while, again, to be used as a text-book in school, and for setting the 
 tastes and forming the minds of the young, is the highest honour 
 to which any author can justly aspire. Of the several authors here 
 
PKEFACE. V 
 
 included, I have aimed to select, if not the pieces best in them- 
 selves, such at least as seemed best fitted for the use here designed. 
 Therewithal, except in a few cases, which are duly remarked in 
 the notes, I have given entire poems; and this to the end that a 
 sense of artistic completeness and harmony may be secretly quick- 
 ened and fostered in the pupil's mind. 
 
 All, or nearly all, the pieces set forth in this collection are old, 
 familiar, long-tried friends of mine : if I had not been in the habit 
 of returning to them often, and conversing with them, for many, 
 many years; and if I had not believed the verdure and freshness 
 of them to be perennial, and such as no frequency of perusal can 
 exhaust; I should not have admitted them: in a word, to my sense, 
 "age cannot wither them, nor custom stale their infinite variety"; 
 for I would fain have the volume so composed as to gather about 
 
 itself 
 
 •• the fixed delights of house and home, 
 Friendships that will not break, and love that cannot roam." 
 
 It may be thought that some apology, or some explanation, is 
 due from me for having filled so much of the volume with Words- 
 worth. On this point I can but say that the book contains no more 
 of Wordsworth than I really want, and have long been in the habit 
 of using more or less, in my own classes; nor anymore than I think 
 may be generally used with good effect in a course of English 
 studies. And I am thoroughly satisfied that, next after Shake- 
 speare, Wordsworth is the best of all the English poets for such 
 use; and this chiefly because he is apt to inspire a deeper, stronger, 
 and more abiding enthusiasm. In my observation, no mind that 
 has once rightly felt the touch of his hand ever shakes off or out- 
 grows its power ; nor can I think of any thing better which the 
 school can do for young minds than to seize them with a life-long 
 passion for him. 
 
 Of the other authors and poems embraced in this volume, it may 
 be enough to say that the consorting or grouping of them is by no 
 means arbitrary. Strongly marked as the authors severally are 
 with individual and characteristic traits, yet they naturally gravi- 
 tate each to all, and all to each, by the force of mutual sympathy. 
 To my sense, they are six highly congenial souls, and the more 
 congenial for having each his original and independent strength. 
 Thus the group affords a large variety of interest and attraction, 
 while at the same time they all draw smoothly together under a 
 common spirit, and to a common purpose; so that a right study of 
 any one will serve to sharpen the student's relish and deepen his 
 enjoyment of all the others. 
 
 As to what is here done in the way of notes and comments, per- 
 haps the less said, the better. Still it may not be amiss to observe 
 
VI PREFACE. 
 
 that I have aimed at fitness, not for recitations proper, but simply 
 for exercises; that teacher and pupils may commune together 
 with the beauty and wisdom and eloquence of the authors, without 
 having their thoughts too much diverted and drawn away to irrele- 
 vant points. I have been specially desirous not to encumber pupils 
 with excessive or superfluous help; deeming that the right way is, 
 to bring the minds of the student and the author fairly together, to 
 put the former in direct and free communication with the latter, — 
 a process that may easily be defeated by thrusting too much of ex- 
 planation and comment between them; — and then to leave the 
 proper results to come in their own way and time, knowing that the 
 more silent they are in coming, the surer they are to come, and 
 the better when they come. In such studies, the great thing is, to 
 get the pupils really to understand and relish what is before them, 
 to taste its sweetness, to inhale its spirit, to catch its virtue: this 
 done, the main end of the study is secured; this left undone, that 
 end is missed, and the work is to be set down as a failure, whatever 
 incidental benefits may accrue from the process. And here may 
 be fitly applied to the study of poetry what Coleridge says in 
 reference to his own poetical composition: '* Poetry has been to 
 me its own ' exceeding great reward ' : it has soothed my afflictions; 
 it has multiplied and refined my enjoyments; it has endeared soli- 
 tude; and it has given me the habit of wishing to discover the Good 
 and the Beautiful in all that meets and surrounds me." 
 
 In the sketches of the several authors' lives, I have endeavoured, 
 with my best care and judgment, and with as much, fulness as the 
 space would allow, to sort out and draw together such particulars 
 of personal history and of native idiom as would best serve to im- 
 press their characteristic traits, and to illustrate the correspond- 
 ences between the man and his works. In such swift biographical 
 summaries, it is very difficult to avoid a most unattractive dryness 
 of style; and I dare not hope that these specimens stand clear of 
 that fault. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 WORDSWORTH. 
 
 Page. 
 
 Sketch of his Life 1 
 
 Ruth 13 
 
 The Russian Fugitive 16 
 
 The Waterfall and the Eglantine 20 
 
 The Oak and the Broom .20 
 
 To the Daisy 22 
 
 To the Small Celandine 23 
 
 The Redbreast 24 
 
 To a Young Lady, &c. 25 
 
 Hart-leap Well. . 26 
 
 Michael 30 
 
 The Brothers 41 
 
 The Old Cumberland Beggar 51 
 
 The Farmer of Tilsbury Vale 56 
 
 The Reverie of Poor Susan 59 
 
 The Two Thieves 59 
 
 Power of Music 61 
 
 Miscellaneous Sonnets 62 
 
 Tintern Abbey .... * 92 
 
 Laodamia 96 
 
 Dion 100 
 
 Character of the Happy Warrior . . . . . . .104 
 
 Sonnets 106 
 
 Devotional Incitements 107 
 
 Ode to Duty 107 
 
 Ode to Lycoris 108 
 
 An Evening Voluntary 109 
 
 The Somnambulist 110 
 
 Ode, May Morning 112 
 
Vm TEXT -BOOK OF POETRY. 
 
 Page. 
 
 To May 113 
 
 Brougham Castle 114 
 
 The Pass of Kirkstone 116 
 
 To Enterprise 117 
 
 The Mountain Echo 119 
 
 The Egyptian Maid 120 
 
 Miscellaneous Poems ......... 129 
 
 National Independence, &c 188 
 
 Memorials of a Tour, &c 206 
 
 Elegiac Pieces 212 
 
 Ecclesiastical Sonnets . . , . . . . . .221 
 
 On the Power of Sound 238 
 
 Ode on Immortality 244 
 
 The Prelude. Book Fu-st 251 
 
 " Book Second 266 
 
 First Year in College 276 
 
 " Books 283 
 
 " Sights m London 289 
 
 " Men as they are Men 291 
 
 " Love and Imagination 295 
 
 The Excursion. Prospectus 298 
 
 Book First ' . . 301 
 
 Book Second 323 
 
 Book Third . 344 
 
 Book Fourth 367 
 
 Book Fifth ...'.... 397 
 
 Book Sixth 420 
 
 Book Seventh 448 
 
 Book Eighth 472 
 
 Book Ninth 486 
 
 OOLEKIDGE. 
 
 Sketch of his Life 504 
 
 Genevieve. Love 509 
 
 The Ancient Mariner 510 
 
 Christabel • ^l*? 
 
CONTEl!fTS. IX 
 
 Page. 
 
 Ode to the Departing Year . 525 
 
 France. An Ode 529 
 
 Fears in Solitude 531 
 
 Hymn to Mont Blanc 537 
 
 The Eolian Harp 539 
 
 Eeflections, &c 540 
 
 This Lune-Tree Bower, &c 542 
 
 To William Wordsworth . . 544 
 
 The Nightingale 547 
 
 Frost at Midnight 549 
 
 Dejection: An Ode 551 
 
 Miscellaneous 554 
 
 BUKNS. 
 
 Sketch of his Life 557 
 
 The Cotter's Saturday Night 561 
 
 To the Owl . 566 
 
 The Twa Dogs 567 
 
 Tarn o' Shanter 569 
 
 Address to the Deil 572 
 
 The Vision 574 
 
 On Pastoral Poetry . . . . . . . . . 577 
 
 To a Mouse 578 
 
 Bruar Water 578 
 
 Castle-Gordon 579 
 
 To Miss Cruikshanks 580 
 
 Poor Mailie's Elegy 580 
 
 Auld Mare Maggie 581 
 
 To a Louse 582 
 
 A Bard's Epitaph 682 
 
 To a Mountain Daisy 583 
 
 To the Shade of Thomson 583 
 
 To Miss Logan 584 
 
 A Prayer, &c 584 
 
 Elegy on Captain Henderson 584 
 
 On Sensibility 585 
 
X TEXT -BOOK OF POETRY. 
 
 Page. 
 
 Lincluden Abbey 586 
 
 To the Guidwife, &c 586 
 
 A Vision 587 
 
 Epistle to Davie 588 
 
 Epistle to Lapraik . " 588 
 
 To William Simpson 590 
 
 Epistle to a Young Friend 591 
 
 Epistle to James Smith 592 
 
 To Dr. Blacklock 594 
 
 Songs 595 
 
 Glossary 607 
 
 BEATTIE. 
 
 Sketch of his Life 615 
 
 The Minstrel 617 
 
 GOLDSMITH. 
 
 Sketch of his Life ' . . 645 
 
 The Deserted Village 647 
 
 THOMSON. 
 
 Sketch of his Life . 657 
 
 The Castle of Indolence 659 
 
 Glossary t:94 
 
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH 
 
 SKETCH OF HIS LIFE. 
 
 The birth-place of William Wordsworth is in Cumberland, a county lying in 
 the north-west corner of England, and separated from Scotland by Sol way Frith. 
 That region is specially distinguished in having numerous small lakes cradled 
 among its hills and mountains, all of which have now been crowned with classic 
 honours by the poet's hand. His father, John Wordsworth, was an attorney, and, 
 having been engaged as law-agent by the Earl of Lonsdale, was set over the west- 
 ern portion of the wide domain of Lowther, and lived at Cockermouth, in a manor- 
 house belonging to that family. There William was born on the 7th of April, 
 1770, the second of four sons. There was only one daughter in the family, 
 Dorothy, who came next after the poet. Cockermouth stands on the Derwent, 
 called by the poet " the fairest of all rivers," and looks back to the Borrowdale 
 mountains, among which that river is born. The voice of that stream, he tells 
 us, flowed along his dreams while he was a child. 
 
 His mother, a wnse and pious woman, told a friend that William was the only 
 one of her children about whom she felt anxious, and that he would be " remark- 
 able either for good or evil." This was probably from what he himself calls bis 
 " stiff, moody, and violent temper." Of this, which made him a wayward and 
 headstrong boy, all that he seems afterAvards to have retained was that resolute- 
 ness of character which stood him in good stead when he became a man. 
 
 Of his mother, who died when he Avas eight years old, the poet retained a faint 
 but tender recollection. At the age of nine, he, along with his elder brother 
 Eichard, left home for school. It would be hard to conceive a better school-life 
 for a future poet than that in which Wordsworth was reared at Hawkshead. 
 High-pressure was then unknown ; nature and freedom had full swing. Bounds 
 and locking-up hours they had none. The boys lived in the cottages of the village 
 dames, in a natural, friendly way, like their own children. Their play-gounds 
 were the fields, the lake, the woods, the hillsides, far as their feet could carry them. 
 Their games were crag-climbing for ravens' nests, skating on Esthwaite Lake, 
 setting springes for woodcocks. 
 
 In Wordsworth's fourteenth year, when he and his brother were at home for 
 the Christmas holidays, their father, who had never recovered heart after the 
 death of his wife, followed her to the grave. The old home at Cockermouth 
 was broken up, and the orphans were but poorly provided for. Large arrears were 
 indeed due to their father from the strange, self-willed Earl of Lonsdale ; but these 
 his lordship never chose to make good. Nevertheless the boys returned to school, 
 and William remained there till his eighteenth year, when he left for Cambridge. 
 
 From HaAvkshead Woi'dsworth took several good things with him. In book- 
 learning, there was Latin enough to enable him to read the Roman poets with 
 pleasure in after-years ; of mathematics, more than enough to start him on 
 equality with the average of Cambridge freshmen; of Greek, probably not much, — 
 ai least we never heard of it afterwards. It was here that he began that intimacy 
 with the English poets which he afterwards perfected : but neither at school nor 
 in after-life was he a devourer of books. 
 
2 WORDSWORTH I 
 
 Of verse-making, his earliest attempts date from Hawksliead. A long copy 
 of verses, written on the second centenary of the foundation of the school, Avas 
 much admired; but he himself afterwards pronounced them but a " tame imita- 
 tion of Pope." But more than any book-lore, more than any skill in verse- 
 making, or definite thoughts about poetry, was the free, natural life he led at 
 Hawkshead. It was there that he was smitten to the core with that love of 
 Nature which became the prime necessity of his being. Not that he Avas a 
 moody or peculiar boy, nursing his own fancies apart from his companions : so 
 far from this, he was foremost in all schoolboy adventures, — the sturdiest oar, 
 the hardiest cragsman at the harrying of ravens' nests. Weeks and months, he 
 tells us, passed in a round of school tumult. No life could have been every way 
 more unconstrained and natural. But, school tumult though there was, it was 
 not in a made play-ground at cricket or rackets, but in haunts more fitted to 
 form a poet, — on the lakes and the hillsides. All through his school-time, he 
 says that in pauses of the " giddy bliss " he felt " gleams like the flashing of a 
 shield." And as time went on, and common school pursuits lost their novelty, 
 these visitations grew deeper and more frequent. 
 
 In October, 1787, at the age of eighteen, Wordsworth passed from Hawkshead 
 School to St. John's College, Cambridge. College life, so important to those 
 whose minds are mainly shaped by books and academic influences, produced on 
 him but little impression. The stripling of the hills had not been trained for 
 college competitions : he felt that he " was not for that hour, nor for that place." 
 The range of scholastic studies seemed to him narrow and timid. As for col- 
 lege honours, he thought them dearly purchased at the price of the evil rivalries 
 and the tame standard of excellence which they fostered in the eager few who 
 entered the lists. No doubt he was a self-suflficient, presumptuous you.th, so to 
 judge of men and things in so famous a university : but there wCre qualities of 
 a rarer kind latent in him, which in time justified him in thus taking his own 
 course. 
 
 When arrived in Cambridge, a northern villager, he tells us there were other 
 poor, simple schoolboys from the North, now Cambridge men, ready to wel- 
 come him, and introduce him to the ways of the place. So, leaving to others 
 the competitive race, he let himself, in the company of these^ drop quietly down 
 the stream of the usual undergraduate jollities. In The Prelude he tells us how 
 in a friend's room in Christ's College, once occupied by Milton, he toasted the 
 memory of the abstemious Puritan, till the fumes of wine took his brain ; — the 
 first and last time that the future water-drinker experienced that sensation. Dur- 
 ing the earlier part of his college course he did just as others did, lounged and 
 sauntered, boated and rode, enjoyed wines and supper-parties, " days of mirth and 
 nights of revelry ; " yet kept clear of vicious excess. 
 
 When the first novelty of college life was over, growing dissatisfied with idle- 
 ness, he withdrcAV somewhat from promiscuous society, and kept more by himself. Jj 
 Living in quiet, the less he felt of reverence for those elders whom he saw. the '' 
 more his heart was stirred with high thoughts of those whom he could not see. ! 
 He read Chaucer under the hawthorn by Trompington Mill, and made inti- ■ i 
 mate acquaintance with Spenser. Milton he seemed to himself almost to see i 
 moving before him, as, clad in scholar's gown, that young poet had once walked i 
 those same cloisters in the angelic beauty of his youth. 
 
 During the Summer vacations Wordsworth and his sister, who had been | 
 much separated since their childhood, met once more under the roof of their '( 
 mother's kindred in Penrith. With her he then had the first of those rambles — ] 
 by the streams of Lowthef and Emont — which Avere afterwards renewed Avith i 
 so happy resiilts. Then, too, he first met Mary Hutchinson, his cousin, and his I 
 wife to be. It Avas during his second or third year at Cambridge, that he first 
 seriously formed the purpose of being a poet, and dared to hope that he might 
 leave behind him something that Avould Ua'C. His last long vacation A\-as de- ■ 
 voted to a walking-tour on the Continent along Avith a college friend from 
 Whales. For himself, he had long cast college studies and their rewards behind 
 
SKETCH OF HIS LIFE. 3 
 
 him ; but friends at home could not see this without imeasy forebodinf^s. What 
 was to become of a penniless lad Avho thus played ducks and drakes with youth's 
 golden opportunities 1 But he had as yet no misgivings ; he Avas athirst only 
 for Nature and freedom. So, with his friend Jones, staff in hand, he walked 
 for fourteen Avceks through France, SAvitzerland, and the north of Italy. With 
 four shillings each daily they paid their Avay. They landed at Calais on the eve 
 of tbe day Avhen the King Avas to SAvear to the ncAV constitution. All through 
 France, as tbey trudged along, they saAV a people rising Avith jubilee to Avelconie- 
 in the dawn, as they thought, of a ncAV era for mankind. Nor Avere they on- 
 lookers only, but sympathizers in the intoxication of the time, joining in village 
 revels and dances Avith the frantic multitude. But these sights did not detain 
 them, for they Avere bent rather on seeing Nature than man. Over the Alps 
 and along the Italian lakes they passed Avith a kind of aAvful joy. 
 
 In January, 1791,AVordsworth took a common degree, and quitted Cambridge. 
 The crisis of his life lay betAveen this time and his settling doAA^n at Grasmere. 
 He had resolved to be a poet ; but CA'en poets must be housed, clothed, and fed ; 
 and poetry has seldom done this for any of its deA'otees, least of all such poetry 
 as Wordsworth AA'as minded to AArite. But it Avas not the question of bread 
 alone, but one much Avider and more complex, which noAv pressed upon him, 
 — the question, What next 1 And the difficulty of meeting this Avas much en- 
 hanced to him from the circumstance of his being turned loose upon a AAorld 
 just heaving Avith the first throes of the French Kevolution. He had seen that 
 event AA'hile it still Avore its earliest auroral hues, Avhen the people Avere mad Avith 
 joy, as at the daAvn of a renovated Earth. That he should have staked his 
 Avhole hope on it, looked for all good things from it, Avho shall Avonder'? 
 Coleridge, Southey, almost every high-minded young man of that time, hailed 
 it Avith fervour. Wordsworth Avould not have been the man he Avas, if he coiild 
 have stood proof against the contagion. On leaving Cambridge he had gone 
 to London. The Spring and early Summer months he spent there, not mingling 
 in society, but AA'andering about the streets, noting all sights, obserA^ant of men's 
 faces and Avays, haunting the open book-stalls. During these months he tells us 
 he was preserved from the cynicism and contempt for human nature Avhich the 
 deformities of croAvded life often breed, by remembrance of the kind of men he 
 had first lived amongst, in thcmseh-es a manly, simple, uncontaminated race, 
 and inA-ested Avith added interest and dignity by living in the same hereditary 
 fields Avhere their forefathers had lived, and by moving about among the grand 
 accompaniments of mountain storms and sunshine. The good had come first, 
 and the evil, Avlien it came, did not stamp itself into the groundAAork of his im- 
 agination. The folloAving Summer he visited his traA^elling companion Jones 
 in Wales, and made a Avalking-tour in that country. 
 
 In November, 1791, he visited Paris, and there heard the speeches that Avere 
 made in the Hall of the National Assembly, Avhile the Brissotins Avere in the 
 ascendant. A fcAv days he Avandered about the city, surveyed the scenes ren- 
 dered famous by recent events, and CA^en picked up a stone as a relic from the 
 site of the demolished Bastile. This rage for historic scenes he hoAA'ever con- 
 fesses to have been in him more affected than genuine. From Paris he Avent to 
 Orleans, and sojourned there for some time to learn the language. When, in 
 the Fall of 1792, he returned to Paris, the September massacre had taken place 
 but a month before ; the ^ving and his family Avere in prison ; the Eepublic A\-as 
 proclaimed, and Robespierre in poAver. The young Englishman ranged through 
 the city, passed the prison Avhere the King lay, visited the Tuileries, lately 
 stormed, and the Place de Carrousel, a month since heaped Avith the dead. As 
 he lay in the gan-et of a hotel hard by, sleepless, and filled with thoughts of 
 Avhat had just occurred, he seemed to hear a voice that cried aloud to the Avhole 
 city, " Sleep no more." Years after, those scenes still troubled him in dreams. 
 He had ghastly A'isions of scaffolds hung with innocent victims, or of croAvds ready 
 tor butchery, and mad AA^th the levity of despair. In his sleep he seemed to be 
 pleading in vain for the life of friends, or for his OAvn, before a savage tribunal. 
 
4: WORDSWORTH : 
 
 Returning to England at the close of 1792, he spent some time in London in 
 great mental perplexity. He was horrified with the excesses in which the Rev- 
 olution had landed ; yet not the less he clung to his republican faith, and his 
 hope in the revolutionary cause. When every month brought tidings of fresh 
 enormities in France, and opponents taunted him with these results of equality 
 and popular government, he retorted that these were but the overflow of a res- 
 ervoir of guilt, which had been filling up for centuries by the wrongdoings of 
 kings and nobles. Soon France entered on a war of conquest, and he was 
 doomed to see his last hopes of liberty betrayed. Still striving to hide the 
 wounds of mortified presumption, he clung, as he lells us, more firmly than ever 
 to his old tenets, while the friends of old institutions goaded him still further by 
 their triumphant scorn. Overwhelined with shame and despondency at the ship- 
 wreck of his golden dreams, he turned to probe the foundations on which all 
 society rests. Not only institutions, customs,, law, but even the grounds of 
 moral obligation and distinctions of right and wrong disappeared. Demanding 
 formal proof, and finding none, he abandoned moral questions in despair. 
 
 The nether gloom into which he was plunged, and the steps by which he won 
 his way back to upper air, are set forth m the concluding Books of The Prelude, 
 and partly in the character of the Solitary in The Excursion. These self-de- 
 scriptions are well worth attention for the light they throw on Wordsworth's 
 own mental history, and as illustrating by what exceptional methods one of 
 the greatest minds of that time floated clear of the common wreck in which so 
 many were entangled. His moral being had received such a shock that, as re- 
 gards both man and Nature, he tried to close his heart against the sources of 
 his former strength. The whole past of history, he believed, was one great 
 mistake, and the best hope of the human race was to cut itself off even from all 
 sympathy with it. Even the highest creations of the old poets lost their charm 
 for him. They seemed to him mere products of passion and prejudice, wanting 
 altogether in the nobility of reason. He tried by narrow syllogisms, he says, to 
 unsoul those mysteries of being which have been thi-ough all ages the bonds of 
 man's brotherhood ; that is, he grew sceptical of all those higher faiths which 
 cannot be demonstrably proved. This moral state reacted on his feelings about 
 the visible universe. It became to him less spiritual than it iised to be. He fell 
 for a time under a painful tyranny of the eye, that craves ever new combinations 
 of form, uncorrected by the reports of the other senses, uninformed by that 
 finer influence that streams from the soul into the eye. 
 
 In this sickness of the soul, this " obscuration of the master-vision," his sole 
 sister came, like his better angel, to his side. Convinced that his otfice on Earth 
 was to be a poet, not to break his heart against the hard problems of political 
 philosophy, she led him away from perplexing theories and crowded cities into 
 the open air of heaven. Together they visited, travelling on foot, many of the 
 most interesting districts of England, and mingled freely with the country peo- 
 ple and the poor. There, amid the freshness of Nature, his fevered spirit was 
 cooled down. Earth's " first diviner influence " returned, he saw things again as 
 he had seen them in his boyhood. This free intercourse with Nature in time 
 brought him back to his true self, so that he began to look on life and the frame- 
 work of society with other eyes, and to seek there for that Avhich is permanenl 
 and intrinsically good. At this time, as he and his sister wandered about in 
 various out-of-the-way parts of England, where they were strangers, he found 
 not delight only, but instruction, in conversing with all whom he met. The 
 lonely roads were open schools to him. There, as he entered into conversation 
 with the poorest, and heard from diem their own histories, he got a new insight 
 into human souls, discerned in them a depth and a worth where none appeared 
 to careless eyes. The perception of these things made him loathe the thought of 
 those ambitious projects which had lately deceived him. He ceased to admire 
 strength detached from moral purpose, and learned to prize unnoticed worth, 
 the meek virtues and lowly charities. Settled judgments of right and wrong 
 returned, but they were essential, not conventional, judgments. 
 
SKETCH OF HIS LIFE. 5 
 
 Though this inward fermentation working itself into clearness was the most 
 important, the bread-question must, at the same time, have been tolerably urgent. 
 To meet this, he had, so far as appears, simply nothing, except what was allowed 
 him by his friends. Of course, neither they nor he could long tolerate such a 
 state of dependence- What, then, was to be done ? In his juncture, the newspaper 
 press, an effectual extinguisher to a possible poet, was ready to have absorbed 
 him. He had actually written to a friend in London, who was supporting him- 
 self in this way, to find him like employment, when he was delivered from 
 these importunities by a happy occurrence. In the close of the year 1794, he 
 was engaged in attending at Penrith a friend, Raisley Calvert, who had fallen 
 into a deep consumption. Calvert died early in 1795, and he bequeathed to 
 Wordsworth a legacy of £900. He had divined Wordsworth's genius, and 
 believed that he would do great things. Seldom, indeed, has so small a sum 
 produced larger results. It removed at once Wordsworth's anxiety about a 
 profession, rescued him from the newspaper press, set him to follow his true 
 bent, and give free rein to the poetic power he felt working within him. 
 
 On-e of the first result^ of this legacy Avas to restore Wordsworth permanently 
 to the society of his sister. Hitherto, though they had met whenever occasion 
 offered, they had not been able to set up house together ; but this was no longer 
 impossible. And surely never has sister done a more delicate service for a brother 
 than Dorothy Wordsworth did for the poet. She was a rarely-gifted woman, 
 with eyes of preternatural brilliancy, imaginative, warm-hearted, and keenly 
 responsive to every note of her brother's genius. De Quincey, who knew her 
 well, describes her as "seeming inwardly consumed by a subtile fire of impas- 
 sioned intellect." In many places of his Avorks the poet bears grateful testimony 
 to what she did for him. At this time, he tells us, it Avas she Avho maintained 
 for him a saving intercourse Avith his true self, opened for him the obstructed 
 passage between head and heart, Avhence in time came genuine self-knoAvledge 
 and peace. Again he says that his imagination was by nature too masculine, 
 austere, even harsh ; he loved only the sublime and terrible, was blind to the 
 milder graces of landscape and of character. She it Avas who softened and hu- 
 manised him, opened his eye to the more hidden beauties, his heart to the gentler 
 affections : 
 
 "She gave me eyes, she gave me ears; 
 
 And humble cares, and delicate fears; 
 
 A heart, the fountain of sweet tears; 
 
 And love, and thought, and joy." 
 
 The first home which they shared together was at RacedoAvn in Dorsetshire, 
 where they settled in the Fall of 1795^ on the strength of the £900. Wordsworth 
 always looked back to this residence Avith special love. So retired was the place, 
 that the post came only once a week. 'But the two read Italian together, gar- 
 dened, and walked in the meadoAvs and on the tops of combs. These were their 
 recreations. For serious Avork, Wordsworth fell first to writing Imitations of 
 Juvenal, in which he assailed fiercely the vices of the time ; but these he never 
 published. Then he wrote his poem of Guilt and Sorrow, which is far superior 
 to any of his earlier pieces ; also his tragedy of The Borderers, and a few shorter 
 poems. 
 
 More important, however, than any poetry composed at Racedown was his 
 first meeting there with Coleridge. Perhaps no tAA'o such men have met any- 
 where on English ground during this century. WordsAvorth read aloud to his 
 visitor nearly twelve hundred lines of blank-verse, " superior," says Coleridge, 
 " to any thing in our language." This was probably the story of Margaret, 
 which now stands in the First Book of The Excursion. When they parted, 
 Coleridge says, " I felt myself a small man beside WordsAvorth ; " while, of 
 Coleridge, Wordsworth, certainly no over-estimater of other men, said, " I have 
 known many men who have done wonderful things, but the only wonderful man 
 I ever knew was Coleridge." Their first intercourse had ripened into friendship. 
 As Coleridge was then living at Nether Stowey in Somersetshire, the Words- 
 
6 WORDSWORTH : 
 
 worths moved in the Fall of 1797 to Alfoxden, in the immediate neighbourhood. 
 The time spent there was one of the most delightful in Wordsworth's life. The 
 two young men were of one mind in their poetic tastes and principles ; one too 
 in their political and social views ; and each admired the other more than he did 
 any other living man. In outward circumstances, too, they were alike ; both 
 poor in money, but rich in thought and imagination ; both in the prime of 
 youth, and boundless in hopeful energy. That Summer, as they wandered 
 aloft on the airy ridge of Quantock, or dived into its sylvan combs, what high 
 talk they must have held ! Long after, Wordsworth speaks of this as a very 
 pleasant and productive time. The poetic well-head, now fairly unsealed, was 
 flowing freely. Many of the shorter poems were then composed from the 
 scenery that was before him, and from the incidents there seen or heard. 
 
 The occasion of their making a joint literary adventure was curious. Cole- 
 ridge, Wordsworth, and his sister, Avished to make a walking-tour, for which 
 five pounds Avere needed, but were not forthcoming. To supply this Avant, they 
 agreed to make a joint poem, and send it to some magazine Avhich Avould give 
 the required sum. Accordingly, one CA'ening, as they trudged along the 
 Quantock Hills, they planned The Ancient Mariner, founded on a dream 
 Avhich a friend of Coleridge had dreamed. Coleridge supplied most of the 
 incidents, and nearly all the lines. The poem soon grcAV, till it Avas beyond 
 the desired five pounds' Avorth, so they thought of a joint volume. Coleridge 
 was to take supernatural subjects, or romantic, and invest them Avith a human 
 interest and resemblance of truth. WordsAvortli Avas to take every-day inci- 
 dents, and, by faithful adherence-to nature, and true, but modifying colours of 
 imagination, Avas to shed over common aspects of earth and facts of life such a 
 charm as light and shade, sunlight and moonlight, shed o\-er a familiar land- 
 scape. WordsAvorth Avas so much the more industrious of the tAvo, that he had 
 completed enough for a volume Avhen Coleridge had only finished The Ancient 
 Mar-iner, and begun Christabel and The Dark Ladie. Cottle, a Bristol book- 
 seller, Avas called in, and he agreed to give WordsAA^orth thirty pounds for the 
 pieces of his Avhicli made up the first volume of the Lyrical Ballads ; while for 
 The Ancient Mariner, Avhich was to head the volume, he made a separate bar- 
 gain Avith Coleridge. This A'olume, published in the Fall of 1798, Avas the first 
 Avhich made WordsAvorth knoAvn to the world as a poet ; the Descriptive 
 Sketches having attracted little notice. The volume closes Avith the poem on 
 Tintern Abbey, in Avhich the poet speaks out his inmost feelings, and in his OAvn 
 " grand style." It Avas completed during a Avalking-tour on the Wye with his 
 sister, just before leaA'ing Alfoxden for the Continent. 
 
 Before the volume appeared, WordsAvorth and his sister had sailed Avith 
 Coleridge to Germany. At Hamburg, hoAvever, they parted company. Their 
 ostensible purpose AA^as to learn German, but WordsAA'orth and his sister did 
 little at this. He spent the Winter of 1798-99 in Goslar, and there his mind 
 reverted to EstliAvaite and Westmoreland hills, and struck out a number of 
 poems in his finest A'ein. So WordsAvorth omitted German, and gave the 
 world, instead, immortal poems. Coleridge went alone to Gottingen, learned 
 German, dived for the rest of his life deep into transcendental metaphysics, and 
 the world got no more Ancient Mariners. 
 
 In the Spring of 1799, WordsAA'orth and his sister set forth from Goslar on 
 their return home. ArriA^ed in England, they passed most of the remainder of 
 the year Avith their kindred, the Hutchinsons, at Sockburn-on-Tees. In Sep- 
 tember, WordsAvorth took Coleridge, Avho also had returned from abroad, and 
 had seen but fcAV mountains in his life, on a Avalking-tour, to shoAv the hills and 
 lakes of Westmoreland. *' HaAvesAvater," Coleridge Avrites, " kept my eyes dim 
 Avith tears, but I received the deepest delight from the divine sisters, ilydal and 
 Grasmcre." It AA-as then that WordsAVorth saAV the small house at the ToAvn- 
 End of Grasmere, Avhich he and his sister soon after fixed on as their home. 
 
 They reached that place in December, 1799, and settled there in a small tAvo- 
 storey cottage. With barely a hundred pounds a year between them, they were 
 
SKETCH OF HIS LIFE. - 7 
 
 turning their backs on the world, cutting themselves off from professions, chances 
 of getting on, and settling down in an out-of-the-way corner, with no employ- 
 ment but verse-making, no neighbours but unlettered rustics. In the world's 
 eye nothing birt success will justify such a course, and the world will not be too 
 ready to grant that success has been attained. . But Wordsworth, besides a pro- 
 phet-like devotion to the truths he saw, had a prudence, self-denial, and perse- 
 verance rare among the sons of song. " Plain living and high thinking " were 
 not only praised in verse, but acted out by him and his sister in that cottage- 
 home. The year 1800 was ushered in by a long storm, which blocked up the 
 roads for months, and kept them much indoors. Spring set them free, and 
 brought to them their much-loved sailor brother, John, who was captain of an 
 Indiaman. There was one small room containing their few books, which was 
 called, by courtesy, the library. But Wordsworth was no reader; the English 
 poets and ancient history were the only subjects he was really well read in. He 
 tells a friend that he had not spent five shillings on new books in as many years, 
 and of the few old ones which made up his collection, he had not read one-fifth. 
 As for his study, that was in the open air. " By the side of the brook that runs 
 through Easdaie," says he, " I have composed thousands of verses." 
 
 The first months at Grasmere were so industriously employed, that some time 
 in the year 1 800, when a second edition of the first volume of Lyrical Ballads 
 was reprinting, he added to it a new volume. — The old Earl of Lonsdale, who 
 still withheldfrom the Wordsworths their due, died in 1802, and was succeeded 
 by a better specimen of manhood, who not only paid the original debt of £5000, 
 but also the whole interest, amounting to £3500. This £8500 was divided into 
 five shares, tvro of which went to the poet and his sister. Being thus strength- 
 ened in worldly means, the poet, in October, 1802, enriched his fireside with a 
 wife ; the lady being Mary Hutchinson, his cousin, and the intimate friend of 
 his sister. In August, 1803, Wordsworth and his sister set out from Keswick 
 with Coleridge on their memorable tour in Scotland. They travelled great part 
 of the way on foot, up Nithsdale, and so on towards the Highlands. Coleridge 
 turned back soon after they had reached Loch Lomond, being either lazy or out 
 of spirits. Everywhere, as they trudged along, they saw the old familiar High- 
 lands sights, as if none had ever seen them before ; and wherever they moved 
 among the mountains, they left foot-prints of immortal beauty. He expressed 
 what he saw in verse, she in prose, and it is hard to say which is the more 
 poetic. 
 
 Early in 1805, the first great sorrow fell upon the poet's home, in the loss of 
 his brother. Captain Wordsworth. He was leaving England, intending to make 
 one more voyage, and then to return and live with his sister and brother, when 
 his ship was run on the shambles of the Bill of Portland by the carelessness of 
 the pilot, and he with the larger part of his crew perished. For a long time the 
 poet was almost inconsolable, he so loved and honoured his brother. His letters 
 at the time, and his poems long after, are darkened with this grief. Captain 
 Wordsworth greatly admired his brother's poetry, but saw that it would take 
 time to become popular, and would probably never be lucrative ; so he would 
 work for the family at Town-End, he said, and William would do something 
 for the world. 
 
 In 1807, Wordsworth came out with two more volumes of poetry, mostly 
 written at Grasmere. He was now in his thirty-seventh year, so that these vol- 
 umes may be said to close the spring-time of his genius, and to be its consum- 
 :nate flower. Some of his later works many have equalled these, and may even 
 show an increased moral depth and religious tenderness ; but there is about the 
 best of the Grasmere poems a touch of ethereal ideality which he perhaps never 
 afterwards reached. Among these is the Ode on Intimations oflmmoi-tality, which 
 marks the highest point that the tide of poetic inspiration has reached in Eng- 
 land since the days of Milton. 
 
 The cottage at Town-End, Grasmere, was Wordsworth's home from the 
 close of 1799 till the Spring of 1808. In the latter year, as that cottage was 
 
8 WOEDSWOETH : 
 
 too small for his increasing family, he moved to Allan Bank, — a new house, 
 on the top of a knoll to the west of Grasmere, overlooking the lake. There he 
 remained till 1811, Coleridge being an inmate of his home during the earlier 
 part of that time. In the Spring of 1811, he was obliged to remove thence to 
 the Parsonage of Grasmere, where his home was darkened by the loss of two 
 of his little children, a boy and a girl, Avho were laid side by side in Grasmere 
 churchyard. This affliction, which at the Parsonage was rendered insupport- 
 able by the continual sight of the graves, made the poet and his family glad to 
 quit Grasmere for a new home at Rydal Mount, which offered itself in the 
 Spring of 1813. This was their last migration, and there the poet and his wife 
 lived till, many years after, they were carried back to join their children iu 
 Grasmere churchyard. Besides those two children, his family consisted of a 
 daughter and two sons. The daughter, Dorothy, but commonly called " Dora," 
 afterwards Mrs. Quillinan, died before her father ; the sons still survive. Few 
 poets have been by nature so fitted for domestic happiness, and fewer still have 
 been blessed with so large a share of it. The strength and purity of his home 
 affections, so deep and undisturbed, entered into all that he thought and sang. 
 Herein may be said to have lain the heart of " central peace " that sustained 
 the fabric of his life and poetry. 
 
 The foregoing Sketch is mainly condensed from Professor J. C. Shairp's 
 admirable paper on Wordsworth in his Studies in Poetry and Philosophy. It 
 seems needful to add a few particulars touching the poet's subsequent life. To 
 the volumes of poetry already mentioned, others were added from time to time, 
 — as, The Excursion, \n 1814; The White Dos of Rylstone, in 1815; Peter Bell, 
 and The Waggoner, in 1819; The River Duddon and other Poems, in 1820; 
 Memorials of a Tour on the Continent, and Ecclesiastical Sonnets, in 1822 ; Yar- 
 row Revisited, and other Poems, in 1835. After the latter date, he wrote but little 
 poetry, chiefly sonnets, which were subsequently distributed among the earlier 
 pieces. Towards the close of his life, he gathei-ed together all the poems of his 
 then in print that he cared to preserve, gave them a careful revision, (in fact he 
 was always revising them,} rearranged them, and set them forth in a collected 
 edition. The Prelude, though written before The Excursion, was not published 
 till after his death. 
 
 About the time of his settlement at Rydal Mount, Wordsworth was appointed 
 distributor of stamps for Westmoreland county. This office brought him a 
 considerable addition of income ; in fact, secured him an easy competence ; 
 while its conditions were such as to disburden him of private cares, Avithout 
 oppressing him with public ones ; thus releasing him from anxiety, and at the 
 same time leaving his freedom and leisure unimpaired. From this time onward 
 his life flowed in an even, tranquil course : his whole heart was in his home, his 
 whole soul in his high calling as a poet : every year brought him increasing 
 returns of honour and gratitude from those who had deeply felt the blessing of 
 his genius and wisdom : his great, simple, earnest mind had all that it needed 
 for delight and nourishment in the grand and lovely forms and aspects of 
 Nature that waited on his steps, and in the widening circle of friends whom he 
 had himself inspired with congenial thoughts and congenial tastes : so that he 
 was conducted to an old age as beautiful and free, perhaps, as ever fell to the 
 lot of any human being. 
 
 On the death of Southey, in March, 1843, the office of Poet Laureate, thus 
 made vacant, was, with the full approval of the Queen, offered to Wordsworth. 
 He at first declined the honour on the ground of his being too far advanced in 
 age to undertake the duties of the office. This brought him a special letter 
 from Sir Robert Peel, then Prime Minister, urging his acceptance, and_ assur- 
 ing him that " the offer was made, not for the purpose of imposing on liim any 
 onerous or disagreeable duties, but in order to pay him that tribute of respect 
 which was justly due to the first of living poets." With this understanding, 
 he accepted the appointment. The office was, indeed, well bestowed : old as 
 
SKETCH OF HIS LIFE. 9 
 
 he was, and past bearing further fruit of song, the laureate wreath of England 
 surely never invested worthier brows. 
 
 In July, 1847, the poet's only daughter, Dora, then Mrs. Quillinan, died. 
 The event was no surprise either to herself or to others : knowing her end was 
 near for some time before it came, she looked at it calmly, and met it as became 
 a soul that had lived in the presence of so much moral beauty. Still the afflic- 
 tion bore hard upon her aged parents, and would probably have been too much 
 for them, but that they had the full strength of Christian faith to console and 
 sustain them. On the 23d day of April, 1850, the anniversary of Shake- 
 speare's birth, and also of his death, Wordsworth himself died, his age being 
 eighty years and sixteen days. He was buried, according to his declared wish, 
 beside his children in Grasmere churchyard. Mrs. Wordsworth survived her 
 husband some three years, and was then gathered tohis side. 
 
 For a long series of years Wordsworth's poetry had decidedly up-hill work, 
 and made its way very slowly. He can hardly be said even to have found the 
 "fit audience, though few:" he had to educate his own audience, and that, 
 too, from the bottom upwards ; had to develop the faculties for understanding 
 him, and create the taste to enjoy him. The critical law-givers of the time, or 
 those who passed for such, were nearly all down upon him from the first : the 
 Edinburgh Review, whose verdict was then well-nigh omnipotent with the read- 
 ing public, could see neither truth nor beauty in his works, and had nothing 
 but obloquy and ridicule to bestow upon them ; in fact all the dogs of criticism, 
 big and little, " Tray, Blanch, and Sweetheart," joined in barking against him, 
 and kept up their miserable chorus of vituperation, till they were fairly shamed 
 out of it by a new generation of thinkers and writers. 
 
 Through this long pelting of detraction the poet stood unmoved ; it seems 
 indeed not to have hurt so much as his patience. Writing, in May, 1807, to a 
 very dear friend, who had expressed great uneasiness on his account, he has 
 the following : " It is impossible that any expectations can be lower than mine 
 concerning the immediate effect of this little work upon what is called the 
 public. I do not here take into consideration the envy and malevolence, and 
 all the bad passions whicl^ always stand in the way of a work of any merit 
 from a living poet, but merely think of the pure, absolute, honest ignorance in 
 which all worldlings, of every rank and situation, must be enveloped, with 
 respect to the thoughts, feelings, and images on which the life of my poems 
 depends. It is an awful ttuth, that there neither is, nor can be, any genuine 
 enjoyment of poetry among nineteen out of twenty of those persons who live, 
 or wish to live, in the broad light of the world, — among those who either are, 
 or are striving to make themselves, people of consideration in society. This is a 
 truth, and an awful one, because to be incapable of a feeling of poetry, in my 
 sense of the word, is to be without love of human nature and reverence for 
 God."^ 
 
 Again, wishing to make his friend as easy-hearted as himself on the subject, 
 he continues thus : " Trouble not yourself upon their present reception ; of 
 what moment is that compared with what I trust is their destiny ? To console 
 the afflicted ; to add sunshine to daylight by making the happy happier ; to 
 teach the young and the gracious of every age to see, to think, to feel, and 
 therefore to become moi-e actively and securely virtuous ; — this is their office, 
 which I trust they will faithfully perform, long after, we (that is, all that is 
 mortal in us) are mouldered in our graves. I am well aware how far it would 
 seem to many I overrate my own exertions, when I speak in this way. I am 
 not, however, afraid of such censure, insignificant as probably the majoi'ity of 
 those poems would appear to very respectable jsersons. I do not mean London 
 wits and witlings, for these have too many foul passions about them to be 
 respectable, even if they had more intellect than the benign laws of Providence 
 will allow to such a heartless existence as theirs ; but grave, kindly-natured, 
 worthy persons, who would be pleased if they could. I hope that these vol 
 
10 WORDSWORTH : 
 
 umes are not without some recommendations, even for readers of this class ; 
 but their ima.yination has slept ; and tlie voice which is the voice of my poetry, 
 without imaj^ination, cannot be heard." 
 
 I must quote one passage more, where the poet is referring to that portion 
 of his contemporaries who were called the reading public : " Be assured that 
 the decision of these persons has nothing to do with the question ; they are 
 altogether incompetent judges. These people, in the senseless hurry of their 
 idle lives, do not read books ; they merely snatch a glance at them, that they 
 may talk about them. And^even if this were not so, never forget what, I 
 believe, was observed to you by Coleridge, that every great and original writer, 
 in proportion as he is great or original, must himself create the taste by which 
 he is to be relished ; he must teach the art by which he is to be seen ; this, in 
 a certain degree, even to all persons, however wise and pure may be their lives, 
 and however unvitiated their taste. But for those who dip into books in order 
 to give an opinion of them, or talk about them to take up an opinion, — for 
 this multitude of unhappy, and misguided, and misguiding beings, an entire 
 regeneration must be produced; and if this be possible, it must be a work of 
 time. To conclude, my ears are stone-dead to this idle buzz, and my flesh as 
 insensible as iron to these petty stings ; and, after what I have said, I am sure 
 yours will be the same. I doubt not you will share with me an invincible con- 
 tidence that my writings will co-operate with the benign tendencies in human 
 nature and society wherever found ; and that they will, in their degree, be effi- 
 cacious in making men wiser, better, and happier." 
 
 A great deal has been written upon Wordsworth ; for, in truth, no one who 
 has once been fairly touched by his power , or caught the spirit of his poetry, 
 can ever shake off its influence, or k'S^pTrdm thinking about it. Probably the 
 most searching and most deeply-considered criticism that his works have 
 called forth is found in Coleridge's Biographia Literaria, written while the 
 tempest of detraction against Wordsworth was in full blast. At the close of 
 that masterly review, — the best piece of poetical criticism, I suspect, in the 
 language, — Coleridge sums up the merits of his friend's poetry as follows : 
 
 " First : An austere purity of language, both grammatically and logically ; 
 in short, a perfect appropriateness of the words to the meaning. In poetry, in 
 which every line, every phrase, may pass the ordeal of deliberation and delib- 
 erate choice, it is possible, and barely possible, to attain that ultimatum which 
 I have ventured to propose as the infallible test of a blameless style ; namely, 
 its untranslatableness in words of the same language, without injury to the 
 meaning. Be it observed, however, that I include in the meaning of a word, not 
 only its correspondent object, but likewise all the associations which it recalls. 
 In poetry it is practicable to preserve the diction uncorrupted by the affecta- 
 tions and misappropriations which promiscuous authorship, and reading, not 
 promiscuous only because it is disproportionally conversant with the composi- 
 tions of the day, have rendered general. Yet, even to the poet, composing in his 
 own province, it is an arduous Avork; and, as the result and pledge of a watch- 
 ful good sense, of fine and luminous distinction, and of complete self-possession, 
 may justly claim all the honour which belongs to an attainment equally ditli- 
 cult and Valuable, and the more valuable for being rare. 
 
 " The second characteristic excellence of Mr. Wordsworth's works is a corre- 
 spondent weight and sanity of the thoughts and sentiments, — won, not from 
 books, but from the poet's own meditative observation. They are^-es/i, and 
 have the dew upon them. His Muse, at least when in her strength of wing, 
 and Avhcn she hovers aloft in her proper element, 
 
 Makes audible a linkfed lay of truth, 
 
 Of truth profound a sweet continuous lay, 
 
 Not learnt, but native, her own natural notes. 
 
 " Both in respect of this and of the former excellence, Mr. Wordsworth 
 strikingly resembles Samuel Daniel, one of the golden writers of our golden 
 
SKETCH OF HIS LIFE. 11 
 
 Elizabethan age, now most causelessly neglected ; — Samuel Daniel, whose dic- 
 tion bears no mark of time, no distinction of age ; which has been, and, as 
 long as our language shall last, will be, so far the language of to-day and for 
 ever, as that it is more intelligible to us than the transitory fashions of our own 
 particular age. A similar praise is due to his sentiments. No frequency of 
 perusal can deprive them of their freshness. For though they are brought into 
 the full day-light of every reader's comprehension, yet are they drawn up from 
 depths which few in any age are privileged to visit, into which few in any age 
 have courage or inclination to descend. If Mr. Wordsworth is not, equally 
 with Daniel, alike intelligible to all readers of average understanding in all 
 passages of his works, the comparative difficulty does not arise from the greater 
 impurity of the ore, but from the nature and uses of the metal. A poem is not 
 necessarily obscure, because it does not aim to be popular. It is enough, if a 
 work be perspicuous to those for whom it is written, and ' fit audience find, 
 though few.' 
 
 "Third, —and wherein he soars far above Daniel: — The sinewy strength 
 and originality of single lines and paragraphs ; the frequent cuHosa felicitas of 
 his diction. This beauty, and as eminently characteristic of Wordsworth's 
 poetry, his rudest assailants have felt themselves compelled to acknoAvledge 
 and admire. 
 
 " Fourth : The perfect truth of nature in his images and descriptions, as 
 taken immediately from nature, and proving a long and genial intimacy with 
 the very spirit which gives the physiognomic expression to all the works of 
 nature. Like a green field reflected in a calm and perfectly transparent lake, 
 the image is distinguished from the reality only by its greater softness and lus- 
 tre. Like the moisture or the polish on a pebble, genius neither distorts nor 
 false-colours its objects ; but, on the contrary, brings out many a vein and 
 many a tint which escape the eye of common observation, thus raising to the 
 rank of gems what had been often kicked away by the hurrying foot of the 
 traveller on the high road of custom. 
 
 " Fifth : A meditative pathos, a union of deep and subtile thought with sensibil- 
 ity ; a sympathy with man as man ; the sympathy indeed of a contemplator, rather 
 than a fellow-sufferer or co-mate, {spectator haud particeps,) but of a contempla- 
 tor from whose view no difference of rank conceals the sameness of the nature ; 
 no injuries of wind or weather, of toil, or even of ignorance, wholly disguise 
 the human face divine. The superscription and the image of the Creator re- 
 main legible to him under the dark lines with which guilt or calamity had can- 
 celled or cross-barred it. Here the man and the poet lose and find themselves 
 in each other, the one as glorified, the latter as substantiated. In this mild and 
 philosophic pathos, Wordsworth appears to me without a compeer. Such he 
 is : so he writes. 
 
 " Last, and pre-eminently, I challenge for this poet the gift of Imaginatiox 
 in the highest and strictest sense of the word. In the play of Fancy, Words- 
 worth, to my feelings, is not always graceful, and is sometimes recondite. The 
 likeness is occasionally too strange, or demands too peculiar a point of view, or 
 is such as appears the creature of predetermined research, rather than sponta- 
 neovis presentation. Indeed his fancy seldom displays itself as mere and un- 
 modified fancy. But in imaginative power he stands nearest of all modern 
 writers to Shakespeare and Milton ; and yet in a kind perfectly unborrowed 
 and his own. To employ his own words, which are at once an instance and an 
 illustration, he does indeed to all thoughts and to all objects 
 
 'add the gleam, 
 , The light that never was on sea or land, 
 
 The consecration and the poet's dream.' " 
 
 I must add, that Wordsworth was far from being an overweening truster in 
 his own genius. On the contraiy, he was a ihost earnest, careful, painstaking 
 
12 woedswoeth: sketch of his life. 
 
 workman ; was never weary of retouching his poems, and spared no labour, 
 that he might lift and chasten them into fair accordance with his own ideas. 
 And, with all his sturdy self-reliance, — a self-reliance that belongs to all genius 
 of a high order, — he had a spirit of willing deference to thoughtful and genial 
 criticism on his poems. All this was because in his view the office of poet was 
 invested with religious consecration : he regarded his calling as divine, his art 
 as a sacred thing ; and to treat it as a mere plaything, or to use it for any self- 
 €nds, was to him nothing less than downright profanation. On this point he 
 has left the following markworthy passage : " I can say without vanity, that I 
 have bestowed great pains on my style, full as much as any of my contempo- 
 raries have done on theirs. I yield to none in love for my art. I therefore labour 
 at it with reverence, affection, and industry. My main endeavour, as to style, 
 has been that my poems should be written in pure intelligibleEnglish." 
 
 Again, he speaks of the poet's office in the following high strain : " The 
 Sun Avas personified by the ancients as a charioteer driving four fiery steeds 
 over the vault of heaven ; and this solar charioteer was called Phoebus, or 
 Apollo, and was regarded as the god of poetry, of prophecy, and of medicine. 
 Phcebus combined all these characters. And every poet has a similar mission 
 on Earth : he must also be a Phoebus in his own way ; he must diffuse health 
 and light ; he must prophesy to his generation ; he must teach the present age 
 by counselling with the future ; he must plead for jposterity ; and he must imi- 
 tate Phoebus in guiding and governing all his faculties, fiery steeds though they 
 be, with the most exact precision, lest, instead of being a Phoebus, he prove a 
 Phaeton, and set the world on fire, and be hurled from his car : he must rein-in 
 his fancy, and temper his imagination, with the control and direction of sound 
 reason, and drive on in the right track with a steady hand." 
 
 In conclusion : Wordsworth is now generally admitted to take rank as one 
 of the five great chiefs of English song ; the others being, of course, Chaucer, 
 Spenser, Shakespeare, and Milton. As for Shakespeare, he stands altogether 
 apart, in the solitude of his own unchallenged superiority, unapproached, and 
 unapproachable ; so that no one should think of trying any other poet by his 
 measure. As to the others, it is not yet time to settle Wordsworth's comparative 
 merits. To pronounce him as great a poet as Milton, would probably be rash : 
 but I make bold to affirm that he is more original than Milton ; in fact, the 
 most original of all English poets, with the single exception of Shakespeai-e. 
 And a long experience has fully satisfied me that, next after Shakespeare, he is 
 the best of them all for use as a text-book in school : and this, because, with 
 fair handling, he kindles a purer, deeper, stronger enthusiasm, and penetrates 
 the mind with a moi-e potent and more enduring charm. He makes the world 
 appear a more beautiful and happier place, human life a nobler and diviner 
 thing ; and wherever the taste has once been set to him, wherever his power 
 has once made any thing of a lodgment, the person never outgrows the love of 
 him, nor thinks of parting company with him. His poems have now been my 
 inseparable companion for some thirty-five years; and every year has made 
 them dearer to my heart; every year has added to my reverence for their 
 author, and to my gratitude for the unspeakable benediction they have been to 
 me. If I can do even a little towards diffusing a knowledge and love of this 
 precious inheritance, I shall think I have not lived altogether in vain. 
 
POEMS 
 
 BY 
 
 WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 
 
 RUTH. 
 
 When Ruth was left half desolate, 
 Her Father took another Mate ; 
 And Ruth, not seven years old, 
 A slighted child, at her OAvn will 
 Went wandering over dale and hill, 
 In thoughtless freedom, bold. 
 
 And she had made a pipe of straw, 
 And music from that pipe could draw 
 Like sounds of winds and floods ; 
 Had built a bower upon the green. 
 As if she from her birth had been 
 An infant of the woods. 
 
 Beneath her father's roof, alone 
 
 She seem'd to live ; her thoughts her own : 
 
 Herself her own delight; 
 
 Pleased with herself, nor sad, nor gay; 
 
 And, passing thus the live-long day, 
 
 She gi-ew to woman's height. 
 
 There came a youth from Georgia's shore ; 
 
 A military casque he wore. 
 
 With splendid feathers drest; 
 
 He brought them from tlie Cherokees : 
 
 The feathers nodded in the breeze, 
 
 And made a gallant crest. 
 
 From Indian blood you deem him sprung ; 
 But no 1 he spake the English tongue, 
 And bore a soldier's name; 
 And, when America was free 
 
 1 Refen-ing, perhaps, to the cotton- 
 plant; which keeps putting forth new 
 flowers through a period of several weeks; 
 the blossom being at first a pure and per- 
 
 From battle and from jeopardy, 
 He 'cross the ocean came. 
 
 With hues of genius on his cheek 
 
 In finest tones the Youth could speak: 
 
 While he was yet a boy, 
 
 The Moon, the glory of the Sun, 
 
 And streams that munnur as they run, 
 
 Had been his dearest joy. 
 
 He was a lovely youth I I guess 
 
 The panther in the wilderness 
 
 Was not so fair as he ; 
 
 And, when he chose to sport and play. 
 
 No dolphin ever was so gay 
 
 Upon the tropic sea. 
 
 Among the Indians he had fought. 
 And with him many tales he brought 
 Of pleasure and of fear ; 
 Suclx tales as told to any maid 
 By such a youth, in the green shade, 
 Were perilous to hear. 
 
 He told of girls,— a happy rout ! — 
 
 Who quit their fold with dance and shout, 
 
 Their pleasant Indian town. 
 
 To gather strawberries all day long; 
 
 Returning with a choral song 
 
 When daylight is gone down. 
 
 He spake of plants that hourly change 
 Their blossoms, thro' a boundless range 
 Of intei-mingling hues : 
 With budding, fading, faded flowers. 
 They stand the wonder of the bowers 
 From morn to evening dews.^ 
 
 feet Avhite, and then gradually passing 
 through every variety of shade to a dark 
 brown. 
 
14 
 
 WORDSWORTH. 
 
 He told of the magnolia, spread 
 High as a cloud, high over head ; 
 The cypress and her spire ; 
 Of flowers that with one scarlet gleam 
 Cover a hundred leagues, and seem 
 To set the hills on fli-e. 
 
 The Youth of green savannahs spake, 
 And many an endless, endless lake, 
 With all its fairy crowds 
 Of islands, that together lie 
 As quietly as spots of sky 
 Among the evening clouds. 
 
 " How pleasant," then he said, " it were 
 
 A tisher or a hunter there, 
 
 In sunshine or in shade, 
 
 To wander with an easy mind ; 
 
 And build a household fire, and find 
 
 A home in every glade I 
 
 What days and what bright years ! Ah 
 
 Our life were life indeed, with thee [me I 
 
 So pass'd in quiet bliss ; 
 
 And all the while," said he, " to know 
 
 That w^e were in a world of woe. 
 
 On such an earth as this 1 " 
 
 And then he sometimes interwove 
 Fond thoughts about a father's love : 
 " For there," said he, " are spun 
 Around the heart such tender ties. 
 That our own children to our eyes 
 Are dearer than the Sun. 
 
 Sweet Ruth ! and could you go with me 
 
 My helpmate in the woods to be, 
 
 Our shed at night to rear; 
 
 Or run , my own adopted bride, 
 
 A sylvan huntress at my side, 
 
 And drive the flying deer I 
 
 Belovfed Ruth I "—No more he said. 
 The wakeful Ruth at midnight shed 
 •A solitary tear: 
 
 She thought again,— and did .agree 
 With him to sail across the sea, 
 And drive the flying deer. 
 
 "And now, as fitting is and right. 
 We in the church our faithr will plight, 
 A husband and a wife." 
 Even so they did; and I may say 
 That to sweet Ruth that happy day 
 Was more than human life. 
 
 Through dream and vision did she sink, 
 Delighted all the while to think 
 That on those lonesome floods. 
 And green savannahs, she should share 
 His board with lawful joy, and bear 
 His name in the wild woods. 
 
 But, as you have before been told, 
 This Stripling, sportive, gay, and bold, 
 And, with his dancing crest. 
 So beautiful, through savage lands 
 Had roam'd about, with vagrant bands 
 Of Indians in the West. 
 
 The wind, the tempest roaring high, 
 
 The tumult of a tropic sky. 
 
 Might weU. be dangerous food 
 
 For him, a youth to whom was given 
 
 So much of Earth, so much of Heaven, 
 
 And such impetuous blood. 
 
 Whatever in those climes he found 
 
 Ii-regular in sight or sound 
 
 Did to his mind impart 
 
 A kindred impulse, seemed allied 
 
 To his own powers, and justified 
 
 The workings of his heart. 
 
 Nor less, to feed voluptuous thought, 
 The beauteous forms of nature wrought, 
 Fair trees and gorgeou* flowers; 
 The breezes their own languor lent; 
 The stars had feelings, which they sent 
 Into those favour'd bowers. 
 
 Yet, in his worst pursuits, I ween 
 That sometimes there did intervene 
 Pure hopes of high intent: 
 For passions link'd to forms so fair 
 And stately needs must have their share 
 Of noble sentiment. 
 
 But ill he lived, much evil saw, 
 With men to whom no better law 
 Nor better lile was known ; 
 Deliberately, and undeceived. 
 Those wild men's vices he i-eceived. 
 And gave them back his own. 
 
 His genius and his moral frame 
 Were thus impair'd, and he became 
 The slave of low desires; 
 A Man who without self-control 
 Would seek what the degraded soul 
 Unworthily admires. 
 
RUTH. 
 
 15 
 
 And jet he with no feign'd delight 
 Had woo'd the Maiden, day and night 
 Had loved her, night and morn : 
 What could he less than love a Maid 
 Whose heart with so much nature play'd : 
 So kind and so forlorn I 
 
 Sometimes, most earnestly, he said, 
 " O Kuth, I have been worse than dead; 
 False thoughts, thoughts bold and vain, 
 Encompass'd me on every side 
 When I, in confidence and pi'ide. 
 Had cross'd th' Atlantic main. 
 
 Before me shone a glorious world. 
 Fresh as a banner bright, unfurl'd 
 To music suddenly : 
 I look'd upon those hills and plains, 
 And seem'd as if let loose from chains. 
 To live at liberty.^ 
 
 No more of this ; for now, by thee, 
 Dear Ruth, more happily set free, 
 With nobler zeal I burn ; 
 My soul from darkness is released. 
 Like the whole sky when to the East 
 The morning doth return." 
 
 Full soon that better mind was gone; 
 Xo hope, no wish remain'd, not one, — 
 They stirr'd him now no more : 
 New objects did new pleasure give, 
 And once again he wish'd to live 
 As lawless as before. 
 
 Meanwhile, as thus with him it fared. 
 They for the voyage were prepared. 
 And went to the sea-shore ; 
 But, when they thither came, the Youth 
 Deserted his poor Bride, and Ruth 
 Could never find him more. 
 
 God help thee, Ruth I — Such pains she 
 That she in half a year was mad, [had. 
 And in a prison housed; 
 And there, Avith many a doleful song 
 Made of wild words, her cup of wrong 
 She feai-fully caroused. 
 
 2 In this beautiful stanza, the author 
 expresses the enthusiastic gladness with 
 which he had hhiiself hailed the French 
 Revolution of 1789, which he conlldeiitlj^ 
 regarded as the dawn of a new era of free- 
 dom and happiness in the world. It 
 
 Yet sometimes milder hours she knew, 
 Nor Avanted sun, nor rain, nor dew, 
 Nor pastimes of the May : 
 They all were with her in her cell; 
 And a clear brook Avith cheerful knell 
 Did o'er the pebbles play. 
 
 When Ruth three seasons thus had lain, 
 There came a respite to her pain ; 
 She from her prison fled ; 
 But of the Vagi-aut none took thought ; 
 And where it liked her best she sought 
 Her shelter and her bread. 
 
 Among the fields she breathed again ; 
 The master-current of her brain 
 Ran permanent and free ; 
 And, coming to the Banks of Tone, 
 There did she rest ; and dwell alone 
 Under the greenwood tree. 
 
 The engines of her pain, the tools 
 
 That shaped her soxtow, rocks and pools, 
 
 And airs that gently stir 
 
 The vernal leaves, — she loved them still, 
 
 Nor ever tax'd them with the ill 
 
 Which had been done to her. 
 
 A Bam her winter bed supplies ; 
 
 But, till the warmth of summer skies 
 
 And summer days is gone, 
 
 (And all do in this tale agree,) 
 
 She sleeps beneath the greenwood tree, 
 
 And other home hath none. 
 
 An innocent life, yet far astray f 
 
 And Ruth will, long before her day. 
 
 Be broken down and old : 
 
 Sore aches she needs must have, but less 
 
 Of mind than body's wretcliedness, 
 
 From damp, and rain, and cold. 
 
 If she is prest by want of food, 
 She from her dwelling in the wood 
 Repairs to a road-side ; 
 And there she begs at one steep place 
 Whei'e up and down with easy pace 
 The horsemen-travellers ride. 
 
 seemed to him that in the course and pro- 
 gress of this event all the ancient holdings 
 of oppression and Avrong were to disap- 
 pear, and a golden age of universal peace 
 to succeed. 
 
16 
 
 WORDSWORTH. 
 
 That oatea pipe of hers is mute, 
 Or thrown away ; hut with a flute 
 Her loneliness she cheers : 
 This flute, made of a hemlock stalk, 
 At evening in his homeward walk 
 The Quantock woodman hears. 
 
 I, too, have pass'd her on the hills 
 Setting her little water-mills 
 By spouts and fountains wild;— 
 Such small machineiy had she tum'd 
 Ere she had wept, ere she had mourn'd, 
 A young and happy Child. 
 
 Farewell I and when thy days are told. 
 
 Ill-fated Ruth, in hallo w'd mould 
 
 Thy corpse shall buried be; 
 
 For thee a funeral bell shall ring, 
 
 And all the congregation sing 
 
 A Christian psalm for thee. [1799. 
 
 THE RUSSIAN FUGITIVE. 
 PART I, 
 
 Enough of rose-bud lips, and eyes 
 
 Like harebells bathed in dew; 
 Of cheek that with carnation vies, 
 
 And veins of violet hue : 
 Earth Avants not beauty that may scorn 
 
 A likening to frail flowers ; 
 Tea, to the stars, if they were born 
 
 For seasons and for hours. 
 
 Through ISIoscow's gates, with gold un- 
 
 Stepp'd One at dead of night, [barr'd, 
 Whom such high beauty could not guard 
 
 From meditated blight ; 
 By stealth she pass'd, and fled as fast 
 
 As doth the hunted fawn, 
 Nor stopp'd, till in the dappling East 
 
 Appear'd unwelcome dawn. 
 
 Seven days she lurk'd in brake and field. 
 
 Seven nights her course renew'd, 
 Sustain'd by what her scrip might yield, 
 
 Or berries of the wood; 
 At length in darkness travelling on, 
 
 When lowly doors were shut. 
 The haven of her hope she won, 
 
 Her Foster-mother's hut. 
 
 " To put your love to dangerous proof 
 I come," said she, " from far; 
 
 For I have left my Father^s roof, 
 
 In terror of the Czar." 
 No answer did the Matron give, 
 
 No second look she cast. 
 But hung upon the Fugitive, 
 
 Embracing and embraced. 
 
 She led the Lady to a seat 
 
 Beside the glimmei-ing flre, 
 Bathed duteously her wayworn feet. 
 
 Prevented 3 each desire : — 
 The cricket chii-p'd, the house-dog dozed. 
 
 And on that simple bed. 
 Where she in childhood had reposed, 
 
 Now rests her weary head. 
 
 When she, whose couch had been the sod, 
 
 Whose curtain, pine or thorn. 
 Had breathed a sigh of thanks to God, 
 
 Who comforts the forlorn; 
 While over her the Matron bent 
 
 Sleep seal'd her eyes, and stole 
 Feeling from limbs with travel spent. 
 
 And trouble from the souL 
 
 Refreshed, the Wanderer rose at mora. 
 
 And soon again was dight 
 In those unworthy vestments worn 
 
 Through long and perilous flight; 
 And " O belovfed Nurse," she said, 
 
 " My thanks with silent tears 
 Have unto Heaven and you been paid : 
 
 Now listen to ray fears I 
 
 Have you forgot " (and here she smiled) 
 
 " The babbling flatteries 
 You lavish'd on me when a child 
 
 Disporting round your knees ? 
 I was your lambkin, and your bird, 
 
 Your star, your gem, your flower; 
 Light words, that were more lightly heard 
 
 In many a cloudless hour I 
 
 The blossom you so fondly praised 
 
 Is come to bitter fruit; 
 A mighty One upon me gazed; 
 
 I spurn'd his lawless suit. 
 And must be hidden from his wrath : 
 
 You, Foster-father dear, 
 WiU guide me in my forward path : 
 
 I may not tarry here I 
 
 3 Prevented in the old sense of antici- 
 pated. The usage is frequent in Shake- 
 speare, as also in the Bible and Prayer- 
 Book. 
 
THE RUSSIAN" FUGITIVE. 
 
 17 
 
 I cannot bring to utter woe 
 
 Your proved fidelity." — 
 " Dear Child, sweet Mistress, say not so 1 
 
 For you we both would die." — 
 " Nay, nay, I come with semblance feign'd 
 
 And cheek embrown'd by ait ; 
 Yet, being inwardly unstain'd, 
 
 With courage will depart." 
 
 •'But whitherwould you, could you, flee?* 
 
 A poor Man's counsel take ; 
 The Holy Virgin gives to me 
 
 A thought for your dear sake : 
 Eest, shielded by our Lady-s grace, 
 
 And soon shall you be led 
 Forth to a safe abiding-place, 
 
 Where never foot doth tread." 
 
 PART II. 
 
 The dwelling of this faithful pair 
 
 In a straggling village stood,— 
 For One who breathed unquiet air 
 
 A dangerous neighbourhood; 
 But wide around lay forest ground 
 
 With thickets rough and blind; 
 And pine-trees made a heavy shade 
 
 Impervious to the wind. 
 
 And there, sequester'd from the sight, 
 
 Was spread a treacherous swamp. 
 On which the noonday Sun shed light 
 
 As from a lonely lamp ; 
 And midway in th' unsafe morass 
 
 A single Island rose 
 Of firm dry ground, with healthful grass 
 
 Adorn'd, and shady boughs. 
 
 The Woodman knew —for such the craft 
 
 This Russian vassal plied— 
 That never fowler's gun, nor shaft 
 
 Of archer, there was tried : 
 A sanctuary seem'd the spot 
 
 From all intrusion free ; 
 And there he plann'd an artful Cot 
 
 For pei-fect secrecy. 
 
 With earnest pains uncheck'd by dread 
 Of Power's far- stretching hand, 
 
 4 The meaning probably is, " Whither 
 would you flee, z/ you could ? " 
 
 The bold good Man his labour sped 
 
 At nature's pure command; 
 Heart-soothed, and busy as a wren, 
 
 While, in a hollow nook, 
 She moulds her sight-eluding den 
 
 Above a murmuring brook. 
 
 His task accomplish'd to his mind, 
 
 The twain ere break of day 
 Creep forth, and through the forest wind 
 
 Their solitary way; 
 Few words they speak, nor dare to slack 
 
 Their pace from mUe to mile, 
 TiU they have cross'd the quaking marsh, 
 
 And reach'd the lonely Isle. 
 
 The Sun above the pine-trees show'd 
 
 A bright and cheerful face; 
 And Ina look'd for her abode, 
 
 The promised hiding-place : 
 She sought in vain, the Woodman smiled; 
 
 No threshold could be seen, 
 Nor roof, nor window ; — all seem'd wild 
 
 As it had ever been. 
 
 Advancing, you might guess an hour, 
 
 The front with such nice care 
 Is mask'd, " if house it be ^ or bower," 
 
 But in they enter'd are : 
 As shaggy as were wall and roof 
 
 With branches intertwined, 
 So smooth was all within, air-proof, 
 
 And delicately lined : 
 
 And hearth was there, and maple dish, 
 
 And cups in seemly rows, 
 And couch, — all ready to a wish 
 
 For nurture or repose ; 
 And Heaven doth to her virtue grant 
 
 That here she may abide 
 In solitude, with every want 
 
 By cautious love supplied. 
 
 No queen, before a shouting crowd. 
 
 Led on in bridal state, 
 E'er struggled with a heart so proud, 
 
 Entering her palace gate ; 
 Rejoiced to bid the world farewell. 
 
 No saintly anchoress 
 E'er took possession of her cell 
 
 With deeper thankfulness. 
 
 5 Some obscurity here, perhaps; but 
 the word if is construed with guess, and 
 is equivalent to ichether; the sense thus 
 being, " you might guess an hour whether 
 it be a house," &c. 
 
18 
 
 WORDSWOETH. 
 
 ••Father of all, upon Thy care 
 
 And mercy am I thrown ; 
 Be Thou my safeguard!" such her prayer 
 
 When she was left alone, 
 Kneeling amid the wilderness 
 
 When joy had pass'd away, 
 And smiles, fond efforts of distress 
 
 To hide what they betray ! • 
 
 The prayer is heard, the Saints have seen, 
 
 Diffused through form and face, 
 Resolves devotedly serene; 
 
 That monumental grace 
 Of Faith, which doth all passions tame 
 
 That Reason should control ; 
 And shows in the untrembling frame 
 
 A statue of the soul. 
 
 PART ni. 
 
 'Tis sung in ancient minstrelsy 
 
 That Phoebus wont to wear 
 The leaves of any pleasant tree 
 
 Around his golden hair; 
 Till Daphne, desperate with pursuit 
 
 Of his imperious love, 
 At her own pray ertransform'd, took root, 
 
 A laurel in the grove. 
 
 Then did the Penitent adorn 
 
 His brow with laurel green; 
 And 'mid his bright locks never shorn 
 
 No meaner leaf was seen ; 
 And poets sage, through every age. 
 
 About their temples wound [Gods, 
 
 The bay ; and conquerors thank'd the 
 
 With laurel chaplets crown'd.6 
 
 Into the mists of fabling Time 
 
 So far runs back the praise 
 Of Beauty, that disdains to climb 
 
 Along forbidden ways ; 
 That scorns temptation; power defies 
 
 Where mutual love is not; 
 And to the tomb for rescue flies 
 
 When life would be a blot. 
 
 To this fair Votaress, a fate 
 More mild doth Heaven ordain 
 
 6 It may be well to note that hay and 
 laurel mean the same thing. Wordsworth 
 probably had in mind a passage of The 
 Faerie Queene, i. 1, 9 : " The laurell, meed 
 of mightie couquerours and poets sage." 
 
 Upon her Island desolate ; 
 
 And words, not breathed in vain, 
 Slight tell what intercourse she found. 
 
 Her silence to endear; [ground 
 
 What birds she tamed, what flowers the 
 
 Sent forth, her peace to cheer. 
 
 To one mute Presence, above all, 
 
 Her soothed affections clung, 
 A picture on the cabin wall 
 
 By Russian usage hung, ~ 
 The Mother-maid, whose countenance 
 bright 
 
 With love abridged the day; 
 And, communed with by taper light, 
 
 Chased spectral fears away. 
 
 And, oft as either Guardian came, 
 
 The joy in that retreat 
 Might any common friendship shame, 
 
 So high their hearts would beat ; 
 And to the lone Recluse, whate'er 
 
 They brought, each visiting 
 Was like the crowding of the year 
 
 With a new burst of Spring. 
 
 But, when she of her Parents thought, 
 
 The pang was hard to bear; 
 And, if with all things not enwrought, 
 
 That trouble still is near. 
 Before her flight she had not dared 
 
 Their constancy to prove ; 
 Too much th' heroic Daughter fear'd 
 
 The weakness of their love. 
 
 Dark is the past to them, and dark 
 
 The future still must be. 
 Till pitying Saints conduct her bark 
 
 Into a safer sea; 
 Or gentle Nature close her eyes, 
 
 And set her Spirit free 
 From the altar of this sacrifice, 
 
 In vestal purity. 
 
 Yet, when above the forest glooms 
 
 The white swans southward pass'd, 
 High as the pitch of their swift plumes 
 
 Her fancy rode the blast ; 
 And bore her toward the fields of France, 
 
 Her Father's native land, 
 To mingle in the rustic dance, 
 
 The happiest of the bandl 
 
 Of those belov6d fields she oft 
 Had heard her Father tell, 
 
THE RUSSIAN FUGITIVE. 
 
 19 
 
 In phrase that now with echoes soft 
 
 Haunted her lonely cell ; 
 She saw th' hereditary bowers, 
 
 She heard th' ancestral stream ; 
 The Kremlin and its haughty towers 
 
 Forgotten like a dream ! 
 
 The ever-changing Moon had traced 
 
 Twelve times her monthly round, 
 When through the unfrequented Waste 
 
 Was heard a startling sound; 
 A shout thrice sent from one who chased 
 
 At speed a wounded deer, 
 Bounding through branches interlaced, 
 
 And where the wood was clear. 
 
 The fainting creature took the marsh. 
 
 And toward the Island fled, 
 While plovers scream'd with tumult hai-sh 
 
 Above his antler'd head : 
 This, Ina saw; and, pale with fear, 
 
 Shrunk to her citadel; 
 The desperate deer rush'd on, and near 
 
 The tangled covert fell. 
 
 Across the marsh, the game in view, 
 
 The Hunter foUow'd fast. 
 Nor paused, till o'er the stag he blew 
 
 A death-proclaiming blast; 
 Then, resting on her upright mind, 
 
 Came forth the Maid : "In me 
 Behold," she said, " a stricken Hind 
 
 Pursued by destiny ! 
 
 From your deportment. Sir, I deem 
 
 That you have worn a sword. 
 And will not hold in light esteem 
 
 A suffering woman's Avord : 
 There is my covert, there perchance 
 
 I might have lain conceal'd. 
 My fortunes hid, my countenance 
 
 Not even to you reveal'd. 
 
 Tears might be shed, and I might pray. 
 
 Crouching and terrified. 
 That what has been unveil'd to-daj^ 
 
 You would in mystery hide ; 
 But I will not defile with dust 
 
 The knee that bends to adore 
 The God in Heaven: attend, be just; 
 
 This ask I, and no more. 
 
 I speak not of the Winter's cold. 
 For Summer's heat exchanged. 
 
 Wliile I have lodged in this rough hold. 
 
 From social life estranged; 
 Nor yet of trouble and alarms : 
 
 High Heaven is my defence ; 
 And every season has soft arms 
 
 For injured Innocence. 
 
 From Moscow to the WUdemess 
 
 It was my choice to come. 
 Lest virtue should be harbourless. 
 
 And honour want a home ; 
 And happy were I, if the Czar 
 
 Retain his laAvless will. 
 To end life here like this poor deer, 
 
 Or a lamb on a green hill." 
 
 " Are you the Maid," the Stranger cried, 
 
 " From Gallic parents sprung, 
 Wliose vanishing was rumour'd wide. 
 
 Sad theme for eveiy tongue ? 
 Wlio foil'd an Emperor's eager quest? 
 
 You, Lady, forced to wear 
 These rude habiliments, and rest 
 
 Your head in this dark lair !" 
 
 But wonder, pity, soon were quell'd; 
 
 And in her face and mien 
 The soul's pure brightness he beheld 
 
 Without a veil befrsveen : 
 He loved, he hoped, — a holy flame 
 
 Kindled 'mid rapturous tears ; 
 The passion of a moment came 
 
 As on the wings of years. 
 
 " Such bounty is no gift of chance," 
 
 Exclaim'd he; "righteous Heaven, 
 Preparing your deliverance. 
 
 To me the charge hath given. 
 The Czar full oft in words and deeds 
 
 Is stormy and self-wiU'd; 
 But, when the Lady Catherine ^ pleads, 
 
 His violence is still'd. 
 
 " Leave open to my wish the course. 
 
 And I to her will go ; 
 From that humane and heavenly source. 
 
 Good, only good, can flow." — 
 Faint sanction given, the Cavalier 
 
 Was eager to depart, 
 Though question follow'd question, dear 
 
 To the Maiden's filial heart. 
 
 Light was his step, — his hopes, more light. 
 Kept pace with his desires; 
 
 7 This was the famous lady then bear- 
 ing that name as the acknowledged wife 
 of Peter the Great. 
 
20 
 
 WORDSWORTH. 
 
 And the fifth morning gave him sight 
 Of Moscow's glittering spires. 
 
 He sued : — heart-smitten by the wi'ong, 
 To the lorn Fugitive 
 
 The Emperor sent a pledge as strong 
 As sovereign power could give. 
 
 O more than mighty change ! If e'er 
 
 Amazement rose to pain, 
 And joy's excess produced a fear 
 
 Of something void and vain ; 
 •Twas when the Parents, who had mourn'd 
 
 So long the lost as dead, 
 Beheld their only Child retum'd. 
 
 The household floor to tread. 
 
 Soon gratitude gave way to love 
 
 Within the Maiden's breast : 
 Deliver'd and Deliverer move 
 
 In bridal garments drest; 
 Meek Catherine had her own reward; 
 
 The Czar bestow'd a dower; 
 And universal Moscow shared 
 
 The triumph of that hour. 
 
 Flowers strew'd the ground; the nuptial 
 
 Was held with costly state ; [feast 
 
 And there, 'mid many a noble guest, 
 
 The Foster-parents sate : 
 Encouraged by th' imperial eye. 
 
 They shrank not into shade; 
 Great was their bliss, the honour hign 
 
 To them and nature paid ! [1830. 
 
 THE WATERFALL AND THE EG- 
 LANTINE. 
 
 "Begone, thou fond presumptuous Elf," 
 
 Exclaim'd an angry Voice, 
 
 " Nor dare to thrust thy foolish self 
 
 Between me and my choice ! " 
 
 A small Cascade fresh swoln with snows 
 
 Thus threaten'd a poor Briar-rose, 
 
 That, all bespatter'd with his foam, 
 
 And dancing high and dancing low. 
 
 Was living, as a child might know, 
 
 In an unhappy home. 
 
 "Dost thou presume my course to block? 
 
 Off off! or, puny Thing, 
 
 I'll hurl thee headlong with the I'ock 
 
 To which thy fibres cling." 
 
 The Flood was tyrannous and strong; 
 
 The patient Briar suffer'd long. 
 
 Nor did he utter groan or sigh, 
 
 Hoping the danger would be past; 
 
 But, seeing no relief, at last 
 He ventured to reply. 
 
 " Ah ! " said the Briar, " blame me not; 
 
 Why should we dwell in strife? 
 
 We who in this seitjuester'd spot 
 
 Once lived a happy life ! 
 
 You stirr'd me on my rocky bed, — 
 
 What pleasure thro' my veins you spread I 
 
 The Summer long, from day to day, 
 
 My leaves you freshen'd and bedew'd; 
 
 Nor was it conamon gratitude 
 
 That did your cares repay. 
 
 When Spring came on with bud and bell, 
 
 Among these rocks did I 
 
 Before you hang my wreaths, to tell 
 
 That gentle days were nigh : 
 
 And in the sultry summer hours 
 
 I shelter'd you Avith leaves and flowers; 
 
 And in my leaves — now shed and gone — 
 
 The linnet lodged, and for us two 
 
 Chanted his pretty songs, when you 
 
 Had little voice or none. 
 
 But now proud thoughts are in your 
 What gi'ief is mine you see : [breast; 
 
 Ah, would you think, even yet how blest 
 Together we might be ! 
 Though of both leaf and flower bereft. 
 Some ornaments to me ax'e left, — 
 Rich store of scarlet hips is mine, 
 With which I, in my humble way, 
 Would deck you many a winter day, 
 A happy Eglantine ! " 
 
 What more he said I cannot tell : 
 
 The Torrent down the rocky dell 
 
 Came thundering loud and fast; 
 
 I listen'd, nor aught else could hear; 
 
 The Briar quaked, — and much I fear 
 
 Those accents were his last. [1800. 
 
 THE OAK AND THE BROOM. 
 A PASTOKAL. 
 
 His simple truths did Andrew glean 
 
 Beside the babbling rills ; 
 
 A careful student he had been 
 
 Among the woods and hills. 
 
 One Winter's night, when thro' the trees 
 
 The wind was roaring, on his knees 
 
 His youngest born did Andi-ew hold; 
 
 And, while the rest, a ruddy quire. 
 
 Were seated round their blazing fire, 
 
 This Tale the Shepherd told. 
 
THE OAK AKD THE BROOM. 
 
 2] 
 
 •' I saw a crag, a lofty stone 
 As eves tempest beat; 
 Out of its head an Oak had grown, 
 A Broom out of its feet. 
 The time was March, a cheerful noon, — 
 The thaw-wind, with the breath of June, 
 Breathed gently from the warm South- 
 When, in a voice sedate with age, [west ; 
 This Oak, a giant and a sage, 
 His neighbour thus address'd : 
 
 • Eight weary weeks, thro' rock and clay, 
 Along this mountain's edge, [day. 
 
 The Frost hath wrought both night and 
 Wedge driving after wedge. 
 Look up ! and think, above your head 
 What trouble, surely, will be bred; 
 Last night I heard a crash, —'tis true, 
 The splinters took another road, — 
 I see them yonder; — what a load 
 For such a Thing as you ! 
 
 You are preparing, as before. 
 
 To deck your slender shape; 
 
 And yet, just three years back— no more,— 
 
 You had a strange escape : 
 
 Down from yon cliff a fragment broke ; 
 
 It thunder'd down, with fire and smoke. 
 
 And hitherward pursued its way; 
 
 This ponderous block was caught by me, 
 
 And o'er your head, as you may see, 
 
 'Tis hanging to this day. 
 
 \f breeze or bird to this rough steep 
 
 Your kind's first seed did bear, 
 
 The breeze had better been asleep. 
 
 The bird caught in a snare : 
 
 For you and your green twigs decoy 
 
 The little witless shepherd-boy 
 
 To come and slumber in your bower; 
 
 And, trust me, on some sultry noon, 
 
 Both you and he, Heaven knows how soon ! 
 
 Will perish in one hoiu'. 
 
 From me this friendly warning take,' — 
 
 The Broom l:>egan to doze, 
 
 And thus, to keep herself awake. 
 
 Did gently interpose : 
 
 ' My thanks for your discourse are due ; 
 
 That more than what you say is true, 
 
 I know, and I have known it long : 
 
 Frail is the bond by whicli we hold 
 
 Om- being, whether young or old. 
 
 Wise, foolish, weak, or strong. 
 
 Disasters, do the best we can. 
 
 Will reach both great and small; 
 
 And he is oft the wisest man. 
 
 Who is not wise at all. 
 
 For me, why should I wish to ro-nju? 
 
 This spot is my paternal home, 
 
 It is my pleasant heritage; 
 
 My father many a happy year 
 
 Spread here his careless blossoms, here 
 
 Attain'd a good old age. 
 
 Even such as his may be my lot. 
 
 What cause have I to havmt 
 
 My heart with ten*ors ? Am I not 
 
 In truth a favour'd plant? 
 
 On me such bounty Summer pours. 
 
 That I am cover'd o'er with flowers ; 
 
 And, when the Frost is in the sky. 
 
 My branches are so fresh and gay 
 
 That you might look at me and say, 
 
 This Plant can never die. 
 
 The butterfly, aU green and gold, 
 
 To me hath olten flown. 
 
 Here in my blossoms to behold 
 
 Wings lovely as his own : 
 
 When grass is chiU with rain or dew. 
 
 Beneath my shade the mother-ewe 
 
 Lies with her infant lamb ; I see 
 
 The love they to each other make. 
 
 And the sweet joy which they partake. 
 
 It is a joy to me.' 
 
 Her voice was blithe, her heart was light: 
 The Broom might have pursued 
 Her speech, until the stars of night 
 Their journey had renew'd; 
 But in the branches of the oak 
 Two ravens now began to croak 
 Their nuptial song, a gladsome air; 
 And to her own green bower the breeze 
 That instant brought two stripling bees, 
 To rest or murmur there. 
 
 One night, my Children, from the Xorth 
 
 There came a furious blast; 
 
 At break of day I ventiu-ed forth, 
 
 And near the clifi" I pass'd. 
 
 The storm had fallen upon the Oak, 
 
 ^Vnd struck Mm with a mighty stroke, 
 
 And whirl'd and whirl'd him far away; 
 
 And, in one hospitable cleft, 
 
 The little careless Broom was left, 
 
 To live for many a day." [1800. 
 
22 
 
 WORDSWORTH. 
 
 TO THE DAISY. 
 
 In yoiith from rock to rock I Avent, 
 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 1 
 
 Thee Winter in the garland wears 
 That thinly decks his few grey hairs ; 
 Spring parts the clouds with softest airs, 
 
 That she may sun thee ; 
 Whole summer- fields are thine hy right ; 
 And Autumn, melancholy AVight ! 
 Doth in thy crimson head delight 
 
 When rains are on thee. 
 
 In shoals and hands, a morrice train, 
 Thou gi-eet'st the traveller in the lane, 
 Pleased at his greeting thee again ; 
 
 Yet nothing daunted 
 Nor grieved if thou he set at nought : 
 And oft alone in nooks remote 
 We meet thee, like a pleasant thought. 
 
 When such are wanted. 
 
 Be violets in their secret mews 
 
 The flowers the wanton Zephyrs choose; 
 
 Proud be the rose, with rains and dews 
 
 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. 
 
 If to a rock from rains he fly. 
 Or, some bright day of April sky, 
 Imprison'd 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 couch'd an hour, 
 Have I derived from thy sweet power 
 
 Some apprehension ; 
 Some steady love ; some brief delight ; 
 Som.e memory that had taken flight; 
 Some chime of fancy wrong or right; 
 
 Or stray invention. 
 
 If stately passions In me bum, 
 
 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, cheei-ful 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. 
 
 And all day long I number yet, 
 All seasons through, another debt, 
 Which I, Avhenever 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 th'ou shalt regain ; 
 Nor be less dear to future men 
 Than in old time ; — thou not in vain 
 
 Art Nature's favourite. [1802. 
 
 TO THE SAME FLOWER. 
 With little here to do or see 
 Of things that in the gi-eat world be, 
 Daisy, again I talk to thee; 
 
 For thou art worthy. 
 Thou unassuming common-place 
 Of Nature, Avith that homely face, 
 And yet Avith something of a grace, 
 
 Which Love makes for thee. 
 
 Oft on the dappled turf at ease 
 
 I sit, and play with similes, 
 
 Loose typos of things through all degrees 
 
 Thoughts of thy raising: 
 And many a fond and idle name 
 I give to thee, for praise or blame, 
 As is the humour of the game, 
 
 While I am gazing. 
 
TO THE SMALL CELANDIN^E. 
 
 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 clrest; 
 A starveling in a scanty vest; 
 Are all, as seems to suit thee best, 
 
 Thy appellations. 
 
 A little Cyclops, with one eye 
 Staring to thi-eaten 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 fairy bold 
 
 In fight to cover I 
 
 I see thee glittering trom 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 1 
 
 Bright Flower ! for by that name at last. 
 
 When all my reveries are past, 
 
 I call thee, and to that cleave fast, — 
 
 Sweet silent creature. 
 That breath'st with me in sun and air. 
 Do thou, as thou art wont, repair 
 My heart with gladness, and a share 
 
 Of thy meek nature I [1805 
 
 TO THE SMALL CELANDINE. 
 
 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, 
 'Tis the little Celandine.s 
 
 8 The flower here celebrated is the 
 Common Pilewort. In his notes on the 
 poems, the author speaks thus : "It is re- 
 markable that this flower, coming out so 
 early in the Spring as it does, and so 
 bright and beautiful, and in such profu- 
 sion, should not have been noticed earlier 
 in English verse. What adds much to the 
 interest that attends it, is its habit of shut- 
 
 Eyes of some men travel far 
 For the finding of a star; 
 Up and down the heavens they go, 
 Men that keep a mighty routl 
 I'm as great as they, I trow. 
 Since tlie day I found thee out, 
 Little Flower ! — I'll make a stir. 
 Like a sage astronomer. 
 
 Modest, yet withal an Elf 
 Bold, and lavish of thyself; 
 Since we needs must first have met 
 I have seen thee, high and low. 
 Thirty years or more, and yet 
 'Twas a face I did not know; 
 Thou hast now, go where I may. 
 Fifty greetings in a day. 
 
 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 her home ; 
 Spring is coming, Thou art cornel 
 
 Comfort have thou of thy merit. 
 Kindly, unassuming Spirit ! 
 Careless of thy neighbourhood. 
 Thou dost show thy pleasant face 
 On the moor, and in the wood. 
 In the lane ; — there's not a place. 
 Howsoever mean it be. 
 But 'tis good enough for thee. 
 
 lU befall the yellow flowers. 
 Children of the flaring hours ! 
 
 ting itself up and opening out according 
 to tiie degree of light and temperature of 
 the air." — It may be observ^ed that Words- 
 worth seldom, if ever, speaks of the fra- 
 grance of flowers. Tlie pleasure from this 
 source was denied to him : he had no sense 
 of smcfl, — a deficiency that he himself re- 
 gretted very much. 
 
24 
 
 WOKDSWORTH. 
 
 Buttercups, that will be seen, 
 Whether we will see or no ; 
 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, 
 
 ni-requited upon Earth ; 
 
 Herald of a mighty band, 
 
 Of a joyous train ensuing, 
 
 Serving at my heart's command. 
 
 Tasks that are no tasks renewing, 
 
 I will sing, as doth behove. 
 
 Hymns in praise of what I love I [1803. 
 
 TO THE SAIVIE FLOWER. 
 
 Pleasures newly found are sweet 
 When they lie about our feet : 
 February last, my heart 
 First at sight of thee was glad; 
 All unheard of as thou art, 
 Thou must needs, I think, have had. 
 Celandine, and long ago, 
 Praise of which I nothing know. 
 
 I have not a doubt but he, 
 Whosoe'er the man might be, 
 Who the first with pointed rays 
 (Workman worthy to be sainted) 
 Set the sign-board in a blaze. 
 When the rising Sun he painted. 
 Took the fancy from a glance 
 At thy glittering countenance. 
 
 Soon as gentle breezes bring 
 News of Winter's vanishing; 
 And the children build their bowers, 
 Sticking 'kerchief-plots of mould 
 All about with full-blown flowers, 
 Thick as sheep in shepherd's fold; 
 With the proudest thou art there, 
 Mantling in the tiny square. 
 
 Often have I sigh'd to measure 
 By myself a lonely pleasure, 
 Sigh'd to think, I read a book 
 Only read, perhaps, by me ; 
 Yet I long could overlook 
 Thy bright coronet and Thee, 
 And thy arch and wily ways, 
 And thy store of other praise. 
 
 Blithe of heart, from week to week 
 Thou dost play at hide-and-seek; 
 
 While the patient primrose sits 
 Like a beggar in the cold, 
 Thou, a flower of wiser wits, 
 Slipp'st into thy sheltering hold; 
 Liveliest of the vernal train 
 When ye all are out again. 
 
 Drawn by what peculiar spell. 
 By what charm of sight or smell. 
 Does the dim-eyed curious Bee, 
 Labouring for her waxen cells. 
 Fondly settle upon Thee 
 Pi-ized above all buds and bells 
 Opening daily at thy side. 
 By the season multiplied? 
 
 Thou art not beyond the Moon, 
 But a thing " beneath our shoon : ' 
 Let the bold Discoverer thrid 
 In his bark the polar sea; 
 Rear who will a pyramid ; 
 Praise it is enough for me. 
 If there be but three or four 
 Who will love my little Flower. 
 
 [1803. 
 
 THE REDBREAST. 
 
 (^Suggested in a Westmoreland Cottage.) 
 Driven in by Atitumn's sharpening air 
 From half-stripp'd woods and pastures 
 
 bare, 
 Brisk Robin seeks a kindlier home : 
 Not like a beggar is he come, 
 But enters as a look'd-for guest, 
 Confiding in his niddy breast, 
 As if it were a natural shield 
 Charged with a blazon on the field, 
 Due to that good and pious deed 
 Of which we in the Ballad read.9 
 But, pensive fancies putting by, 
 And wild-wood sorrows, speedily 
 He plays th' expert ventriloquist; 
 And, caught by glimpses now, now miss'd 
 Puzzles the listener with a doubt 
 If the soft voice he throws about 
 Comes from within doors or without. 
 Was ever such a sweet confusion, 
 Sustain'd by delicate illusion ? 
 
 9 Alluding to the old well-known bal- 
 lad of The Children in the Wood; espe- 
 cially the lines, — 
 
 " No burial this pretty pair 
 
 Of any man receiveSj 
 Till Robin-redbreast piously 
 Did cover them with leaves." 
 
THE EEDBEEAST. 
 
 25 
 
 lie's at your elbow, — to your feeling 
 The notes are from the floor or ceiling; 
 And there's a riddle to be gucss'd, 
 Till you have mark'd his heaving chest 
 And busy throat, whose sink and swell 
 Betray the Elf that loves to dwell 
 In Robin's bosom, as a chosen cell. 
 
 Heart-pleased we smile upon the Bird 
 Kseen, and with like pleasure stirr'd 
 Conunend him when he's only heard. 
 But small and fugitive our gain 
 Compared with hers who long hath lain, 
 With languid limbs and patient head 
 Reposing on a lone sick-bed; i 
 Where now she daily hears a strain 
 That cheats her of too busy cares, 
 Eases her pain, and helps her i^rayers. 
 And who but this dear Bird beguiled 
 The fever of that pale-faced Child; 
 Now cooling, with his passing wing, 
 Her forehead, like a breeze of Spring ? 
 Recalling now, with descant soft 
 Shed round her pillow from aloft, 
 Sweet thoughts of angels hoveriug nigh, 
 And the invisible sympathy 
 Of "Matthew, Mark, and Luke, and John, 
 Blessing the bed she lies upon " ? 2 
 And sometimes, just as listening ends 
 In slumber, with the cadence blends 
 A dream of that low- warbled hymn 
 Which old folk, fondly pleased to trim 
 Lamps of faith, now burning dim, 
 Say that the Cherubs carved in stone. 
 When clouds gave way at dead of night 
 And th' ancient church was filPd with 
 Used to sing in. heavenly tone, [light, 
 
 1 All our cats having been banished 
 the house, it was soon Irequented by red- 
 breasts. My sister, being then confined 
 to her room by sickness, as, dear creature, 
 she still is, had one that, without being 
 caged, took up its abode with her, and at 
 night used to perch upon a nail from 
 which a picture had hung. It iised to sing 
 and fan her face with its wings in a man- 
 ner that was very touching. — The Author''s 
 Notes. 
 
 2 The poet tells us that these w^ords 
 were part of a cliild's prayer, "still in 
 general use tlu-ough the noi-thern coun- 
 ties." My own childhood was fa'r.iliar 
 witli the same prayer, two lines of it run- 
 ning thtis : 
 
 " JIatthew, Mark, and Luke, and John, 
 Bless the bed that 1 lie on." 
 
 Above and round the sacred places 
 They guard, with winged baby-faces. 
 Thrice happy Creature, in all lands 
 Nurtured by hospitable hands 1 
 Free entrance to this cot has he, 
 Entrance and exit both i/ct free; 
 And, when the keen unruflled Aveather, 
 That thus briugs man and bird together. 
 Shall Avith its pleasantness be past, 
 And casement closed and door made fast, 
 To keep at bay the howling blast, 
 He needs not fear the season's rage, 
 For the whole house is Robin's cage. 
 Whether the bird flit here or there, 
 O'er table lilt, or perch on chair. 
 Though some may frown and make a stir, 
 To scare him as a trespasser. 
 And he belike Avill flinch or start, 
 Good friends he has to take his part; 
 One chiefly, who with voice and look 
 Pleads for him from the chinmey-nook, 
 Where sits the Dame, and wears away 
 Her long and vacant holiday; 
 With images abotit her heart, 
 Reflected from the years gone by, 
 On human nature's second infancy. 
 
 [1834. 
 
 TO A YOUNG LADY, 
 
 WHO HAD BEEN REPROACHED FOR TAK- 
 ING LONG WALKS IN THE COUNTRY. 
 
 DEAR Child of Nature, let them rail ! — 
 There is a nest in a green dale, 
 
 A harbour and a hold ; 
 ^Vliere thou, a Wife and Friend, shalt see 
 Thy own heart-stirring days, and be 
 
 A light to young and old. 
 
 There, healthy as a shepherd boy. 
 And treading among flowers of joy 
 
 Which at no season fade, 
 Thou, while thy babes around thee cling, 
 Shalt sliow lis how divine a thing 
 
 A Woman maj' be made. 
 
 Thy thoughts and feelings shall not die. 
 Nor leave thee, when grey hairs are nigh, 
 
 A melancholy slave ; 
 But an old age serene and bright. 
 And lovely as a Lapland night. 
 
 Shall lead thee to thy grave. [1803. 
 
26 WOEDSWOKTH. 
 
 HART-LEAP WELL. 
 
 Hart-Leap Well is a small spring of water, about five miles from Richmond in York- 
 shire, and near the side of the road that leads from Kichmond to Askrigg. Its 
 name is derived from a remarkable Chase, the memoiy of which is preserved by 
 the monuments spoken of in the Second Part of the following Poem, which mon- 
 uments do now exist as I have there described them. 
 
 The Knight had ridden down from Wensley Moor 
 With the slow motion of a Summer's cloud. 
 And now, as he approach 'd a vassal's door, 
 " Bring forth another horse ! " he cried aloud. 
 
 " Another horse ! " — That shout the vassal heard. 
 And saddled his best Steed, a comely grey ; 
 Sir Walter mounted him ; he was the third 
 Which he had mounted on that glorious day. 
 
 Joy sparkled in the prancing courser's eyes ; 
 The horse and horseman are a happy pair ; 
 But, though Sir Walter like a falcon flies. 
 There is a doleful silence in the air. 
 
 A rout this morning left Sir Walter's Hall, 
 That as they gallop'd made the echoes roar ; 
 But horse and man are vanish'd, one and all ; 
 Such race, I think, was never seen before. 
 
 Sir Walter, restless as a veering wind. 
 Calls to the few tired dogs that yet remain : 
 Blanch, Swift, and Music, noblest of their kind. 
 Follow, and up the weary mountain strain. 
 
 The Knight halloo'd, he cheer'd and chid them on 
 With suppliant gestures and upbraidings stern ; 
 But breath and eyesight fail ; and, one by one, 
 The dogs are stretch'd among the mountain fern. 
 
 Where is the throng, the tumult of the race? 
 The bugles that so joyfully were blown? 
 This chase it looks not like an earthly chase ; 
 Sir Walter and the Hart are left alone. 
 
 The poor Hart toils along the mountain-side ; 
 I will not stop to tell how far he fled, 
 Nor will I mention by what death he died ; 
 But now the Knight beholds him lying dead. 
 
 Dismounting then, he lean'd against a thorn ; 
 He had no follower, dog, nor man, nor boy : 
 He neither crack'd his whip, nor blew his horn. 
 But gazed upon the spoil with silent joy. 
 
HART-LEAP WELL. 37 
 
 Close to the thorn on which Sir Walter lean'd, 
 Stood his dumb partner in this glorious feat ; 
 Weak as a lamb the hour that it is yeanM, 
 And white with foam as if with cleaving sleet. 
 
 Upon his side the Hart was lying stretch 'd : 
 His nostril touch'd a spring beneath a hill, 
 And with the last deep groan his breath had fetched 
 The waters of the spring were trembling still. 
 
 And now, too happy for repose or rest, 
 nSTever had living man such joyful lot! ) 
 Sir Walter walk'd all round, north, south, and west, 
 .And gazed and gazed upon that darling spot. 
 
 And, climbing up the hill, (it was at least 
 Four roods of sheer ascent,) Sir Walter found 
 Three several hoof -marks which the hunted Beast 
 Had left imprinted on the grassy ground. 
 
 Sir Walter wiped his face, and cried, " Till now 
 Such sight was never seen by human eyes : 
 Three leaps have borne him from this lofty brow, 
 Down to the very fountain where he lies. 
 
 I'll build a pleasure-house upon this spot. 
 And a small arbour, made for rural joy ; 
 'Twill be the traveller's shed, the pilgrim's cot, 
 A place of love for damsels that are coy. 
 
 A cunning artist will I have to frame 
 
 A basin for that fountain in the dell ! 
 
 And they who do make mention of the same. 
 
 From this day forth, shall call it Hart-leap Well. 
 
 And, gallant Stag, to make thy praises known. 
 Another monument shall here be raised ; 
 Three several pillars, each a rough-hewn stone. 
 And planted where thy hoofs the turf have grazed. 
 
 And, in the summer-time when days are long, 
 I will come hither with my Paramour ; 
 And with the dancers and the minstrel's song 
 We will make merry in that pleasant bower. 
 
 Till the foundations of the mountains fail 
 My mansion with its arbour shall endure ; — 
 The joy of them who till the fields of Swale, 
 And them who dwell among the woods of Ure ! " 
 
28 WORDSWOETH 
 
 Then home he went, and left the Hart, stone-dead, 
 With breathless nostrils stretch'd above the spring. 
 Soon did the Knight perform what he had said ; 
 And far and wide the fame thereof did ring. 
 
 Ere thrice the Moon into her port had steer'd, 
 A cup of stone received the living well ; 
 Three pillars of rude stone Sir Walter rear'd, 
 And built a house of pleasure in the dell. 
 
 And, near the fountain, flowers of stature tall 
 With trailing plants and trees were intertwined ; 
 Which soon composed a little sylvan hall, 
 A leafy shelter from the sun and wind. 
 
 And thither, when the summer days were long, 
 Sir Walter led his wondering Paramour ; 
 And with the dancers and the minstrel's song 
 Made merriment within that pleasant bower. 
 
 The Knight, Sir Walter, died in course of time. 
 And his bones lie in his paternal vale. — 
 But there is matter for a second rhyme, 
 And I to this would add another tale. 
 
 PAET seco:n'd. 
 
 The moving accident is not my trade ; 
 To freeze the blood I have no ready arts : 
 'Tis my delight, alone in summer shade, 
 To pipe a simple song for thinking hearts. 
 
 As I from Hawes to Eichmond did repair, 
 It chanced that I saw standing in a dell 
 Three aspens at three corners of a square ; 
 And one, not four yards distant, near a well. 
 
 What this imported I could ill divine : 
 And, pulling now the rein my horse to stop, 
 I saw three pillars standing in a line, — 
 The last stone-pillar on a dark hill-top. 
 
 The trees were grey, with neither arms nor head ; 
 Half wasted the square mound of tawny green ; 
 So that you just might say, as then I said, 
 " Here in old time the hand of man hath been.'' 
 
HAKT-LEAP WELL. 29 
 
 I look'd upon the liill both far and near, 
 More doleful place did never eye survey ; 
 It seem'd as if the spring-time came not here. 
 And Nature here were willing to decay. 
 
 I stood in various thoughts and fancies lost, 
 When one, who was in shepherd's garb attired. 
 Came up the hollow : — him did I accost, 
 And what this place might be I then inquired. 
 
 The Shepherd stopp'd, and that same story told 
 Which in my former rhyme I have rehearsed.^ 
 '^ A jolly place," said he, "in times of old! 
 - But something ails it now ; the spot is curst. 
 
 You see these lifeless stumps of aspen wood, — 
 Some say that they are beeches, others elms, — 
 These were the bower ; and here a mansion stood. 
 The finest palace of a hundred realms! 
 
 The arbour does its own condition tell ; 
 You see the stones, the fountain, and the stream; 
 But as to the great Lodge, you might as well 
 Hunt half a day for a forgotten dream. 
 
 There's neither dog nor heifer, horse nor sheep. 
 Will wet his lips within that cup of stone ; 
 And oftentimes, when all are fast asleep. 
 This water doth send forth a dolorous groan. 
 
 Some say that here a murder has been done, 
 And blood cries out for blood : but, for my part, 
 I've guess'd, when I've been sitting in the sun, 
 That it was all for that unhappy Hart. 
 
 What thoughts must through the creature's brain have 
 Even from the topmost stone, upon the steep, [past ! 
 
 Are but three bounds, — and look. Sir, at this last, — 
 Master, it has been a cruel leap ! 
 
 For thirteen hours he ran a desperate race ; 
 And in my simple mind we cannot tell 
 What cause the Hart might have to love this place, 
 And come and make his death-bed near the well. 
 
 3 In his notes on this poem, which were dictated to a friend many years after the 
 poem itself was written, the author has the following: "A peasant whom we met 
 near the spot told us the story, so far as concerned the name of the well and the hart, 
 and pointed out the stones." 
 
30 WORDSWORTH. 
 
 Here on the grass perhaps asleep he sank, 
 Liill'd by the fountain in the summer-tide ; 
 This water was perhaps the first he drank 
 When he had wander'd from his mother's side. 
 
 In April here beneath the flowering thorn 
 He heard the birds their morning carols sing ; 
 And he, perhaps, for aught we know, was born 
 Not half a furlong from that self-same spring. 
 
 Now, here is neither grass nor pleasant shade ; 
 
 The Sun on drearier hollow never shone ; 
 
 So will it be, as I have often said. 
 
 Till trees, and stones, and fountain, all are gone." 
 
 " Grey-headed Shepherd, thou hast spoken well ; 
 Small difference lies between thy creed and mine : 
 This Beast not unobserved by Nature fell ; 
 His death was mourn'd by sympathy divine. 
 
 The Being that is in the clouds and air, 
 That is in the green leaves among the groves, 
 Maintains a deep and reverential care 
 For th' unoffending creatures whom He loves. 
 
 The pleasure-house is dust : behind, before. 
 This is no common waste, no common gloom ; 
 But Nature, in due course of time, once more 
 Shall here put on her beauty and her bloom. 
 
 She leaves these objects to a slow decay, 
 
 That what we are, and have been, may be known ; 
 
 But, at the coming of the milder day. 
 
 These monuments shall all be overgrown. 
 
 One lesson, Shepherd, let us two divide. 
 
 Taught both by what she shows, and what conceals ; 
 
 Never to blend our pleasure or our pride 
 
 With sorrow of the meanest thing that feels." [1800. 
 
 MICHAEL: A PASTORAL POEM. 
 
 If from the public way you turn your steps 
 Up the tumultuous brook of Green-head Ghyll,* 
 You will suppose that with an upright path 
 Your feet must struggle ; in such bold ascent 
 
 4 In the clialcct of Cumberland and Westmoreland, Ghyll is a short, and, for the 
 most part, a steep, narrow valley, with a stream running through it. 
 
MICHAEL. 31 
 
 The pastoral mountains front you, face to face. 
 But, courage ! for around that boisterous brook 
 The mountains have all open'd out themselves, 
 And made a hidden valley of their own. 
 No habitation can be seen ; but they 
 Who journey thither find themselves alone 
 With a few sheep, with rocks and stones, and kites 
 That overhead are sailing in the sky. 
 It is in truth an utter solitude ; 
 Nor should I have made mention of this Dell 
 But for one object which you might pass by. 
 Might see and notice not. Beside the brook 
 Appears a straggling heap of unhewn stones ; 
 And to that simple object appertains 
 A story, unenrich'd with strange events. 
 Yet not unfit, I deem, for the fireside. 
 Or for the summer shade. It was the first 
 Of those domestic tales that spake to me 
 Of Shepherds, dAvellers in the valleys, men 
 Whom I already loved ; not verily 
 For their own sakes, but for the fields and hills 
 Where was their occupation and abode. 
 And hence this Tale, while I was yet a Boy 
 Careless of books, yet having felt the power 
 Of Nature, by the gentle agency 
 Of natural objects led me on to feel 
 For passions that were not my own, and think 
 (At random and imperfectly indeed) 
 On man, the heart of man, and human life. 
 Therefore, although it be a history 
 Homely and rude, I will relate the same 
 For the delight of a few natural hearts ; 
 And, with yet fonder feeling, for the sake 
 Of youthful Poets, who among these hills 
 Will be my second self when I am gone. 
 Upon the forest-side in G-rasmere Vale 
 There dwelt a Shepherd, Michael was his name ; 
 An old man, stout of heart, and strong of limb. 
 His bodily frame had been from youth to age 
 Of an unusual strength : his mind was keen. 
 Intense, and frugal, apt for all affairs. 
 And in his shepherd's calling he was prompt 
 And watchful more than ordinary men. 
 Hence had he learn'd the meaning of all winds. 
 Of blasts of every tone ; and oftentimes. 
 When others heeded not, He heard the South 
 
32 WOKDSWOETH. 
 
 Make subterraneous music, like the noise 
 
 Of bagpipers on distant Highland hills. 
 
 The Shepherd, at such warning, of his flock 
 
 Bethought him, and he to himself would say, 
 
 " The winds are now devising work for me ! " 
 
 And, truly, at all times, the storm, that drives 
 
 The traveller to a shelter, summoned him 
 
 Up to the mountains : he had been alone 
 
 Amid the heart of many thousand mists. 
 
 That came to him, and left him, on the heights. 
 
 So lived he till his eightieth year was past. 
 
 And grossly that man errs who should suppose 
 
 That the green valleys and the streams and rocks 
 
 Were things indifferent to the Shepherd's thoughts. 
 
 Fields, where with cheerful spirits he had breathed 
 
 The common air ; hills, which with vigorous step 
 
 He had so often climbed ; which had impressed 
 
 So many incidents upon his mind 
 
 Of hardship, skill or courage, joy or fear; 
 
 Which, like a book, preserved the memory 
 
 Of the dumb animals whom he had saved, 
 
 Had fed or slielter'd, linking to such acts 
 
 The certainty of honourable gain ; — 
 
 Those fields, those hills (what could they less ?) had laid 
 
 Strong hold on his affections, were to him 
 
 A pleasurable feeling of blind love. 
 
 The pleasure which there is in life itself. 
 
 His days had not been pass'd in singleness. 
 His Helpmate was a comely matron, old. 
 Though younger than himself full twenty years. 
 She was a woman of a stirring life, 
 Whose heart was in her house : two wheels she had 
 Of antique form ; this large, for spinning wool ; 
 That small, for flax ; and if one wheel had rest, 
 It was because the other was at work. 
 The Pair had but one inmate in their house, 
 An only Child, who had been born to them 
 When Michael, telling o'er his years, began 
 To deem that he was old, — in shepherd's phrase, 
 With one foot in the grave. This only Son, 
 With two brave sheep-dogs tried in many a storm. 
 The one of an inestimable worth. 
 Made all their household. I may truly say 
 That they were as a proverb in the vale 
 Tor endless industry. When day was gone, 
 And from their occupations out of doors 
 
MICHAEL. 33 
 
 J 
 
 The Son and Father were come home, even then ! 
 
 Their labour did not cease ; unless when all i 
 
 Turn'd to the cleanly supper-board, and there, ] 
 
 Each with a mess of pottage and skimm'd milk, 
 Sat round the basket piled with oaten cakes, 
 And their plain home-made cheese. Yet, when the meal i 
 
 Was ended, Luke (for so the Son was named) ', 
 
 And his old Father both betook themselves \ 
 
 To such convenient work as might employ j 
 
 Their hands by the fire-side ; perhaps to card j 
 
 Wool for the Housewife's spindle, or repair | 
 
 Some injury done to sickle, flail, or scythe, \ 
 
 Or other implement of house or field. j 
 
 ' Down from the ceiling, by the chimney's edge, | 
 
 That in our ancient uncouth country style 
 With huge and black projection overbrow'd 
 Large space beneath, as duly as the light s 
 
 Of day grew dim the Housewife hung a lamp ; j 
 
 An aged utensil,^ which had perform'd \ 
 
 Service beyond all others of its kind. j 
 
 Early at evening did it burn, — and late, ■ 
 
 Surviving comrade of uncounted hours, ; 
 
 Which, going by from year to year, had found ! 
 
 And left the couple neither gay perhaps i 
 
 Nor cheerful, yet with objects and with hopes, j 
 
 Living a life of eager industry. ; 
 
 And now, when Luke had reach'd his eighteenth year, 
 There by the light of this old lamp they sate, ■ 
 
 Father and Son, while far into the night 
 
 The Housewife plied her own peculiar work, j 
 
 Making the cottage through the silent hours I 
 
 Murmur as with the sound of summer flies. ] 
 
 This light was famous in its neighbourhood, j 
 
 And was a public symbol of the life J 
 
 That thrifty Pair had lived. For, as it chanced, I 
 
 Their cottage on a plot of rising ground ! 
 
 Stood single, with large prospect, north and south, 
 , High into Easedale, up to Dunmail-Eaise, 1 
 
 And westward to the village near the lake ; ' 
 
 And from this constant light, so regular I 
 
 And so far seen, the House itself, by all j 
 
 Who dwelt within the limits of the vale, ] 
 
 Both old and young, was named The Eveni]S"G Stae. '. 
 
 3 The word t'ltensil is commonly pronounced hy the English poets with the chief 
 accent on the first syllable. So in The Tempest, iii. 2: "He has brave utensils, — for 
 80_ he calls them," &c. Also in Paradise Regained, iii. 336 : " And wagons, fraught 
 with iktensils of war." '■. 
 
34 WOEDSWOKTH. 
 
 Thus living on tlirongli sucli a length of years. 
 The SJiepherd, if he loved himself, must needs 
 Have loved his Helpmate; but to Michaers heart 
 This son of his old age was yet more dear, — 
 Less from instinctive tenderness, the same 
 Fond spirit that blindly works in the blood of all, 
 Than that a child, more than all other gifts 
 That Earth can offer to declining man, 
 Brings hope with it, and forward-looking thoughts. 
 And stirrings of inquietude, when they 
 By tendency of nature needs must fail. 
 Exceeding was the love he bare to him. 
 His heart and his heart's joy! For oftentimes 
 Old Michael, while he was a babe in arms, 
 Had done him female service, not alone 
 For pastime and delight, as is the use 
 Of fathers, but with patient mind enforced 
 To acts of tenderness; and he had rock'd 
 His cradle, as with a woman's gentle hand. 
 
 And, in a later time, ere yet the Boy 
 Had put on boy's attire, did Michael love. 
 Albeit of a stern unbending mind, 
 To have the Young-one in his sight, when he 
 Wrought in the field, or on his shepherd's stool 
 Sate with a fetter'd sheep before him stretch'd 
 Under the large old oak, that near his door 
 Stood single, and, from matchless depth of shade. 
 Chosen for the Shearer's covert from the Sun, 
 Thence in our rustic dialect was call'd 
 The OLiPPii^G-TEEE;* a name which yet it bears. 
 There, while they two were sitting in the shade. 
 With others round them, earnest all and blithe, 
 Would Michael exercise his heart with looks 
 Of fond correction and reproof bestow'd 
 Upon the Child, if he disturb'd the sheep 
 By catching at their legs, or with his shouts 
 Scared them, while they lay still beneath the shears. 
 
 And when by Heaven's good grace the boy grew up 
 A healthy Lad, and carried in his cheek 
 Two steady roses that were five years old; 
 Then Michael from a winter coppice cut 
 With his OAvn hand a sapling, which he hoop'd 
 With iron, making it throughout in all 
 Due requisites a perfect shej^herd's staff. 
 And gave it to the Boy; wherewith equip t 
 
 4 Clipping is used in the North of England for shearing. 
 
MICHAEL. 35 
 
 He as a watchman oftentimes was placed 
 
 At gate or gap to stem or turn the flock; 
 
 And, to his office proinaturoly call'd, 
 
 There stood the urchin, as you will divine. 
 
 Something between a hindrance and a help; 
 
 And for this cause not always, I believe, 
 
 Eeceiving from his Father hire of praise; 
 
 Though nouglit was left undone which staff, or voice. 
 
 Or looks, or threatening gestures could perform. 
 
 But soon as Luke, full ten years old, could stand 
 Against the mountain blasts; and to the heights, 
 Not fearing toil nor length of weary ways. 
 He with his Father daily went, and they 
 Were as companions, why should I relate 
 That objects which the Shepherd loved before 
 Were dearer now? that from the Boy there came 
 Feelings and emanations, — things which were 
 Light to the Sun and music to the wind; 
 And that the old Man's heart seem'd born again? 
 
 Thus in his Father's sight the Boy grcAV up : 
 And now, when he had reacli'd his eighteenth year. 
 He was his comfort and his daily hope. 
 
 While in this sort the simple household lived 
 From day to day, to Michael's ear there came 
 Distressful tidings. Long before the time 
 Of which I speak, the Shepherd had been bound 
 In surety for his brother's son, a man 
 Of an industrious life and ample means; 
 But unforeseen misfortunes suddenly 
 Had prest u])on him; and old Michael now 
 Was summon'd to discharge the forfeiture, 
 A grievous penalty, but little less 
 Than half his substance. This unlook'd-for claim. 
 At the first hearing, for a moment took 
 More hope out of his life than he supposed 
 That any old man ever could have lost. 
 As soon as he had arm'd himself with strength 
 To look his trouble in the face, it seem'd 
 The Shepherd's sole resource to sell at once 
 A portion of liis patrimonial fields. 
 Such was his first resolve; he thought again. 
 And his heart fail'd him. " Isabel," said he, 
 Two evenings after he liad heard the news, 
 "I have been toiling more than seventy years. 
 And in the open sunshine of God's love 
 Have we all lived; yet, if these fields of ours 
 
36 WOKDSWORTH. 
 
 Sliould pass into a stranger's liand, I think 
 That I could not lie quiet in my grave. 
 Our lot is a hard lot; the Sun himself 
 Has scarcely been more diligent than I; 
 And I have lived to be a fool at last 
 To my own family. An evil man 
 That was, and made an evil choice, if he 
 Were false to us; and if he were not false. 
 There are ten thousand to whom loss like this 
 Had been no sorrow. I forgive him; — but 
 'Twere better to be dumb than to talk thus. 
 
 When I began, my i^urpose was to speak 
 Of remedies and of a cheerful hope. 
 Our Luke shall leave us, Isabel; the land 
 Shall not go from us, and it shall be free; 
 He shall possess it, free as is the wind 
 That passes over it. We have, thou know'st. 
 Another kinsman, — he will be our friend 
 In this distress. He is a prosperous man. 
 Thriving in trade ; and Luke to him shall go. 
 And with his kinsman's help and his own thrift 
 He quickly will repair this loss, and then 
 He may return to us. If here he stay, 
 What can be done? Where every one is poor, 
 What can be gain'd ? " 
 
 At this the old Man paused. 
 And Isabel sat silent, for her mind 
 Was busy, looking back into past times. 
 There's Richard Bateman, thought she to herself. 
 He was a parish-boy ; at the church-door 
 They made a gathering for him, shillings, pence. 
 And halfpennies, wherewith the neighbours bought 
 A basket, which they fill'd with pedlar's wares ; 
 And, with this basket on his arm, the lad 
 Went up to London, found a master there, 
 Who, out of many, chose the trusty boy 
 To go and overlook his merchandise 
 Beyond the seas ; where he grew wondrous rich, 
 And left estates and moneys to the poor. 
 And, at his birth-place, built a chapel floor'd 
 With marble, which he sent from foreign lands. 
 These thoughts, and many others of like sort, 
 Pass'd quickly through the mind of Isabel, 
 And her face brighten'd. The old Man was glad, 
 And thus resumed : " Well, Isabel, this scheme. 
 These two days, has been meat and drink to me. 
 
MICHAEL. 37 J 
 
 Far more than we liave lost is left us yet. I 
 
 We have enough, — I wish indeed that I ; 
 
 Were younger ; but this hope is a good hojie. i 
 
 Make ready Luke's best garments, of the best 
 Buy for him more, and let us send him forth i 
 
 To-morrow, or the next day, or to-night : ,j 
 
 If he could go, the Boy should go to-night." \ 
 
 Here Michael ceased, and to the fields went forth j 
 
 With a light heart. The Housewife for five days \ 
 
 Was restless morn and night, and all day long ' 
 
 Wrought on with her best fingers to prepare i 
 
 Things needful for the journey of her son. j 
 
 But Isabel was glad when Sunday came 1 
 
 To stop her in her work : for, when she lay < 
 
 By Michael's side, she through the last two nights 
 Heard him, how he was troubled in his sleej) : 
 And when they rose at morning she could see 
 That all his hopes were gone. That day at noon 
 She said to Luke, while they two by themselves 
 W^ere sitting at the door, " Thou must not go : 
 We have no other Child but thee to lose, 
 None to remember, — do not go away. 
 For if thou leave thy Father he will die." 
 The Youth made answer with a jocund voice ; 
 And Isabel, when she had told her fears, 
 Eecover'd heart. That evening her best fare 
 Did she bring forth, and all together sat 
 Like happy people round a Christmas fire. 
 
 With daylight Isabel resumed her work ; 
 And all the ensuing Aveek the house appear'd 
 As cheerful as a grove in Spring : at length 
 Th' expected letter from their kinsman came, 
 With kind assurances that he would do 
 His utmost for the welfare of the Boy ; 
 To which requests were added, that forthwith 
 He might be sent to him. Ten times or more 
 The letter was read over ; Isabel 
 Went forth to show it to the neighbours round ; 
 Nor was there at that time on English land 
 A prouder heart than Luke's. When Isabel 
 Had to her house return'd, the old Man said, 
 " He shall depart to-morrow." To this word 
 The Housewife answer'd, talking much of things 
 W^hich, if at such short notice he should go. 
 Would surely be forgotten. But at length 
 She gave consent, and Michael was at ease. 
 
38 WORDSWORTH 
 
 Near the tumultuous brook of Green-head Ghyll, 
 In that deep valley, Michael had design'd 
 To build a Sheep-fold ; and, before he heard 
 The tidings of his melancholy loss. 
 For this same purpose he had gather'd up 
 A heap of stones, which by the streamlet^s edge 
 Lay thrown together, ready for the work. 
 With Luke that evening thitherward he walk'd: 
 And soon as they had reach'd the place he stopp'd, 
 And thus the old Man spake to him : " My Son, 
 To-morrow thou wilt leave me : with full heart 
 I look upon thee, for thou art the same 
 That wert a promise to me ere thy birth, 
 And all thy life hast been my daily joy. 
 I will relate to thee some little part 
 Of our two histories ; 'twill do thee good 
 When thou art from me, even if I should touch 
 On things thou canst not know of. — After thou 
 First cam'st into the world, — as oft befalls 
 To new-born infants, — thou didst sleep away 
 Two days, and blessings from thy Father's tongue 
 Then fell upon thee. Day by day pass'd on, 
 And still I loved thee with increasing love. 
 Never to living ear came sweeter sounds 
 Than when I heard thee by our own fire-side 
 First uttering, without words, a natural tune; 
 While thou, a feeding babe, didst in thy joy 
 Sing at thy Mother's breast. Month follow'd month, 
 And in the open fields my life was pass'd, 
 And on the mountains ; else I think that thou 
 Hadst been brought up upon thy Father's knees. 
 But we were playmates, Luke : among these hills. 
 As well thou know'st, in us the old and young 
 Have play'd together, nor with me didst thou 
 Lack any pleasure which a boy can know." 
 Luke had a manly heart ; but at these words 
 He sobb'd aloud. The old Man grasp'd his hand. 
 And said, " Nay, do not take it so, — I see 
 That these are things of which I need not speak. 
 Even to the utmost I have been to thee 
 A kind and a good Father : and herein 
 I but repay a gift which I myself 
 Received at others' hands ; for, though now old 
 Beyond the common life of man, I still 
 Eemember them who loved me in my youth. 
 Both of them sleep together: here they lived, 
 
MICHAEL. 39 
 
 As all their Forefathers had done; and when 
 
 At length their time was come, they were not loth 
 
 To give their bodies to the family mould. 
 
 I wish'd that thou shouldst live the life they lived: 
 
 But 'tis a long time to look back, my Son, 
 
 And see so little gain from threescore years. 
 
 These fields Avere burthen'd when they came to me; 
 
 Till I was forty years of age, not more 
 
 Than half of my inheritance was mine. 
 
 I toil'd and toiFd; God bless'd me in my work, 
 
 And till these three weeks past the land was free. 
 
 It looks as if it never could endure 
 
 Another Master. Heaven forgive me, Luke, 
 
 If I judge ill for thee, but it seems good 
 
 That thou shouldst go." 
 
 At this the old Man paused; 
 Then, pointing to the stones near which they stood. 
 Thus, after a short silence, he resumed: 
 " This was a work for us; and now, my Son, 
 It is a work for me. But, lay one stone, — 
 Here, lay it for me, Luke, with thine own hands. 
 Nay, Boy, be of good hope; — we both may live 
 To see a better day. At eighty-four 
 I still am strong and hale; — do thou thy part; 
 I will do mine. — I will begin again 
 With many tasks that were resigned to thee: 
 Up to the heights, and in among the storms. 
 Will I without thee go again, and do 
 All works which I was wont to do alone. 
 Before I knew thy face. — Heaven bless thee, Boy! 
 Thy heart these two weeks has been beating fast 
 With many hopes; it should be so, — yes — yes, — 
 I knew that thou couldst never have a wish 
 To leave me, Luke: thou hast been bound to me 
 Only by links of love: when thou art gone, 
 What will be left to us ? — But I forget 
 My purposes. Lay now the corner-stone, 
 As I requested; and hereafter, Luke, 
 When thou art gone away, should evil men 
 Be thy companions, think of me, my Son, 
 And of tliis moment; hither turn thy thoughts. 
 And God will strengthen thee : amid all fear 
 And all temptation, Luke, I pray that thou 
 Mayst bear in mind the life thy Fathers lived, 
 Who, being innocent, did for that cause 
 Bestir them in good deeds. Now, fare thee well! 
 
40 WORDS WOKTH. j 
 
 When thou return'st, thou in this place wilt see 
 
 A work which is not here : a covenant 
 
 ^Twill be between us; but, whatever fate 
 
 Befall thee, I shall love thee to the last^ | 
 
 And bear thy memory with me to the grave." \ 
 
 The Shepherd ended here; and Luke stoop'd down, [ 
 And, as his Father had requested, 
 
 Laid the first stone of the Sheep-fold. At the sight ; 
 
 The old Man's grief broke from liim; to his heart i 
 
 He press'd his Son, he kissed him and wept; j 
 
 And to the house together they returned. ■ 
 
 Husli'd was that House in peace, or seeming peace, \ 
 
 Ere tlie night fell: with morrow's dawn the Boy ! 
 Began his journey, and when he had reach'd 
 The public way, he put on a bold face; 
 
 And all the neiglibours, as he pass'd their doors, ^ 
 Came forth with wishes and with farewell prayers, 
 
 That follow'd him till he was out of sight. i 
 
 A good report did from their Kinsman come, i 
 
 Of Luke and his well-doing: and the Boy ' 
 AVrote loving letters, full of wondrous news, 
 
 Which, as the Housewife phrased it, were throughout , 
 
 " The prettiest letters that were ever seen." i 
 
 Both parents read them with rejoicing hearts. - 
 
 So, many months pass'd on: and once again i 
 
 The Shepherd went about his daily work ' \ 
 
 With confident and cheerful thoughts ; and now ,1 
 
 Sometimes when he could find a leisure hour \ 
 
 He to that valley took his way, and there i 
 
 Wrought at the Sheep-fold. Meantime Luke began ' 
 To slacken in his duty; and, at length. 
 He in the dissolute city gave himself 
 
 To evil courses : ignominy and shame j 
 
 Fell on him, so that he was driven at last i 
 To seek a hiding-place beyond the seas. 
 
 There is a comfort in the strength of love; 
 
 'Twill make a thing endurable, which else j 
 
 Would overset the brain, or break the heart: j 
 
 I have conversed witli more than one who well \ 
 
 Eemember the old Man, and what he was j 
 
 Years after he had heard this heavy news. j 
 
 His bodily frame had been from youth to age \ 
 
 Of an unusual strength. Among the rocks j 
 
 He went, and still look'd up to Sun and cloud, ] 
 
 And listen'd to the wind ; and, as before, i 
 
 Perform'd all kinds of labour for his sheep, ! 
 
THE BROTHERS. 41 J 
 
 And for the land, liis small inheritance. • 
 
 And to that holloAv dell from time to time I 
 
 Did he repair, to bnild the Fold of which j 
 
 His flock had need. 'Tis not forgotten yet | 
 
 The pity which was then in every heart ' 
 
 For the old Man ; and 'tis believed by all 
 That many and many a day he thither went, 
 
 And never lifted up a single stone. ] 
 
 There, by the Sheep-fold, sometimes was he seen j 
 
 Sitting alone, or with his faithful Dog, j 
 
 Then old, beside him, l}ing at his feet. ] 
 
 The length of full seven years, from time to time, i 
 
 He at the building of this Sheep-fold wrought, | 
 
 And left the work unfinished when he died. ' 
 
 Three years, or little more, did Isabel 
 Survive her Husband : at her death th' estate 
 Was sold, and went into a stranger's hand. 
 The Cottage which was named the Evexixg Star 
 Is gone ; the ploughshare has been through the ground 
 On which it stood ; great changes have been wrought 
 In all the neighbourhood : yet the oak is left 
 That grew beside their door ; and the remains i 
 
 Of the unfinish'd Sheep-fold may be seen 1 
 
 Beside the boisterous brook of Green-head Ghyll. [1800. j 
 
 THE BEOTHEES. 
 
 " These Tourists, Heaven preserve us ! needs must live 
 A profitable life : some glance along, 
 Eapid and- gay, as if the earth were air, 
 And they were butterflies to wheel about 
 Long as the Summer lasted : some, as wise, 
 Perch'd on the forehead of a jutting crag. 
 Pencil in hand and book upon the knee. 
 Will look and scribble, scribble on and look. 
 Until a man might travel twelve stout miles. 
 Or reap an acre of his neighbour's corn. 
 But, for that moping Son of Idleness, 
 Why can he tarry yonder? — In our church-yard 
 Is neither epitaph nor monument, 
 Tombstone nor name, — only the turf we tread 
 And a few natural graves." 
 
 To Jane, his wife. 
 Thus spake the homely Priest of Ennerdale. 
 It was a July evening ; and he sate 
 
42 ' WORDSWOKTH. 
 
 Upon the long stone seat beneath the eaves 
 Of his old cottage, — as it chanced, that day, 
 Employ'd in Winter's work. Upon the stone 
 His wife sate near him, teasing matted wool. 
 While, from the twin cards tooth'd Avith glittering wire. 
 He fed the spindle of his youngest child, 
 Who, in the open air, with due accord 
 Of busy hands and back-and-forward steps. 
 Her large round wheel was turning. Towards the field 
 In which the Parish Cliapel stood alone. 
 Girt round with a bare ring of mossy wall. 
 While half an hour went by, the Priest had sent 
 Many a long look of wonder : and at last, 
 Eisen from his seat, beside the snow-white ridge 
 Of carded wool which the old man had piled 
 He laid his implements with gentle care. 
 Each in the other lock'd ; and, down the path 
 That from his cottage to the church -yard led, 
 He took his way, impatient to accost 
 The Stranger, whom he saw still lingering there. 
 'Twas one well known to him in former days, 
 A Shepherd-lad ; who ere his sixteenth year 
 Had left that calhng, tempted to entrust 
 His expectations to the fickle winds 
 And perilous waters; with the mariners 
 A fellow-mariner ; — and so had fared 
 Through twenty seasons ; but he had been rear'd 
 Among the mountains, and he in his heart 
 Was half a shepherd on the stormy seas. 
 Oft in the piping shrouds had Leonard heard 
 The tones of waterfalls, and inland sounds 
 Of caves and trees : and, when the regular wind 
 Between the tropics fill'd the steady sail. 
 And blew with the same breath through days and weeks. 
 Lengthening invisibly its weary line 
 Along the cloudless Main, he, in those hours 
 Of tiresome indolence, would often hang 
 Over the vessel's side, and gaze and gaze ; 
 And, while the broad blue wave and sparkling foam 
 Flash'd round him images and hues that wrought 
 In union with th' employment of his heart, 
 He, thus by feverish passion overcome. 
 Even with the organs of his bodily eye, 
 Below him, in the bosom of the deep. 
 Saw mountains; saw the forms of sheep that grazed 
 On verdant hills, — with dwellings among trees, 
 
THE BKOTHEKS. 43 j 
 
 And shepherds clad in the same country grey 
 Which he himself had worn. 
 
 And now at last, 
 From perils manifold, with some small wealth 
 Acquired by traffic 'mid the Indian Isles, 
 To his paternal home he is return'd, 
 
 With a determined purpose to resume | 
 
 The life he had lived there ; both for the sake j 
 
 Of many darling pleasures, and the love j 
 
 Which to an only brother he has borne j 
 
 In all his hardships, since that happy time | 
 
 When, whether it blew foul or fair, they two j 
 
 Were brother-shepherds on their native hills. 1 
 
 They were the last of all their race : and now, \ 
 
 When Leonard had approach'd his home, his heart - 
 
 Fail'd in him ; and, not venturing to inquire 
 Tidings of one so long and dearly loved, j 
 
 He to the solitary church-yard turn'd; \ 
 
 That, as he knew in what particular spot 
 
 His family were laid, he thence might learn ,\ 
 
 If still his Brother lived, or to the tile 
 
 Another grave was added. — He had found i 
 
 Another grave, near which a full half -hour 1 
 
 He had remained ; but, as he gazed, there grew ; 
 
 Such a confusion in his memory, ' 
 
 That he began to doubt ; and even to hope ] 
 
 That he had seen this heap of turf before, — ] 
 
 That it was not another grave ; but one 
 
 He had forgotten. He had lost his path, i 
 
 As up the vale, that afternoon, he walk'd i 
 
 Through fields which once had been well known to him : j 
 
 And 0, what joy this recollection now j 
 
 Sent to his heart ! he lifted up his eyes, | 
 
 And, looking round, imagined that he saw i 
 
 Strange alteration wrought on every side | 
 
 Among the woods and fields, and that the rocks ] 
 
 And everlasting hills themselves were changed. j 
 
 By this the Priest, who down the field had come 
 Unseen by Leonard, at the church-yard gate l 
 
 Stopp'd short ; and thence, at leisure, limb by limb \ 
 
 Perused him with a gay complacency. j 
 
 Ay, thought the Yicar, smiling to himself, 
 'Tis one of those who needs must leave the path 
 Of the world's business to go wild alone : 
 His arms have a perpetual holiday ; 
 The happy man will creep about the fields, 
 
44 WORDSWORTH. 
 
 Following liis fancies by tlie hour, to bring 
 
 Tears down liis cheek, or solitary smiles 
 
 Into his face, until the setting Sun 
 
 Write fool upon his forehead. — Planted thus 
 
 Beneath a shed that over-arch'd the gate 
 
 Of this rude church-yard, till the stars appear'd 
 
 The good Man might have communed with himself. 
 
 But that the Stranger, Avho had left the grave, 
 
 Approached ; he recognised the Priest at once, 
 
 And, after greetings interchanged, and given 
 
 By Leonard to the Vicar as to one 
 
 Unknown to him, this dialogue ensued : 
 
 Leon, You live, Sir, in these dales, a quiet life : 
 Your years make up one peaceful family ; 
 And who would grieve and fret, if, welcome come 
 And welcome gone, they are so like each other. 
 They cannot be remember'd ? Scarce a funeral 'i 
 
 Comes to this church-yard once in eighteen months ; \ 
 
 And yet some changes must take place among you : g 
 
 And you, who dAvell here, even among these rocks \ 
 
 Can trace the finger of mortality, \ 
 
 And see, that with our threescore years and ten f 
 
 "We are not all that perish. — I remember, \ 
 
 (For many years ago I pass'd this road,) 
 There was a foot-way all along the fields \ 
 
 By the brook-side, — 'tis gone, — and that dark cleft ! 
 To me it does not seem to wear the face 
 Which then it had. 
 
 Priest. N"ay, Sir, for aught I know, i 
 
 That chasm is much the same — j 
 
 Leo7i. But, surely, yonder — j 
 
 Friest. Ay, there, indeed, your memory is a friend j 
 
 That does not play you false. On that tall pike | 
 
 (It is the loneliest place of all these hills) \ 
 
 There were two springs which bubbled side by side, ■! 
 
 As if they had been made that they might be ^ 
 
 Companions for each other : the huge crag ] 
 
 Was rent with lightning, — one hath disappear'd ; \ 
 
 The other, left behind, is flowing still. j 
 
 For accidents and changes such as these, j 
 
 We want not store of them ; — a water-spout : 
 
 Will bring down half a mountain ; what a feast \ 
 
 For folks that wander up and down like you, ■ 
 
 To see an acre's breadth of that wide cliff \ 
 
 One roaring cataract ! a sharp May-storm j 
 
 Will come with loads of January snow, i 
 
THE BKOTHEKS. 45 
 
 And in one night send twenty score of sheep 
 
 To feed the ravens ; or a shepherd dies 
 
 B}^ some untoward death among the rocks : 
 
 The ice breaks up and sweeps away a bridge ; 
 
 A wood is fell'd: — and then for our own homes ! 
 
 A child is born or christen'd, a field plough'd, 
 
 A daughter sent to service, a web spun, 
 
 The old house-clock is deck'd with a new face ; 
 
 And hence, so far from wanting facts or dates 
 
 To chronicle the time, we all have here 
 
 A pair of diaries, — one serving. Sir, 
 
 For the whole dale, and one for each fire-side. 
 
 Yours was a stranger's judgment: for historians, 
 
 Commend me to these valleys ! 
 Leon. Yet your Church-yard 
 
 Seems, if such freedom may be used with you, 
 
 To say that you are heedless of the past : 
 
 An orphan could not find his mother's grave : 
 
 Here's neither head nor foot-stone, plate of brass, 
 
 Cross-bones nor skull, — type of our earthly state 
 
 Nor emblem of our hopes : the dead man^s home 
 
 Is but a fellow to that pasture-field. 
 Priest. Why, there. Sir, is a thought that's new to me ! 
 
 The stone-cutters, 'tis true, might beg their bread 
 
 If every English church-yard were like ours ; 
 
 Yet your conclusion wanders from the truth : 
 
 We have no need of names and epitaphs ; 
 
 We talk about the dead by our fire-sides. 
 
 And then, for our immortal part, we want 
 
 No symbols, Sir, to tell us that plain tale : 
 
 The thought of death sits easy on the man 
 
 Who has been born and dies among the mountains. 
 Leon. Your Dalesmen, then, do in each other's thoughts 
 
 Possess a kind of second life : no doubt 
 
 You, Sir, could help me to the history 
 
 Of half these graves ? 
 Priest. For eight-score Winters past. 
 
 With what I've witness'd, and with what I've heard. 
 
 Perhaps I might ; and, on a Winter-evening, 
 
 If you were seated at my chimney's nook, 
 
 By turning o'er these hillocks one by one 
 
 We two could travel, Sir, through a strange round ; 
 
 Yet all in the broad highway of the world. 
 
 Now there's a grave, — your foot is half upon it, — 
 
 It looks just like the rest ; and yet that man 
 
 Died broken-hearted. 
 
46 WOKDSWORTH. 
 
 Leon. 'Tis a common case. 
 
 We'll take another : who is he that lies 
 Beneath yon ridge, the last of those three graves ? 
 It touches on that piece of native rock 
 Left in the church- yard wall. 
 
 Priest. " That's Walter Ewbank. 
 
 He had as white a head and fresh a cheek 
 As ever were produced by youth and age 
 Engendering in the blood of hale fourscore. 
 Through five long generations had the heart 
 Of Walter's forefathers o'erflow'd the bounds 
 Of their inheritance, that single cottage, — 
 You see it yonder, — and those few green fields. 
 They toil'd and v/rought, and still, from sire to son. 
 Each struggled, and each yielded as before 
 A little, — yet a little ; — and old Walter, 
 They left to him the family heart, and land 
 With other burthens than the crop it bore. 
 Year after year the old man still kept up 
 A cheerful mind, and buffeted with bond, 
 Interest, and mortgages ; at last he sank, 
 And went into his grave before his time. 
 Poor Walter ! whether it was care that sj)urr'd him 
 God only knows, but to the very last 
 He had the lightest foot in Ennerdale : 
 His pace was never that of an old man : ' 
 I almost see him tripping down the path 
 With his two grandsons after him : — but you, 
 Unless our Landlord be your host to-night. 
 Have far to travel ; and on these rough paths, 
 Even in the longest day of midsummer, — 
 
 Leon. But those two Orphans ! 
 
 Priest. Orphans ! — Such they were, - 
 
 Yet not while Walter lived : for, though their parents 
 Lay buried side by side as now they lie, 
 The old man was a father to the boys. 
 Two fathers in one father : and if tears. 
 Shed Avhen he talk'd of them where they were not, 
 And haun tings from th' infirmity of love. 
 Are aught of what makes up a mother's heart. 
 This old Man, in the day of his old age. 
 Was half a mother to them. — If you Aveep, Sir, 
 To hear a stranger talking about strangers. 
 Heaven bless you when you are among your kindred ! 
 Ay, — you may turn that wa}^, — it is a grave 
 Which will bear looking at. 
 
THE BKOTHERS. 47 , 
 
 i 
 
 Leon. These boys, — I hope | 
 
 They loved this good old Man ? — I 
 
 Priest. They did, and truly : I 
 
 But that was what we almost overlook'd, i 
 
 They were such darlings of each other. Yes, ■ 
 Though from the cradle they had lived with Walter, 
 The only kinsman near them, and though he 
 Inclined to both by reason of his age, 
 With a more fond, familiar tenderness; 
 They notwithstanding had much love to spare. 
 
 And it all went into each other's hearts. \ 
 
 Leonard, the elder by just eighteen months, ^ 
 
 Was two years taller: 'twas a joy to see, | 
 
 To hear, to meet them! From their house the school I 
 
 Is distant three short miles, and in the time i 
 
 Of storm and thaw, when every water-course j 
 
 And unbridged stream, such as you may have noticed i 
 
 Crossing our roads at every hundred steps, j 
 
 Was swoln into a noisy rivulet, ^ 
 
 Would Leonard then, when elder boys remain'd : 
 At home, go staggering through the slippery fords. 
 
 Bearing his brother on his back. I've seen him, : 
 
 On windy days, in one of those stray brooks, ; 
 
 Ay, more than once I've seen him, mid-leg deep, ' 
 
 Their two books lying both on a dry stone, \ 
 Upon the hither side : and once I said. 
 As I remember, looking round these rocks 
 
 And hills on which we all of us were born, : 
 
 That God who made the great book of the world \ 
 
 Would bless such piety, — \ 
 
 Leon. It may be, then, — \ 
 
 Priest. N'ever did worthier lads break English bread: ' "j 
 
 The very brightest Sunday Autumn saw, i 
 With all its mealy clusters of ripe nuts. 
 
 Could never keep those boys away from church, . 
 
 Or tempt them to an hour of sabbath-breach. j 
 
 Leonard and James ! I warrant, every corner \ 
 Among these rocks, and every hollow place 
 
 That venturous foot could reach, to one or both j 
 
 Was known as well as to the flowers that grow there. j 
 
 Like roe-bucks they went bounding o'er the hills ; j 
 
 They play'd like two young ravens on the crags : ; 
 
 Then they could write, ay, and speak too, as well i 
 
 As many of their betters ; — and, for Leonard, j 
 
 The very night before he went away, J 
 In my own house I put into his hand 
 
48 WORDSWORTH. 
 
 A Bible, and I'd wager house and field 
 That, if he be alive, he has it yet, 
 
 Leon. It seems, these Brothers have not lived to be 
 A comfort to each other, — 
 
 Priest. That they might 
 
 Live to such end, is Avhat both old and young 
 In this our valley all of us have wisli'd, 
 And what, for my i^art, I have often pray'd : 
 But Leonard — 
 
 Leon. Then James still is left among you ? 
 
 Priest. 'Tis of the elder brother I am speaking : 
 They had an uncle; — he was at that time 
 A thriving man, and trafiick'd on the seas: 
 And, but for that same uncle, to this hour 
 Leonard had never handled rope or shroud : 
 For the boy loved the life which we lead here ; 
 And, though of unripe 3-ears, a stripling onh^, 
 His soul was knit to this his native soil. 
 But, as I said, old Walter was too weak 
 To strive with such a torrent ; when he died, 
 Th' estate and house were sold ; and all their sheep, 
 A pretty flock, and which, for aught I know, 
 Had clothed the Ewbanks for a thousand years ; — 
 Well, all was gone, and they were destitute. 
 And Leonard, chiefly for his Brother's sake, 
 Eesolved to try his fortune on the seas. 
 Twelve years are past since we had tidings from him. | 
 
 If there were one among us who had heard \ 
 
 That Leonard Ewbank was come home again, I 
 
 From the Great Gavel,^ down by Leeza's banks, \ 
 
 And down the Enna,° far as Egremont, ' 
 
 The day would be a joyous festival ; 
 
 And those two bells of ours, which there you see \ 
 
 Hanging in the open air, — but, good Sir! J 
 
 This is sad talk, — they'll never sound for him % 
 
 Living or dead. When last we heard of him, | 
 
 He was in slavery among the Moors | 
 
 Upon the Barbary coast. 'Tvvas not a little 3 
 
 That would bring down his spirit ; and no doubt, ■ 
 
 Before it ended in his death, the Youth ; 
 
 Was sadly cross'd. — Poor Leonard ! when we parted, ' 
 
 5 The Great Gavel, so called, I imagine, from its resemblance to the gable end of j 
 a house, is one of the highest of the Cumberland mountains. It stands at the head \ 
 of the several vales of Ennerdale, Wastdale, and Bon-owdale. 
 
 6 The Leeza is a river which Hows into the Lake of Ennerdale : on issuing from : 
 the LalvC, it clianges its name, and is called the End, Eyne, or Enna. It falls into j 
 the sea a little below Egremont. 
 
THE BKOTHEES. 49 i 
 
 ■i 
 
 He took me by the hand, and said to me, 3 
 
 If e'er he should grow rich, he would return, j 
 
 To live in peace upon his father's land, \ 
 
 And lay his bones among us. ! 
 
 Leon. If that day ] 
 
 Should come, 'twould needs be a glad day for him; \ 
 
 He would himself, no doubt, be happy then i 
 
 As any that should meet him, — : 
 
 Priest. Happy! Sir, — \ 
 
 Leon. You said his kindred all were in their graves, '\ 
 
 And that he had one Brother, — ; 
 
 Priest. That is but j 
 A fellow-tale of sorrow. From his youth 
 
 James, though not sickly, yet was delicate; 1 
 
 And Leonard being always by his side J 
 
 Had done so many offices about him, j 
 
 That, though he was not of a timid nature, ! 
 
 Yet still the spirit of a mountain-boy ■ 
 In him was somewhat check'd; and, when his Brother 
 Was gone to sea, and he was left alone. 
 The little colour that he had was soon 
 
 Stol'n from his cheek; he droop'd, and pined, and pined, — i 
 
 Leon. But these are all the graves of full-grown men! l 
 
 Priest. Ay, Sir, that pass'd away: we took him to us; ■ 
 
 He was the child of all the dale; he lived I 
 Three months with one, and six months with another; • j 
 And wanted neither food, nor clothes, nor love: 
 
 And many, many happy days were his. \ 
 
 But, whether blithe or sad, 'tis my belief \ 
 
 His absent Brother still was at his heart. ; 
 And, when he dwelt beneath our roof, we found 
 
 (A practice till this time unknow^n to him) *\ 
 
 That often, rising from his bed at night, i 
 
 He in his sleep would walk about, and sleeping | 
 
 He sought his brother Leonard. — You are moved! '\ 
 
 Forgive me. Sir: before I spoke to you, : 
 I judged you most unkindly. 
 
 Leon. But this Youth, i 
 
 How did he die at last? I 
 
 Priest. One sweet May-morning, \ 
 
 (It will be twelve years since when Spring returns,) \ 
 
 He had gone forth among the new-dropp'd lambs, | 
 
 With two or three companions, whom their course \ 
 
 Of occupation led from height to height I 
 Under a cloudless Sun, till he at length 
 
 Through weariness, or, haply, to indulge i 
 
50 WORDSWORTH. 
 
 The humour of tlie moment, lagg'd behind. 
 
 You see yon precipice; — it wears the shape 
 
 Of a vast building made of many crags; 
 
 And in the midst is one particular rock 
 
 That rises like a column from the vale. 
 
 Whence by our shepherds it is call'd The Pillar. 
 
 Upon its aery summit crown'd with heath. 
 
 The loiterer, not unnoticed by his comrades. 
 
 Lay stretch'd at ease; but, passing by the place 
 
 On their return, they found that he was gone. 
 
 No ill was fear'd; till one of them by chance 
 
 Entering, when evening was far spent, the house 
 
 "Which at that time was James's home, there learn'd 
 
 That nobody had seen him all that day: 
 
 The morning came, and still he was unheard of: 
 
 The neighbours were alarm' d, and to the brook 
 
 Some hasten'd; some ran to the lake: ere noon 
 
 They found him at the foot of that same rock 
 
 Dead, and with mangled limbs. The third day after 
 
 I buried him, poor Youth, and there he lies ! 
 
 Leon. And that, then, is liis grave ! — Before his death 
 You say that he saw many happy years ? 
 
 Priest, Ay, that he did. 
 
 Leo7i. And all went well with him ? 
 
 Priest, If he had one, the youth had tweaty homes. 
 
 Leon, And you believe, then, that his mind was easy? 
 
 Priest. Yes, long before he died, he found that time 
 Is a true friend to sorrow; and, unless 
 His thoughts were turn'd on Leonard's luckless fortune. 
 He talk'd about him with a cheerful love. 
 
 Leon, He could not come to an unhallow'd end! 
 
 Priest. ]^ay, Grod forbid! You Tecollect I mention'd 
 A habit which disquietude and gi'ief 
 Had brought upon him; and we all conjectured 
 That, as the day was warm, he had lain down 
 On the soft heath; and, waiting for his comrades. 
 He there had faU'n asleep; that in his sleep ^ 
 
 He to the margin of the precipice 
 
 Had walk'd, and from the summit had fall'n headlong: 
 And so no doubt he perish'd. When the Youth 
 Fell, in his hand he must have gTasp'd, we think. 
 His shepherd's staff; for on that Pillar of rock ' 
 
 It had been caught midway; ^ and there for years 
 
 7 The poem arose oxit of the fact, mentioned, to me at Ennerdale, that a shepherd 
 had fallen asleep upon the top of the rock callert The Pillar, and perished as here 
 described, his staff being left midway on the rock. — The Autlm s Notes, 
 
TnE OLD CUMBERLAND BEGGAE. 51 
 
 It liung; and mouldered there. 
 
 The Priest here ended. 
 The Stranger would have thank'd him, but he felt 
 A gushing from his heart, that took away 
 The power of speech. Both left the spot in silence; 
 And Leonard, when they reach'd the church-yard gate. 
 As the Priest lifted up the latch, turn'd round, 
 And, looking at the grave, he said, ^^ My Brother!" 
 The Vicar did not hear the words; and now 
 He pointed towards his dwelling-place, entreating 
 That Leonard would partake his homely fare: 
 The other thank'd him with an earnest voice; 
 But added that, the evening being calm, 
 He would pursue his journey. So they parted. 
 
 It was not long ere Leonard reach'd a grove 
 That overhung the road: he there stopp'd short, 
 And, sitting down beneath the trees, re\dew'd 
 All that the Priest had said : his early years 
 AVere with him: his long absence, cherisJi'd liopes. 
 And thoughts which had been his an hour l3cfore. 
 All press'd on him with such a weight, that now 
 This vale, where he had been so happy, seem'd 
 A place in which he could not bear to live: 
 So he relinquish'd all his purposes. 
 He travell'd back to Egremont : and thence, 
 That night, he wrote a letter to the Priest, 
 Eeminding him of what had pass'd between them; 
 And adding, with a hope to be forgiven. 
 That it was from the weakness of his heart 
 He had not dared to tell him who he was. 
 This done, he went on shipboard, and is now 
 A Seaman, a grey-headed Mariner. • 
 
 THE OLD CUMBEELAND BEGGAE. 
 
 The class of Beggars, to which the Old Man here described belongs, will prol.iably 
 soon be extinct. It consisted of poor, and, mostly, old and infirm persons, who 
 confined themselves to a stated round in their neighbourhood, and had certain 
 fixed days, on which, at different honses, they regularly received alms, sometimes 
 in money, but mostly in provisions. 
 
 I SAW an aged Beggar in my walk ; ^ 
 And he was seated, by the highway side, 
 On a low structure of rude masonry 
 Built at the foot of a huge hill, that they 
 
 8 Observed, and with great benefit to my own heart, when I was a child. The 
 political economists were about that time beginning their war upon mendicity in 
 all its forms, and by implication, if not directly, on alms-giving also. This heartless 
 
62 WOKDSWOKTH. 
 
 Who lead their horses down the steep rough road 
 May thence remount at ease. The aged Man 
 Had placed his staff across the broad smooth stone 
 That overlays the pile ; and from a bag 
 All white with flour, the dole of village dames, 
 He drew his scraps and fragments, one by one ; 
 And scann'd them with a fix'd and serious look 
 Of idle computation. In the sun, 
 Upon the second step of that small pile. 
 Surrounded by those wild unpeopled hills, 
 He sat, and ate his food in solitude : 
 And ever, scatter'd from his palsied hand. 
 That, still attempting to prevent the waste. 
 Was baffled still, the crumbs in little showers 
 Fell on the ground ; and the small mountain birds, 
 'Not venturing yet to peck their destined meal, 
 Approach'd within the length of half his staff. 
 
 Him from my childhood have I known ; and then 
 He was so old, he seems not older now : 
 He travels on, a solitary Man, 
 So helpless in appearance, that for him 
 The sauntering Horseman throws not with a slack 
 And careless hand his alms upon the ground, 
 But stops, that he may safely lodge the coin 
 Within the old Man's hat ; nor quits him so. 
 But still, when he has given his horse the rein. 
 Watches the aged Beggar with a look 
 Sidelong, and half-reverted. She who tends 
 The toll-gate, when in Summer at her door 
 She turns her wheel, if on the road she sees 
 The aged beggar coming, quits her work. 
 And lifts the latch for him that he may pass. 
 The post-boy, when his rattling wheels o'ertake 
 The aged Beggar in the woody lane. 
 Shouts to him from behind ; and, if thus warn'd 
 The old man does not change his course, the boy 
 Turns with less noisy wheels to the roadside. 
 And passes gently by, without a curse 
 Upon his lips, or anger at his heart. 
 
 He travels on, a solitary Man ; 
 His age has no companion. On the ground 
 His eyes are turn'd, and, as he moves along, 
 They move along the ground ; and evermore, 
 
 process has been carried as far as it can go, by the amended poor-law bill, though 
 the inhumanity that prevails in this measure is somewhat diirguit-ed by the pro- 
 fession that one of its objects is to throw the poor upon the voluntary donations of 
 their neighbours. — The Author's Notes. 
 
THE OLD CUMBEELAl^D BEGGAE. 63 \ 
 
 i 
 
 Instead of common and habitual sight 
 
 Of fields with rural works, of hill and dale, ! 
 
 And the blue sky, one little span of earth ] 
 
 Is all his prospect. Thus, from day to day, . I 
 Bow-bent, his eyes for ever on the ground, 
 
 He plies his weary journey; seeing still, j 
 
 And seldom knowing that he sees, some straw, 1 
 
 Some scatter'd leaf, or marks which, in one track, i 
 
 The nails of cart or chariot-wheel have left j 
 
 Impress'd on the white road, — in the same line, j 
 
 At distance still the same. Poor Traveller ! I 
 
 His staff trails with him ; scarcely do his feet I 
 
 Disturb the summer dust ; he is so still I 
 In look and motion, that the cottage curs. 
 Ere he has pass'd the door, will turn away. 
 Weary of barking at him. Boys and girls. 
 The vacant and the busy, maids and youths. 
 
 And urchins newly breech' d, — all pass him by : i 
 
 Him even the slow-paced waggon leaves behind. i 
 
 But deem not this Man useless.^ — Statesmen ! ye ' ] 
 
 Who are so restless in your wisdom, ye ': 
 
 Who have a broom still ready in your hands ; 
 
 To rid the w^orld of nuisances ; ye proud, ' 
 
 Heart-swoln, while in your pride ye contemplate ] 
 
 Your talents, power, or wisdom, deem him not '' 
 
 A burthen of the Earth ! ^Tis Nature's law \ 
 
 That none, the meanest of created things, ' 
 Of forms created the most vile and brute. 
 The dullest or most noxious, should exist 
 
 Divorced from good, — a spirit and pulse of good, : 
 
 A life and soul, to every mode of being \ 
 
 Inseparably link'd. Then be assured \ 
 
 That least of all can aught — that ever own'd i 
 
 The heaven-regarding eye and front sublime ! 
 
 Which man is born to — sink, howe'er depressed, | 
 
 So low as to be scorn'd without a sin ; ^ 
 
 Without offence to Grod cast out of view ; ( 
 
 Like the dry remnant of a garden-flower j 
 
 Whose seeds are shed, or as an implement I 
 
 Worn out and worthless. While from door to door j 
 
 This old Man creeps, the villagers in him \ 
 
 Behold a record which together binds ' 
 
 Past deeds and offices of charity, , 
 
 Else unremember'd, and so keeps alive ■ 
 The kindly mood in hearts which lapse of years, 
 And that half-wisdom half-experience gives, 
 
54: WOKDSWORTH. 
 
 Make slow to feel, and by sure steps resign 
 To selfishness and cold obliyious cares. 
 Among the farms and solitary huts, 
 Hamlets.and thinly- scattered villages, 
 Where'er the aged Beggar takes his rounds. 
 The mild necessity of use compels 
 To acts of love ; and habit does the work 
 Of reason ; yet prepares that after-joy 
 Which reason cherishes. And thus the soul, 
 By that sweet taste of pleasure unpursued,* 
 Doth find herself insensibly disposed 
 To virtue and true goodness. 
 
 Some there are, 
 By their good works exalted, lofty minds 
 And meditative, authors of delight 
 And happiness, which to the end of time 
 Will live, and spread, and kindle : even such minds 
 In childhood, from this solitary Being, 
 Or from like wanderer, haply have received 
 (A thing more precious far than all that books 
 Or the solicitudes of love can do) 
 That first mild touch of sympathy and thought 
 In which they found their kindred with a world 
 Where want and sorrow were. The easy man 
 Who sits at his own door, and, like the pear 
 That overhangs his head from the green wall, 
 Feeds in the sunshine ; the robust and young, 
 The prosperous and unthinking, they who live 
 Shelter'd, and flourish in a little grove 
 Of their own kindred ; — all behold in him 
 A silent monitor, which on their minds 
 Must needs impress a transitory thought 
 Of self-congratulation, to the heart 
 Of each recalling his peculiar boons. 
 His charters ^ and exemptions ; and perchance, 
 Though he to no one give the fortitude 
 And circumspection needful to preserve 
 His present blessings, and to husband up 
 The respite of the season, he, at least, — 
 And 'tis no vulgar service, — makes them felt. 
 Yet further. — Many, I believe, there are 
 
 9 Tliat is, the pleasure that springs up, unsought, by the way-side of duty and 
 good works. 
 
 1 Charter is a favourite word Avith Englislimen, from the service done, or sup- 
 posed to be done, by Magna Charta, and other like instruments, in securing the 
 national freedom. Hence it has grown to carry the general sense of liberty protected 
 by law. Here charters means privileges. 
 
THE OLD CUMBERLAND BEGGAR. 55 
 
 Who live a life of virtuous decency, 
 
 Men who can hear the Decalogue and feel i 
 
 No self-reproach ; who of the moral law I 
 
 Establish'd in the land where they abide j 
 
 Are strict observers ; and not negligent \ 
 
 In acts of love to tliose with whom they dwell, i 
 
 Their kindred, and the children of their blood. ' 
 
 Praise be to such, and to their slumbers peace! 1 
 
 But of the poor man ask, the abject poor ; ' 
 Go, and demand of him, if there be here 
 
 In this cold abstinence from evil deeds, ? 
 And these inevitable charities. 
 Wherewith to satisfy the human soul? 
 
 1^0 ! man is dear to man ; the poorest poor \ 
 
 Long for some moments in a weary life ] 
 
 When they can know and feel that they have been, j 
 
 Themselves, the fathers and the dealers-out i 
 
 Of some small blessings ; have been kind to such ] 
 
 As needed kindness ; for this single cause i 
 
 That we have all of us one human heart. j 
 
 Such pleasure is to one kind Being known, - 
 
 My neighbour, when with punctual care, each week ■ 
 
 Duly as Friday comes, though press'd herself j 
 
 By her own wants, she from her store of meal j 
 
 Takes one unsparing handful for the scrip j 
 
 Of this old Mendicant, and, from her door • 
 
 Returning with exhilarated heart, ' 
 
 Sits by her fire, and builds her hope in Heaven. . 
 
 Then let him pass, a blessing on his head! \ 
 
 And while, in that vast solitude to which ] 
 
 The tide of things has borne him, he appears ! 
 To breathe and live but for himself alone, 
 Unblamed, uninjured, let him bear about 
 The good which the benignant law of Heaven 
 Has hung around him : and, while life is his, 
 
 Still let him prompt th' unletter'd villagers i 
 
 To tender offices and pensive thoughts. \ 
 
 Then let him pass, a blessing on his head! ] 
 
 And, long as he can wander, let him breathe j 
 The freshness of the valleys ; let his blood 
 Struggle with frosty air and winter snows ; 
 
 And let the charter'd wind that sweeps the heath { 
 
 Beat his grey locks against his wither'd face. l 
 Reverence the hope whose vital anxiousness 
 Gives the last human interest to his heart. 
 
 May never House, misnamed of I^^dustey, j 
 
56 WOEDSWORTH. 
 
 Make him a captive ! for that pent-up din, 
 
 Those life-consuming sounds that clog the air. 
 
 Be his the natural silence of old age ! 
 
 Let him be free of mountain solitudes ; 
 
 And have around him, whether heard Or not, 
 
 The pleasant melody of woodland birds. 
 
 Few are his pleasures: if his eyes have now 
 
 Been doom'd so long to settle upon earth 
 
 That not without some effort they behold 
 
 The countenance of the horizontal Sun, 
 
 Eising or setting, let the light at least 
 
 Find a free entrance to their languid orbs. 
 
 And let him, tvhere and ivlien he will, sit down 
 
 Beneath the trees, or on a grassy bank 
 
 Of highway side, and with the little birds 
 
 Share his chance-gather'd meal; and, finally, 
 
 As in the eye of Nature he has lived, 
 
 So in the eye of Nature let him die! [1798. 
 
 THE FAEMER OF TILSBUEY VALE.* 
 
 'Tis not for the unfeeling, the falsely refined. 
 The squeamish in taste, and the narrow of mind. 
 And the small critic wielding his delicate pen. 
 That I sing of old Adam, the pride of old men. 
 
 He dwells in the centre of London's wide Town ; 
 His staff is a sceptre, his grey hairs a crown; 
 And his bright eyes look brighter, set off by the streak 
 Of the unfaded rose that still blooms on his cheek. 
 
 'Mid the dews, in the sunshine of morn, — 'mid the joy 
 Of the fields, he collected that bloom, when a boy; 
 That countenance there fashion'd, which, spite of a stain 
 That his life hath received, to the last will remain. 
 
 A Farmer he was; and his house far and near 
 Was the boast of the country for excellent cheer: 
 
 2 The character of this man Avas described to me, and the incident upon which 
 the verses turn was told me by Mr. Pool of Nether Stowey, During my residence 
 at Alfoxden I used to see much of him, and had frequent occasions to admire the 
 course of his life, especially his conduct to liis labourers and poor neighbours. If I 
 seem in these verses to have treated h'.s transgression too tenderly, it may in part be 
 ascribed to my having received the story from one so averse to all harsh judgment. 
 He was much beloved by distinguished persons, — by Mr. Coleridge, Mr. Soutliey, 
 Sir H. Davy, and many others ; and in his own neighbourhood was highly valued 
 as a magistrate, a man of business, and in every other social relation. The latter 
 part of the poem perhaps requires some apology, as being too much of an echo to 
 The Reverie of Poor Susan. — From the Author's Notes. 
 
THE FARMER OF TILSBURY VALE. 57 
 
 How oft have I heard in sweet Tilsbury Vale 
 
 Of the silver-rimm'd horn whence he dealt his mild ale! 
 
 Yet Adam was far as the farthest from ruin; 
 His fields seem'd to know what their Master was doing; 
 And turnips, and corn-land, and meadow, and lea. 
 All caught the infection, — as generous as he. 
 
 Yet Adam prized little the feast and the bowl, — 
 The fields better suited the ease of his soul: 
 He stray 'd through the fields like an indolent wight. 
 The quiet of Nature was Adam's delight. 
 
 For Adam was simple in thought; and the poor, 
 Familiar with him, made an inn of his door: 
 He gave them the best that he had; or, to say 
 What less may mislead you, they took it away. 
 
 Thus thirty smooth years did he thrive on his farm : 
 
 The Genius of plenty preseiwed him from harm: 
 
 At length, what to most is a season of sorrow. 
 
 His means are run out, — he must beg, or must borrow. 
 
 To the neighbours he went, — all were free with their money, 
 For his hive had so long been replenish'd with honey, 
 That they dreamt not of dearth : he continued his rounds, 
 Knock'd here and knock'd there, pounds still adding to 
 pounds. 
 
 He paid what he could with his ill-gotten pelf, 
 And something, it might be, reserved for himself: 
 Then, (what is too true,) without hinting a word, 
 Turn'd his back on the country, and off like a bird. 
 
 You lift up your eyes; but I guess that you frame 
 A judgment too harsh of the sin and the shame: 
 In him it was scarcely a business of art. 
 For this he did all in the ease of his heart. 
 
 To London — a sad emigration I ween — 
 With his grey hairs he went from the brook and the green; 
 And there, with small w^ealth but his legs and his hands, 
 As lonely he stood as a crow on the sands. 
 
 All trades, as need was, did old Adam assume, — 
 Served as stable-boy, errand-boy, porter, and groom; 
 But Nature is gracious, necessity kind. 
 And, in spite of the shame that may lurk in his mind. 
 
58 
 
 WORDSWORTH. 
 
 He seems ten birthdays younger, is green and is stout; 
 Iwice as fasc as before does his blood run about- 
 You would say that each hair of his beard was alive. 
 And his fingers are busy as bees in a hive. 
 
 For he's not like an Old Man that leisurely goes 
 About work that he knows, in a track that he knows- 
 But often his mind is compell'd to demur, ' 
 
 And you guess that the more then his body must stir. 
 
 In the throng of the town like a stranger is he. 
 Like one whose own country's far over the sea;' 
 And JN'ature, while through the great city he hies. 
 Full ten times a day takes his heart by surprise. 
 
 This gives him the fancy of one that is young, 
 More of soul in his face than of words on his tongue- 
 Like a maiden of twenty he trembles and sighs, ' 
 And tears of fifteen will come into his eyes. 
 
 What's a tempest to him, or the dry parching heats? 
 Yet he watches the clouds that pass over the streets- 
 With a look of such earnestness often will stand, ' 
 You might think he'd twelve reapers at work in the Strand.^ 
 
 Where proud Covent-garden, in desolate hours 
 
 Of snow and hoar-frost, spreads her fruits and her flowers. 
 
 Old Adam will smile at the pains that have niade 
 
 Poor Winter look fine in such strange masquerade. 
 
 'Mid coaches and chariots, a waggon of straw, 
 Like a magnet, the heart of old Adam can draw; 
 With a thousand soft pictures his memory will teem, 
 And his hearing is touch'd with the sounds of a dream. 
 
 Up the Haymarket-hill he oft whistles his way. 
 Thrusts his hands in a waggon, and smells at the hay; 
 He thinks of the fields he so often hath mown, 
 And is happy as if the rich freight were his own. 
 
 But chiefly to Smithfleld he loves to repair, — 
 If you pass by at morning, you'll meet with him there. 
 Ihe breath of the cows you may see him inhale, 
 And his heart all the while is in Tilsbury Vale. 
 
 Now farewell, old Adam! when low thou art laid. 
 May one blade of grass spring up over thy head; 
 8 The Stravd is one of the most thronged and crowded thoroughfares in London 
 
THE TWO THIEVES. 59 
 
 And I hope that thy grave, wheresoever it be, j 
 
 Will hear the wind sigh through the leaves of a tree.* [1803. | 
 
 THE REYEEIE OF POOE SUSAK 
 
 At the corner of Wood-Street, when daylight appears, 
 Hangs a Thrush that sings loud, it has sung for three years: 
 Poor Susan has pass'd by the spot, and has heard 
 In the silence of morning the song of the Bird. 
 
 'Tis a note of enchantment; what ails her? She sees 
 A mountain ascending, a vision of trees; 
 Bright volumes of vapour through Lothbury glide. 
 And a river flows on through the vale of Cheapside. 
 
 Green pastures she views in the midst of the dale, 
 Down which she so often has tripp'd 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: 
 
 The stream will not flow, and the hill will not rise, 
 
 And the colours have all pass'd away from her eyes! [1797. 
 
 THE TWO THIEVES: 
 
 OR, THE LAST STAGE OF AVAKICE.^ 
 
 O, NOW that the genius of Bewick were mine, 
 And the skill which he learn'd on the banks of the Tyne! 
 Then the Muses might deal with me just as they chose, 
 For I'd take my last leave both of verse and of prose. 
 
 What feats would I work with my magical hand! 
 Book-learning and books should be banish'd the land: 
 And, for hunger and thirst and such troublesome calls, 
 Every ale-house should then have a feast on its walls. 
 
 The traveller would hang his wet clothes on a chair; 
 
 Let them smoke, let them burn, not a straw would he care! 
 
 i The Farmer of Tilsburj/ Vale is a charming counterpart to Poor Susan, with the 
 addition of that delicacy towards aberrations from the strict path which is so line in 
 " the Old Thief and thcBoy by his side," which always brings water into my eyes. — 
 Charles Lamb. 
 
 5 This is described from the life, as I was in the habit of observing when a boy at 
 Hawkshead School. Daniel was more than eighty years older than myself when he 
 was daily, thus occupied, under my notice. No book could have so early tauglit me 
 to think of the changes to which human life is subject; and while looking at him I 
 could not but say to myself, " We may, one of us, I or the happiest of my playmates, 
 live to become still more the object of pity than this old man, this hall-doating ]Dil- 
 ferer."— The Author's JSotes. 
 
60 WOEDSWORTH. 
 
 For tlie Prodigal Son, Joseph's Dream and his sheaves, 
 0, what would they be to my my tale of two Thieves? 
 
 The One, yet nnbreech'd, is not three birthdays old, 
 His Grandsire that age more than thirty times told ; 
 There are ninety good seasons of fair and foul weather 
 Between them, and both go a-pilfering together. 
 
 With chips is the carpenter strewing his floor? 
 Is a cart-load of turf at an old woman's door? 
 Old Daniel his hand to the treasure will slide ; 
 And his G-randson's as busy at work by his side. 
 
 Old Daniel begins ; he stops short, and his eye, 
 Through the lost look of dotage, is cunning and sly : 
 'Tis a look which at this time is hardly his own, 
 But tells a plain tale of the days that are flown. 
 
 He once had a heart which was moved by the wires 
 Of manifold pleasures and many desires : 
 And what if he cherish'd his purse? 'twas no more 
 Than treading a path trod by thousands before. 
 
 'Twas a path trod by thousands ; but Daniel is one 
 Who went something further than others have gone ; 
 And now with old Daniel you see how it fares ; 
 You see to what end he has brought his grey hairs. 
 
 The pair sally forth hand in hand : ere the Sun 
 Has peer'd o'er the beeches, their work is begun : 
 And yet, into whatever sin they may fall. 
 This child but half knows it, and that not at all. 
 
 They hunt through the streets with deliberate tread. 
 And each, in his turn, becomes leader or led ; 
 And, wherever they carry their plots and their wiles. 
 Every face in the village is dimpled with smiles. 
 
 Neither check'd by the rich nor the needy they roam; 
 For the grey-headed Sire has a daughter at home. 
 Who will gladly repair all the damage that's done ; 
 And three, were it ask'd, would be render'd for one. 
 
 Old Man, whom so oft I with pity have eyed, 
 
 I love thee, and love the sweet Boy at thy side : 
 
 Long yet may'st thou live ! for a teacher we see 
 
 That lifts up the veil of our nature in thee. [1800. 
 
POWER OF MUSIC. 61 
 
 POWER OF MUSIC. 
 
 An" Orpheus! an Orpheus! Yes, Faith may grow bold, 
 And take to herself all the wonders of old ; — 
 I^ear the stately Pantheon you'll meet with the same, 
 In the street that from Oxford hath borrow'd its name. 
 
 His station is there ; and he works on the crowd, 
 He sways them with harmony merry and loud ; 
 He fills with his power all their hearts to the brim, — 
 Was aught ever heard like his fiddle and him? 
 
 What an eager assembly I what an empire is this ! 
 The weary have life, and the hungry have bliss ; 
 The mourner is cheer'd, and the anxious have rest; 
 And the guilt-burthen'd soul is no longer opprest. 
 
 As the Moon brightens round her the clouds of the night. 
 So He, where he stands, is a centre of light ; 
 It gleams on the face, there, of dusky-brow'd 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 stopp'd, though he stops on the fret ; 
 And the half-breathless Lamplighter, 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, 'tis all that she sees ! 
 
 He stands, back'd by the wall ; — he abates not his din ; 
 His hat gives him vigour, with boons dropping in, 
 From the old and the young, from the poorest ; and there ! 
 The one-pennied Boy has his penny to spare. 
 
 0, blest are the hearers, and proud be the hand 
 
 Of the pleasure it spreads through so thankful a band ; 
 
 I am glad for him, blind as he is ! — all the while 
 
 If they speak, 'tis to praise, and they praise with a smile. 
 
 That tall Man, a giant in bulk and in height. 
 Not an inch of his body is free from delight ; 
 Can he keep himself still, if he would ? 0, 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 lean'd forward, leans hour after hour ! — 
 
62 WORDSWOETH. 
 
 That Mother, whose spirit in fetters is bound, 
 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 ! [1806. 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS SONNETS. 
 
 Nuns fret not at their convent's narrow room ; 
 
 And hermits are contented with their cells ; 
 
 And students with their pensive citadels; 
 
 Maids at the wheel, the weaver at his loom, 
 
 Sit blithe and happy ; bees that soar for bloom. 
 
 High as the highest Peak of Furness-fells,® 
 
 Will murmur by the hour in foxglove bells : 
 
 In truth, the prison unto which we doom 
 
 Ourselves no prison is : and hence to me. 
 
 In sundry moods, 'twas pastime to be bound 
 
 Within the Sonnet's scanty plot of ground ; 
 
 Pleased if some Souls, (for such there needs must be,) 
 
 Who've felt the weight of too much liberty. 
 
 Should find brief solace there, as I have found. 
 
 ADMONITIOif. 
 
 Well mayst thou halt, and gaze with brightening eye I 
 
 The lovely Cottage in the guardian nook 
 
 Hath stirr'd thee deeply ; with its own dear brook, 
 
 Its own small pasture, almost its own sky. 
 
 But covet not th' Abode : forbear to sigh, 
 
 As many do, repining while they look ; 
 
 Intruders, who would tear from Nature's book 
 
 This precious leaf, Avith harsh impiety. 
 
 Think what the Home must be if it were thine. 
 
 Even thine, though few thy wants! Roof, window, door. 
 
 The very flowers are sacred to the Poor, 
 
 The roses to the porch which they entwine : 
 
 Yea, all that now enchants thee, from the day 
 
 On which it should be touch 'd, would melt away. 
 
 " Beloved Vale ! " I said, " when I shall con 
 Those many records of my childish years, 
 
 6 Fell is a provincial term for a barren, or a stony hill. 
 
MISCELLANEOUS SONNETS. 63 
 
 Remembrance of myself and of my peers 
 Will press me down : to think of what is gone 
 Will be an awful thought, if life have one." 
 But, when into the Vale I came, no fears 
 Distressed me ; from mine eyes escaped no tears ; 
 Deep thought, or dread remembrance, had I none. 
 By doubts and thousand petty fancies crost 
 I stood, of simple shame the blushing Thrall ; 
 So narrow seenrd the brooks, the fields so small! 
 A Juggler's balls old Time about him toss'd ; 
 I look'd, I stared, I smiled, I laugh 'd ; and all 
 The weight of sadness was in wonder lost. 
 
 1801. 
 
 Pelion and Ossa flourish side by side, 
 
 Together in immortal books enroll'd : 
 
 His ancient dower Olympus hath not sold ; 
 
 And that inspiring Hill, which " did divide 
 
 Into two ample horns his forehead wide," '' 
 
 Shines with poetic radiance as of old ; 
 
 Wliile not an English Mountain we behold 
 
 By the celestial Muses glorified. 
 
 Yet round our sea-girt shore they rise in crowds : 
 
 What was the great Parnassus' self to Thee, 
 
 Mount Skiddaw? In his natural sovereignty 
 
 Our British Hill is nobler far : he shrouds 
 
 His double front among Atlantic clouds. 
 
 And pours forth streams more sweet than Castaly.^ 
 
 There is a little unpretending Rill 
 
 Of limpid water, humbler far than aught 
 
 That ever among Men or Naiads sought 
 
 Notice or name ! — It quivers down the hill, 
 
 Furrowing its shallow way with dubious will ; 
 
 Yet to my mind this scanty Stream is brought 
 
 Oftener than Ganges or the Nile ; a thought 
 
 Of private recollection sweet and still ! 
 
 Months perish with their moons ; year treads on year ; 
 
 But, faithful Emma, thou with me canst say 
 
 That, while ten thousand pleasures disappear. 
 
 And flies their memory fast almost as they ; 
 
 7 Alluding to Mount Parnassus, which throws up two peaks to a conspicuous 
 height, and hence is often described by the poets as double-headed. It was one of 
 the chiel seats of Apollo and the Muses. 
 
 8 Castulia, a celebrated fountain on Mount Parnassus, sacred to Apollo and the 
 Muses. 
 
64 WORDSWOBTH. 
 
 Th' immortal Spirit of one happy day- 
 Lingers beside that Eill, in vision clear* 
 
 Her only pilot the soft breeze, the boat 
 
 Lingers, but Fancy is well satisfied ; 
 
 With keen-eyed Hope, with Memory at her side, 
 
 And the glad Muse at liberty to note 
 
 All that to each is precious, as we float 
 
 Gently along ; regardless who shall chide 
 
 If the heavens smile, and leave us free to glide, 
 
 Happy Associates breathing air remote 
 
 From trivial cares. But, Fancy and the Muse, 
 
 "Why have I crowded this small bark with you 
 
 And others of your kind, ideal crew ! 
 
 While here sits One whose brightness owes its hues 
 
 To flesh and blood ; no Goddess from above, 
 
 No fleeting Spirit, but my own true Love ? 
 
 " Why, Minstrel, these untuneful murmurings, 
 Dull, flagging notes that with each other jar?" 
 " Think, gentle Lady, of a Harp so far 
 From its own country, and forgive the strings." 
 A simple answer! but even so forth springs. 
 From the Castalian fountain of the heart. 
 The Poetry of Life, and all tliat Art 
 Divine of words quickening insensate things. 
 From the submissive necks of guiltless men 
 Stretch'd on the block, the glittering axe recoils; 
 Sun, Moon, and stars, all struggle in the toils 
 Of mortal sympathy: what wonder, then, 
 That the poor Harp distemper'd music yields 
 To its sad Lord, far from his native fields ? 
 
 TO SLEEP. 
 
 GEKTLE Sleep! do they belong to thee, 
 These twinklings of oblivion ? Thou dost love 
 To sit in meekness, like the brooding Dove, 
 A captive never wishing to be free. 
 This tiresome night, Sleep, thou art to me 
 A Fl}^, that up and down himself doth shove 
 Upon a fretful rivulet, now above 
 
 9 Tliis Rill trickles doAAai the hill-side into "Winrlermere, near TiOWAVOod. My 
 sister and J, on our first visit together to this part of the country, Avalked from Ken- 
 dal, and we i-ested ourselves by tiie side of the lake Avhere the streamlet falls into 
 it. This sonnet was AvriLlen some years after, iu recollection of that most happy day 
 and hour. — From the Author's Notes. 
 
MISCELLAlsrEOUS SOKNETS. 65 
 
 Now on tlie water vex'cl with mockery. 
 I have no pain that calls for patience, no; 
 Hence am I cross and peevish as a child: 
 Am pleased hy fits to have thee for my foe. 
 Yet ever willing to be reconciled: 
 
 gentle Creature! do not nse me so. 
 But once and deeply let me be beguiled. 
 
 Fond words have oft been spoken to thee, Sleep, 
 And thou hast had thy store of tenderest names; 
 The very sweetest. Fancy culls or frames, 
 AYhen thankfulness of heart is strong and deep. 
 Dear Bosom-child we call thee, that dost steep 
 In rich reward all suffering; Balm that tames 
 All anguish; Saint that evil thoughts and aims 
 Takest away, and into souls dost creep, 
 Like to a breeze from Heaven. Shall I alone, 
 
 1 surely not a man ungently made. 
 
 Call thee worst Tyrant by which Flesh is crost? 
 Perverse, self-will'd to own and to disown. 
 Mere slave of them who never for thee pray'd 
 Still last to come where thou art Avanted most! 
 
 A FLOCK of sheep that leisurely pass by. 
 One after one; the sound of rain, and bees 
 Murmuring; the fall of rivers, winds and seas. 
 Smooth fields, white sheets of water, and pure sky; 
 I've thought of all by turns, and yet do lie 
 Sleepless; and soon the small birds' melodies 
 Must hear, first utter'd from my orchard trees; 
 And the first cuckoo's melancholy cry. 
 Even thus last night, and two nights more, I lay. 
 And could not win thee. Sleep, by any stealth: 
 So do not let me wear to-night away: 
 Without Thee what is all the morning's wealth? 
 Come, blessed barrier between day and day. 
 Dear mother of fresh thoughts and joyous health! 
 
 W^RITTEN- UPOK A BLAI^K LEAF IN" "THE 
 
 While flowing rivers yield a blameless sport. 
 Shall live the name of Walton : Sage benign ! 
 Whose pen, the mysteries of the rod and line 
 Unfolding, did not fruitlessly exhort 
 To reverend watching of each still report 
 That Nature utters from her rural shrine. 
 
6S WORDSWORTH. 
 
 Meek, nobly versed in simple discipline, 
 
 He found the longest summer day too short. 
 
 To his loved pastime given by sedgy Lee, 
 
 Or down the tempting maze of Shawford brook. 
 
 Fairer than life itself, in this sweet Book, 
 
 The cowslip-bank and shady willow-tree; 
 
 And the fresh meads, — where flow'd, from every nook 
 
 Of his full bosom, gladsome Piety! 
 
 Ik my mind's eye a Temple, like a cloud 
 
 Slowly surmounting some invidious hill, 
 
 Eose out of darkness: the bright work stood still; 
 
 And might of its own beauty have been proud, 
 
 But it was fashion'd and to God was vow'd 
 
 By virtues that diffused, in every part. 
 
 Spirit divine through forms of human art: 
 
 Faith had her arch, — her arch, when winds blow loud. 
 
 Into the consciousness of safety thrill'd; 
 
 And Love her towers of dread foundation laid 
 
 Under the grave of things; Hope had her spire 
 
 Star-high, and pointing still to something higher: 
 
 Trembling I gazed, but heard a voice, — it said, 
 
 ** Hell-gates are powerless Phantoms when we build." ^ 
 
 COMPOSED liiT Oi^^E OF THE VALLEYS OF WESTMORELAND, OK | 
 EASTER SUKDAY. ' j 
 
 "With each recurrence of this glorious morn j 
 
 That saw the Saviour in his human frame j 
 
 Eise from the dead, erewhile the Cottage-dame 
 
 Put on fresh raiment, till that hour unworn : I 
 
 Domestic hands the home-bred wool had shorn; ^ 
 
 And she who span it culFd the daintiest fleece, { 
 
 In thoughtful reverence to the Prince of Peace, | 
 
 Whose temples bled beneatli the platted thorn. 
 
 A blest estate when piety sublime 
 
 These humble props disdain'd not ! green dales ! 
 
 Sad may /be who heard your sabbath chime 
 
 When Art's abused inventions were uukuoAvn ; 
 
 Kind ^N^ature's various wealth was all your own ; 
 
 And benefits were weigh'd in Season's scales ! 
 
 DECAY OF PIETY. 
 
 Oft have I seen, ere Time had plough'd my cheek. 
 Matrons and Sires — who, punctual to the call 
 
 I 
 
MISCELLANEOUS SONNETS. C7 
 
 Of tlieir loved Church, on fast or festival 
 
 Through the long year the House of Prayer would seek: 
 
 By Christmas snows, by visitation bleak 
 
 Of Easter winds, un scared, from hut or hall 
 
 They came to lowly bench or sculptured stall, 
 
 But with one fervour of devotion meek. 
 
 I see the places where they once were known. 
 
 And ask, surrounded even by kneeling crowds, 
 
 Is ancient Piety for ever flown ? 
 
 Alas ! even then they seem'd like fleecy clouds 
 
 That, struggling through the western sky, have won 
 
 Their pensive light from a departed Sun. 
 
 COMPOSED ON THE EVE OF THE MAERIAGE OF A FEIEND IN 
 THE VALE OF GRASMERE, 1812. 
 
 What need of clamorous bells, or ribands gay. 
 
 These humble nuptials to proclaim or grace ? 
 
 Angels of love, look down upon tlie place ; 
 
 Shed on the chosen vale a sun-bright day ! 
 
 Yet no proud gladness would the Bride display 
 
 Even for such promise : — serious is her face. 
 
 Modest her mien ; and she, whose thoughts keep pace 
 
 With gentleness, in that becoming way 
 
 Will thank you. Faultless does the Maid appear ; 
 
 No disproportion in her soul, no strife : 
 
 But, when the closer view of wedded life 
 
 Hath shown that nothing human can be clear 
 
 From frailty, for that insight may the Wife 
 
 To her indulgent Lord become more dear. 
 
 FROM THE ITALIAN OF MICHAEL ANGELO. 
 
 Yes ! hope may with my strong desire keep pace, 
 
 And I be undeluded, unbetray'd; 
 
 For if of our affections none find grace 
 
 In sight of Heaven, then wherefore hath God made 
 
 The world which we inhabit ? Better plea 
 
 Love cannot have, than that in loving thee 
 
 Glory to that eternal Peace is paid. 
 
 Who such divinity to thee imparts 
 
 As hallows and makes pure all gentle hearts. 
 
 His hope is treacherous only whose love dies 
 
 With beauty, which is varying every hour; 
 
 But, in chaste hearts uninfluenced by the power 
 
 Of outward change, there blooms a deathless flower. 
 
 That breathes on Earth the air of Paradise. 
 
68 WOEDSWOETH. 
 
 FEOM THE SAME. 
 
 No mortal object did these eyes behold 
 
 When first they met the placid light of thine ; 
 
 And my Soul felt her destiny divine, 
 
 And hope of endless peace in me grew bold : 
 
 Heaven-born, the Soul a heaven-ward course must hold ; 
 
 Beyond the visible world she soars to seek 
 
 (For what delights the sense is false and weak) 
 
 Ideal Form, the universal mould. 
 
 The wise man, I afl&rm, can find no rest 
 
 In that which perishes : nor will he lend 
 
 His heart to aught which doth on time depend. 
 
 'Tis sense, unbridled will, and not true love. 
 
 That kills the soul : love betters what is best, 
 
 Even here below, but more in Heaven above. 
 
 FEOM THE SAME. TO THE SUPEEME BEING. 
 
 The pr ayers I make will then be sweet indeed 
 
 If Thou the spirit give by which I pray : 
 
 My unassisted heart is barren clay, 
 
 That of its native self can nothing feed : 
 
 Of good and pious works Thou art the seed. 
 
 That quickens only where Thou say'st it may: 
 
 Unless Thou shew to us Thine own true way 
 
 No man can find it: Father! Thou must lead. 
 
 Do Thou, then, breathe those thoughts into my mind 
 
 By which such virtue may in me be bred 
 
 That in Thy holy footsteps I may tread ; 
 
 The fetters of my tongue do Thou unbind. 
 
 That I may have the power to sing of Thee, 
 
 And sound Thy praises everlastingly. 
 
 Suepeised by joy, impatient as the Wind, 
 
 I turn'd to share the transport, — ! with whom 
 
 But Thee, deep buried in the silent tomb, 
 
 That spot which no vicissitude can find? 
 
 Love, faithful love, recall'd thee to my mind : 
 
 But how could I forget thee ? through what power, 
 
 Even for the least division of an hour. 
 
 Have I been so beguiled as to be blind 
 
 To my most grievous loss ? — That thought's return 
 
 Was the worst pang that sorrow ever bore, 
 
 Save one, one only, when I stood forlorn. 
 
 Knowing my heart's best treasure was no more ; 
 
MISCELLAIS'EOUS SONNETS. 69 
 
 That neither present time nor years unborn 
 Could to my sight that heavenly face restore.-^ 
 
 Methought I saw the footsteps of a throne j 
 
 Which mists and vaponrs from mine eyes did shroud ; I 
 
 Nor view of who might sit thereon allowed ; i 
 
 But all the steps and ground about were strown l 
 
 With sights the ruefullest that flesh and bone j 
 
 Ever put on ; a miserable crowd, ' 
 
 Sick, hale, old, young, who cried before that cloud, 
 "Thou art our king, Death! to thee we groan." ' 
 
 Those steps I clomb ; the mists before me gave i 
 
 Smooth way ; and I behold the face of one ] 
 
 Sleeping alone within a mossy cave, .; 
 
 With her face up to heaven ; that seem'd to have 
 Pleasing remembrance of a thought foregone ; 
 A lovely Beauty in a summer grave! \ 
 
 KOVEMBER, 1836. ] 
 
 Even so for me a Vision sanctified 
 
 The sway of Death; long ere mine eyes had seen , ; 
 
 Thy countenance — the still rapture of thy mien — 
 
 Wlien thon, dear Sister ! wert become Death's Bride : 
 
 No trace of pain ar languor could abide 
 
 That change : age on thy brow was smooth'd, thy cold ] 
 
 Wan cheek at once was privileged to unfold ] 
 
 A loveliness to living youth denied.^ \ 
 
 0, if within me hope should e'er decline, I 
 
 The lamp of faith, lost Friend ! too faintly bnrn ; 
 
 Then may that Heaven-revealing smile of thine, 
 
 The bright assurance, visibly return : 
 
 And let my spirit in that power divine 
 
 Rejoice, sls, through that power, it ceased to mourn. '] 
 
 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 is on the Sea: 
 Listen 1 the mighty Being is awake. 
 And doth with His eternal motion make 
 A sound like thunder — everlastingly. 
 
 1 This sonnet was suggested to the poet bv liis daughtev Catharine long after her 
 death. She was bora September G, 1808, aud'died June 4, 1812. 
 
 2 Referring to the poet's sister-in-law, Sarah Hutchinson, who lived with him 
 many years, and died at his home, June 23, 1836. 
 
70 WORDSWOETH. 
 
 Dear Child ! dear Girl ! that walkest with me here. 
 If thou appear untouch 'd 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. 
 
 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've 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-gather'd now like sleeping flowers; 
 For this, for every thing, we're out of tune; 
 It moves us not. — Great God ! I'd rather be 
 A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn. 
 So might I, standing on this pleasant lea, 
 Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn; 
 Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea; . 
 Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn. 
 
 A VOLANT Tribe of Bards on earth are found. 
 Who, while the flattering Zephyrs round them play, 
 On ^^^coignes of vantage" hang their nests of clay; 
 How quickly from that aery hold unbound. 
 Dust for oblivion! To the solid ground 
 Of Nature trusts the Mind that builds for aye; 
 Convinced that there, theie only, she can lay 
 Secure foundations. As the year runs round, 
 Apart she toils within the chosen ring; 
 While the stars shine, or while day's purple eye 
 Is gently closing with the flowers of Spring; 
 Where even the motion of an Angel's wing 
 Would interrupt th' intense tranquillity 
 Of silent hills, and more than silent sky. 
 
 " Weak is the will of Man, his judgment blind; i 
 
 Remembrance persecutes, and hope betrays; \ 
 
 Heavy is woe; and joy, for human-kind, I 
 
 A mournful thing, so transient is the blaze!" • 
 
 Thus might he paint our lot of mortal days ■, 
 
 Who wants the glorious faculty assign'd i 
 
 To elevate the more-than-reasoning Mind, J 
 
MISCELLANEOUS SONNETS. 71 
 
 And colour life's dark cloud with orient rays. 
 
 Imagination is that sacred power. 
 
 Imagination lofty and refined: 
 
 'Tis hers to pluck the amaranthine flower 
 
 Of Faith, and round the Sufferer's temples bind 
 
 Wreaths that endure affliction's heaviest shower. 
 
 And do not shrink from sorrow's keenest wind. 
 
 TO THE MEMOKT OF RAISLET CALYERT.^ 
 
 Calvert, it must not he unheard by them 
 Who may respect my name, that I to thee 
 Owed many years of early liberty. 
 This care was thine when sickness did condemn 
 Thy youth to hopeless wasting, root and stem, — 
 That I, if frugal and severe, might stray 
 Where'er I liked; and finally array 
 My temples with the Muse's diadem. 
 Hence, if in freedom I have loved the truth; 
 If there be aught of j)ure, or good, or great, 
 In my past verse; or shall be, in the lays 
 Of higher mood which now I meditate; — 
 It gladdens me, worthy, short-lived Youth! 
 To think how much of this will be thy praise. 
 
 Scorn not the Sonnet; Critic, you have frown'd. 
 
 Mindless of its just honours: with this key 
 
 Shakespeare unlock'd his heart; the melody 
 
 Of this small lute gave ease to Petrarch's wound; 
 
 A thousand times this pipe did Tasso sound; 
 
 With it Camoens soothed an exile's grief: 
 
 The Sonnet glitter'd a gay myrtle leaf 
 
 Amid the cypress Avith which Dante crown'd 
 
 His visionary brow: a glow-worm lamp, 
 
 It cheer'd mild Spenser, call'd from Faery-land 
 
 To struggle through dark ways ; and, when a damp 
 
 Fell round the path of Milton, in his hand 
 
 The Thing became a trumpet; whence he blew 
 
 Soul-animating strains, — alas, too few! 
 
 How sweet it is, when mother Fancy rocks 
 The wayward brain, to saunter through a wood! 
 
 3 This young man died of consumption, in January, 1795. Dui-ing his sickness he 
 was attended some time by Words\vortli, and in his will bequeathed to the poet nine 
 hundred pounds. This hapijily rescued the poet from the necessity of earning his 
 bread by writing for the newspapers. The bequest was made entirely from confi- 
 dence, on the donor's part, that Wordsworth had powers and attainments which 
 might be of use to mankind. 
 
72 WORDSWOBTH. 
 
 An old place, full of many a lovely brood, 
 
 Tall trees, green arbours, and ground-flowers in flocks; 
 
 And wild rose tip-toe upon hawthorn stocks, 
 
 Like a bold Girl, who plays her agile pranks 
 
 At Wakes and Fairs with wandering Mountebanks, — 
 
 When she stands cresting the Clown's head, and mocks 
 
 The crowd beneath her. Verily I think, 
 
 Such place to me is sometimes like a dream 
 
 Or map of the whole world: thoughts, link by link, 
 
 Enter through ears and eyesight, with such gleam 
 
 Of all things, that at last in fear I shrink. 
 
 And leap at once, from the delicious stream. 
 
 Teakquillity! the sovereign aim wert thou 
 
 In heathen schools of philosophic lore; 
 
 Heart-stricken by stern destiny of yore 
 
 The Tragic Muse thee served with thoughtful vow; 
 
 And what of hope Elysium could allow 
 
 Was fondly seized by Sculpture, to restore 
 
 Peace to the mourner. But when He who wore 
 
 The crown of thorns around His bleeding brow 
 
 Warm'd our sad being with celestial light. 
 
 Then Arts which still had drawn a softening grace 
 
 From shadowy fountains of the Infinite, 
 
 Communed with that Idea face to face; 
 
 And move around it now, as planets run 
 
 Each in its orbit round the central Sun. 
 
 Fair Prime of life! were it enough to gild i 
 
 With ready sunbeams every straggling shower; I 
 
 And, if an unexpected cloud should lour, j 
 Swiftly thereon a rainbow arch to build 
 
 For Fancy's errands, — then, from fields half -till'd i 
 
 Gathering green weeds to mix with poppy flower, ■ 
 Thee might thy Minions crown, and chant thy power, i 
 
 Unpitied by the wise, all censure still'd. ! 
 
 Ah! show that worthier honours are thy due: \ 
 
 Fair Prime of life, arouse the deeper heart; ; 
 Confirm the Spirit glorying to pursue 
 
 Some path of steep ascent and lofty aim; i 
 
 And, if there be a joy that slights the claim \ 
 Of grateful memory, bid that joy depart.* 
 
 4 Suggested by observation of the way in which a young friend, whom I do not; 
 choose to name, misspent his time and misapplied his talents. He took aiterwards , 
 a better course, and became a useful member of society, respected, I believe, wher- 1 
 ever Jae has been known. — The Author's Notes. ; 
 
MISCELLANEOUS SOCKETS. 73 
 
 EETIREMEKT. 
 
 If the whole weight of what we think and feel, 
 
 Save only far as thought and feeling blend 
 
 With action, were as nothing, patriot Friend, 
 
 From thy remonstrance would be no appeal: 
 
 But to promote and fortify the weal 
 
 Of our own Being is her paramount end; 
 
 A truth which they alone shall comprehend 
 
 Who shun the mischief which they cannot heal. 
 
 Peace in these feverish times is sovereign bliss: 
 
 Here, with no thirst but what the stream can slake. 
 
 And startled only by the rustling brake. 
 
 Cool air I breathe; while th' unincumber'd Mind, 
 
 By some weak aims at services assign'd 
 
 To gentle Natures, thanks not Heaven amiss. 
 
 Not Love, nor War, nor the tumultuous swell \ 
 
 Of civil conflict, nor the wrecks of change, i 
 
 Nor Duty struggling with afflictions strange, — i 
 
 Not these alone inspire the tuneful shell; | 
 
 But where untroubled peace and concord dwell, i 
 
 There also is the Muse not loth to range, ~ | 
 
 Watching the twilight smoke of cot or grange, ; 
 
 Skyward ascending from a woody dell. * 
 
 Meek aspirations please her, lone endeavour, i 
 And sage content, and placid melancholy; 
 She loves to gaze upon a crystal river, — 
 
 Diaphanous because it travels slowly; i 
 
 Soft is the music that would charm for ever; j 
 
 Tlie flower of sweetest smell is shy and lowly. j 
 
 COMPOSED AFTER A JOURITEY ACROSS THE HAMBLETOI^ HILLS. | 
 
 YORKSHIRE. ] 
 
 Dark and more dark the shades of evening fell; . 
 
 The wish'd-for point was reach'd, — but at an hour i 
 
 When little could be gain'd from that rich dower i 
 
 Of prospect whereof many thousands tell. I 
 
 Yet did the glowing West with marvellous power ] 
 
 Salute us; there stood Indian citadel, ] 
 
 Temple of Greece, and minster with its tower i 
 
 Substantially express'd, — a place for bell j 
 
 Or clock to toll from! Many a tempting isle, | 
 
 With groves that never were imagined, lay ■ 
 
 'Mid seas how steadfast! objects all for th' eye j 
 
 Of silent rapture; but we felt the while ! 
 
74 WOKDSWORTH. 
 
 We should forget them; they are of the sky. 
 And from our earthly memory fade away.* 
 
 " they are of the sky, j 
 
 And from our earthly memory fade away.** ! 
 
 Those words were utter'd as in pelisive mood ^ 
 
 We turn'd, departing from that solemn sight; I 
 
 A contrast and reproach to gross delight, | 
 
 And life's nnspiritual pleasures daily woo'd! \ 
 
 But now upon this thought I cannot hrood; ; 
 
 It is unstable as a dream of night; I 
 
 Nor will I praise a cloud, however bright, j 
 
 Disparaging Man's gifts, and proper food. | 
 
 Grove, isle, with every shape of sky-built dome, | 
 
 Though clad in colours beautiful and pure, i 
 
 Find in the heart of man no natural home: ] 
 
 Th' immortal mind craves objects that endure: ! 
 
 These cleave to it; from these it cannot roam, < 
 
 Nor they from it : their fellowship is secure. . 
 
 SEPTEMBER, 1815. ! 
 
 While not a leaf seems faded; while the fields. 
 
 With ripening harvest prodigally fair, i 
 
 In brightest sunshine bask; this nipping air, j 
 
 Sent from some distant clime where Winter wields ] 
 
 His icy scimitar, a foretaste yields i 
 Of bitter change, and bids the flowers beware; - I 
 
 And whispers to the silent birds, ^' Prepare i 
 Against the threatening foe your trustiest shields." 
 
 For me, who under kindlier laws belong ' 
 
 To Nature's tuneful quire, this rustling dry \ 
 
 Through leaves yet green, and yon crystalline sky, I 
 
 Announce a season potent to renews j 
 
 'Mid frost and snow, th' instinctive joys of song, j 
 
 And nobler cares than listless Summer knew. \ 
 
 NOVEMBER 1. j 
 
 How clear, how keen, how marvellously bright 
 The effluence from yon distant mountain's head. 
 
 Which, strewn with snow smooth as the sky can shed, | 
 
 Shines like another sun, — on mortal sight j 
 
 Uprisen, as if to check approaching Night, i 
 
 And all her twinkling stars. Who now would tread, | 
 
 5 Compored Octoher 4th, 1802, after a Journey over the Hamhleton Hills, on a daj 
 memorable to ine, — the day of my maiTiage. The horizon, commanded by those hilM 
 
 \& moat vasigm&ceut,— A uthar'& Notes, 
 
MISCELLAJnTEOUS SOiTKETS. 75 
 
 If so lie might, yon mountain's glittering head, — 
 Terrestrial, but a surface, by the flight 
 Of sad mortality's earth-sullying wing, 
 Unswej^t, unstain'd? Nor shall th' aerial Powers 
 Dissolve that beauty, destined to endure, 
 White, radiant, spotless, exquisitely pure, 
 Through all vicissitudes, till genial Spring 
 Has fiU'd the laughing vales with welcome flowers. 
 
 COMPOSED DUKIJTG A STOEM. 
 
 Oi^B who was suffering tumult in his soul 
 
 Yet fail'd to seek the sure relief of prayer, 
 
 Went forth, — his course surrendering to the care 
 
 Of the fierce wind, while mid-day lightnings prowl 
 
 Insidiously, untimely thunders growl ; 
 
 While trees, dim-seen, in frenzied numbers, tear 
 
 The lingering remnant of their yellow hair, 
 
 And shivering wolves, surprised with darkness, howl 
 
 As if the Sun were not. He raised his eye 
 
 Soul-smitten; for, that instant, did apjoear 
 
 Large space ('mid dreadful clouds) of purest sky, 
 
 An azure disc, — shield of Tranquillity ; 
 
 Invisible, unlook'd-for minister 
 
 Of providential goodness ever nigh! 
 
 TO A SN^OW-DROP. 
 
 Loi^E Flower, hemm'd in with snows and white as they. 
 
 But hardier far, once more I see thee bend 
 
 Thy forehead, as if fearful to offend, 
 
 Like an unbidden guest. Though, day by day, 
 
 Storms, sallying from the mountain-tops, way-lay 
 
 The rising Sun, and on the plains descend; 
 
 Yet art thou welcome, welcome as a friend 
 
 Whose zeal outruns his promise! Blue-eyed May 
 
 Shall soon behold this border thickly set 
 
 With bright Jonquils, their odours lavishing 
 
 On the soft west-Avind and his frolic peers ; 
 
 Nor will I then thy modest grace forget, 
 
 Chaste Snow-drop, venturous harbinger of Spring, 
 
 And pensive monitor of fleeting years ! 
 
 TO LADY BEAUM0]!^T. 
 
 Lady! the songs of Spring were in the grove 
 While I was shaping beds for winter flow^ers ; 
 While I was planting green unfading bowers, 
 
76 WOEDSWORTH. 
 
 And shrubs, — to hang upon the warm alcove 
 
 And sheltering wall ; and still, as Fancy wove 
 
 The dream, to time and Nature's blended powers 
 
 I gave this paradise for winter hours, — ■ 
 
 A labyrinth. Lady! which your feet shall rove. 
 
 Yes! when the sun of life more feebly shines, 
 
 Becoming thoughts, I trust, of solemn gloom 
 
 Or of high gladness you shall hither bring ; 
 
 And these perennial bowers and murmuring pines 
 
 Be gracious as the music and the bloom 
 
 And all the mighty ravishment of Spring. 
 
 There is a pleasure in poetic pains 
 
 Which only Poets hnoic; — 'twas rightly said: . 
 
 "Whom could the Muses else allure to tread 
 
 Their smoothest paths, to wear their lightest chains? 
 
 When happiest Fancy has inspired the strains, 
 
 How oft the malice of one luckless word 
 
 Pursues th' Enthusiast to the social board. 
 
 Haunts him belated on the silent plains! 
 
 Yet he repines not, if his thought stand clear. 
 
 At last, of hindrance and obscurity. 
 
 Fresh as the star that crowns the brow of morn; 
 
 Bright, speckless, as a softly-moulded tear , 
 
 The moment it has left the virgin's eye. 
 
 Or rain-drop lingering on the pointed thorn. 
 
 The Shepherd, looking eastward, softly said, 
 "Bright is thy veil, Moon, as thou art bright!" 
 Forthwith that little cloud, in ether spread 
 And penetrated all with tender light. 
 She cast away, and show'd her fulgent head 
 Uncover'd; dazzling the Beholder's sight, 
 As if to vindicate her beauty's right. 
 Her beauty thoughtlessly disparaged. 
 Meanwhile that veil, removed or thrown aside. 
 Went floating from her, darkening as it went; 
 And a huge mass, to bury or to hide, 
 Appjoach'd this glory of the firmament; 
 Who meekly yields, and is obscured, — content 
 With one calm triumph of a modest pride. 
 
 When haughty expectations prostrate lie. 
 And grandeur crouches like a guilty tiling. 
 
MISCELLANEOUS SOKNETS. 77 
 
 Oft shall the lowly weak, till nature bring 
 
 Mature release, in fair society 
 
 Survive, and Fortune's utmost anger try; 
 
 Like these frail snow-drops that together cling. 
 
 And nod their helmets, smitten by the wing 
 
 Of many a furious whirl-blast sweeping by. 
 
 Observe the faithful flowers! if small to great 
 
 May lead the thoughts, thus struggling used to stand 
 
 Th' Emathian phalanx, nobly obstinate; 
 
 And so the bright immortal Theban band, 
 
 Whom onset, fiercely urged at Jove's command. 
 
 Might overwhelm, but could not separate ! 
 
 Hail, Twilight, sovereign of one peaceful hour! 
 
 Not dull art thou as un discerning Night; 
 
 But studious only to remove from siglit 
 
 Day's mutable distinctions. Ancient Power! 
 
 Thus did the waters gleam, the mountains lour. 
 
 To the rude Briton, when, in wolf-skin vest 
 
 Here roving wild, he laid him down to rest 
 
 On the bare rock, or through a leafy bower 
 
 Look'd ere his eyes were closed. By him was seen 
 
 The self-same Vision which we now behold. 
 
 At thy meek bidding, shadowy Power! brought forth; 
 
 These mighty barriers, and the gulf between; 
 
 The flood, the stars, — a spectacle as old 
 
 As the beginning of the Heavens and Earth! 
 
 With how sad steps, Moon, thou climb'st the sky, 
 
 " How silently, and with how wan a face ! " 
 
 Where art thou? thou so often seen on high 
 
 Eunning among the clouds a AVood-nymph's race! 
 
 Unhappy Nuns, whose common breath's a sigh 
 
 Which they would stifle, move at such a pace ! 
 
 The northern Wind, to call thee to the chase, 
 
 Must blow to-night his bugle horn. Had I 
 
 The power of Merlin, Goddess! this should be: 
 
 And all the stars, fast as the clouds Avere riven, 
 
 Should sally forth, to keep thee company. 
 
 Hurrying and sparkling through the clear blue heaven; 
 
 But, Cynthia! should to thee the palm be given. 
 
 Queen both for beauty and for majesty. 
 
 EvEK as a dragon's eye that feels the stress 
 Of a bedimming sleep, or as a lamp 
 
78 WOEDSWORTH. 
 
 Suddenly glaring through sepulchral damp, 
 So burns yon Taper 'mid a black recess 
 Of mountains, silent, dreary, motionless: 
 The lake below reflects it not; the sky 
 Muffled in clouds, affords no company 
 To mitigate and cheer its loneliness. 
 Yet, round the body of that joyless Thing 
 Which sends so far its melancholy light. 
 Perhaps are seated in domestic ring 
 A gay society with faces bright, 
 Conversing, reading, laughing; — or they sing, 
 While hearts and voices in the song unite. 
 
 The stars are mansions built by Nature's hand, 
 And, haply, there the spirits of the blest 
 Dwell, clothed in radiance, their immortal vest; 
 Huge Ocean shows, within his yellow strand, 
 A habitation marvellously plann'd. 
 For life to occupy in love and rest; 
 All that we see is dome, or vault, or nest, 
 Or fortress, rear'd at Nature's sage command. 
 Glad thought for every season ! but the Spring 
 Gave it while cares were weighing on my heart, 
 'Mid song of birds, and insects murmuring; 
 And while the youthful year's prolific art — 
 Of bud, leaf, blade, and flower — was fashioning 
 Abodes where self -disturbance hath no part. 
 
 Despondi]!^g Father! mark this alter'd bough. 
 
 So beautiful of late, with sunshine warm'd. 
 
 Or moist with dews; w^hat more unsightly now. 
 
 Its blossoms shrivell'd, and its fruit, if form'd, 
 
 Invisible? yet Spring her genial brow 
 
 Knits not o'er that discolouring and decay 
 
 As false to expectation. Nor fret thou 
 
 At like unlovely process in the May 
 
 Of human life: a Stripling's graces blow, 
 
 Fade and are shed, that from their timely fall 
 
 (Misdeem it not a cankerous change) may grow 
 
 Eich mellow bearings, that for thanks shall call: 
 
 In all men, sinful is it to be slow 
 
 To hope, — in Parents, sinful above all. 
 
 Brook! whose society the Poet seeks. 
 Intent his wasted spirits to renew; 
 
MISCELLANEOUS SOKKETS. 79 
 
 And whom the curious Painter doth pursue 
 Through rocky passes, among flowery creeks, 
 And tracks thee dancing down thy water-breaks ; 
 If wish were mine some type of thee to view, 
 Tjj)e, and not thee thyself, I would not do 
 Like Grecian Artists, give thee human cheeks, 
 Channels for tears ; no Naiad shouldst thou be, — 
 Have neither limbs, feet, feathers, joints nor hairs: 
 It seems th' Eternal Soul is clothed in thee 
 With purer robes than those of flesh and blood, 
 And hath bestow'd on thee a safer good ; 
 Unwearied Joy, and life without its cares. 
 
 COMPOSED UPOJS^ WESTMINSTER BRIDGE, SEPT. 3, 1802. 
 
 Earth has not any thing 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 splendour, valley, rock, or hill ; 
 
 Ne'er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep! 
 
 The river glideth at his own sweet will: 
 
 Dear God! the very houses seem asleep; 
 
 And all that mighty heart is lying still! 
 
 They call'd Thee Merry England, in old time: 
 
 A hapi)y people won for thee that name 
 
 With envy heard in many a distant clime; 
 
 And, spite of change, for me thou keep'st the same 
 
 Endearing title, a responsive chime 
 
 To the heart's fond belief; though some there are 
 
 Whose sterner judgments deem that word a snare 
 
 For inattentive Fancy, like the lime 
 
 That foolish birds are caught with. Can, I ask, 
 
 This face of rural beauty be a mask 
 
 For discontent, and poverty, and crime? 
 
 These spreading towns a cloak for lawless will? 
 
 Forbid it. Heaven! — and Merry England still 
 
 Sliall be thy rightful name, in prose and rhyme! 
 
80 WOKDSWORTH. ■ 
 
 1 
 OXFORD, MAY 30, 1820. | 
 
 Ye sacred Nurseries of blooming Youth, j 
 
 In whose collegiate shelter England's Flowers i 
 
 Expand, enjoying through their vernal hours : 
 
 The air of liberty, the light of truth; * 
 
 Much have ye suffer'd from Time's gnawing tooth: ,; 
 Yet, ye spires of Oxford! domes and towers! 
 
 Gardens and groves ! your presence overpowers '. 
 
 The soberness of reason; till, in sooth, ' 
 
 Transform'd, and rushing on a bold exchange, ' 
 
 I slight my own beloved Cam, to range [ 
 
 Where silver Isis leads my stripling feet; | 
 
 Pace the long avenue, or glide adown i 
 
 The stream-like windings of that glorious street, — J 
 
 An eager Novice robed in fluttering gown! : 
 
 QXFOED, MAY 30, 1820. ^ 
 
 Shame on this faithless heart ! that could allow 
 
 Such transport, though but for a moment's space; 
 
 Not while — to aid the spirit of the place — 
 
 The crescent Moon clove with its glittering prow I 
 
 The clouds, or night-bird sang from shady bough; | 
 
 But in plain daylight: — She, too, at my side, j 
 
 Who, with her heart's experience satisfied, \ 
 
 Maintains inviolate its slightest vow ! ® 
 
 Sv/eet Fancy, other gifts must I receive; ' i 
 
 Proofs of a higher sovereignty I claim : * 
 
 Take from her brow the withering flowers of eve, .; 
 
 And to that brow life's morning wreath restore; | 
 
 Let her be comprehended in the frame j 
 
 Of these illusions, or they please no more. .! 
 
 A PAESOI^^AGE I:N" OXFOEDSHIRE.' 
 
 Wheee holy ground begins, unhallow'd ends, i 
 
 Is mark'd by no distinguishable line ; * 
 
 The turf unites, the pathways intertwine; '■ 
 
 And, Avhercsoe'er the stealing footstep tends, j 
 
 Garden, and that domain where kindred, friends, 
 
 6 Referring to the poet's wife, who accompanied him on his visit to Oxford at this j 
 time. In what follows, the poet checks his Fancy, whicli had almost transformed him j 
 into a youthful student, and recalls it to the matter-of-fac.t blessings of his wedded i 
 life. His home, and the ti*easures it contained, were indeed a perennial spring of in- ■ 
 spiration to him : there his great, simple, earnest mind had many of its best and hap- = 
 piest kindUn<?s. 
 
 7 Where the Rev. Robert Jones, the poet's old college friend and fellow-traveller ; 
 among the Alps, resided many years. Wordsworth has the following in reference to ' 
 him : *' This excellent person,' one of my earliest and dearest friends, died in the year ■ 
 183.5. We were undergraduates together of the same year, at the same college; and \ 
 companions in many a delightful ramble through his own romantic countiy of North' 
 Wales. Our long friendship was never subject to a moment's interruption." 
 
MISCELLAN'EOUS SOiq-^ETS. 81 
 
 And neighbours rest together, here confound 
 
 Their several features, mingled like the sound 
 
 Of many waters, or as evening blends 
 
 With shady night. Soft airs, from shrub and flower, 
 
 "Waft fragrant greetings to eacli silent grave ; 
 
 And while those lofty poplars gently wave 
 
 Their tops, between them comes and goes a sky 
 
 Bright as the glimpses of eternity 
 
 To saints accorded in their mortal hour. 
 
 COMPOSED AMOKG THE RUINS OF A CASTLE IZS" KORTH WALES. 
 
 Through shatter'd galleries, 'mid roofless halls. 
 Wandering with timid footsteps oft betray'd, 
 The Stranger sighs, nor scruples to upbraid 
 Old Time, though he, gentlest among the Thralls 
 Of Destiny, upon these wounds hath laid 
 His lenient touches, soft as light that falls, 
 Prom the wan Moon, upon the towers and walls, 
 Light deepening the profoundest sleep of shade. 
 Eelic of Kings ! Wreck of forgotten wars, 
 To winds abandon'd and the prying stars. 
 Time loves Thee ! at his call the seasons twine 
 Luxuriant wreaths around thy forehead hoar ; 
 And, though past pomp no changes can restore, 
 A soothing recompense, his gift, is thine ! 
 
 AT FLORENCE. — FROM MICHAEL AKGELO. 
 
 Rapt above Earth by power of one fair face. 
 Hers in whose sway alone my heart delights, 
 I mingle with the blest on those pure heights 
 Where Man, yet mortal, rarely finds a place. 
 With Him who made the Work that Work accords 
 So well, that by its help and through His grace 
 I raise my thoughts, inform my deeds and words. 
 Clasping her beauty in my soul's embrace. 
 Thus, if from two fair eyes mine cannot turn, 
 I feel how in their presence doth abide 
 Light which to God is both the way and guide ; 
 And, kindling at their lustre, if I burn, 
 My noble fire emits the Joyful ray 
 That through the realms of glory shines for aye. 
 
 AT FLORENCE. — FROM MICHAEL ANGELO. 
 
 Eternal Lord ! eased of a cumbrous load. 
 And loosen'd from the world, I turn to Thee ; 
 Shun, like a shatter'd bark, the storm, and flee 
 
WORDSWORTH. 
 
 To Thy protection for a safe abode. 
 
 The crown of thorns, hands pierced upon the tree, 
 
 The meek, benign, and lacerated face, 
 
 To a sincere repentance promise grace, 
 
 To the sad soul give hope of pardon free. 
 
 With justice mark not Thou, Light divine! 
 
 My fault, nor hear it with Thy sacred ear ; 
 
 Neither put forth that way Thy arm severe ; 
 
 Wash with thy blood my sins ; thereto incline 
 
 More readily the more my years require 
 
 Help, and forgiveness speedy and entire. 
 
 IJf LOMBARDY. 
 
 See, where his diificult way that Old Man wins 
 Bent by a load of Mulberi7 leaves ! Most hard 
 Appears Ms lot, to the small Worm's compared, 
 For whom his toil with early day begins. 
 Acknowledging no task-master, at will 
 (As if her labour and her ease were twins) 
 She seems to work, at pleasure to lie still ; 
 And softly sleeps within the thread she spins. 
 So fare they, — the man serving as her Slave. 
 Ere long their fates do each to each conform : 
 Both pass into new being, — but the Worm, 
 Transfigured, sinks into a hopeless grave; 
 His volant Spirit will, he trusts, ascend 
 To bliss unbounded, glory without end. 
 
 THE IKFAKT M- 
 
 Ui^QUiET Childhood here by special grace 
 
 Forgets her nature, opening like a flower 
 
 That neither feeds nor wastes its vital power ; 
 
 In painful struggles. Months each other chase, 
 
 And nought untunes that Infant's voice ; ® no trace 
 
 Of fretful temper sullies her pure cheek ; 
 
 Prompt, lively, self-sufficing, yet so meek 
 
 That one enrapt with gazing on her face 
 
 (Which even the placid innocence of death 
 
 Could scarcely make more placid, heaven more bright) 
 
 Might learn to picture, for the eye of faith, 
 
 Tlie Virgin, as she shone v/ith kindred light; ' 
 
 A nursling couch'd upon her mother's knee, ; 
 
 Beneath some shady palm of Galilee. 
 
 8 -This infant was Mary Monkhouse, the only daughter of Wordsworth's friend \ 
 and cousin, Thomas Monkhouse. 
 
MISCELLAKEOUS SOI^N^ETS. 83 
 
 TO , IX HER SEVEjq^TIETH YEAR.® 
 
 Such age how beautiful ! Lady bright, 
 
 Whose mortal lineaments seem all refined 
 
 By favouring I^ature and a saintly Mind 
 
 To something purer and more exquisite 
 
 Than flesh and blood ; whene'er thou meet'st my sight, 
 
 When I behold thy blanch'd unwither'd cheek, 
 
 Thy temples fringed with locks of gleaming white. 
 
 And head that droops because the soul is meek, 
 
 Thee with the welcome Snowdrop I compare ; 
 
 That child of Winter, prompting thoughts that climb 
 
 From desolation toward the genial prime ; 
 
 Or with the Moon conquering earth's misty air, 
 
 And filling more and more with crystal light 
 
 As pensive Evening deepens into night. 
 
 TO ROTHA Q . 
 
 RoTHA, my Spritual Child ! this head was grey 
 
 When at the sacred font for thee I stood ; 
 
 Pledged till thou reach the verge of womanhood, 
 
 And shalt become thy own sufficient stay : 
 
 Too late, I feel, sweet Or^ohan! was the day 
 
 For steadfast hope the contract to fulfil ; 
 
 Yet shall my blessing hover o'er thee still, 
 
 Embodied in the music of this Laj^, 
 
 Breathed forth beside the peaceful mountain Stream 
 
 Whose murmur soothed thy languid Mother's ear 
 
 After her throes, — this Stream of name more dear 
 
 Since thou dost bear it ; ^ — a memorial theme 
 
 For others ; for thy future self, a spell 
 
 To summon fancies out of Time's dark cell. 
 
 Why art thou silent ? Is thy love a plant 
 
 Of such weak fibre that the treacherous air 
 
 Of absence withers what was once so fair ? 
 
 Is there no debt to pay, no boon to grant? 
 
 Yet have my thoughts for thee been vigilant, — 
 
 Bound to thy service with unceasing care. 
 
 The mind's least generous wish a mendicant 
 
 For nought but what thy happiness could spare. 
 
 Speak, — though this soft Avarm heart, once free to hold 
 
 A thousand tender pleasures, thine and mine, 
 
 9 Lady Fitzgerald, as described to the poet by Lady Beaumont. 
 
 1 The river Rotha, which flows into Windermere from the Lakes of Grasmere anfj 
 Sydal.— The child was the daughter of Mr. Edward Quillinan, who, alter the death 
 )ihis first wife, was married to the poet's daughter Dora. 
 
84 WOEDSWOKTH. 
 
 Be left more desolate, more dreary cold 
 
 Than a forsaken bird's-nest fiU'd with snow 
 
 'Mid its own bnsh of leafless eglantine, — 
 
 Speak, that my torturing doubts their end may know ! ^ 
 
 A Poet ! — He hath put his heart to school, 
 
 Nor dares to move unpropp'd upon the stalf 
 
 Which Art hath lodged within his hand, — must laugh 
 
 By precept only, and shed tears by rule. 
 
 Thy Art be Nature ; the live current quaff, 
 
 And let the groveller sip his stagnant pool. 
 
 In fear that else, when Critics grave and cool 
 
 Have kill'd him, Scorn should write his epitaph. 
 
 How does the Meadow-flower its bloom unfold ? 
 
 Because the lovely little flower is free 
 
 Down to its root, and, in that freedom, bold ; 
 
 And so the grandeur of the Forest-tree 
 
 Comes not by casting in a formal mould, 
 
 But from its own divine vitality.^ 
 
 The most alluring clouds that mount the sky 
 
 Owe to a troubled element their forms, 
 
 Their hues to sunset. If with raptured eye 
 
 We watch their splendour, shall we covet storms, 
 
 And wish the Lord of day his slow decline \ 
 
 Would hasten, that such pomp may float on high? 
 
 Behold, already they forget to shine, 
 
 Dissolve, — and leave to him who gazed a sigh. i 
 
 Not loth to thank each moment for its boon 
 
 Of pure delight, come whencesoe'er it may. 
 
 Peace let us seek, — to steadfast things attune 
 
 Calm expectations ; leaving to the gay 
 
 And volatile their love of transient bowers. 
 
 The house that cannot pass away be ours ! 
 
 COMPOSED OlS A MAY MOEIII^IN'G, 1838. 
 
 Life with yon Lambs, like day, is just begun. 
 Yet Nature seems to them a heavenly guide. 
 Does joy approach ? they meet the coming tide ; 
 And sullenness avoid, as now they shun 
 
 2 This sonnet was, in fact, written without the least reference to any individual 
 object, but merely to prove to myself that I could, if I thought fit, write in a strain 
 that poets have been fond of. — Author's Notes. 
 
 3 I was impelled to write this sonnet by the disgusting frequency with which the 
 word artisticai is employed by writers of the present day. For artistical let them sub- 
 stitute artiii.r.inl, and the poetry A\Titten on this system will be, for the most part, 
 much better charaterised. — Author's Notes. 
 
MISCELIANEOUS SONNETS. 85 
 
 Pale twilight's lingering glooms, — and in the sun 
 Conch near tlieir dams, with quiet satisfied ; 
 Or gambol, — each with his shadow at his side, 
 Varying its shape wherever he may run. 
 As they from turf yet hoar with sleepy dew 
 All turn, and court the shining and the green, 
 Where herbs look up, and opening flowers are seen ; 
 Why to God's goodness cannot We be true, 
 And so, His gifts and promises between, 
 Feed to the last on pleasures ever new ? 
 
 TO A PAINTER. 
 
 All praise the likeness by thy skill portray'd ; 
 
 But 'tis a fruitless task to paint for me, 
 
 Who, yielding not to changes time has made, 
 
 By the habitual light of memory see 
 
 Eyes unbedimm'd, see bloom that cannot fade, 
 
 And smiles that from their birth-place ne'er shall flee 
 
 Into the land where ghosts and phantoms be ; 
 
 And, seeing this, own nothing in its stead. 
 
 Oouldst thou go back into far-distant years. 
 
 Or share with me, fond thought ! that inward eye, 
 
 Then, and then only. Painter, could thy Art 
 
 The visual powers of Nature satisfy. 
 
 Which hold, whate'er to common sight appears. 
 
 Their sovereign empire in a faithful heart.'* 
 
 ON THE SAME SUBJECT. 
 
 Though I beheld at first with blank surprise 
 This Work, I now have gazed on it so long 
 I see its truth with unreluctant eyes. 
 0, my Beloved ! I have done thee wrong, 
 Conscious of blessedness, but, whence it sprung, 
 Ever too heedless, as I now perceive: 
 Morn into noon did pass, noon into eve, 
 And the old day was welcome as the young, 
 As welcome, and as beautiful, — in sooth 
 More beautiful, as being a thing more holy : 
 Thanks to thy virtues, to th' eternal youth 
 Of all thy goodness, never melancholy ; 
 To thy large heart and humble mind, that cast 
 Into one vision, future, present, past. 
 
 4 This sonnet and the next refer to a portrait of Mrs. Wordsworth from the pencil 
 of Miss M. Gillies, who spent several weeks at the poet's home. 
 
86 WORDSWORTH. 
 
 Hark! 'tis the Thrush, "undaunted, undeprest. 
 By twilight premature of cloud and rain ; 
 Nor does that roaring wind deaden his strain 
 Who carols thinking of his Love and nest, 
 And seems, as more incited, still more blest. 
 Thanks ! thou hast snapp'd a fire-side Prisoner's chain, 
 Exulting Warbler ! eased a fretted brain, 
 And in a moment charm'd my cares to rest. 
 Yes, I will forth, bold Bird, and front the blast, 
 That we may sing together, if thou wilt, 
 So loud, so clear, my Partner through life's day, 
 Mute in her nest love-chosen, if not love-built 
 Like thine, shall gladden, as in seasons past, 
 ThrilFd by loose snatches of the social Lay. 
 Eydal ^louKT, 1838. 
 
 Fly, some kind Harbinger, to Grasmere-dale ! 
 
 Say that we come, and come by this day's light ; 
 
 Fly upon swiftest wing round field and heiglit, 
 
 But chiefly let one Cottage hear the tale ; 
 
 There let a mystery of joy prevail, 
 
 The kitten frolic, like a gamesome sprite, 
 
 And Eover whine, as at a second sight 
 
 Of near- approaching good that shall not fail : 
 
 And from that Infant's face let joy appear ; 
 
 Yea, let our Mary's one companion child — ' 
 
 That hath her six wrecks' solitude beguiled 
 
 With intimations manifold and dear, 
 
 While we have wander'd over wood and wild — 
 
 Smile on his Mother now with bolder cheer.*^ [1803. 
 
 TO THE RIVER DERWENT. 
 
 Amoxg the mountains we were nursed, loved Stream ! 
 
 Thou near the eagle's nest, — within brief sail, 
 
 I, of his bold wing floating on the gale. 
 
 Where thy deep voice could lull me ! Faint the beam 
 
 Of human life when first allow'd to gleam 
 
 On mortal notice. — Glory of the vale. 
 
 Such thy meek outset, with a crown, though frail, 
 
 Kept in perpetual verdure by the steam 
 
 Of thy soft breath ! Less vivid wreath entwined 
 
 Nemsean victor's brow ; less bright was worn, 
 
 5 This sonnet was made upon the occasion of the poet and his sister returning 
 from a long tour which they had taken, mostly on foot, through various parts of Scot- 
 Land. The author tells us they reached home' the very day of the composition. His 
 first child was born a short time before he set out on the tour. 
 
MISCELLANEOUS SOiq-jq^ETS. 87 
 
 Meed of some Roman chief, — in triimipli borne 
 "With captives chain'd ; and shedding from his car 
 The sunset splendours of a finish'd war 
 Upon the proud enslavers of mankind ! 
 
 Ilf SIGHT OF THE TOWi^^ OF COCKERMOUTH. 
 
 ( Where the Author was born, and his Father's remains are laid.) 
 
 A POiN^T of life between my Parents' dust, 
 And yours, my buried Little-ones ! am I ; 
 And to. those graves looking habitually 
 In kindred quiet I repose my trust. 
 Death to the innocent is more than just, 
 And, to the sinner, mercifully bent ; 
 So may I hope, if truly I repent, 
 And meekly bear the ills which bear I must: 
 And you, my Offspring ! that do still remain. 
 Yet may outstrip me in th' appointed race. 
 If e'er, through fault of mine, in mutual pain 
 We breathed together for a moment's space, 
 The wrong, by love provok'd, let love arraign. 
 And only love keep in your hearts a place. 
 
 [K THE CHAKKEL, BETWEEN" THE COAST OF CUMBERLAND AND 
 THE ISLE OF MAN. 
 
 Eanging the heights of Scawfell or Black-comb, 
 
 In his lone course the Shepherd oft will pause. 
 
 And strive to fathom the mysterious laws 
 
 By which the clouds, array'd in light or gloom. 
 
 On Mona settle, and the shapes assume 
 
 Of all her peaks and ridges. What he draws 
 
 From sense, faith, reason, fancy, of the cause, 
 
 He will take with him to the silent tomb. 
 
 Or, by his fire, a child upon his knee, 
 
 Haply th' untaught Philosopher may speak 
 
 Of the strange sight, nor hide his theory 
 
 That satisfies the simple and the meek. 
 
 Blest in their pious ignorance, though weak 
 
 To cope with Sages undevoutly free. 
 
 AT SEA OFF THE ISLE OF MAN. 
 
 Bold words affirm'd, in days when faith was strong 
 And doubts and scruples seldom teazed the brain, 
 That no adventurer's bark had power to gain 
 These shores if he approach'd them bent on wrong ; 
 For, suddenly up-conjured from the Main, 
 Mists rose to hide the Land ; that search, though long 
 
88 WOEDSWORTH. 
 
 And eager, miglit be still pursued in vain. 
 O Fancy, what an age was that for song! 
 That age, when not by laws inanimate, 
 As men believed, the waters were impelled, 
 The air controll'd, the stars their courses held ; 
 But element and orb on acts did wait 
 Of Powers endued with visible form, instinct 
 With will, and to their work by passion link'd. 
 
 TO THE PLANET YENUS. 
 ( Upon its approximation, as an Evening Star, to the Earth, Jan. 1838.) 
 
 "What strong allurement draws, what spirit guides, 
 Thee, Vesper, brightening still, as if, the nearer 
 Thou com'st to man's abode, the spot grew dearer 
 Night after night? True is it, Nature hides 
 Her treasures less and less. Man now presides 
 In power, where once he trembled in his weakness ; 
 Science advances with gigantic strides : 
 But are we aught enrich'd in love and meekness? 
 Aught dost thou see, bright Star ! of pure and wise 
 More than in humbler times graced human story ? 
 That makes our hearts more apt to sj'mpathise 
 With Heaven, our souls more fit for future glory, 
 When Earth shall vanish from our closing eyes, 
 Ere we lie down in our last dormitory ? 
 
 MARY QUEE:S" of SCOTS. 
 (Landing at the mouth of the Derwent, Workington.) 
 
 Dear to the Loves, and to the Graces vow'd. 
 The Queen drew back the wimple that she wore ; 
 And to the throng, that on tlie Cumbrian shore 
 Her landing hail'd, how touchingly she bow'd ! 
 And like a Star (that, from a heavy cloud 
 Of pine-tree foliage poised in air, forth darts. 
 When a soft summer gale at evening parts 
 The gloom that did its loveliness enshroud) 
 She smiled: but Time, the old Saturnian seer, 
 Sigh'd on the wing as her foot press'd the strand, 
 AVith step prelusive to a long array 
 Of woes and degradations hand in hand, — 
 Weeping captivity, and shuddering fear 
 Stiird by til' ensanguined block of Fotheringay! 
 
 ON" THE SIGHT OF A MAN^SE IJS" THE SOUTH OF SCOTLAND. 
 
 Say, ye far-travell'd clouds, far-seeing hills, — 
 Among the happiest-looking homes of men 
 
MISCELLANEOUS SONKETS. 89 
 
 Scattered all Britain over, through deep glen, 
 
 On airy upland, and by forest rills, 
 
 And o'er wide plains cheer'd by the lark that trills 
 
 His sky-born warblings, — does aught meet your ken 
 
 More fit to animate the Poet's pen. 
 
 Aught that more surely by its aspect fills 
 
 Pure minds with sinless envy, than tli' Abode 
 
 Of the good Priest? who, faithful through all hours 
 
 To his high charge, and truly serving God, 
 
 Has yet a heart and hand for trees and flowers, 
 
 Enjoys the walks his predecessors trod, 
 
 Nor covets lineal rights in lands and towers. 
 
 COMPOSED IK HOSLIN CHAPEL, DUEIiiTG A STOEM. 
 
 The wind is now thy organist ; — a clank 
 
 (We know not whence) ministers for a bell 
 
 To mark some change of service. As the swell 
 
 Of music reach'd its height, and even when sank 
 
 The notes, in prelude, Roslin ! to a blank 
 
 Of silence, how it thrill'd thy sumptuous roof. 
 
 Pillars, and arches, — not in vain time-proof, 
 
 Though Christian rites be wanting ! From what bank 
 
 Came those live herbs ? by what hand were they sown 
 
 Where dew falls not, where rain-drops seem unknown? 
 
 Yet in the Temple they a friendly niche 
 
 Share with their sculptured fellows, that, green-grown, 
 
 Copy their beauty more and more, and preach, 
 
 Though mute, of all things blending into one. 
 
 SUGGESTED AT TYNDRUM li^ A STORM. 
 
 Enough of garlands, of th' Arcadian crook. 
 
 And all that Greece and Italy have sung 
 
 Of swains reposing myrtle groves among ! 
 
 Ours couch on naked rocks, — will cross a brook 
 
 Swoln with chill rains, nor ever cast a look 
 
 This way or that, or give it even a thought 
 
 More than by smoothest pathway may be brought 
 
 Into a vacant mind. Can written book 
 
 Teach v\^hat they learn ? Up, hardy Mountaineer ! 
 
 And guide the Bard, ambitious to be One 
 
 Of Nature's privy council, as thou art. 
 
 On cloud-sequester'd heights, that see and hear 
 
 To what dread Powers He delegates his ])art 
 
 On Earth, who works in th' Heaven of heavens, alone. 
 
90 WOEDSWORTH. 
 
 THE EARL OF BREADALBAN^E's RUIN^ED MAl^TSION", A]S"D FAM- 
 ILY BURIAL-PLACE, I^^EAR KILLIN". 
 
 "Well sang the Bard who calFd the grave, in strains 
 Thoughtful and sad, the " narrow house." No style 
 Of fond sepulchral flattery can beguile 
 Grief of her sting ; nor cheat, where he detains 
 The sleeping dust, stern Death. How reconcile 
 With truth, or with each other, deck'd remains 
 Of a once w^arm Abode, and that 7iew Pile, 
 For the departed, built with curious pains 
 And mausolean pomp? Yet here they stand 
 Together, — 'mid trim walks and artful bowers, 
 To be look'd down upon by ancient hills. 
 That, for the living and the dead, demand 
 And prompt a harmony of genuine powers; 
 Concord that elevates the mind, and stills. 
 
 TO THE PLAN^ET VENUS, AN EVENINa STAR. 
 {Composed at Loch Lomond.) 
 
 Though joy attend Thee orient at the birth 
 
 Of dawn, it cheers the lofty spirit most 
 
 To watch thy course when Day-light, fled from Earth, 
 
 In the grey sky hath left his lingering Ghost, 
 
 Perplex'd as if between a splendour lost 
 
 And splendour slowly mustering. Since the Sun, 
 
 The absolute, the world-absorbing One, 
 
 Kelinquish'd half his empire to the host 
 
 Embolden'd by thy guidance, holy Star, — 
 
 Holy as princely, — who that looks on thee 
 
 Touching, as now, in thy humility 
 
 The mountain borders of this seat of care, 
 
 Can question that thy countenance is bright, 
 
 Celestial Power, as much with love as light? 
 
 BOTH WELL CASTLE. 
 
 {Passed unseen, on account of stormy weather.) 
 
 Immured in Bothwell's towers, at times the Brave 
 
 (So beautiful is Clyde) forgot to mourn 
 
 The liberty they lost at Bannockburn. 
 
 Once on those steeps / roam'd at large, and have 
 
 In mind the landscape, as if still in sight ; 
 
 The river glides, the woods before me wave : 
 
 Then why repine that now in vain I crave 
 
 Needless renewal of an old delight? 
 
 Better to thank a dear and long-past day 
 
MISCELLAKEOUS SONJ^^ETS. 91 
 
 For joy its sunny hours were free to give 
 Than blame the present, that our wish hath crost. 
 Memory, like sleep, hath powers which dreams obey, 
 Dreams, vivid dreams, that are not fugitive: 
 How little that she cherishes is lost ! 
 
 (At the head of Glencroe.) , 
 
 Doubling and doubling with laborious walk, : 
 
 Who, that has gain'd at length the wish'd-for Height, i 
 
 This brief, this simple way-side Call can slight, ] 
 
 And rests not thankful? Whether cheer'd by talk j 
 
 With some loved friend, or by the unseen hawk i 
 
 Whistling to clouds and sky-born streams, that shine j 
 
 At the Sun's outbreak, as with light divine, '■ 
 
 Ere they descend to nourish root and stalk 
 
 Of valley flowers. Nor, while the limbs repose, , 
 
 Will we forget that, as the fowl can keep ; 
 
 Absolute stillness, poised aloft in air. 
 
 And fishes front, unmoved, the torrent's sweep, — ■ 
 
 So may the Soul, through powers that Faith bestows, > 
 
 Win rest, and ease, and peace, with bliss that Angels share. ' 
 
 HIGHLAND HUT. 
 
 See what gay wild flowers deck this earth-built Cot, 
 
 Whose smoke, forth-issuing whence and how it may, '■ 
 
 Shines in the greeting of the Sun's first ray 
 
 Like wreaths of vapour without stain or blot. I 
 
 The limpid mountain rill avoids it not; 
 
 And why shouldst thou? — If rightly train'd and bred, \ 
 
 Humanity is humble, finds no spot 
 
 W^hieh her Heaven -guided feet refuse to tread. 
 
 The walls are crack'd, sunk is the flowery roof, ' 
 
 TJndress'd the pathway leading to the door; 
 
 But love, as Nature loves, the lonely Poor; j 
 
 Search, for their worth, some gentle heart wrong-proof, ! 
 
 Meek, patient, kind, and, were its trials fewer. 
 
 Belike less happy. — Stand no more aloof! 
 
92 WORDSWOKTH. 
 
 LINES 
 
 COMPOSED A FEW MILES ABOVE TINTERN ABBEY, ON 
 REVISITING THE BANKS OF THE WYE DURING 
 
 A TOUR, JULY 13th, 1798. 
 
 Five years have past; 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.® — 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, 
 
 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 OAved 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 unremember'd pleasure; such, perhaps. 
 As have no slight or trivial influence 
 On that best portion of a good man's life. 
 His little, nameless, unremember'd 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 whicli the burthen of the mystery. 
 In wliich the heavy and the weary weight 
 
 6 The river is not affected by the tides a few inilcs ahove Tintern. 
 
TINTEEK ABBEY. 
 
 Of all this unintelligible world, 
 
 Is ligliten'd; — 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 
 Be but a vain belief, yet, 0, how oft, — 
 In darkness and amid the many shapes 
 Of joyless daylight; when the fretful stir 
 Unprofitable, and the fever of the Avorld, 
 Have hung wpon the beatings of my heart, — 
 How oft, in spirit, have I turn'd to thee, 
 
 sylvan Wye ! thou wanderer through the woods, 
 How often has my spirit turn'd to thee! 
 
 And now, with gleams of half-extinguish'd thought. 
 With many recognitions dim and faint, 
 And somewhat of a sad perplexity, 
 The picture of the mind revives again; 
 While here I stand, not only with the sense 
 Of present pleasure, but with pleasing thoughts 
 That in this moment there is life and food 
 For future years. And so I dare to hope. 
 Though changed, no doubt, from what I was when first 
 
 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 J^ature led : more like a man 
 Flying from something that he dreads, than one 
 Who sought the thing he loved. For Nature then 
 (The coarser pleasures of my boyish days. 
 
 And their glad animal movements all gone by) 
 To me was all in all. — I cannot paint 
 What then I was. The sounding cataract 
 Haunted me like a passion : the tall rock. 
 The mountain, and the deep and gloomy wood. 
 Their colours and tlieir 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 
 Unborrow'd from the eye. — ^'That time is past. 
 And all its aching joys are now no more, 
 
94 
 
 WOBDSWORTH. 
 
 And all its dizzy raptures. ISTot for this 
 :^aint I nor moLirn nor mnrmur: other gifts 
 Have follow'd; for such loss, I would believe. 
 Abundant recompense. For I have learned 
 To look on Nature, not as in the hour 
 
 tL inlf I f ' ^^-'^^i .^"^ ^^^^^'^"^ oftentimes 
 1 he stii], sad music of humanity 
 
 ^or harsh nor grating, though of ample power 
 
 lo chasten and subdue. And I have felt 
 
 A presence that disturbs me with the loy 
 
 Of elevated thoughts; a sense sublime 
 
 0± something far more deeply interfused. 
 
 Whose dwellmg is. the light of setting suns. 
 
 And the round ocean, and the living air, 
 
 And the blue sky, and in the mind of man- 
 
 Ti?l? .^^^ and a spirit, that impels 
 
 All thinking things, all objects of all thought, 
 
 t^^i? f i'"""^^' f ^ ^^''''^''' Therefore 2m I still 
 A lover of the meadows and the woods 
 And mountains; and of all that we behold 
 ^rom this green earth; of all the mighty world 
 Of eye and ear,- both what they half create. 
 And what perceiye; well pleased to recognise. 
 In JNature and the language of the sense! 
 The anchor of my purest thoughts, the nurse, 
 1 he guide, the guardian of my heart, and soul 
 Ol all my moral being. 
 
 T» T ^ ,, N'or, perchance. 
 
 If I were not thus taught, should I the more 
 Gutter my genial spirits to decay: 
 nf^i*-^^? F^ ^^ith me here upon the banks 
 Vf ]^^ ^'^^®^'' *^^^^ ^y dearest Friend, 
 My dear, dear Friend; and in thy voice I catch 
 The language of my former heart, and read 
 My lormer pleasures in the shooting lights 
 
 ?T y,^'^^. ?^^^'- ^> ye* ^ little while 
 May I behold m thee what I was once. 
 My dear, dear Sister! and this prayer I make, 
 -Knowing that Nature never did betray 
 Ihe heart that loved her; 'tis her privilege. 
 Through all the years of this our life, to lead 
 J^rom joy to joy: for she can so inform 
 
 theism.''' ifu? Wo'SS^^J1Kf;;^;:J 1"^,^ *^»^'^* '\y «««»« to savour of Pan- 
 imniateria], as beinJr iS-.'^(lJ,f l,v liv^L'''" all Nature, material and 
 
 beauty-making Po veJfwh cU -Sun- n l n^l.?."/''^'''"!"^' >" diligent Soul, a conscious 
 Omnipresence. ^"''^*' ^^"^^'^' '^^^01 all, may be only another term for the Divine 
 
II2n:ERiT ABBEY. 95 
 
 The mind that is within ns, so impress 
 
 With quietness and beaiitv, and so feed 
 
 With lofty thoughts, that neither evil tongues, 
 
 Eash judgments, nor the sneers of selfish men, 
 
 Kor gi'eetings where no kindness is, nor ail 
 
 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 Avild 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; 0, 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! Xor, perchance, — 
 
 If I should be where I no more can hear 
 
 Thy voice, nor catcli from thy wild eyes these gleams 
 
 Of past existence, — wilt thou then forget 
 
 That on the banks of this delightful stream 
 
 We stood together; and that I. so long 
 
 A worshipper of Xature, hither came 
 
 Unwearied in that service; rather say 
 
 With warmer love, — 0, with far deeper zeal 
 
 Of holier love I Xor wilt thou then forget, 
 
 That after many wanderings, many years 
 
 Of absence, these steex"> woods and lofty cliffs. 
 
 And this green pastoral landscape, were to me 
 
 More dear, both for themselves and for thy sake.® [1T98. 
 
 8 This i3 decidedly one of Woi-ds worth's most characteristic strains. It was given 
 to the world in his lii-st volume of Luricd Ba'^ods, ITOS, and may be not unjustly said 
 to have inaugoii-ated a new era in English Poetiy. Perhaps a more original vein was 
 never stiiick by any uninspired hand": certainly "England had not produce<l any tiling 
 approaching it in originality since the days of "Milton. The enthusiastic worship of 
 Xature here ilisplayed mayseem excessive to some; though this veiy excess, if such 
 it be, constitutes, in part, the unique and peculiar charm of the poem. To the poet's 
 early love of Nature, as kindled and fed by the lakes and streams and mountains of 
 his native region, there had succeeded a "course of brain-tugging speculations : the 
 French Revolution had, for a time, quite imsphered his niiiid, and whirled him far 
 out of his proper orbit into a region where his more genial fiiculties could not breathe ; 
 he had lost his better self, and almost broken his heart among the problems started 
 by the events of the time. While in this st.^te of exile from his true intellectual 
 h'ome, he was restored ro the society of his sister, whose influence won him back to 
 his first love; and in this poem we have, preeminently, his first transports of return- 
 ing health, — his fullest outpourings of rapture on regaining his heart's home. In his 
 notes dictated at the age of seventy-three, we have the following: " N'o poem of mine 
 was composed under circum&Uiuces more pleasiint for me to remember than this. I 
 
9^ WORDSWORTH. 
 
 LAODAMIA.» 
 
 " With sacrifice before the rising morn 
 Vows have I made by fruitless hope inspired; 
 And from th' infernal Gods, 'mid shades forlorn 
 Of night, my slaughter'd Lord have I required: 
 Celestial pity I again implore; — 
 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; 
 
 Her bosom heaves and spreads, her stature grows; 
 
 And she expects the issue in repose. 
 
 terror! what hath she perceived? — joy! 
 What doth she look on? — whom doth slie behold? 
 Her Hero slain upon the beach of Troy? 
 His vital presence? his corporeal mould? 
 It is,— if sense deceive her not,— 'tis He! 
 And a God leads him, winged Mercury! 
 
 Mild Hermes spake, and touch'd her with his wand 
 
 That calms all fear: " Such grace hath crown'd 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! " 
 
 Forth sprang th' impassion'd Queen her Lord to clasp; 
 
 Again that consummation she essay'd; 
 
 But unsubstantial Form eludes her grasp 
 
 As often as that eager grasp was made. 
 
 The Phantom parts,— but parts fco re-unite, 
 
 And re-assume his place before her sight. 
 
 began it iipon 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 davs, with mv sister. 
 Is^ot a Lne of it was altered, and not any part of it written down till I reached Bris- 
 
 9 In this piece, as also in Dion, the author worked, and with most hanpy success, 
 a vein which he had not before touched. Both of the poems are as classical in the 
 style and manner as they are in the subjects. Though the poet carries to them his 
 own mode ot thought, as he needs mast do, still there is nothing of Ids personality in 
 ttiem: he transports himself as completely into the old mvthological point of view as 
 any Greek or Roman poet could have done. About the 'time lie was writing them, 
 he was attending a good deal to the education of his son John, and helping to pre- 
 pare him lor the University; and this put him upon reperusing the principal Latin 
 poets. Lamb, in one of his letters to Wordsworth, has the following: '« Lnodmnin is 
 
 a very original poem; I mean original with reference to your own manner. Yc 
 nave nothing like it. I should have seen it in a strange place, and greatly admire 
 It, but not suspected its derivation." o ^ i & j 
 
LAODAMIA. 97 
 
 " Protesilaus/ lo, thy guide is gone! 
 Confirm, I pray, the vision with thy voice: 
 This is our palace, — yonder is thy throne; 
 Speak, and the floor thou tread'st on will rejoice. 
 Not to appal me have the gods bestow'd 
 This precious boon; and blest a sad abode." 
 
 "Great Jove, Laodamia! doth not leave 
 His gifts imperfect: Spectre though I be, 
 I am not sent to scare thee or deceive; 
 But in reward of thy fidelity. 
 And something also did my worth obtain; 
 For fearless virtue bringeth boundless gain. 
 
 Thou know'st, the Delphic oracle foretold 
 
 That the first Grreek who touch'd the Trojan strand 
 
 Should die; but me the threat could not withhold: 
 
 A generous cause a victim did demand; 
 
 And forth I leapt upon the sandy plain; 
 
 A self-devoted chief, by Hector slain." 
 
 "Supreme of Heroes, — bravest, noblest, best! 
 
 Thy matchless courage I bewail no more, 
 
 Which then, when tens of thousands were deprest 
 
 By doubt, propell'd thee to the fatal shore; 
 
 Thou found'st — and I forgive thee — here thou art — 
 
 A nobler counsellor than my poor heart. 
 
 But thou, though capable of sternest deed, 
 Wert kind as resolute, and good as brave; 
 And he, whose power restores thee, hath decreed 
 Thou shouldst elude the malice of the grave: 
 Kedundant are thy locks, thy lips as fair 
 As when their breath enrich'd Thessalian air. 
 
 No Spectre greets me, — no vain Shadow this; 
 Come, blooming Hero, place thee by my side! 
 Give, on this well known couch, one nuptial kiss 
 To me, this day a second time thy bride ! " 
 Jove f rown'd in Heaven : the conscious Parc£e threw 
 Upon the roseate lips a Stygian hue. 
 
 "This visage tells thee that my doom is past: 
 
 Nor should the change be mourn'd, even if the joys 
 
 Of sense were able to returu as fast 
 
 And surely as they vanish. Earth destroys 
 
 Those raptures duly, — Erebus disdains: 
 
 Calm pleasures there abide, majestic pains. 
 
98 WORDSWOKTH, 
 
 Be taught, faithful Consort, to control 
 Eebellious passion: for the Gods approve 
 The depth, and not tlie tumult, of the soul; 
 A fervent, not ungovernable, love. 
 Thy transports moderate; and meekly mourn 
 When I depart, for brief is my sojourn." 
 
 "Ah, wherefore? — Did not Hercules by force 
 Wrest from the guardian Monster of the tomb 
 Alcestis, a reanimated corse. 
 Given back to dwell on Earth in vernal bloom? 
 Medea's spells dispersed the weight of years, 
 And ^son stood a youth 'mid youthful peers. 
 
 The Gods to us are merciful, and they 
 
 Yet further may relent: for mightier far 
 
 Than strength of neiTC and sinew, or the sway 
 
 Of magic potent over Sun and star. 
 
 Is love, though oft to agony distrest. 
 
 And though his favourite seat be feeble woman's breast. 
 
 But if thou go'st, I follow — " " Peace ! " he said. 
 
 She look'd upon him and was calm'd and cheer'd; 
 
 The ghastly colour from his lips had fled; 
 
 In his deportment, shape, and mien, appear'd 
 
 Elysian beauty, melancholy grace, 
 
 Brought from a pensive though a happy place. 
 
 He spake of Love, such love as Spirits feel 
 In worlds whose course is equable and pure; 
 No fears to beat away, — no strife to heal, — 
 The past unsigh'd-for, and the future sure; 
 Spake of heroic hearts in graver mood 
 Eevived, with finer harmony pursued; 
 
 Of all that is most beauteous, imaged there 
 
 In happier beauty; more pellucid streams. 
 
 An ampler ether, a diviner air. 
 
 And fields invested with purpureal gleams; 
 
 Climes which the Sun, who sheds the brightest day 
 
 Earth knows, is all unworthy to survey. 
 
 Yet there the Soul shall enter which hath earn'd 
 
 That privilege by virtue. — '-111," said he, 
 
 " The end of man's existence I discern'd, 
 
 Who from ignoble games and revelry 
 
 Could draw, when we had parted, vain delight. 
 
 While tears were thy best pastime, day and night; 
 
LAODAMIA. 99 
 
 And while my youthful peers before my eyes 
 (Each hero following his peculiar bent) 
 Prepared themselves for glorious enterprise 
 By martial sports, — or, seated in the tent. 
 Chieftains and kings in council were detain'd; 
 What time the fleet at Aulis lay enchain'd. 
 
 The wish'd-for wind was given: I then revolved 
 The oracle, upon the silent sea; 
 And, if no worthier led the way, resolved 
 That, of a thousand vessels, mine should be 
 The foremost prow in pressing to the strand, — 
 Mine the first blood that tinged the Trojan sand. 
 
 Yet bitter, oft-times bitter, was the pang 
 
 When of thy loss I thought, beloved Wife ! 
 
 On thee too fondly did my memory hang. 
 
 And on the joys we shared in mortal life, — 
 
 The paths which we had trod, — these fountains, flowers; 
 
 My new-plann'd cities, and unfinish'd towers. 
 
 But should suspense permit the Foe to cry, 
 * Behold they tremble ! — haughty their array, 
 Yet of their number no one dares to die '? 
 In soul I swe23t th' indignity away: 
 Old frailties then recurr'd : but lofty thought. 
 In act embodied, my deliverance wrought. 
 
 And Thou, though strong in love, art all too weak 
 
 In reason, in self-government too slow: 
 
 I counsel thee by fortitude to seek 
 
 Our blest re-union in the shades below. 
 
 Th' invisible world with thee hath sympathised; 
 
 Be thy affections raised and solemnised. 
 
 Learn, by a mortal yearning, to ascend. 
 Seeking a higher object. Love was given, 
 Encouraged, sanction'd, chiefly for that end; 
 For this * the passion to excess was driven, 
 That self might be annull'd; her bondage prove 
 The fetters of a dream, opposed to love." 
 
 Aloud she shriek'd; for Hermes re-appears: 
 Bound the dear Shade she would have clung, — 'tis vain: 
 The hours are past, — too brief had they been years; 
 And him no mortal effort can detain: 
 
 1 This refers to what follows, " That self might be annull'd " ; that, in the line be. 
 fore, to what precedes. 
 
100 WORDSWOKTH. 
 
 Swift, toward the realms that know not earthly day. 
 He through the portal takes his silent way, 
 And on the palace-floor a lifeless corse She lay. 
 
 Thus, all in yain exhorted and reproved. 
 She perish'd; and, as for a wilful crime, 
 By the just Gods whom no weak pity moved, 
 Was doom'd to wear out her appointed time, 
 Ai3art from happy Gliosts, that gather flowers 
 Of blissful quiet ^mid unfading bowers. 
 
 Yet tears to human suffering are due; 
 
 And mortal hopes defeated and o'erthrown 
 
 Are mourn'd by man, and not by man alone, 
 
 As fondly he believes. — Upon the side 
 
 Of Hellespont (such faith was entertain'd) 
 
 A knot of spiry trees for ages grew 
 
 From out the tomb of him for whom she died; 
 
 And ever, when such stature they had gain'tt 
 
 That Ilium's walls were subject to their view. 
 
 The trees' tall summits witlier'd at the sight; 
 
 A constant interchange of growth and blight!^ [1814. 
 
 Diojsr. 
 
 I. 
 
 Faie is the Swan, whose majesty, prevailing 
 O'er breezeless water, on Locarno's lake. 
 
 Bears him on while, proudly sailing. 
 He leaves behind a moon-illumined wake : 
 Behold ! the mantling spirit of reserve 
 Fashions his neck into a goodly curve; 
 An arch thrown back between luxuriant wings 
 Of whitest garniture, like fir-tree boughs 
 To which, on some unruffled morning, clings 
 A flaky weight of Winter's purest snows. 
 Behold! — as with a gushing imj)ulse heaves 
 That downy prow, and softly cleaves 
 The mirror of the crystal flood. 
 Vanish inverted hill, and shadowy wood. 
 And pendent rocks, where'er, in gliding state. 
 Winds the mute Creature without visible Mate 
 
 2 The incident of the trees growing and withering put the subject into my thoughts ; 
 and I wrote ^\-ith 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 it. It cost me more trouble than 
 ahnost any thing of equal length I have ever written. —Author's Notes. 
 
DION. 101 
 
 Or Eival, save the Queen of night 
 
 Showering down a silver light \ 
 
 From heaven upon her chosen Favourite!* ] 
 
 II. ] 
 So pure, serene, and fitted to emhrace, ' 
 Where'er he turn'd, a swan-like grace i 
 Of haughtiness without pretence, j 
 And to unfold a still magnificence, j 
 Was princely Dion, in the power < 
 And beauty of his happier hour. i 
 And what pure homage then did wait ] 
 On Dion's virtues, while the lunar beam : 
 
 - Of Plato's genius, from its lofty sphere, \ 
 
 Fell round him in the grove of Academe, [ 
 
 Softening their inhred dignity austere; ; 
 
 That he, not too elate j 
 
 With self-sufficing solitude, . 
 
 But with majestic lowliness endued, i 
 
 Might in the universal hosom reign, .^ 
 
 And from affectionate observance gain ] 
 
 Help, under every change of adverse fate. ; 
 
 III. i 
 Five thousand warriors, — the rapturous day! 
 
 Each crown'd Avith flowers, and arm'd with spear and shield, ■ 
 Or ruder weapon which their course might yield, 
 To Syracuse advance in bright array. 
 
 Who leads them on ? — The anxious people see j 
 
 Loug-exiled Dion marching at their head, j 
 
 He also crown'd with flowers of Sicily, j 
 
 And in a white, far-beaming corselet clad! i 
 
 Pure transport nndisturb'd by doubt or fear j 
 
 The gazers feel; and, rushing to the plain, \ 
 
 Salute those strangers as a holy train j 
 
 Or blest procession (to th' Immortals dear) I 
 
 That brought their precious liberty again. i 
 Lo! when the gates are enter'd, on each hand, 
 Down the long street, rich goblets fill'd with wine 
 In seemly order stand. 
 
 On tables set, as if for rites divine; ] 
 
 3 This exquisite stanza was taken from its original place, and thrown into a note, j 
 by the author, in his last edition, on the ground of its " detaining the reader too long ; 
 from the subject, and as rather precluding, than preparing for, the due effect of the * 
 allusion to the genius of Plato." It may be so ; but my old delight in the poem is I 
 bound up so closely with the oi-iginal form, and pleads so strongly for the restora- ] 
 tion, that I cannot well refrain. — The general idea of the piece, and the leading inci- 
 dents, are taken from Plutarch's Life of Dion: but what an exrjression is here given '■ 
 of them! ; 
 
102 WORDSWORTH. 
 
 And, as the great Deliverer marches by, 
 
 He looks on festal ground with fruits bestrewn; 
 
 And flowers are on his person thrown 
 
 In boundless prodigality; 
 'Nov doth the general voice abstain from prayer. 
 
 Invoking Dion's tutelary care. 
 
 As if a very Deity he were! 
 
 IV. 
 
 Mourn, hills and groves of Attica! and mourn, 
 Ilissus, bending o'er thy classic urn! 
 Mourn, and lament for him whose spirit dreads 
 Your once sweet memory, studious walks and shades! 
 For him who to divinity aspired, 
 Not on the breath of popular applause. 
 But through dependence on the sacred laws 
 Framed in the school where Wisdom dwelt retired. 
 Intent to trace th' ideal path of right 
 (More fair than heaven's broad causeway paved with stars) 
 Which Dion learn'd to measure with sublime delight: 
 But he hath overleap'd th' eternal bars; 
 And, following guides whose craft holds no consent 
 W^ith aught that breathes th' ethereal element, 
 Hath stain'd the robes of civil power with blood. 
 Unjustly shed, though for the public good. . 
 W^hence doubts that came too late, and wishes vain, 
 HolloAv excuses, and triumphant pain; 
 And oft his cogitations sink as low 
 As, through th' abysses of a joyless heart. 
 The heaviest plummet of despair can go: — 
 But whence that sudden check? that fearful start? 
 He hears an uncouth sound, — 
 Anon his lifted eyes 
 Saw, at a long-drawn gallery's dusky bound, 
 
 A Shape of more than mortal size 
 And hideous aspect, stalking round and round! 
 A woman's garb the Phantom wore, 
 And fiercely swept the marble floor, — 
 Like Austcr whirling to and fro, 
 His force on Caspian foam to try; 
 
 Or Boreas when he scours the snow 
 
 That skins the plains of Thessaly, 
 
 Or when aloft on Maenalus he stops 
 
 His flight, 'mid eddying pine-tree tops! 
 
DIOls^. 103 
 
 So, but from toil less sign of profit reaping, 
 The sullen Spectre to lier purpose bow'd, 
 Sweeping — yeliemently sweeping, — 
 Xo pause admitted, no design avow'd. 
 " Avaunt, inexplicable Guest! — avaunt ! " 
 Exclaim'd the Chieftain ; — " let me rather see 
 The coronal that coiling vipers make ; 
 The torch that flames with many a lurid flake, 
 And the long train of doleful pageantry 
 Which they behold, whom vengeful furies haunt ; 
 Who, while they struggle from the scourge to flee, 
 Move where the blasted soil is not unworn. 
 And, in their anguish, bear what other minds have borne! " 
 
 VI. 
 
 But Shapes that come not at an eartlily call, 
 Will not depart when mortal voices bid ; 
 Lords of the visionary eye whose lid, 
 Once raised, remains aghast, and will not fall ! 
 Ye Gods, thought He, that servile Implement 
 
 Obeys a mystical intent ! 
 Your Minister would brush away 
 The spots that to my soul adhere ; 
 But, should she labour night and day, 
 They will not, cannot disappear ; 
 Whence angry perturbations, — and that look 
 Which no Philosophy can brook! 
 
 YII. 
 
 Ill-fated Chief! there are whose hopes are built 
 
 Upon the ruins of thy glorious name ; 
 Who, through the portal of one moment's guilt, 
 Pursue thee with their deadly aim. 
 matchless perfidy ! portentous lust 
 Of monstrous crime! — that horror-striking blade, 
 D rawn in defiance of the Gods, hath laid 
 
 The noble Syracusan low in dust ! 
 Shudder'd the walls, the marble city wept. 
 
 And sylvan places heaved a pensive sigh ; 
 But in calm peace th' appointed Victim slept. 
 As he had fallen in magnanimity ; 
 Of spirit too capacious to require 
 That Destiny her course should change ; too just 
 To his own native greatness to desire 
 
104 WORDSWORTH. 
 
 That wretched boon, days lengthen'd by mistrust. 
 
 So were the hopeless troubles, that involved 
 
 The soul of Dion, instantly dissolved. 
 
 Released from life and cares of princely state. 
 
 He left this moral grafted on his fate, — 
 
 " Him only pleasure leads and peace attends, 
 
 Him, only him, the shield of Jove defends, 
 
 Whose means are fair and spotless as his ends." [1816. 
 
 CHARACTER OF THE HAPPY WARRIOR. 
 
 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 endeavours are an inward light 
 That makes the path before him always bright: 
 Who, with a natural instinct to discern 
 What knowledge can perform, is diligent to learn; 
 Abides by this resolve, and stops not there, 
 But makes his moral being his prime care: 
 Who, doom'd to go in company with Pain, 
 And Fear, and Bloodshed, miserable train! 
 Turns his necessity to glorious gain; 
 In face of these doth exercise a power 
 Which is our human nature's highest dower ; 
 Controls them and subdues, transmutes, bereaves 
 Of their bad influence, and their good receives : 
 By objects, which might force the soul to abate 
 Her feeling, rendered more compassionate; 
 Is placable, because occasions rise' 
 So often that demand such sacrifice ; 
 More skilful in self-knowledge, even more pure. 
 As tempted more ; more able to endure. 
 As more exposed to suffering and distress; 
 Thence, also, more alive to tenderness. 
 'Tis he whose law is reason ; who depends 
 Upon that law as on tlie 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 labours good on good to fix, and owes 
 To virtue every triumph that he knows : 
 
THE HAPPY WARRIOR. 105 
 
 Who/ if he rise to station of command, 
 Rises by open means ; and there will stand 
 On honourable terms, or else retire. 
 And in himself possess his own desire ; 
 AVho comprehends his trust, and to the same 
 Keeps faithful with a singleness of aim ; 
 And therefore does not stoop nor lie in wait 
 For wealth, or honours, or for worldly state; 
 Whom they must follow, on whose head must fall, 
 Like showers of manna, if they come at all : 
 Whose powers shed round him in the common strife 
 Or mild concerns of ordinary life, 
 A constant influence, a peculiar grace ; 
 'But who, if he be call'd upon to face 
 Some awful moment to which Heaven has join'd 
 Great issues, good or bad for human kind, 
 Is happy as a Lover ; and attired 
 With sudden brightness, like a Man inspired ; 
 And, through the heat of conflict, keeps the law 
 In calmness made, and sees what he foresaw; 
 Or, if an unexpected call succeed. 
 Come when it will, is equal to the need : — 
 He who, though thus endued as with a sense 
 And faculty for storm and turbulence, 
 Is yet a Soul whose master-bias leans 
 To home-felt pleasures and to gentle scenes; 
 Sweet images! which, wheresoever he be, 
 Are at his heart; and such fidelity 
 It is his darling passion to approve; 
 More brave for this, that he hath much to love. 
 'Tis, finally, the Man, who, lifted high. 
 Conspicuous object in a Nation's eye, 
 Or left unthought-of in obscurity, — 
 Who, with a toward or untoward lot. 
 Prosperous or adverse, to his wish or not, — 
 Plays, in the many games of life, that one 
 Where what he most doth value must be won: 
 Whom neither shape of danger can dismay, 
 Nor thought of tender happiness betray ; 
 Who, not content that former worth stand fast, 
 Looks forwai'd, persevering to the last. 
 From well to better, daily self-surpast : 
 Who, whether praise of him must walk the Earth 
 For ever, and to noble deeds give birth. 
 Or he must fall, to sleep without his fame, 
 And leave a dead unprofitable name. 
 
106 WORDSWORTH. 
 
 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 happ}^ Warrior; this is He 
 
 That every Man in arms should wish to be. [1806. 
 
 SONNETS. 
 
 Where lies the Land to which yon Ship must go? 
 
 Fresh as a lark mounting at break of day, 
 
 Festively she puts forth in trim array: 
 
 Is she for tropic suns, or polar snow? 
 
 What boots th' inquiry? — Neither friend nor foe 
 
 She cares for; let her travel where she may, 
 
 She finds familiar names, a beaten way 
 
 Ever before her, and a wind to blow. 
 
 Yet still I ask, what haven is her mark? 
 
 And, almost as it was when ships were rare, 
 
 (From time to time, like Pilgrims, here and there 
 
 Crossing the waters,) doubt, and something dark, 
 
 Of the old Sea some reverential fear. 
 
 Is with me at thy farewell, joyous Bark! 
 
 With ships the sea was sprinkled far and nigh, 
 
 Like stars in heaven, and Joyously it show'd; 
 
 Some lying fast at anchor in the road, 
 
 Some veering up and down, one knew not why. 
 
 A goodly Vessel did I then espy 
 
 Come like a giant from a haven broad; 
 
 And lustily along the bay she strode. 
 
 Her tackling rich, and of apparel high. 
 
 This Ship was nought to me, nor I to her. 
 
 Yet I pursued her with a Lover's look ; 
 
 This Ship to all the rest did I prefer: 
 
 When will she turn, and whither? She will brook 
 
 No tarrying ; where She comes tlie winds must stir 
 
 On went She, and due north her journey took. 
 
 J 
 
ODE TO DUTY. 
 
 107 
 
 DEVOTIONAL INCITEMENTS. 
 
 ["Not to the earth confiued, 
 Ascend to lieaveu.''] 
 
 WnEKE will they stop, those breatliing 
 
 Powers, 
 The Spirits of the new-boni flowers ? 
 They wander with the breeze, they wind 
 Where'er the streams a passage find; 
 Up from their native ground they rise 
 In mute aerial harmonies : 
 From humble violet — modest thyme — 
 Exhaled, th' essential odours climb, 
 As if no space below the sky 
 Their subtle flight could satisfy: 
 Heaven will not tax our thoughts with 
 
 pride 
 If like ambition be their guide. [ers, 
 
 Roused by this kindliest of May-show- 
 The spirit-quickeuer of the flowers. 
 That with moist virtue softly cleaves 
 The buds, and freshens the young leaves, 
 The birds pour forth their souls in notes 
 Of rapture from a thousand throats, — 
 Here oheckVl by too impetuous haste, 
 While there the music runs to waste. 
 With bounty more and more enlarged, 
 Till the whole air is overcharged : 
 Give ear, O -Man ! to their appeal, 
 And thirst for no inferior zeal, 
 Thou, who canst think, as weU as feel. 
 
 Mount from the Earth ; aspii-e ! aspire ! 
 So pleads the town's cathedral quire, 
 In strains that from their solemn height 
 Sink, to attain a loftier flight ; 
 While incense from the altar breathes 
 Eich fragrance in embodied wreaths; 
 Or, flung from swinging censer, shrouds 
 The taper-lights, and curls in clouds 
 Around angelic Fonus, the still 
 Creation of the painter's skill. 
 That on the service wait conceal'd 
 One moment, and the next reveal'd. — 
 Cast off your bonds, awake, arise, 
 And for no transient ecstasies ! 
 What else can mean the visual plea 
 Of still or moving imagery, — 
 The iterated summons loud, 
 Not wasted on th' attendant crowd, 
 Nor Avholly lost upon the thi-ong 
 nuriyiug the busy streets along? 
 
 Alas I the sanctities combined 
 By art to iinsensualise the mind. 
 Decay and languish; or, as creeds 
 
 And humours change, are spurn'd like 
 
 Aveeds : 
 The priests are from their altars thrust; 
 Temples are levell'd with the dust; 
 And solemn rites and awful forms 
 Founder amid fanatic storms. 
 Yet evermore, through years renew'd 
 In imdisturbed vicissitude 
 Of seasons balancing their flight 
 On the swilt wings of day and night, 
 Kind Nature keeps a heavenly door 
 Wide open for the scatter'd Poor. 
 Where flower-breathed incense to the 
 
 skies 
 Is wafted in mute harmonies ; 
 And ground fresh-cloven by the plough 
 Is fragi-ant with a humbler vow; 
 Where birds and brooks from leafy dells 
 Ciiime forth unwearied canticles. 
 And vapours magnily and spread 
 The glory of the Sun's bright head, — 
 Still constant in her worship, still 
 Conforming to th' eternal Will, 
 Whether men sow or reap the flelds, 
 Divine monition Nature yields, 
 That not by bread alone we live, 
 Or what a hand of flesh can give; 
 That eveiy day should leave some part 
 Free for a sabbath of the heart : 
 So shall the seventh be truly blest, 
 From morn to eve, with hallow'd rest. 
 
 [1832. 
 
 ODE TO DUTY. 
 
 "Jam non consilio bonus, sed more e6 
 perductus, ut non tautum recte facere 
 possim, sed nisi recte facere non pos- 
 sim."i 
 
 Stern Daughter of the Voice of God I 
 O Duty ! if that name thou love 
 Who art a light to guide, a rod 
 To check the erring, and reprove ; 
 Thou, who art victoiy and law 
 When empty terrors overawe; 
 From vain temptations dost set free; 
 And calm'st the weary strife of frail hu- 
 manity ! 
 
 1 " No longer good by conscious effort, 
 but so led on to goodness by habit, that 
 now I not only can do what "is right, but 
 am unable to do otherwise." — The motto 
 well propounds the centi-al thought of 
 this noble Ode, which is "all compact" 
 of the finest gold. 
 
108 
 
 WOEDSWOETH. 
 
 There are who ask not if thine eye 
 
 Bo on them ; who, in love and truth, 
 
 Whore no misgiving is, rely 
 
 Upon the genial sense of youth : 
 
 Glad Hearts! without reproach or blot; 
 
 Who do thy work, and knoAv it not : 
 
 0, if through confidence misplaced 
 They fail, thy saving arms, dread Power, 
 
 ai'ound them cast 1 
 
 Serene will be our days and bright, 
 And happy will our nature be, 
 When love is an unerring light, 
 And joy its own security .2 
 And they a blissful course may hold 
 Even now, who, not unwisely bold, 
 Live in the spirit of this creed ; 
 Yet seek thy fii-m support, according to 
 their need. 
 
 1, loving freedom, and untried ; 
 No sport of every random gust, 
 Yet being to myself a guide. 
 
 Too bliudlj' have reposed my trust : 
 And oft, when in my heart was heard 
 Thy timely mandate, I deferred 
 The task, in smoother walks to stray; 
 J5ut thee I now would serve more strictly, 
 if I may. 
 
 Through no disturbance of my soul. 
 Or strong compunction in me wroiight, 
 I supplicate for thy control ; 
 But in the quietness of thought: 
 Me this uncharter'd freedom tires ; ^ 
 I feel the weight of chance-desires ; 
 
 2 The poet here strikes a deep prin- 
 ciple of ethics. When a man is so in love 
 with Duty as to find his supreme delight 
 therein, then he will naturally be held to 
 her service b.v the sweetness of it, and 
 constancy in that service Avill needs per- 
 petuate his joy. 
 
 3 Witli Englishmen, the word charter 
 carries the sense of liberty secured by 
 law. But that which protects freedom 
 necessarily restrains and limits it. And 
 inward freedom is a l)iessing, and by up- 
 right minds is felt to be such, so far only 
 as the inner man is seli-restrained and 
 ordei^ed in submission to the law of con- 
 science. Now, Duty, with her stern legis- 
 lation, is the proper home of conscience; 
 and so none but the Milling bondmen 
 of Duty can have the peace and joy of 
 that home. In the well-known words of 
 Hooker, "Of Law there can no less be 
 acknowledged, than that her seat is the 
 bosom of God, her voice the harmony of 
 the world. " 
 
 1 
 
 ige their 
 
 My hopes no more must change 
 
 name, 
 I long for a repose that ever is the same. 
 
 Stern Lawgiver ! yet thou dost wear 
 The Godhead's raiost benignant grace ; 
 Nor know we any thing 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 
 I call thee : I myself commend 
 Unto thy guidance from this hour; 
 O, let my weakness have an end ! 
 Give unto me, made lowly wise, 
 The spirit of self-sacrifice; 
 The confidence of reason give; 
 And in the light of truth thy Bondman let 
 me live I [1805. 
 
 ODE TO LYCORIS. 
 MAY, 1817. 
 
 An age hath been when Earth was proud 
 Of lustre too intense 
 To be sustain'd ; and Mortals bow'd 
 The front in self-defence. 
 Who then, if Dian's crescent gleam'd, 
 Or Cupid's sparkling arrow stream'd 
 While on the wing the Urchhi play'd. 
 Could fearlessly approach the shade ? — 
 Enough for one soft vernal day, 
 if I, a bard of ebbing time, 
 And nurtured in a fickle clime, 
 May haunt this horned bay; 
 ^Yhose amorous water multiplies 
 The flitting halcyon's vivid dyes ; 
 And smooths her liquid breast, to show 
 These swan-like specks of mountain 
 snow, [plains 
 
 White as the pair that slid along the 
 Of heaven, when Venus held the reins !* 
 
 4 This poem originated in the last four 
 lines of the first stanza. Those specks of 
 snow, reflected in the lake and so trans- 
 ieired, as it were, to the subaqueous sky, 
 reminded me of the swans which the 
 fancy of the ancient classic poets yoked 
 to the car of Venus. Hence the tenor of 
 the whole first stanza, and the name of 
 
AK EVENING VOLUNTARY. 
 
 109 
 
 II. 
 
 lu youth we love the darksome lawu 
 
 Brnsh'd by the owlet's wine:; 
 
 Then Twilight is preferr'd to Dawn, 
 
 And Autumn to the Spring. 
 
 Sad fancies do we then ailect, 
 
 In luxury of disrespect 
 
 To our own prodigal excess 
 
 Of too familiar happiness. — 
 
 Lycoris, (if such name befit 
 
 Thee, thee my life's celestial sign !) 
 
 AVhen Nature marks the year's decline, 
 
 Be ours to welcome it; 
 
 Pleased with the harvest hope that runs 
 
 Before the path of milder suns; 
 
 Pleased while the sylvan world displays 
 
 Its ripeness to the feeding gaze; 
 
 Pleased when the sullen winds resound 
 
 the knell 
 Of the resplendent miracle. 
 
 ni. 
 
 But something whispers to my heart 
 That, as we doAvnward tend, 
 Lycoris I life requires an art 
 To which our souls must bend ; 
 A skill, to balance and supply; 
 And, ere the flowing fount be dry, 
 As soon it must, a sense to sip. 
 Or drink, Avith no fastidious lip. 
 Then welcome, above all, the Guest 
 Whose smiles, diffused o'er land and sea. 
 Seem to recal the Deity 
 Of youth into the breast: 
 May pensive Autumn ne'er present 
 A claim to her disparagement ! 
 While blossoms and the budding spray 
 Inspire us in our o\n\ decay. 
 Still, as we nearer draw to life's dark goal, 
 Be hopeful Spring the favourite of the 
 Soul ! 5 
 
 Lycoris, which — with some readers who 
 think mythology and classical allusion 
 too far-fetched, and therefore more or less 
 unnatural and affected — will tend to un 
 realize the sentiment that pervades these 
 verses. But surely one who has written 
 so much in verse a"s I liave done may be 
 allowed to retrace his steps in the regions 
 of fancy which delighted him in his boy- 
 hood, when he first became acquainted 
 witli the Greek and Latin Poets. — Au- 
 thor's Notcn. 
 
 5 In his notes on this poem, the author 
 has the following: "Nine tenths of my 
 verses have been murmured out in the 
 open air. And here let luc repeat what I 
 believe has already appeared in print 
 
 AN EVENING VOLUNTARY, 
 
 COMPOSED ON AN EVENING OF EXTRAOR- 
 DINATvY SPLENDOUR AND BEAUTY, 
 
 Had this effulgence disappear'd 
 With flying haste, I might have sent, 
 Among the speechless clouds, a look 
 Of blank astonishment; 
 But 'tis endued with power to stay, 
 And sanctify one closing day, 
 That frail Mortality may see — 
 What is ? — ah no, but what can be ! 
 Time was when field and watery cove 
 With modulated echoes rang, 
 While choirs of fervent Angels sang 
 Their vespers in the grove; 
 Or, crowning, star-like, each some sover- 
 eign height, [low. 
 Warbled, for Heaven above and Earth bo- 
 Strains suitable to both. — Such holy rltj, 
 Methinks, if audibly repeated now 
 From hill or vaUey, could not move 
 SubUmer transport, purer love, 
 Than doth this silent spectacle— the gleam, 
 The shadow, and the peace supreme ! 
 
 n. 
 
 No sound is utter'd, — but a deep 
 
 And solemn harmony pervades 
 
 The hollow vale from steep to steep, 
 
 And penetrates the glades. 
 
 Far-distant images draw nigh, 
 
 Call'd forth by wondrous potency 
 
 Of beamy radiance, that imbues 
 
 "Wliate'er it sti-ikes, with gem-like hues ! 
 
 In vision exquisitely clear, 
 
 Herds range along the mountain side ; 
 
 And glistening antlers are descried; 
 
 And gilded flocks appear. — 
 
 Thine is the tranquil hour, purpureal Eve ! 
 
 But long as god-Uke wish, or hope divine. 
 
 Informs my spirit, ne'er can I believe 
 
 One day a stranger, having walked round 
 the garden and grounds of Rydal IMonnt, 
 asked of one of the female servants, Avho 
 happened to be at tlie door, permission to 
 see her master's study. ' This,' said she, 
 leading him forward, ' is my master's //6- 
 mr//, where he keeps his books; but his 
 studij is out of doors.' lifter a long ab- 
 sence from home, it has more than once 
 happened that some one of my cottage 
 neighbours has said, ' Well, tiiere he is : 
 we are glad to hear him booing about 
 again.' " 
 
110 
 
 WORDSWORTH. 
 
 That this magnificence is wholly thine ! 
 From worlds not quicken'd by the Sun 
 A portion of the gilt is won; [spread 
 
 An intermingling of Heaven's pomp is 
 On ground which British shepherds tread ! 
 
 III. 
 
 And, if there he whom broken ties 
 Afflict, or injuries assail, 
 Yon hazy I'idges to their eyes 
 Present a glorious scale, 
 Climbing suffused with sunny air. 
 To stop —no record hath told w'herc ! 
 And tempting Fancy to ascend, 
 And with immortal Spirits blend ! — 
 Wings at my shoulders seem to play; 
 But, rooted here, I stand and gaze 
 On those bright steps that heaven-ward 
 Their practicable way." — [raise 
 
 Come forth, ye drooping old men, look 
 abroad, [bound ! 
 
 And see to what fair countries ye are 
 And if some traveller, weary of his I'oad, 
 Hath slept since noon-tide on the grassy 
 Ye Genii, to his covert speed ; [ground, 
 And wake him with such gentle heed 
 A^ may attune his soul to meet the dower 
 Bestow'd on this transcendent hour! 
 
 IV. 
 
 Such hues from their celestial Urn 
 Were wont to stream before mine eye, 
 Where'er it wander'd in the morn 
 Of blissful infancy. 
 This glimpse of glory, why renew'd? 
 Nay, rather speak with gratitude ; 
 For, if a vestige of those gleams 
 Survived, 'twas only in my dreams, [serve 
 Dread Power ! whom peace and calmness 
 No less than Nature's threatening voice, 
 If aught unworthy be my choice. 
 From Thee if I would swerve; 
 O, let Thy grace remind me of the light 
 Full early lost, and fruitlessly deplored; 
 Which, at this moment, oumvwaking si!?ht 
 
 Appears to shine, by miracle restored : ] 
 
 My soul, though yet confined to Earth, \ 
 
 Rejoices in a second birth ! — | 
 
 'Tis past, tlie visionary splendour fades; 
 And night approaches with her shades.' ' 
 
 6 The multiplication of mountain-ridg- 
 es, here described as a kind of Jacob's- 
 Laddor, leading to Heaven, is produced 
 either by watery vapours, or sunny haze ; 
 in the present instance by the latter cause. 
 — The author says that in these lines he is 
 " under obligation to the exquisite picture 
 of Jacob' s-Drea/ii," by our American artist, 
 Washington Allston. Wordsworth re- 
 gards Allston as " a man of genius," and 
 the two were warm friends. 
 
 THE S03INAMBULIST. 
 
 List, ye who pass by Lyulph's Tower 
 
 At eve ; how softly then 
 Doth Aira-force ,8 that torrent hoarse, 
 
 Speak from the woody glen I 
 Fit music for a solemn vale I 
 
 And holier seems the ground 
 To him who catches on the gale 
 The spirit of a mournful tale, 
 
 Embodied in the sound. 
 
 Not far from that fair site whereon 
 
 The Pleasure-house is rear'd, 
 As story says, in antique days 
 
 A stern-brow'd house appear'd; 
 Foil to a Jewel rich in light 
 
 There set, and guarded well ; 
 Cage for a Bird of plumage bright, 
 Sweet-voiced, nor wishing for a flight 
 
 Beyond her native dell. 
 
 To win this bright Bird from her cage, 
 
 To make this Gem their own. 
 Came Barons bold, with store of gold, 
 
 And Knights of high renown : 
 But one She prized, and only one; 
 
 Sir Eglamore was he : — 
 Full happy season, when Avas knoAvn, 
 Ye Dales and Hills ! to you alone 
 
 Their mutual loyalty; — 
 
 Known chiefly, Aira I to thy glen, 
 Thy brook, and bowers of holly; 
 
 Where Passion caught what Nature 
 That all but love is folly ; [taught, 
 
 Whei-e Fact with Fancy stoop'd to play; 
 Doubt came not, nor regret, 
 
 7 In his Notes, the author tells us that 
 this poem was " felt and in a great meas- 
 ure composed upon the little mount in 
 front of our abode at Rydal." — The last 
 stanza is fraught with allusions to the 
 Poet's celebrated Ode on Jjwiortnliti/,yvhich. 
 is given in a subsequent part of this vol- 
 ume. 
 
 8 Lyulph's Tower is a pleasure-house 
 situated upon the banks of Ullsvvater.— 
 Fo7-ce is used in the Lake District for wa- 
 ter-fall. 
 
THE SOMNAMBULIST. 
 
 Ill 
 
 To trouble hours that winjr'd their way, 
 As if through an immortal day 
 Whose Sun could never set. 
 
 But in old times Love dwelt not long 
 
 Sequester'd with repose ; 
 Best thi-ove the fire of chaste desire, 
 
 Fann'd by tlie breath of foes. 
 " A conquering lance is beauty's test, 
 
 And proves the Lover true : " 
 So spake Sir Eglamore, and press'd 
 The drooping Emma to his breast, 
 
 And look'd a blind adieu. 
 
 They parted. — Well with him it fared 
 
 Thro\igh wide-spread regions en-ant ; 
 A knight of proof in love's behoof, 
 
 Tlie thirst of fame his warrant : 
 And She her happiness can build 
 
 On woman's quiet hours ; [shield, 
 
 Though faint, compared with spear and 
 The solace beads and masses yield, 
 
 And needlework and flowers. 
 
 Yet blest was Emma when she heard 
 
 Her Champion's praise recounted; 
 Though brain would swim, and eyes gi-ow 
 
 And high her blushes mounted ; [dim. 
 Or when a bold heroic lay 
 
 She warbled from full heart; 
 Delightful blossoms for the May 
 Of absence ! but they will not stay, 
 
 Born only to depart. 
 
 Hope wanes with her, while lustre fills 
 
 Whatever path he chooses; 
 As if his orb, that oAvns no curb. 
 
 Received the light hers loses. 
 He comes not back; an ampler space 
 
 Requires for nobler deeds ; 
 He ranges on from place to lilace, 
 Till of his doings is no trace, 
 
 But what her fancy breeds. 
 
 His fiime may spread, biit in the past 
 
 Her spirit finds its centre ; 
 Clear siglit She has of what lie was, 
 
 And tliat would now content her. 
 " Still is he my devoted Knight?" 
 
 The tear in answer flows ; [weight ; 
 Month falls on month Avith heavier 
 Day sickens round her, and the night 
 
 Is empty of repose. 
 
 In sleep She sometimes walk'd abroad, 
 Deep sighs with quick words blending, 
 
 L!ke that pale Qncen whose hands are 
 Witli fancied spots contending : [seen 
 
 But she is innocent of blood; 
 The Moon is not more pure 
 
 That shines alott, while through the wood 
 
 She thrids her way, the sounding Flood 
 Her melancholy lure ! 
 
 While 'mid the fern-brake sleeps the doe, 
 
 And owls alone are waking, 
 In white array'd, glides on the Maid, 
 
 The downward pathway taking, 
 That leads her to the torrent's side 
 
 And to a holly bower : 
 By whom on this still night descried? 
 By whom in that lone place espied ? 
 
 By thee, Sir Eglamore! 
 
 A wandering Ghost, so thinks the Knight, 
 
 His coming step has thwarted, [vows, 
 Beneath the boughs that heard their 
 
 Within whose shade they parted. — 
 Hush, hush, the busy Sleeper see! 
 
 Perplex'd her fingers seem. 
 As if they from the holly tree 
 Green twigs would pluck, as rapidly 
 
 Flung from her to the stream. 
 
 What means the Spectre ? Why intent 
 
 To violate the Tree, 
 Thought Eglamore, by which I swore 
 
 Unfiiding constancy ? 
 Here am I, and to-mOrrow's Sun, 
 
 To her I left, shall prove 
 That bliss is ne'er so surely won 
 As when a circuit has been run 
 
 Of valour, truth, and love. 
 
 So, from the spot whereon he stood. 
 
 He moved with stealthy pace ; 
 And, drawing nigh, with his living eye. 
 
 He recognised the face ; [small, 
 
 And whispers caught, and speeches 
 
 Some to the green-leaved tree, 
 Some mutter'd to the torrent-fall : 
 " Roar on, and bring him with thy call; 
 
 I heard, and so may He ! " 
 
 Soul-shatter'd w\as the Knight, nor knew 
 
 If Emma's Ghost it were. 
 Or boding Shade, or if the Maid 
 
 Her very self stood there. 
 He touch'd ; what follow^'d who shall tell ? 
 
 The soft touch snapp'd the thread 
 Of slumber; shrieking back she fell, 
 
112 
 
 WOEDSWOKTH. 
 
 And the Stream wiilrl'd her down the deil 
 Along its foaming bed. 
 
 In plunged the Knight! When on Urm 
 grouud 
 
 The rescued iMaiden lay, 
 Her eyes grew bright with blissful light, 
 
 Confusion pass'd away ; 
 Slie heard, ere to the throne of grace 
 
 Her faithful Spirit flew. 
 His voice, — beheld his speaking face ; 
 And, dying, from his own embrace 
 
 She felt that he was true. 
 
 So he was reconciled to life : 
 
 Brief Avords may speak the rest: 
 Within the dell he built a cell, 
 
 And there was Sorrow's guest; 
 In hermit's weeds repose he found, 
 
 From vain temptations free; 
 Beside the torrent dwelling, — bound 
 By one deep heart-controlling sound, 
 
 And awed to piety. 
 
 Wild stream of Aira, hold thy course. 
 
 Nor fear memorial lays, [shade, 
 
 Wliere clouds, that spread in solemn 
 
 Are edged with golden rays ! 
 Dear art thou to the light of heaven, 
 
 Though minister of sorrow; 
 Sweet is thy voice at pensive even; 
 And thou, in lovers' hearts forgiven, 
 
 Shalt take thy place with Yarrow ! » 
 
 [18;i3, 
 
 ODE, 
 
 COMPOSED OX MAY ilOKXIXG. 
 
 While from the purpling East departs 
 The star that led the dawn, 
 
 9 This delectable poem, so steeped in 
 the purest gi-ace of romance, shows what 
 the author could do at the age of sixty- 
 three. For the story of it, he had a slight 
 hint, related in his notes as follows: 
 •' While we were making an excursion in 
 this part of the Lake District, we heard 
 that Mr. Glover, the artist, while lodging 
 at Lyulph's Tower, had been disturbed 
 by a'loud shriek, and upon rising he had 
 leai-nt that it had come from a young 
 woman in the house who was in the' habit 
 of walkuig in her sleep. In that state she 
 had gone down stairs, and, while attempt- 
 ing to open tiie outer door, either from 
 some difliculty or the efl'ect of the cold 
 stone upon her feet, had uttered the cry 
 whicli alarmed liim. It seemed to us all 
 that this might serve as a hint for a poem," 
 &c. — The persons here included under 
 the pronoun v:e were Sir George Beau- 
 mont and Rogers the poet. 
 
 Blithe Flora from her couch upstarts, 
 
 For May is on the lawn. 
 A quickening hope, a freshening glco, 
 
 Foreran th' expected Power, [fc:-ee. 
 
 Whose first-drawn breath, from bush and 
 
 Shakes off that pearly shower.i 
 
 All Nature welcomes Her whose sway 
 
 Tempers the year's extremes ; 
 Who scattereth lustres o'er noon-day, 
 
 Like morning's dewy gleams ; 
 While mellow warble, sprightly trill, 
 
 The tremulous heart excite ; 
 And hums the balmy air to still 
 
 The balance of delight. 
 
 Time was, blest Power ! when youths and 
 
 At peep of dawn would rise, [maids 
 And wander forth, in forest glades 
 
 Tliy birth to solemnize. 
 Though mute the song, — to grace the rite 
 
 Untouch'd the hawthorn bough. 
 Thy Spirit triumphs o'er the slight; 
 
 Man changes, but not Thou ! 
 
 Thy feather'd Lieges bill and wings 
 
 In love's disport employ; 
 Warm'd by thy influence, creeping things 
 
 Awako to silent joy : 
 Queen art thou still for each gay plant 
 
 "NAliei'c the slim Avild deer roves; 2 
 And served in depths where fishes haunt 
 
 Theii- own mysterious groves. 
 
 Cloud-piercing peak and trackless heath 
 
 Instinctive homage pay ; 
 Nor wants the dim-lit ca\'e a wreath 
 
 To honour thee, sweet May ! 
 Where cities ftinu'd by thy brisk airs 
 
 Behold a smokeless sky, 
 Their puniest flower-pot-nursUng dares 
 
 To open a bright eye. 
 
 1 Tlie meaning here is somewhat hid- 
 den. The " freshening glee," I take it, is 
 a lieavy doAV or a i-ain, which impearled 
 "bush and tree" with drops of water. 
 The " expected Power " is ^lay-Day dawn ; 
 and the " first-drawn breath " is the breeze 
 wliich, started by the i-ising Sun, shakes 
 off those drops of dew or rain. 
 
 2 The poet is here illustrating the ubi- 
 quitous virtue of May: her revivifying 
 eflicacy penetrates the deepest and thick- 
 est forests, where the shyest and timidest 
 animals seek to hide themselves. — Observe 
 how the clogged expression of this line, 
 owing to the two spondees, " Slim wild 
 deer roves," images the difficulty of mov- 
 ing in a dense and tangled forest. 
 
TO MAY. 
 
 113 
 
 And if, ou this thy natal mom, 
 
 The pole, from which thy name 
 Hath not departed, stands forlorn 
 
 Of song and dance and game ; 
 Still from the village-green a vow 
 
 Aspires to thee addrest. 
 Wherever peace is on the brow, 
 
 Or love within the breast. 
 
 Yes ! where Love nestles thou canst teach 
 
 The soul to love the more ; 
 Hearts also shall thy lessons reach 
 
 That never loved before. 
 Stript is the haughty one of pride, 
 
 The bashful freed from fear, 
 While rising, like the ocean-tide, 
 
 In flows the joyous year. 
 
 Hush, feeble lyre ! weak words refuse 
 
 The service to prolong : 
 To yon exulting thrush the Muse 
 
 Entrusts th' imperfect song ; 
 His voice shall chant, in accents clear, 
 
 Throughout the live-long day 
 Till the first silver star appear, 
 
 The sovereignty of May.s 
 
 TO MAY. 
 Though many suns have risen and set 
 
 Since thou, blithe May, wert born, 
 And Bards, who hail'd thee, may forget 
 
 Thy gifts, thy beauty scorn ; 
 There are who to a biithday strain 
 
 Confine not harp and voice, 
 But evermore throughout thy reign 
 
 Are grateful and rejoice ! 
 
 Delicious odours ! music sweet, 
 
 Too sweot to pass away I 
 O, for a deathless song to meet 
 
 The soul's desire, — a lay 
 That, when a thousand years are told, 
 
 Should praise thee, genial Power ! 
 Through summer heat, autumnal cold. 
 
 And Winter's dreariest hour. 
 
 3 This and the following poem origina- 
 ted in the lines, " How delicate the leafy 
 veil," &c. — My daughter and I leftRydal 
 Mount upon a tour through our mountains 
 with My. and Mrs. Carr in the month of 
 May, 1826; and as we Avere going up the 
 vale of Kewlands 1 was struck with the 
 appearance of the little chapel gleaming 
 through the veil of half-opened leaves; 
 and the feeling then conveyed to my mind 
 was expressed in the stanza referred to 
 above. — A uthor's Notes. 
 
 Eai-th, sea, thy presence feel; nor less, 
 
 If yon ethereal blue 
 With its soft smile the truth express, 
 
 The heavens have felt it too. 
 The inmost heart of man if glad 
 
 Partakes a livelier cheer; 
 And eyes that cannot but be sad 
 
 Let fall a brighten'd tear. 
 
 Since thy return, through days and weeks 
 
 Of hope that grew by stealth. 
 How many wan and faded cheeks 
 
 Have kindled into health ! 
 The Old, by thee revived, have said, 
 
 " Another year Is ours ; " 
 And wayworn Wanderers, poorly fed. 
 
 Have smiled upon thy flowers. 
 
 Who tripping lisps a merry song 
 
 Amid his playful peers? 
 The tender Infant who was long 
 
 A prisoner of fond fears ; 
 But noM% when every sharp-edged blast 
 
 Is quiet in its sheath, 
 His Mother leaves him free to taste 
 
 Earth's sweetness in thy breath. 
 
 Thy help is with the weed that creeps 
 
 Along the humblest ground; 
 Xo cliff so bare but on its steeps 
 
 Thy favours may be found ; 
 But most on some peculiar nook 
 
 That our own hands have drest. 
 Thou and thy train are proud to look. 
 
 And seem to love it best. 
 
 And yet how pleased we wander forth 
 
 When May is whispering, " Come! 
 Choose from the bowers of virgin earth 
 
 The happiest for your home ; [spread 
 Heaven's bounteous love through me is 
 
 From sunshine, clouds, winds, waves, 
 Drops on the mouldering turret's head. 
 
 And on your turf-clad graves I " 
 
 Such greeting heard, away with sighs 
 
 For lilies that must fade. 
 Or " the rathe primrose as it dies 
 
 Forsaken " in the shade ! * 
 Vernal fruitions and desires 
 
 Are linked in endless chase ; 
 Wliile, as one kindl}- gi-owth retires, 
 
 Another takes its place. 
 
 4 The quotation here made is from Mil- 
 ton's Lficidrus, — «' Bring the rathe primrobe 
 that forsaken dies." — Rathe is early. 
 
114 
 
 WORDSWORTH. 
 
 And what if thou, sweet May, hast known 
 
 Mishap by wonn and blight ; 
 If expectations newly blown 
 
 Have pevish'd in thy sight; 
 If loves and joys, while up they sprung, 
 
 Were caught as in a snare : 
 Such is the lot of all the young, 
 
 However bright and fair. 
 
 Lo ! Streams that April could not check 
 
 Are patient of thy rule ; 
 Gurgling in foamy water-break, 
 
 Loitering in glassy pool : 
 By thee, thee only, could be sent 
 
 Such gentle mists as glide, 
 Curling with unconflrm'd intent. 
 
 On that green mountain's side. 
 
 How delicate the leafy veil 
 
 Through which yon house of God 
 Gleams 'mid the peace of this deep dale 
 
 By few but shepherds trod ! 
 And lowlj' huts, near beaten ways, 
 
 No sooner stand attired 
 In thy fresh wreaths, than they for praise 
 
 Peep forth, and are admired. 
 
 Season of fancy and of hope, 
 
 Pei-mit not for one hour, 
 A blossom from thy cro-svn to drop. 
 
 Nor add to it a flower! 
 Keep, lovely May, as if by touch 
 
 Of self-restraining art. 
 This modest charm of not too much, 
 
 Part seen, imagined part! 
 
 [182&-1834. 
 
 SONG AT THE FEAST OF 
 BROUGHAM CASTLE, 
 
 UPON THE KESTORATION^ OF LORD CUF- 
 
 FORD, THE SHEPHERD, TO THE 
 
 ESTATES AND HONOURS 
 
 OF HIS ANCESTORS. 
 
 High in the breathless Hall the Minstrel 
 sate, [Song. 
 
 And Emont's murmur mingled with the 
 The words of ancient time I thus translate, 
 A festal strain that hath been silent long : 
 
 "From town to town, from tower to 
 
 tower, 
 Tlie Red Rose is a gladsome flower. 
 Her thirty years of Winter past. 
 The Red Rose is revived at last; 
 She lilts her head for endless spring, 
 
 For everlasting blossoming : 
 
 Both Roses flourish. Red and White: 
 
 In love and sisterly delight 
 
 The two that were at strife are blended, 
 
 And all old ti-oublcs now are ended, s — 
 
 Joy! joy to both! but most to her 
 
 Who is the flower of Lancaster! 
 
 Behold her how She smiles to-day 
 
 On this great throng, this bright array I 
 
 Fair greeting doth she send to all 
 
 From every corner of the hall ; 
 
 But chiefly from above the board 
 
 Where sits in state our rightful Lord, 
 
 A Cliflbrd to his own restored! [shield ; 
 
 They came with banner, spear, and 
 And it was proved in Boswoi'th-fleld. 
 Not long th' Avenger was withstood, — 
 Earth help'd him with the cry of blood : « 
 Saint George was for us, and the might 
 Of blessM Angels crown'd the right. 
 Loud voice the Land has utter'd forth, 
 We loudest in the faithful North : 
 Our fields rejoice, our mountains ring, 
 Oi;r streams proclaim a welcoming; 
 Our strong-abodes and castles see 
 The glory of their loyalty. 
 
 How glad is Skipton at this hour, 
 Though lonely, a deserted Tower; 
 Knight, squire, and yeoman, page and 
 
 groom : 
 We have them at the feast of Brough'm. 
 How glad Pendragon, though the sleej* 
 Of years be on her ! She shall reap 
 A taste of this great pleasure, viewing 
 As in a dream her own renewing. 
 Rejoiced is Bi-ough, right glad, I deem. 
 Beside her little humble stream; 
 And she that keepeth watch and ward 
 Her statelier Eden's course to guard; 
 They both are happy at this hour. 
 Though each is but a lonely Tower : — 
 But here is perfect joy and pride 
 For one fair House by Emont's side. 
 This day, distinguish'd without peer 
 To see her Master and to cheer, — 
 Him, and his Lady-mother dear! 
 
 5 The Houses of Lancaster and York, 
 severally represented by the Red Rose 
 and the Wliite, Avcre united, alter the fall 
 of Richard the Third, by the marriage of 
 Henry the Seventh with Elizabeth, the 
 daughter of Edward the Fourth. 
 
 6 This line is from a poem, entitled 
 The Battle of Bnm-orth. Field, by Sir Johu 
 
 . Beaumont, brother of the celebrated dra- 
 I matist. 
 
BROUGHAM CASTLE. 
 
 115 
 
 O, it was a time forlorn 
 When the fatherless was born I — 
 Give her wings that she may fly, 
 Or she sees her infiint die 1 
 Swords that are with slaughter wild 
 Hunt the Mother and the Child. 
 Who will take them from the light? — 
 Yonder is a man in sight, — 
 Yonder is a house, — but where? 
 No, they must not enter there. 
 To the caves, and to the brooks, 
 To the clouds of heaven she looks ; 
 She is speechless, but her eyes 
 Pray in ghostly agonies : 
 * Blissful Mary, Mother mild. 
 Maid and Mother undefiled, 
 Save a Mother and her Child ! ' 
 
 Now who is he that bounds with joy 
 On Carrock's side, a Shepherd-boy? 
 No thoughts hath he but thoughts that 
 
 pass 
 Light as the wind along the grass. 
 Can this be He who hither came 
 In Secret, like a smother'd flame? [shed 
 O'er whom such thankful tears were 
 For shelter, and a poor man's bread! 
 God loves the Child; and God hath 
 will'd [flll'd. 
 
 That those dear words should be ful- 
 The Lady's words, when forced away, 
 The last she to her Babe did say : 
 'My own, my own, thy FeUow-guest 
 I may not be ; but rest thee, rest. 
 For lov.'lj' shepherd's Ufe is best ! ' 
 
 Alas ! when evil men are strong 
 No life is good, no pleasure long. 
 The Boy must part from Mosedale's 
 
 groves. 
 And leave Blencathara's rugged coves,9 
 And qiiit the flowers that Simimer 
 
 brings 
 To Glenderamakin's loftj^ springs ; 
 Must vanish, and his careless cheer 
 Be turn'd to heaviness and fear. — 
 Give Sir Lancelot Threlkeld praise! 
 Hear it, good man, old in days! 
 Thou tree of covert and of rest 
 For this young Bii'd that is distrest; 
 Among thy branches safe he lay, 
 And lie was free to sport and play, 
 When tlilcons were abroad for prey. 
 
 9 Blencnthara is the old and proper 
 name of the mountain vulgarly called 
 
 Saddichack. 
 
 A recreant harp, that sings of fear 
 And heaviness in Cliflbrd's ear! 
 I said, when evil men are strong, 
 No life is good, no pleasure long, — 
 A Aveak and cowardly untruth ! 
 Our Clifford was a happy Youth, 
 And thanliful through a weary time, 
 That brought him up to manhood's 
 Again he wanders forth at will, [prime, 
 And tends a flock from hill to hill : 
 His garb is humble ; ne'er was seen 
 Such garb with such a noble mien ; 
 Among the shepherd grooms no mate 
 Hath he, a Child of strength and state ! 
 Yet lacks not fi'iends for simple glee, 
 Nor yet for higher sympathy. 
 To his side the fallow-deer 
 Came, and rested without fear; 
 The eagle, lord of land and sea, 
 Stoop'd down to pay him fealty; 
 And both th' undying fish that swim 
 Through Bowscale-Tarn did wait on 
 The pair were servants of his eye [him :i 
 In their immortality ; 
 And glancing, gleaming, dark or bright. 
 Moved to and fro, for his delight. 
 He knew the rocks which ^ingels hauiit 
 Upon the mountains visitant; 
 He hath kenn'd them taking wing : 
 And into caves where Fairies sing 
 He hath enter'd ; and been told 
 By Voices how men lived of old. 
 Among the heavens his eye can see 
 The face of thing that is to be; 
 And, if that men report him right, 
 His tongue could whisper words of 
 Now another day is come, [might. 
 
 Fitter hope, and nobler doom : 
 He hath thrown aside his crook. 
 And hath buried deep his book; 
 Armour rusting in his halls 
 On the blood of Clifford calls ; 2 — 
 ' Quell the Scot,' exclaims the Lance ; 
 « Bear me to the heart of France,' 
 
 1 It was imagined by the people of the 
 country that there were two imraortal 
 Fish dwelling in this tarn, which lies in 
 the mountains not far from Threlkeld. 
 Tarn is a small mountain lake. 
 
 2 The four immediate progenitors of 
 the person in whose hearing this is sup- 
 posed to be spoken all died in the field. 
 Several others of the fi^mily perished in 
 the same manner. The Cliffords, indeed, 
 of Cumberland were famed for their mar- 
 tial spirit, and were distinguished for 
 fierceness even in that fierce age. 
 
116 
 
 WOEDSWOKTH. 
 
 Is the longing of the Shield : 
 
 Tell thy name, thou trembling Field; 
 
 Field of death, where'er thou be, 
 
 Groan thou with our victoiy ! 
 
 Happy day, and mighty hour, 
 
 When our Shepherd, in his power, 
 
 Mail'd and horsed, with lance and 
 
 To liis ancestors restored [sword, 
 
 Like a re-appearing Star, 
 
 Like a glory from afar. 
 
 First shall head the flock of war ! " 
 
 Alas! th' impassion'd minstrel did not 
 know [framed, 
 
 That for a tranquil soul the Lay was 
 
 Who, long compell'd in humble walks to 
 go, [tamed. 
 
 Was soften'd into feeling, soothed, and 
 
 Love had he found in huts where poor 
 men lie ; [rills, 
 
 His daily teachers had been woods and 
 The silence that is in the starry sky, 
 The sleep that is among the lonely hills. 
 
 In him the savage virtue of the Race, 
 Revenge, and all ferocious thoughts were 
 
 dead ; 
 Nor did he change ; but kept in lofty place 
 The wisdom which adversity had bred. 
 
 Glad were the vales, and every cottage- 
 heai'th ; [and more ; 
 
 The Shepherd-lord was honour'd more 
 And, ages after he was laid in earth, 
 " The good Lord Clifford " was the name 
 he bore.3 [1S07. 
 
 3 Henry Lord Clifford, the subject of 
 this grand lyric, was the son of John Lord 
 Cliflbx'd, who Avas slain in the battle of 
 Towton, 14G1. This John Avas the person 
 who, after the battle of Wakefield, UfiO, 
 slew, in the pursuit, the young Earl of 
 Rutland, son to the Duke of York, who fell 
 in that battle. Independent of this act, at 
 best a cruel and savage one, the family of 
 Clifford had done enough to draw upon 
 them the vehement hatred of the House 
 of York ; so that after the Battle of Tow- 
 ton thei-e was no hope for them but in 
 flight and concealment. Henry, the sub- 
 ject of the Poem, was deprived of his es- 
 tate and honours during the space of 
 twenty -four years ; all which time he lived 
 as a shepherd in Yorkshire, or in Ci^mber- 
 land, where the estate of his Father-in-law 
 (Sir Lancelot Thrclkeld) lay. He was re- 
 stored to his estate and honours in the 
 first year of Heniy the Seventh. It is re- 
 corded tliat, "when called to Parliament, 
 he behaved nobly and wisely; l)ut other- 
 
 THE PASB OF KIRKSTONE. 
 
 Within the mind strong fancies work, 
 A deep delight the bosom thrills, 
 Oft as I pass along the fork 
 Of these fraternal hills : 
 Where, save the rugged road, we find 
 No appanage of human kind, 
 Nor hint of man ; if stone or rock 
 Seem not his handiwork to mock 
 By something cognizably shaped; 
 Mockeiy — or model raughly hcAvn, 
 And left as if by earthquake strewn, 
 Or from the Flood escaped : 
 Altars for Druid service fit; 
 (But where no fire was ever lit, 
 Unless the glow-worm to the skies 
 Thence offer nightly sacrifice ;) 
 Wrinkled Egyptian monument; 
 Green moss-grown tower; or hoary tent; 
 Tents of a camp that never shall be 
 raised, — [gazed! 
 
 On which four thousand years have 
 
 II. 
 
 Ye plough-shares sparkling on the slopes t 
 
 Ye snoAv-white lambs that trip 
 
 Imprisou'd 'mid the formal props 
 
 Of restless OAvnership! 
 
 Ye trees, that may to-morrow fall 
 
 To feed th' insatiate Prodigal ! [fields, 
 
 LaAvns, houses, chattels, groves, and 
 
 All that the fertile valley shields; 
 
 Wages of folly, — baits of ci-ime, 
 
 Of life's uneasy game the stake, 
 
 Playthings that keep the eyes awake 
 
 Of droAvsy , dotard Time ; — 
 
 O cai-e ! O guilt! — O vales and plains, 
 
 wise came seldom to London or the Court ; 
 and rather delighted to live in the coun- 
 try, Avhere he repaired several of his Cas- 
 tles, which had gone to decay during the 
 late troubles." There is a tradition cur- 
 rent in the village of Threlkeld and its 
 neighbourhood, his principal retreat, 
 that, in the course of his shepherd-life, 
 he had acquired great astronomical knoAvl- 
 edge. I cannot conclude this note Avith- 
 out adding a Avord touching the feudal 
 Edifices, spoken of in the Poem. The 
 Cliffords had ahvays been distinguished 
 for an honourable px'ide in these Castles; 
 and, after the Avars of York and Lancas- 
 ter, they Avex-e x-ebuilt; in the civil AA'ars 
 of Charles the First they Avere again laid 
 Avaste, and agaixx restored almost to their 
 former magnificence by the celebi-ated 
 Lady Anxxe Clifl'ord, Countess of Pem- 
 broke. 
 
TO ENTERPRISE. 
 
 iir 
 
 Here» 'mul his o^^rtx unvex'd domains, 
 A Genius dwells, that cau subdue 
 At ouce all memory of You, — 
 Most potent when mists veil the sky, 
 Mists that distort and magnify; 
 While the coarse rushes, to the sweep- 
 ing breeze, 
 Sigh forth their ancient melodies ! 
 
 III. 
 
 List to those shriller notes! — that march 
 Perchance was on the blast, [arch, 
 
 When, through this Height's inverted 
 Rome's earliest legion pass'd ! — 
 They saw, adventurously impell'd, 
 And older eyes than theirs beheld. 
 This block, — and yon, whose church-like 
 
 frame 
 Gives to this savage Pass its name. 
 Aspiring Road! that lov'st to hide 
 Thy daring in a vapoury bourn. 
 Not seldom may the hour return 
 When thou shalt be my guide : 
 And I (as all men may find cause. 
 When life is at a weary pause, 
 And they have panted up the hill 
 Of duty with reluctant Avill) 
 Be thankful, even though tired and faint. 
 For the rich bounties of constraint ; 
 Whence oft invigorating transports flow 
 That choice lacked courage to bestow ! 
 
 IV. 
 
 My Soul was gi-ateful for delight 
 
 That woi'e a threatening brow; 
 
 A veil is lilted, — can she slight 
 
 The scene that opens now ? 
 
 Though habitation none appear 
 
 The greenness tells, man must be there; 
 
 The shelter, — that the perspective 
 
 Is of the clime in Avhich we live ; 
 
 Where Toil pursues his daily round ; 
 
 Where Pity sheds sweet tears ; and Love, 
 
 In woodbine bower or birchen grove, 
 
 Inflicts his tender wound.— 
 
 Who comes not hither ne'er shall know 
 
 How beautiful the world below; 
 
 Nor can he guess hoAv lightly leaps 
 
 The brook adown the rocky steeps. — 
 
 Parewell, thou desolate Domain ! 
 
 Hope, pointing to the cultured plain, 
 
 Carols like a shepherd-boy; 
 
 And who is she ? — Can that be Joy ? 
 
 Who, with a sunbeam for her guide, 
 
 Smoothly skims the meadows wide; 
 
 While Faith, from yonder opening cloud, 
 To hill and vale proclaims aloud, [ed dare, 
 " Whate'er the weak may dread, the Avick- 
 Thy lot, O Man, is good, thy portion 
 fair!"* [1817. 
 
 TO ENTERPRISE. 
 Keep for the Young th' impassion'd smile 
 Shed from thy countenance, as I see thee 
 
 stand 
 High on that chalky cliff of Briton's Isle, 
 A slender volume grasping in thy hand, — 
 (Perchance the pages that relate 
 The various turns of Crusoe's fate,) — 
 Ah, spare th' exulting smile. 
 And drop thy pointing finger bright 
 As the first flash of beacon light ; 
 But neither veil thy head in shadows dim. 
 Nor turn thy face away 
 From One who, in the evening of his day, 
 To thee would offer no presumptuous 
 
 hymn I 
 
 Bold Spirit! who art free to rove 
 Among the starry courts of Jove, 
 And oft in splendour dost appear 
 Embodied to poetic eyes, 
 Wliile traversing this nether sphere, 
 Where Mortals call thee Enterprise. 
 Daughter of Hope I her favourite Child, 
 Whom she to young Ambition bore, 
 WTien Hunter's arrow first defiled 
 The grove, and stain'd the turf with gore; 
 Thee wingfed Fancy took, and nursed 
 On broad Euphrates' palmy shore, 
 And where the mightier Waters burst 
 From caves of Indian mountains hoar! 
 She wrapp'd thee in a panther's skin; 
 And Thou, thy favourite food to win, 
 The flame-eyed eagle oft wouldst scare 
 From her rock fortress in mid air, 
 With infant shout; and often sweep, 
 Pair'd with the ostrich, o'er the plain; 
 Or, tired with sport, wouldst sink asleep 
 Upon the couchant lion's mane ! 
 With rolling years thy strength increased ; 
 And, far beyond thy native East, 
 To thee, by varying titles known 
 As variously thy power was shown. 
 
 4 Thoughts and feelings of many walks 
 in all weathers, by day and night, over 
 this Pass, alone, and with beloved friends. 
 
 — Author's Notes. 
 
118 
 
 WORDSWORTH. 
 
 Did iucense-bearing altars rise, 
 Which caught the blaze of sacriflce, 
 From suppliants panting for the skies ! 
 
 II. 
 AVTiat though this ancient Earth be trod 
 No more by step of Demi-god 
 Mounting from gloiious deed to deed, 
 As thou from clime to clime didst lead; 
 Yet still, the bosom beating high, 
 And the hush'd farewell of an eye, 
 Where no procrastinating gaze 
 A last infirmity betrays, 
 Prove that thy heaven-descended sway 
 Shall ne'er submit to cold decay. 
 By thy divinity impell'd, 
 The Stripling seeks the tented field ; 
 Th' aspiring Virgin kneels; and, pale 
 With awe, receives the hallow'd veil, 
 A soft and tender Heroine 
 Vow'd to severer discipline : 
 Inflamed by thee, the blooming Boy 
 Makes of the Avhistliug shrouds a toy, 
 And of the ocean's dismal breast 
 A plaj'-ground, — or a couch of rest : 
 'Mid the blank world of snow and ice, 
 Thou to his dangers dost enchain 
 The Chamois-chaser awed in vain 
 By chasm or dizzy precipice : 
 And hast Thou not with triumph seen 
 HoAV soaring mortals glide between 
 Or through the clouds, and brave the light 
 With bolder than Icarian flight? » 
 How they, in bells of crystal, dive, 
 (Where winds and waters cease to strive,) 
 For no unholy visitings, 
 Among the monsters of the Deep; 
 And all the sad and precious things 
 Which tliere in ghastly silence sleep? 
 Or, adverse tides and currents headed. 
 And breathless calms no longer dreaded. 
 In never-slackening voyage go 
 Straight as an arrow fi'om the bow ; 
 
 5 Alluding, of course, to the bold spirit 
 of Enterprise as displayed in balloon-voj'- 
 aging, — The unclassical reader may like 
 to be told that Icarus was the son of that 
 wonderful mechanic, Dsedalus, whose tri- 
 umphs of ingenuity caised him to be im- 
 ])risoned by Minos. Being released by 
 Pasiphae, to aid his flight from Minos, he 
 procured wings for himself and his son, 
 and fastened them on Avith wax. In their 
 flight, the youngster, being something 
 over-bold, flew too near the Sun, so that 
 the wax was melted, and lie fell down into 
 what was thence called the Icarian sea. 
 
 And, Blighting sails and scorning oars, 
 Keep faith with Time on distant shores ?— 
 Within our fearless reach are placed 
 The secrets of the burning Waste; 
 Egyptian tombs unlock their dead, 
 Nile trembles at his fountain head; 
 Thou speak'st, — and, lo! the polar Seas 
 Unbosom their last mysteries. — [reward. 
 But, O! what ti-ansports, what sublime 
 Won from the world of mind, dost thou 
 
 prepare 
 For philosophic Sage ; or high-souled Bard 
 Who, for thy service train'd in lonely 
 woods, [the air, 
 
 Hath fed on pageants floating throiigh 
 Or calentured in depth of limpid floods ; " 
 Nor grieves, — though doom'd thro' silent 
 
 night to bear 
 The domination of his glorious themes. 
 Or struggle in the net-work of thy dreams ! 
 
 III. 
 If there be movements in the Patriot's 
 soul, [worth, 
 
 From source still deeper, and of higher 
 'Tis thine the quickening impulse to con- 
 trol. 
 And in due season send the mandate forth : 
 Thy call a prosti-ate Nation can restore. 
 When but a single Mind resolves to crouch 
 no more. 
 
 IV. ' 
 
 Dread Minister of wrath I 
 Who to their destined punishment dost 
 urge [harden'd heart! 
 
 The Pharaohs of the Earth, the men of 
 Not unassisted by the flattering stars. 
 Thou strew'st temptation o'er the path 
 When they in pomp depart 
 
 6 This is the only instance I remember 
 to have met Avith of calenture thus used as 
 a verb. The Avord properly means a fever, 
 and hence is put for the furious delirium 
 or frenzy caused by the heat of the tropi- 
 cal sun at sea, Avhich often leads sailors to 
 tliroAV themselves into tlie Avater. Tlie 
 sense of the word in this place may be 
 gathered from a passage in SAvift's iHouth. 
 Sea Project, 1721 : 
 " So, by a calenture misled. 
 The mariner Avith I'apture sees, 
 On the smooth ocean's azure bed, 
 Enamell'd flelds and verdant trees: 
 With eager hai^tc lie longs to rove 
 In that lantastic scene, and thinks 
 It must be some enchanted grove : 
 And in he leaps and doAvn he sinks." 
 
TO EKTEEPEISE. 
 
 119 
 
 With trampling horses and refulgent cars, 
 Soon to be swallow'd by the briny surge ; 
 Or cast, for lingering death, on unknown 
 
 strands ; 
 Or caught amidawhii-1 of desert sands, — 
 An Army now, and now a living liill 
 That a brief while heaves with convulsive 
 
 throes, — 
 
 Then all is still; 
 Or, to forget their madness and their woes, 
 Wrapt in a winding-sheet of spotless 
 
 snows ! 
 
 V. 
 
 Back flows the willing current of my Song : 
 If to provoke such doom the Impious dare, 
 Why shoulil it daunt a blameless prayer? 
 Bold Goddess! range our Youth among; 
 Kor let thy genuine impulse fail to beat 
 In hearts no longer young : 
 Still may a veteran Few have pride 
 In thoughts whose sternness makes them 
 
 sweet; 
 In flx'd I'esolves by Reason justified ; 
 That to their object cleave like sleet 
 Whitening a pine tree's northern side, 
 WTien fields ai'e naked far and wide, 
 And wither'd leaves, from earth's cold 
 
 breast 
 Up-caught in whirlwinds, nowhere can 
 
 find rest. 
 
 VI. 
 
 But, if such homage thou disdain 
 
 As doth with mellowing years agree. 
 
 One rarely absent from thy train 
 
 More humble favours may obtain 
 
 For thy contented Votary. 
 
 She, who incites the frolic lambs 
 
 In presence of their heedless dams, 
 
 And to the solitary fawn 
 
 Vouchsafes her lessons, bounteous Nj^mph 
 
 7 So Milton, in II Penseroso, addressing 
 the nightingale : 
 
 " Sweet bird, that shunn'st the noise of 
 folly, 
 
 Most musical, most melandwly ! " 
 Coleridge, also, in his Nightingale, repu- 
 diates the epithet : 
 
 " A melancholy bird I O, idle thought ! 
 
 In Nature there is nothing melancholy." 
 
 That wakes the breeze, the sparkling 
 Doth hurry to the lawn ; [lymph 
 
 She, who inspires that strain of joyance 
 
 holy [ancho]y,7 
 
 Which the sweet Bird, misnamed themel- 
 Pours forth in shady groves, shall plead 
 
 for me ; 
 And vernal mornings opening bright 
 With views of undefin'd delight, 
 And cheerful songs, and suns that shine 
 On bxisy days, with thankful nights, be 
 
 mine. 
 
 VII. 
 
 But thou, O Goddess! in thy favourite 
 (Freedom's impregnable redoubt, [IsJe, 
 The wide Earth's store-house fenced 
 
 about 
 With breakers roaring to the gales 
 That stretch a thousand thousand sails,) 
 Quicken the slothful, and exalt the vile ! 
 Thy impulse is the life of Fame ; 
 Glad Hope woidd almost cease to be 
 If torn from thy society; 
 And Love, when worthiest of his name, 
 Is proud to walk the Earth wdth Thee! 
 
 Yes, it was the mountain Echo, 
 Solitary, clear, profound, 
 Answering to the shouting Cuckoo, 
 Giving to her sound for sound ! 
 
 Unsolicited reply 
 To a babbling wanderer sent; 
 Like her ordinary cry, 
 Like, — but, O, how different ! 
 
 Hears not also mortal Life? — 
 Hear not we, unthinking Ci-eatures ! 
 Slaves of folly, love, or strife — 
 Voices of tAvo difl'erent natures ? 
 
 Have not we too? — yes, we liave 
 Answers, and we know not whence; 
 Echoes from beyond the grave, 
 Recognised intelligence ! 
 
 Such reboinids our inward ear 
 Catches sometimes from afar; 
 Listen, ponder, hold them dear; 
 For of God, — of God they are. [1806. 
 
120 WORDSWOETH. 
 
 THE EGYPTIAN MAID; \ 
 
 OR, j 
 
 THE ROMAJfCE OF THE WATER-LILY." | 
 
 [For the names and persons in the followingr poem, see the "History of the re- t 
 
 nowned Prince Arthur and his Knights of the Round Table ; " for the rest the Author ■ 
 
 is answerable; only it maybe proper to add, that the Lotus, with the bust of the , 
 Goddess appearing to rise out of the flull-hlown flower, was suggested by the beau- 
 tiful work of ancient art, once included among the Townley Marbles, and" now in the 
 
 Bi-itish Museum.] , 
 
 While Merlin paced the Cornisli sands, \ 
 
 Forth-looking toward the rocks of Scilly, ! 
 
 The pleased Enchanter was aware | 
 
 Of a bright Ship that seem'd to hang in air ; I 
 
 Yet was she work of mortal hands, ] 
 And took from men her name, The Water-Lily. 
 
 Soft was the wind that landward blew ; 
 And, as the Moon, o'er some dark hill ascendant, 
 
 Grows from a little edge of light I 
 
 To a full orb, this Pinnace bright j 
 
 Became, as nearer to the coast she drew, ' 
 
 More glorious, with spread sail and streaming pendant. i 
 
 Upon this winged Shape so fair i 
 
 Sage Merlin gazed with admiration : ! 
 
 Her lineaments, thought he, surpass .■ 
 
 Aught that was ever shown in magic glass ; ', 
 
 Was ever built with patient care ; j 
 Or, at a touch, produced by happiest transformation. 
 
 Hi 
 
 Now, though a Mechanist whose skill j 
 
 Shames the degenerate grasp of modern science, :^ 
 
 Grave Merlin (and belike the more ^ 
 
 Eor practising occult and perilous lore) 1 
 
 Was subject to a freakish will ,i 
 That sapp'd good thoughts, or scared them with defiance. 
 
 Provoked to envious spleen, he cast 
 An alter'd look upon th' advancing Stranger 
 Whom he had hail'd with joy, and cried, 
 " My Art shall help to tame her pride : " 
 Anon the breeze became a blast, 
 And the waves rose, and sky portended danger. 
 
 8 This poem rose out of a few words casually used in conversation by my nephew, 
 Henry Hutchinson. He was describing Avith great spirit the appearance and move- 
 ment of a vessel which he seemed to admire more than any otlier he had ever seen, 
 and said her name was the Water-Lily. This plant has been my delight from my 
 boyhood, as I have seen it floating on the lake; and that conversation put me upon 
 constructing and composing the poem. Had I not heard those words, it would never 
 have been written. — Author's Notes. 
 
THE EGYPTIAK MAID. 121 ; 
 
 With tlirilling word, and potent sign 
 Traced on the beach, his work the Sorcerer nrges ; 
 
 The clonds in blacker clouds are loot, ; 
 
 Like spiteful Fiends that vanish, cross'd ; 
 
 By Fiends of aspect more malign ; ; 
 And the winds roused the Deep with fiercer scourges. 
 
 But worthy of the name she bore I 
 
 Was this Sea-flower, this buoyant Galley; \ 
 
 Supreme in loveliness and grace ^ j 
 
 Of motion, whether in th' embrace I 
 Of trusty anchorage, or scudding o'er 
 
 The main flood roughen'd into hill and valley. ] 
 
 Behold, how wantonly she laves 
 Her sides, the Wizard's craft confounding ; 
 
 Like something out of Ocean sprung i 
 
 To be for ever fresh and young, ' 
 
 Breasts the sea-flashes, and huge waves ' 
 
 Top-gallant high, rebounding and rebounding! ; 
 
 But Ocean under magic heaves, 
 And cannot spare the Thing he cherish'd : 
 
 All ! what avails that she was fair, i 
 Luminous, blithe, and debonair ? 
 
 The storm has stripp'd her of her leaves; \ 
 
 The Lily floats no longer ! — she hath perish'd. .: 
 
 Grieve for her,^she deserves no less ; j 
 
 So like, yet so unlike, a living Creature ! ' 
 
 No heart had she, no busy brain ; " 
 Though loved, she could not love again; 
 Though pitied, feel her own distress ; 
 
 Nor aught that troubles us, the fools of Nature. i 
 
 Yet is there cause for gushing tears, ] 
 
 So richly was this Galley laden : | 
 A fairer than herself she bore, 
 
 And, in her struggles, cast ashore ; j 
 
 A lovely One, who nothing hears '] 
 
 Of wind or wave, — a meek and guileless Maiden. i 
 
 Into a cave had Merlin fled \ 
 
 From mischief caused by spells himself had mutter'd ; j 
 
 And while, repentant all too late, j 
 
 In moody posture there he sate, ] 
 
 He heard a voice, and saw, with half-raised head, ' 
 A Visitant by whom these words were utter'd : 
 
122 WORDSWOKTH. 
 
 " On Cliristian service this frail Bark i 
 
 SaiFd (hear me. Merlin !) under high protection, | 
 Though on her prow a sign of heathen power 
 
 Was carved, — a Goddesss with a Lily flower, I 
 
 The old Egyptian's emhlematic mark \ 
 
 Of joy immortal and of pure affection. -j 
 
 Her course was for the British strand ; ' 
 
 Her freight, it was a Damsel peerless : | 
 
 God reigns ahove, and Spirits strong 
 
 May gather to avenge this wrong ■ 
 
 Done to the Princess, and her Land, 
 Which she in duty left, sad but not cheerless. 
 
 i 
 
 And to Caerleon's loftiest tower ; 
 
 Soon will the Knights of Arthur's Table ; 
 
 A cry of lamentation send ; i 
 
 And all will weep who there attend, j 
 
 To grace that Stranger's bridal hour, ] 
 
 For whom the sea was made unnavigable. | 
 
 Shame ! should a Child of royal line I 
 
 Die through the blindness of thy malice V^ i 
 
 Thus to the jSTecromancer spake 3 
 
 Nina, the Lady of the Lake, ^ 
 
 A gentle Sorceress, and benign, ' 
 
 Who ne'er embitter'd any good man's chalice. ^ 
 
 1 
 " What boots," continued she, " to mourn ? 
 
 To expiate thy sin endeavour : 
 From the bleak isle where she is laid, 
 Fetch'd by our art, th' Egyptian Maid 
 May yet to Arthur's Court be borne, 
 Cold as she is, ere life be fled for ever. 
 
 My pearly Boat, a shining Light, 
 That brought me down that sunless river. 
 Will bear me on from wave to wave. 
 And back with her to this sea-cave ; — 
 Then, Merlin, for a rapid flight 
 Through air, to thee my Charge will I deliver. 
 
 The very swiftest of thy cars 
 Must, when my part is done, be ready ; 
 Meanwhile, for further guidance, look 
 Into thy own prophetic book ; 
 And, if that fail, consult the Stars 
 To learn thy course; farewell 1 be prompt and steady." 
 
THE EGYPTIAN" MAID. 133 
 
 This scarcely spoken, slie again 
 "Was seated in her gleaming shallop, 
 That o'er the yet-distemperd Deep 
 Pursued its way with bird-like sweep, 
 Or like a steed, without a rein. 
 Urged o'er the wilderness in sportive gallop. 
 
 Soon did the gentle Mna reach 
 That Isle without a house or haven ; 
 Landing, she found not what she sought, 
 Nor saw of wreck or ruin aught 
 But a carved Lotus cast upon the beach 
 By the fierce waves, a flower in marble graven. 
 
 Sad relique, but how fair the while ! 
 For gently each from each retreating 
 With backward curve, the leaves reveal'd 
 The bosom half, and half conceal'd, 
 Of a Divinity, that seemed to smile 
 On Nina, as she pass'd, with hopeful greeting. 
 
 No quest was hers of vague desire. 
 Of tortured hope and purpose shaken ; 
 Following the margin of a bay, 
 She spied the lonely Cast-away, 
 TJnmarr'd, unstripp'd of her attire, 
 But with closed eyes, — of breath and bloom forsaken. 
 
 Then Nina, stooping down, embraced. 
 With tenderness and mild emotion. 
 The Damsel, in that trance embound ; 
 And, while she raised her from the ground. 
 And in the pearly shallop placed. 
 Sleep fell upon the air, and still'd the ocean. 
 
 The turmoil hush'd, celestial springs 
 Of music open'd, and there came a blending 
 Of fragrance, underived from Earth, 
 With gleams that owed not to the Sun their birth. 
 And that soft rustling of invisible wings 
 Which Angels make, on works of love descending. 
 
 And Nina heard a sweeter voice 
 Than if the Goddess of the flower had spoken : 
 " Thou hast achieved, fair Dame ! what none 
 Less pure in spirit could have done ; 
 Go, in thy enterprise rejoice ! 
 Air, earth, sea, sky, and heaven, success betoken." 
 
124 WORDSWOKTH. 
 
 So cheer'd, she left that Island bleak, 
 A bare rock of the Scilly cluster ; 
 And, us they traversed the smooth brine. 
 The self-ilhimined Brigantine 
 Shed, on the Slumberer's cold wan cheek 
 And pallid brow, a melancholy lustre. 
 
 Fleet was their course, and when they came 
 To the dim cavern, whence the river 
 Issued into the salt-sea flood, 
 Merlin, as hx'd in thought he stood. 
 Was thus accosted by the Dame : 
 "Behold to thee my Charge I now deliver! 
 
 But where attends thy chariot, — where ? " — 
 Quoth Merlin, " Even as I was bidden. 
 So have I done ; as trusty as thy barge 
 My vehicle shall j^rove : — precious Charge ! 
 If this be sleep, how soft ! if death, how^ fair ! 
 Much have my books disclosed, but th' end is hidden." 
 
 He spake ; and gliding into view 
 Forth from the grotto's dimmest chamber 
 Came two mute Swans, whose plumes of dusky white 
 Changed, as the pair approach'd the light, 
 Drawing an ebon car, their hue 
 (Like clouds of sunset) into lucid amber. 
 
 Once more did gentle Nina lift 
 The Princess, passive to all changes : 
 The car received her : — then up-went 
 Into th' ethereal element 
 The birds with progress smooth and swift 
 As thought, when through bright regions memory ranges. 
 
 Sage Merlin, at the Slumberer's side, 
 Instructs the Swans their way to measure ; 
 And soon Caerleon's towers appear'd. 
 And notes of minstrelsy were heard 
 From rich pavilions spreading wide, 
 For some high day of long-ex j)ected pleasure. 
 
 Awe-stricken stood both Knights and Dames 
 Ere on firm ground the car alighted ; 
 Eftsoons astonishment was past, 
 For in that face they saw the last, 
 Last lingering look of clay, that tames 
 All pride ; by which all happiness is blighted. 
 
THE EGYPTIAN" MAID. 125 
 
 Said Merlin, " Mighty King, fair Lords, 
 Away with feast and tilt and tourney! 
 Yc saw, throughout tliis royal House, 
 Ye heard, a rocking marvellous 
 Of turrets, and a clash of swords 
 Self-shaken, as I closed my airy journey. 
 
 Lo ! by a destiny well known 
 To mortals, joy is turn'd to sorrow; 
 This is the wish'd-for Bride, the Maid 
 Of Egypt, from a rock convey'd 
 Where she by shij^ wreck had been thrown; 
 111 sight ! but grief may vanish ere the morrow." 
 
 " Though vast thy power, thy words are weak," 
 Exclaim'd the King, *',a mockery hateful: 
 Dutiful Child, her lot how hard ! 
 Is this her piety's reward ? 
 Those watery locks, that bloodless cheek ! 
 winds without remorse! shore ungrateful! 
 
 Eich robes are fretted by the moth ; 
 Tow^ers, temples, fall by stroke of thunder; 
 Will that, or deej^er thoughts, abate 
 A Father's sorrow for her fate ? 
 He will repent him of his troth ; 
 His brain will burn, his stout heart split asunder. 
 
 Alas ! and I have caused this woe ; 
 For, when my prowess from invading Neighbours 
 Had freed his Realm, he plighted word 
 That he would turn to Christ our Lord, 
 And his dear Daughter on a Knight bestow 
 Whom I should choose for love and matchless labours. 
 
 Her birth was heathen ; but a fence 
 Of holy Angels round her hover'd: 
 A Lady added to my Court, 
 So fair, of such divine report 
 And worship, seem'd a recompense 
 For fifty kingdoms by my sword recover'd. 
 
 Ask not for whom, Champions true ! 
 She was reserved by me her life's betrayer ; 
 She who was meant to be a bride 
 Is now a corse : then put aside 
 Vain thoughts, and speed ye, with observance due 
 Of Christian rites, in Christian ground to lay her." 
 
126 WORDSWORTH. 
 
 " The tomb," said Merlin, " may not close 
 Upon lier yet, earth hide her beauty; 
 Not froward to thy sovereign will 
 Esteem me, Liege'! if I, whose skill 
 Wafted her hither, interpose 
 To check this pious haste of erring duty. 
 
 My books command me to lay bare 
 The secret thou art bent on keeping; 
 Here must a high attest be given. 
 What Bridegroom was for her ordain'd by Heaven : 
 And in my glass significants there are 
 Of things that may to gladness turn this weeping. 
 
 For this, approaching. One by One, 
 Thy Knights must touch the cold hand of the Virgin ; 
 So, for the favour'd One, the Flower may bloom 
 Once more: but, if unchangeable her doom, 
 If life departed be for ever gone. 
 Some blest assurance, from this cloud emerging, 
 
 May teach him to bewail his loss ; 
 Not with a grief that, like a vapour, rises 
 And melts ; but grief devout that shall endure. 
 And a perpetual growth secure 
 Of purposes which no false thought shall cross, 
 A harvest of high hopes and noble enterprises." 
 
 " So be it," said the King ; — " anon, 
 Here, where the Princess lies, begin the trial ; 
 Knights, each in order as ye stand, 
 Step forth." — To touch the pallid hand 
 Sir Agravaine advanced ; no sign he won 
 From Heaven or earth ; — Sir Kaye had like denial. 
 
 Abash'd, Sir Dinas turn'd away ; 
 Even for Sir Percival was no disclosure ; 
 Though he, devoutest of all Champions, ere 
 He reach'd that ebon car, the bier 
 Whereon diffused like snow the Damsel lay, 
 Full thrice had cross'd himself in meek composure. 
 
 Imagine (but, ye Saints ! who can ?) 
 How in still air the balance trembled, — 
 The wishes, peradventure the despites 
 That overcame some not ungenerous Knights ; 
 And all the thoughts that lengthen'd out a span 
 Of time to Lords and Ladies thus assembled. 
 
THE EGYPTIAN MAID. 127 
 
 What patient confidence was here ! 
 And there how many bosoms panted ! 
 While drawing toward the car Sir Gawaine, maiPd 
 For tournament, his beaver vaird,' 
 And softly touch'd ; but to his princely cheer 
 And high expectancy no sign was granted. 
 
 Next, disencumber'd of his harp, 
 Sir Tristram, dear to thousands as a brother, 
 Came to the proof, nor grieved that there ensued 
 No change : — the fair Izonda he had woo'd 
 With love too true, a love with pangs too sharp, 
 From hope too distant, not to dread another. 
 
 Not so Sir Launcelot ; — from Heaven's grace 
 A sign he craved, tired slave of vain contrition : 
 The royal Guinever look'd passing glad 
 When his touch fail'd. — Next came Sir Galahad; 
 He paused, and stood entranced by that still face 
 Whose features he had seen in noontide vision. 
 
 For late, as near a murmuring stream 
 He rested 'mid an arbour green and shady, 
 Nina, the good Enchantress, shed 
 A light around his mossy bed; 
 And, at her call, a waking dream 
 Prefigured to his sense th' Egyptian Lady. 
 
 Now, while his bright-hair'd front he bow'd, 
 And stood, far-kenn'd by mantle f urr'd with ermine. 
 As O'er th' insensate Body hung 
 Th' enrapt, the beautiful, the young, 
 Belief sank deep into the crowd 
 That he the solemn issue would determine. 
 
 Nor deem it strange : the Youth had worn 
 That very mantle on a day of glory, 
 The day when he achieved that matchless feat. 
 The marvel of the Perilous Seat, 
 Which whosoe'er approach'd of strength was shorn. 
 Though King or Knight the most renown'd in story. 
 
 He touch'd with hesitating hand, — 
 
 And, lo ! those Birds, far-famed through Love's dominions. 
 
 The Swans, in triumph clap their wings; 
 
 9 That is, drew his beaver down. The beaver was a part of the helmet that covered 
 the face, but hung on hinges at the ears, so that it could at pleasure be set up over 
 the forehead or drawn down over the face. — Vailed is lowered. — Both words are often 
 60 used by Shakespeare. 
 
128 
 
 WORDSWORTH. 
 
 And their necks play, involved in rings, 
 Like sinless snakes in Eden's bappy land ; — [pinions. 
 "Mine is she," cried the Knight; — again they clapp'd their 
 
 "Mine was she, — mine she is, though dead, 
 And to her name my soul shall cleave in sorrow : " 
 Whereat, a tender twilight streak 
 Of colour dawn'd upon the Damsel's cheek ; 
 And her lips, quickening with uncertain red, 
 Seem'd from each other a faint warmth to borrow. 
 
 Deep was the awe, the rapture high, 
 Of love embolden'd, hope with dread entwining, 
 When to the mouth relenting Death 
 Allow'd a soft and flower-like breath, 
 Precursor to a timid sigh. 
 To lifted eyelids, and a doubtful shining. 
 
 In silence did King Arthur gaze 
 Upon the signs that pass away or tarry; 
 In silence watch'd the gentle strife 
 Of Nature leading back to life ; 
 Then eased his soul at length by praise 
 Of God, and Heaven's pure Queen, the blissful Mary. 
 
 Then said he, " Take her to thy heart, 
 Sir Galahad ! a treasure that God giveth. 
 Bound by indissoluble ties to thee 
 Through mortal change and immortality; 
 Be hapj^y and unenvied, thou who art 
 A goodly knight that hath no peer that liveth ! " 
 
 Not long the Nuptials were delay'd ; 
 And sage tradition still rehearses 
 The pomp, the glory of that hour 
 When toward the altar from her bower 
 King Arthur led th' Egyptian Maid, 
 And Ano:els caroll'd these far-echo'd verses : 
 
 Who shrinks not from alliance 
 Of evil with good Powers, 
 To God proclaims defiance, 
 And mocks whom he adores. 
 
 A Ship to Christ devoted 
 From the Land of Nile did go ; 
 Alas ! the bright Ship floated, 
 An Idol at her prow. 
 
 By magic domination, — 
 The Heaven-permitted vent 
 Of purblind mortal passion, — 
 Was wrought licr punishment. 
 
 The Flower, the Form within it, 
 What served they in her need? 
 Her port she could not win it, 
 Nor from mishap be freed. 
 
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 129 
 
 The tempest overcame her, 
 And she Avas seeu no more ; 
 But gently, gently blame her,— 
 She cast a Pearl ashore. 
 
 The Maid to Jesii hearken'd, 
 And kept to Him her laith, 
 Till sense in death was darken'd, 
 Or sleep akin to death. 
 
 But Angels round her pillow 
 Kept watch, a viewless band; 
 And, billow favouring billow. 
 She reach'd the destined strand. 
 
 Blest Pair! whate'er befall you. 
 
 Your faith in Him approve 
 
 Who from frail Earth can call you 
 
 To bowers of endless love I [1830. 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 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. 
 
 [1804. 
 
 THE SPARROW'S NEST. 
 
 Behold, within the leafy shade, 
 Those bright blue eggs together laid! 
 On me the chance-discover'd sight 
 Gleam'd like a vision of delight. 
 1 started, seeming to espy 
 The home and sheltex-'d bed, 
 The Sparrow's dwelling, which, hard by 
 My Father's house, in wet or dry 
 M\' sister Emmeline and I 
 Together visited.^ 
 
 She look'd at it and seem'd to fear it ; 
 Dreading, thougli wishing, to be near it : 
 Such heart was in her, being then 
 A little Prattler among men. 
 The Blessing of my later years 
 Was ^^•ith mc when a boy : 
 She gave me eyes, she gave me ears; 
 And humble cares, and delicate fears ; 
 A heart, the fountain of sweet tears; 
 And love, and thought., and joy. 
 
 [ISOl. 
 
 1 The poet speaks of his sister under 
 various names. Her real name was Doro- 
 thy. See page 64, note 9. The poet's sense 
 of obligation to her is remarked upon in 
 the aketch of his Life. 
 
 REME3HBRANCE OF COLLINS. 
 
 ( Composed upon the Thames, near Richmond.) 
 
 Glide gently, thus for ever glide, 
 O Thames ! that other bards maj' see 
 As lovely visions by thy side 
 As now, fair river, come to me. 
 O glide, fair stream! for ever so. 
 Thy quiet soul on all bestowing, 
 Till all our minds for ever flow 
 As thy deep waters now are flowing. 
 
 Vain thought! — yet be as now thou art, 
 That in thy waters may be seen 
 The image of a poet's heart, 
 How bright, how solemn, how serene! 
 Such as did once the Poet bless 
 Who, murmuring here a later ditty. 
 Could And no refuge from distress 
 But in the milder grief of pity .2 
 
 Now let us, as we float along, 
 For him suspend the dashing oar, 
 And pray that never child of song 
 jMaj' know that Poet's sorrows more. 
 How calm ! how still ! the only sound. 
 The dripping of the oar suspended! '' — 
 The evening darkness gathers round 
 By virtue's holiest PoAvers attended. 
 
 [1789. 
 
 2 The allusion is to Collius's Ode on the 
 Death of Thomson, the last-Avrittcn of the 
 author's x)ocms which wei*e published dui'- 
 ing his life-time. The scene of that Ode 
 is supposed to lie on the Thames, near 
 Richinoml. 
 
 3 Here, again, AVordsworth alludes to 
 Collins's Ode : 
 
 " Reraeml)rance oft shall haunt the shore. 
 When Thames in summer wreaths is drest ; 
 And oft suspend tlic dashing oar^ 
 To bid his gentle spirit rest! " 
 
130 
 
 WORDSWORTH. 
 
 LOUISA. 
 
 AFTER ACCOMPANYING HEK ON A MOUN- 
 TAIN EXCURSION. 
 
 I MET Louisa in the shade, 
 
 And, having seen that lovely Maid, 
 
 ■\Vliy should I fear to say 
 
 That, nymph-like, she is fleet and strong, 
 
 And down the rocks can leap along 
 
 Like rivulets in May? 
 
 She loves her fire, her cottage-home ; 
 Yet o'er the moorland will she roam 
 In weather rough and bleak; 
 And, when against the wind she strains, 
 O, might I kiss the mountain rains 
 That sparkle on her cheek ! 
 
 Take all that's mine beneath the Moon, 
 
 If I with her but half a noon 
 
 May sit beneath the walls 
 
 Of some old cave, or mossy nook, 
 
 When up she Avinds along the brook 
 
 To hunt the waterfalls. [1805. 
 
 Strange fits of passion have I known ; 
 
 And I will dare to tell. 
 
 But in the Lover's ear alone, 
 
 What once to me befell : 
 
 "SYhen she I loved look'd every day 
 Fresh as a rose in June, 
 I to her cottage bent my way, 
 Beneath an evening Moon. 
 
 Upon the Moon I fix'd my eye. 
 
 All over the wide lea ; 
 
 With quickening pace my horse drew nigh 
 
 Those paths so dear to me. 
 
 And now we reach'd the orchard-plot; 
 And, as we climb'd the hill. 
 The sinking Moon to Lucy's cot 
 Came near, and nearer still. 
 
 In one of those sweet dreams I slept, 
 Kind Nature's gentlest boon ! 
 And all the while my eyes I kept 
 On the descending Moon. 
 
 My horse moved on; hoof after hoof 
 He raised, and never stopp'd : 
 When down behind the cottage roof, 
 At once, the bright Moon dropp'd. 
 
 What fond and wayward thoughts will 
 Into a Lover's head ! [slide 
 
 " O mercy ! " to myself I cried, 
 "If Lucy should be dead ! " [1799. 
 
 She dwelt among th' untrodden ways 
 
 Beside the springs of Dove, 
 A Maid whom there were none to praise, 
 
 And very few to love : 
 
 A violet by a mossy stone 
 
 Half hidden from the eye ! 
 Fair as a star, when only one 
 
 Is shining in the sky. 
 
 She lived unknown, and few could know 
 
 When Lucy ceased to be ; 
 But she is in her grave, and, O, 
 
 The difference to me ! [1799. 
 
 I TRAVELL'D among unknown men, 
 
 In lands beyond the sea ; 
 Nor, England ! did I know till then 
 
 AVhat love I bore to thee. 
 
 'Tis past, that melancholy dream! 
 
 Nor will I quit thj^ shore 
 A second time; for still I, seem 
 
 To love thee more and more. 
 
 Among thy mountains did I feel 
 
 The joy of my desire ; 
 And she I cherish'd turn'd her wheel 
 
 Beside an English fire. 
 
 Thy mornings show'd, thy nights con- 
 The bowers where Lucy play'd; [ceal'd 
 
 And thine too is the last green field 
 That Lucy's eyes survey'd. [1799. 
 
 TO . 
 
 Let other bards of angels sing. 
 
 Bright suns without a spot ; 
 But thou art no such perfect thing : 
 
 Rejoice that thou art not! 
 
 Heed not tho' none should call thee fair; 
 
 So, Mary, let it be, 
 If nought in loveliness compare 
 
 With what thou art to me. 
 
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 131 
 
 True beauty d^vells in deep retreats, 
 
 Whose veil is unremoved 
 Till heart with heart in concord beats, 
 
 And the lover is beloved.* [1824. 
 
 TO THE CUCKOO. 
 
 Blithe Xew-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. 
 
 Though babbling only to the Yale, 
 -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 
 
 Mo bird, but an invisible thing, 
 
 A voice, a mystery; 
 
 The same whom in my school-boy days 
 
 1 listen'd 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 long'd for, never seen. 
 
 And I can listen to thee yet; 
 Can lie upon the plain 
 And listen, till I do beget 
 That golden time again. 
 
 O blessfed Bird 1 the earth we pace 
 
 Again appears to be 
 
 An unsubstantial, faeiy place; 
 
 That is fit home for Thee 1 [1804. 
 
 THE LONGEST DAY. 
 ADDRESSED TO MT DAUGHTER. 
 
 Let us quit the leafy arbour, 
 And the torrent murmuring by; 
 For the Sun is in his harbour, 
 Weary of the open sky. 
 
 Evening now unbinds the fetters 
 Fashion'd by the glowing light; 
 AU that breathe are thankful debtors 
 To the harbinger of night. 
 
 Yet by some grave thoughts attended 
 Eve renews her calm career; 
 For the day that now is ended 
 Is the longest of the year. 
 
 Dora ! sport, as now thou sportest, 
 On this platform, light and free; 
 Take thy bliss, while longest, shortest. 
 Are indifferent to thee. 
 
 Who would check the happy feeling 
 That inspires the linnet's song? 
 Who would stop the swallow, wheeling 
 On her pinions swift and strong? 
 
 Yet, at this impressive season, 
 Words which tenderness can speak 
 From the truths of homely reason. 
 Might exalt the loveliest cheek; 
 
 And, while shades to shades succeeding 
 Steal the landscape from the sight, 
 I would urge this moral pleading, 
 Last forerunner of " Good night ! " 
 
 Summer ebbs ; — each day that follows 
 Is a reflux from on high, 
 Tending to the darksome hollows 
 Where the frosts of Winter lie. 
 
 He who governs the creation, 
 In His providence, assign'd 
 Such a gradual declination 
 To the life of human kind. 
 
 Yet we mark it not; —fruits redden, 
 Fresh flowers blow, as flowers have 
 
 blown ; 
 And the heart is loth to deaden 
 Hopes that she so long hath known. 
 
 Be thou wiser, youthful Maiden ! 
 And, when thy decline shall come. 
 Let not flowers, or boughs fruit-laden, 
 Hide the knowledge of thy doom. 
 
 XoAV, even npw, ere wrapp'd in slumber, 
 Fix thine eyes upon the sea 
 That absorbs lime, space, and number; 
 Look thou to Eternitv ! 
 
 4 These stanzas are supposed to be ad- ^oUow thou the flowing river 
 diessed to the author's wile. | On whose breast are thither borne 
 
]32 
 
 WOKDSWOETH. 
 
 All deceived, and each deceiver, 
 Through the gates of night and morn; 
 
 Through the year's successive portals ; 
 Through the bounds Avhich many a star 
 Marks, not mindless of frail mortals, 
 When his light returns from far. 
 
 Thus when thou with Time haet travell'd 
 Toward the mighty gulf of things, 
 And the mazy stream unravell'd 
 With thy best imaginings; 
 
 Think, if thou on beauty leanest, 
 Think how pitiful that stay. 
 Did not virtue give the meanest 
 Charms superior to decay. 
 
 Duty, like a strict preceptor, 
 Sometimes frowns, or seems to frown ; 
 Choose her thistle for thy sceptre, 
 While youth's roses are thy crown. 
 
 Grasp it,— if thou shrink and tremble. 
 Fairest damsel of the green, 
 Thou Avilt lack the only symbol 
 That proclaims a genuine queen ; 
 
 And ensures those palms of honour 
 Which selected spirits wear. 
 Bending low before the Donor, 
 Lord of Heaven's unchanging year ! ^ 
 
 [1817. 
 
 LUCY GRAY; OR, SOLITUDE. 
 
 Oft I had heard of Lucy Gray : 
 And, when I cross'd the wild, 
 I chanced to see at break of day 
 The solitary child. 
 
 No mate, no comrade Lucy knew; 
 She dwelt on a wide moor, — 
 The sweetest thing that ever grew 
 Beside a human door I 
 
 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 lanteni. 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 i-aised his hook, 
 And snapp'd a fagot-brand ; 
 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 wander'd \ap and down; 
 And many a hill did Lucy climb : 
 But never reach'd the town. 
 
 The wretched parents ail that night 
 Went shouting far and wide ; 
 But there was neither sound nor sight 
 To serve them for a guide. 
 
 At day-break on a hill they stood 
 That overlook'd the moor; 
 And thence they saw the bridge of wood, 
 A furlong from their door. 
 
 They wept; and, turning homeward, 
 " In Heaven we all shall meet ; " [cried, 
 When in the snow the mother spied 
 The print of Lucy's feet. 
 
 Then downwards from the steep hill's 
 They track'd the footmarks small ; [edge 
 And through the broken hawthorn hedge. 
 And by the long stone-wall; 
 
 And then an open field they cross'd: 
 The marks were still the same ; 
 They ti'ack'd them on, nor ever lost; 
 And to the bridge they came. 
 
 They follow'd 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 
 5 Suggested by my daughter Dora play- gi^g jg .^ jiving child ; 
 nig 111 front of Rvdal Mount; and com- ! ^, ^ ^ x /-. 
 
 posed in a great measure the same after- 1 Tliat you may see sweet Lucy Gray 
 noon. — Author's Notes. | Upon the lonesome wild. 
 
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 133 
 
 O'er rough and smooth she trips along, 
 
 And never looks behmd; 
 
 And sings a solitiiry song 
 
 That whistles in tlic wind.G [1799. 
 
 WE ARE SEVEN. 
 
 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; 
 Pier hair was thick with many a curl 
 That cluster'd round her head. 
 
 She had a rustic, woodland air, 
 And she was wildly clad : 
 Her eyes were fiiir, 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 look'd at me. 
 
 " And where are they ? I pray you tell. 
 She answer'd, " Seven are we; 
 And two of us at Conway dwell, 
 And two are gone to sea. 
 
 Two of us in the church- yard lie, 
 Mj- sister and my brother; 
 And, in the church-yard cottage, I 
 DweU 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 cluirch-yard lie. 
 Beneath the church-yard tree." 
 
 6 Founded on a circumstance related 
 to me by my sister, of a little girl who, 
 not far from Halifax in Yorkshire, was 
 bewildered in a snow-storm. Her foot- 
 steps were traced by her parents to the 
 middle of the lock of a canal, and no 
 other vestige of her, backward or for- 
 ward, could be traced. Her body how- 
 ever was found in the canal. — Author's 
 Notes. 
 
 " You run about, my little Maid, 
 Your limbs thej' are alive : 
 If two are in the church-yard laid. 
 Then ye are only live." 
 
 " Their graves are green, they may be 
 The little Maid rei)l:ed, [seen," 
 
 '• Twelve steps or more from my mother's 
 And they are side by side. [door. 
 
 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 sun-set, Sir, 
 When it is light and fair, 
 1 take my little porringer. 
 And eat my supper there. 
 
 The first that died was sister Jane : 
 In bed she moaning laj'. 
 Till God released her of her pain ; 
 And then she went away. 
 
 So in the church-yard she was laid ; 
 And, Avhen the grass was dry. 
 Together roi;nd her grave we play'd, 
 My brother John and I. 
 
 And when the ground was white wit'i 
 And I could run and slide, [snow, 
 
 My brother John was forced to go ; 
 And he lies by her side." 
 
 " How many are you, then," said I, 
 " If they two are in Heaven? " 
 Quick was the little Maid's reply, 
 " O Master I we are seven." 
 
 " But they are dead; those two are dead! 
 Their spirits are in Heaven ! " — 
 •Twas throwing words away; for still 
 The little Maid would have her will, 
 And said, " Nay, we are seven ! " ^ [1798. 
 
 7 The author tells us that he composed 
 this poem while walking in a grove at Al- 
 foxdeu, and that the little girl who is the 
 hei'oine was met by him within the area 
 of Goodrich Ca stle in 1793. The piece was 
 published in the first volume of Lyrical 
 Ballad6,lld8. — In his notes, the author 
 relates how a friend, Avho nad got sight 
 of the poem as it was going through the 
 press, remonstrated with him against 
 printing it : " One evening he came to 
 me with a grave face, and said, ' Words. 
 worth, I have seen the volume that you 
 
134 
 
 WORDSWORTH. 
 
 TO , 
 
 ON HER FIRST ASCENT TO THE SUMMIT 
 OP HELVELLYN. 
 
 lN3iL4.TE of a mountain-dwelling, 
 Thou hast clomb aloft, and gazed 
 From the watch-towers of Helvellyn; 
 Awed, delighted, and amazed! 
 
 Potent was the spell that bound thee 
 Not unwilling to obey ; 
 For blue Ether's arms, flung round thee, 
 Still'd the pantings of dismay. 
 
 Lo ! the dwindled woods and meadows ; 
 ^^^lat a vast abyss is there ! 
 Lo ! the clouds, the solemn shadows. 
 And the glistenings — heavenly fairl 
 
 And a record of commotion 
 Which a thousand ridges yield ; 
 Ridge, and gulf, and distant ocean 
 Gleaming like a silver shield! 
 
 Maiden, now take flight;— inherit 
 Alps or Andes, — they are thine ! 
 With the morning's roseate Spirit, 
 Sweep their length of snowy line ; 
 
 Or survey their bright dominions 
 In the gorgeous colours drest 
 Flung from oft" the purple pinions, 
 Evening spreads tliroughout the West! 
 
 Thine are all the coral fountains 
 Warbling in each sparry vault 
 Of th' untrodden lunar moimtains ; 
 Listen to their songs ! — or halt. 
 
 To Niphates' top invited. 
 Whither spiteful Satan steer'd ; 
 
 are about to publish. There is one poem 
 in it which I earnestly entreat you wiU 
 cancel ; for, if published, it will make you 
 everlastingly ridiculous.' I answered that 
 I felt much obliged by the interest he 
 took in my good name as a writer, and 
 begged to know what was the unfoi-tunate 
 piece he alluded to. He said, ' It is called 
 We are Seven.' Nay, said I, that shall take 
 its chance however ; and he left me in des- 
 pair. I have only to add that in the Spring 
 of 1841 I revisited Goodrich Castle, not 
 having seen that part of the Wye since I 
 met the little girl there in 1793, It w^ould 
 have given me greater pleasure to have 
 found in the neighbouring hamlet some 
 ti'aces of one who had interested me so 
 much; but that was impossible, as unfor- 
 tunately 1 did not even know her name."] 
 
 Or descend where th' ark alighted. 
 When the green earth re-appear'd; 
 
 For the power of hills is on thee, 
 As was witness'd through thine eye 
 Then, when old Helvellyn won thee 
 To confess their majesty 1 « [1816. 
 
 She was &, Phantom of delight 
 When first she gleam'd upon my sight; 
 A lovely Apparition, sent 
 Tu be a moment's ornament : 
 Her eyes as stars of Twilight fair; 
 Like Twilight's, too, her dusky hair; 
 But all things else about her drawn 
 From May-time and the cheerful Dawn ; 
 A dancing Shape, an Image gay, 
 To haunt, to startle, and way lay. 
 
 I saw her upon nearer view, 
 A Spirit, yet a Woman too ! 
 Her household motions light and free, 
 And steps of virgin liberty ; 
 A countenance in which did meet 
 Sweet records, promises as sweet; 
 A Creature not too bright or good 
 For human nature's daily food; 
 For transient sorrows, simple wiles. 
 Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and 
 smiles. 
 
 And now I see with eye serene 
 
 The veiy pulse of the machine; 
 
 A Being breathing thoughtful breath, 
 
 A Traveller between life and death; 
 
 The reason firm, the temperate will. 
 
 Endurance, foresight, strength, and skiU; 
 
 A perfect Woman, nobly plann'd 
 
 To warn, to comfoi't, and command ; 
 
 And yet a Spirit still, and bright 
 
 With something of angelic light.^ [1804. 
 
 8 The lady was Miss Blackett, then re- 
 siding with Mr. Montague Burgoyne at 
 Fox-Ghyll. We were tem]ited to remain 
 too long upon the mountain; and I, im- 
 prudently, with the hope of shortening 
 the way, led her among the crags and 
 doAvn a steep slope, which entangled us 
 in dilliculties that were met by her with 
 much spirit and courage. — Author's Notes. 
 
 9 This great little poem, for such it 
 truly is, refers, thi-oughout, to the author's 
 wife. He himself says, " it was written 
 from my heart, as is sufficiently obvious." 
 — See page 130, note 4. 
 
MISCELLAiq-EOUS POEMS. 
 
 135 
 
 Nightingale ! thou surely art 
 
 A creature of a " fiery heart " : — [pierce ; 
 These notes of thine, they pierce and 
 Tumultuous harmony and fierce ! 
 Thou sing'st as if the God of wine 
 Had help'd 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 coo'd and coo'd; 
 And somewhat pensively he Avoo'd: 
 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 ! 
 
 [1806. 
 
 Three years she grew in sun and shower, 
 Then Natui-e said, " A lovelier flower 
 On Earth was never sown : 
 This Child I to myself will take; 
 She shall be mine, and I will make 
 A Lady of my own. 
 
 Myself will to my darling be 
 
 Both law and impulse : and with me 
 
 The Gii'l, 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 lawTi 
 Or up the mountain springs ; 
 And hers shall be the breathing halm, 
 And hers the silence and the calm 
 Of mute, insensate things. 
 
 The floating clouds their state shall lend 
 
 To her; for her the willow bend; 
 
 Nor shall she fail to see 
 
 Even in the motions of the Storm 
 
 Grace that shall mould the Maiden's fonn 
 
 By silent sympathy. 
 
 The stars of midnight shall be dear 
 To her ; and she shall lean her ear 
 In many a secret place [round. 
 
 Where rivulets dance their wayward 
 
 And beauty bom of murmuring sound 
 Shall pass into her face. 
 
 And vital feelings of delight 
 
 Shall rear her form to stately height, 
 
 Her virgin bosom swell : 
 
 Such thoughts to Lucy I will give 
 
 While she and I together live 
 
 Here in this happy dell." 
 
 Thus Nature spake,— The work was done ; 
 
 How soon my Lucy's race was run ! 
 
 She died, and left to me 
 
 This heath, tliis calm and quiet scene; 
 
 The memory of what has been, 
 
 And never more will he." i [1709. 
 
 I WANDER'D 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. 
 
 Continuous as the stars that shine 
 And t^vinkle on the milky way, 
 They stretch'd in never-ending Line 
 Along the margin of the bay : 
 Ten thousand saw I at a glance, 
 Tossing their heads in sprightly dance. 
 
 The waves beside them danced; but they 
 
 Out-did the sparkling waves in glee : 
 
 A poet could not but be gay, 
 
 In such a jocund company : 
 
 I gazed— and gazed— but little thought 
 
 What wealth the show to me had brought : 
 
 For oft, when on my couch I lie 
 In vacant or in pensive mood, 
 They flash upon that inward eye 
 Which is the bliss of solitude ; 2 
 
 1 Another great little poem. I have 
 sometimes thought it the happiest of all 
 Wordsworth's smaller pieces; nor do I 
 see how" felicity of thought and language 
 can go further. Ruskin justly ascribes to 
 it the qiiality of " exquisite rightness." 
 
 2 These two lines have been faulted, 
 perhaps justly, as being disproportionate 
 to the occasion. Coleridge, in the superb 
 criticism on Wordsworth in his Biographia 
 Literaria, cites them as an instance of 
 " thoughts and images too great for the 
 subject." '* It is a well-known fact," says 
 he, " that bright colours in motion both 
 make and leave the strongest impressions 
 on the eye. Nothing is more Ukely, too. 
 
13(3 
 
 WORDSWOllTII. 
 
 And then my heart with pleasure fills, 
 And dances with the daflbdils.s [1804. 
 
 THE GREEN LINXET. 
 
 fruit-tree boughs 
 
 that 
 
 Beneath these 
 
 shed 
 Their snow-white blossoms on my head, 
 With brightest sunshine round me spread 
 
 Of Spring's unclouded weather, 
 In this sequester'd nook how sweet 
 To sit upon my orchard-seat; 
 And birds and flowers once more to greet, 
 
 My last year's friends together! 
 
 One have I mark'd the happiest guest 
 In all this covert of the blest : 
 Hail to Thee, far above the rest 
 In joy of voice and pinion! 
 
 Thou, Linnet, in thy green array, 
 rresiding Spirit here to-day, 
 Dost lead the revels of the May; 
 And this is thy dominion. 
 
 While birds and butterflies and flowers 
 Make all one band of paramours. 
 Thou, ranging up and down the bowers, 
 
 Art sole in thy employment : 
 A Life, a Presence like the Air, 
 Scattering thy gladness without care, 
 Too blest with any one to pair; 
 
 Thyself thy own enjoyment. 
 
 Amid yon tuft of hazel trees, 
 That twinkle to the gusty breeze, 
 Behold him perch'd in ecstasies, 
 
 Yet seeming still to hover; 
 There! Avhere the flutter of his wings 
 Upon his back and bodj- flings 
 Shadows and sunny glimmerings, 
 
 That cover him all over. 
 
 than that a vivid image, or visual spec- 
 trum, thus originated, may become the 
 link of association in recalling the feel- 
 ings and images that had accompanied 
 the original impi'ession. But, if we de- 
 scribe this in such lines as 
 
 •They flash upon that inward eye 
 
 Whicli is the bliss of solitude,' 
 in Avhat words shall we describe the joy 
 of retrospection, when the images and 
 virtuous actions of a v/hole well-spent life 
 pass before that conscience which is in- 
 deed the inivayxl ei/c ; which is indeed the 
 bliss of solitude?" — The poet, however, 
 tells us that " these two lines were written 
 by Mrs. ^\^ordsworth." And in one of his 
 letters to Archdeacon Wraiigham he has 
 the following in refei-ence to the same 
 lines: "You know Butler, Montagu's 
 friend : when I was in town in Spring, he 
 happened to see the volumes lying on 
 Montagu's mantel-piece, and to ghmcehis 
 eye upon the very poem of the daffodils. 
 * Ay,' says he, ' a fine morsel this for the 
 Reviewers.' AVlien this was told me, (for 
 I was not present,) I observed that there 
 Avcrc two lines in that little poem Avhich, 
 if Ihorouj^hly felt, Vv'ould annihilate niue- 
 tcnths of the reviews of the kingdom, as 
 they would find no readers." 
 
 ;}' Whcu we were in the woods belOAv 
 Gowbarrow Park, Ave saAV a few daffodils 
 close to the Avaterside. As Ave Avent alonj 
 there AA'cre more and yet more; and at 
 last, under the boughs of the trees, Ave 
 saw there Avas a long belt of them alon]£^ 
 the shoi'c. I never saAV daffodils so beau- 
 tiful. They grcAV among the mossy stones - „, i ^^ ^ ., i 
 about them : some rested their heads on ^^ Wordsworth here uses the AA-ord 
 tlKise stones as on a pillOAV ; tlu; rest tossed 'f^^ncniox Jove. Ihe same usage is fre. 
 and reeled, and danced, and seemed as if ^l^cnt m Shakespeare, as m .1 Midsummer. 
 they verily laughed Avith the Avind, they ^^'^''^ « Dream, n. 1 : 
 looked so gay and glancing. — Author's " And the imperial votai-ess passed ou 
 Notes. ' In maiden meditation, /anc^-/ree." 
 
 My dazzled sight he oft deceives, 
 A Brother of the dancing leaves ; 
 Then flits, and from the cottage eaves 
 
 Pours forlh his song in gushes ; 
 As if, by that exultmg strain, 
 He mock'd and treated Avith disdain 
 The voiceless Form he chose to feign. 
 
 While fluttering in the bushes. [1S03. 
 
 THE POET AXD THE CAGED 
 TURTLEDOVE. 
 
 As often as I murmur here 
 
 My half-form'd melodies. 
 Straight from her osier mansion near 
 
 The Turtledove i-ex)lies : 
 Though silent as a leaf befoi-e, 
 
 The captive promptly coos; 
 Is it to teach her oavu soft lore. 
 
 Or second my Aveak Muse ? 
 
 I rather think the gentle Dove 
 
 Is murmuring a reproof, 
 Displeased that I from lays of love 
 
 Have dared to keep aloof; 
 That I, a Bard of hill and dale, 
 
 Have caroll'd, fancy-free,* 
 
MISCELLAKEOUS POEMS. 
 
 137 
 
 A.S if nor dove nor nightingale 
 Had heart or voice for me. 
 
 K such thy meaning, O forbear, 
 
 Sweet Bird, to do me wrong ! 
 Love, blessed Love, is everywhere 
 
 The spirit of mj' song : 
 * Mid grove, and by the cahn fireside, 
 
 liove animates my lyre, — 
 That coo again! — 'tis not to chide, 
 
 I feel, but to inspire.^ [18;J0. 
 
 But, hearing thee, or others of thy kind, 
 As fuU 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. £1805. 
 
 FIDELITY. 
 
 TO A SKY-LARK. 
 
 Up with me ! up with me into the clouds 
 For thy song. Lark, is strong; 
 
 Up with me, up with me into the clouds ! 
 Singing, singing. 
 
 With clouds and sky about thee ringing, 
 Lift me, guide me till I find 
 
 That spot w^hich seems so to thy mind ! 
 
 I have walk'd thro' wildernesses drearj", 
 And to-day my heart is weaiy ; 
 Had I now the wings of a Faery, 
 
 Up to thee would I fly. [divine 
 
 There is madness about thee, and joy 
 
 In that song of thine; 
 Lift me, guide me high and high 
 To thy banqueting-place in the sky. 
 
 Joyous as morning, 
 Thou art laughing and scorning ; 
 Thou hast a nest for thy love and thy rest, 
 And, though little troubled Avith sloth, 
 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, 
 
 Joy and jolUty be with us both! 
 
 Alas! ray jonrney, rugged and uneven, 
 Through prickly moors or dusty ways 
 must Avind; 
 
 5 Upon this little poem the author 
 notes as folloAvs : "This dove was one of 
 a pair that had been given to my daugh- 
 ter by our excellent triend, Miss .Jews- 
 bury. The dove sm-vived its mate many 
 years, and Avas killed, to our great sor- 
 row, by a neighbour's cat. These verses 
 were composed extempore, to the letter. 
 It Avas the habit of this Inrd to begin coo- 
 ing and murmuring whenever it heard 
 me making my verses." 
 
 A BARiaxG sound the Shepherd hears, 
 A cry as of a dog or fox ; 
 He halts, — and searches with his eyes 
 Among the scatter'd rocks : 
 And noAV at distance can discern 
 A stirring in a brake of fern; 
 And instantly a dog is seen, 
 Glancing through that covert green. 
 
 That Dog is not of mountain breed; 
 
 Its motions, too, are Avild and shy; 
 
 With something, as the Shepherd thinks, 
 
 Unusual in its cry : 
 
 Nor is there any one in sight 
 
 All round, in hollo av or on height; 
 
 Nor shout nor whistle strikes his ear; 
 
 What is the creature doing here? 
 
 It Avas a cove, a huge recess, 
 
 That keeps, till June, December's snow ; 
 
 A lofty precipice in front, 
 
 A silent tarn « belOAV ! 
 
 Far in the bosom of Helvellyn, 
 
 Remote from public road or dwelling, 
 
 PatliAvay or cultivated land ; 
 
 From trace of human foot or hand. 
 
 There sometimes doth a leaping fish 
 Send through the tarn a lonely cheer; 
 The crags repeat the raven's croak. 
 In symphony austere; 
 Tliither the rainbow comes — the cloud — 
 And mists that spread the Hying shroud; 
 And sunbeams ; and the sounding blast, 
 That, if it could, aa'ouUI hurry past; 
 But that enormous barrier holds it fast. 
 
 Not free from boding thoughts, awhile 
 The Shepherd stood ; then makes his Avay 
 O'er rocks and stones, following the Dog 
 As qiuckly as he may; 
 Nor far had gone before he found 
 I A human skeleton on the ground; 
 Th' appall'd Discoverer Avith a sigh 
 Looks round, to learn the historv. 
 
 6 Tarn is a small mere or lake, mostly 
 high up in the mountains. 
 
138 
 
 WORDSWORTH. 
 
 From those abrupt and perilous rocks 
 
 The Man had fallen, that place of fearl 
 
 At length upon the Shepherd's miud 
 
 It breaks, and all is clear : 
 
 He instantly recali'd the name, 
 
 And who he was, and whence he came ; 
 
 Remember'd, too, the very day 
 
 On which the Traveller j)ass'd this way. 
 
 But hear a wonder, for whose sake 
 
 This lamentable tale I tell ! 
 
 A lasting monument of words 
 
 This wonder merits well. 
 
 The Dog, which still was hovering nigh. 
 
 Repeating the same timid cry, 
 
 This Dog, had been thro' three months' 
 
 A dweller in that savage place. [space 
 
 Yes, proof was plain that, since the day 
 When this ill-fated Traveller died, 
 The Dog had watch'd about the spot, 
 Or by his master's side : [time 
 
 How nourish'd here through such long 
 He knows, -who gave that love suljlime ; 
 And gave that strength of feeling, great 
 Above all human estimate ! ^ [1S05. 
 
 THE 
 AFFLICTION OF MARGARET- 
 
 Where art thou, my beloved Son, 
 Where art thou, worse to me than dead? 
 O, find mc, prosperous or imdone! 
 Or, if the grave be noAV tliy bed. 
 Why am I ignorant of the same, 
 That I may i-est ; and neither blame 
 Jfor sorrow may attend thy name ? 
 
 Seven years, alas ! to have received 
 No tidings of an only child; 
 
 To have dcspair'd, have hoped, believed, 
 And been for evermore beguiled; 
 Sometimes with thoughts of very bliss! 
 I catch at them, and then I miss ; 
 Was ever darkness like to this ? 
 
 He was among the prime in woi-th, 
 
 An object beauteous to behold; 
 
 Well born, well bred; I sent him forth 
 
 Ingenuous, innocent, and bold : 
 
 If things ensued that wanted grace, 
 
 As hath been said, they were not base ; 
 
 And never blush was on my face. 
 
 Ah ! little doth the young-one dream, 
 When full of play and childish cares, 
 ^\^lat power is in his wildest scream, 
 Heard by his mother unawares ! 
 He knows it not, he cannot guess : 
 Years to a mother bring distress ; 
 But do not make her love the less. 
 
 Neglect me ! no, I suffer'd long 
 
 From that ill thought; and, being blind. 
 
 Said, " Pride shall help me in my wrong : 
 
 Kind mother have I been, as kind 
 
 As ever breathed : " and that is true ; 
 
 I've wet ray path with tears like dew, 
 
 Weeping for him when no one knew. 
 
 My Son, if thou be humbled, poor, 
 Hopeless of honour and of gain, 
 O, do not dread thy mother's door ! 
 Think not of me with grief and pain : 
 I now can see with better eyes ; 
 And worldly grandeur I despise. 
 And fortune with her gifts and lies. 
 
 Alas ! the fowls of heaven have wings, 
 And blasts of heaven will aid their flight : 
 They mount, — how short a voyage brings 
 The wanderers back to their delight ! 
 
 7 In reference to this piece, the author notes as follows : " The young man whose 
 death gave occasion to this poem was named Charles Gough, and had come eai'ly in 
 the Spring to Patcrdale for the sake of angling. While attempting to cross over Ilel- 
 vcllyn to Grasmere he slipped from a steep part of tlie rock where the ice was not 
 thawed, and perished. His bodj' was discovered as is told in this poem. Walter 
 Sc'f)tt lieard of the accident, and botli he and I, without either of us knowing that the 
 other had taken Tip the subject, each A\T^-ote a poem in admiration of the dog's fidel- 
 ity." Wordsworth then refers to the following as " a most beautiful stanza," which 
 I cannot forbear to quote entire from Scott's poem : 
 
 "How long didst thou think that his silence was slumber? 
 
 ^\^len the wind waved his garment, how oft didst thou start? 
 How many long days and long weeks didst thou number, 
 
 Ere he laded before thee, the friend of thy lieart ? 
 And, 1 was it meet that — no requiem reaU o'er him — 
 
 No mother to weep, and no friend to deplore him. 
 
 And thou, little guardian, alone sti-etf-h'd l)L'forc him — 
 
 Unhonour'd the Pilgrim from life should depart? *' 
 
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 139 
 
 Chains tie us down by land and sea; 
 And wishes, vain as mine, may be 
 All that is left to comfort thee. 
 
 Perhaps some dungeon hears thee groan, 
 Maim'd, mangled bj' inhuman men; 
 Or thou upon a desert thrown 
 Inheritest the lion's den; 
 Or hast been summon'd to the deep, 
 Them, thou and all thy mates, to keep 
 An incommunicable sleep. 
 
 I look for ghosts; but none will force 
 Their way to me : 'tis falsely said 
 That there was ever intercourse 
 Between the living and the dead ; 
 For, surely, then I should hare sight 
 Of liim I wait for day and night. 
 With love and longings infinite. 
 
 My apprehensions come in crowds ; 
 I dread the rustling of the grass; 
 The very shadows of the clouds 
 Have power to shake me as they pass: 
 I question things, and do not find 
 One that will answer to my mind ; 
 And all the world appears unkind. 
 
 Beyond participation lie 
 
 My troubles, and beyond relief: 
 
 If any chance to heave a sigh. 
 
 They pity me, and not my gi-ief. 
 
 Then come to me, my Son, or send 
 
 Some tidings that my woes may end; 
 
 I have no other earthly friend I s [1804. 
 
 A NIGHT THOUGHT. 
 
 I.o ! Avhere the Moon along the sky 
 Sails with her hai)py destiny; 
 Olt is she hid from mortal eye, 
 
 Or dimly seen ; 
 But when the clouds asunder flj^ 
 
 JIow bright her mien ! 
 
 8 This was taken from the case of a 
 poor widow who lived in the town of Pen- 
 rith. Her sorrow was 'well knov.'u to Mro. 
 Wordsworth, to my slstor, and, I lielieve. 
 to the whole town. She lce])t a .'-ho]), mid, 
 when she saw a stranger passing, slio was 
 in the habit of goin-r out into tlie strec^tto 
 inquire of him after her son. — Authors 
 Notes. 
 
 Far different we,— a ftoward race; 
 Thousands, tho' rich in Fortune's grace, 
 With cherish'd sullenness of pace 
 
 Their way pursue, 
 Ingrates who wear a smileless face 
 
 The whole year through. 
 
 If kindred humours e'er would make 
 My spirit droop for drooping's sake, 
 From Fancy following in thy wake, 
 
 Bright ship of heaven ! 
 A counter impulse let me take 
 
 And be forgiven. ^ 
 
 INSCRIPTIONS 
 
 SUPPOSED TO BE FOUXD IX AND NEAR 
 A HERMIT'S CELL. 
 
 Hopes, what are they? Beads of morning 
 Sti-ung on slender blades of grass; 
 Or a spider's web adorning 
 In a sti'ait and treacherous pass. 
 
 What are fears but voices airy? 
 Whispering harm where harm is not; 
 And deluding the unwary 
 TiU the fatal bolt is shot I 
 
 What is glory ?— in the socket 
 See how dying tapers fare! ^f* 
 What is pride? — a whizzing rocket 
 That would emulate a star. 
 
 What is friendship? —do not trust her, 
 Nor the vows wh.ich she has made ; 
 Diamonds dart their brightest lusti-e 
 From a palsy-shaken head. 
 
 What is truth? — a staff rejected; 
 Duty ? — ah unwelcome clog ; 
 
 9 These verses were thrown off extv'm- 
 pore upon leaving Mrs. Luff's house .-t 
 Fox-Ghyll, one evening. The good wom- 
 an is no"t disposed to look at the briu:!it 
 side of things; and there happened tj be 
 lu'csent certa.in ladies wlio had reached 
 the point of life whcro.i/oitth is ended, and 
 who seemed to contend with each other in 
 expressing their dislike of the countiy 
 and climate. One of them had been heard 
 to say she coidd not endure a country 
 where there was " neither sunshine noV 
 cavaliers." — A aihor's Nods. 
 
 10 Si) in all the editions I have seen. But 
 I suspect it should be.r?arr instead of /o/t; 
 though the latter may perhaps give the 
 same sense. 
 
140 
 
 WOKDSWOETH. 
 
 Joy? — a moon by fits rellected 
 In a swamp or watery bog : 
 
 BiMght, as if through ether steering, 
 To the Traveller's eye it shone; 
 He hath hail'd it re-appearing, — 
 And as quickly it is gone : 
 
 Such is Joy, — as quickly hidden, 
 Or mis-shapen to the sight, 
 And by sullen weeds forbidden 
 To resume its native light. 
 
 What is youth ? — a dancing billow, 
 (Winds behind, and rocks before!) 
 Age? — a drooping, tottering willow 
 On a, flat and lazy shore. 
 
 What is peace? — when pain is over, 
 And love ceases to rebel, 
 Let the last faint sigh discover 
 That precedes the passing-knell! 
 
 NEAR THE SPRING OF THE HERMITAGE. 
 
 Troubled long with warring notions, 
 Long impatient of Thy rod, 
 I resign my soul's emotions 
 Unto Thee, mysterious God! 
 
 What avails the kindly shelter 
 Yielded by this craggy rent, 
 If my spirit toss and welter 
 On the waves of discontent? 
 
 Parching Summer hath no warrant 
 To consume tliis crystal Well; 
 Rains, that make ea(;h rill a torrent. 
 Neither sully it nor swell. 
 
 Thus, dishonouring not her station, 
 Would my Life present to Thee, 
 Gracious God, the pure oblation 
 Of divine tranquillity ! 
 
 Not seldom, clad in radiant vest. 
 Deceitfully goes forth the Morn; 
 Not seldom Evening in the West 
 Sinks smilingly forsworn. 
 
 The smoothest seas will sometimes prove^ 
 To the confiding Cark, untrue; 
 And, if she trust the stars above, 
 They can be treacherous too. 
 
 Th' umbrageous Oak, in pomp outspread, 
 Full oft, when storms the welkin rend, 
 DraAvs lightning down upon the head 
 It promised to defend. 
 
 Bu^ Thou art true, incarnate Lord, 
 Who didst vouchsafe for man to die; 
 Thy smile is sure. Thy plighted word 
 No change can falsify ! 
 
 I bent before Thy gracious throne, 
 And ask'd for peace on suppliant knee; 
 And i)eace Avas given, — nor peace alone, 
 But faith sublimed to ecstasy! 
 
 In these fair vales hath many a Tree 
 
 At Wordsworth's suit been spared; 
 And from the builder's hand this Stone, 
 For some rude beauty of its own, 
 
 Was rescued by the Bard : 
 So let it rest; and time Avill come 
 
 When here the tender-hearted 
 May heave a gentle sigh for him. 
 
 As one of the departed. [1830. 
 
 THE WISHING-GATE. 
 
 In the vale of Grasmere, by the side of 
 the old high-way leading to Ambleside, 
 is a gate, which, time out of mind, has 
 been called the Wishing-gate, from a be- 
 lief that wishes formed or indulged 
 there have a favourable issue. 
 
 Hope niles a land for ever green : 
 
 All powers that serve the bright-eyed 
 
 Are confident and gay; [Queen 
 
 Clouds at her bidding disappear ; 
 Points she to aught? the bliss draws near, 
 
 And Fancy smooths the way. 
 
 Not such the land of Wishes, — there 
 Dwell fruitless day-dreams, lawless 
 prayer, 
 
 And thoTights with things at strife : 
 Yet how forlorn, should ve depart. 
 Ye superstitions of the heart, 
 
 How poor, were human life! 
 
 Wlien magic lore abjured its might, 
 Ye did not forfeit one dear right, 
 
 One tender claim abate; 
 Witness tliis symbol of your sway. 
 Surviving near the public Avay, 
 
 The rustic ^\''ishing-gate I 
 
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 141 
 
 luquirc not if the faery race 
 
 Slicd kindly influence on the place, 
 
 Ere northward they retired ; 
 If here a Avarrior left a spell, 
 Panting for glory as he fell; 
 
 Or here a saint expired. 
 
 Enough that all around is fair, 
 Composed "with Nature's finest care, 
 
 And in her fondest love, 
 Peace to embosom and content, — 
 To overawe the turbulent, 
 
 The selfish to reprove. 
 
 Yea ! even the Stranger from afar, 
 Reclining on this moss-grown bar. 
 
 Unknowing and uulcnown, 
 ■Th' infection of the ground partakes. 
 Longing for his Belov'd, — who makes 
 
 All happiness her own. 
 
 Then why should conscious Spirits fear 
 The mystic stirrings that are liere. 
 
 The ancient faith disclaim? 
 The local Genius ne'er befriends 
 Desires whose course in folly ends. 
 
 Whose just reward is shame. 
 
 Smile if thou wilt, but not in scorn, 
 If some, by ceaseless paiiis outworn, 
 
 Here crave an easier lot; 
 If some have thirsted to rencAV 
 A broken vow, or bind a true 
 
 With firmer, holier knot. 
 
 And not in vain, when thoughts are cast 
 Upon th' irrevocable past, 
 
 Some Penitent sincere 
 May for a Avorthier future sigh. 
 While trickles from his downcast eye 
 
 No unavailing tear. 
 
 The Worldling, pining to be freed 
 Fi'om turmoil, at ho Avould turn or speed 
 
 The current of his fate, 
 Might stop before the favour'd scene, 
 At Natm-e's call, nor blush to lean 
 
 Upon the Wisliing-gate. 
 
 The Sage, who feels hoAV blind, how weak 
 Is man, though loth such help to seek, 
 
 Yet, passing, here might pause, 
 And thirst for insight to allay 
 Misgiving, while the crimson day 
 
 In quietness withdraws ; 
 
 Or when the church-clock's knell profound 
 To Time's first step across the bound 
 
 Of midnight makes reply; 
 Time pressing on Avith starry crest, 
 To filial sleep upon the breast 
 
 Of dread eternity 1 
 
 THE WISHING-GATE DESTROYED. 
 
 'Tis gone, — Avith old belief and dream 
 That round it clung, and tempting scheme 
 
 Released from fear and doubt ; 
 And the bright landscape too must lie, 
 By this blank Avail, from every eye, 
 
 Relentlessly shut out. 
 
 Bear witness ye who seldom pass'd 
 That opening, but a look ye cast 
 
 Upon the lake beioAV, 
 What spirit-stirring poAver it gain'd 
 From faith Avlii(5h here was entertain'd, 
 
 Though reason might say no. 
 
 Blest is that ground, Avhere, o'er the 
 Of histoiy, Glorj-^ claps her AA'ings, [springs 
 
 Fame sheds th' exulting tear; 
 Yet earth is wide, and many a nook 
 Unheard of is, like this, a book 
 
 For modest meanings dear. 
 
 It Avas in sooth a happy thought 
 That grafted, on so fair a spot, 
 
 So confident a token 
 Of coming good; — the charm is fled; 
 Indulgent centuries spun a thread. 
 
 Which one harsh day has broken. 
 
 Alas, for him who gave the word! 
 Could he no sympathy afford, 
 
 DeriA^ed from Earth or Heaven, 
 To hearts so oft by hope betray'd. 
 Their veiy wishes Avanted aid, 
 
 Which here was fi-eely given ? 
 
 ^Vliere, for the love-lorn maiden's wound. 
 Will noAV so readily be found 
 
 A balm of expectation? 
 Anxious for far-off children, where 
 Shall mothers breathe a like SAA'eet air 
 
 Of home-felt consolation? 
 
 And not unfelt will prove the loss 
 'Mid trivial care and petty cross 
 And each day's shallow grief; 
 
142 
 
 WOEDSWORTH. 
 
 Though the most easily beguiled 
 Were oft among the lii-st that smiled 
 At their own fond belief. 
 
 If still the reckless change we mourn, 
 A reconciling thought may turn 
 
 To harm that might lurk here, 
 Ere judgment prompted fi'om within 
 Fit aims, with courage to begin, 
 
 And strength to persevere. 
 
 Not Fortune's slave is Man : our state 
 Enjoins, while firm resolves await 
 
 On wishes just and wise, 
 That strenuous action follow both, 
 And life be one perpetual growth 
 
 Of heaven-ward enterprise. 
 
 So taught, so train'd, we boldly face 
 All accidents of time and place ; 
 
 "Whatever props may fail. 
 Trust in that sovereign law can spread 
 New glory o'er the mountain's head, 
 
 Fresh beauty through the vale. 
 
 That truth informing mind and heai-t. 
 The simplest cottager may part, 
 
 Ungrieved, with charm and spell; 
 And yet, lost Wishing-gate, to thee 
 The voice of grateful memory 
 
 Shall bid a kind farcM^ell ! i 
 
 GOLD AND SILVER FISHES IN A 
 VASE. 
 
 The Soaring lark is blest as proud 
 
 When at Heaven's gate she sings ; 
 The roving bee proclaims aloud 
 
 Her flight by vocal wings ; 
 "While Ye, in lasting durance pent, 
 
 Your silent lives employ 
 For something more than dull content. 
 
 Though haply less than joy. 
 
 Yet might your glassy prison seem 
 
 A place Avhere joy is known, 
 Where golden flash and silver gleam 
 
 Have meanings of their own ; 
 
 1 Having been told, upon what I thought 
 good authority, that this gate had been de- 
 sti'oycd, and the opening, where it hung, 
 walled up, I gave vent immediately to 
 my feelings in these stanzas. But, going 
 to the place some time after, I found, with 
 much delight, my old favourite unmo- 
 lested. 
 
 While, high and low, and all about. 
 Your motions, glittering Elves I 
 
 Ye weave, — no danger from without, 
 And peace among yourselves. 
 
 Type of a sunny human breast 
 
 Is your transparent cell ; 
 Where Fear is but a transient guest, 
 
 No sullen Humours dwell; 
 Where, sensitive of every ray 
 
 That smites this tiny sea, 
 Your scaly panoplies repay 
 
 The loan w4th usury. 
 
 How beautiful! — Yet none knows why 
 
 This ever-graceful change, 
 Eenew'd — renew'd incessantly — 
 
 Within your quiet range. 
 Is it that ye with conscious skill 
 
 For mutual pleasure glide; 
 And sometimes, not Avithout your will, 
 
 Are dwai-f'd or magnified? 
 
 Fays, Genii of gigantic size 1 
 
 And now, in twilight dim. 
 Clustering like constellated eyes, 
 
 In Avings of Cherubim, 
 When the fierce orbs abate their glare; — 
 
 Whate'er your forms express, 
 Whate'er ye seem, Avhate'er ye ai'e, — 
 
 All leads to gentleness. 
 
 Cold though your nature be, 'tis pure ; 
 
 Your birthright is a fence 
 From all that haughtier kinds endure 
 
 Through tyranny of sense. 
 Ah ! not alone by colours bright 
 
 Are Ye to Heaven allied. 
 When, like essential Forms of light, 
 
 Ye mingle, or divide. 
 
 For day-dreams soft as e'er beguiled 
 
 Day-thoughts while limbs repose; 
 For moonlight fascinations mild, 
 
 Your gift, ere shutters close, — 
 Accept, mute Captives! thanks and 
 
 And may this tribute prove [praise ; 
 That gentle admirations raise 
 
 Delight resembling love. [1829. 
 
 EXPOSTULATION AND REPLY. 
 "Why, William, on that old gi-ey stone, 
 Thus for the length of half a day, 
 Why, W^illiam, sit you thus alone. 
 And dream your time away ? 
 
MISCELLAN^EOUS POEMS. 
 
 143 
 
 Where are your books? that light be- 
 
 queath'd 
 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 birtli, 
 And none had lived before you I " 
 
 One morning thus, by Esthwaite lake, 
 When life was sweet, I knew not why, 
 To me my good friend Matthew spake, 
 And thus I made reply : 
 
 " The eye — it cannot choose but see ; 
 We cannot bid the ear be still ; 
 bur bodies feel, where'er they be, 
 Against or with Our will. 
 
 Nor less I deem that there are Powers 
 Which of themselves our minds impress ; 
 That we can feed this mind of ours 
 In a wise passiveness. 
 
 Think you, 'mid all this mighty sura 
 Of things for ever speaking, 
 That nothing of itself will come, 
 But we must still be seeking? 
 
 Then ask not wherefore, here, alone, 
 
 Conversing as I may, 
 
 I sit upon this old grey stone, 
 
 And dream my time away." [1798. 
 
 And hark, how blithe the throstle sings! 
 He, too, is no mean preacher : 
 Come forth into the light of things, 
 Let Nature be your teacher. 
 
 She has a world of ready wealth, 
 Our minds and hearts to bless, — 
 Spontaneous wisdom breathed by health, 
 Truth breathed by cheerfulness. 
 
 One impulse from a vei-nal wood 
 May teach you more of man, 
 Of moral evil and of good, 
 Than all the sages can. 
 
 Sweet is the lore which Nature brings; 
 Our meddling intellect [things : 
 
 Mis-shapes the beauteous forms of 
 We murder to dissect. 
 
 Enough of Science and of Art ; 
 
 Close up those barren leaves ; 
 
 Come forth, and bring with you a heart 
 
 That watches and receives. [1708. 
 
 THE TABLES TURNED. 
 
 AN EVENING SCENE ON THE SAME SUB- 
 JECT. 
 
 Up ! up ! my Friend, and quit your books ; 
 Or surely you'll grow double : 
 Up ! up ! my Friend, and clear your looks ; 
 Why all this toil and trouble? 
 
 LINES WRITTEN IN EARLY SPP^NG. 
 I HEAKD a thousand blended notes, 
 While in a grove I sate reclined, [thoiigiits 
 In that sweet mood when pleasant 
 Bring sad thoughts to the mind. 
 
 To her fair works did Nature link 
 The hiTman soul that through me ran ; 
 And much it grieved m}' heart to think 
 What man has made of man. 
 
 Thro' primrose tufts, in that green bower, 
 The periwinkle trail'd its wreaths ; 
 And 'tis my faith that every flower 
 Enjoys the air it breathes. 
 
 The birds around me hopp'd and play'd. 
 Their thoughts I cannot measure ; — 
 But the least motion which they made. 
 It seem'd a thriU of pleasure. 
 
 The Sun, above the mountain's head, 
 
 A freshening lustre mellow [spread 
 
 Through all the long green fields has | And I must think, do all I can, 
 
 His flxst sweet evening yellow. That there was pleasm-e thei*e. 
 
 The budding twigs spread out their fan. 
 To catch the breezy air; 
 
 Books ! 'tis a dull and endless strife : 
 Come, hear the woodland linnet, 
 How sweet his music! on my life. 
 There's more of wisdom in it. 
 
 If this belief from Heaven be sent, 
 
 If such be Nature's holy plan, 
 
 Have I not reason to lament 
 
 What man has made of man? [1798. 
 
144 
 
 WOKBSWORTH. 
 
 TO MY SISTER. 
 
 It is the first mild day of March : 
 Each minute sweeter than before 
 The redbreast sings from the tali larch 
 That stands beside our door. 
 
 There is a blessing in the air, 
 Which seems a sense of joy to yield 
 To the bare ti-ees, and mountains bai-e, 
 And grass in the green field. 
 
 My sister! ('tis a wish of mine,) 
 Now that our morning meal is done, 
 Make haste, your morning task resign; 
 Come forth and feel the sun. 
 
 Edward will come with you ; — and, pray 
 Put on with speed your woodland dress : 
 And bring no book : for this one day 
 "We'll give to idleness. 
 
 No joyless forms shall regulate 
 Our living calendar : 
 We from to-day, my Friend, will date 
 The opening of the year. 
 
 Love, now a universal birth, 
 From heart to heart is steiiling, 
 From earth to man, from man to earth : 
 It is the hour of feeling. 
 
 One moment now may give us more 
 Than years of toiling reason: 
 Our minds shall drink at every pore 
 The spirit of the season. 
 
 Some silent laws our hearts will make, 
 Wliich they shall long obey : 
 We for the year to come may take 
 Our temper from to-day. 
 
 And from the blessed power that rolls 
 About, below, above, 
 We'll frame the measure of our souls : 
 They shall be tuned to love. 
 
 Then come, my Sister! come, I pi'ay. 
 With speed put on your Avoodland dress ; 
 And bring no book : for this one day 
 We'll give to idleness.^ [1798. 
 
 SIMON LEE, THE OLD HUNTSMAN; 
 
 ^VITH AN INCIDENT IN WHICH HE 
 WAS CONCERNED. 
 
 In the sweet shire of Cardigan, 
 Not far from pleasant Ivor-hall, 
 An old Man dwells, a little man, — 
 'Tis said he once was tall. 
 Full five-and-thirty years he lived 
 A running huntsman merry ; 
 And still the centre of his cheek 
 Is red as a ripe cherry. 
 
 No man like him the horn could sound, 
 
 And hill and valley rang with glee 
 
 When Echo bandied, round and round, 
 
 Th' halloo of Simon Lee. 
 
 In those proud days, he little cared 
 
 For husbandry or tillage ; 
 
 To blither tasks did Simon roiise 
 
 The sleepers of the village. 
 
 He all the countiy could outrun, 
 
 Could leave both man and horse behind; 
 
 And often, ere the chase was done, 
 
 He reel'd, and -was stone-blind. 
 
 And still there's something in the world 
 
 At which his heart rejoices; 
 
 For when the chiming hounds are out, 
 
 He dearly loves their voices ! 
 
 But, O the heavy change ! —bereft 
 
 Of health, strength, friends, and kindred. 
 
 Old Simon to the world is left [see, 
 
 In liveried poverty. 
 
 His Master's dead, — and no one now 
 
 Dwells in the Hall of Ivor ; 
 
 Men, dogs, and horses, all are dead; 
 
 He is the sole survivor. 
 
 And he is lean and he is sick; 
 His body, dwindled and a^vry. 
 Rests upon ankles swoln and thick ; 
 His legs are thin and dry. 
 One prop he has, and only one; 
 His wife, an aged Avoman, 
 Lives with him, near the waterfall, 
 Upon the village Common. 
 
 2 Composed in front of Alfoxden 
 House. 3Iy little boy-messenger on this 
 occasion was the son of Basil Montajui. 
 The larch mentioned in the first stanza 
 was standing when I revisited the place 
 in May, 1841, more tlian forty j^ears after. 
 A lew score yards from this tree, grew one 
 
 of the most remarkable beech-trees ever 
 seen. It was of immense size, and threw 
 out arms that struck into the soil, like 
 those of the banyan-tree, and rose again 
 from it. Two of 'the branches thus insert- 
 ed themselves twice; which gave to each 
 the appeai'ance of a serpent moving along 
 by gathering itself up in folds. —AiiUwr'a 
 Not>:s. 
 
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 145 
 
 Beside their moss-groAvn hut of clay, 
 Not twenty paces from the door, 
 A scrap of land they have, but they 
 Are poorest of the poor. 
 This scrap of laud he from the heath 
 Enclosed when he was stronger; 
 But what to them avails the land 
 Which he can till no longer? 
 
 Oft, working by her Husband's side, 
 
 Ruth does what Simon cannot do ; 
 
 For she, with scanty cause for pride, 
 
 Is stouter of the two. 
 
 And, though you with your utmost skill 
 
 From labour could not wean them, 
 
 'Tis little, very little, all 
 
 That they can do between them. 
 
 Few months of life has he in store, 
 As he to you will tell; 
 For still, the more he works, the more 
 Do his weak ankles SAvell. — 
 My gentle Reader, I perceive 
 How patiently you've waited, 
 And now I fear that you expect 
 Some tale will be related. 
 
 O Reader ! had you in your mind 
 Such stores as silent thought can bring, 
 
 gentle Reader ! you would find 
 A tale in every thing. 
 
 What more I have to say is short. 
 And you must kindly take it : 
 It is no tale; but, should you think. 
 Perhaps a tale you'll make it. 
 
 One summer-day I chanced to see 
 This old Man doing all he could 
 To unearth the root of an old tree, 
 A stump of rotten wood. 
 The mattock totter'd in his hand; 
 So vain was his endeavour. 
 That at the root of the old tree 
 He might have work'd for ever. 
 
 "You're overtask'd, good Simon Lee, 
 Give me your tool," to him I said; 
 And at the word right gladly he 
 Received my proffer'd aid. 
 
 1 struck, and with a single blow 
 The tangled root I sever' d. 
 
 At which the poor old Man so long 
 And vainly had endeavour'd. 
 
 The tears into his eyes were brought. 
 And thanlis and praises seem'd to run 
 
 So fast out of his heart, I thought 
 
 They never would have done. — 
 
 I've heard of hearts unkind, kind deeds 
 
 With coldness still returning; 
 
 Alas! the gratitude of men 
 
 Hath oftener left me mourning.3 [1708. 
 
 THOUGHT ON THE SEASONS. 
 
 Flatter'd with promise of escape 
 
 From every hxu'tful blast. 
 Spring takes, O sprightly May ! thy shape, 
 
 Her loveliest and her last. 
 
 Less fair is Summer riding high 
 
 In fierce solstitial power. 
 Less fau' than when a lenient sky 
 
 Brings on her parting hour. 
 
 When earth repays with golden sheaves 
 
 The labours of the plough. 
 And ripening fruits and forest leaves 
 
 All brighten on the bough; 
 
 What pensive beauty Autumn shows, 
 
 Before she hears the sound 
 Of Winter rushing in, to close 
 
 The emblematic round! 
 
 Such be our Spring, our Summer such; 
 
 So may our Autumn blend 
 With hoary Winter, and Life touch. 
 
 Through Heaven-born hope, her end! 
 [1829. 
 
 A POET'S EPITAPH. 
 
 Art thou a Statist in the van 
 Of public conflicts train'd and bred ? 
 First learn to love one living man ; 
 Then mayst thou think upon the dead. 
 
 3 Blourning, probably because the grati- 
 tude was so litUe dr.<i('rvcd,ov so dispropor- 
 tionate to the occat^ion.— I here quote 
 again from the poet's notes: "This old 
 man had been huntsman to the squires of 
 Alfoxdeii, which, at the time Ave occupied 
 it, belonged to a minor. It is unneces- 
 saiy to add, the fact was as mentioned in 
 the poem ; and I have, alter an interval of 
 forty-five years, the image of the old man 
 as fresh as if I had seen him yesterday. 
 The expression wlien the hounds are out, 
 ' I dearly love their voice,' was word for 
 word from his own lips." 
 
146 
 
 WOKDSWORTH. 
 
 A Lawyer art thou ? — draw not nigh I 
 Go, cany to some fitter place 
 The keenness of that practised eye, 
 The hardness of that sallow face. 
 
 Art thou a Man of purple cheer? 
 A rosy Man, right plump to see? 
 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 gi-ave? 
 
 "Wrapt closely in thy sensual fleece, 
 O, turn aside, — and take, I pray. 
 That he below may rest in peace. 
 Thy ever-dwindling soul, away ! 
 
 A Moralist perchance appears v 
 Led, Heaven knows how ! to this poor sod : 
 And he has neither eyes nor ears ; 
 Himself his world, and his own God; 
 
 One to whose smooth-rubb'd soul can 
 No form, nor feeling, gi-eat or small ; [cling 
 A reasoning, self-sufficing thing. 
 An intellectual All-in-all ! 
 
 Shut close the door ; press down the latch ; 
 Sleej) 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 noon-day grove; 
 And you must love him, ere to you 
 He will seem worthy of your love. 
 
 The outward shows of sky and earth, 
 Of hill and valley, he has view'd ; 
 And impulses of deeper birth 
 Have come to him in solitude. 
 
 In common things that roTind 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. 
 
 Come hither in thy hour of strength; 
 Come, weak as is a breaking wavel 
 Here stretch thy body at full length ; 
 Or build thy house upon this grave. [1799. 
 
 MATTHEW. 
 
 In the School of Hawkshead is a tablet, on 
 which are inscribed, in gilt letters, the 
 Names of the several persons Avho have 
 been School-masters there since the 
 foundation of the School, with the time 
 at which they entered upon and quitted 
 their office. Opposite to one of those 
 Names the Author wrote the following 
 lines : 
 
 If Nature, for a favourite child, 
 In thee hath temper'd so her clay, 
 That every hour thy heart runs wild, 
 Yet never once doth go astray, 
 
 Read o'er these lines ; and then review 
 This tablet, that thus humbly rears 
 In such diversity of hue 
 Its history of two hundred years. 
 
 When through this little wreck of fame, 
 Cipher and syllable, thine eye 
 Has travell'd down to Matthew's name, 
 Pause with no common sympathy. 
 
 And, if a sleeping tear should wake, 
 Then be it neither check'd nor stay'd : 
 For Matthew a request I make 
 Which for himself he had not made. 
 
 Poor Matthew, all his frolics o'er, 
 Is silent as a standing pool; 
 Far from the chimney's merry roar, 
 And murmur of the viUage school. 
 
 The sighs which Matthew heaved were 
 
 sighs 
 Of one tired out with fun and madness ; 
 The tears which came to Matthew's eyes 
 Were tears of light, the dew of gladness. 
 
 Yet, sometimes, when the secret cup 
 Of still and serious thought went round. 
 It seem'd as if he drank it up, — 
 He felt with spirit so profound. 
 
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 147 
 
 Thou soul of God's best earthly mould ! 
 Thou happy Soul! and can it be 
 That these two words of glittering gold 
 Are all that must remain of thee?* [1799. 
 
 THE TWO APRIL MORNINGS. 
 
 We waUi'd along, while bright and red 
 Uprose the morning Sun : 
 And Matthew stopp'd, he look'd, and said, 
 " The will of God be done! " 
 
 A village school-master was he, 
 With hair of glittering grey; 
 As blithe a man as you could see 
 On a spring holiday. 
 
 And on that morning, through the grass, 
 And by the steaming rills, 
 We traveird merrily, to pass 
 A day among the hills. 
 
 " Our work," said I, '* was well begun; 
 Then, from thy breast what thought, 
 Beneath so beautiful a Sun, 
 So sad a sigh has brought ? " 
 
 A second time did Matthew stop ; 
 And, fixing still his eye 
 Upon the eastern mountain-top, 
 To me he made reply : 
 
 "Ton cloud Avith that long purple cleft 
 Brings fresh into my mind 
 A day like this which I have left 
 Full thirty years behind. 
 
 And just above yon slope of corn 
 Such coloiu's, and no other, 
 Were in the sky, that April mom. 
 Of this the very brother. 
 
 With rod and line I sued the sport 
 Which that sweet season gave. 
 
 4 This and other poems connected with 
 Matthew would not gain bva literal detail 
 of facts. Like the Wanderer in The Ex- 
 cursion, this School-master was made up 
 of several both of his class and men of 
 other occupations. I do not ask pardon 
 for -what there is of untruth in such verses, 
 considered stritcly as matters of fact. It 
 is enough if, being ti-ue aud consistent in 
 spirit, they move and teach in a manner 
 not unworthy of a poet's calling.— ylu- 
 thor's Notes. 
 
 And, to the church-yard come. 
 Beside my daughter's grave. 
 
 stopp'd 
 [short 
 
 Nine Summers had she scarcely seen. 
 The pride of all the vale ; 
 And then she sang;— she would have been 
 A very nightingale. 
 
 Six feet in earth my Emma lay ; 
 And yet I loved her more, 
 For so it seem'd, than tiU that day 
 I e'er had loved before. 
 
 And, turning from her grave, I met, 
 Beside the churchyard yew, 
 A blooming Girl, whose hair was Avct 
 With points of morning dew. 
 
 A basket on her head she bare ; 
 Her brow was smooth and white : 
 To see a child so very fair, 
 It was a pure deUghtl 
 
 No fountain from its rocky cave 
 E'er tripp'd with foot so free ; 
 She seem'd as happy as a wave 
 That dances on the sea. 
 
 There came from me a sigh of pain 
 Which I could ill confine ; 
 I look'd at her, and look'd again; 
 And did not wish her mine ! " 
 
 Matthew is in his grave, yet now, 
 
 Methinks, I see him stand. 
 
 As at that moment, with a bough 
 
 Of wilding in his hand. [1799. 
 
 THE FOUNTAIN. 
 
 A COJrVTERSATION. 
 
 We talk'd with open heart, and tongue 
 Affectionate and ti-ue, 
 A pair of friends, though I was young, 
 And Matthew seventy-two. 
 
 We lay beneath a spreading oak. 
 Beside a mossy seat; 
 x\nd from the tui-f a fountain broke, 
 And gurgled at our feet. 
 
 " Now, Matthew! " said I, "let us match 
 This water's joleasant tune 
 With some old border-song, or catch 
 That suits a Summer's noon; 
 
148 
 
 WORDSWOETH. 
 
 Or of the church-clock and the chimes 
 Sing hero beneath the shade 
 That half-mad thiug of witty rhymes 
 Which you last Api-il made ! " 
 
 In silence Matthew lay, and eyed 
 The spring beneath the tree; 
 And thus the dear old Man replied, 
 The grey-hair'd man of glee : 
 
 "No check, no stay, this Streamlet fears; 
 How merrily it goes ! 
 'Twill murmur on a thousand years, 
 And flow as now it flows. 
 
 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 stirr'd. 
 For the same sound is in my ears 
 Wliich in those days I heard. 
 
 Thus fares it still in our decay : 
 And yet the wiser mind 
 Mourns less for w^hat 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 press'd by heavy laws; 
 And often, glad no more, 
 "Ws 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 
 I'll be a son to thee I " 
 At this he grasp 'd 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 wc went; 
 
 And, ere we came to Leonard's rock, 
 He sang those witty rhymes 
 About the crazy old church-clock, 
 And the bewilder'd chimes. [17£ 
 
 A JEWISH FAMILY. 
 
 {In a small valley opposite St. Goar, upon 
 the Rhine.) 
 
 Genius of Raphael ! if thy wings 
 
 Might bear thee to this glen, 
 With faitliful memory left of things 
 
 To pencil dear and pen, [Rhine 
 
 Thou wouldst forego the neighbouring 
 
 And all Ms majesty, 
 A studious forehead to incline 
 
 O'er this poor family. 
 
 The Mother, — her thou must have seen, 
 
 In spirit, ere she came 
 To dwell these rifted rocks between, 
 
 Or found on Earth a name; 
 An image, too, of that sweet Boy 
 
 Thy inspirations give, — 
 Of playfulness, and love, and joy. 
 
 Predestined here to live. 
 
 Downcast, or shooting glances far, 
 
 How beautiful his eyes, 
 That blend the nature of the star 
 
 With that of summer skies ! 
 I speak as if of sense beguiled; 
 
 Uncounted months are gone. 
 Yet am I with the Jewish Child, 
 
 That exquisite Saint John. 
 
 I see the dark-brown curls, the brow. 
 The smooth transparent skin. 
 
 Refined, as Avith intent to show 
 The holiness within; 
 
 The grace of parting Infancy 
 By blushes yet untamed; 
 
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 149 
 
 Age faithflil to the mother's knee, 
 Nor of her arms ashamed. 
 
 Two lovely Sisters, still and sweet 
 
 As flowers, stand side by side ; 
 Their soul-siibduiiig looks might cheat 
 
 The Christian of his pride : 
 Such beauty hath th' Eternal pour'd 
 
 Upon them not forlorn, 
 Though of a lineage once abhorr'd, 
 
 Kor yet redeem'd from scorn. 
 
 Mysterious safeguard, that, in spite 
 
 Of poverty and wrong. 
 Doth here preserve a living light, 
 
 From Hebrew fountains sprung; 
 That gives this ragged group to cast 
 - Around the dell a gleam 
 Of Palestine, of glory past, 
 
 And proud Jerusalem! 5 [1828. 
 
 ESfTRODUCTIOX TO PETER BELL. 
 
 There's something in a flying horse, 
 There's something in a huge baUoon ; 
 But through the clouds I'll never float 
 Until I have a little Boat, 
 For shape just like the crescent-moon. 
 
 And now I have a little Boat, 
 
 In shape a very crescent-moon : 
 
 Fast through the clouds my boat can sail; 
 
 But, if perchance your faith should fail, 
 
 Look up, and you shall see me soon! 
 
 The woods, my Friends, are round you 
 Rocking and roaring like a sea ; [roaring, 
 The noise of danger's in your eai-s, 
 And ye have aU a thousand fears 
 Both for my little Boat and me ! 
 
 5 Coleridge, my daughter, and I, in 
 1828, passed a fortnight upon the banks of 
 the Rliine. It was at St. Goar that I saw 
 the Jewish family here described. Though 
 exceedingly poor, and in rags, they were 
 not less beautiful than I have endeavoured 
 to make them appear. We had taken a 
 little dinner with us in a basket, and iu- 
 vited them to partake of it; which the 
 mother refused to do, both for herself and 
 children, saying it was with them a fast- 
 day; adding, dillidevitly, that, whether 
 such obsenances were right or wrong, 
 she felt it her duty to keep them strictly. 
 The Jews, who are numerous on this part 
 of the Rhine, greatly surpass the German 
 peasantry in the beauty of their featiu-es 
 and in the intelligence of their counte- 
 nances. — Author's Azotes. 
 
 Meanwhile untroubled I admire 
 The pointed horns of my canoe; 
 And, did not pity touch my breast, 
 To see how ye are all distrest, 
 Till my ribs ached, I'd laugh at you 1 
 
 Away we go, my Boat and I, — 
 Frail man ne'er sate in such another; 
 Whether among the winds we strive, 
 Or deep into the clouds we dive. 
 Each is contented with the other. 
 
 Away we go ; and what care we 
 For treasons, tumults, and for wars? 
 We are as calm in our delight 
 As is the crescent-moon so bright 
 Among the scatter'd stars. 
 
 Up goes my Boat among the stars 
 Through many a breathless field of light, 
 Through many a long blue field of ether. 
 Leaving ten thousand stars beneath her : 
 Up goes my little Boat so bright ! 
 
 The Crab, the Scorpion, and the Bull, — 
 We pry among them all; have shot 
 High o'er the red-hair' d race of Mars, 
 Cover'd from top to toe with scars : 
 Such company I like it not ! 
 
 The towns of Saturn are decay'd. 
 And melancholy Spectres tlu*ong them: 
 The Pleiads, that appear to kiss 
 Each other in the vast abyss, 
 With joy I sail among them. 
 
 Swift Mercury resounds with mirth. 
 Great Jove is full of stately bowers ; 
 But these, and all that they contain, 
 What are they to that tiny grain. 
 That little Earth of om-s ? 
 
 Then back to Earth, the dear green Earth : 
 Whole ages if I here should roam, 
 The world for my remarks and me 
 Would not a whit the better be ; 
 I've left my heart at home. 
 
 See! there she is, the matchless Earth! 
 There spreads the famed Pacific Ocean I 
 Old Andes thrusts yon craggy spear 
 Through the grey clouds; the Alps are 
 Like waters in commotion ! [here, 
 
 Yon tawny slip is Libya's sands; 
 That silver tlu-ead the river Dnieper; 
 
150 
 
 WORDSWORTH. 
 
 And look, where clothed in brightest 
 Is a sweet Isle, of isles the Queen; [green 
 Ye fairies, from all evil keep her! 
 
 And see the town where I was born! 
 Around those happy fields we span 
 In boyish gambols; — I was lost 
 Where I have been, but on this coast 
 I feel I am a man. 
 
 Never did fifty things at once 
 Appear so lovely, never, never; — 
 How tunefully the forests ring! 
 To hear the Earth's soft murmuring 
 Thus could I hang for ever I 
 
 *' Shame on you ! " cried my little Boat, 
 
 "Was ever such a homesick Loon, 
 
 Within a living Boat to sit, 
 
 And make no better use of it; 
 
 A Boat twin-sister of the crescent-moon? 
 
 Ne'er in the breast of full-grown Poet 
 riutter'd so faint a heart before; — 
 Was it the music of the spheres 
 That overpower'd your mortal ears ? — 
 Such din shall trouble them no more. 
 
 These nether precincts do not lack 
 Chai-ms of their own : then come with me ; 
 I want a comrade, and for you 
 There's nothing that I would not do ; 
 Nought is there that you shaU not see. 
 
 Haste ! and above Siberian snows 
 We'll sport amid the boreal morning; 
 Will mingle Avith her lustres gliding 
 Among the stars, the stars now hidmg, 
 And now the stars adorning. 
 
 I know the secrets of a land 
 Where human foot did never stray : 
 Fair is that land as evening skies, 
 And cool, though in the depth it lies 
 Of burning Africa. 
 
 Or we'll into the realm of Faery, 
 Among the lovely shades of things ; 
 The shadowy forms of mountains bare, 
 And streams, and bowers, and ladies fair, 
 The shades of palaces and kings! 
 
 Or, if you thirst with hardy zeal 
 Less quiet regions to explore. 
 Prompt voyage shall to you reveal 
 Bow Earth and Heaven are taught to feel 
 The might of magic lore ! " 
 
 " My little vagrant Form of light, 
 
 My gay and beautiful Canoe, 
 
 Well have you play'd your friendly part; 
 
 As kindly take what from my heart 
 
 Experience forces, — then adieu ! 
 
 Temptation lurks among your words ; 
 But, while these pleasures you're pursu- 
 Without impediment or let, [ing 
 
 No wonder if you quite forget 
 AVhat on the Earth is doing. 
 
 There was a time when all mankind 
 Did listen w ith a faith sincere 
 To tuneful tongues in mystery versed; 
 Then Poets fearlessly rehearsed 
 The wonders of a wild career. 
 
 Go, (but the world's a sleepy world, 
 And 'tis, I fear, an age too late,) 
 Take with you some ambitious Youth; 
 For, restless Wanderer, I, in truth, 
 Am all unfit to be your mate. 
 
 Long have I loved what I behold, 
 The night that calms, the day that cheers; 
 The common growth of mother Earth 
 Sufllces me, — her tears, her mirth, 
 Her humblest mirth and tears. 
 
 The dragon's wing, the magic ring, 
 I shall not covet for my dower, 
 If I along that lowly way 
 With sympathetic heart may stray, 
 And with a soul of power. 
 
 These given, what more need I desire 
 To stir, to soothe, or elevate? 
 Wliat nobler marvels than tlie mind 
 May in life's daily prospect find. 
 May find or there create? 
 
 A potent wand doth Sorrow wield ; 
 What spell so strong as guilty Fear? 
 Repentance is a tender Sprite; 
 If aught on Earth have heavenly might, 
 'Tis lodged within her silent tear.s 
 
 But grant my wishes, —let us now 
 Descend from this ethereal height; 
 Then take thy way, adventurous Skiff, 
 
 6 This and the three preceding stanzas 
 convey, as well perhaps as any thing of 
 equal length can do it, the author's poeti- 
 cal creed. They form a little poem by 
 themselves, — perfect in its way. 
 
MISCELLA]S"EOUS POEMS. 
 
 151 
 
 More daring far than Hippogriff, 
 And be thy own delight ! 
 
 To the stone-table in my garden, 
 Loved haunt of many a summer hour, 
 The Squire is come : his daughter Bess 
 Beside him in the cool recess 
 Sits blooming like a flower. 
 
 With these are many more convened; 
 They knoAV not I have been so far ; — 
 I see them there, in number nine, 
 Beneath the spreading Weymouth-pine I 
 I see them, —there they are ! 
 
 There sits the Vicar and his Dame ; 
 And there my good friend, Stephen Otter; 
 And, ere the light of evening fail, 
 To them I must relate the Tale 
 Of Peter Bell the Potter." 
 
 Oflf flew the Boat,— away she flees. 
 Spurning her freight with indignation ! 
 And I, as well as I was able, 
 On two poor legs, toward my stone-table 
 Ljmp'd on with sore vexation. 
 
 " O, here he is ! " cried little Bess, — 
 She saw me at the garden-door : 
 " We've waited anxiously and long," 
 They cried, and all around me throng, 
 Full nine of them or more. 
 
 " Eeproach me not,— your fears be still,— 
 Be thankful we again have met : 
 Resume, my Friends, within the shade 
 Your seats, and quickly shall be paid 
 The well-remember'd debt." 
 
 I spake with faltering voice, like one 
 Not wholly rescued from the pale 
 Of a Avild dream, or worse illusion; 
 But, straight, to cover my confusion, 
 Began the promised Tale. 
 
 All, by the moonlight river-side 
 Groan'd the poor Beast, — alas ! in vain; 
 The staff was raised to loftier height, 
 And the blows fell with heavier weight 
 As Peter struck, and struck again. 
 
 "Hold!" cried the Squire, "against the 
 
 rules 
 Of common sense you're surely sinning; 
 This leap is for us all too bold : 
 
 Who Peter was, let that be told, 
 And start from the beginning.** 
 
 A Potter ,7 Sir, he was by trade. 
 Said I, becoming quite collected ; 
 And wheresoever he appeared 
 Full twenty times was Peter fear'd 
 For once that Peter was respected. 
 
 He, two-and-thirty years or more, 
 Had been a wild and woodland rover; 
 Had heard th' Atlantic surges roar 
 On farthest Cornwall's rocky shore, 
 And trod the cliffs of Dover. 
 
 And he had seen Caernarvon's towers. 
 And well he knew the spire of Sarum;» 
 And he had been where Lincoln bell 
 Flings o'er the fen that ponderous knell, — 
 A far-reno^vn'd alarum ! 
 
 At Doncaster, at York, and Leeds, 
 And merry Carlisle had he been; 
 ^Vnd all along the Lowlands fair. 
 All through the bonny shire of Ayr* 
 And far as Aberdeen. 
 
 And he had been at Inverness ; 
 And Peter, by the mountain-rills, 
 Had danced his round with Highland 
 And he had lain beside his asses [lasses; 
 On lofty Cheviot Hills: 
 
 And he had trudged through Yorkshire 
 
 dales. 
 Among the rocks and winding scars ; » 
 Where deep and low the hamlets lie 
 Beneath their little patch of sky 
 And little lot of stars : 
 
 And all along th' indented coast, 
 Bespatter'd with the salt-sea foam; 
 Where'er a knot of houses lay 
 On headland, or in hollow bay; — 
 Sure never man like him did roam! 
 
 7 In the dialect of the North of Eng- 
 land, a peddler of earthenware is called 
 a potter. 
 
 8 Sarum is an old contraction of Salis- 
 hwnj. The spire of Salisbury Cathedral 
 is considered the finest in England. I 
 tliiuk it is also the highest. Caernarvon is 
 the ancient capital of Wales; famous as 
 the seat of King Arthur and his Court. 
 
 9 Scar, sometimes spelt scaur, is a bare 
 and broken place on a side of a mountain, 
 or in the high bank of a river. 
 
152 
 
 WORDSWORTH : 
 
 As well might Peter, in the Fleet.i 
 Have been fast bound, a begging debtor : 
 He travell'd here, he travell'd there; 
 But not the value of a hair 
 Was heart or head the better. 
 
 He roved among the vales and streams, 
 In the green wood and hollow dell, — 
 They were his dwellings night and day; 
 But Nature ne'er could find the way 
 Into the heart of Peter Bell. 
 
 In vain, through every changeful year, 
 Did Nature lead him as before : 
 A primrose by a river's brim 
 A yellow primrose was to him. 
 And it was nothing more. 
 
 Small change it made in Peter's heart 
 To sec his gentle pannier'd train 
 With more than vernal pleasure feeding. 
 Where'er the tender grass was leading 
 Its earliest green along the lane. 
 
 In vain, through water, earth, and air, 
 The soul of happy sound was spread, 
 When Peter on some April morn, 
 Beneath the broom or budding thorn. 
 Made the warm earth his lazy bed. 
 
 At noon, when by the forest's edge 
 He lay beneath the branches high. 
 The soft blue sky tlid never melt 
 Into his heart ; he never felt 
 The witchery of the soft blue sky ! 
 
 On a fair prospect some have look*d 
 And felt, as i have heard them say, 
 As if the moving time had been 
 A thing as steadfast as the scene 
 On which they gazed themselves away. 
 
 Within the breast of Peter Bell 
 These silent raptures found no place : 
 He was a Carl as wild and rude 
 As ever hue-and-crj- pursued, 
 As ever ran a felon's race. 
 
 Of all that lead a lawless life, 
 
 Of all that love their lawless lives, 
 
 In city or in village small, 
 
 He was the wildest far of all ; — 
 
 He had a dozen wedded wives. 
 
 1 The Fleet is the name of one of the 
 old London prisons. It seems to have 
 been specially used for confining insol 
 vent debtors. 
 
 Nay, start not ! — wedded wives, and 
 twelve ! [him, 
 
 But how one wife could e'er come near 
 In simple truth I cannot tell; 
 For, be it said of Peter Bell, 
 To see him was to fear him. 
 
 Though Nature could not touch his heart 
 By lovely forms, and silent weather, 
 And tender sounds, yet you might see 
 At once, that Peter Bell and she 
 Had often been together. 
 
 A savage wildness round him hung 
 As of a dweller out of doors ; 
 In his whole figure and his mien 
 A savage character was seen 
 Of mountaias and of dreary moors. 
 
 To all th' unshaped half-human thoughts 
 
 Which solitary Nature feeds 
 
 '3Iid summer storms or Winter's ice, 
 
 Had Peter join'd whatever vice 
 
 The cruel city breeds. 
 
 His face was keen as is the wind 
 That cuts along the hawthorn-fence; 
 Of courage you saw little there, 
 But, in its stead, a medley air 
 Of cunning and of impudence. 
 
 He had a dark and sidelong walk, 
 And long and slouching was his gait; 
 Beneath his looks so bare a'nd bold, 
 You might perceive, his spirit cold 
 \V'as playing with some inward bait. 
 
 His forehead wrinkled and was furr'd; 
 A work, one half of which was done 
 By thinlcing of his whem and hows ; 
 And half, by Imitting of his brows 
 Benjath the glaring Sun. 
 
 Taerc was a hardness in his cheek, 
 There was a hardness in his eye, 
 As if the man had fix'd his face. 
 In many a solitary place. 
 Against the wind and open sky 1 ^ 
 
 2 The poem of Peter Bell, though good 
 enough iu itself, is not so well suited as 
 many others are to the purpose of this 
 volume; while, from its length, it would 
 v-ccupy more room than can well be spared 
 Un- a piece of that kind. No apology, I 
 think, will be required for including the 
 Prologue and the description of the hero. 
 The poem was published in 1819, but was 
 1 written as early as 1798. 
 
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS, 
 
 153 
 
 PRESENTIMENTS. 
 
 PRESENxrMENTS 1 thej' judge not right 
 Who deem that ve from open light 
 
 Retire in fear of shame ; 
 All Heaven-born Instincts shun the touch 
 Of vulgar sense, — and, being such, 
 
 Such privilege ye claim. 
 
 The tear whose source I could not guess. 
 The deep sigh that seem'd fatherless. 
 
 Were mine in early days ; 
 And now, unforced by time to part 
 With fancy, I obey my heart, 
 
 And venture on your praise. 
 
 What though some busy foes to good. 
 Too iDotent over nerve and blood, 
 
 Lurk near you, — and combine 
 To taint the health which ye infuse ; 
 This hides not from the moral Muse 
 
 Your origin divine. 
 
 How oft from you, derided Powers ! 
 Comes Faith that in auspicious hours 
 
 Builds castles, not of air : 
 Bodings unsanction'd by the will 
 Flow from your visionary skill. 
 
 And teach us to beware. 
 
 The bosom-weight, yoiu' stubborn gift. 
 That no philosophy can lift, 
 
 Shall vanish, if ye please, 
 Like morning mist; and, where it lay, 
 The spirits at your bidding play 
 
 In gaiety and ease. 
 
 Star-guided contemplations move 
 Througli space, tliough calm, not raised 
 
 Prognostics that ye rtde ; [above 
 
 The naked Indian of the wild, 
 And haply, too, the cradled Child, 
 
 Are pupils of your school. 
 
 But who can fothom your intents. 
 Number their signs or instruments? 
 
 A rainbow, a sunbeam, 
 A subtle smell that Spring unbinds. 
 Dead pause abrupt of midnight winds, 
 
 An echo, or a dream. 
 
 The laughter of the Christmas hearth 
 With sighs of self-exhausted mirth 
 
 Ye feelingly reprove ; 
 And daily, in the conscious breast. 
 Your visitations are a test 
 
 And exercise of love. 
 
 When some great change gives boundless 
 To an exulting Nation's hope, [scope 
 
 Oft, startled and made Avise 
 By your lov/-breathed interpretings, 
 The simply-meek foretaste the springs 
 
 Of bitter contraries.3 
 
 Ye daunt the proud array of war, 
 Pervade the lonely ocean far 
 
 As sail hath been unfurPd; 
 For dancers in the festive haU 
 ^Vhat ghastly partners hath your call 
 
 Fetch'd from the shadowy woi-ld ! 
 
 'Tis said, that warnings ye dispense, 
 Embolden'd by a keener sense; 
 
 That men have lived for whom. 
 With flread precision, ye made clear 
 The hour that in a distant year 
 
 Should knell them to the tomb. 
 
 Unwelcome insight ! Yet there are 
 Blest times when mystery is laid bare, 
 
 Truth shows a glorious face, 
 While on the isthmus which commands 
 The councils of both worlds, she stands, 
 
 Sage Spirits ! by your grace. 
 
 God, who instructs the brutes to scent 
 All changes of the element. 
 
 Whose wisdom fix'd the scale 
 Of natures, for our wants provides 
 By higher, sometimes humbler, guides, 
 
 ^Ylien lights of reason fail. [1830. 
 
 If this great world of joy and pain 
 
 Revolve in one sure track ; 
 If freedom, set, will rise again, 
 
 And virtue, flown, come back; 
 Woe to the purblind crew who fill 
 
 The heart with each day's care ; 
 Nor gain, from past or future, skill 
 
 To bear, and to forbear ! [1833. 
 
 3 In this stanza, the poet is said to have 
 had in mind the then recent convulsion in 
 France which pushed Charles the Tenth 
 from the throne. While the more san- 
 guine commonly wax enthusiastic over 
 such noisy and emphatic changes, sup- 
 posing the'ra about to usher in new eras 
 of freedom and happiness, more thought- 
 ful minds are apt to prognosticate just the 
 opposite, as knowing that real improve- 
 ment among men generally proceeds by 
 the methods of growth, which are slow 
 and Bilent. 
 
154 
 
 WOKDSWOETH. 
 
 SEPTEMBER, 1819. 
 
 The sylvan slopes with corn-clad fields 
 Are hung, as if with golden shields, 
 Bright ti'ophies of the Sun ! 
 Like a fair sister of the sky, 
 Unruffled doth the blue lake lie, 
 The mountains looking on. 
 
 And, sooth to say, yon vocal grove, 
 Albeit uninspired by love. 
 By love untaught to ring, 
 May well afford to mortal ear 
 An impulse more profoundly dear 
 Than music of the Spring. 
 
 For that from turbulence and heat 
 Proceeds, from some uneasy seat 
 In nature's struggling frame, 
 Some region of impatient life ; 
 And jealousy, and quivering strife, 
 Therein a portion claim. 
 
 This, this is holy;— while I hear 
 These vespers of another year. 
 This hymn of thanks and praise, 
 My spirit seems to mount above 
 Th' anxieties of human love. 
 And Earth's precarious days. 
 
 But list ! — though winter storms be nigh, 
 Uncheck'd is that soft harmony : 
 There lives who can provide 
 For all His creatures ; and in Him, 
 Even like the radiant Seraphim, 
 These choristers confide. 
 
 UPON THE SA3IE OCCASION. 
 
 Departing Summer hath assumed 
 An asj)ect tenderly illumed, 
 The gentlest look of Spring; 
 That calls from yonder leafy shade 
 Unfaded, yet prepared to fade, 
 A timely carolling. 
 
 No ftiint and hesitating trill. 
 Such tribute as to AVinter chill 
 The lonely redbreast pays ! 
 Clear, loud, and lively is the din. 
 From social warblers gathering in 
 Their harvest of sweet lays. 
 
 Nor doth th' example fail to cheer 
 Me, conscious that my leaf is sere, 
 
 And yellow on the bough : — 
 Fall, rosy garlands, from my head 1 
 Ye myrtle wreaths, your fragrance shed 
 Around a younger brow I 
 
 Yet will I temperately rejoice : 
 
 Wide is tlie range, and free the choice 
 
 Of undiscordant themes ; 
 
 Which, haply, kindred souls may prize 
 
 Not less than vernal ecstasies. 
 
 And passion's feverish dreams. 
 
 For deathless powers to verse belong, 
 And they like Demi-gods are strong 
 On whom the Muses smile; 
 But some their function have disclaim'd, 
 Best pleased with what is aptliest framed 
 To enervate and defile. 
 
 Not such th' initiatory strains 
 
 Committed to the silent plains 
 
 In Britain's earliest dawn : 
 
 Trembled the groves, the stars grew pale, 
 
 While all-too-daringly the veil 
 
 Of Nature was withdi'awn! 
 
 Nor such the spirit-stirring note 
 When the live chords Alcaeus smote, 
 Inflamed by sense of wrong : 
 Woe 1 woe to Tyrants ! from the lyre 
 Broke threateningly, in sparkles dire 
 Of fierce, vindictive song. 
 
 And not unhalloAV'd was the page 
 By Avinged Love inscribed, to assuage 
 The pangs of vain pursuit; 
 Love listening while the Lesbian Maid 
 With finest touch of passion sway'd 
 Her own ^olian lute.* 
 
 O ye who patiently explore 
 The wreck of Herculanean lore. 
 What rapture ! could ye seize 
 Some Theban fragment, or uni-oll 
 One precioiis, tendei'-hearted scroll 
 Of pure Simonides. 
 
 4 The " Lesbian Maid " is Sappho, cele- 
 brated in classic lore for lier impassioned 
 love-lyrics. The ancient writers agree in 
 expressing the most unbounded admira- 
 tion of her poetxy. She was contempo- 
 rary witii Solon, who is said to have been 
 so affected at the recitation of one of her 
 poems, that he expressed an earnest de- 
 sire to learn it before he died. Only a few 
 fragments of her poetry have survived. 
 
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 155 
 
 That were, indeed, a genuine birth 
 Of poesy; a bursting forth 
 Of genius from the dust : 
 What Horace gloried to behold, 
 What Maro loved, shall we enfold? 
 Can haughty Time be just! 
 
 [1819. 
 
 MEMORY. 
 
 A PEN — to register ; a key — 
 That winds through secret wards ; 
 Are well assign'd to Memory 
 By allegoric Bards. 
 
 As aptly, also, might be given 
 
 A Pencil to her hand; 
 
 That, softening objects, sometimes even 
 
 Outstrips the heart's demand; 
 
 That smoothes foregone distress, the lines 
 Of lingering care subdues, 
 Long-vanish'd happiness refines, 
 And clothes in brighter hues ; 
 
 Yet, like a tool of Fancy, works 
 Those Spectres to dilate 
 That startle Conscience, as she lurks 
 Within her lonely seat. 
 
 O, that our lives, which flee so fest, 
 In purity were such, 
 That not an image of the past 
 Should fear that pencil's touch! 
 
 Retirement then might hourly look 
 Upon a soothing scene. 
 Age steal to his allotted nook 
 Contented and serene; 
 
 With heart as calm as lakes that sleep, 
 In frosty moonlight glistening; 
 Or mountain rivers, where they creep 
 Along a channel smooth and deep, 
 To their own far-off murmurings listen- 
 ing. [1823. 
 
 This lawn, a carpet all alive 
 
 With shadows flung from leaves, to strive 
 
 In dance amid a press 
 Of sunshine, an apt emblem yields 
 Of Worldlings revelling in the fields 
 
 Of strenuous idleness : 
 
 Less quick the stir when tide and breeze 
 Encounter, and to narrow seas 
 
 Foi-bid a moment's rest; 
 The medley less when boreal Lights 
 Glance to and fro, like aery Sprites 
 
 To feats of anns addrest! 
 
 Yet, spite of all this eager strife, 
 This ceaseless play, the genuine life 
 
 That serves the steadfast hours 
 Is in the grass beneath that grows 
 Unheeded, and the mute repose 
 
 Of sweetly-breathing flowers.^ 
 
 Lives there a man whose sole delights 
 Are trivial pomp and city noise, 
 Hardening a heart that loathes or slights 
 What every natural heart enjoys? 
 Who never caught a noon-tide dream 
 From murmur of a running stream? 
 Could strip, for aught the prospect yields 
 To him, their verdure from the fields? 
 And take the radiance from the clouds 
 In which the Sun his setting shrouds? 
 
 A soul so pitiably forlorn, 
 If such do on this Earth abide. 
 May season apathy with scorn. 
 May turn indifference to pride ; 
 And still be not unblest, — compared 
 With him who grovels, self-debarr'd 
 From all that lies within the scope 
 Of holy faith and Christian hope; 
 
 5 Hundreds of times have I watched 
 the dancing of shadows amid a press ot 
 sunshine, and other beautifulappearances 
 of light and shade, flowers and shrubs. 
 Some are of oj)iniou that tlie habit of 
 analysing, decomposing, and anatomising 
 is unfavourable to the perception of beau- 
 ty. People are led into this mistake by 
 overlooking the fact that, such processes 
 being to a certain extent within the reach 
 of a limited intellect, we are apt to as- 
 cribe to them that insensibility of which 
 they are in truth the eflect, and not the 
 cause. Admiration and love, to which 
 all knowledge truly vital must tend, are 
 felt by men of real genms in proportion 
 as their discoveries in natural Philosophy 
 are enlarged; and the beauty in form of 
 a plant or an animal is not made less but 
 more apparent as a whole, by more accu- 
 rate insight into its constituent properties 
 and powers. A savant, who is not also a 
 poet in soul and a religionist in heart, is 
 a feeble and unhappy creatiu'e. —Author's 
 Notes. 
 
156 
 
 WORDSWORTH. 
 
 Or, shipwreck'd, kindles on the coast 
 False lii-es, that others may be lost.o 
 
 TO THE REV. DR. WORDSWORTH. 
 
 The Minstrels plaj'd their Christmas tune 
 To-night beneath my cottage-eaves : 
 While, smitten by a lofty Moon, 
 Th' encircling laurels, thick with leaves, 
 Gave back a rich and dazzling sheen, 
 That overpower'd their natural green. 
 
 Through hill and valley every breeze 
 Had sunk to rest with folded wings : 
 Keen was the air, but could not freeze, 
 Nor check, the music of the strings ; 
 So stout and hardy were the band [hand! 
 That scraped the chords with strenuous 
 
 And who but listen'd? — till was paid 
 Respect to every Inmate's claim : 
 The greeting given, the music play'd. 
 In honour of each household name, 
 Duly pronounced with lusty call, 
 And " merry Christmas " wish'd to all! 
 
 O Brother ! I revere the choice 
 That took thee from thy native hills; 
 And it is given thee to rejoice : 
 Though public care full often tills 
 (Heaven only witness of the toil) 
 A barren and ungrateful soil. 
 
 Yet, would that Thou, with me and nune, 
 
 Hadst heard this never-failing rite ; 
 
 And seen on other faces shine 
 
 A true revival of the light 
 
 Which Nature and these rustic Powers, 
 
 In simple childhood, spread through ours ! 
 
 For pleasure hath not ceased to wait 
 On these exjiected annual rounds ; 
 Whether the rich man's sumptuous gate 
 Call forth the unelaborate sounds, 
 Or they are offer'd at the door 
 That guards the lowliest of the poor. 
 
 How touching, when, at midnight, sweep 
 Snow-muffled winds, and all is dark. 
 To hear, — and sink again to sleep ! 
 
 6 These two stanzas are from a poem 
 of considerable length addressed " To the 
 Lady Fleming." The piece, as a whole, 
 IS rather of a sermonising character; but 
 1 could not well resist the temptation to 
 insert so much of it. 
 
 Or, at an earlier call, to mark, 
 By blazing fu*e, the still suspense 
 Of self-complacent innocence; 
 
 The mutual nod, — the grave disguise 
 Of hearts with gladness brimming o'er; 
 And some unbidden tears that rise 
 For names once heard, and heard no more ; 
 Tears brighten'd by the serenade 
 For infant in the cradle laid. 
 
 Ah ! not for emerald fields alone. 
 With ambient streams more pure and 
 Than fabled Cytherea's zone [bi-ight 
 
 Glittering before the Thunderer's sight. 
 Is to my heart of hearts endear'd [rear'd ! 
 The ground where we were born and 
 
 Hail, ancient Manners ! sure defence, 
 Where they survive, of wholesome laws ; 
 Remnants of love whose modest sense 
 Thus into narrow room withdraws; 
 HaU, Usages of pristine mould, 
 And ye that guard them, Mountains old t 
 
 Bear with me, Brother! quench the 
 
 thought 
 That slights this passion, or condemns ; 
 If thee fond Fancy ever brought 
 From the proud margin of the Thames, 
 ^Vnd Lambeth's venerable towers. 
 To humbler streams and greener bowers. 
 
 Yes, they can make, who fail to find, 
 
 Short leisure even in busiest days ; 
 
 Moments, to cast a look behind. 
 
 And profit by those kindly rays 
 
 That thro' the clouds do sometimes steal, 
 
 And all the far-ofi' past reveal. 
 
 Hence, while th' imperial City's din 
 Beats frequent on thy satiate ear, 
 A pleased attention I may win 
 To agitations less severe, 
 That neither overwhelm nor cloy, 
 But fill the hollow vale with joy ! ^ 
 
 7 In 1820, the poet published a volume 
 entitled Sonnets to the River Diiddon, &c.; 
 ami this poem was prelixcd to the volume 
 in the form of a dedication. The Ilev. 
 Christopher Wordswortli, D.D., was a 
 younger brother of the poet, and was at 
 that time Rector of Lambeth, which is a 
 part of London : he afterwards became 
 Master of Trinity College, Cambridge. 
 
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 157 
 
 AT THE GRAVE OF BURNS. 
 
 1803. 
 SEVEX YEARS AFTER HIS DEATH. 
 
 I SHIVER, Spirit lierce and bold, 
 
 At thought of what I now behold : 
 
 As vapours breathed from duugeons cold 
 
 Strike pleasure dead, 
 So sadness comes from out the mould 
 
 \Miere Burns is laid. 
 
 And have I then thj^ bones so near, 
 And thou forbidden to appear? 
 As if it were thyself that's here 
 
 I shrink with pain ; 
 And both mj- wishes and my fear 
 
 Alike are vain. 
 
 Off, Aveight, — nor press on weight! — 
 away, [stay : 
 
 Dark thoughts ! — They came, but not to 
 With chasten'd feelings would I pay 
 
 The tribute due 
 To him, and aught that hides his clay 
 
 From mortal view. 
 
 Fresh as the flower, whose modest worth 
 He sang, his genius "glinted" forth, 
 Rose like a star that touching Earth, 
 
 For so it seems. 
 Doth glorify its humble birth 
 
 With matchless beams. 
 
 The piercing eye, the thoughtful brow. 
 The struggling heart, where be they now? 
 Full soon th' Aspirant of the plough, 
 
 The prompt, the brave. 
 Slept, with th' obscux*est, in the low 
 
 And silent grave. 
 
 I moum'd with thousands, but as one 
 More deeply grieved, for He was gone 
 Whose light I hail'd when first it shone, 
 
 And show'd my youth 
 How Verse may build a iDrincely throne 
 
 On humble truth. 
 
 Alas! where'er the current tends, 
 Regret pursues and with it blends ; — 
 Huge Criffel's hoary top ascends s 
 
 8 Criffcl is a mountain rising near the 
 river Nith, in the shire of Kirkcudbright, 
 Scotland, and is visible from Skiddaw in 
 Cumberland, across the Solway Frith. 
 The home of Burns was on the banks of 
 the Nith; and as these two mountains, 
 
 By Skiddaw seen ; — 
 Neighbours we were, and loving frienda 
 We might have been ; 
 
 True friends though diversely inclined; 
 But heart with heart and mind with mind, 
 Where the main libres are entwined, 
 
 Through Nature's skill 
 May even by contraries be join'd 
 
 More closely still. 
 
 The tear will start, and let it flow : 
 Thou " poor Inhabitant below," 
 At this dread moment — even so — 
 
 Might we together 
 Have sate and talk'd where gowans blow, 
 
 Or on wild heather.^ 
 
 What treasures would have then been 
 
 placed 
 Within my reach ! of knowledge graced 
 By fancy what a rich reijast ! 
 
 But why go on ? — 
 O, spare to sweep, thou mournful blast, 
 
 His grave gi-ass-grown ! 
 
 There, too, a Son, his joy and pride, 
 (Not three weeks past the Stripling died,) 
 Lies gather'd to his Father's side, 
 
 Soul-moving sight ! 
 Yet one to which is not denied 
 
 Some sad delight. 
 
 For he is safe, a quiet bed 
 
 Hath eai-ly found among the dead, 
 
 Harbour'd Mhere none can be misled, 
 
 Wrong'd, or distrest; 
 And surely here it may be said 
 
 That such are blest. 
 
 And, O, for Thee, by pitying grace 
 Check'd otl-times in a devious race, 
 jNIay He Avho halloweth the place 
 
 Where Man is laid 
 Receive thy Spirit in th' embrace 
 
 For which it pray'd ! 
 
 standing in sight of each other, are the 
 most conspicuous objects in their several 
 places, thej' are well taken to represent 
 the geographical nearness of the two 
 poets. 
 
 9 Goivan is a Scotch word for dalsi/. 
 The poet had in mind Burns' beautiful 
 stanzas To a Mountain Daisy. 
 
158 
 
 WORDSWORTH *. 
 
 Sighing I turn'd away ; but ere 
 Night fell I heard, or seem'd to hear, 
 Music that sorrow comes not near, 
 
 A ritual hymn, 
 Chanted in love that casts out fear 
 
 By Seraphim.i 
 
 THOUGHTS 
 
 SUGGESTED THE DAY FOLLOWING, ON 
 
 THE BANKS OF NITH, NEAR THE 
 
 POET'S RESIDENCE. 
 
 Too frail to keep the lofty vow 
 
 That must have follow'd when his brow 
 
 Was wreathed {The Vision tells us how) 
 
 With holly spray, 
 He falter'd, drifted to and fro, 
 
 And pass'd away. 
 
 Well might such thoughts, dear Sister, 
 
 throng 
 Our minds when, lingering all too long, 
 Over the grave of Burns we hung 
 
 In social grief, — 
 Indulged as if it were a wrong 
 
 To seek relief. 
 
 But, leaving each unquiet theme 
 Where gentlest judgments may misdeem. 
 And prompt to welcome every gleam 
 
 Of good and fair, 
 Let us beside this limpid Stream 
 
 Breathe hopeful air. 
 
 Enough of sorrow, wreck, and blight; 
 Think rather of those moments bright 
 When to the consciousness of right 
 
 His course was true. 
 When Wisdom prosper'd in his sight 
 
 And virtue grew. 
 
 Yes, freely let our hearts expand. 
 Freely as in youth's season bland, 
 When side by side, his Book in hand, 
 
 1 This piece, as also several of those 
 that follow, grew out of the tour that the 
 poet and his sister made through Scotland 
 in 1S03. In a note on the piece, the author 
 has the following: " We talked of Barns, 
 and of the prospect he must have had, 
 perliaps from his own door, of Skiddaw 
 and Ids companions; indulging ourselves 
 in the fancy that Ave might have been per- 
 sonally known to each other, and he have 
 looked upon those objects with more 
 pleasure for our sakes." 
 
 We wont to stray, 
 Our pleasure varying at command 
 Of each sweet Lay. 
 
 How oft inspired must he have trod 
 These pathways, yon far-stretching road I 
 There lurks his home; in that Abode, 
 
 With mirth elate, 
 Or in his nobly-pensive mood 
 
 The Rustic sate. 
 
 Proud thoughts that Image overawes; 
 Before it humbly let us pause. 
 And ask of Nature, from what cause 
 
 And by what rules 
 She train'd her Burns to win applause 
 
 That shames the Schools. 
 
 Through busiest street and loneliest glen 
 
 Are felt the flashes of his pen; 
 
 He rules 'mid winter snows, and when 
 
 Bees All their hives ; 
 Deep in the general heart of men 
 
 His power survives. 
 
 Wliat need of fields in some far clime 
 Where Heroes, Sages, Bards sublime, 
 And all that fetch'd the flowing rhyme 
 
 From genuine springs, 
 Shall dwell together till old Time 
 
 Folds up his wings ? 
 
 Sweet Mercy ! to the gates of Heaven 
 This Minstrel lead, his sins forgiven; 
 The rueful conflict, the heart riven 
 
 With vain endeavour. 
 And memoiy of Earth's bitter leaven, 
 
 Eff'aced for ever. 
 
 Bnt why to Him confine the prayer. 
 When kindred thoughts and yearnings 
 On the frail heart the purest share [bear 
 
 With all that live? — 
 The best of what we do and are, 
 
 Just God, forgive ! 
 
 TO THE SONS OF BURNS, 
 
 AFTER VTESITING THE GRAVE OF THEIK 
 FATHER. 
 
 'Mid crowded obelisks and urns 
 
 I sought th' untimely gi'ave of Burns : 
 
 Sons of the Bard, my heart still moui'ns 
 
 With sorrow true; 
 And moi-e would grieve, but that it tiUTis 
 
 Trembling to you. 
 
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 159 
 
 Tlu-ough twilight shades of good and ill 
 
 Ye now are panting up life's hill ; 
 
 And more than common strength and 
 
 Must ye display, [skill 
 
 If ye would give the better will 
 
 Its lawful sway. 
 
 Hath Nature strung your nerves to bear 
 Intemperance with less harm, beware I 
 But, if the Poet's wit ye share, 
 
 Like him can speed 
 The Social hour, of tenfold care 
 
 There will be need; 
 
 For honest men delight will take 
 To spare your failings for his sake. 
 Will flatter you, — and fool and rake 
 ' Your steps pursue; 
 And of your Father's name will make 
 A snare for you. 
 
 Far from their noisy haiints retire, 
 And add your voices to the quire 
 That sanctify the cottage fire 
 
 AVith service meet; 
 There seek the genius of your Sire, 
 
 His spirit greet; 
 
 Or where, 'mid " lonely heights and hows," 
 He paid to Nature tuneful vows ; 
 Or wiped his honourable brows 
 
 Bedew'd with toil, 
 While rcai^ers strove, or busy ploughs 
 
 Upturn'd the soil ; 
 
 His judgment witli benignant ray 
 Sliall guide, his fancy cheer, your way; 
 But ne'er to a seductive lay 
 
 Let faith be given ; 
 Nor deem that " light which leads astray 
 
 Is light from Heaven." 2 
 
 Let no mean hope your souls enslave ; 
 Be independent, generous, brave : 
 Your Father such example gave, 
 
 And such revere; 
 But be admonisli'd by his gi'ave, 
 
 And think, and fear! 
 
 COMPOSED AT CORA LINN.s 
 
 IN SIGHT OP WALLACE'S TOWER. 
 
 Lord of the vale! astounding Flood, 
 The dullest leaf in this thick wood 
 Quakes, conscious of thy power; 
 The caves reply witli hollow moan; 
 And vibrates, to its central stone, 
 Yon time-cemented Tower I 
 
 And yet how fair the rural scene I 
 For thou, O Clyde, hast ever been 
 Beneficent as strong; 
 Pleased in retreshing dews to steep 
 The little trembling flowers that peep 
 Thy shelving rocks among. 
 
 Hence all who love their country, love 
 To look on thee, — delight to rove 
 Where they thy voice can hear; 
 And, to the patriot-warrior's Shade, 
 Lord of the vale! to Heroes laid 
 In dust, that voice is dear ! 
 
 Along thy banks, at dead of night, 
 Sweeps visibly the Wallace Wight; 
 Or stands, in warlike vest, 
 AlofD, beneath the Moon's pale beam, 
 A Chami3ion worthy of the stream, 
 Yon gTcy tower's living crest ! 
 
 But clouds and envious darkness hide 
 A Form not doubtfully descried : 
 Their transient mission o'er, 
 O, say to what blind region flee 
 These Shapes of awful phantasy r 
 To what untrodden shore? 
 
 Less than divine command they spurn; 
 But this we from the mountains learn, 
 And this the valleys show, — 
 That never will they deign to hold 
 Communion where the heart is cold 
 To luiman weal and woe. 
 
 The man of abject soul in vain 
 Shall walk the Marathonian plain; 
 Or thrid the shadowy gloom, 
 
 2 This quotation is from Burns' poem 
 The Vision: 
 
 " I saw thy pulse's maddening play 
 Wild send thee pleasure's devious' way. 
 Misled by Fancy's meteor ray. 
 
 By passion driven ; 
 But yet the light that led astray 
 
 Was light ii'om Heaven." 
 
 3 Linn is Scottish for wnterfaU or cas- 
 cade.— The author's notes here furnish 
 the follo\vi)ig : " I had seen this celebrated 
 AV^atevfall t\Vice before: but the feelings 
 to which it liad given birth were not ex- 
 pressed till they recurred in presence of 
 the object on this occasion." — The poet 
 made a second tour in Scotland in the 
 Summer of 1814. 
 
160 
 
 WORDSWORTH. 
 
 That still invests the guardian Pass, 
 Where stood, sublime, Leonidas 
 Devoted to the tomb. 
 
 And let no Slave his head incline, 
 
 Or kneel, before the votive shrine 
 
 By Uri's lake, where Tell 
 
 Leapt, from his storm-vext boat, to landj 
 
 Heaven's Instrument, for by his hand 
 
 That day the Tyrant fell. [1814. 
 
 TO A HIGHLAND GIRL. 
 
 (At Jnversneyde, upon Loch Lomond.) 
 Sweet Highland Girl, a very shoAver 
 Of beauty is thy earthly dower ! 
 Twice seven consenting years have shed 
 Their utmost bounty on thy head : 
 And these grey rocks; that household 
 
 lawn ; 
 Those trees, a veil just half withdrawn 
 This fall of water that doth make 
 A murmur near the silent lake; 
 This little bay; a quiet road 
 That holds in shelter thy Abode, — 
 In truth together do ye seem 
 Like something fashion'd in a dream ; 
 Such Forms as from their covert peep 
 When earthly cares are laid asleep ! 
 But, O fair Creature ! in the light 
 Of common day, so heavenly bright, 
 I bless Thee, Vision as thou art, 
 I bless thee with a human heart : 
 God shield thee to thy latest years ! 
 Thee, neither know I, nor thy peers; 
 And 3^et my eyes are lill'd with tears. 
 
 With eai-nest feeling I shall pray 
 For thee when I am far aAvay : 
 For never saw I mien or face 
 In which more plainly I could trace 
 Benignity and home-bred sense 
 Ripening in i)erfect innocence. 
 Here scatter'd, like a random seed. 
 Remote from men. Thou dost not need 
 Th' embarrass'd look of shy distress, 
 And maidenly shamefacedness : 
 Tliou Avear'st upon thy forehead clear 
 The freedom of a Mountaineer : 
 A face with gladness overspread! 
 Soft smiles, by human kindness bred! 
 And seemliuess complete, that sways 
 Thy courtesies, about thee plays ; 
 With no restraint, but such as springs 
 From quick and eager visitings 
 
 Of thoughts that lie beyond the reach 
 Of thy few words of English speech; 
 A bondage sweetly bi'ook'd, a strife 
 That gives thy gestures grace and life ! 
 So have I, not unmoved in mind. 
 Seen birds of teiupest-loving kind, — 
 Thus beating up against the wind. 
 
 What hand but would a garland cull 
 For thee who art so beautiful ? 
 
 happy pleasure ! here to dwell 
 Beside thee in some heathy dell; 
 Adopt your homely ways, and dress, 
 A Shepherd, thou a Shepherdess ! 
 But I could frame a wish for thee 
 More like a grave reality : 
 
 Thou art to me but as a wave 
 
 Of the wild sea ; and I would have 
 
 Some claim upon thee, if I could, 
 
 Though but of common neighbourhood. 
 
 What joy to hear thee, and to see! 
 
 Thy elder Brother I would be. 
 
 Thy Father, anything to thee ! 
 
 NoAv thanks to Heaven ! that of its grace 
 Hath led me to this lonely place. 
 Joy have I had ; and going hence 
 
 1 bear away my recompense. 
 In spots like these it is Ave prize 
 
 Our Memory, feel that she hath eyes : 
 
 Then, Avhy should I be loth to stir? 
 
 I feel this place Avas made for her; 
 
 To give new pleasure like the past, 
 
 Continued long as life shalMast. 
 
 Nor am I loth, though pleased at heart, 
 
 SAveet Highland Girl! from thee to part; 
 
 For I, methinks, till I grow old, 
 
 As fair before me shall behold, 
 
 As I do noAV, the cabin small. 
 
 The lake, the bay, the Avaterfall; 
 
 And Thee, the Spirit of them all ! * [1803. 
 
 STEPPING WESTWARD. 
 
 While my FelloAV- traveller and I were 
 Avalking by the side of Loch Ketterine, 
 one fine evening after sunset, in our 
 road to a Hut Avhere, in the course of 
 our Tour, Ave had been hospitably en- 
 tertained some weeks before, Ave mot, in 
 one of the loneliest parts of that solitary 
 
 4 The sort of prophecy AAith which 
 tliese verses conchule has, through God's 
 goodness, been realised; and noAV, ap- 
 proaching my 73d year, I have a most 
 vivid remembrance of lier and tlie beau- 
 tiful objects Avith Avhich she was sur- 
 rounded. — Author's Notes. 
 
MISCELLAI^EOUS POEMS. 
 
 161 
 
 region, two well-dressed Women, one 
 of whom said to us, by way of greeting, 
 "What, you are stepping westward? " 
 
 *'WlIAT, you are stepping westward'?'''' — 
 — 'Twould be a wildish destiny, [" Yea.^^ 
 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 Avas dark and cold; 
 Behind, all gloomy to behold; 
 And stepping westward seem'd to be 
 A kind of heavenly destiny : 
 I liked the greeting; 'twas a sound 
 Of something Avithoiit place or bound ; 
 And seem'd to give me spiritual right 
 To ti-avel throiigh 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 Avhile my eye 
 Was fix'd upon the^lowing Sky, 
 The echo of the voice enwrought 
 A human sweetness with the thought 
 Of travelling through the world that lay 
 Before me in my endless way. 
 
 THE SOLITARY REAPER. 
 
 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 ; 
 O, listen I for the vale profound 
 Is overflowing with the sound. 
 
 No Nightingale did ever chant 
 More welcome notes to weary bands 
 Of travellers in some shady haunt. 
 Among Arabian sands : 
 A voice so thrilling ne'er was heard 
 In spring-time from the Cuckoo-bird, 
 Breaking the silence of the seas 
 Among the farthest Hebrides. 
 
 Will no one tell me what she sings? - 
 Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow 
 For old, unhappy, far-ofi" things, 
 And battles long ago : 
 
 Or is it some more humble lay, 
 Familiar matter of to-day? 
 Some natural sorrow, loss, or i^aiu, 
 That has been, and may be again! 
 
 Whate'er the theme, the Maiden sang 
 As if he]- song could have no ending; 
 I saw her singing at her work, 
 And o'er the sickle bending; — 
 I listen'd, motionless and still; 
 And, as I mounted up the hill, 
 The music in my heart I bore. 
 Long after it was heard no more. 
 
 ROB ROY'S GRAVE. 
 
 The history of Rob Roy is sufficiently 
 known; his grave is near the head of 
 Locli Ketterine, in one of those small 
 pinfold-like Burial-grounds, of neglect- 
 ed and desolate appearance, Avhich the 
 traveller meets with in the Highlands 
 of Scotland. 
 
 A FAMOUS man is Robin Hood, 
 The English ballad-singer's joy I 
 And Scotland has a thief as good, 
 An outlaw of as daring mood; 
 She has her brave Rob Roy! 
 Then clear the Aveeds from off his Grave, 
 And let us chant a passing stave, 
 '^\ honour of that Hero brave ! 
 
 Heaven gave Rob Roy a dauntless heart 
 And wondrous length and strength of 
 
 Nor craved he more, to quell his foes, 
 Or keep his friends from harm. 
 
 Yet was Rob Roy as ivise as brave ; 
 Forgive me if the phrase be strong; — 
 A Poet Avorthy of Rob Roy 
 Must scorn a timid song. 
 
 Saj^, then, that he Avas wise as brave; 
 As wise in thought as bold in deed ; 
 For in the principles of things 
 He sought his moral creed. 
 
 Said generous Rob, " What need of books ? 
 Burn all the statutes and their shelves : 
 They stir us up against our kind; 
 And , worse, against ourselves. 
 
 5 Rob Roy's arms are said to have been 
 so long, that he could tie his garters beloAV 
 his knees without stooping. 
 
162 
 
 WORDSWORTH. 
 
 We have a passion, — make a law, 
 Too false to guide us or control! 
 And for the law itself we fight 
 In bitterness of soul. 
 
 And, puzzled, blinded thus, we lose 
 Distinctions that are plain and few : 
 These find I graven on my heart : 
 That tells me what to do. 
 
 The creatures see of flood and field. 
 And those that travel on the wind ! 
 With them no strife can last ; they live 
 In peace, and peace of mind. 
 
 For why ? —because the good old rule 
 Su£Q.ceth them, the simple plan, [power. 
 That they should take who have the 
 And they should keep who can. 
 
 A lesson that is quickly learn'd, 
 A signal this which all can see ! 
 Thus nothing here provokes the strong 
 To wanton cruelty. 
 
 All freakishness of mind is check'd; 
 He tamed, who foolishly aspires ; 
 While to the measure of his might 
 Each fashions his desires. 
 
 All kinds and creatures stand and fall 
 By strength of prowess or of wit: 
 'Tis God's appointment who must sway, 
 And who is to submit. 
 
 Since, then, the rule of right is plain, 
 And longest life is but a day ; 
 To have my ends, maintain my rights, 
 I'll take the shortest way." 
 
 And thus among these rocks he lived. 
 Through summer heat and winter snow : 
 The Eagle, he was lord above, 
 And Rob was lord below% 
 
 So was it — would, at least, have been 
 But through untowardness of fate ; 
 For Polity was then too strong, — 
 He came an age too late ; 
 
 Or shall we say an age too soon? 
 tor, were the bold Man living now, 
 How might he flourish in his pride, 
 With buds on every bough ! 
 
 Then rents and factors, rights of chase, 
 Sherifls, and lairds and their domains, 
 
 Would all have seem'd but paltry things, 
 Not worth a moment's pains. 
 
 Rob Roy had never linger'd here, 
 To these few meagi'e Vales (confined; 
 But thought how wide the world, the times 
 How fairly to his mind! 
 
 And to his Sword he would have said, 
 " Do Thou my sovereign will enact 
 From land to land through half the Earth 1 
 Judge thou of law and fact! 
 
 'Tis fit that we should do our part, 
 Becoming, that mankind should learn 
 That we are not to be surpass'd 
 In fatherly concern. 
 
 Of old things all are over old, 
 Of good things none are good enough : — 
 We'll shew that we can help to frame 
 A world of other stuff. 
 
 I, too, will have my kings that take 
 From me the sign of life and death ; 
 Kingdoms shall shift about, like clouds, 
 Obedient to my breath." 
 
 And, if the word had been fulflU'd, 
 As might have been, then, thought of joy I 
 France would have had her present Boast, 
 And we our own Rob Roy I 
 
 O, say not so ! compare them not ! 
 I would not Avrong thee. Champion brave I 
 Would wrong thee nowhere ; least of all 
 Here standing by thy grave. 
 
 For Thou, although with some wild 
 
 thoughts. 
 Wild Chieftain of a savage Clan ! 
 Hadst this to boast of; thou didst love 
 The liberty of man. 
 
 And, had it been thy lot to live 
 With us who now behold the light. 
 Thou w^ouldst have nobly stirr'd thyself. 
 And battled for the Right. 
 
 For thou wert still the poor man's stay, 
 The poor man's heai't, the poor man's 
 
 hand; 
 And all th' oppress'd who wanted strength 
 Had thine at their command. 
 
 Bear witness many a pensive sigh 
 
 Of thoughtful Herdsman when he strays 
 
MISCELLAKEOUS POEMS. 
 
 163 
 
 Alone upon Loch Veol's heights, 
 And by Loch Lomond's braes I 
 
 And, far and near, tlirough vale and hill, 
 Are faces that attest the same ; [eyes, 
 The proud heart flashing through the 
 At sound of Bob Roy's name.o 
 
 THE MATRON OF JEDBOROUGH 
 AND HER HUSBAND. 
 
 At Jedborough, my companion and I went 
 into private lodgings for a few days; 
 and the following Verses Avere called 
 forth by the chai-acter and domestic sit- 
 uation of our Hostess. 
 
 Age, twine thy brows with fresh spring 
 
 flowers. 
 And call a train of laughing Hours; 
 And bid them dance, and bid them sing; 
 And thou, too, mingle in the ring! 
 Take to thy heart a new delight ; 
 If not, make merry in despite, 
 That there is One who scorns thy power: 
 But dance ! for under Jedburgh Tower 
 A Matron dwells who, though she bears 
 The weight of more than seventy years, 
 Lives in the light of youthful glee. 
 And she will dance and sing with thee. 
 
 Nay, start not at that Figure there. 
 Him who is rooted to his chair! 
 Look at him, — look again; for he 
 Hath long been of thy family. 
 With legs that move not, if they can, 
 And useless arms, a trunk of man, 
 He sits, and with a vacant eye; 
 A. sight to make a stranger sigh! 
 Deaf, drooping, that is now his doom : 
 His world is in this single room: 
 Is this a place for mirthful cheer? 
 Can merry-making enter here? 
 
 The joyous AVoman is the Mate 
 
 6 The reader may need to be told that, 
 throughout this poem, the author implies 
 a comparison between Rob Roy ajid Na- 
 poleon. — Scott, in the Introduction to his 
 Roh Roji, quotes a large part of tins poem, 
 witli the following remark : " Supposing 
 Rob Roy to have argued on the tendency 
 of the life which he pursued, he would 
 doubtless have assumed to himself the 
 character of a brave man, who, deprived 
 of his natural liglits by the partiality of 
 laws, endeavoured to assert them by the 
 strong nand of natural power; and he is 
 most felicitously described as reasoning 
 thus, in the high-toned poetry of my gifted 
 friend Wordsworth." 
 
 Of him in that forlorn estate! 
 He breathes a subterraneous damp ; 
 But bright as Vesper shines her lamp : 
 He is as mute as Jedburgh Tower: 
 She jocund as it was of yore. 
 With all its bravery on; in times 
 When all alive with merry chimes, 
 Upon a sun-bright morn of May, 
 It roused the Vale to holiday. 
 
 I praise thee, Matron, and thy due 
 Is praise, heroic praise, and true! 
 With admiration I behold 
 Thy gladness unsubdued and bold : 
 Thy looks, thy gestures, all present 
 The picture of a life well spent : 
 This do I see ; and something more ; 
 A strength unthought of heretofore! 
 Delighted am I for thy sake ; 
 And yet a higher joy partake : 
 Our Human-nature throws away 
 Its second twilight, and looks gay; 
 A land of promise and of pride 
 Unfolding, wide as life is wide. 
 
 Ah, see her helpless Charge ! enclosed 
 Within himself as seems, composed; 
 To fear of loss and hope of gain. 
 The strife of happiness and pain. 
 Utterly dead ! yet in the guise 
 Of little infants, when their eyes 
 Begin to follow to and fro 
 The persons that before them go. 
 He tracks her motions, quick or slow. 
 Her buoyant spirit can prevail 
 Where common cheerfuhaess would fail ; 
 She strikes upon him Avith the heat 
 Of July suns ; he feels it sweet; 
 An animal delight though dim! 
 'Tis all that now remains for him. 
 
 The more I look'd, I wonder'd more; 
 And, while I scann'd them o'er and o'er. 
 Some inward trouble suddenly 
 Broke from the Matron's strong black eye, 
 A remnant of uneasy light, 
 A flash of something over -bright ! 
 Nor long this mystery did detain 
 My thoughts : she told in pensive strain 
 That she had borne a heavy yoke. 
 Been stricken by a twofold stroke ; 
 111 health of body ; and had pined 
 Beneath worse ailments of the mind. 
 
 So be it ! — but let praise ascend 
 To Him who is our Lord and Friend 1 
 Who from disease and suffering 
 Hath call'd for thee a second Spring; 
 
164 
 
 WORDSWORTH. 
 
 Repaid thee for that sore distress 
 By no untimely joj'onsness ; 
 Which makes of thine a blissful state; 
 And cheers thy melancholy Mate ! 
 
 A SCOTTISH LAKE. 
 
 (From " The Blind Highland Boy.") 
 Beside a lake their cottage stood, 
 Not small like om-s, a peaceful flood ; 
 But one of mighty size, and strange; 
 That, I'ough or smooth, is full of change, 
 
 And stirring in its bed. 
 
 For to this lake, by night and day, 
 The great Sea-water finds its -way 
 Through long, long windings in the hills, 
 And drinks up all the pretty rills 
 And rivers large and strong : 
 
 Then hurries back the road it came, — 
 Returns, on errand still the same : 
 This did it when the Earth was new; 
 And this for evermore will do 
 As long as Earth shall last. 
 
 And, with the coming of the tide, 
 Come boats and ships that safely ride 
 Between the woods and lofty rocks; 
 And to the sheplierds with their flocks 
 Bring tales of distant lands. 
 
 YARttOW 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 !') 
 
 Feom Stirling castle we had seen 
 The mazy Forth unravell'd; 
 Had ti-od the banks of Clyde, and Tay, 
 And with the Tweed had travell'd ; 
 And when we came to Clovenford, 
 Then said my " winsome Marrow," ' 
 " Whate'er betide, we'll turn aside, 
 And see the Braes of Yarrow." 
 
 •' Let Yarrow folk, frae Selkirk town, 
 Who have been buying, selling, 
 Go back to Yarrow, 'tis their own; 
 Each maiden to her dwelling ! 
 
 On Yarrow's banks let herons feed, 
 Hares couch, and rabbits burrow 1 
 But we will downward with the Tweed, 
 Isor turn aside to Yarrow. 
 
 There's Galia Water, Leader Haughs, 
 Both lying right before us ; [Tweed 
 
 And Dryburgh, where with chiming 
 The lintwhites s sing in chorus ; 
 There's pleasant Tiviot-dale, a land 
 Made blithe Avith plough and harrow : 
 Why throw away a needful day 
 To go in search of Yarrow ? 
 
 What's Yarrow but a river bare, 
 That glides the dark hills under? 
 Thei-e are a thousand such elsewhere 
 As worthy of your wonder." — [scorn ; 
 Strange words they seem'd of slight and 
 My True-love sigh'd for sorrow; 
 And look'd me in the face, to think 
 I thus could speak of Yarrow ! 
 
 " O, green," said I, " are Yarrow's holms. 
 And sweet is Yarrow flowing ! 
 Fair hangs the apple frae the rock, " 
 But we Avill leave it growing. 
 O'er hilly path and open Strath, i 
 We'll wander Scotland thorough : 
 But, though so near, we will not turn 
 Into the dale of Yarrow. 
 
 Let beeves and home-bred kine partake 
 The sweets of Burn-mill meadow; 
 The swan on still Saint Mary's Lake 
 Float double, swan and shadow! 2 
 We will not see them; will not go, 
 To-day, nor yet to-morrow ; 
 Enough if in our hearts we know 
 Thei-e's such a place as Yarrow. 
 
 7 Winsome marroiv is, Scottice, pleasant 
 companion. The "winsome Marrow" in 
 this case was the poet's sister. 
 
 8 Lintwhite is the same as linnet. 
 
 9 Alluding to a part of the ballad : 
 
 " Sweet smells the birk, green grows the 
 
 grass. 
 Yellow on Yarrow's bank the gowan; 
 Fair hangs the apple frae the rock. 
 Sweet the wave of Yarrow flowan." 
 
 1 Strath is a flat piece of arable land 
 lying on the side or sides of a capital river. 
 " 2 Scott, in his notes on Marmion, has 
 the following account of •' lone Saint 
 Mary's silent lake": "This beautiful 
 sheet of water forms the reservoir from 
 which the Yarrow takes its source. It is 
 connected with a smaller lake, called the 
 Loch of the Lowes, anfl surrounded by 
 mountains. In the Winter, it is still fre- 
 quented by flights of wild swans." He 
 then quotes these two lines from Words- 
 worth. 
 
MISCELLAI^EOUS POEMS. 
 
 105 
 
 Be Yarrow stream unseen, unknown! 
 It must, or we shall rue it : 
 We have a vision of our o^vn; 
 Ah! why should we undo it? 
 The treasured dreams of times long past, 
 We'll keep them, winsome Marrow ! 
 For when we're there, although 'tis fair, 
 'Twill be another Yarrow ! 
 
 If Care with freezing years should come, 
 
 And wandering seem but folly ; 
 
 Should we be loth to stir from home, 
 
 And yet be melancholy; 
 
 Should life be dull, and spirits loAV, 
 
 'Twill soothe us in our sorrow, 
 
 That Earth has something yet to show. 
 
 The bonny holms s of Yarrow 1 " [1803. 
 
 YARROW VISITED, 
 
 SEPTEMBER, 1814. 
 
 And is this Yarrow? — This the Stream 
 
 Of which my fancy cherish'd, 
 
 So faithfully, a Avakiug dream? 
 
 An image that hath perish'd! 
 
 O that some Minstrel's harp were near, 
 
 To utter notes of gladness, 
 
 And chase this silence from the air, 
 
 That fills my heart with sadness ! 
 
 Yet why? — a silvery current flows 
 With uncoutroll'd meanderings ; 
 Nor have these eyes by greener hills 
 Been soothed, in all my wanderings. 
 And, thro' her depths. Saint Mary's Lake 
 Is visibly delighted; 
 For not a feature of those hills 
 Is in the mirror slighted. 
 
 A blue sky bends o'er Yarrow vale, 
 
 Save wiiere that pearly whiteness 
 
 Is round the rising Sun diffused, 
 
 A tender hazy brightness ; 
 
 Mild dawn of promise, that excludes 
 
 All profitless dejection; 
 
 Though not unwilling here to admit 
 
 A pensive recollection. 
 
 Wliere was it that the famous Flower 
 Of Yarrow A^ale lay bleeding? * 
 
 3 Holm is meadow, or a low, flat tract 
 of rich land on the banks of a river. 
 
 '1 Yarrow has long been an eminently 
 classic stream, — made so by the tales and 
 ballads which there have " a local habi- 
 tation and a name." There appear to 
 Uaye been several " Flowers of Yarrow." 
 
 His bed perchance was yon smooth mound 
 
 On which the herd is feeding : 
 
 And haply from this crystal pool, 
 
 Now peaceful as the morning, 
 
 The Water- wraith ^ ascended thrice, 
 
 And gave his doleful warning. 
 
 Delicious is the Lay that sings 
 The haunts of happy Lovers, 
 The path that leads them to the grove. 
 The leafy grove that covers : 
 And Pity sanctifies the Verse 
 That paints, by strength of sorrow, 
 Th' unconquerable strength of love ; 
 Bear witness, rueful Yarrow ! 
 
 But thou, that didst appear so fair 
 
 To fond imagination, 
 
 Dost rival in the light of day 
 
 Her delicate creation : 
 
 Meek loveliness is round thee spread, 
 
 A softness still and holy ; 
 
 The grace of forest charms decay'd. 
 
 And pastoral melancholy.^ 
 
 That region left, the vale unfolds 
 
 Rich groves of lofty stature. 
 
 With Yarrow winding through the pomp 
 
 Of cultivated nature ; 
 
 And, rising from those lofty groves, 
 
 Behold a Ruin hoary ! 
 
 The shatter'd front of Newark's Towers, 
 
 Renown'd in Border story. 
 
 Fair scenes for childhood's opening 
 For sportive youth to stray in ; [bloom ; 
 For manhood to enjoy his strength ; 
 And age to wear away in ! 
 Yon cottage seems a bower of bliss, 
 A covert for protection 
 
 Sir Walter Scott tells of one, a lady, named 
 Mary Scott : " She was married to Walter 
 Scott of Harnden, no less renowned for 
 his depredations, than his bride for her 
 beauty." Wordsworth's "Flower of Yar- 
 row" was a youth who was waylaid and 
 slain by his rival in love. The tale is told 
 Avith touching simplicity and pathos in 
 Hamilton's ballad. 
 
 5 Wraith is a spectral apparition of a 
 living person. Seeing such an apparition 
 of one's self appears to have been re- 
 garded as a fatal omen. 
 
 6 Charles Lamb, in one of his letters, 
 has the following : " I meant to have men- 
 tioned Yarrow Visited, with that stanza, 
 ' But thou, that didst appear so fair ' ; than 
 which I tliink no lovelier stanza can be 
 found in the wide world of iJoetry." 
 
166 
 
 WORDSWOKTII. 
 
 Of tender thonglits, that nestle there,— 
 The brood of chaste affection. 
 
 How sweet, on this antumual day, 
 
 The wild-wood IVuits to gather, 
 
 And on my True-love's forehead plant 
 
 A crest of blooming heather! 
 
 And what if I enwreathed my own ! 
 
 'Twere no offence to reason ; 
 
 The sober Hills that deck their brows 
 
 To meet the wintry season. 
 
 I see, — but not by sight alone, 
 
 Loved Yarrow, have I Avon thee ; 
 
 A ray of fancy still survives, — 
 
 Her sunshine plays upon thee ! 
 
 Thy evei'-youthful waters keep 
 
 A course of lively pleasure ; 
 
 And gladsome notes my lips can breathe, 
 
 Accordant to the measure. 
 
 The vapours linger round the Heights, 
 They melt, and soon must vanish; 
 One hour is theirs, nor more is mine, — 
 Sad thought, which I Avould banish, 
 But that I know, where'er I go, 
 Thy genuine image. Yarrow! 
 Will dwell with me, — to heighten joy, 
 And cheer my mind in sorrow.'' 
 
 TAEEOW REVISITED. 
 
 [The following Stanzas are a memorial 
 of a day passed with Sir Walter Scott, 
 and other Friends visiting the banks of 
 the YaiTow under his guidance, imme- 
 diately before his departure from Ab- 
 botsford, for Naples.] 
 
 The gallant Youth, who may have gain'd. 
 Or seeks, a " winsome Mari-ow," 
 Was but an Infant in the lap 
 When first I louk'd on Yarrow: 
 Once more, by Newark's Castle-gate 
 Long left without a warder, 
 I stood, look'd, listen'd, and with Thee, 
 Great Minstrel of the Border! 
 
 7 I seldom read or think of this poem 
 without regretting tha^ my dear sister was 
 not of the party; as she would have had 
 so much delight in recalling the time 
 when, ti-avelling togetlier in Scotland, Ave 
 declin(;d going in search of this celebrated 
 stream, not altogether, I will frankly con- 
 fess, for the reasons assigned in the poem 
 on the occasion.- — Author's Notes. 
 
 Grave thoughts ruled Avide on that swcot 
 Their dignity installing [day, 
 
 In gentle bosoms, Avhile sere leaves 
 Were on the bough, or falling; 
 But breezes play'd, and sunshine gleam'd, 
 The forest to embolden ; 
 Redden'd the fiery hues, and shot 
 Transparence thi-ough the golden. 
 
 For busy thoughts the Stream floAv'd on 
 
 In foamy agitation; 
 
 And slept in many a crystal pool 
 
 For quiet contemplation : 
 
 No public and no private care 
 
 The freeborn mind enthralling, 
 
 VYe made a day of happy hours, 
 
 Our happy days recalling. 
 
 Brisk Youth appear'd, the Mom of youth, 
 
 AVith freaks of graceful folly; 
 
 Life's temperate Noon, her sober Eve, 
 
 Her Night not melancholy; 
 
 Past, present, futm-e, all appear'd. 
 
 In harmony united. 
 
 Like guests that meet, and some from far, 
 
 By cordial love invited. 
 
 And if, as YarroAV, through the AA'Oods 
 And doAvn the meadow ranging, 
 Did meet us AAith unalter'd face, 
 Though Ave were changed and changing ; 
 If, then, some natural shadoAVS spread 
 Our iuAvard prospect over. 
 The soul's deep valley was not sloAV 
 Its brightness to recover. 
 
 Eternal blessings on the Muse, 
 
 And her divine emploj^ment ! 
 
 The blameless Muse, Avho trains her Sons 
 
 For hope and calm enjoyment; 
 
 Albeit sickness, lingering yet, 
 
 Has o'er their pilloAV brooded; 
 
 And Care Avaylays their steps, — a Sprite 
 
 Not easily eluded. 
 
 For thee, O Scott ! corapell'd to change 
 Green Eildon-hill and Cheviot 
 For Avarm Vesuvio's vine-clad slopes; 
 And leave thy TAveed and Tiviot » 
 
 8 Eildon is a three-headed hill, or rath- 
 er a cluster of thi-ee hills, rising near Ab- 
 botsford; hence afterwards described as 
 " Eildon's triple height." — Cheviot is the 
 name of a range of hills, AA^iich for a con- 
 siderable distance forms the Scottish bor- 
 der. — Tiviot is a river running nearly 
 parallel Avith Cheviot-hills, and joining 
 the Tweed near Kelso. 
 
MISCELLAN^EOUS POEMS. 
 
 167 
 
 For mild Sorento's breezy waves ; 
 May classic Fancy, linking 
 With native Fancy her fresh aid, 
 Preserve thy heart from sinking! 
 
 O, while they minister to thee, 
 Each vying with the other, 
 May Health return to mellow Age, 
 With Sti-ength, her ventui-ous brother; 
 And Tiber, and each brook and rill 
 Eenown'd in song and story, 
 With xmimagined beauty shine, 
 Nor lose one ray of glory ! 
 
 For Thou upon a hundred streams, 
 
 By tales of love and soitow, 
 
 Of faithful love, undaunted truth. 
 
 Hast shed the power of Yarrow ; 
 
 And streams unkno^\'n, hills yet unseen, 
 
 Wherever they invite Thee, 
 
 At parent Nature's grateful call, 
 
 With gladness must requite Thee. 
 
 A gracious welcome shall be tliine, 
 Such looks of love and honour 
 As thy own YaiTow gave to me 
 When first I gazed upon her; 
 Beheld what I had fear'd to see, 
 Unwilling to surrender 
 Dreams treasured up from early days. 
 The holy and the tender. 
 
 And what, for this frail world, were all 
 
 That mortals do or suffer. 
 
 Did no responsive harp, no pen. 
 
 Memorial tribute offer ? 
 
 Yea, what were mighty Nature's self? 
 
 Her features, could they win iis, 
 
 Unhelp'd by the poetic voice 
 
 That hourly speaks within us? 
 
 Nor deem that localised Romance 
 
 Plays false with our affections ; 
 
 Unsanctifies our tears, — made sport 
 
 For fanciful dejections : 
 
 Ah, no ! the visions of the past 
 
 Sustain the heart in feeling 
 
 Life as she is, — our changeful Life, 
 
 With friends and kindred dealing. 
 
 Bear witness, Ye, whose thoughts that 
 
 day 
 In Yarrow's groves were centred ; 
 
 Who through the silent portal arch 
 
 Of mouldering Newark enter'd ; 
 
 And clomb the winding stair that once 
 
 Too timidly was mounted 
 
 By the " last Minstrel," (not the lastl) » 
 
 Ere he his Tale recounted. 
 
 Flow on for ever, YaiTOw Stream ! 
 
 Fulfil thy pensive diity, 
 
 Well pleased that future Bards should 
 
 chant 
 For simple hearts thy beauty ; 
 To dream-light dear while yet unseen, 
 Dear to the common sunshine, 
 And dearer still, as now I feel, 
 To memory's shadowy moonshine ! lo 
 
 [1831. 
 
 9 Of course the allusion is to The Laif 
 nf the Last Minstrel, which is supposed to 
 have been chanted in Newark Castle ; and 
 the words "not the last" are meant in 
 compliment to Scott, whom Wordsworth 
 elsewhere designates as " the whole 
 world's Darling." 
 
 10 In the Autumn of 1831 , my daughter 
 and I set off from Kydal to visit Sir Wal- 
 ter 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 liope- 
 ful, a few years before ! Tlie inmates and 
 guests we" found there M'ere Sir AValter, 
 Major Scott, Anne Scott, and Mr. and 
 Mrs. Lockhart, Mr. Liddell, his Lady and 
 Brother, and Mr. Allan the painter^i and 
 Mr. Laidlaw. a very old friend of Sir Wal- 
 ter's. On Tuesday morning Sir Walter 
 accompanied us arid most of the party to 
 Newark Castle on the Yarrow. Wheii we 
 alighted from the carriages, he walked 
 pretty stoutly, and had great pleasure in 
 revisiting tliose his favourite haunts. Of 
 that excursion the verses Yarrow revisited 
 are a memorial. Notwithstanding the ro- 
 mance that pervades Sir Walter's works, 
 and attaches to many of his habits, there 
 is too much pressure of fact for these 
 verses to harmonise as much as I could 
 wish with other poems. On our return 
 in the afternoon, Ave had to cross the 
 Tweed directly opposite Abbotsford. A 
 rich but sad light, of rather a purple than 
 a golden hue, was spread over the Eildon 
 hills at that moment; and, thinking it 
 proljable that it might be the last time 
 Sir Walter would cross the stream, I was 
 not a little moved, and expressed some of 
 my feelings in the sonnet beginning, " A 
 trouble, not of clouds, or weeping rain." 
 I first became acquainted with this great 
 and amiable man in the year 1803, when 
 my sister and I, making" a tour in Scot- 
 laud, were hospitably received by him in 
 Lasswade upon the' banks of the Esk, 
 where he was then living. — Author's 
 JVotes. 
 
168 WORDSWORTH. 
 
 OK THE DEPARTURE OF SIR WALTER SCOTT FROM ABBOTSFOED, 
 FOR NAPLES. 
 
 A TROUBLE, not of clouds or weeping rain, 
 
 Nor of the setting Sun's pathetic liglit 
 
 Engender'd, hangs o'er Eildon's triple height : 
 
 Spirits of Power, assembled there, complain 
 
 For kindred Power departing from their sight ; 
 
 Wliile Tweed, best pleased in chanting a blithe strain, 
 
 Saddens his Toice again, and yet again. 
 
 Lift wp your hearts, ye Mourners ! for the might 
 
 Of the whole world's good wishes with him goes ; 
 
 Blessings and praj^ers, in nobler retinue 
 
 Than sceptred king or laurell'd conqueror knows, 
 
 Follow this wondrous Potentate. Be true. 
 
 Ye winds of ocean, and the midland sea. 
 
 Wafting your Charge to soft Parthenope ! 
 
 KILCHUEN CASTLE, UPON LOCH AWE. 
 
 From the top of the hill a most impressive scene opened upon our view, — a mined 
 Castle on an Island (for an Island the flood had made it) at some distance from the 
 shore, backed hy a Cove of the Mountain Cruachan, down which came a foaming 
 stream. The Castle occupied every foot of the Island that was visible to us, ap- 
 pearing to rise oitt of the Avater, — mists rested upon the mountain-side, with spots 
 of sunshine ; there was a mild desolation in the low grounds, a solemn gi-andeur 
 in the mountains, and the Castle was Avild, yet stately — not dismantled of turrets — 
 nor the walls broken down, though obviously a ruin. — Extract from the Journal of 
 my Companion. 
 
 Child of loud-throated War ! the mountain Stream 
 
 Eoars in thy hearing ; but thy hour of rest 
 
 Is come, and thou art silent in thy age ; 
 
 Save when the wind sweeps by, and sounds are caught 
 
 Ambiguous, neither wholly thine nor theirs. 
 
 0, there is life that breathes not ! Powers there are 
 
 That touch each other to the quick in modes 
 
 Which the gross world no sense hath to perceive. 
 
 No soul to dream of. What art Thou, from care 
 
 Cast off, — abandon'd by thy rugged Sire, 
 
 Nor by soft Peace adopted ; though, in place 
 
 And in dimension, such that thou mightst seem 
 
 But a mere footstool to yon sovereign Lord, 
 
 Huge Cruachan, (a thing that meaner hills 
 
 Might crush, nor know that it had suffer'd harm ;) 
 
 Yet he, not loth, in favour of thy claims 
 
 To reverence, suspends his own ; submitting 
 
 All that the God of Nature hath conferr'd. 
 
 All that he holds in common with the stars. 
 
MISCELLAN"EOUS POEMS. 169 
 
 To the memorial majesty of Time 
 Impersonated in thy calm decay ! 
 
 Take, then, thy seat. Vicegerent un reproved! 
 Now, while a farewell gleam of evening light 
 Is fondly lingering on thy shatter'd front, 
 Do thou, in turn, be paramount ; and rule 
 Over the pomp and beauty of a scene 
 Whose mountains, torrents, lake, and woods, unite 
 To pay thee homage ; and with these are join'd, 
 In willing admiration and respect. 
 Two Hearts, which in thy presence might be call'd 
 Youthful as Spring. — Shade of departed Power, 
 Skeleton of unflesh'd humanity. 
 The chronicle were welcome that should call 
 Into the compass of distinct regard 
 The toils and struggles of thy infant years ! 
 Yon foaming flood seems motionless as ice ; 
 Its dizzy turbulence eludes the eye. 
 Frozen by distance : so, majestic Pile, 
 To the perception of this Age, appear 
 Thy fierce beginnings, soften'd and subdued 
 And quieted in character, — the strife, 
 The pride, the fury uncontrollable. 
 Lost on th' aerial heights of the Crusades.^ [1803. 
 
 YEW-TEEES. 
 
 Theee is a Yew-tree, pride of Lorton Vale, 
 
 Which to this day stands single, in the midst 
 
 Of its own darkness, as it stood of yore : 
 
 Not loth to furnish weapons for the bands 
 
 Of Umfraville or Percy ere they march'd 
 
 To Scotland's heaths ; or those that cross'd the sea. 
 
 And drew their sounding bows at Azincour, 
 
 Perhaps at earlier Crecy, or Poictiers. 
 
 Of vast circumference and gloom profound 
 
 This solitary Tree ! a living thing 
 
 Produced too slowly ever to decay ; 
 
 Of form and aspect too magnificent 
 
 To be destroy'd. But worthier still of note 
 
 Are those fraternal Pour of Borrowdale, 
 
 Join'd in one solemn and capacious grove ; 
 
 1 There is a tradition that the Castle was built by a L.acly during the absence of 
 her husband in Palestine. — This piece is, to me, one of the author's grandest dis- 
 plays of imaginative power; hardly inferior indeed to that which follows, under the 
 heading "Yew-trees." 
 
170 WORDSWORTH. 
 
 Huge trunks ! and each particular trunk a growth 
 
 Of intertwisted fibres serpentine 
 
 Up-coiling, and inveterately convolved ; 
 
 Nor uniform'd with Phantasy, and looks 
 
 That threaten the profane ; — a pillar'd shade. 
 
 Upon whose grassless floor of red-brown hue 
 
 By sheddings from the pining umbrage tinged 
 
 Perennially, — beneath whose sable roof 
 
 Of boughs, as if for festal purpose, deck'd 
 
 With unrejoicing berries, — ghostly Shapes 
 
 May meet at noontide ; Fear and trem.blmg Hope, 
 
 Silence and Foresight ; Death the Skeleton 
 
 And Time the Shadow; — there to celebrate, 
 
 As in a natural temple scatter'd o'er 
 
 With altars undisturb'd of mossy stone, 
 
 United worship ; or in mute repose 
 
 To lie, and listen to the mountain flood 
 
 Murmuring from Glaramara's inmost caves. ^ [1803. 
 
 LINES 
 
 liCft upon a Seat in a Yew-tree, which stands near the lake of Esthwaite, on a deso- 
 late part of the shore, commanding a beautiful prospect. 
 
 Nay, Traveller, rest. This lonely Yew-tree stands 
 Far from all human dwelling : what if here 
 No sparkling rivulet spread the verdant herb ?" 
 What if the bee love not these barren boughs ? 
 Yet, if the wind breathe soft, the curling waves 
 That break against the shore shall lull thy mind 
 By one soft impulse saved from vacancy. 
 
 Who he was 
 That piled these stones and with the mossy sod 
 First cover'd, and here taught this aged Tree 
 With its dark arms to form a circling bower, 
 I well remember. He was one who own'd 
 No common soul. In youth by science nursed, 
 And led by Nature into a wild scene 
 Of lofty hopes, he to the world went forth 
 A favoured Being, knowing no desire 
 
 2 This superb little piece is quoted by Coleridge, as showing that, in imaginative 
 power, Wordsworth " stands nearest of all modern writers to Shakespeare and Mil- 
 ton." Lamb, also, in one of his letters, speaks of •' the four Yew-trees, and the mys- 
 terious company assembled there, — ' Death the Skeleton, and Time the Shadow ' " ; 
 and Talfourd, in a note on the passage, refers to "the poem on the four great yew- 
 trees of Bon-owdale, which the poet has, by the most potent magic of the imagination, 
 converted into a temple for the ghostly forms of Death and Time ' to meet at noon- 
 tide,'— a passage surely not surpassed in any English poetry since the days of Mil- 
 ton." 
 
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 171 
 
 Which genius did not hallow; 'gainst the taint 
 
 Of dissolute tongues, and jealousy and hate 
 
 And scorn, — against all enemies prepared, 
 
 All but neglect. The world, for so it thought, 
 
 Owed him no service ; wherefore he at once 
 
 With indignation turn'd himself away, 
 
 And with the food of pride sustain'd his soul 
 
 In solitude. — Stranger, these gloomy boughs 
 
 Had charms for him ; and here he loved to sit, 
 
 His only visitants a straggling sheep. 
 
 The stone-chat, or the glancing sand-piper : 
 
 And on these barren rocks, with fern and heath 
 
 And juniper and thistle sprinkled o'er. 
 
 Fixing his downcast eye, he many an hour 
 
 A morbid pleasure nourish 'd, tracing here 
 
 An emblem of his own unfruitful life : 
 
 And, lifting up his head, he then would gaze 
 
 On the more distant scene, — how lovely 'tis 
 
 Thou seest, — and he would gaze till it became 
 
 Far lovelier, and his heart could not sustain 
 
 The beauty, still more beauteous. Nor, that time 
 
 When Nature had subdued him to herself, 
 
 Would he forget those Beings to whose minds 
 
 Warm from the labours of benevolence 
 
 The world and human life appear'd a scene 
 
 Of kindred loveliness : then he would sigh, 
 
 Inly disturb'd, to think that others felt 
 
 What he must never feel: and so, lost Man, 
 
 On visionary views would fancy feed. 
 
 Till his eye stream'd with tears. In this deep vale 
 
 He died, — this seat his only monument. 
 
 If Thou be one whose heart the holy forms 
 Of young imagination have kept pure, 
 Stranger, henceforth be warn'd ; and know that pride, 
 Howe'er disguised in its own majesty. 
 Is littleness ; that he who feels contempt 
 For any living thing hath faculties 
 Which he has never used; that thought with him 
 Is in its infancy. The man whose eye 
 Is ever on himself doth look on one. 
 The least of Nature's works, one who might move 
 The wise man to that scorn which wisdom holds 
 Unlawful, ever. 0, be wiser, Thou ! 
 Instructed that true knowledge leads to love ; 
 True dignity abides with him alone 
 Who, in the silent hour of inward thought, 
 
172 WOKDSWORTH. 
 
 Can still suspect, and still revere himself. 
 
 In lowliness of lieart.^ [1795. 
 
 DEDICATIOIf OF THE WHITE DOE. 
 
 In" trellis'd shed with clustering roses gay. 
 
 And, Mary ! oft beside our blazing fire, 
 
 "When years of wedded life were as a day 
 
 Whose current answers to the heart's desire, 
 
 Did we together read in Spenser's Lay 
 
 How Una, sad of soul, in sad attire, 
 
 The gentle Una, of celestial birth. 
 
 To seek her Knight went wandering o'er the Earth. 
 
 Ah, then. Beloved ! pleasing was the smart, 
 And the tear precious in compassion shed 
 For Her who, pierced by sorrow's thrilling dart. 
 Did meekly bear the pang unmerited ; 
 Meek as that emblem of her lowly heart. 
 The milk-white Lamb which in a line she led; 
 And faithful, loyal in her innocence, 
 Like the brave Lion slain in her defence. 
 
 !N"otes could we hear as of a faery shell 
 Attuned to words with sacred wisdom fraught ; 
 Free Fancy prized each specious miracle, 
 And all its finer inspiration caught ; 
 Till in the bosom of our rustic Cell, 
 We by a lamentable change were taught 
 That "bliss with mortal Man may not abide:" 
 How nearly joy and sorrow are allied!* 
 
 For us the stream of fiction ceased to flow. 
 For us the voice of melody was mute. 
 But, as soft gales dissolve the dreary snow, 
 And give the timid herbage leave to shoot. 
 Heaven's breathing influence fail'd not to bestow 
 
 3 Composed in part at school at Hawkshead. The spot was my favourite walk in 
 the evenings during the latter part of my school-time. The individual, whose liabits 
 and character are here given, Avas a gentleman of the neighbourhood, a man of tal- 
 ent and learning, who had been educated at one of our Universities, and retiu*ncd to 
 pass his time in seclusion on his OAvn estate. He died a bachelor in middle age. In- 
 duced by the beauty of the prospect, he built a small summer-house on the rocks 
 above the peninsula on which the ferry-house stands. So much used I to be de- 
 lighted Avith the view from it, while a little boy, that, some years before the first 
 pleasure-house was built, I led thither from Hawkshead a youngster about my own 
 age, an Irish boy, who was a servant to an itinerant conjurer. My motive was to 
 witness the pleasure I expected the boy would receive from the prospect of the 
 islands below, and the intermingling watei'. I was not disappointed.— /l«f/tor's NotcH. 
 
 4 Alluding to the death of the poet's two children, Thomas and Catharine, in 1812. 
 See page 69, note 1. 
 
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 173 
 
 A timely promise of unlook'd-for fruit, 
 Fair fruit of pleasure and serene content 
 From blossoms wild of fancies innocent. 
 
 It soothed us — it beguiled us — then, to hear 
 Once more of troubles wrought by magic spell ; 
 And griefs whose aery motion comes not near 
 The pangs that tempt the Spirit to rebel ; 
 Then, with mild Una in her sober cheer. 
 High over hill and low adown the dell 
 Again we wander'd, willing to partake 
 All that she suffer'd for her dear Lord's sake. 
 
 Then, too, this Song of mine once more could please, 
 
 Where anguish, strange as dreams of restless sleep, 
 
 Is temper'd and allay'd by sympathies 
 
 Aloft ascending, and descending deep. 
 
 Even to th' inferior Kinds ; whom forest-trees 
 
 Protect from beating sunbeams, and the sweep 
 
 Of the sharp winds ; — fair Creatures ! to whom Heaven 
 
 A calm and sinless life, with love, hath given. 
 
 This tragic Story cheer'd us ; for it speaks 
 Of female patience winning firm repose ; 
 And, of the recompense that conscience seeks, 
 A bright, encouraging example shows ; 
 Needful when o'er wide realms the tempest breaks, 
 Needful amid life's ordinary woes ; — 
 Hence, not for them unfitted who would bless 
 A happy hour with holier happiness. 
 
 He serves the Muses erringly and ill. 
 
 Whose aim is pleasure light and fugitive : 
 
 0, that my mind were equal to fulfil 
 
 The comprehensive mandate which they give! 
 
 Vain aspiration of an earnest will ! 
 
 Yet in this moral Strain a power may live. 
 
 Beloved Wife ! such solace to impart 
 
 As it hath yielded to thy tender heart.^ 
 
 ETDAL MOUXT, WESTMOEELAND, 
 
 April 20, 1815. 
 
 5 These beautiful stanzas, as the heading implies, were prefixed, as a dedication . 
 to The White Doe of E^/lstone. That poem, though very noble as a whole, and in parts 
 hardly inferior to anything the author wi'ote, is too long for reproduction here, and, 
 besides, is not particularly suited to the purpose of this voliune. But I could not 
 think of omitting the dedication. 
 
174 WORDSWORTH, 
 
 TO . 
 
 DEARER far than light and Hfe are dear, 
 Full oft our human foresight I deplore ; 
 Trembling, through my unwor thin ess, with fear 
 That friends, by death disjoined, may meet no more! 
 
 Misgivings, hard to yanquish or control, 
 Mix with the day, and cross the hour of rest ; 
 While all the future, for thy purer soul. 
 With " sober certainties " of love is blest. 
 
 That sigh of thine, not meant for human ear. 
 Tells that these words thy humbleness offend ; 
 Yet bear me wp, — else faltering in the rear 
 Of a steep march : support me to the end. 
 
 Peace settles where the intellect is meek. 
 And Love is dutiful in thought and deed; 
 Through Thee communion with that Love I seek : 
 The faith Heaven strengthens where He moulds the Creed.* 
 
 [1824. 
 
 TO A SKY-LARK. 
 
 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, but never roam, 
 
 True to the kindred points of Heaven and Home!' [1825. 
 
 6 This little piece also, like the precerling, was addressed to the author's wile. 
 The last stanza is enough of itsell" to justify its inseition here. 
 
 7 The Diary of Henry Crabb Robinson furnishes an apt comment on this little 
 gem of song : " Wordsworth has been able to exhibit that harmony in nature and the 
 world of lliought and sentiment, the detection ot which is the gi-eat feat of the real 
 poet. To take one single illustration. In his poem on the Sky-lark, he terminates liis 
 description of the i)ird mounting high, and yet never leaving'hcr nest over which she 
 hovers, with — 'True to the kLudretl points of Heaven and Home." Such a line as 
 this is an acquisition ; for here is admirably insinuated the connection between the 
 domestic aflections and the religious feelings, which is important in moral philoso- 
 phy, coupled with the fanciful analogy to an instinct in the bird. Wordsworth's 
 poems abound in these beauties." 
 
MISCELLAI^EOUS POEMS. 175 
 
 TO A SKY-LARK. 
 
 Hail, blest above all kinds! — Supremely skill'd 
 Restless with fix'd to balance, high with low, 
 Thou leav'st the halcyon free her hopes to build 
 On such forbearance as the deep may show ; 
 Perpetual flight, uncheck'd by earthly ties, 
 Leav'st to the wandering bird of paradise. 
 
 Faithful, though swift as lightning, the meek dove ! 
 
 Yet more hath Nature reconciled in thee; 
 
 So constant with thy downward eye of love, 
 
 Yet, in aerial singleness, so free ; 
 
 So humble, yet so ready to rejoice 
 
 In power of wing and never-wearied vpice. 
 
 To the last point of vision, and beyond. 
 
 Mount, daring warbler ! — that love-prompted strain 
 
 ('Twixt thee and thine a never-failing bond) 
 
 Thrills not the less the bosom of the plain: 
 
 Yet mightst thou seem, proud privilege ! to sing 
 
 All independent of the leafy Spring. 
 
 How would it please old Ocean to partake, 
 With sailors longing for a breeze in vain. 
 The harmony thy notes most gladly make 
 Where earth resembles most his own domain ! 
 Urania's self might welcome with pleased ear 
 These matins mounting towards her native sphere. 
 
 Chanter by Heaven attracted, whom no bars 
 
 To day-light known deter from that pu^rsuit, 
 
 'Tis well that some sage instinct, when the stars 
 
 Come forth at evening, keeps Thee still and mute ; 
 
 For not an eyelid could to sleep incline 
 
 Wert thou among them, singing as they shine ! ® [1828. 
 
 Time flows, — nor winds, 
 Nor stagnates, nor precipitates his course. 
 But many a benefit borne upon his breast 
 For human-kind sinks out of sight, is gone, 
 No one knoAvs how ; nor seldom is put forth 
 An angry arm that snatches good away, 
 Never perhaps to reappear. The Stream 
 
 8 These stanzas are from a poem entitled 4 Morning Exercise. The author himself 
 says in his notes, " I could wish tlie last live stanzas of this to be read with the poem 
 addressed to the sky -lark." 
 
176 
 
 WORDSWORTH. 
 
 Has to our generation brought and brings 
 
 Innumerable gains ; yet we, who now 
 
 Walk in the light of day, pertain full surely 
 
 To a chill'd age, most pitiably shut out 
 
 From that which is and actuates, by forms, 
 
 Abstractions, and by lifeless fact to fact 
 
 Minutely link'd with diligence uninspired, 
 
 Unrectifled, unguided, unsustain'd, 
 
 By godlike insight. To this fate is doom'd 
 
 Science, wide-spread and spreading still as be 
 
 Her conquests, in the world of sense made known. 
 
 So with th' internal mind it fares ; and so 
 
 With morals, trusting, in contempt or fear 
 
 Of vital principle's controlling law. 
 
 To her purblind guide Expediency; and so 
 
 Suffers religious faith. Elate with yiew 
 
 Of what is won, we overlook or scorn 
 
 The best that should keep pace with it, and must, 
 
 Else more and more the general mind will droop, 
 
 Even as if bent on perishing. There lives 
 
 No faculty within us which the Soul 
 
 Can spare ; and humblest earthly Weal demands. 
 
 For dignity not placed beyond her reach. 
 
 Zealous co-operation of all means 
 
 Given or acquired, to raise us from the mire. 
 
 And liberate our hearts from low pursuits. 
 
 By gross Utilities enslaved we need 
 
 More of ennobling impulse from the past. 
 
 If to the future aught of good must come 
 
 Sounder and therefore holier than the ends 
 
 Which, in the giddiness of self -applause. 
 
 We covet as supreme. 0, grant the crown 
 
 That Wisdom wears, or take his treacherous staff 
 
 From Knowledge ! » [1837. 
 
 PEESONAL TALK. 
 
 I AM not One who much or oft delight 
 To season my fireside with personal talk, — 
 Of friends, who live within an easy walk, 
 Or neighbours, daily, weekly, in my sight : 
 And, for my chance-acquaintance, ladies bright, 
 
 9 These lines are a small part of a poem entitled Musings near Aquapendente, The 
 whole poem is too long for this place, and is written in the author's severest style. 
 The narrowing and dwarfing and drying effect of science exclusively pursued, 
 ■while the world of moral and imaginative reason is discarded or lost sight of, was a 
 favourite theme Avith Wordsworth. 
 
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 177 
 
 Sons, mothers, maidens withering on the stalk, — 
 These all wear out of me, like Forms, with chalk 
 Painted on rich men's floors, for one feast-night. 
 Better than such discourse doth silence long, 
 Long, barren silence, square with my desire ; 
 To sit without emotion, hope, or aim, 
 In the loved presence of my cottage-fire. 
 And listen to the flapping of the flame. 
 Or kettle whispering its faint undersong.^ 
 
 " Yet life," you say, " is life ; we have seen and see, 
 
 And with a living pleasure we describe ; 
 
 And fits of sprightly malice do but bribe 
 
 The languid mind into activity. 
 
 Sound sense, and love itself, and mirth and glee 
 
 Are foster d by the comment and the gibe." 
 
 Even be it so : yet still among your tribe. 
 
 Our daily world's true Worldlings, rank not me ! 
 
 Children are blest, and powerful ; their world lies 
 
 More justly balanced ; partly at their feet. 
 
 And part far from them : — sweetest melodies 
 
 Are those that are by distance made more sweet ; 
 
 Whose mind is but the mind of his own eyes. 
 
 He is a Slave ; the meanest we can meet ! 
 
 Wings have we, — and as far as we can go 
 
 We may find pleasure : wilderness and wood. 
 
 Blank ocean and mere sky, support that mood 
 
 Which with the lofty sanctifies the low. 
 
 Dreams, books, are each a world ; and books, we know, 
 
 Are a substantial world, both pure and good : 
 
 Eound these, with tendrils strong as flesh and blood. 
 
 Our pastime and our happiness will grow. 
 
 There find I personal themes, a plenteous store, 
 
 Matter wherein right voluble I am, 
 
 To which I listen with a ready ear ; 
 
 Two shall be named, pre-eminently dear, — 
 
 The gentle Lady married to the Moor, 
 
 And heavenly Una with her milk-white Lamb. 
 
 ISTor can I not believe but that hereby 
 Great gains are mine : for thus I live remote 
 
 1 Written at Townend, Grasmere. The last line but tAvo stood, at fix-st, better and 
 more characteristically, thus : " By my hall-kitchen and half-parlour fire." My sister 
 and I were in the habit of having the tea-kettle in our little sitting-room. — By the by, 
 I have a spite at one of this series of sonnets, (I will leave the reader to discover 
 which,) as having been the means of nearly putting off for ever our acquaintance 
 with dear Miss Femvick, who has always stigmatised one line of it as Auilgar, and 
 worthy only of having been composed by a country squire. — Author^s Notes. 
 
178 WORDSWORTH. 
 
 From evil-speaking ; rancour, never sought. 
 
 Comes to me not ; malignant truth, or lie. 
 
 Hence have I genial seasons, hence have I 
 
 Smooth passions, smooth discourse, and joyous thought; 
 
 And thus from day to day my little boat 
 
 Eocks in its harbour, lodging peaceably. 
 
 Blessings be with them, and eternal praise, 
 
 Who gave us nobler loves, and nobler cares, — 
 
 The Poets, who on Earth have made us heirs 
 
 Of truth and pure delight by heavenly lays ! 
 
 ! might my name be number'd among theirs, 
 
 Then gladly would I end my mortal days. 
 
 GRACE DAELING. 
 
 Among the dwellers in the silent fields • 
 
 The natural heart is touch'd, and public way 
 
 And crowded street resound with ballad strains, 
 
 Inspired by ojte whose very name bespeaks 
 
 Favour divine, exalting human love; 
 
 Whom, since her birth on bleak Nothumbria's coast, 
 
 Known unto few but prized as far as known, 
 
 A single Act endears to high and low 
 
 Through the whole land, — to Manhood, moved in spite 
 
 Of the world's freezing cares, — to generous Youth, — 
 
 To Infancy, that lisps her praise, — to Age 
 
 Whose eye reflects it, glistening through a tear 
 
 Of tremulous admiration. Such true fame 
 
 Awaits her noio; but, verily, good deeds 
 
 Do no imperishable record find 
 
 Save in the rolls of Heaven, where hers may live 
 
 A theme for angels, when they celebrate 
 
 The high-soul'd virtues which forgetful Earth 
 
 Has witness'd. 0, that winds and waves could speak 
 
 Of things which their united power call'd forth 
 
 From the pure depths of her humanity ! 
 
 A Maiden gentle, yet, at duty's call. 
 
 Firm and unflinching, as the Lighthouse rear'd 
 
 On th' Island-rock, her lonely dwelling-place ; 
 
 Or like th' invincible Rock itself that braves. 
 
 Age after age, the hostile elements. 
 
 As when it guarded holy Cuthbert's cell. 
 
 All night the storm had raged, nor ceased nor paused. 
 When, as day broke, the Maid through misty air 
 Espies far off a Wreck amid the surf 
 
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 179 
 
 Beating on one of those disastrous isles, — 
 
 Half of a Vessel, half, — no more ; the rest 
 
 Had vanished, swallow'd up with all that there 
 
 Had for the common safety striven in yain. 
 
 Or thither throng'd for refuge. With quick glance 
 
 Daughter and Sire through optic-glass discern. 
 
 Clinging about the remnant of this Ship, 
 
 Creatures, — how precious in the Maiden's sight ! 
 
 For whom, belike, the old Man grieves still more 
 
 Than for their fellow-sufferers engulf 'd 
 
 Where every parting agony is hush'd, 
 
 And hope and fear mix not in further strife. 
 
 "But courage. Father! let us out to sea; 
 
 A few may yet be saved." The Daughter's words, 
 
 Her earnest tone, and look beaming with faith. 
 
 Dispel the Father's doubts: nor do they lack 
 
 The noble-minded Mother's helping hand 
 
 To launch the boat ; and with her blessing cheer'd, 
 
 And inwardly sustain'd by silent prayer, 
 
 Together they put forth, Father and Child ! 
 
 Each grasps an oar, and struggling on they go, 
 
 Rivals in effort; and, alike intent 
 
 Here to elude and there surmount, they watch 
 
 The billows lengthening, mutally cross'd 
 
 And shatter'd, and re-gathering their might ; 
 
 As if the tumult, by th' Almighty's will. 
 
 Were, in the conscious sea, roused and prolong'd, 
 
 That woman's fortitude — so tried, so proved — 
 
 May brighten more and more ! 
 
 True to the mark. 
 They stem the current of that perilous gorge, 
 Their arms still strengthening with the strengthening heart. 
 Though danger, as the Wreck is near'd, becomes 
 More imminent. Not unseen do they approach; 
 And rapture, with varieties of fear 
 Incessantly conflicting, thrills the frames 
 Of those who, in that dauntless energy, 
 Foretaste deliverance ; but the least perturb'd 
 Can scarcely trust his eyes, when he perceives 
 That of the pair — toss'd on the waves to bring 
 Hope to the hopeless, to the dying, life — 
 One is a Woman, a poor earthly sister, 
 Or, be the Visitant other than she seems, 
 A guardian Spirit sent from pitying Heaven, 
 In woman's shape. But why prolong the tale, 
 Casting weak words amid a host of thoughts 
 
180 WORDSWORTH. 
 
 Arm'd to repel them ? Every hazard faced 
 
 And difficulty master'd, with resolve 
 
 That no one breathing should be left to perish. 
 
 This last remainder of the crew are all 
 
 Placed in the little boat, then o'er the deep 
 
 Are safely borne, landed upon the beach, 
 
 And, in fulfilment of God's mercy, lodged 
 
 Within the sheltering Lighthouse. — Shout, ye Waves ! 
 
 Send forth a song of triumph. Waves and Winds, 
 
 Exult in this deliverance wrought through faith 
 
 In Him whose Providence your rage hath served ! 
 
 Ye screaming Sea-mews, in the concert join ! 
 
 And would that some immortal Voice — a Voice 
 
 Fitly attuned to all that gratitude 
 
 Breathes out from floor or couch, through pallid lips 
 
 Of the survivors — to the clouds might bear, — 
 
 Blended with praise of that parental love. 
 
 Beneath whose watchful eye the Maiden grew 
 
 Pious and pure, modest and yet so brave, 
 
 Though young so wise, though meek so resolute, — 
 
 Might carry to the clouds and to the stars. 
 
 Yea, to celestial Choirs, Grace Darlikg's name ! * [1842. 
 
 TO THE CLOUDS. 
 
 Army of Clouds ! ye winged Host in troops 
 Ascending from behind the motionless brow 
 Of that tall rock, as from a hidden world, 
 0, whither with such eagerness of speed ? 
 What seek ye, or what shun ye ? of the gale 
 Companions, fear ye to be left behind. 
 Or racing o'er your blue ethereal field 
 Contend ye with each other ? of the sea 
 Children, thus post ye over vale and height. 
 To sink upon your mother's lap, — and rest ? 
 Or were ye rightlier hail'd, when first mine eyes 
 Beheld in jonr impetuous march the likeness 
 Of a wide army pressing on to meet 
 Or overtake some unknown enemy? — 
 But your smooth motions suit a peaceful aim ; 
 
 2 In a letter to Sir William Gomm, dated March 24, 1843, the poet pyrites as fol- 
 lows: "The inhumanity with which the shipwrecked were lately treated upon the 
 French coast impelled me to place in contrast the conduct of an English woman and 
 her parents under like circumstances, as it occurred some years ago. Almost im- 
 mediately after I had composed my tribute to the memory of Grace Darling, I learnt 
 that the Queen and Queen Dowager had both just subscribed towards the erection 
 of a monument to record her heroism, upon the spot that witnessed it." 
 
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 181 
 
 And Fancy, not less aptly pleased, compares 
 
 Your squadrons to an endless flight of birds 
 
 Aerial, upon due migration bound 
 
 To milder climes : or rather do ye urge 
 
 In caravan your hasty pilgrimage, 
 
 To pause at last on more aspiring heights 
 
 Than these, and utter your devotion there 
 
 With thunderous voice ? Or are ye jubilant, 
 
 And would ye, tracking your proud lord the Sun, 
 
 Be present at his setting ? or the pomp 
 
 Of Persian mornings would ye fill, and stand 
 
 Poising your splendours high above the heads 
 
 Of worshippers kneeling to their up-risen God ? 
 
 Whence, whence, ye Clouds ! this eagerness ol speed ? 
 
 Speak, silent creatures. — They are gone, are fled, 
 
 Buried together in yon gloomy mass 
 
 That loads the middle heaven ; and clear and bright 
 
 And vacant doth the region which they throng'd 
 
 Appear ; a calm descent of sky conducting 
 
 Down to the unapproachable abyss, 
 
 Down to that hidden gulf from which they rose 
 
 To vanish ; fleet as days and months and years, 
 
 Fleet as the generations of mankind. 
 
 Power, glory, empire, as the world itself, 
 
 The lingering world, when time hath ceased to be. 
 
 But the winds roar, shaking the rooted trees. 
 
 And, see ! a bright precursor to a train. 
 
 Perchance as numerous, overpeers the rock 
 
 That sullenly refuses to partake 
 
 Of the wild impulse. From a fount of life 
 
 Invisible, the long procession moves 
 
 Luminous or gloomy, welcome to the vale 
 
 Which they are entering, welcome to mine eye 
 
 That sees them, to my soul that owns in them, 
 
 And in the bosom of the firmament 
 
 O'er which they move, wherein they are contained, 
 
 A type of her capacious self and all 
 
 Her restless progeny. 
 
 A humble walk 
 Here is my body doom'd to tread, this path, 
 A little hoary line and faintly traced, — 
 Work, shall we call it, of tlie shepherd's foot 
 Or of his flock ? — joint vestige of them both. 
 I pace it unrepining, for my thoughts 
 Admit no bondage, and my words have wings. 
 Where is th' Orphean lyre, or Druid harp, 
 
182 WOEDSWORTH. 
 
 To accompany the verse ? The mountain blast 
 
 Shall be our hnnd of music ; lie shall sweep 
 
 The rocks, and quivering trees, and billowy lake, 
 
 And search the fibres of the caves, and they 
 
 Shall answer ; for our song is of the Clouds, 
 
 And the wind loves them ; and the gentle gales — 
 
 Which by their aid re-clothe the naked lawn 
 
 With annual verdure, and revive the woods, 
 
 And moisten the parch'd lips of thirsty flowers — 
 
 Love them ; and every idle breeze of air 
 
 Bends to the favourite burthen. Moon and stars 
 
 Keep their most solemn vigils when the Clouds 
 
 Watch also, shifting peaceably their place 
 
 Like bands of ministering Spirits, or when they lie, 
 
 As if some Protean art the change had wrought. 
 
 In listless quiet o'er th' ethereal deep 
 
 Scatter'd, a Cyclades of various shapes 
 
 And all degrees of beauty. ye Lightnings ! 
 
 Ye are their perilous offspring ; and the Sun — 
 
 Source inexhaustible of life and joy. 
 
 And type of man's far-darting reason, therefore 
 
 Li old time worshipp'd as the god of verse, 
 
 A blazing intellectual deity — 
 
 Loves his own glory in their looks ; and showers 
 
 Upon that unsubstantial brotherhood 
 
 Visions with all but beatific light 
 
 Enrich'd, — too transient were they not renew'd 
 
 From age to age, and did not, while we gaze 
 
 In silent rapture, credulous desire 
 
 Nourish the hope that memory lacks not power 
 
 To keep the treasure unimpair'd. Vain thought ! 
 
 Yet why repine, created as we are 
 
 For joy and rest, albeit to find them only 
 
 Lodged in the bosom of eternal things ? 
 
 *' Late, late yestreen I saw the new moone 
 Wi' the aulcl moone in hir arme." 
 Ballad of Sir Patrick Spence, Percy's Eeliques. 
 
 Okce I could hail (howe'er serene the sky) 
 
 The Moon re-entering her monthly round, 
 
 No faculty yet given me to espy 
 
 The dusky Shape within her arms imbound. 
 
 That thin memento of effulgence lost 
 
 Which some have named her Predecessor's ghost 
 
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 183 
 
 Young, like the Crescent that above me shone, 
 Nought I perceived within it dull or dim ; 
 All that appear'd was suitable to One 
 Whose fancy had a thousand fields to skim ; 
 To expectations spreading with wild growth, 
 And hope that kept with me her plighted troth. 
 
 I saw (ambition quickening at the view) 
 A silver boat launch'd on a boundless flood ; 
 A pearly crest, like Dian's when it threw 
 Its brightest splendour round a leafy wood ; 
 But not a hint from under-ground, no sign 
 Fit for the glimmering brow of Proserpine. 
 
 Or was it Dian's self that seem'd to move 
 Before me ? — nothing blemish'd the fair sight ; 
 On her I look'd whom jocund Fairies love, 
 Cynthia, who puts the little stars to flight. 
 And by that thinning magnifies the great. 
 For exaltation of her sovereign state. 
 
 And when I learn'd to mark the spectral Shape 
 As each new Moon obey'd the call of Time, 
 If gloom fell on me, swift was my escape ; 
 Such happy privilege hath life's gay Prime, 
 To see or not to see, as best may please 
 A buoyant Spirit, and a heart at ease. 
 
 ISTow, dazzling Stranger ! when thou meet'st my glance, 
 Thy dark Associate ever I discern ; 
 Emblem of thoughts too eager to advance 
 While I salute my joys, thoughts sad or stern ; 
 Shades of past bliss, or phantoms that, to gain 
 Their fill of promised lustre, wait in vain. 
 
 So changes mortal Life with fleeting years ; 
 
 A mournful change, should Reason fail to bring 
 
 The timely insight that can temper fears. 
 
 And from vicissitude remove its sting ; 
 
 While Faith aspires to seats in that domain 
 
 Where joys are perfect, — neither wax nor wane. [1826. 
 
 TO THE MOOK 
 
 {Composed by the sea-side, — on the coast of Cumberland.) 
 
 Wa:n'deeee, that stoop'st so low", and com'st so near 
 To human life's unsettled atmosphere ; 
 
1S4 WORDSWOKTH. 
 
 Who lov'st with Night and Silence to partake, 
 
 So might it seem, the cares of them that wake; 
 
 And, through the cottage-lattice softly peeping, 
 
 Dost shield from harm the humblest of the sleeping; 
 
 What pleasure once encomjoass'd those sweet names 
 
 Which yet in thy behalf the Poet claims, 
 
 An idolizing dreamer as of yore ! — 
 
 I slight them all ; and, on this sea-beat shore 
 
 Sole-sitting, only can to thoughts attend 
 
 That bid me hail thee as the Sailor's Friekd : 
 
 So call thee for Heaven's grace through thee made known 
 
 By confidence supplied and mercy shown. 
 
 When not a twinkling star or beacon's light 
 
 Abates the perils of a stormy night ; 
 
 And for less obvious benefits, that find 
 
 Their way, with thy pure help, to heart and mind ; 
 
 Both for th' adventurer starting in life's prime ; 
 
 And veteran ranging round from clime to clime, 
 
 Long-baffled hope's slow fever in his veins. 
 
 And wounds and weakness oft his labour's sole remains. 
 
 Th' aspiring Mountains and the winding Streams, 
 Empress of Night! are gladden'd by thy beams; 
 A look of thine the wilderness pervades, 
 And penetrates the forest's inmost shades ; 
 Thou, chequering peaceably the minster's gloom, 
 Guid'st the pale Mourner to the lost one's tomb ; 
 Canst reach the Prisoner, — to his grated cell 
 AVelcome, though silent and intangible! — 
 And lives there one, of all that come and go 
 On the great waters toiling to and fro, 
 One, who has watch'd thee at some quiet hour 
 Enthroned aloft in undisputed power, 
 Or cross'd by vapoury streaks and clouds that move 
 Catching the lustre they in part reprove ; 
 Nor sometimes felt a fitness in thy sway 
 To call up thoughts that shun the glare of day, 
 And make the serious happier than the gay? 
 
 Yes, lovely Moon ! if thou so mildly bright 
 Dost rouse, yet surely in thy own despite. 
 To fiercer mood the frenzy-stricken brain, 
 Let me a compensating faith maintain ; 
 That there's a sensitive, a tender part 
 Which thou canst toucli in every human heart, 
 For healing and composure. — But, as least 
 And mightiest billows ever have confess'd 
 Thy domination ; as the whole vast Sea 
 
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 185 
 
 Feels through her lowest depths thy sovereignty ; 
 So shines that countenance with especial grace 
 On them who urge the keel her plams to trace, 
 Furrowing its way right onward. The most rude, 
 Cut off from home and country, may have stood, — 
 Even till long gazing hath hedimm'd his eye, 
 Or the mute rapture ended in a sigh, — 
 Touched by accordance of thy placid cheer, 
 With some internal lights to memory dear. 
 Or fancies stealing forth to soothe the breast 
 Tired with its daily share of Earth's unrest, — 
 Gentle awakenings, visitations meek ; 
 A kindly influence whereof few will speak. 
 Though it can wet with tears the hardiest cheek. 
 
 And when thy beauty in the shadowy cave 
 Is hidden, buried in its monthly grave ; 
 Then, while the Sailor, 'mid an open sea 
 Swept by a favouring wind that leaves thought free. 
 Paces the deck, — no star perhaps in sight. 
 And nothing save the moving ship's own light 
 To cheer the long dark hours of vacant night, — 
 Oft with his musings does thy image blend. 
 In his mind's eye thy crescent horns ascend. 
 And thou art still, Moon, that Sailor's Frien-d ! [1835. 
 
 LINES SUGGESTED BY A PORTRAIT.^ 
 
 Beguiled into forgetfulness of care 
 
 Due to the day's unfinish'd task; of pen 
 
 Or book regardless, and of that fair scene 
 
 In Nature's prodigality display'd 
 
 Before my window, — oftentimes and long 
 
 I gaze upon a Portrait whose mild gleam 
 
 Of beauty never ceases to enrich 
 
 The common light ; whose stillness charms the air. 
 
 Or seems to charm it, into like repose ; 
 
 Whose silence, for the pleasure of the ear. 
 
 Surpasses sweetest music. There she sits. 
 
 With emblematic purity attired 
 
 In a white vest, white as her marble neck 
 
 Is, and the pillar of the throat would be, 
 
 3 This portrait was from the pencil of Mr. F. Stone. The poet speaks of it thus 
 in his notes, 1843 : " This portrait has hung for many years in our principal sitting- 
 room, and represents J. Quillinan, as she Avas when a girl. The picture, though 
 somewhat thinly painted, has much merit in tone and general effect; it is chiefly 
 valuable, however, for the sentiment that pervades it." 
 
186 WORDSWORTH. 
 
 But for the shadow by the drooping chin 
 
 Cast into that recess ; — the tender shade, 
 
 The shade and light, both there and everywhere, 
 
 And through the very atmosphere she breathes. 
 
 Broad, clear, and toned harmoniously, with skill 
 
 That might from Nature have been learnt in th' hour 
 
 When the lone shepherd sees the morning spread 
 
 Upon the mountains. Look at her, whoe'er 
 
 Thou be that, kindling with a poet's soul, 
 
 Hast loved the painter's true Promethean craft 
 
 Intensely ; — from Imagination take 
 
 The treasure ; what mine eyes behold see thou. 
 
 Even though th' Atlantic ocean roll between. 
 
 A silver line, that runs from brow to crown. 
 And in the middle parts the braided hair. 
 Just serves to show how delicate a soil 
 The golden harvest gows in; and those eyes. 
 Soft and capacious as a cloudless sky 
 Whose azure depth their colour emulates. 
 Must needs be conversant with upward looks. 
 Prayer's voiceless service : but now, seeking nought 
 And shunning nought, their own peculiar life 
 Of motion they renounce, and with the head 
 Partake its inclination towards the earth 
 In humble grace, and quiet pensiveness 
 Caught at the point where it stops short of sadness. 
 
 Offspring of soul -bewitching Art, make me 
 Thy confidant ! say, whence derived that air 
 Of calm abstraction ? Can the ruling thought 
 Be with some lover far away, or one 
 Cross'd by misfortune, or of doubted faith ? 
 Inapt conjecture ! Childhood here, a moon 
 Crescent in simple loveliness serene. 
 Has but approch'd the gates of womanhood, 
 Not enter'd them: her heart is yet unpierced 
 By the blind Archer-god ; her fancy free : 
 The fount of feeling, if unsought elsewhere. 
 Will not be found. 
 
 Her right hand, as it lies 
 Across the slender wrist of the left arm 
 Upon her lap reposing, holds — but mark 
 How slackly, for the absent mind permits 
 No firmer grasp — a little wild-flower, join'd. 
 As in a posy, with a few pale ears 
 Of yellowing corn, the same that overtopp'd 
 And in their common birthplace shelter'd it 
 
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 187 
 
 Till they were pluck'd together ; a blue flower 
 Call'd by the thrifty husbandman a weed : 
 But Ceres, in her garland, might have worn 
 That ornament, unblamed. The floweret, held 
 In scarcely conscious fingers, was, she knows, 
 (Her Father told her so,) in youth's gay dawn 
 Her Mother's favourite ; and the orphan Girl, 
 In her own dawn, — a dawn less gay and bright, — 
 Loves it, while there in solitary peace 
 She sits, for that departed Mother's sake. — 
 Not from a source less sacred is derived 
 (Surely I do not err) that pensive air 
 Of calm abstraction though the face diffused 
 And the whole person. 
 
 Words have something told 
 More than the pencil can, and verily 
 More than is needed ; but the precious Art 
 Forgives their interference, — Art divine. 
 That both creates and fixes, in despite 
 Of Death and Time, the marvels it hath wrought. 
 Strange contrasts have we in this world of ours! 
 That posture, and the look of filial love 
 Thinking of past and gone, with what is left 
 Dearly united, might be swept away 
 From this fair Portrait's fleshly Archetype, 
 Even by an innocent fancy's slightest freak 
 Banish'd, nor ever, haply, be restored 
 To their lost place, or meet in harmony 
 So exquisite ; but here do they abide. 
 Enshrined for ages. Is not then the Art 
 Godlike, a humble branch of the divine, 
 In visible quest of immortality, 
 
 Stretch'd forth with trembling hope ? In every realm, 
 From high Gilbraltar to Siberian plains. 
 Thousands, in each variety of tongue 
 That Europe knows, would echo this appeal ; 
 One above all, a Monk who waits on God 
 In the magnific Convent built of yore 
 To sanctify th' Escurial palace.* He — 
 Guiding, from cell to cell and room to room, 
 A British Painter,^ (eminent for truth 
 In character, and depth of feeling, shown 
 By labours that have touch'd the hearts of kings, 
 
 4 The pile of buildings, composing the palace and convent of San Lorenzo, has. 
 in common usage, lost its proper name in tliat of the E'ic.urial, a village at the foot of 
 the hill upon Avhicli the splendid edifice, built by Philip the Second, stands. 
 
 6 This " British Painter " was Wilkie. 
 
188 WORDS WOETH, 
 
 And are endear'd to simple cottagers,) 
 
 Came, in that service, to a glorious work. 
 
 Our Lord's Last Supper, beautiful as when first 
 
 Th' appropriate Picture, fresh from Titian's hand. 
 
 Graced the Eef ectory : and there, while both 
 
 Stood with eyes fix'd upon that masterpiece. 
 
 The hoary Father in the stranger's ear 
 
 Breathed out these words : " Here daily do we sit. 
 
 Thanks given to God for daily bread, and here. 
 
 Pondering the mischiefs of these restless times, 
 
 And thinking of my Brethren, dead, dispersed, 
 
 Or changed and changing, I not seldom gaze 
 
 Upon this solemn Company unmoved 
 
 By shock of circumstance or lapse of years, 
 
 Until I cannot but believe that they, — 
 
 They are in truth the Substance, we the Shadows." 
 
 So spake the mild Jeronymite,® his griefs 
 Melting away within him like a dream 
 Ere he had ceased to gaze, perhaps to speak : 
 And I, grown old, but in a happier land. 
 Domestic Portrait ! have to verse consign'd 
 In thy calm presence those heart-moving words ; 
 Words that can soothe, more than they agitate ; 
 Whose spirit, like the angel that went down 
 Into Bethesda's pool, with healing virtue 
 Informs the fountain in the human breast 
 Which by the visitation was disturb'd. 
 
 But why this stealing tear ? Companion mute, 
 On thee I look, not sorrowing : fare thee well, 
 My Song's Inspirer, once again farewell ! [1834. 
 
 NATIONAL INDEPENDENCE AND LIBERTY. 
 
 COMPOSED BY THE SEA-SIDE, KEAH CALAIS, AUGUST, 1802. 
 
 Pair Star of evening, Splendour of the West, 
 Star of my country ! on th' horizon's brink 
 Thou hangest, stooping, as might seem, to sink 
 On England's bosom ; yet well pleased to rest. 
 Meanwhile, and be to her a glorious crest 
 Conspicuous to the Nations. Thou, I think, 
 Shouldst be my Country's emblem ; and shouldst wink, 
 
 6 The anecdote of the saving of the monk, in sight of Titian's picture, was told 
 me in this house by Mr. Wilkie, and was, I believe, lirsL communicated to the public 
 in this poem, which I was composing at the time Southey hoard the story from Miss 
 Hutchinson, and transferred it to The Doctor. — Author's Notes, 1813. 
 
N"ATIONAL Iiq-DEPENDEITCE AKD LIBERTY. 189 
 
 Bright Star ! with laughter on her banners, drest 
 In thy fresh beauty. There ! that dusky spot 
 Beneath thee, that is England ; there she lies. 
 Blessings be on you both ! one hope, one lot, 
 One life, one glory ! — I, with many a fear 
 For my dear Country, many heartfelt sighs. 
 Among men who do not love her, linger here.^ 
 
 CALAIS, AUGUST, 1802. 
 
 Is it a reed that's shaken by the wind. 
 
 Or what is it that ye go forth to see ? 
 
 Lords, lawyers, statesmen, squires of low degree. 
 
 Men known, and men unknown, sick, lame, and blind, 
 
 Post forward all, like creatures of one kind. 
 
 With first-firuit offerings crowd to bend the knee 
 
 In France, before the new-born Majesty. 
 
 'Tis ever thus. Ye men of prostrate mind, 
 
 A seemly reverence may be paid to power ; 
 
 But that's a loyal virtue, never sown 
 
 In haste, nor springing with a transient shower : 
 
 When truth, when sense, when liberty were flown. 
 
 What hardship had it been to wait an hour ? 
 
 Shame on you, feeble Heads, to slavery prone ! ® 
 
 1801. 
 
 I GRIEVED for Buonaparte,^ with a vain 
 And an unthinking grief ! The tenderest mood 
 Of that Man's mind, — what can it be ? what food 
 Fed his first hopes ? what knowledge could he gain ? 
 'Tis not in battles that from youth we train 
 The Governor who must be wise and good. 
 And temper with the sternness of the brain 
 Thoughts motherly, and meek as womanhood. 
 Wisdom doth live with children round her knees: 
 
 7 In the Summer of 1802, "Wordsworth and his sister made a short visit to France , 
 and an-ived at Calais on the 31st of July. Of this trip Miss Wordsworth wrote a 
 brief Diary, noting the things that particularly interested them during their stay at 
 Calais. The Diary furnishes the following in illustration of this sonnet : " Delightful 
 walks in the evening; seeing far off in the West the coast of England, like a cloud, 
 crested with Dover Castle, the evening star, and the gloiy of the sky : the reflections 
 in the Avater were more beautiful than the sky itself; purple waves brighter than 
 precious stones for ever melting away upon the sands." 
 
 8 Early iu August, 1802, Napoleon was made First Consul for life, with the whole 
 forces of the State centred in his hands. Of course the nation was in transports at 
 this swift progress backwards towards the one-man power and the despotism of the 
 sword. 
 
 9 Napoleon was by birth and blood an Italian, both his parents being of that stock, 
 and was born February 5, 1768. Corsica was incorporated with France in June fol- 
 lowing; and he afterwards gave out that he was born in August, 1769, that he might 
 pass for a Frenchman by birth. Wordsworth always gives the name with the Italian 
 pronunciation. It is said that Napoleon took it in dudgeon to have his name so pro- 
 nounced. 
 
190 WORDSWORTH. 
 
 Books, leisure, perfect freedom, and the talk 
 Man holds with "vveek-day man in th' hourly walk ^ 
 Of the mind's business, — these are the degrees 
 By which true Sway doth mount; this is the stalk 
 True Power doth grow on ; and her rights are these. 
 
 CALAIS, AUGUST 15, 1802. 
 
 Festivals have I seen that were not names: 
 This is young Buonaparte's natal day. 
 And his is henceforth an establish'd sway, — 
 Consul for life. With worship France proclaims 
 Her apjirohation, and with pomps and games. 
 Heaven grant that other cities may he gay ! 
 Calais is not : and I have bent my way 
 To the sea-coast, noting that each man frames 
 His business as he likes. Far other show 
 My youth here witness'd,^ in a prouder time ; 
 The senselessness of joy was then sublime! 
 Happy is he who, caring not for Pope, 
 Consul, or King, can sound himself to know 
 The destiny of Man, and live in hojDe.^ 
 
 Oiq- THE EXTIKCTIOK OE THE VEKETIAIT REPUBLIC. 
 
 Okce did She hold the gorgeous East in fee ; 
 
 And was the safeguard of the West : the worth 
 
 Of Venice did not fall below her birth, 
 
 Venice, the eldest Child of Liberty. 
 
 She was a maiden City, bright and free ; 
 
 'No guile seduced, no force could violate ; 
 
 And, when she took unto herself a Mate, 
 
 She must es]3ouse the everlasting Sea. 
 
 And what if she had seen those glories fade. 
 
 Those titles vanish, and that strength decay ; 
 
 Yet shall some tribute of regret be paid 
 
 When her long life hath reach'd its final day : 
 
 Men are we, and must grieve when even the Shade 
 
 Of that which once was great is pass'd away.® 
 
 1 Alluding to the poet'a first visit to France, which was in the Summer of 1790, 
 when the revolutionary ardour was in its full glow of triumph and hope, and Words- 
 worth himself was in full sympathy with it. 
 
 3 At this time, 1802, the poet was all out of heart for the cause of freedom in 
 France : on the Continent of Europe he could see nothing hut arguments of despair. 
 In this state of things, with all the surroundings looking so dark, he might well 
 think that, if men would find any thing to sustain their hopes, they must search 
 within, and explore the better forces of luiman nature in tbeir own breasts. 
 
 S Venice was ruthlessly seized by Napoleon in 179G, lier government revolution, 
 ized into fraternity with that of France; and finally she was made over by him to 
 Austria in the treaty of Lcoben, April, 1791. 
 
iq-ATIOKAL INDEPENDEIfCE AKD LIBEKTY. 191 
 
 TO T0USSAI2!TT l'OUVERTURK 
 
 ToussAiN'T, the most unliappy man of men ! 
 Whether the whistling Eustic tend his plough 
 Within thy hearing, or thy head be now 
 Pillow'd in some deep dungeon's earless den ; — 
 miserable Chieftain ! where and when 
 Wilt thou find patience ? * Yet die not ; do thou 
 Wear rather in thy bonds a cheerful brow : 
 Though fallen thyself, never to rise again. 
 Live, and take comfort. Thou hast left behind 
 Powers that will work for thee ; air, earth, and skies ; 
 There's not a breathing of the common wind 
 That will forget thee ; thou hast great allies ; 
 Thy friends are exultations, agonies, 
 And love, and man's unconquerable mind. 
 
 COMPOSED IK THE VALLEY NEAR DOVER, OX THE DAY OF 
 LAI^DING. 
 
 Here, on our native soil, we breathe once more. 
 The cock that crows, the smoke that curls, that sound 
 Of bells : — those boys who in 5^on meadow-ground 
 In white-sleeved shirts are playing ; and the roar 
 Of the waves breaking on the chalky shore ; — 
 All, all are English. Oft have I look'd round 
 With joy in Kent's green vales ; but never found 
 Myself so satisfied in heart before. 
 Europe is yet in bonds ; but let that pass. 
 Thought for another moment. Thou art free. 
 My Country! and 'tis joy enough and pride 
 For one hour's joerfect bliss, to tread the grass 
 Of England once again, and hear and see. 
 With such a dear companion at my side. 
 
 SEPTEMBER, 1802. NEAR DOVER. 
 
 Inland, within a hollow vale, I stood ; 
 
 And saw, while sea was calm and air was clear. 
 
 The coast of France, — the coast of France how near ! 
 
 Drawn almost into frightful neighbourhood.^ 
 
 4 This heroic Negro chief was the most redoubted champion for the freedom 
 which the Constituent Assembly had given to the slaves of Saint Domingo. In 1802, 
 Napoleon sent over a large army, to regain possession of the island, and bring it 
 back to its old condition. After *a long resistance, Toussaint was at last treacher- 
 ously ensnared and captured, and sent to France. For some time it was not known 
 what became of him; but he is now said to have been confined in the castle of Joux, 
 in the Jura, where he died soon after, whether by natural or violent means, is un- 
 known. 
 
 5 I quote again fi-om Miss Wordsworth's Diary : " On the 29th August left Calais 
 at twelve in the morning for Dover; bathed, and sat on the Dover cliffs, and looked 
 upon France : we could see the shores ahnost as plain as if it were but an English 
 lake.'' 
 
192 WOKDSWORTH. 
 
 I shrunk ; for verily the harrier flood 
 Was like a lake, or river bright and fair, 
 A span of waters ; yet what power is there ! 
 What mightiness for evil and for good ! 
 Even so doth God protect us if we be 
 Virtuous and wise. Winds blow, and waters roll, 
 Strength to the brave, and Power, and Deity ; 
 Yet in themselves are nothing ! One decree 
 Spake laws to them, and said that by the soul 
 Only, the JSTations shall be great and free. 
 
 THOUGHT OF A BRITON ON THE SUBJUGATION OF SWITZERLAND. 
 
 Two Voices are there ; one is of the sea, 
 
 One of the mountains ; each a mighty Voice : 
 
 In both from age to age thou didst rejoice. 
 
 They were thy chosen music, Liberty ! 
 
 There came a Tyrant, and with holy glee 
 
 Thou f ought'st against him ; but hast vainly striven : 
 
 Thou from thy Alpine holds at length art driven, 
 
 Where not a torrent murmurs heard by thee. 
 
 Of one deep bliss thine ear hath been bereft : 
 
 Then cleave, O, cleave to that which still is left ; 
 
 For, high-soul'd Maid, what sorrow would it be 
 
 That Mountain floods should thunder as before, 
 
 And Ocean bellow from his rocky shore, 
 
 And neither awful Voice be heard by thee ! ® 
 
 WRITTEN IN LONDON, SEPTEMBER, 1802. 
 
 Friend ! I know not which way I must look 
 
 For comfort, being, as I am, opprest. 
 
 To think that now our life is only drest 
 
 For show ; mean handy-work of craftsman, cook, 
 
 Or groom ! We must run glittering like a brook 
 
 In th' open sunshine, or we are unblest : 
 
 The wealthiest man among us is the best : 
 
 ISTo grandeur now in nature or in book 
 
 Delights us. Kapine, avarice, expense. 
 
 This is idolatry ; and these we adore : 
 
 Plain living and high thinking are no more : 
 
 6 This magnificent sonnet was a faithful echo of the grief and indignation felt all 
 over Europe at the event in question. In 1802, Napoleon invaded Switzerland with 
 such forces as it Avas liopeless to resist : the old Swiss Confederacy of Republics 
 was soon broken up, and all ci-ushed into such shape as the invader pleased. All 
 in glaring defiance of the most solemn and stringent ti-eaties. See Coleridge's Ode 
 on France in a subsequent part of this volume. 
 
NATIOiTAL IJSTDEPEJq^DEKCE AlTD LIBEET^. 193 
 
 The homely beauty of the good old cause 
 Is gone ; our peace, our fearful innocence, 
 And pure religion breathing household laws.' 
 
 LOISTDOIS", 1802. 
 
 MiLTOiq"! thou shouldst be living at this hour; 
 England hath need of thee : she is a fen 
 Of stagnant waters : altar, sword, and pen. 
 Fireside, th' heroic wealth of hall and bower, 
 Have forfeited their ancient English dower 
 Of inward happiness. We are selfish men ; 
 0, raise us up, return to us again ! 
 And give us manners, virtue, freedom power. 
 Thy soul was like a Star, and dwelt apart : 
 Thou hadst a voice whose sound was like the sea : 
 Pure as the naked heavens, majestic, free. 
 So didst thou travel on life's common way, 
 In cheerful godliness ; and yet thy heart 
 The lowliest duties on herself did lay. 
 
 Geeat men have been among us ; hands that peiln'd 
 
 And tongues that utter'd wisdom, — better none : 
 
 The later Sidney, Marvel, Harrington, 
 
 Young Vane, and others who called Milton friend. 
 
 These moralists could act and comprehend : 
 
 They knew how genuine glory was put on ; 
 
 Taught us how rightfully a nation shone 
 
 In splendour ; what strength was, that would not bend 
 
 But in magnanimous meekness. France, 'tis strange. 
 
 Hath brought forth no such souls as we had then. 
 
 Perpetual emptiness 1 unceasing change ! 
 
 'No single volume paramount, no code, 
 
 No master spirit, no determined road ; 
 
 But equally a want of books and men ! 
 
 It is not to be thought of that the Flood 
 
 Of British freedom, which, to th' open sea 
 
 Of the world's praise, from dark antiquity 
 
 Hath flow'd, '^ with pomp of waters, unwithstood," — 
 
 Eoused though it be full often to a mood 
 
 7 This was written immediately after my return from France to London, when I 
 could not but he sti-uck, as here described, with the vanit\' and parade of our own 
 country, especially in great towns and cities, as contrasted with the quiet, and I 
 may say the desolation, that the revolution had produced in France. Tliis must be 
 borne in mind, or else the reader may think that in this and the succeeding sonnets 
 I have exaggerated the mischief engendered and fostered amoug us by undisturbed 
 wealth. — Author s Notes, 1843. 
 
194 WOKDSWOETH. 
 
 Which spurns the check of salutary bands, — 
 That this most famous stream in bogs and sands 
 Should perish ; and to evil and to good 
 Be lost for ever. In our halls is hung 
 Armoury of th' invincible Knights of old : 
 We must be free or die, who speak the tongue 
 That Shakespeare spake ; the faith and morals hold 
 Which Milton held. — In every thing we are sprung 
 Of Earth's first blood, have titles manifold. 
 
 Whek I have borne in memory what has tamed 
 Great Nations, how ennobling thoughts depart 
 When men change swords for ledgers, and desert 
 The student's bower for gold, some fears unnamed 
 I had, my Country! — am I to be blamed ? 
 Now, when I think of thee, and what thou art. 
 Verily, in the bottom of my heart. 
 Of those unfilial fears I am ashamed. 
 For dearly must we prize thee ; we who find 
 In thee a bulwark for the cause of men ; 
 And I by my affection was beguiled : 
 What wonder if a Poet now and then. 
 Among the many movements of his mind. 
 Felt for thee as a lover or a child ! 
 
 OCTOBER, 1803. 
 
 Oke might believe that natural miseries 
 Had blasted France, and made of it a land 
 Unfit for men ; and that in one great band 
 Her sons were bursting forth, to dwell at ease. 
 But 'tis a chosen soil, where Sun and breeze 
 Shed gentle favours : rural works are there. 
 And ordinary business without care ; 
 Spot rich in all things that can soothe and please ! 
 How piteous then that there should be such dearth 
 Of knowledge ; that whole myriads should unite 
 To work against themselves such fell despite ; 
 Should come in frenzy and in drunken mirth. 
 Impatient to put out the only light 
 Of Liberty that yet remains on Earth.® 
 
 There is a bondage worse, far worse, to bear 
 Tlian his who breathes, by roof and iloor and wall 
 
 8 In the Spring and Summer of 1803, Napoleon made vast preparations, both in 
 troops and ships, for the invasion of England; and the French people were wild 
 with joy at the prospect of crvishing. their old rival. 
 
NATIONAL INDEPEKDENCE AND LIBEKTT. 195 
 
 Pent in, a Tyrant's solitary Thrall : 
 'Tis his who walks about in th' open air, 
 One of a Nation who, henceforth, must wear 
 Their fetters in their souls. For who could be, 
 Who, even the best, in such condition, free 
 From self-reproach, reproach that he must share 
 With Human-nature ? Never be it ours 
 To see the Sun how brightly it will shine. 
 And know that noble feelings, manly powers. 
 Instead of gathering strength, must droop and pine ; 
 And Earth with all her pleasant fruits and flowers 
 Fade, and participate in man's decline. 
 
 OCTOBER, 1803. 
 These times strike money'd worldlings with dismay : 
 Even rich men, braye by nature, taint the air 
 With words of apprehension and despair: 
 While tens of thousands, thinking on th' aJffray, — 
 Men unto whom sufficient for the day 
 And minds not stinted or untilled are given, 
 Sound, healthy children of the God of Heaven, — 
 Are cheerful as the risiug Sun in May. 
 What do we gather hence but firmer faith 
 That every gift of noble origin 
 Is breathed upon by Hope's perpetual breath ; 
 That virtue and the faculties within 
 Are vital, — and that riches are akin 
 To fear, to change, to cowardice, and death ? 
 
 England ! the time is come when thou shouldst wean 
 
 Thy heart from its emasculating food ; 
 
 The truth should now be better understood : 
 
 Old things have been unsettled ; we have seen 
 
 Fair seed-time, better harvest might have been 
 
 But for thy trespasses ; and, at this day, 
 
 If for Greece, Egypt, India, Africa, 
 
 Aught good were destined, thou wouldst step between. 
 
 England ! all nations in this charge agree : 
 
 But worse, more ignorant in love and hate. 
 
 Far, far more abject, is thine Enemy : 
 
 Therefore the wise pray for thee, though the freight 
 
 Of thy offences be a hea^^ weiglit : 
 
 0, grief that Earth's best hopes rest all with Thee ! 
 
 OCTOBER, 1803. 
 When, looking on the present face of things, 
 I see one Man, of men the meanest too. 
 
196 WOEDSWORTH. 
 
 Raised up to sway the world, to do, undo, 
 Witli mighty Nations for his underlings. 
 The great events with which old story rings 
 Seem vain and hollo\v ; I find nothing great; 
 Nothing is left which I can venerate : 
 So that a doubt almost within me springs 
 Of Providence, such emptiness at length 
 Seems at the heart of all things. But, great God I 
 I measure back the steps which I liave trod; 
 And tremble, seeing whence proceeds the strength 
 Of such poor Instruments, with thoughts sublime 
 I tremble at the sorrow of the time. 
 
 JyTOVEMBER, 1806. 
 
 Another year ! — another deadly blow ! 
 Another mighty Empire overthrown ! 
 And We are left, or shall be left, alone ; 
 The last that dare to struggle with the Foe. 
 'Tis well ! from this day forward we shall know 
 That in ourselves our safety must be sought; 
 That by our own right hands it must be wrought; 
 That we must stand unpropp'd, or be laid low. 
 dastard, whom such foretaste doth not cheer ! 
 We shall exult, if they who rule the land 
 Be men who hold its many blessings dear. 
 Wise, upright, valiant ; not a servile band. 
 Who are to judge of danger which they fear, 
 And honour which they do not understand.® 
 
 COMPOSED BY THE SIDE OE GRASMERE LAKE. 1807. 
 
 Clouds, lingering yet, extend in solid bars 
 
 Through the grey West ; and lo ! these waters, sleel'd 
 
 By breezeless air to smoothest polish, yield 
 
 A vivid repetition of the stars ; 
 
 Jove, Venus, and the ruddy crest of Mars 
 
 Amid his fellows beauteously reveal'd 
 
 At happy distance from earth's groaning field, 
 
 Where ruthless mortals wage incessant wars. 
 
 Is it a mirror ? — or the nether Sphere 
 
 Opening to view th' abyss in which she feeds 
 
 Her own calm fires ? — But, list ! a voice is near ; 
 
 Great Pan himself low-whispering through the reeds, 
 
 9 r am not certain Avhether this superb sonnet refers to Austria or to Prussia; 
 perhaps to both. On the 2d of December, 1805, was fought the bnttlc of Austerlitz, 
 by which the Austrian Empire Avas prostrated; and on the 11th of October, 1806, the 
 battle of Jena, whicli laid the Prussian Monarchy in the dust. 
 
KATIOI^AL INDEPEKDENCE A2^D LIBERTY. 197 
 
 " Be thankful, thou ; for, if unholy deeds 
 Ravage the world, tranquillity is here ! " 
 
 1808. 
 
 !N'OT 'mid the World's vain objects that enslave 
 The free-born Soul, — that World whose vaunted skill 
 In selfish interest perverts the will, 
 Whose factions lead astray the wise and brave, — 
 Not there ; but in dark wood and rocky cave, 
 And hollow vale which foaming torrents fill 
 With omnipresent murmur as they rave 
 Down their steep beds, that never shall be still ; — 
 Here, mighty Nature ! in this school sublime 
 . I weigh the hopes and fears of suffering Spain ; 
 For her consult the auguries of time. 
 And through the human heart explore my way ; 
 And look and listen, — gathering, whence I may, 
 Triumph, and thoughts no bondage can restrain.^ 
 
 HOEFEE. 
 
 Oe mortal parents is the Hero born 
 
 By whom th' undaunted Tyrolese are led ? 
 
 Or is it Tell's great Spirit, from the dead 
 
 Eeturn'd to animate an age forlorn ? 
 
 He comes like Phoebus through the gates of morn 
 
 When dreary darkness is discomfited; 
 
 Yet mark his modest state ! upon his head, 
 
 That simj)le crest, a heron's plume, is worn. 
 
 Liberty ! they stagger at the shock 
 
 From van to rear, and with one mind would flee. 
 
 But half their host is buried : — rock on rock 
 
 Descends : — beneath this godlike Warrior, see ! 
 
 Hills, torrents, Avoods, embodied to bemock 
 
 The Tyrant, and confound his cruelty.^ 
 
 1 It would not be easy to conceive with what a depth of feeling I entered into the 
 struggle carried on by Spaniards for their deliverance from the usurped power of 
 the Fi'ench. Many times have I gone from Allan Bank in Grasmere vale, where we 
 were then residing, to the top of Raise-gap, as it is called, so late as two o'clock in 
 the morning, to meet the carrier bringing the newspaper from Keswick.— Author's 
 Notes, 1843. 
 
 2 The Tyrolese, a simple, pious, patriotic people, were immovably steadfast in 
 their attachment to Austria. Andrew Hoffer was a peasant hero, under whose lead- 
 ing the pastoral natives, men, women, and children, gathered, to resist the invading 
 French and Bavarians ; and so stout and skilful was their resistance, that Napoleon 
 had to send army after anny against them. On one occasion they drew the enemy 
 into a defile: the woods wei-e silent; not a musket or armed man to be seen on the 
 cliffs; when suddenly a crackling sound was heard; and immediately iiuge masses 
 of rock and heaps of rubbish on the heights aliove, which had been propped by 
 gigantic firs, came thundering down, and crushed whole squadrons and companies 
 at once. 
 
198 WORDSWOKTH. 
 
 Advan'ce, come forth from thy Tyrolean ground, 
 Dear Liberty! stern Nymph of soul untamed; 
 Sweet Nymph, 0, rightly of the monntains named !^ 
 Thro' the long chain of Aljos from mound to mound, 
 And o'er th' eternal snows, like Echo, bound ; 
 Like Echo, when the hunter train at dawn 
 Have roused her from her sleep ; and forest-lawn, 
 Cliffs, woods and caves her viewless steps resound. 
 And babble of her pastime ! — On, dread Power! 
 With such invisible motion speed thy flight, 
 Thro' hanging clouds, from craggy height to height, 
 Thro' the green vales and thro' the herdsman's bower. 
 That all the Alps may gladden in thy might, 
 Here, there, and in all places at one hour. 
 
 FEELIKGS OF THE TYROLESE. 
 
 The Land we from our fathers had in trust. 
 
 And to our children will transmit, or die : 
 
 This is our maxim, this our piety ; 
 
 And God and Nature say that it is just. 
 
 That which we loould perform in arms, we must ! 
 
 We read the dictate in the infant's eye ; 
 
 In the wife's smile ; and in the placid sky ; 
 
 And, at our feet, amid the silent dust 
 
 Of them that were before us. — Sing aloud 
 
 Old songs, the precious music of the heart ! 
 
 Give, herds and flocks, your voices to the wind ! ' 
 
 While we go forth, a self-devoted crowd. 
 
 With weapons grasp'd in fearless hands, to assert 
 
 Our virtue, and to vindicate mankind. 
 
 Alas ! what boots the long laborious quest 
 
 Of moral prudence, sought through good and ill ; 
 
 Or pains abstruse, to elevate the will. 
 
 And lead us on to that transcendent rest 
 
 Where every passion shall the sway attest 
 
 Of Eeason, seated on her sovereign hill ; 
 
 What is it but a vain and curious skill. 
 
 If sapient Germany must lie deprest 
 
 Beneatli the brutal sword ? Her haughty Schools 
 
 Shall blush ; and may not we with sorrow say, 
 
 A few" strong instincts and a few plain rules. 
 
 Among the herdsmen of the Alps, have wrought 
 
 8 So in Milton's UA llegro, 136 : 
 
 «• And in thy right hand lead with thee 
 The mountain nymph, sweet Liberty.** 
 
NATIONAL li^DEPEI^DENCE AN'D LIBERTY. 199 
 
 More for mankind at this unhappy day 
 Than all the pride of intellect and thought ? 
 
 And is it among rude untutor'd Dales, 
 There, and there only, that the heart is true ? 
 And, rising to repel or to subdue. 
 Is it by rocks and woods that man prevails ? 
 Ah no ! though Nature's dread protection fails, 
 There is a bulwark in the soul. This knew 
 Iberian Burghers when the sword they drew 
 In Zaragoza, naked to the gales 
 Of fiercely-breathing war. The truth was felt 
 By Palafox, and many a brave compeer, 
 Like him of noble birth and noble mind ; 
 By ladies, meek-eyed women without fear ; 
 And wanderers of the street, to whom is dealt 
 The bread which without industry they find. 
 
 O'er the wide Earth, on mountain and on plain, 
 
 Dwells in th' affections and the soul of man 
 
 A Godhead, like the universal Pai^ ; 
 
 But more exalted, with a brighter train : 
 
 And shall his bounty be dispensed in vain, 
 
 Shower'd equally on city and on field. 
 
 And neither hope nor steadfast promise jdeld 
 
 In these usurping times of fear and pain ? 
 
 Such doom awaits us. Nay, forbid it Heaven ! 
 
 We know the arduous strife, th' eternal laws 
 
 To which the triumph of all good is given, — 
 
 High sacrifice, and labour without pause. 
 
 Even to the death : — else wherefore should the eye 
 
 Of man converse with immortality ? 
 
 01^ the ril^AL SUBMISSIOiq- OF THE TYROLESB. 
 
 It was a 7noraI end for which they fought ; 
 
 Else how, when mighty Thrones were put to shame. 
 
 Could they, poor Shepherds, have preserved an aim, 
 
 A resolution, or enlivening thought ? 
 
 Nor hath that moral good been vainly sought ; 
 
 For in their magnanimity and fame 
 
 Powers have they left, an impulse, and a claim 
 
 Which neither can be overturn'd nor bought. 
 
 Sleep, Warriors, sleep ! among your hills repose ! 
 
 We know that ye, beneath the stern control 
 
 Of awful prudence, keep th' unvanquish'd soul : 
 
200 WORDSWOETH. 
 
 And when, impatient of her guilt and woes, 
 Europe breaks forth ; then. Shepherds ! shall ye rise 
 For perfect triumph o'er your Enemies. 
 
 Hail, Zaragoza ! If with unwet eye 
 We can approach, thy sorrow to behold. 
 Yet is the heart not pitiless nor cold ; 
 Such spectacle demands not tear or sigh. 
 These desolate remains are trophies high 
 Of more than martial courage in the breast 
 Of peaceful civic virtue : they attest 
 Thy matchless worth to all posterity. 
 Blood flow'd before thy sight without remorse ; 
 Disease consumed thy vitals ; War upheaved 
 The ground beneath thee with volcanic force: 
 Dread trials ! yet encounter'd and sustain'd 
 Till not a wreck of help or hope remain'd. 
 And law was from necessity received.* 
 
 Say, what is Honour ? — 'Tis the finest sense 
 Of justice which the human mind can frame. 
 Intent each lurking frailty to disclaim, 
 And guard the way of life from all offence 
 Suffered or done. When lawless violence 
 Invades a Eealm, so press'd that in the scale 
 Of perilous war her weightiest armies fail. 
 Honour is hopeful elevation, — whence 
 Glory, and triumph. Yet with politic skill 
 Endanger'd States may yield to terms unjust; 
 Stoop their proud heads, but not unto tlie dust, 
 A Foe's most favourite purpose to fulfil : 
 Happy occasions oft by self -mistrust 
 Are forfeited ; but infamy doth kill. 
 
 The martial courage of a day is vain. 
 An empty noise of death the battle's roar, 
 
 4 The siege of Saragossa was one of the most memorable passages in the dread- 
 ful wars of those times. Here, again, men, women, and children worked together 
 day and night in defence of their altars and their homes. Week after week, month 
 after month, they held out against the French : there was a large army of besiegers ; 
 many assaults were made, still the place was not carried : to the common horrors of 
 war was added a plague that &wept off many thousands. After the walls were bat- 
 tered down, the Spaniards still fought their ground inch by inch : and at one stage 
 of the contest tlie dead and dying lay heaped on each other to the depth of several 
 feet; but, mounting tl\e ghastly iJile, the foemen still kept up the fight for hours to- 
 gether; and repeatediy, while they were fast locked in the struggle, the whole, dead, 
 dying, and combatants, were blown into the air together by the explosion of mines 
 beneath. And, after all, it was the pestilence, not the arms of the French, that in- 
 duced a capitulation and surrender. 
 
NATIONAL INDEPENDENCE AND LIBERTY. 201 
 
 If vital hope be wanting to restore, 
 Or fortitude be wanting to sustain. 
 Armies or kingdoms. We have heard a strain 
 Of triumph, how the labouring Danube bore 
 A weight of hostile corses : drench'd with gore 
 Were the wide fields, the hamlets heap'd with slain. 
 Yet see, (the mighty tumult overpast,) 
 Austria a Daughter of her Throne hath sold ! 
 And her Tyrolean Champion we behold 
 Murder'd, like one ashore by shipwreck cast, 
 Murder'd without relief.^ 0, blind as bold, 
 To think that such assurance can stand fast ! 
 
 Beave Schill ! by death deliyer'd, take thy flight 
 
 From Prussia's timid region." Go, and rest 
 
 With heroes, 'mid the islands of the Blest, 
 
 Or in the fields of empyrean light. 
 
 A meteor wert thou crossing a dark night : 
 
 Yet shall thy name, conspicuous and sublime, 
 
 Stand in the spacious firmament of time, 
 
 Fix'd as a star : such glory is thy right. 
 
 Alas ! it may not be ; for earthly fame 
 
 Is Fortune's frail dependant: yet there lives 
 
 A Judge, who, as man claims by merit, gives ; 
 
 To whose all-pondering mind a noble aim, 
 
 Faithfully kept, is as a noble deed ; 
 
 In whose pure sight all virtue doth succeed. 
 
 Look now on that Adventurer who hath paid 
 His vows to Fortune ; who, in cruel slight 
 Of virtuous hope, of liberty, and right, 
 Hath follow'd wheresoe'er a way was made 
 By the blind Goddess, — ruthless, undismay'd ; 
 And so hath gain'd at length a prosperous height, 
 Round which the elements of worldly might 
 Beneath his haughty feet, like clouds, are laid. 
 0, joyless power that stands by lawless force ! 
 
 5 The gentle and heroic Hoffer vras at last betrayed, captnred, and brought to a 
 court-martial ; and Napoleon, on learning that the court would not convict him, sent a 
 peremptoiy order for him to be put to death within twenty-four hours. A most 
 mean and execrable murder ! 
 
 6 Schill was a Prussian colonel, and something of a poet withal, whose patriotic 
 songs did much to rekindle the old national spirit in his counti-ymen. While Napo- 
 leon was holding Prussia under his feet year after year, and was fleecing, skinning, 
 and plucking her to the very bone, he gathered a band of patriots about'him, and in 
 1809 prematurely headed an insurrection against the oppressors. A French anny 
 being sent agaiiist him, he took refuge in Straslund. There he was besieged, and 
 the result was yet doubtful, when he was killed, and his heroic band, left without a 
 leader, soon dispersed. 
 
202 WOKDSWORTH. 
 
 Curses are Ids dire portion, scorn, and hate, 
 Internal darkness and unquiet breath ; 
 And, if old judgments keep their sacred course. 
 Him from that height shall Heaven precipitate 
 By violent and ignonainious death. 
 
 1810. 
 
 Ah ! where is Palaf ox ? Nor tongue nor pen 
 Eeports of him, his dwelling or his grave ! 
 Does yet th' unheard-of vessel ride the wave ? 
 Or is she swallow'd up, remote from ken 
 Of pitying human-nature ? Once again 
 Methinks that we shall hail thee, Champion brave, 
 Redeem'd to baffle that imperial Slave, 
 And through all Europe cheer desponding men 
 With new-born hope. Unbounded is the might 
 Of martyrdom, and fortitude, and right. 
 Hark, how thy Country triumphs! — Smilingly 
 Th' Eternal looks upon her sword that gleams. 
 Like His own lightning, over mountains high, 
 On rampart, and the banks of all her streams.' 
 
 INDIGKATIOK OF A HIGH-MIJfDED SPAITIARD. 1810. 
 
 We can endure that He should waste our lands, 
 
 Despoil our temples, and by sword and flame 
 
 Eeturn us to the dust from which we came ; 
 
 Such food a Tyrant's appetite demands : 
 
 And we can brook the thought that by his hands 
 
 Spain may be overpower'd, and he possess. 
 
 For his delight, a solemn wilderness 
 
 Where all the brave lie dead. But, when of bands 
 
 Which he will break for us he dares to speak, 
 
 Of benefits, and of a future day 
 
 When our enlighten'd minds shall bless his sway;* 
 
 Then, the strain'd heart of fortitude proves weak ; 
 
 Our groans, our blushes, our pale cheeks declare 
 
 That he has power to inflict what we lack strength to bear. 
 
 7 Don Joseph Palafox was a Spanish nobleman, and one of the few men in his 
 class who were then a credit to it. He held the chief command in Saragossa dnring 
 the siege of that place ; at tlie time of the surrender he was sick almost unto death; 
 and as soon as he was able to travel he was conducted a close prisoner into France, 
 and there lost sight of. Jones, in his Sieges of the Peninsula, says that, " while heroic 
 self-devotion, unshaken loyalty, and exalted patriotism are held in estimation among 
 mankind, the name of Palafox, blended with that of Saragossa, will be immortal." 
 
 8 While Napoleon was holding Spain by the throat, and harrowing her people 
 with all the calamities of a war treacherously begun and madly prosecuted, he still 
 tried to conciliate them with promises of freedom and enlightenment, and a good 
 time generally. 
 
NATIOJSTAL INDEPEifDEKCE AND LIBEBTY. 203 
 
 AvAUNT all specious pliancy of mind 
 
 In men of low degree, all smooth pretence ! 
 
 I better like a blunt indifference, 
 
 And self-respecting slowness, disinclined 
 
 To win me at first sight : and be there join'd 
 
 Patience and temperance with this high reserve, 
 
 Honour that knows the path and will not swerve; 
 
 Affections, which, if put to proof, are kind ; 
 
 And piety towards God. Such men of old 
 
 Were England's native growth ; and, throughout Spain, 
 
 (Thanks to high God!) forests of such remain: 
 
 Then for that Country let our hopes be bold ; 
 
 For match'd with these shall policy prove vain, 
 
 Her arts, her strength, her iron, and her gold. 
 
 1810. 
 
 O'erweei^ii^g statesmen have full long relied 
 
 On fleets and armies, and external wealth : 
 
 But from luithin proceeds a Nation's health ; 
 
 Wiiich shall not fail, though poor men cleave with pride 
 
 To the paternal floor ; or turn aside. 
 
 In the throug'd city, from the walks of gain, 
 
 As being all unworthy to detain 
 
 A Soul by contemplation sanctified. 
 
 There are who cannot languish in this strife, — 
 
 Spaniards of every rank, by whom the good 
 
 Of such high course was felt and understood ; 
 
 "Who to their Country's cause have bound a life 
 
 Erewhile, by solemn consecration, given 
 
 To labour and to prayer, to Nature and to Heaven. 
 
 1811. 
 
 The power of Armies is a visible thing. 
 Formal, and circumscribed in time and space : 
 But who the limits of that power shall trace 
 Which a brave People into light can bring 
 Or hide, at will, — for freedom combating 
 By just revenge inflamed ? No foot may chase, 
 No eye can follow, to a fatal place 
 That power, that spirit, whether on the wing 
 Like the strong wind, or sleeping like the wind 
 Within its aw^f ul caves. — From year to year 
 Springs this indigenous produce far and near; 
 No craft this subtle element can bind, 
 Rising like water from the soil, to find 
 In every nook a lip that it may cheer. 
 
204 WOKDSWORTH. 
 
 1811. 
 
 Heee j)ause : the poet claims at least this praise. 
 
 That virtuous Liberty hath been the scope 
 
 Of his pure song, which did not shrink from hope 
 
 In the worst moment of these evil days; 
 
 From hope, the paramount duty that Heaven lays, 
 
 For its own honour, on man's suffering heart. 
 
 ]!^ever may from our souls one truth depart, — 
 
 That an accursed thing it is to gaze 
 
 On prosperous tyrants with a dazzled eye ; 
 
 Nor — touch'd with due abhorrence of their guilt 
 
 For whose dire ends tears flow, and blood is spilt, 
 
 And justice labours in extremity — - 
 
 Forget thy weakness, upon which is built, 
 
 wretched man, the throne of tyranny ! 
 
 THE FRENCH ARMY IK RUSSIA. 1812-13. 
 
 Humanity, delighting to behold 
 A fond reflection of her own decay, 
 Hath painted Winter like a traveller old, 
 Propp'd on a staff, and, through the sullen day. 
 In hooded mantle, limping o'er the plain, 
 As though his weakness were disturb' d by pain: 
 Or, if a juster fancy should allow 
 An undisputed symbol of command, 
 The chosen sceptre is a wither'd bough, 
 Infirmly grasp'd within a palsied hand. 
 These emblems suit the helpless and forlorn; 
 But mighty Winter the device shall scorn. 
 
 For he it was — dread Winter ! — who beset. 
 
 Flinging round van and rear his ghastly net. 
 
 That host, when from the regions of the Pole 
 
 They shrunk, insane ambition's barren goal, — • 
 
 That host, as huge and strong as e'er defied 
 
 Their God, and placed their trust in human pride ! 
 
 As fathers persecute rebellious sons, 
 
 He smote the blossouis of their Avarrior youth ; 
 
 He call'd on Frost's inexorable tooth 
 
 Life to consume in Manhood's firmest hold; 
 
 Nor spared the reverend blood that feebly runs ; 
 
 For wh)^, — unless for liberty enroll'd 
 
 And sacred home, — ah ! why should hoary Age be bold ? 
 
 Fleet the Tartar's reinless steed, 
 But fleeter far the pinions of the Wind, 
 
NATIOlfAL IKDEPENDENCB AND LIBERTY. 205 
 
 Which from Siberian caves the Monarch freed, 
 And sent him forth, with squadrons of his kind, 
 And bade the Snow their ample backs bestride, 
 
 And to the battle ride. 
 No pitying voice commands a halt, 
 No courage can repel the dire assault : 
 Distracted, spiritless, benumb'd, and blind, 
 Whole legions sink, and in one instant find 
 Burial and death : look for them, — and descry. 
 When morn returns, beneath the clear blue sky, 
 A soundless waste, a trackless vacancy ! 
 
 Ye Storms, resound the praises of your King! 
 
 And ye mild Seasons, — in a sunny clime, 
 
 Midway on some high hill, while father Time 
 
 Looks on delighted, — meet in festal ring, 
 
 And loud and long of Winter's triumph sing ! 
 
 Sing ye, with blossoms crown'd, and fruits, and flowers, 
 
 Of Winter's breath surcharged with sleety showers. 
 
 And the dire flapping of his hoary wing ! 
 
 Knit the blithe dance upon the soft green grass ; 
 
 With feet, hands, eyes, looks, lips, report your gain ; 
 
 Whisper it to the billows of the main. 
 
 And to th' aerial zephyrs as they pass. 
 
 That old decrepit Winter — He hath slain 
 
 That nost which render'd all your bounties vain! 
 
 By Moscow self-devoted to a blaze 
 
 Of dreadful sacrifice ; by Eussian blood 
 
 Lavish'd in fight with desperate hardihood; 
 
 Th' unfeeling Elements no claim shall raise 
 
 To rob our Human-nature of just praise 
 
 For what she did and suffer'd. Pledges sure 
 
 Of a deliverance absolute and pure 
 
 She gave, if Faith might tread the beaten ways 
 
 Of Providence. But now did the Most High 
 
 Exalt His still small voice ; — to quell that Host, 
 
 Gather'd His power, a manifest ally ; 
 
 He, whose heap'd waves confounded the proud boast 
 
 Of Pharaoh, said to Famine, Snow, and Frost, 
 
 " Finish the strife by deadliest victory 1 " 
 
 OCCASIOi^ED BY THE BATTLE OF WATERLOO. FEBRUARY, 1816. 
 
 The Bard whose soul is meek as dawning day. 
 Yet train'd to judgments righteously severe. 
 
206 AVORDSWORTH. 
 
 Fervid, yet conversant with holy fear, 
 
 As recognising one Almighty sway; — 
 
 He whose experienced eye can pierce th' array 
 
 Of past events; to whom, in vision clear, 
 
 Th' aspiring heads of future things appear. 
 
 Like mountain-tops whose mists have roll'd away;- 
 
 Assoil'd from all encumbrance of our time, 
 
 He only, if such breathe, in strains devout 
 
 Shall comprehend this victory sublime ; 
 
 Shall worthily rehearse the hideous rout, 
 
 The triumph hail, which from their peaceful clime 
 
 Angels might welcome with a choral shout ! 
 
 MEMOEIALS OF A TOUR ON THE CONTINENT. 
 
 FISH-WOMEif . — OK LAKDIKG AT CALAIS. 1820. 
 
 'Tis said, fantastic ocean doth enfold 
 
 The likeness of whate'er on land is seen ; 
 
 But, if the Nereid Sisters and their Queen, 
 
 Above whose heads the tide so long hath rolFd, 
 
 The Dames resemble whom we here behold, 
 
 How fearful were it down through opening waves 
 
 To sink and meet them in their fretted caves, 
 
 Wither'd, grotesque, immeasurably old, 
 
 And shrill and fierce in accent! — Fear it not: 
 
 For they Earth's fairest daughters do excel ; 
 
 Pure undecaying beauty is their lot ; 
 
 Their voices into liquid music swell, 
 
 Thrilling each pearly cleft and sparry grot. 
 
 The undisturb'd abodes where Sea-nymphs dwell! 
 
 BRUGES. 
 
 The Spirit of Antiquity — enshrined 
 
 In sumptuous buildings, vocal in sweet song, 
 
 In picture speaking with heroic tongue, 
 
 And with devout solemnities entwined — 
 
 Mounts to the seat of grace within the mind : 
 
 Hence Forms that glide with swan-like ease along, 
 
 Hence motions, even amid the vulgar throng. 
 
 To a harmonious decency confined: 
 
 As if the streets were consecrated ground. 
 
 The city one vast temple, dedicate 
 
 To mutual respect in thought and deed; 
 
 To leisure, to forbearances sedate ; 
 
 To social cares from jarring passions freed ; 
 
 A deeper peace than that in deserts found ! 
 
MEMORIALS OF A TOUR, ETC. 
 
 ;^07 
 
 INCIDENT AT BRUGES.^ 
 
 In Bruges town is many a street 
 
 Whence busy life hath fled ; 
 Where, without hurry, noiseless feet 
 
 The grass-grown pavement tread. 
 There heard we, halting in the shade 
 
 Flung from a Convent-tower, 
 A harp that tuneful prelude made 
 
 To a voice of thrilling power. 
 
 The measure, simple truth to tell, 
 
 Was lit for some gay throng; 
 Though from the same grim turret fell 
 
 The shadow and the song. 
 When silent were both voice and chords, 
 
 The strain seem'd doubly dear, 
 Yet sad as sweet, — for English words 
 
 Had fallen upon the ear. 
 
 It was a breezy hour of eve ; 
 
 And pinnacle and spire 
 Quiver'd and almost seem'd to heave. 
 
 Clothed with innocuous fire ; 
 But, where we stood, the setting Sun, 
 
 Show'd little of his state ; 
 And, if the glory reach'd the Nun, 
 
 'Twas through an iron grate. 
 
 Not always is the heart unwise, 
 
 Nor pity idly boi-n. 
 If even a passing stranger sighs 
 
 For them who do not mourn. 
 Sad is thy doom, self-solaced dove, 
 
 Captive, whoe'er thou be! 
 O ! what is beauty, what is love. 
 
 And opening life to thee ? 
 
 Such feeling press'd upon my soul, 
 
 A feeling sanctified 
 By one solt trickling tear that stole 
 
 Fi-om the Maiden at my side : 
 Less tribute could she pay than this, 
 
 Borne gaily o'er the sea, 
 Fresh from the beauty and the bliss 
 
 Of English liberty? 
 
 1 This occurred at Bruges in 1828. Mr. 
 Coleridge, my daughter, and I made a 
 tour together in Flanders, upon the Rhine, 
 and returned to Holland. Dora and I, 
 while taking a walk along a retired part 
 of the town, heard the voice as here de- 
 scribed, and were afterwards informed it 
 was a Convent in Avhich were many En- 
 glish. We were both much touched, I 
 might say affected, and Dora moved as 
 appears iii these verses. — Author's Notes, 
 1843. 
 
 HYMN, 
 
 FOK THE BOATMEX, AS THET APPROACH 
 
 THE RAPIDS UNDER THE CASTLE 
 
 OF HEIDELBERG. 
 
 Jesu ! bless our slender Boat, 
 By the current swept along; 
 
 Loud its threatenings, — let them not 
 Drown the music of a song 
 
 Breathed Thy mercy to implore. 
 
 Where these troubled waters roar! 
 
 Saviour, for our warning, seen 
 Bleeding on that precious Rood; 
 
 If, while through the meadows green 
 Gently wound the peaceful flood. 
 
 We forgot Thee, do not Thou 
 
 Disregard thy Suppliants now ! 
 
 Hither, like yon ancient Tower 
 Watching o'er the River's bed. 
 
 Fling the shadow of Thy power, 
 Else we sleep among the dead ; 
 
 Thou who trodd'st the billowy sea. 
 
 Shield us in our jeopardy! 
 
 Guide our Bark among the waves ; 
 
 Thro' the rocks our passage smooth, 
 Where the Avhirlpool frets and raves 
 
 Let Thy love its anger soothe : 
 All our hope is placed in Thee ; 
 Miserere Doinine ! 
 
 MEMORIAL, 
 
 NEAR THE OUTLET OF THE LAKE OF 
 THUN. 
 
 Aloys Reding was Captain-General of the 
 Swiss forces, which, with a courage and 
 perseverance Avortby of the cause, op- 
 posed the flagitious and too successful 
 attempt of Buonaparte to subjugate 
 their countiy. 
 
 Around a wild and woody hill 
 A gravell'd pathway treading. 
 We reach'd a votive Stone that bears 
 The name of Aloys Reding. 
 
 Well judged the friend who placed it there 
 For silence and protection ; 
 And haply with a finer care 
 Of dutiful aflection. 
 
 The Sun regards it from the West; 
 And, while in summer glory 
 He sets, his sinking jaelds a type 
 Of that pathetic story: 
 
208 
 
 WORDSWORTH. 
 
 And oft he tempts the patriot Swiss 
 Amid the grove to linger; 
 Till all is dim, save this bright Stone 
 Touch'd by his golden linger. 
 
 COMPOSED IN ONE OF THE CATHOLIC 
 CANTONS. 
 
 Doom'd as we are our native dust 
 To wet with many a bitter shower, 
 It ill befits us to disdain 
 The altar, to deride the fane, 
 Where simple Sufferers bend, in trust 
 To win a happier hour. 
 
 I love, where spreads the village lawn, 
 Upon some knee-worn cell to gaze : 
 Hail to the firm unmoving cross, 
 Aloft, where pines their branches toss! 
 And to the chapel far withdrawn, 
 That lurks by lonely ways ! 
 
 Wliere'er we roam, — along the brink 
 Of Rhine, or by the sweeping Po, 
 Thro' Alpine vale, or champain wide, — 
 Whate'er we look on, at our side 
 Be Charity ! to bid us think. 
 And feel, if we would know. 
 
 AFTEK-THOUGHT. 
 
 Oh Lite ! without thy chequer'd scene 
 Of right and wrong, of weal and woe. 
 Success and failure, could a ground 
 For magnanimity be found ; 
 For faith, 'mid ruin'd hopes, serene? 
 Or whence could virtue flow? 
 
 Pain enter'd through a ghastly breach ; 
 Xor while sin lasts must effort cease ; 
 Heaven upon Earth's an empty boast; 
 But, for the bOAvers of Eden lost, 
 Mercy has placed within our reach 
 A portion of God's peace. 
 
 OUll LADi' OF THE SNOW. 
 
 Meek Virgin Mother, more begin 
 Than fairest Star, upon the height 
 Of tliy own mountain, 2 set to keep 
 Lone vigils through the hours of sleep, 
 What eye can look upon thy shrine 
 Untroubled at the sight? 
 
 2 ]\[ount Righi, that is, the Queen 
 Mountain. 
 
 These crowded offerings as tliey hang 
 In sign of misery relieved 
 Even these, without intent of theirs, 
 Report of comfortless despairs, 
 Of many a deep and cureless pang, 
 And confidence deceived. 
 
 To Thee, in this aerial cleft, 
 As to a common centre, tend 
 All sufferers that no more rely 
 On mortal succour, — all who sigh 
 And pine, of human hope bereft, 
 Nor wish for earthly friend. 
 
 And hence, O Virgin Mother mild! 
 Though plenteous flowers around thee 
 Not only from the dreary strife [blow, 
 Of Winter, but the storms of life, 
 Thee have thy Votaries aptly styled. 
 Our Ladt of the Snow. 
 
 Even for the Man who stops not here, 
 
 But down th' irriguous valley liies. 
 
 Thy very name, O Lady ! flings, 
 
 O'er blooming fields and gushing springs, 
 
 A tender sense of shadowy fear, 
 
 And chastening sympathies ! 
 
 Nor falls that intermingling shade 
 To summer gladsomeness unkind: 
 It chastens only to requite 
 With gleams of fresher, purer light; 
 While, o'er the flower-enamell'd glade. 
 More sweetly breathes the wind. 
 
 But on ! — a tempting downward way, 
 A verdant path before us lies; 
 Clear shines the glorious Sun above ; 
 Then give fi-ee course to joy and love. 
 Deeming the evil of the day 
 Sufficient for the wise. 
 
 THE CHUECH OF SAN SALVADOR, SEEN 
 FROM THE LAKE OF LUGANO. 
 
 This Church was almost destroyed by 
 lightning a few years ago, but the altar 
 and the image of the Patron Saint were 
 untouched. The Mount, upon the sum- 
 mit of which the Church is built, stands 
 amid the intricacies of the I^ake of 
 Lugano ; and is, from a hundred points 
 of view, its principal oriuiment, I'ising 
 to the height of 2000 feet, and, on one 
 side, nearly perpendicular. The ascent 
 is toilsome; but the traveller who per- 
 forms it Avill be amply rewarded. Splen- 
 did fertility, ricli woods and dazzling 
 waters, seclusion and confinement of 
 
MEMORIALS OF A TOUR, ETC. 
 
 209 
 
 view contrasted with sea-like extent of 
 plain fading into the skj- ; and this again, 
 in an opposite quarter, with an horizon 
 of the loftiest and boldest Alps —unite 
 in composing a prospect more diversi- 
 fied by magnificence, beauty, and sub- 
 limity, than perhaps any other point in 
 Europe, of so inconsidei-able an eleva- 
 tion, commands. 
 
 Thou sacred Pile! whose turrets rise 
 From yon steep mountain's loftiest stage, 
 Guarded by lone San Salvador ; 
 Sink (if thou must) as heretofore, 
 To sulphurous bolts a sacrifice, 
 But ne'er to human rage ! 
 
 On Horeb's top, on Sinai, deign'd 
 To rest the universal Lord : 
 Why leap the fountains from their cells 
 Where everlasting Bounty dwells ? — 
 That, while the Creature is sustain'd. 
 His God may be adored. 
 
 Cliffs, fountains, rivers, seasons, times,— 
 Let all remind the soul of Heaven; 
 Our slack devotion needs them all; 
 And Faith — so oft of sense the tlirall, 
 While she, by aid of Nature, climbs — 
 May hope to be forgiven. 
 
 Glory, and patriotic Love, 
 
 And all the Pomps of this frail " spot 
 
 Which men call Earth," have yearn'd to 
 
 Associate Avith the simply meek, [seek, 
 
 Religion in the sainted grove, 
 
 And in the haUow'd grot. 
 
 Thither, in time of adverse shocks. 
 Of fainting hopes and backward wills, 
 Did mighty Tell repair of old, — 
 A Hero cast in Nature's mould, 
 Deliverer of the steadfast rocks 
 And of the ancient hills I 
 
 J?c, too, of battle-martyrs chief 1 
 Who, to recall his daunted peers, 
 For victory shaped an open space, 
 By gathering with a wide embrace, 
 Into his single breast, a sheaf 
 Of fatal Austrian spears.s 
 
 3 Arnold Winkelried, at the battle of 
 Semijach, broke an Austrian phalanx in 
 this manner. The event is one of the most 
 famous in the annals of Swiss heroism ; 
 and pictures and prints of it are frequent 
 throughout the country. 
 
 THE ECLIPSE OP THE SUN, 1820. 
 
 High on her speculative tower 
 Stood Science, waiting for the hour 
 When Sol was destined to endure 
 That darkening of his radiant face 
 Which Superstition strove to chase, 
 Erewhile, with rites impure. 
 
 Afloat beneath Italian skies, 
 Through regions fair as Paradise 
 We gaily pass'd, till Nature wrought 
 A silent and unlook'd-for change, 
 That check'd the desultory range 
 Of joy and sprightly thought. 
 
 Where'er was dipp'd the toiling oar, 
 The waves danced round us as before, 
 As lightly, though of alter'd hue, 
 'Mid recent coolness, such as falls 
 At noontide from umbrageous walls 
 That screen the morning dew. 
 
 No vapour stretch'd its wings ; no cloud 
 Cast far or near a murky shroud; 
 The sky an azure field display'd; 
 'Twas sunlight sheath'd and gently 
 
 charm'd. 
 Of all its sparkling rays disarm'd, 
 And as in slumber laid; — 
 
 Or something night and day between, 
 Like moonshine, — but the hue was green ; 
 Still moonshine, without shadow, spread 
 On jutting rock, and curvfed shore, 
 AVhere gazed the peasant from his door, 
 And on the mountain's head. 
 
 It tinged the Julian steeps, —it lay, 
 Lugano ! on thy ample bay ; 
 The solemnizing veil was drawTi 
 O'er villas, terraces, and towers; 
 To Albogasio's olive bowers, 
 Porlezza's verdant lawn. 
 
 But Fancy with the speed of fire 
 Hath past to Milan's loftiest spire. 
 And there alights 'mid that aerial host 
 Of Figures human and divine,* 
 
 4 The Statues ranged roiind the spire 
 and along the roof of the Cathedral of 
 Milan, have been found fault with by per- 
 sons whose exclusive taste is unfortunate 
 for themselves. It is true that the same 
 expense and labour, judiciously directed 
 to purposes more strictly architectural, 
 might have much heightened the general 
 
210 
 
 WORDSWORTH. 
 
 Wliite as the snows of Apennine 
 Indurated by frost. 
 
 Awe- stricken she beholds th' array 
 That guards the Temple night and day; 
 Angels she sees, that might from Heaven 
 
 have flown, 
 And Virgin-saints, who not in vain 
 Have striven by purity to gain 
 The beatific crown ; — 
 
 See long-drawn files, concentric rings 
 Each narrowing above each ; — the wings, 
 Th' uplifted palms, the silent marble lips. 
 The starry zone ^ of sovereign height; — 
 All steep'd in this portentous light! 
 All suffering dim eclipse ! 
 
 Thus, after Man had fallen, (if aught 
 These perishable spheres have Avrought 
 May M'ith that issiie be compared,) 
 Throngs of celestial visages. 
 Darkening like water in the breeze, 
 A holy sadness shared. 
 
 Lo ! while I speak, the labouring Sun 
 His glad deliverance has begun : 
 The cypress waves her sombre plume 
 More cheerily ; and town and tower, 
 The vineyard and the olive-bower. 
 Their lustre re-assume I 
 
 O Ye, who guard and grace my home 
 While in far-distant lands we roam. 
 What countenance hath this Day put on 
 
 for you? 
 While we look'd round with favour'd eyes. 
 Did sullen mists hide lake and skies 
 And mountains from your view? 
 
 effect of the building; for, seen from the 
 ground, the Statues appear diminutive. 
 But the coiip-d'oeil, from the best point of 
 view, wJiich is half-way up the spire, 
 must strike an unprejudiced person with 
 admiration. It was with great pleasui'e 
 that I saw, during the two ascents which 
 we made, several children, of different 
 ages, tripping up and down the blender 
 spire, ami pausing to look ai'ound tbem, 
 with feelings much move animated than 
 could have been derived from these or 
 the finest works of art, if placed within 
 easy reach.— Ilemember also that you 
 have the Alps on one side, and on the 
 other the Apennines, with the plain of 
 Lombardy between ! 
 
 6 Above the highest circle of figures is 
 a zone of metallic stars. 
 
 Or was it given you to behold 
 Like vision, pensive though not cold, 
 From the smooth breast of gay Winan- 
 Saw ye the soft yet awful veil [dermere? 
 Spread over Grasraere's lovely dale, 
 Helvellyn's brow severe ? 
 
 I ask in vain, — and know far less 
 If sickness, sorrow, or distress 
 Have spai-ed my dwelling to this hour; 
 Sad blindness! but ordain'd to prove 
 Our faith in Heaven's unfailing love 
 And all-controlling i)ower.« 
 
 THE THREE COTTAGE GIRLS. 
 
 How blest the Maid whose heart, yet free 
 From Love's uneasy sovereignty, 
 Beats with a fancy running high. 
 Her simple cares to magnify ; 
 Whom Labour, never urged to toil, 
 Hath cherish'd on a healthful soil; 
 Who knows not pomp, who heeds not pelf; 
 Whose heaviest sin it is to look 
 Askance upon her pretty Self 
 Reflected in some crystal brook ; [tear 
 Whom grief hath spared ; who sheds no 
 But in sweet pity ; and can hear 
 Another's praise from envy clear. 
 
 Such (but, O lavish Nature ! why 
 That dark unfathomable eye, 
 Where lurks a Spirit that replies 
 To stillest mood of softest skies. 
 Yet hints at peace to be o'erthrown. 
 Another's first, and then her own?)— 
 Such, haply, yon Italian Maid, 
 Our Lady's laggard Votaress, 
 Halting beneath the chestnut shade 
 To accomplish there her loveliness; 
 Nice aid maternal fingers lend ; 
 A Sister serves with slacker hand ; 
 Then, glittering like a star, she joins the 
 festal band. 
 
 How blest (if truth may entei'tain 
 Coy fancy with a bolder strain) 
 
 6 This poem is, I believe, a favourite 
 with all lovers of Wordsworth. Profes- 
 sor Wilson says of it, in 71ie Recreations 
 of Christopher 'North, " we do not hesitate 
 to pronounce The Eclipse of the Sun one of 
 the finest lyrical effusions of combined 
 thought, passion, sentiment, and imagery 
 within the whole compass of poetry." 
 
MEMOKIALS OF A TOUR, ETC. 
 
 211 
 
 Th' Helvetian Girl, who daily braves, 
 In her light skiff, the tossing waves, 
 And quits the bosom of the deep 
 Only to climb the rugged steep ! — 
 Say whence that modulated shout! 
 From Wood-nymph of Diana's throng? 
 Or does the greeting to a rout 
 Of giddy Bacchanals belong? 
 Jubilant outcrj- ! rock and glade 
 Resounded, — but the voice obey'd 
 The breath of an Helvetian Maid. 
 
 Her beauty dazzles the thick wood; 
 Her courage animates the flood; 
 Her steps th' elastic green-sward meets 
 Returning unreluctant sweets; 
 The mountains (as ye heard) rejoice 
 Aloud, saluted by her voice! 
 Blithe paragon of Alpine grace, 
 Be as thou art ; for through thy veins 
 The blood of Heroes runs its race ! 
 And nobly wilt thou brook the chains 
 That, for the virtuous, Life prepares; 
 The fetters which the Matron wears ; 
 The patriot Mother's weight of anxious 
 cares ! 
 
 " Sweet HIGHLAND Girl! a very shower 
 Of beauty was thy earthly dower," 
 When thou didst flit before mine eyes, 
 Gay Vision under sullen skies. 
 While Hope and Love around thee play'd. 
 Near the rough falls of Inversneyd! ^ 
 Have they, who nursed the blossom, seen 
 No breach of promise in the fruit? 
 Was joy, in following joy, as keen 
 As grief can be in grief's pursuit? 
 When youth had flown did hope still bless 
 Thy goings, — or the cheerfulness 
 Of innocence survive to mitigate distress ? 
 
 But from our course why turn, to tread 
 A way with shadows overspread ; 
 Where what we gladliest would believe 
 Is fear'd as what may most deceive? 
 Bright Spirit, not with amaranth crown'd 
 But heath-bells from thy native ground, 
 Time cannot thin thy flowing hair. 
 Nor take one ray of light from Thee ; 
 For in my Fancy thou dost share 
 The gift of immortality ; 
 And there shall bloom, with Thee allied, 
 
 7 See the poem To a Highland Girl, 
 page IGO. 
 
 The Votaress by Lugano's side ; 
 And that intrepid Nymph on Uri's steep 
 descried ! 
 
 ELEGIAC STANZAS. 
 
 The Youth whose death gave occasion 
 to these elegiac verses was Frederick Wil- 
 liam Goddard, from Boston in North 
 America. He was in his twentieth year, 
 and had I'esided for some time with 
 a clergyman in the neighbourhood of 
 Geneva' for the completion of his educa- 
 tion. Accompanied by a fellow-pupil, a 
 native of Scotland, he had just set out on 
 a Swiss tour Avhen it was his misfortune 
 to fall in with a friend of mine who was 
 hastening to join our party. The travel- 
 lers, after spending a day together on the 
 road from Berne and Soleure, took leave 
 of each other at night, the young men 
 having intended to proceed directly to 
 Zurich. We ascended the Righi together; 
 and separated at an hour and on a spot 
 well suited to the parting of those who 
 were to meet no more. We had hoped to 
 meet in a fevr weeks at Geneva ; but on 
 the third succeeding daj- (the-21st of Aug- 
 ust) Mr. Goddard perished, being overset 
 in a boat while crossing the lake of Zu- 
 rich. 
 
 LULL'D by the sound of pastoral bells. 
 Rude Nature's Pilgrims did we go, 
 From the dread summit of the Queen 
 Of mountains.s through a deep ravine. 
 Where, in her holy chapel, dwells 
 " Our Lady of the Snow." 
 
 The sky was blue, the air was mild ; 
 Free were the streams and green the bow- 
 As if, to rough assaults unknown, [ers; 
 The genial spot had ever shown 
 A countenance that as sweetly smiled, — 
 The face of summer-hours. 
 
 And we were gay, our hearts at ease ; 
 With pleasure dancing through the frame 
 We journey'd ; all Ave knew of care, — 
 Our path that straggled here and there ; 
 Of trouble, — but the fluttering breeze; 
 Of Winter, —but a name. 
 
 If foresight could have rent the veil 
 Of three short days, — but hush— no more ! 
 Calm is the grave, and calmer none 
 Than that to which thy cai-es are gone, 
 Thon victim of the stormy gale ; 
 Asleep on Zurich's shore ! 
 
 8 The Latin name, Berjina Montium, in 
 Italian Mount Righi, signifies Queen of 
 mountains. 
 
212 
 
 WORDSWORTH. 
 
 O GoDDARD I what art thou ? — a name, — 
 A sunbeam folio w'd by a shade! 
 Nor more, for aught that time supplies, 
 The great, th' experienced, and the wise : 
 Too much from this frail Earth we claim, 
 And therefore are betray'd. 
 
 We met, while festive mirth ran wild, 
 Where, from a deep lake's mighty urn, 
 Forth slips, like an enfranchised slave, 
 A sea-green i-iver, proud to lave, 
 With current swift and undefiled, 
 The towers of old Lucerne. 
 
 We parted upon solemn ground 
 Far-lifted towards th' unfading sky ; 
 But all our thoughts Avere then of Earth, 
 That gives to common pleasui-es birth ; 
 And nothing in our hearts we found 
 That prompted even a sigh. 
 
 Fetch, sympathising Powers of air, 
 Fetch, ye that post o'er seas and lands, 
 Herbs moisten'd by Virginian dew, 
 A most untimely grave to strew, 
 Whose turf may never ko.ow the care 
 Of kindred human hands ! 
 
 Belov'd by every gentle Muse 
 
 He left his Transatlantic home : 
 
 Europe, a realised romance, 
 
 Had open'd on his eager glance; 
 
 What present bliss ! what golden views ! 
 
 What stores for years to come ! 
 
 Tho' lodged within no vigoi-ous frame, 
 His soul her daily tasks renew'd. 
 Blithe as the lark on sun-gilt wings 
 High poised, — or as the Avren that sings 
 In shady places, to proclaim 
 Her modest gratitude. 
 
 Not vain is sadly-utter'd praise ; 
 The words of truth's memorial vow 
 Are sweet as morning fragi-ance shed 
 From flowers 'mid Goldau's ruins » bred ; 
 As evening's fondly-lingering rays. 
 On RiGHi's silent brow. 
 
 Lamented Youth ! to thy cold clay 
 Fit obsequies the Stranger paid ; 
 And piety shall guard the Stone 
 Which hath not left the spot unknown 
 Where the wild waves resign'd their prey > 
 And that which marks thy bed.^o 
 
 And, when thy Mother weeps for Thee, 
 Lost Youth! a solitary Mother; 
 This tribute from a casual Fi-iend 
 A not unwelcome aid may lend, 
 To feed the tender luxury, 
 The rising pang to smother.ii 
 
 9 Goldau is one of the villages deso- 
 lated by the fall of part of the mountain 
 Rossberg. 
 
 10 The corpse of poor Goddard was 
 cast ashore on the estate of a Swiss gen- 
 tleman, Mr. Keller, Avho performed all 
 the rites of hospitality which could be 
 rendered to the dead as well as to the liv- 
 ing. He had a handsome mural monu- 
 ment erected in the church of Kiisnacht, 
 recording the death of the young Ameri- 
 can, and also set an inscription on the 
 shore of the lake, pointing out the spot 
 where the body was deposited by the 
 waves. 
 
 11 The persuasion here expressed was 
 not groundless. The flrst human conso- 
 lation that the afflicted Mother felt Avas 
 derived from this tribute to her son's 
 memory ; a fact Avhich the author learned, 
 at his own residence, from her Daughter, 
 who visited Europe some years alter- 
 wards. 
 
 ELEGIAC PIECES. 
 
 ADPRESS TO THE SCHOLARS OF THE 
 VILLAGE SCHOOL OF 
 
 I coiME, ye little noisy Crew, 
 Not long your pastime to prevent; 
 I heard the blessing which to you 
 Our common Friend and Father sent. 
 I kiss'd his cheek before he died; 
 And, when his breath was fled, 
 I raised, while kneeling by his side, 
 His hand : — it dropp'd like lead. 
 
 Your hands, dear Little-ones, do all 
 That can be done, will never fall 
 Like his till they are dead. 
 By night oi* day blow foul or fair, 
 Ne'er Avill the best of all your train 
 Play with the locks of his white hair, 
 Or stand between his knees again. 
 
 Here did he sit confined for hours; 
 But he could see the Avoods and plains, 
 Could hear thCAvind and mark the showers 
 
ELEGIAC PIECES. 
 
 213 
 
 Come streaming down the streaming 
 panes. [mound 
 
 Now stretch'd beneath his grass-gi-een 
 He rests a prisoner of the ground. 
 He loved the breathing air, 
 He loved the Sun, but if it rise 
 Or set, to him where now he lies, 
 Brings not a moment's care. 
 Alas! what idle words; but take 
 The Dirge Avhich, for our Master's sake 
 And yours, love prompted me to make. 
 The rhymes so homely in attire 
 With learnfed ears may ill agree, 
 But chanted by your Orphan Quire 
 Will make a touching melody. 
 
 Mourn, Shepherd,near thy old grey stone ; 
 Thou Angler, by the silent flood ; 
 And mourn when thou art all alone, 
 Thou Woodman, in tlie distant wood! 
 
 Thou one blind Sailor, rich in joy 
 Though blind, thy tunes in sadness hum; 
 And mourn, thoxi poor half-witted Boy! 
 Born deaf, and living deaf and dumb. 
 
 Thou drooping sick Man, bless the Guide 
 Who check'd or turn'd thy headstrong 
 As he before had sanctified [youth, 
 
 Thy infancy with heavenly tnith. 
 
 Ye Striplings, light of heart and gay, 
 Bold settlers on some foreign shore. 
 Give, when your thoughts are turn'd this 
 A sigh to him whom we deplore, [way. 
 
 For us who here in funeral strain 
 With one accord our voices raise, 
 Let sorrow overcharged with pain 
 Be lost in thankfulness and praise. 
 
 And when our hearts shall feel a sting 
 Fi'om ill we meet or good we miss, 
 May touches of his memory bring 
 Fond healing, like a mother's kiss. [179S. 
 
 BT THE SIDE OF THE GKAVT} SOME 
 TEAKS AETER. 
 
 Long time his pulse hath ceased to beat ; 
 But benefits, his gift, we trace, 
 Express'd in every eye we meet 
 Round this dear Vale, his native place. 
 
 To stately Hall and Cottage rude 
 Flow'd from his life what still they hold, 
 Light pleasures, every day, renew'd; 
 And blessings half a century old. 
 
 O true of heart, of spirit gay ! 
 Thy faults, where not already gone 
 From memory, prolong their stay 
 For charity's sweet sake alone. 
 
 Such solace find we for our loss; 
 And what beyond this thought we crave 
 Comes in the promise from the Cross, 
 Shining upon thy happy grave.^ 
 
 IN MEMORY OF MY BROTHER, JOHN 
 WORDSWORTH, 
 
 Commander of the East India Company''s 
 Ship the Earl of Abergavcnnt/, in which he 
 perished by calamitous shipwreck, Feb. bth, 
 1805. 
 
 The Sheep-boy whistled loud, and, lo! 
 That instant, startled by the shock, 
 The Buzzard mounted from the rock 
 Deliberate and slow : 
 Lord of the air, he took his flight; 
 O, could he on that woful night 
 Have lent his wing, my Brother dear, 
 For one poor moment's space to Thee, 
 And all who struggled with the Sea, 
 When safety was so near ! 
 
 Thus in the weakness of my heart 
 
 I spoke, (but let that pang be still,) 
 
 When rising from the rock at will, 
 
 I saw the Bird depart. 
 
 And let me calmly bless the Power 
 
 That meets me in this unknown Flower, 
 
 Affecting type of him I mourn ! 
 
 With calmness suflfer and believe. 
 
 And grieve, and know that I must grieve. 
 
 Not cheerless, though forlorn. 
 
 Here did we stop ; and here look'd round 
 While each into himself descends,^ 
 For that last thought of parting Friends 
 That is not to be found. 
 
 1 The subject of this piece is the same 
 as of The Two April Mornings and The 
 Fountain. See pages 146 and 147. 
 
 2 The point is two or three yards be- 
 low the outlet of Grisdale tarn on a foot- 
 road bj'' which a horse may pass to Pater- 
 dale; a ridge of Helvellyn on the left, 
 and the summit of Fairfield on the right. 
 ^Author's Notes. 1843. 
 
214 
 
 WORDSWORTH. 
 
 Hidden was Grasmcre Vale from sight, 
 Our home aud his, his heart's delight, 
 His quiet heart's selected home. 
 But time before him melts away, 
 And he hath feeling of a day 
 Of blessedness to come. 
 
 Full soon in soitow did I weep, 
 
 Taught that the mutual hope was dust, — 
 
 In sorrow, but for higher trust, 
 
 How miserably deep ! 
 
 All vanish'd in a single word, 
 
 A breath, a sound, and scarcely heard. 
 
 Sea— Ship — drown'd — Shipwreck — so it 
 
 came ; 
 The meek, the brave, the good, was gone; 
 He Mho had been our living John 
 Was nothing but a name. 
 
 That was indeed a parting ! O, 
 
 Glad am I, glad that it is past! 
 
 For there were some on whom it cast 
 
 Unutterable woe. 
 
 But they as well as I have gains ; — 
 
 From many a humble source, to pains 
 
 Like these, there comes a mild release; 
 
 Even here I feel it, even this Plant 3 
 
 Is in its beaiit}^ ministrant 
 
 To comfort and to peace. 
 
 He would have loved thy modest grace, 
 Meek Flower ! To Him I would bajve said, 
 **It gi'ows upon its natij^ bed "V 
 Beside our Parting-place ; 
 There, cleaving to the ground, it lies 
 With multitude of purple ej-es, 
 Spangling a cushion green like moss; 
 But we will see it, joyful tide! 
 Some daj', to see it in its pride, 
 The mountain will Ave cross." 
 
 Brother and friend, if verse of mine 
 Have power to make thy virtues known. 
 Here let a monumental Stone 
 Stand, — sacred as a Shrine; 
 And to the few who pass this w^ay. 
 Traveller or Shepherd, let it say. 
 
 Long as these mighty rocks endure, — 
 O, do not Thou too fondly brood, 
 Although deserving of all good, 
 On any earthly hope, however pure I * 
 
 [1805. 
 
 [Composed at Grasmere, during a walk 
 one Evening, after a stormy day, the 
 Author having just read in a Newspaper 
 that the dissolution of Mr. Fox was 
 hourly expected.] 
 Loud is the Vale ! the Voice is up 
 With which she speaks when storms are 
 A mighty unison of streams ! [gone, 
 
 Of all her Voices, One ! 
 
 Loud is the Vale ; — this inland Depth 
 In peace is roaring like the Sea; 
 Yon star upon the mountain-top 
 Is listening quietly. 
 
 Sad was I, even to pain deprest, 
 Importunate and heavy load ! 
 The Comforter hath found me here, 
 Upon this lonely road; 
 
 And many thousands now are sad, — 
 Wait the fulfilment of their fear; 
 For he must die who is their stay, 
 Their glory disappear. 
 
 A Power is passing from the Earth 
 To breathless Nature's dark abyss; 
 But when the grea^and good depart 
 What'is it more than this, — ' 
 
 That Man, who is fi'om God sent forth, 
 Do|h yet again to God return ? — 
 
 3 The plant alluded to is the Moss 
 Campion. This most beautiful plant is 
 scarce in England, though it is found in 
 great abundance upon the mountains of 
 Scotland. The first specimen I ever saw 
 of it, in its native bed, was singularly 
 flue, the tuft or cushion being at least 
 eight inches in diameter, and the root 
 proportionubly thick. 
 
 t The poet repcatedl}' celebrates the 
 virtues and t'lie sad death of his brother 
 John. In a letter to his friend Sir George 
 Beaumont, dated March 12, 1805, he makes 
 the following reflections, started by tliat 
 event: "Why have we sympathies that 
 make the best of lis so afraid of inflict- 
 ing pain and sorrow, which yet Ave see 
 dealt about so lavishly by the supreme 
 Governor? Why should our notions of 
 right towards each other, and to all sen- 
 tient beings within our influence, differ 
 so Avidely from what appears to be His 
 notion and rule, \f everjithinfj vjcre to end 
 here? Would it not be blasphemy to say 
 that, upon the supposition of the think- 
 ingprniciple being destroi/ed bi/ death, how- 
 ever inferior we may be to the Cause and 
 Ruler of things, we' have more of love in 
 our nature than He has ? The thought is 
 monstrous; and yet how to get rid of it, 
 except upon the supposition of another 
 and a br.ttrr u-orld, I do not see. As to 
 mj' departed brother, Avho letuls our minds 
 at'prescnt to these reflections, he Avalked 
 all his life pure among many impure." 
 
ELEGIAC PIECES. 
 
 215 
 
 Such ebb and flow must ever be, 
 
 Then wherefore should we mourn? [1806. 
 
 ELEGIAC STANZAS. 
 iAddresseed to Sir G. H. B. upon the death 
 
 of his Sister-in-law.) 
 O FOR a dirge ! But why complain ? 
 Ask rather a triumphal strain 
 When Fermor's race is run; 
 A garland of immortal boughs 
 To twine aroxmd the Christian's brows, 
 Whose glorious work is done. 
 
 We pay a high and holy debt; 
 
 No tears of passionate regret 
 
 Shall stain this votive lay : 
 
 111- worthy , Beaumont ! were the grief 
 
 That flings itself on wild relief 
 
 When Saints have pass'd away. 
 
 Sad doom, at Sorrow's shrine to kneel, 
 
 For ever covetous to feel, 
 
 And impotent to bear I 
 
 Such once was hers, — to think and think 
 
 On scver'd love, and only sink 
 
 From anguish and despair! 
 
 But nature to its inmost part 
 Faith had refined ; and to her heart 
 A peaceful cradle giveg : 
 Calm as the dew-drop's, free to rest 
 Within a ))reeze-fann'd rose's bfeast 
 Till it exhales to Heaven. 
 
 Was ever Spirit that could bend 
 
 So graciously? — that could descend. 
 
 Another's need to suit, 
 
 So promptly from her lofty throne? — 
 
 In works of love, in these alone, 
 
 How restless, how minute ! 
 
 Pale was her hue ; yet mortal cheek 
 Ne'er kindled with a livelier streak 
 When aught had suffer'd wrong, — 
 When aught that breathes had felt a 
 
 wound ; 
 Such look th' Oppressor might confound, 
 However proud and strong. 
 
 But hush'd by every thought that springs 
 From out the bitterness of things; 
 Eer quiet is secure : 
 No thorns can pierce her tender feet, 
 Whose life was, like the violet, sweet, 
 As climbing jasmine, pure ; 
 
 As snowdrop on an infant's grave, 
 
 Or lily heaving with the wave 
 
 That feeds it and defends ; 
 
 As Vesper, ere the star hath kiss'd 
 
 The mountain-top, or breathed the mist 
 
 That from the vale ascends. 
 
 Thou takest not away, O Death! 
 
 Thou strikest, — absence perisheth, 
 
 Indifference is no more; 
 
 The future brightens on our sight; 
 
 For on the past hath fallen a light 
 
 That tempts us to adore.^ [1824. 
 
 EXTEMPORE EFFUSION UPON THE DEATH 
 OF .JAMES HOGG. 
 
 When first, descending from the moor- 
 lands , 
 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 wander'd, 
 Thro' groves that had begun to shed 
 Their golden leaves upon the pathways^ 
 My steps the Border-minstrel led.^ 
 
 The mighty Minstrel breathes no longer, 
 'Mid mouldering ruins low he lies ; s 
 And death upon the braes of Yarrow 
 Has closed the Shepherd-poet's eyes : » 
 
 5 This lady [Mrs. Frances Fei-mor] had 
 been a AW'dow loijg before I knew her. 
 Her husband was of the family of the 
 lady celebrated in *The Rape of the Lock. 
 The sorrow which his death caused her 
 was fearful in its character as described 
 in this poem, but was subdued in course 
 of time by the strength of her religious 
 lYiith. I have been, for many weeks at a 
 time, an inmate with her at Coleorton 
 Hall, as were also Mrs. Wordsworth and 
 my sister. The truth in the sketch of 
 her character here given was acknowl- 
 edged with gratitude by her nearest rela- 
 tives. She was eloquent in conversation, 
 energetic upon public matters, open in 
 respect to those, but slow to communicate 
 her personal feelings ; upon these she 
 never touched in her intercourse with 
 me, so that I could not regard myself as 
 her confidential friend, and was accord- 
 ingly surprised when I learnt she had 
 left me a legacy of £100 as a token of her 
 esteem. — Author's Notes, 1813. 
 
 6 Alluding to the occasion of the poem 
 Yarrow Visited. See page 1(J5- 
 
 7 Alluding to the occasion of the poem 
 Yarrow Revisited. See page lo7, note 10. 
 
 8 Sir Walter Scott died Sept. 21, 1832. 
 
 9 James Hogg, long and widely-dis- 
 tinguished at " the Ettrick Shepherd,'* 
 died in November, 1835. 
 
21G 
 
 WOEDSWORTH. 
 
 Nor has the rolling year twice measured, 
 From sign to sign, its steadfast course, 
 Since every mortal power of Coleridge 
 Was frozen at its marvellous source ; i 
 
 The rapt One, of the godlike forehead, 
 The heaven-eyed creature sleeps in earth : 
 And Lamb, the frolic and the gentle, 
 Has vanish'd from his lonely hearth.2 
 
 Like clouds that rake the mountain-sum- 
 mits, 
 Or waves that OAvn no curbing hand, 
 IIow fast has brother follow'd brother 
 From sunshine to the sunless land I 
 
 Yet I, whose lids from infant slumber 
 "Were earlier raised, remain to hear 
 A timid voice, that asks in whispers, 
 " Who next will drop and disappear ?" 
 
 Our haughty life is crown'd with dark- 
 ness, 
 Like London with its own black Avreath, 
 
 1 Samuel Taylor Coleridge died July 
 25, 1834. 
 
 2 Charles Lamb died Dec. 27, 1834. 
 
 On which with thee, O Crabbe! forth- 
 looking, 
 I gazed from Hampstead's breezy heath. 
 
 As if but yesterday departed. 
 Thou too art gone before ; 3 but why, 
 O'er ripe fruit, seasonably gather'd 
 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 slaughter'd Youth or love-lorn Maid! 
 With sharper grief is Yarrow smitten. 
 And Ettrick mourns with her their Poet 
 dcad.5 [Nov., 1835. 
 
 3 The Rev. George Crabbe died Feb. 
 3, 1832. 
 
 4 Alluding to Mrs. Felicia Hemans, 
 who died May 16, 1835. 
 
 5 These verses were written extem- 
 pore, immediately after reading a notice 
 of the Ettiick Shepherd's death, in the 
 Newcastle paper, to the Editor of which 
 I sent a co])y for publication. The per- 
 sons lamented in these verses were all 
 either of my friends or acquaintances.— 
 Author's Notes, 1843. 
 
 ELEGIAC STAXZAS, 
 
 SUGGESTED BY A PICTURE OF PEELE CASTLE, IN" A STORM, 
 PAIJsTED BY SIR GEORGE BEAUMONT. 
 
 I WAS thy neiglibonr once, thou rugged Pile ! 
 Four summer weeks I dwelt in sight of thee : 
 I saw thee every day ; and all the while 
 Thy Form was sleeping on a glassy sea. 
 
 So pure the sky, so quiet was the air ! 
 So like, SO very like, was day to day ! 
 Whene'er I look'd, thy Image still was there ; 
 It trembled, but it never pass'd away. 
 
 How perfect was the calm ! it seem'd no sleep ; 
 'No mood, which season takes away, or brings : 
 I could have fancied that the mighty Deep 
 Was even the gentlest of all gentle Things. 
 
 Ah! THEN, if mine had been the Painter's hand. 
 To express what then I saw ; and add the gleam. 
 The light that never was, on sea or land. 
 The consecration, and the Poet's dream ; 
 
 ] 
 
ELEGIAC PIECES. 217 
 
 I would have planted thee, thou hoary Pile 
 Amid a world ]iow different from this ! 
 Beside a sea that could not cease to smile; 
 On tranquil land, beneath a sky of bliss. 
 
 Thou shouldst haye seem'd a treasure-house divine 
 Of peaceful years ; a chronicle of Heaven ; — 
 Of all the sunbeams that did ever shine 
 The very sweetest had to thee been given. 
 
 A Picture had it been of lasting ease, 
 Elysian quiet, without toil or strife ; 
 No motion but the moving tide, a breeze, 
 Or merely silent Nature's breathing life. 
 
 Such, in the fond illusion of my heart. 
 Such Picture would I at that time have made : 
 And seen the soul of truth in every jDart, 
 A steadfast peace that might not be betray'd. 
 
 So once it would have been, — 'tis so no more ; 
 I have submitted to a new control : 
 A power is gone, which nothing can restore ; 
 A deep distress hath humanised my Soul.® 
 
 Not for a moment could I now behold 
 A smiling sea, and be what I have been : 
 The feeling of my loss will ne'er be old ; 
 This, which I know, I speak with mind serene. 
 
 Then, Beaumont, Friend ! who would have been the Friend, 
 
 If he had lived, of Him whom I deplore, 
 
 This work of thine I blame not, but commend ; 
 
 This sea in anger, and that dismal shore. 
 
 0, 'tis a passionate Work! — yet wise and well. 
 Well chosen is the siDirit that is here ; 
 That Hulk which labours in the deadly swell. 
 This rueful sky, this pageantry of fear ! 
 
 And this huge Castle, standing here sublime, 
 
 I love to see the look with which it braves. 
 
 Cased in th' unfeeling armour of old time. 
 
 The lightning, the fierce wind, and trampling waves. 
 
 6 Throughout this piece, again, the feeling uppermost in the poet's mind is sorrow 
 at the death of his brother. In one of his summer vacations while in coUege, he had 
 spent four weeks in the neighbourhood of Peele Castle ; and all that time the waters 
 had remained perfectly unruflied and smooth, never ceasing to image in their depths 
 the Castle standing near; and now a picture of the place, with the sea heaving under 
 a mighty storm, — the same sea which had been so calm and still, that it seemed to him 
 "the gentlest of all gentle Thingj?," — only reminds him of his brother's fate, and, 
 from the fierce contrast, impresses him Avith a deeper sense of the terrible might 
 which had slumbered so sweetly before his eye. 
 
218 WOEDSWOKTH. 
 
 Farewell, farewell the heart that lives alone, 
 Housed in a dream, at distance from the Kind ! 
 Such happiness, wherever it be known. 
 Is to be pitied; for 'tis surely blind. 
 
 But welcome fortitude, and patient cheer. 
 And frequent sights of what is to be borne ! 
 Such sights, or worse, as are before me here. — 
 Not without hope we suffer and we mourn.'' 
 
 WEITTEN AFTER THE DEATH OF CHARLES 
 LAMB.» 
 
 To a good Man of most dear memory 
 This Stone is sacred. Here he lies apart 
 From the great city where he first drew breath. 
 Was rear'd and taught ; and humbly earn'd his bread. 
 To the strict labours of the merchant's desk 
 By duty chain'd. 'Not seldom did those tasks 
 Tease, and the thought of time so spent depress. 
 His spirit, but the recompense was high, — - 
 Firm Independence, Bounty's rightful sire ; 
 Affections, warm as sunshine, free as air ; 
 And, when the precious hours of leisure came. 
 Knowledge and wisdom, gain'd from converse sweet 
 With books, or while he ranged the crowded streets 
 
 7 This is justly regarded as one of the author's noblest and most characteristic 
 pieces. Hardly any of them has been oftener quoted, or drawn forth more or 
 stronger notes of admiration. Perhaps the higher function of Poetry has never 
 been better expressed than in the last half of the fourth stanza. The author's 
 private correspondence at the time shov\'s that the shaping and informing spirit 
 of the piece was not a thing assumed for any purpose of art. In a letter to a 
 friend, dated March 16,1805, he wrote as follows; "For myself, I feel that there 
 is something cut out of my life which cannot be restored. I never thought of him 
 but with hope and delight : we looked forward to the time, not distant, as we thought, 
 Avhen he would settle near us, when the task of his life would be over, and he would 
 have nothing to do but reap his reward, I never wrote a line without a thought of 
 its giving him plcasui-e : my WTitings, printed and manuscript, were his delight, 
 and one of the chief solaces of his long voj^ages. But I will not be cast down ; were 
 it only for his sake, I will not be dejected : and I hope, when I shall be able to think 
 of him Avith a calmer mind, that the remembrance of him dead will even animate me 
 more than the joy which I had in him living." 
 
 8 Light will be thrown u])on the tragic circumstance alluded to in this poem, 
 when, after the death of Charles Lamb's Sister, his biographer, Mr. Sergeant Tal- 
 foiTrd, shall be at liberty to relate particulars which could not, at the time his Me- 
 moir was written, be given to the pubUc. Maiy Lamb was ten years older than her 
 brother, and has survived him as long a time. Were I to give way to my own feel- 
 ings, I should dwell not only on her genius and intellectual power, but upon the 
 delicacy andrefinement of manner which she maintained inviolable iindcr the most 
 trying circumstances. She was loved and honoured by all her brother's fi'iends; 
 and others, some of them strange characters, whom his 'philanthropic peculiarities 
 induced him to countenance. The death of Charles Lamb himself was doubtless 
 hastened by his sorrow for that of Coleridge, to whom he had been attached from 
 the time of their being school-fellows at Christ's Hospital. Lamb was a good Latin 
 scholar, and probably would have gone to college upon one of the school foundations 
 but for the impediment in his speech. — 4 wf/iors Notes, 1843. 
 
ELEGIAC PIECES. 219 
 
 With a keen eye and overflowing heart : 
 
 So genius triumph'd over seeming wrong, 
 
 And ponr'd out truth in works by thoughtful love 
 
 Inspired, — works potent over smiles and tears. 
 
 And, as round mountain-tops the lightning plays, 
 
 Thus innocently sported, breaking forth 
 
 As from a cloud of some grave sympathy, 
 
 Humour and wild instinctive wit, and all 
 
 The vivid flashes of his spoken words. 
 
 From the most gentle creature nursed in fields 
 
 Had been derived the name he bore, — a name. 
 
 Wherever Christian altars have been raised, 
 
 Hallow'd to meekness and to innocence ; 
 
 And if in him meekness at times gave way. 
 
 Provoked out of herself by troubles strange, 
 
 Many and strange, that hung about his life ; 
 
 Still, at the centre of his being, lodged 
 
 A soul by resignation sanctified : 
 
 And if too often, self-reproach'd, he felt 
 
 That innocence belongs not to our kind, 
 
 A power that never ceased to abide in him, 
 
 Charity, 'mid the multitude of sins 
 
 That she can cover, left not his exposed 
 
 To an unforgiving judgment from just Heaven. 
 
 0, he was good, if e'er a good Man lived 1 
 
 From a reflecting mind and sorrowing heart 
 
 Those simple lines flow'd with an earnest wish. 
 
 Though but a doubting hope, that they might serve 
 
 Fitly to guard the precious dust of him 
 
 Whose virtues call'd them forth. That aim is miss'd; 
 
 For much that truth most urgently required 
 
 Had from a faltering pen been ask'd in vain : 
 
 Yet, haply, on the printed page received, 
 
 Th' imperfect record, there, may stand unblamed 
 
 As long as verse of mine shall breathe the air 
 
 Of memory, or see the light of love. 
 
 Thou wert a scorner of the fields, my Friend, 
 But more in show than truth ; and from the fields, 
 And from the mountains, to thy rural grave 
 Transported, my soothed spirit hovers o'er 
 Its green untrodden turf and blowing flowers ; 
 And taking up a voice shall speak (though still 
 Awed by the theme's peculiar sanctity 
 Which words less free presumed not even to touch) 
 Of that fraternal love whose Heaven-lit lamp 
 
220 WORDSWOETH. 
 
 From infancy, through manhood, to the last 
 Of threescore years, and to thy latest hour. 
 Burnt on with ever-strengthening light, enshrined 
 "Within thy bosom. 
 
 " Wonderful " hath been 
 The loye established between man and man, 
 "Passing the love of women; " and between 
 Man and his help-mate in fast wedlock join'd 
 Through God, is raised a spirit and soul of love 
 Without whose blissful influence Paradise 
 Had been no Paradise ; and Earth were now 
 A waste where creatures bearing human form, 
 Direst of savage beasts, would roam in fear. 
 Joyless and comfortless. Our days glide on ; 
 And let him grieve who cannot choose but grieve. 
 That he hath been an Elm without his Vine, 
 And her bright dower of clustering charities, 
 That round his trunk and branches might have clung, 
 Enriching and adorning. Unto thee, 
 Not so enrich'd, not so adorn'd, to thee 
 Was given (say rather thou of later birth 
 Wert given to her) a Sister, — 'tis a word 
 Timidly utter'd, for she lives, the meek. 
 The self -restraining, and the ever-kind, — 
 In whom thy reason and intelligent heart 
 Eound — for all interests, hopes, and tender cares. 
 All softening, humanising, hallowing powers. 
 Whether withheld, or for her sake unsought — 
 More than sufficient recompense I® — Her love 
 (What w^eakness prompts the voice to tell it here ?) 
 Was as the love of mothers; and when years, 
 Lifting the boy to man's estate, had call'd 
 The long-protected to assume the part 
 Of a protector, the first filial tie 
 Was undissolved ; and, in or out of sight, 
 Remain'd imperishably interwoven 
 With life itself. Thus, 'mid a shifting world, 
 Did they together testify of time 
 And season's difference, — a double tree 
 With two collateral stems sprung from one root ; — 
 Such were they ; such thro' life they might have been 
 In union, in partition only such ; 
 Otherwise wrought the will of the Most High ; 
 Yet, through all visitations and all trials, 
 
 9 Wordsworth here delicately hints that Lamb refrained from matrimonial ties 
 on account of his sister, whose sad infirmity seemed to him to invest her claims 
 with peculiar sacredness. And such, I believe, was the fact. 
 
 J 
 
ECCLESIASTICAL SONNETS. 221 
 
 Still they were faithful;^ like two vessels launch'd 
 From the same beach one ocean to explore 
 With mutual help, and sailing, — to their league 
 True, as inexorable winds, or bars 
 Floating or fix'd of polar ice, allow. 
 
 But turn we rather, let my spirit turn 
 With thine, silent and invisible Friend ! 
 To those dear intervals, nor rare nor brief, 
 When reunited, and by choice withdrawn 
 From miscellaneous converse, ye were taught 
 That the remembrance of foregone distress, 
 And the worse fear of future ill (which oft 
 Doth hang around it, as a sickly child 
 Upon its mother) may be both alike 
 Disarm'd of power to unsettle present good 
 So prized, and things inward and outward held 
 In such an even balance, that the heart 
 Acknowledges God's grace, His mercy feels, 
 And in its depth of gratitude is still. 
 
 gift divine of quiet sequestration ! 
 The hermit, exercised in prayer and praise, 
 And feeding daily on the hope of Heaven, 
 Is happy in his vow, and fondly cleaves 
 To life-long singleness ; but happier far 
 Was to your souls, and, to the thoughts of others, 
 A thousand times more beautiful appear'd. 
 Your dual loneliness. The sacred tie 
 Is broken ; yet why grieve ? for Time but holds 
 His moiety in trust, till Joy shall lead 
 To the blest world where parting is unknown. [1835. 
 
 ECCLESIASTICAL SONNETS.^ 
 
 GLAD TIDIKGS. 
 
 For ever hallow'd be this morning fair. 
 
 Blest be th' unconscious shore on which ye tread, 
 
 1 Since the publication of Talfourd's Final Memorials of Charles Lamb, in 1848, the 
 matter here referi-ed to has become well known. Mary Lamb was subject to dread- 
 ful turns of insanity, during which she had to be separated from her brother, and 
 kept in close confinement. In a letter to Coleridge, dated September 27, 1796, Lamb 
 has the following: " My poor dear, dearest sister, in a lit of insanity, has been the 
 death of her own mothei*. I was at hand only time enough to snatch the knife out 
 of her grasp. She is at present in a madhouse, from whence I fear she must be 
 moved to an hospital." 
 
 2 Of this series of Sonnets, much the greater number are not particularly suited 
 to the purpose of this volume. But some of them, besides being exceedingly beau- 
 tiful in themselves, are fully in keeping with that purpose, and are withal so mellow 
 with Christian gentleness and wisdom, that I could not make up my mind to leave 
 them out. 
 
222 WOEDSWORTH. 
 
 And blest the silver Cross, which ye, instead 
 
 Of martial banner, in procession bear ; 
 
 The Cross preceding Him who floats in air. 
 
 The pictured Saviour ! — By Augustin led. 
 
 They come, and onward travel without dread. 
 
 Chanting in barbarous ears a tuneful prayer, — 
 
 Sung for themselves, and those whom they would free! 
 
 Eich conquest waits them : — the tempestuous sea 
 
 Of Ignorance, that ran so rough and high, 
 
 And heeded not the voice of clashing swords, 
 
 These good men humble by a few bare words, 
 
 And calm with fear of God's divinity. 
 
 PAULINUS. 
 
 But, to remote N'orthumbria's royal Hall, 
 
 "Where thoughtful Edwin, tutor'd in the school 
 
 Of sorrow, still maintains a heathen rule, 
 
 WJio comes with functions apostolical ? 
 
 Mark him, of shoulders curved, and stature tall, 
 
 Black hair, and vivid eye, and meagre cheek, 
 
 His prominent feature like an eagle's beak ; 
 
 A Man whose aspect doth at once appal 
 
 And strike with reverence.* The Monarch leans 
 
 Toward the pure triiths this Delegate propounds ; 
 
 Eepeatedly his own deep mind he sounds 
 
 With careful hesitation ; then convenes 
 
 A synod of his Councillors: — give ear. 
 
 And what a pensive Sage doth utter, hear ! 
 
 PERSUASIOlf. 
 
 " Mak's life is like a Sparrow, mighty King ! 
 That — while at banquet with your Chiefs you sit 
 Housed near a blazing fire — is seen to flit 
 Safe from the wintry tempest. Fluttering, 
 Here did it enter ; there, on hasty wing, 
 Flies out, and passes on from cold to cold ; 
 But whence it came we know not, nor behold 
 Whither it goes. Even such, that transient Thing, 
 The human Soul ; not utterly unknown 
 While in the Body lodged, her warm abode ; 
 But from what world She came, what woe or weal 
 On her departure waits, no tongue hath shown : 
 
 3 The person of Paulinus is thus described by Bede, from the memory of an eye- 
 witness : " Liongre staturae, pauli^um incurvus, nigro capillo, facie macilenta, naso 
 adunco, pertenui, venerabilis simul et terribilis aspectu." 
 
ECCLESIASTICAL SONNETS. 223 
 
 This mystery if the Stranger can reveal. 
 His be a welcome cordially bestow'd ! " * 
 
 CONVERSION. 
 
 Prompt transformation works the novel Lore : 
 
 The Council closed, the Priest in full career 
 
 Eides forth, an armed man, and hurls a spear 
 
 To desecrate the Fane which heretofore 
 
 He served in folly. Woden falls, and Thor 
 
 Is overturn'd; the mace, in battle heaved 
 
 (So might they dream) till victory was achieved. 
 
 Drops, and the God himself is seen no more. 
 
 Temple and Altar sink, to hide their shame 
 
 Amid oblivious weeds. — 0, come to me, 
 
 Ye heavy laden I such th' inviting voice 
 
 Heard near fresh streams ;^ and thousands, who rejoice 
 
 In the new Rite, — the pledge of sanctity, — 
 
 Shall, by regenerate life, the promise claim. 
 
 PRIMITIVE SAXON CLERGY.'' 
 
 How beautiful your presence, how benign. 
 
 Servants of God ! who not a thought will share 
 
 With the vain world ; who, outwardly as bare 
 
 As winter trees, yield no fallacious sign 
 
 That the firm soul is clothed with fruit divine ! 
 
 Such Priest, when service worthy of his care 
 
 Has call'd him forth to breathe the common air. 
 
 Might seem a saintly Image from its shrine 
 
 Descended : — happy are the eyes that meet 
 
 The Apparition ; evil thoughts are stay'd 
 
 At his approach, and low-bow'd necks entreat 
 
 A benediction from his voice or hand ; 
 
 Whence grace, through which the heart can understand. 
 
 And vows, that bind the will, in silence made. 
 
 SECLUSION. 
 
 Lance, shield, and sword relinquish'd, at his side 
 A bead-roll, in his hand a clasped book, 
 
 4 The original of this speech is given by Bede; and the Conversion of Edwin as 
 related by him is highly interesting. 
 
 5 The early propagators of Christianity were accustomed to preach near rivers, 
 for the convenience of baptism. 
 
 6 Having spoken of the zeal, disinterestedness, and temperance of the clergy of 
 those times, Bede thus proceeds : " Unde et in magna erat veneratione tempore iilo 
 religionis habitus, ita ut ubicunque clericus aliquis, aut mouachus adveniret, 
 gaudenter ab omnibus tanquam Dei famulus exciperetur. Etiam si in itinere 
 pergens inveniretur, accurrebant, et llexa cervice, vel manu signari, vel ore illius 
 se benedici, gaudebant. Verbis quoque horum exhortatoriis diligenter auditum 
 prsebebant." 
 
224 WORDSWOKTH, 
 
 Or staff more harmless than a shepherd's crook, 
 
 The war-worn Chieftain quits the world, to hide 
 
 His thin autumnal locks where Monks abide 
 
 In cloister'd priyacy. But not to dwell 
 
 In soft repose he comes. Within his cell, 
 
 Round the decaying trunk of human pride, 
 
 At morn, and eve, and midnight's silent hour, 
 
 Do penitential cogitations cling ; 
 
 Like ivy, round some ancient elm, they twine 
 
 In grisly folds and strictures serpentine ; 
 
 Yet, while they strangle, a fair growth they bring. 
 
 For recompense, — their own perennial bower. 
 
 EEPEOOF. 
 
 But what if One, through grove or flowery mead. 
 
 Indulging thus at will the creeping feet 
 
 Of a voluptuous indolence, should meet 
 
 Thy hovering Shade, venerable Bede ! 
 
 The saint, the scholar, from a circle freed 
 
 Of toil stupendous, in a hallow'd seat 
 
 Of learning, where thou heard'st the billows beat 
 
 On a wild coast, — rough monitors, to feed 
 
 Perpetual industry. Sublime Recluse ! 
 
 The recreant soul, that dares to shun the debt 
 
 Imposed on human kind, must first forget 
 
 Thy diligence, thy unrelaxing use 
 
 Of a long life ; and, in the hour of death. 
 
 The last dear service of thy passing breath ! ' 
 
 MISSIOifS AKD TEAYELS. 
 
 Not sedentary all : there are who roam 
 
 To scatter seeds of life on barbarous shores ; 
 
 Or quit with zealous step their knee-worn floors 
 
 To seek the general mart of Christendom; 
 
 Whence they, like richly-laden merchants, come 
 
 To their beloved cells : — or shall we say 
 
 That, like the Red-cross Knight, they urge their way, 
 
 To lead in memorable triumph home 
 
 Truth, their immortal Una ? Babylon, 
 
 Learned and wise, hath perish'd utterly, 
 
 Nor leaves her Speech one word to aid the sigh 
 
 That would lament her ; — Memphis, Tyre, are gone 
 
 With all their Arts, — but classic lore glides on 
 
 By these Religious saved for all posterity. 
 
 7 He expired dictating the last words of a translation of St. John's Gospel. 
 
ECCLESIASTICAL SONNETS. 225 
 
 ALFRED. 
 
 Behold a pupil of the monkish gown, 
 
 The pious Alfred, King to Justice dear! 
 
 Lord of the harp and liberating spear; 
 
 Mirror of Princes ! Indigent Renown 
 
 Might range the starry ether for a crown 
 
 Equal to Ms deserts, who, like the year. 
 
 Pours forth his bounty, like the day doth cheer, 
 
 And awes like night with mercy-temper'd frown. 
 
 Ease from this noble miser of his time 
 
 No moment steals ; pain narrows not his cares.® 
 
 Though small his kingdom as a spark or gem. 
 
 Of Alfred boasts remote Jerusalem, 
 
 And Christian India, through her wide-spread clime, 
 
 In sacred converse gifts with Alfred shares. 
 
 HIS DESCENDANTS. 
 
 When thy great soul was freed from mortal chains, 
 
 Darling of England ! many a bitter shower 
 
 Eell on thy tomb ; but emulative power 
 
 Elow'd in thy line through undegenerate veins. 
 
 The Race of Alfred covet glorious pains 
 
 When dangers threaten, dangers ever new ! 
 
 Black tempest bursting, blacker still in view ! 
 
 But manly sovereignty its hold retains; 
 
 The root sincere, the branches bold to strive 
 
 With the fierce tempest, while, within the round 
 
 Of their protection, gentle virtues thrive ; 
 
 As oft, 'mid some green plot of open ground. 
 
 Wide as the oak extends its dewy gloom. 
 
 The foster'd hyacinths spread their purple bloom. 
 
 CANUTE. 
 
 A PLEASANT music floats along the Mere, 
 
 From Monks in Ely chanting service high, 
 
 While-as Canute the King is rowing by : 
 
 " My Oarsmen,^' quoth the mighty King, " draw near, 
 
 That we the sweet song of the Monks may hear ! " 
 
 He listens, (all past conquests and all schemes 
 
 Of future vanishing like empty dreams,) 
 
 Heart-touch'd, and haply not without a tear. 
 
 The Royal Minstrel, ere the choir is still. 
 
 While his free Barge skims the smooth flood along, 
 
 Gives to that rapture an accordant Rhyme. 
 
 8 Through the whole of his life, Alfred was subject to grievous maladies. 
 
226 WORDSWORTH. 
 
 suffering Earth ! be thankful ; sternest clime 
 And rudest age are subject to the thrill 
 Of heaven-descended Piety and Song. 
 
 CISTERTIAN MONASTERY. 
 
 " Here Man more purely liveSy less oft doth fall, 
 More promptly rises, walks with stricter heed, 
 More safely rests, dies happier, is freed 
 Earlier from cleansing fires, and gains withal 
 A hrighter crotun.'^^ — On yon Oistertian wall 
 That confident assurance may be read ; 
 And, to like shelter, from the world have fled 
 Increasing multitudes. The potent call 
 Doubtless shall cheat full oft the heart's desires; 
 Yet, while the rugged Age on pliant knee 
 Vows to rapt Fancy humble fealty, 
 A gentler life spreads round the holy spires ; 
 Where'er they rise, the sylvan waste retires, 
 And aery harvests crown the fertile lea. 
 
 MONKS AKD SCHOOLMEN". 
 
 Record we too, with just and faithful pen, 
 That many hooded Cenobites there are, 
 Who in their private cells have yet a care 
 Of public quiet ; unambitious Men, 
 Counsellors for the world, of piercing ken ; 
 Whose fervent exhortations from afar 
 Move Princes to their duty, peace or war ; 
 And oft-times in the most forbidding den 
 Of solitude, with love of science strong. 
 How patiently the yoke of thought they bear ! 
 How subtly glide its finest threads along! 
 Spirits that crowd the intellectual sphere 
 With mazy boundaries, as the astronomer 
 With orb and cycle girds the starry throng. 
 
 Praised be the Rivers, from their mountain-springs 
 Shouting to Freedom, " Plant thy banners here ! " 
 To harass'd Piety, " Dismiss thy fear. 
 And in our caverns smooth thy ruffled wings ! " 
 Nor be unthank'd their final lingerings — 
 Silent, but not to high-soui'd Passion's ear — 
 
 9 '• Bonum est nos hie esse, quia homo vivit purius, cadit rarius, surffit velocius, 
 incedit cautius, quiescit securius, moritur felicius, purgatur citius.prffitniatxir copio- 
 sius." Bermu-d. "This sentence," says Dr. Whitaker, "is usually inscribed in 
 some conspicuous part of the Cistertian houses." 
 
ECCLESIASTICAL SONNETS. 227 
 
 'Mid reedy fens wide-spread and marshes drear, 
 Their own creation. Such glad welcomings 
 As Po was heard to give where Venice rose, 
 Hail'd from aloft those Heirs of trntli divine 
 Who near his fountains sought obscure repose, 
 Yet came prepared as glorious lights to shine, 
 Should that be needed for their sacred Charge ; 
 Blest Prisoners They, whose spirits were at large ! 
 
 DISSOLUTION OF THE MONASTERIES. 
 
 Threats come which no submission may assuage, 
 
 No sacrifice avert, no power dispute ; 
 
 The tapers shall be quench'd, the belfries mute. 
 
 And, 'mid their choirs unroof'd by selfish rage 
 
 The warbling wren shall find a leafy cage ; 
 
 The gadding bramble hang her purple fruit ; 
 
 And the green lizard and the gilded newt 
 
 Lead unmolested lives, and die of age. 
 
 The owl of evening and the woodland fox 
 
 For their abode the shrines of Waltham choose : 
 
 Proud Glastonbury can no more refuse 
 
 To stoop her head before these desperate shocks, — 
 
 She whose high pomp displaced, as story tells, 
 
 Arimathean Joseph's wattled cells. 
 
 THE SAME subject. 
 
 The lovely Nun (submissive, but more meek 
 
 Through saintly habit than from effort due. 
 
 To unrelenting mandates that pursue 
 
 "With equal wrath the steps of strong and weak) 
 
 Goes forth, — unveiling timidly a cheek 
 
 Suffused with blushes of celestial hue. 
 
 While through the Convent's gate to open view 
 
 Softly she glides, another home to seek. 
 
 Not Iris, issuing from her cloudy shrine, 
 
 An Apparition more divinely bright ! 
 
 Not more attractive to the dazzled sight 
 
 Those watery glories, on the stormy brine 
 
 Pour'd forth, while summer suns at distance shine, 
 
 And the green vales lie hush'd in sober light ! 
 
 THE VIRGIN. 
 
 Mother! whose virgin bosom was uncrost 
 With the least shade of thought to sin allied ; 
 Woman ! above all women glorified, 
 
228 WORDSWORTH. 
 
 Our tainted nature's solitary boast; 
 Purer than foam on central ocean tost ; 
 Brighter than eastern skies at daybreak strewn 
 With fancied roses, than th' unblemish'd Moon 
 Before her wane begins on heaven's blue coast ; 
 Thy Image falls to earth. Yet some, I ween, 
 Not unf orgiven the suppliant knee might bend, 
 As to a visible Power, in which did blend 
 All that was mix'd and reconciled in Thee 
 Of mother's love with maiden purity, 
 Of high with low, celestial with terrene ! 
 
 APOLOGY. 
 
 Not utterly unworthy to endure 
 
 Was the supremacy of crafty Rome ; 
 
 Age after age to th' arch of Christendom 
 
 Aerial keystone haughtily secure ; 
 
 Supremacy from Heaven transmitted pure. 
 
 As many hold ; and therefore to the tomb 
 
 Pass, some through fire, and by the scaffold some, — 
 
 Like saintly Fisher, and unbending More. 
 
 " Lightly for both the bosom's lord did sit 
 
 Upon his throne ; " unsof ten'd, undismay'd 
 
 By aught that mingled with the tragic scene 
 
 Of pity or fear ; and More's gay genius play'd 
 
 With th' inoffensive sword of native wit. 
 
 Than the bare axe more luminous and keen. 
 
 IMAGIi^ATIVE REGRETS. 
 
 Deep is the lamentation ! Not alone 
 From Sages justly honour'd by mankind; 
 But from the ghostly tenants of the wind, 
 Demons and Spirits, many a dolorous groan 
 Issues for that dominion overthrown : 
 Proud Tiber grieves, and far-off Ganges, blind 
 As his own worshippers : and Nile, reclined 
 Upon his monstrous urn, the farewell moan 
 Eenews. Through every forest, cave, and den. 
 Where frauds were hatch'd of old, hath sorrow past, 
 Hangs o'er th' Arabian Prophet's native Waste, 
 Where once his airy helpers schemed and plann'd 
 'Mid spectral lakes bemocking thirsty men. 
 And stalking pillars built of fiery sand. 
 
 TRANSLATION OF THE BIBLE. 
 
 But, to outweigh all harm, the sacred Book, 
 In dusty sequestration wrapt too long. 
 
ECCLESIASTICAL SONNETS. 229 
 
 Assumes tlie accents of our native tongue ; 
 
 And he who guides the plough, or wields the crook, 
 
 With understanding spirit now may look 
 
 Upon her records, listen to her song, 
 
 And sift her laws, — much wondering that the wrong. 
 
 Which Faith has suiler'd. Heaven could calmly brook. 
 
 Transcendent boon ! noblest that earthly King 
 
 Ever bestow'd, to equalize and bless 
 
 Under the weight of mortal wretchedness ! 
 
 But passions spread like plagues, and thousands wild 
 
 With bigotry shall tread the Offering 
 
 Beneath their feet, detested and defiled. 
 
 EDWARD VI. 
 
 " Sweet is the holiness of Youth," — so felt 
 
 Time-honour'd Chaucer speaking through that Lay 
 
 By which the Prioress beguiled the way. 
 
 And many a Pilgrim's rugged heart did melt. 
 
 Hadst thou, loved Bard ! whose spirit often dwelt 
 
 In the clear land of vision, but foreseen 
 
 King, child, and seraph, blended in the mien 
 
 Of pious Edward kneeling as he knelt 
 
 In meek and simple infancy, what joy 
 
 For universal Christendom had thrill' d 
 
 Thy heart ! what hopes inspired thy genius, skill'd 
 
 (0 great Precursor, genuine morning Star) 
 
 The lucid shafts of reason to employ, 
 
 Piercing the Papal darkness from afar ! 
 
 EDWAED SIGNING THE WARRANT FOR THE EXECUTION OP 
 JOAN OP KENT. 
 
 The tears of man in various measure gush 
 
 From various sources : gently overflow 
 
 From blissful transport some ; from clefts of woe 
 
 Some with ungovernable impulse rush; 
 
 And some, coeval with the earliest blush 
 
 Of infant passion, scarcely dare to show 
 
 Their pearly lustre, — coming but to go ; 
 
 And some break forth when others' sorrows crush 
 
 The sympathising heart. Nor these, nor yet 
 
 The noblest drops to admiration known, 
 
 To gratitude, to injuries forgiven, 
 
 Claim Heaven's regard like waters that have wet 
 
 The innocent eyes of youthful Monarchs driven 
 
 To pen the mandates nature doth disown. 
 
230 WOKDSWORTH. 
 
 LATIMER AKD RIDLEY. 
 
 How fast the Marian deaMi-list is unroll'd! 
 
 See Latimer and Eidley in the might 
 
 Of Faith stand coupled for a common flight ! 
 
 One, (like those prophets whom God sent of old,) 
 
 Transfigured, from this kindling hath foretold 
 
 A torch of inextinguishable light ; ^® 
 
 The Other gains a coufidence as bold; 
 
 And thus they foil their enemy's despite. 
 
 The penal instruments, the shows of crime, 
 
 Are glorified while this once-mitred pair 
 
 Of saintly Friends the " murtherer's chain partake, 
 
 Corded, and burning at the social stake : " 
 
 Earth never witness'd object more sublime 
 
 In constancy, in fellowship more fair ! 
 
 EMIi^ENT REFORMERS. 
 
 Methikks that I could trip o'er heaviest soil, 
 Light as a buoyant bark from wave to wave. 
 Were mine the trusty staff that Jewel gave 
 To youthful Hooker, in familiar style 
 The gift exalting, and with pla}rful smile ; ^^ 
 For, thus equipped, and bearing on his head 
 The Donor's farewell blessing, can he dread 
 Tempest, or length of way, or weight of toil ? — 
 More sweet than odours caught by him who sails 
 Near spicy shores of Araby the blest, 
 A thousand times more exquisitely sweet, 
 
 10 M. Latimer suffered his keeper very quietly to pull off his hose, and his other 
 array, which to looke into %yas very simple : and being stripped into his shi'owd, he 
 seemed as comely a person to them that were present, as one should lightly see : 
 and whereas in his clothes hee appeared a Avithered and crooked sillie (weak) olde 
 man, he now stood bolt upright, as comely a father as one might lightly behold. 
 .... Then they brought a faggotte, kindled with fire, and laid the same downe 
 at Dr. Ridley's feete. To whome M. Latimer spake in this manner, "Bee of good 
 comfort, master Ridley, and play the man : Avee shall this day light such a candle by 
 God's gi'ace in England, as I trust shall never be put out." — Fox^s Acts, d-c. 
 
 11 On foot they went, and took Salisbury in their waj^, purposely to see the good 
 Bishop, who made Mr. Hooker sit at his own table ; AVhich Mr. Hooker boasted of 
 with much joy and gratitude when he saw his mother and friends; and at the 
 Bishop's parting with him, the Bishop give him good counsel and his benediction, 
 but forgot to give him money; which when the Bishop had considered, he sent a 
 servant in all haste to call Richard back to him, and at Richard's return, the Bishop 
 said to him, " Richard, I sent for you back to lend you a horse which hath carried 
 me many a mile, and I thank God with much ease," and presently delivered into his 
 hand a walking-staff, with which he professed he had travelled through many parts 
 of Germany; and he said, " Richard, I do not give, but lend you my horse; be sure 
 you be honest, and bring my horse back to me, at your return this" way to Oxford. 
 And I do now give j-ou ten groats to bear your charges to Exeter; ami here is ten 
 groats more, which I charge you to deliver to your mother, and tell her I send her 
 a Bishop's benediction with it, and beg the continuance of her prayers for me. And 
 if you bring my horse back to me, I will give you ten groats more to carry you on 
 foot to the college; and so God bless you, good Richard." — Walton's Life of Richard 
 Hooker. 
 
ECCLESIASTICAL SOKNETS. 231 
 
 The freight of holy feeling which we meet, 
 
 In thoughtful moments, wafted by the gales [rest. 
 
 From fields where good men walk, or bowers wherein they 
 
 Holy and heavenly Spirits as they are. 
 
 Spotless in life, and eloquent as wise. 
 
 With what entire affection do they prize 
 
 Their Church reform'd ! labouring with earnest care 
 
 To baffle all that may her strength impair ; 
 
 That Church, the unperverted Gospel's seat; 
 
 In their afflictions a divine retreat; 
 
 Source of their liveliest hope, and tenderest prayer ! 
 
 The truth exploring with an equal mind, 
 
 In doctrine and communion they have sought 
 
 Firmly between the two extremes to steer : 
 
 But theirs the wise man's ordinary lot. 
 
 To trace right courses for the stubborn blind, 
 
 And prophesy to ears that will not hear. 
 
 DISTRACTIONS. 
 
 Men", who have ceased to reverence, soon defy 
 Their forefathers : lo ! sects are form'd, and split 
 With morbid restlessness ; — th' ecstatic fit 
 Spreads wide ; though special mysteries multiply. 
 The Saints must govern, is their common cry : 
 And so they labour, deeming Holy Writ 
 Disgraced by aught that seems content to sit 
 Beneath the roof of settled Modesty. 
 The Romanist exults ; fresh hope he draws 
 From the confusion, craftily incites 
 The overweening, personates the mad, — 
 To heap disgust upon the worthier Cause : 
 Totters the Throne ; the new-born Church is sad, 
 For every wave against her peace unites. 
 
 THE JUKG-FRAU AKD THE FALL OF THE RHINE NEAR 
 SCHAEFHAUSEN. 
 
 The Virgin Mountain, wearing like a Queen 
 A brilliant crown of everlasting snow, 
 Sheds ruin from her sides ; and men below 
 Wonder that aught of aspect so serene 
 Can link with desolation. Smooth and green. 
 And seeming, at a little distance, slow, 
 The waters of the Rhine ; but on they go 
 Fretting and whitening, keener and more keen ; 
 
232 WOKDSWORTH. 
 
 Till madness seizes on the whole wide Flood, 
 Turn'd to a fearful Thing whose nostrils breathe 
 Blasts of tempestuous smoke, — wherewith he tries 
 To hide himself, but only magnifies ; 
 And doth in more conspicuous torment writhe, 
 Deafening the region in his ireful mood. 
 
 EvEK such the contrast that, where'er we move, 
 
 To the mind's eye Keligion doth present ; 
 
 Now with her own deep quietness content ; 
 
 Then, like the mountain, thundering from above 
 
 Against the ancient pine-trees of the grove 
 
 And the Land's humblest comforts. Now her mood 
 
 Eecalls the transformation of the flood, 
 
 Whose rage the gentle skies in vain reprove, 
 
 Earth cannot check. terrible excess 
 
 Of headstrong will ! Can this be Piety ? 
 
 •No ! some fierce Maniac hath usurp'd her name ; 
 
 And scourges England struggling to be free : 
 
 Her peace destroy'd! her hopes a wilderness! 
 
 Her blessings cursed, her glory turn'd to shame ! 
 
 AFFLICTIONS OF EKGLAKD. 
 
 Harp ! could'st thou venture, on thy boldest string. 
 
 The faintest note to echo which the blast 
 
 Caught from the hand of Moses as it pass'd 
 
 O'er Sinai's top, or from the Shepherd-king, 
 
 Early awake, by Siloa's brook, to sing 
 
 Of dread Jehovah ; then should wood and waste 
 
 Hear also of that name, and mercy cast 
 
 Off to the mountains, like a covering 
 
 Of which the Lord was weary. Weep, ! weep, 
 
 Weep with the good, beholding King and Priest 
 
 Despised by that stern God to whom they raise 
 
 Their suppliant hands : but holy is the feast 
 
 He keepeth ; like the firmament His ways ; 
 
 His statutes like the chambers of the deep. 
 
 waltok's book of lives. 
 
 There are no colours in the fairest sky 
 
 So fair as these. The feather, whence the pen 
 
 Was shaped that traced the lives of these good men, 
 
 Dropp'd from. an Angel's wing. With moisten'd eye 
 
 W^e read of faith and purest charity 
 
 In Statesman, Priest, and humble Citizen : 
 
ECCLESIASTICAL SONJ^ETS. 233 
 
 0, could we copy their mild virtues, then 
 What joy to live, what blessedness to die ! 
 Methiuks their very names shine still and bright; 
 Apart — like glow-worms on a summer night ; 
 Or lonely tapers when from far they fling 
 A guiding ray ; or seen — like stars on high, 
 Satellites burning in a lucid ring 
 Around meek Walton's heavenly memory. 
 
 PERSECUTIOi^ OF THE SCOTTISH COVE:N"AlvrTERS. 
 
 Whek Alpine Vales threw forth a suppliant cry, 
 
 The majesty of England interposed 
 
 And the sword stopp'd ; the bleeding wounds were closed ; 
 
 And Faith preserved her ancient purity. 
 
 How little boots that precedent of good, 
 
 Scorn'd or forgotten, Thou canst testify. 
 
 For England's shame, Sister Eealm ! from wood, 
 
 Mountain, and moor, and crowded street, where lie 
 
 The headless martyrs of the Covenant, 
 
 Slain by Compatriot-protestants that draw 
 
 From councils senseless as intolerant 
 
 Their warrant. Bodies fall by wild sword-law ; 
 
 But who would force the Soul, tilts with a straw 
 
 Against a Champion cased in adamant. 
 
 PLACES or WORSHIP. 
 
 As star that shines dependent upon star 
 
 Is to the sky while we look up in love ; 
 
 As to the deep fair ships which though they move 
 
 Seem fix'd, to eyes that watch them from afar; 
 
 As to the sandy desert fountains are, 
 
 With palm-groves shaded at wide intervals, 
 
 Whose fruit around the sun-burnt Native falls 
 
 Of roA'ing tired or desultory war, — 
 
 Such to this British Isle her Christian Fanes, 
 
 Each link'd to each for kindred services ; 
 
 Her Spires, her Steeple-towers with glittering vanes 
 
 Far-kenn'd, her Chapels lurking among trees, 
 
 Where a few villagers on bended knees 
 
 Find solace which a busy world disdains. 
 
 PASTORAL CHARACTER. 
 
 A GENIAL hearth, a hospitable board, 
 
 And a refined rusticity, belong 
 
 To the neat mansion, where, his flock among, 
 
234 WORDSWOETH. 
 
 The learned Pastor dwells, their watchful Lord. 
 Though meek and patient as a sheathed sword ; 
 Though pride's least lurking thought appear a wrong 
 To human kind; though peace be on his tongue, 
 Gentleness in his heart, — can Earth afford 
 Such genuine state, pre-eminence so free, 
 As when, array'd in Christ's authority. 
 He from the pulpit lifts his awful hand ; 
 Conjures, implores, and labours all he can 
 For re-subjecting to divine command 
 The stubborn spirit of rebellious man ? 
 
 SPONSORS. 
 
 Father ! to God himself we cannot give 
 A holier name! then lightly do not bear 
 Both names conjoin'd, but of thy spiritual care 
 Be duly mindful : still more sensitive 
 Do Thou, in truth a second Mother, strive 
 Against disheartening custom, that by Thee 
 Watch'd, and with love and pious industry 
 Tended at need, th' adopted Plant may thrive 
 For everlasting bloom. Benign and pure 
 This Ordinance, whether loss it would supply, 
 Prevent omission, help deficiency. 
 Or seek to make assurance doubly sure. 
 Shame if the consecrated Vow be found 
 An idle form, the Word an empty sound ! 
 
 CATECHISIN^G. 
 
 From Little down to Least, in due degree, 
 Around the Pastor, each in new-wrought vest, 
 Each with a vernal posy at his breast, 
 We stood, a trembling, earnest Company! 
 With low soft murmur, like a distant bee. 
 Some spake, by thought-perplexing fears betrayed; 
 And some a bold unerring answer made : 
 How flutter'd then thy anxious heart for me, 
 Beloved Mother ! thou whose happy hand 
 Had bound the flowers I wore, with faithful tie ; 
 Sweet flowers ! at whose inaudible command 
 Her countenance, phantom-like, doth re-appear: 
 0, lost too early for the frequent tear. 
 And ill requited by this heartfelt sigh ! 
 
ECCLESIASTICAL SONNETS. 235 
 
 CONFIEMATION. 
 
 I SAW a mother's eye intensely bent 
 
 Upon a Maiden trembling as she knelt ; 
 
 In and for whom the pious Mother felt 
 
 Things that we Judge of by a light too faint : 
 
 Tell, if ye may, some star-crown'd Muse, or Saint ! 
 
 Tell what rush'd in, from what she was relieved, — 
 
 Then, when her Child the hallowing touch received. 
 
 And such vibration through the Mother went 
 
 That tears burst forth amain. Did gleams appear ? 
 
 Open'd a vision of that blissful place 
 
 Where dwells a Sister-child ? And was power given 
 
 Part of her lost One's glory back to trace 
 
 Even to this Rite ? For thus She knelt, and, ere 
 
 The summer-leaf had faded, pass'd to Heaven. 
 
 EEGEETS. 
 
 Would that our scrupulous Sires had dared to leave 
 Less scanty measure of those graceful rites 
 And usages, whose due return invites 
 A stir of mind too natural to deceive ; 
 Giving to Memory help when she would weave 
 A crown for Hope ! — I dread the boasted lights 
 That all too often are but fiery blights. 
 Killing the bud o'er which in vain we grieve. 
 Go, seek, when Christmas snows discomfort bring, 
 The counter Spirit found in same gay church 
 Green with fresh holly, every pew a perch 
 In which the linnet or the thrush might sing, 
 Merry and loud and safe from prying search. 
 Strains offer'd only to the genial Spring. 
 
 MUTABILITY. 
 
 Teom low to high doth dissolution climb, 
 
 And sink from high to low, along a scale 
 
 Of awful notes, whose concord shall not fail ; 
 
 A musical but melancholy chime. 
 
 Which they can hear who meddle not with crime. 
 
 Nor avarice, nor over-anxious care. 
 
 Truth fails not ; but her outward forms that bear 
 
 The longest date do melt like frosty rime, 
 
 That in the morning whiten'd hill and plain 
 
 And is no more ; drop like the tower sublime 
 
 Of yesterday, which royally did wear 
 
236 WOEDSWORTH. 
 
 His crown of weeds, but could not even sustain 
 Some casual shout that broke the silent air, 
 Or th' unimaginable touch of Time. 
 
 OLD ABBEYS 
 
 MoN"ASTic Domes ! following my downward way, 
 
 TJntouch'd by due regret I mark'd your fall ! 
 
 Now, ruin, beauty, ancient stillness, all 
 
 Dispose to judgments temperate as we lay 
 
 On our past selves in life's declining day : 
 
 For as, by discipline of Time made wise, 
 
 We learn to tolerate th' infirmities 
 
 And faults of others, — gently as he may, 
 
 So with our own the mild Instructor deals. 
 
 Teaching us to forget them or forgive. 
 
 Perversely curious, then, for hidden ill, 
 
 "Why should we break Time's charitable seals ? 
 
 Once ye were holy, ye are holy still; 
 
 Your spirit freely let me drink, and live ! 
 
 CATHEDRALS, ETC. 
 
 Opek your gates, ye everlasting Piles ! 
 
 Types of the spiritual- Church which God hath rear'd : 
 
 Not loth we quit the ncAvly-hallow'd sward 
 
 And humble altar, 'mid your sumptuous aisles 
 
 To kneel, or thrid your intricate defiles. 
 
 Or down the nave to pace in motion slow; 
 
 Watching, with upward eye, the tall tower grow 
 
 And mount, at every step, with living wiles 
 
 Instinct, — to rouse the heart and lead the will 
 
 By a bright ladder to the world above. 
 
 Open your gates, ye Monuments of love 
 
 Divine ! thou Lincoln, on thy sovereign hill ! 
 
 Thou, stately York ! and Ye, whose splendours cheer 
 
 Isis and Cam, to patient Science dear ! 
 
 IKSIDE OF Kli^G'S COLLEGE CHAPEL, CAMBRIDGE. 
 
 Tax not the royal Saint with vain expense, 
 
 With ill-match'd aims the Architect who plann'd — 
 
 Albeit labouring for a scanty band 
 
 Of white-robed Scholars only — this immense 
 
 And glorious Work of fine intelligence ! 
 
 Give all thou canst ; high Heaven rejects the lore 
 
 Of nicely-calculated less or more : 
 
ECCLESIASTICAL SOKKETS. 237 
 
 So deem'd the man who fashion'd for the sense 
 These lofty pillars, spread that branching roof 
 Self-poised, and scoop'd into ten thousand cells, 
 Where light and shade repose, where music dwells 
 Lingering, — and wandering on as loth to die; 
 Like thoughts whose very sweetness yieldeth proof 
 That they were born for immortality. 
 
 THE SAME. 
 
 What awful perspective ! while from our sight 
 With gradual stealth the lateral windows hide 
 Their Portraitures, their stone-work glimmers, dyed 
 In the soft chequerings of a sleepy light. 
 Martyr, or King, or sainted Eremite, 
 Whoe'er ye be, that thus, yourselves unseen. 
 Imbue your prison-bars with solemn sheen. 
 Shine on, until ye fade with coming Mght ! — 
 But, from the arms of silence — list ! list ! — 
 The music bursteth into second life ; 
 The notes luxuriate, every stone is kiss'd 
 By sound, or ghost of sound, in mazy strife ; 
 Heart-thrilling strains, that cast, before the eye 
 Of the devout, a veil of ecstasy ! 
 
 CONTINUED. 
 
 They dreamt not of a perishable home 
 Who thus could build. Be mine, in hours of fear 
 Or grovelling thought, to seek a refuge here ; 
 Or through the aisles of Westminster to roam ; 
 Where bubbles burst, and folly's dancing foam 
 Melts if it cross the threshold ; where the wreath 
 Of awe-struck wisdom droo23S : or let my path 
 Lead to that younger Pile, whose sky-like dome 
 Hath typified by reach of daring art 
 Infinity's embrace ; whose guardian crest, 
 The silent Cross, among the stars shall spread 
 As now, when she hath also seen her breast 
 Fill'd with mementos, satiate with its part 
 Of grateful England's overflowing Dead. 
 
238 WOKDSWORTH. 
 
 ON THE POWER OF SOUND. 
 
 AEGUMEJ^T. 
 
 The Ear addressed, as occupied by a spiritual functionary, in communion with 
 sounds, individual, or combined in studied harmony. — Sources and effects of 
 those sounds. — The power of music, whence proceeding, exemplified in the idiot. — 
 Origin of music, and its eflect in early ages. — The mind recalled to sounds acting 
 casually and sevei*ally. — Wish uttered that these could be united into a scheme or 
 system for moral interests and intellectual contemplation. — The Pythagorean 
 theory of numbers and music, with their supposed power over the motions of the 
 universe — imaginations consonant with such a theory. — Wish expressed, re- 
 alised in some degree, by the representation of all sounds under the foi'm of 
 thanksgiving to the Creator. — The destruction of earth and the planetary system 
 — the survival of audible harmony, and its support in. the Divine Nature, as re- 
 vealed in Holy Writ. 
 
 Thy functions are ethereal, 
 
 As if within thee dwelt a glancing mind, 
 
 Organ of vision! And a Spirit aerial 
 
 Informs the cell of Hearing, dark and blind; 
 
 Intricate labyrinth, more dread for thought 
 
 To enter than oracular cave ; 
 
 Strict passage, through which sighs are brought. 
 
 And whispers for the heart, their slave ; 
 
 And shrieks, that revel in abuse 
 
 Of shivering flesh ; and warbled air, 
 
 Whose piercing sweetness can unloose 
 
 The chains of frenzy, or entice a smile 
 
 Into the ambush of despair ; 
 
 Hosannas pealing down the long-drawn aisle. 
 
 And requiems answer'd by the pulse that beats 
 
 Devoutly, in life's last retreats ! ^ 
 
 The headlong streams and fountains 
 
 Serve Thee, invisible Spirit, with untired powers ; 
 
 Cheering the wakeful tent on Syrian mountains, 
 
 They lull perchance ten thousand thousand flowers. 
 
 That roar, the prowling lion's Here I am, 
 
 How fearful to the desert wide ! 
 
 That bleat, how tender! of the dam 
 
 Calling a straggler to lier side. 
 
 Shout, cuckoo! — let the vernal soul 
 
 Go with thee to the frozen zone; 
 
 Toll from thy loftiest perch, lone bell-bird, toll I 
 
 At the still hour to Mercy dear, 
 
 1 I am not quite clear as to the meaning of tliis. " The pulse that beats devoutly, in 
 life's last retreats," may mean tlie innermost feelings of the heart, — feelings seated 
 there where life is supposed to hold out longest; or it may mean the devout feelings 
 of a "good and faithful servant" in his dying moments. If the latter, then "re- 
 quiems (umwer'd b>/ the pulse, &c., must be taken in the sense of '* requiems speaking 
 in accordance with the pulse," &c. 
 
0]!^ THE POWEE OF SOUND. 239 
 
 Mercy from her twilight throne 
 Listening to nun's faint throb of holy fear, 
 To sailor's prayer breathed from a darkening sea. 
 Or widow's cottage-lullaby. 
 
 Ye Voices, and ye Shadows 
 
 And Images of Yoice, — to hound and horn 
 
 From rocky steep and rock-bestudded meadows 
 
 Flung back, and in the sky's blue caves reborn, — 
 
 On with your pastime ! till the church-tower bells 
 
 A greeting give of measured glee ; 
 
 And milder echoes from their cells 
 
 Eepeat the bridal symphony. 
 
 Then, or far earlier, let us rove 
 
 Where mists are breaking up or gone, 
 
 And from aloft look down into a cove 
 
 Besprinkled with a careless quire, 
 
 Happy milk-maids, one by one 
 
 Scattering a ditty each to her desire, 
 
 A liquid concert matchless by nice Art, 
 
 A stream as if from one full heart. 
 
 Blest be the song that brightens 
 
 The blind man's gloom, exalts the veteran's mirth ; 
 
 Unscom'd the peasant's whistling breath, that lightens 
 
 His duteous toil of furrowing the green earth. 
 
 For the tired slave. Song lifts the languid oar, 
 
 And bids it aptly fall, with chime 
 
 That beautifies the fairest shore, 
 
 And mitigates the harshest clime. 
 
 Yon pilgrims see, — in lagging file 
 
 They move ; but soon th' appointed way 
 
 A choral Ave Marie shall beguile. 
 
 And to their hope the distant shrine 
 
 Glisten with a livelier ray : 
 
 Nor friendless he, the prisoner of the mine. 
 
 Who from the well-spring of his own clear breast 
 
 Can draw, and sing his griefs to rest. 
 
 When civic renovation 
 Dawns on a kingdom, and for needful haste 
 Best eloquence avails not. Inspiration 
 Mounts with a tune, that travels like a blast 
 Piping through cave and battlemented tower : 
 Then starts the sluggard, pleased to meet 
 That voice of Freedom, in its power 
 Of promises, shrill, wild, and sweet ! 
 
240 WORDSWORTH. 
 
 Who, from a martial pageant, spreads 
 
 Incitements of a battle-day, 
 
 Thrilling th* unweapon'd crowd with plumeless heads? — 
 
 Even She ^ whose Lydian airs inspire 
 
 Peaceful striving, gentle play 
 
 Of timid hope and innocent desire 
 
 Shot from the dancing Graces, as they move 
 
 Fann'd by the plausive wings of Love. 
 
 How oft along thy mazes. 
 
 Regent of sound, have dangerous Passions trod ! 
 
 Thou, through whom the temple rings with praises, 
 
 And blackening clouds in thunder speak of God^ 
 
 Betray not by the cozenage of sense 
 
 Thy votaries, wooingly resign'd 
 
 To a voluptuous influence 
 
 That taints the purer, better mind ; 
 
 But lead sick Fancy to a harp 
 
 That hath in noble tasks been tried ; 
 
 And, if the virtuous feel a pang too sharp. 
 
 Soothe it into patience, — stay 
 
 Th' uplifted arm of Suicide ; 
 
 And let some mood of thine in firm array 
 
 Knit every thought th' impending issue needs, 
 
 Ere martyr burns, or patriot bleeds! 
 
 As Conscience, to the centre 
 
 Of being, smites with irresistible pain. 
 
 So shall a solemn cadence, if it enter 
 
 The mouldy vaults of the dull idiot's brain, 
 
 Transmute him to a wretch from quiet hurl'd, — 
 
 Convulsed as by a jarring din; 
 
 And then aghast, as at the world 
 
 Of reason partially let in 
 
 By concords winding with a sway 
 
 Terrible for sense and soul ; 
 
 Or, awed, he weeps, struggling to quell dismay. 
 
 Point not these mysteries to an Art 
 
 Lodged above the starry pole ; 
 
 Pure modulations flowing from the heart 
 
 Of divine Love, where Wisdom, Beauty, Truth 
 
 With Order dwell, in endless yonth ? 
 
 2 The allusion is to Sappho, the famous Greek poetess, whom Wordsworth else- 
 where speaks of as " The Lesbian Maid." Her airs are called Lydian with reference 
 to the ancient Greek modes or keys, Avhich were derived from Lydia, and in which 
 the music was of a pathetic and melting character. See page 154, note 4. 
 
OJ^^ THE POWER OF SOUKD. 241 
 
 Oblivion may not cover 
 
 All treasures lioarded by the miser, Time. 
 
 Orphean Insight ! truth's undaunted lover, 
 
 To the first leagues of tutor'd passion climb. 
 
 When Music deign'd within this grosser sphere 
 
 Her subtle essence to enfold, 
 
 And voice and shell drew forth a tear 
 
 Softer than Nature's self could mould. 
 
 Yet strenuous was the infant Age : ^ 
 
 Art, daring because souls could feel, 
 
 Stirr'd nowhere but an urgent equipage 
 
 Of rapt imagination sped her march 
 
 Through the realms of woe and weal : 
 
 Hell to the l}Te bow'd low ; the upper arch 
 
 Rejoiced that clamorous spell and magic verse 
 
 Her wan disasters could disperse.* 
 
 The GriFT to king Amphion 
 
 That wall'd a city with its melody 
 
 Was for belief no dream : ^ — thy skill, Aricn ! 
 
 Could humanise the creatures of* the sea, 
 
 Where men were monsters. ® A last grace he craves. 
 
 Leave for one chant ; — the dulcet sound 
 
 Steals from the deck o'er willing waves. 
 
 And listening dolphins gather round. 
 
 Self-cast, as with a desperate course, 
 
 'Mid that strange audience, he bestrides 
 
 A proud One docile as a managed horse; 
 
 b The ancient myths of Orphens, Amphion, and Arion are here justly regarded as 
 sho\ving that the old Greek sensibility to music was much more lively and responsive 
 than that of any modern people. Classical poetry and fable were fond of such 
 daring' and hyperbolical representations of the power of music, because they felt 
 sure of an answering sj-mpathy in the popular feeling; whereas, to our duller sensi- 
 bilities, those representations tippear so extravagant as to be quite ludicrous. And 
 so Hume, in his essay Of Eloquence, remarks of ancient orators, that " their eloquence 
 was infinitely more sublime than that which modern orators aspii-e to;" though he 
 attributes thjs to liigher powers of expression and delivery in tiie ancient speakers : 
 and he illustrates by quoting passages from Demosthenes and Cicero Avhich would 
 be scouted by a modern audience as " Avholly monstrous and gigantic." 
 
 4 "The upper arch" is the heavens or the sky, Avhose direfuUest portents and 
 prodigies were thouglit to be quelled by lyrical and musical incantations. 
 
 5 The fable of Orpheus is, I presume, too well known to need any statement of 
 its contents here. It was in his handling that " Hell to the lyre bow'd' low," yielding 
 up his beloved Eurydice to the divine compulsion of his music. — Amphion was 
 King of the Grecian Thebes: his harp and voice so aflected the stones that they 
 could not choose but march to their places, and so girdled the city with a wall. 
 
 6 Arion was a famous Greek bard and player on the harp. The story is, that he 
 went to Sicily to take part in a musical contest; and, having won the prize, was 
 going home to Corinth by sea, laden with presents, when the rude sailors coveted 
 his wealth and were bent on murdering him. After trying in Aain to bi-eak their 
 purpose, he at last got leave to play once more on the harp : so, putting on festal at- 
 tire, and standing in the prow of the ship, he invoked the gods in inspired strains, 
 and then threw himself into the sea. But a flock of song-loving dolphins had gath- 
 ered round; and now one of them took the bai'd on its back, and carried him to 
 Tienarus, from whence he returned safe to Corinth. 
 
242 WOBDSWOETH. 
 
 And singing, while th' accordant hand 
 Sweeps his harp, the Master rides ; 
 So shall he touch at length a friendly strand. 
 And he, with his preserver, shine star-bright 
 In memory, through silent night. 
 
 The pipe of Pan, to shepherds 
 
 Couch'd in the shadow of Maenalian pines,^ 
 
 Was passing sweet; the eyeballs of the leopards. 
 
 That in high triumph drew the Lord of vines. 
 
 How did they sparkle to the cymbal's clang ! 
 
 While Fauns and Satyrs beat the ground 
 
 In cadence,® — and Silenus swang 
 
 This way and that, with wild-flowers crown'd. — 
 
 To life, to life give back thine ear : 
 
 Ye who are longing to be rid 
 
 Of fable, though to truth subservient, hear 
 
 The little sprinkling of cold earth that fell 
 
 Echoed from the coffin-lid ; 
 
 The convict's summons in the steeple's knell ; 
 
 " The vain distress-gun," from a leeward shore, 
 
 Eepeated, — heard, and heard no more ! 
 
 For terror, joy, or pity, 
 
 Vast is the compass and the swell of notes : 
 
 From the babe's first cry to voice of regal city. 
 
 Rolling a solemn sea-like bass, that floats 
 
 Far as the woodlands, — with the trill to blend 
 
 Of that shy songstress whose love-tale 
 
 Might tempt an angel to descend. 
 
 While hovering o'er the moonlit vale. 
 
 Ye wandering Utterances, has Earth no scheme, 
 
 No scale of moral music, to unite 
 
 Powers that survive but in the faintest dream 
 
 Of memory ? — 0, that ye might stoop to bear 
 
 7 Mccnalian is the same as Arcadian; Mcenalus being the name of the mountains 
 in Arcadia, wluch were celebratecl as the favouiite haunts of the god Pan. 
 Arcadia is the old name of the central poi-tion of Peloponnesus. The Arcadians 
 were noted as a simple pastoral people, passionately fond of music, and devoted to 
 the worship of Pan. 
 
 8 Fauns and Satyrs appear to have been much the same, only the former were 
 Roman, the latter Grecian. They were among the minor divinities of the ancient 
 mythology: in form, half man and half goat, with horns; vastly given to music 
 and wine, and to sensual pleasures of all sorts. Silenus was their chief, and a very 
 funny god withal. He was generally intoxicated, and is described as a jovial old 
 man, with a bald head, a puck nose, fat and round like his Avine-bag, which he 
 always carried with him. He was specially given to dancing, and so was called 
 the dartccr : in oth«r respects, his addiction was about equally divided between mne, 
 sleep, and music. But his main peculiarity lay in his being an inspired prophet, 
 who knew all tlie past and the remotest future, and also a sage who despised all 
 the gilts of fortune. When drunk or asleep, he was in the power of mortals, who 
 could compel him to prophesy and sing by tying him up with chains of flowers. 
 
Olsr THE POWER OF SOUKD. 243 
 
 Chains, such precious chains of sight 
 As laboured minstrelsies through ages wear! 
 0, for a balance fit the truth to tell 
 Of th' Unsubstantial, ponder'd well ! 
 
 By one pervading spirit 
 
 Of tones and numbers all things are controlled, 
 
 As sages taught, where faith was found to merit 
 
 Initiation in that mystery old.* 
 
 The heavens, whose aspect makes our minds as still 
 
 As they themselves appear to be. 
 
 Innumerable voices fill 
 
 With everlasting harmony ; 
 
 The towering headlands, crown'd with mist. 
 
 Their feet among the billows, know 
 
 That Ocean is a mighty harmonist ; 
 
 Thy pinions, universal Air, 
 
 Ever waving to and fro. 
 
 Are delegates of harmony, and bear 
 
 Strains that support the Seasons in their round ; 
 
 Stern Winter loves a dirge-like sound. 
 
 Break forth into thanksgiving. 
 
 Ye banded instruments of wind and chords ; 
 
 Unite, to magnify the Ever-living, 
 
 Your inarticulate notes with the voice of words ! 
 
 Nor hush'd be service from the lowing mead, 
 
 Nor mute the forest hum of noon ; 
 
 Thou too be heard, lone eagle ! freed 
 
 From snowy peak and cloud, attune 
 
 Thy hungry barkings to the hymn 
 
 Of joy, that from her utmost walls 
 
 The six-days' Work, by flaming Seraphim, 
 
 Transmits to Heaven ! As Deep to Deep 
 
 Shouting through one valley calls. 
 
 All worlds, all natures, mood and measure keep 
 
 For praise and ceaseless gratulation, pour'd 
 
 Into the ear of God, their Lord ! 
 
 9 Alluding to what is called " the music of the spheres,"— an ancient mystery 
 whicli taught that the heavenly bodies in their revolutions sing together in a concert 
 so loud, various, and sweet, as to exceed all proportion to the human ear. The 
 same thing is apparentlj'- referred to in Job, xxxviii. 7 : -'The morning stars sang 
 together, and all the sons of God shouted for joy." And the greatest souls in every 
 age seem to have been raised above themselves by the idea that the universe was 
 knit together by a principle of which musical harmony is the aptest and clearest 
 expression. So the well-known passage in The Merchant of Venice, v. 1 : 
 
 " There's not the smallest orb which thou behold'st 
 But in his motion like an angel sings, 
 Still quiring to the young-eyed cherubins." 
 
244 WORDSWOKTH. 
 
 A Voice to Light ga,ve Being ; 
 
 To Time, and Man his earth-born chronicler ; 
 
 A Voice shall finish doubt and dim foreseeing, 
 
 And sweep aAvay life's visionary stir: 
 
 The trumpet, (we, intoxicate with pride, 
 
 Arm at its blast for deadly wars,) 
 
 To archangelic lips applied. 
 
 The grave shall open, quench the stars. — 
 
 Silence ! are Man's noisy years 
 
 No more than moments of thy life ? 
 
 Is Harmony, blest queen of smiles and tears, 
 
 With her smooth tones and discords just, 
 
 Temper'd into rapturous strife, 
 
 Thy destined bond-slave ? No ! though Earth be dust 
 
 And vanish, though the heavens dissolve, her stay 
 
 Is in the Word, that shall not pass away.^ [1828. 
 
 ODE. 
 
 IKTIMATIOKS OF IMMORTALITY FROM RECOLLECTIONS OF 
 EARLY CHILDHOOD.^ 
 
 The Child is Father of the Man; 
 And I could wish my days to be 
 Bound each to each by natural piety. 
 See page 129. 
 
 There was a time when meadow, grove, and stream. 
 The earth, and every common sight. 
 To me did seem 
 Apparell'd in celestial light. 
 The glory and the freshness of a dream. 
 It is not now as it hath been of yore ; — 
 Turn whereso'er I may. 
 By night or day. 
 The things which I have seen I now can see no more. 
 
 1 This has long seemed to me one of the author's greatest poems; hardly infe- 
 rior, indeed, to bis Ode on IinmortaUUi, thougb less celebi'ated than that. The classi- 
 cal allusions, of which there are manj-, ai'O selected with rare judgment, and used 
 with consummate art: the scope of th'e piece is as wide-sweeping and inclusive as 
 tlie tlieme can well admit of; yet all the parts are toned and balanced in exquisite 
 harmony; and the etfect of the whole is inspiring and sovd-lifting in tiie highest de- 
 gree. Nor can its freshness be exhausted : after a close familiarity of more than 
 thirty-five yeiirs, it still affects me in a manner quite beyond my powers of ex- 
 pression. It is as if all the voices and utterances of the woi'ld were gatlicred and 
 attempered into a multitudinous anthem, now thrilling the heart Avith the deepest 
 notes of awe, now soothing it with the softest notes of joy, and anon blinding the 
 two in a strain that leaves no part of our emotional nature untouched. Thus much 
 is the least I can say of this magnificent poem. 
 
 2 The little poem, We are Seven, page 133, ought to be read in connection with 
 
INTIMATIONS OF IMMORTALITY. 245 
 
 II. 
 
 The rainbow comes and goes, 
 And lovely is the Rose ; 
 The Moon doth with delight 
 Look round her when the heavens are bare ; 
 Waters on a starry night 
 Are beautiful and fair ; 
 The sunshine is a glorious birth ; 
 But yet I know, where'er I go, 
 That there hath past away a glory from the earth. 
 
 III. 
 
 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, 
 
 this Ode. — In his notes dictated 1843, the author has the following : " This was com- 
 posed dux'ing mj-- residence at Townend, Grasmere. Two years at least passed be- 
 tween the Avritiug of the first four stanzas and the remaining part. To the attentive 
 and competent reader the whole sufficiently explains itself; but there may be no 
 harm in adverting here to particular feelings or experiences of my own mind on wliich 
 the structure of tlie poem partly rests. Nothing was more difficult for me in child- 
 hood than to admit the notion "of death as a state applicable to my own being. I 
 used to brood over the stories of Enoch and Elijah, and almost to persuade myself 
 that, whatever might become of others, 1 should be translated, in something of the 
 same way, to Heaven. With a feeling congenial to this, I was often \inable 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 realitv. At that time I was afraid of such processes. 
 In later periods of life I have deplored, as we all have reason to do, a subjugation 
 of an opposite character. To that dream-lilce vividness and splendour which invest 
 objects of sight in childhood, everyone, I believe, if he would look back, could bear 
 testimonj', 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, Avhich has given pain to some good and pious persons, that I 
 meant to inculcate such a belief. But let us bear in mind that, though the idea is 
 not advanced in revelation, there is nothing there to contradict it, and the fall of 
 man presents an analogy in its favour. Accordingly, a pre-existent state has en- 
 tered into the popular creeds of many nations; and, among all persons acquainted 
 with classic literature, is known as an ingredient in the Platonic philosophy. Ar- 
 chimedes said that he conld move the world, if he had a point whereon to rest his 
 machine. Wlio has not felt the same aspirations as regards the world of liis own 
 mind? Haviug to wiold some of its elements when I was impelled to write this 
 
 Eoem on the ' Immortalitj^ of the Soul,' I took liold of the notion of pre-existcnce as 
 aving sufficient foundation in humanity for authorizing mc to make for my purpose 
 the best use of it I could as a poet." 
 
246 WORDSWORTH. 
 
 And with the heart of May- 
 Doth every Beast keep holiday ; — 
 Thou Child of Joy, 
 Shout round me, let me hear thy shouts, thou happy 
 Shepherd-boy ! 
 
 IV. 
 
 Ye blessed Creatures, I have heard the call 
 
 Ye to each other make ; I see 
 The heavens laugh with you in your jubilee ; 
 
 My heart is at your festival. 
 
 My head hath its coronal. 
 The fulness of your bliss, I feel — I feel it all. 
 
 evil day ! if I were sullen 
 While Earth herself is adorning, 
 
 This sweet May-morning, 
 And the children are culling 
 On every side. 
 In a thousand valleys far and wide, 
 Fresh flowers ; while the Sun shines warm, 
 And the Babe leaps up on his mother's arm : 
 
 1 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 ? 
 
 V. 
 
 Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting : 
 The Soul that rises with us, our life's Star, 
 
 Hath had elsewhere its setting. 
 And Cometh from afar: 
 
 Not in entire forgetfulness. 
 
 And not in utter nakedness. 
 But trailing clouds of glory do we come 
 
 From God, who is our home : 
 Heaven lies about us in our infancy ! 
 Shades of the prison-house begin to close 
 
 Upon the growing Boy, 
 But He beholds the light, and whence it flows, 
 
 He sees it in his joy ; 
 The Youth, who daily further from the East 
 Must travel, still is Nature's Priest, 
 
INTIMATIONS OF IMMORTALITY. 247 
 
 And by the vision splendid 
 
 Is on his way attended ; 
 At length the Man perceives it die away, 
 And fade into the light of common day. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Earth fills her lap with pleasures of her own ; 
 Yearnings she hath in her own natural kind, 
 And, even with something of a Mother's mind. 
 And no unworthy aim, 
 
 The homely Nurse doth all she can 
 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. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Thou, whose exterior semblance doth belie 
 
 Thy soul's immensity ; 
 Thou best Pliilosophcr, who yet dost keep 
 
 3 "Humoroua stage" is stage whereon humours, that is, whims, crotchets, or 
 fancies are displayed. Tliis is the old meaning of humour. So in Shakespeare and 
 Ben Jonson, passim. 
 
248 WOEDSWOETH. 
 
 Tli}^ heritage, thou Eye among the blind, 
 That, deaf and silent, read'st th' eternal deep. 
 Haunted for ever by th' 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 th' 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 ! 
 
 4 As the matter is here viewed, the child, from the strength or instinctive action 
 of an inward law, rests in the full conviction or assurance of that ti'uth, namely, 
 the immortality of the soul, which the mature mind is ever struggling to make good 
 by external proof and inference ; because the latter, as the stern facts of our con- 
 dition press upon it, gets lost in the " dark valley; " that is, the grave cuts off from 
 it the vision of a life beyond. 
 
 5 The preceding part of this stanza has always been something of a poser to me. 
 I have never been quite able to get over Colei-idge's comment upon it: "In what 
 sense is a child of that age a philosopher f In what sense does he read ' th' eternal 
 deep ' ? In what sense is he declared to be ^for ever haunted by the Supreme Being ' ? 
 or so inspiretl as to deserve tlie titles of a mighty prophet, a blessed seer J By reflec- 
 tion? by knowledge? by conscious intuition? or by nn(/ form or modiflcation of con- 
 sciousness? These would be tidings indeed; but such as would presuppose an im- 
 mediate revelation to the inspired communicator, and require miracles to authenti- 
 cate his inspiration. But if this be too Avild and exorbitant to be suspected as hav- 
 ing been the poet's meaning; if these mysterious gifts, faculties, and operations are 
 noi accompanied with consciousness, who else is conscious of them? or how can it 
 be called the child, if it be no part of the child's conscious being?" And again: 
 "In what sense can the magnificent attributes, above quoted, be appropriated to a 
 child, M'hich would not make them equally suitable to a hce, or a dog, or afield of corn f 
 or even to a ship, or to the wind and waves that propel it? The omnipresent Spirit 
 works equallv in them as in the child; and the child is equally unconscious of it as 
 they."— On the other hand, Wordsworth, in his Essaij upon Epitaphs, pursues the theme 
 in a high strain of discourse from which I must be content to give a short extivact: 
 «' Foiiorn, and cut off from conimuuication with the best part of his nature, must 
 that man be, who should derive the sense of immortality, as it exists in the mind 
 of a child, from the same luithinkiug gaiety or liveliness of animal spirits with 
 which the lamb in the meadow, or any other irrational creature is endowed; who 
 should ascribe it, in short, to blank ignorance in the child ; to an inability arising 
 from the imperfect state of his faculties to come, in any point of his being, into con- 
 tact with a notion of death : or to an unreflecting acquiescence in what had been in- 
 stilled into him! Has such an unfolder of the mysteries of nature, though lie may 
 have forgotten his former self, ever noticed the early, obstinate, and unappeasable 
 inquisitiveness of children upon the subject of origination? This single fact proves 
 outwardly the monstrou?ncss of those suppositions: for, if we had no direct exter- 
 nal testimony that the minds of very young children meditate feelingly upon death 
 and immortalitv, these inquiries, which we all know they are jjerpotually making 
 concerning tlie whence, do necessarily include corresponding habits of interrogation 
 concerning the ichither. Origin and tendency are notions inseparably co-relative. 
 We may, then, be justified in asserting, that the sense of immortality, if not a co- 
 existent and twin birth with Reason, is among the earliest of her oflspring : and we 
 may further assert, that from these conjoined, and under their countenance, the 
 human affections are gradually formed and opened out." 
 
IKTIMATIOIsTS OF IMMORTALITY. 249 
 
 IX. 
 
 joy! tliat in our embers 
 Is sometliing that doth live, 
 That nature j^et remembers 
 What was so fugitive ! 
 The thought of our past years in me doth breed 
 Perpetual benediction : not indeed 
 For that which is most w^orthy to be blest, — 
 Delight and liberty, the simple creed 
 Of Childhood, whether busy or at rest, 
 With new-iledged hope still fluttering in his breast : — 
 Not for these I raise 
 The song of thanks and praise ; 
 But for those obstinate questionings 
 Of sense and outward things ;" 
 Fallings from us, vanishings ; 
 Blank misgivings of a Creature 
 Moving about in worlds not realised ; 
 High instincts before which our mortal Nature 
 Did tremble like a guilty Thing surprised : 
 But for those first affections. 
 Those shadowy recollections. 
 Which, be they what they may, 
 Are 3'et the fountain light of all our day. 
 Are yet a master-light of all our seeing ; 
 Uphold us, cherish, and have power to make 
 Our noisy years seem moments in the being 
 Of the eternal Silence : truths that wake. 
 
 To perish never ; 
 Which neither listlessness, nor mad endeavour, 
 Nor Man nor Boy, 
 Nor all that is at enmity with joy, 
 Can utterly abolish or destroy ! 
 
 6 These " qucstionins^s of sense and outw^ard things" are, I suppose, the ques- 
 tions which the soul puts to its visible surroundings, ever seeking from them what 
 they have not to give : that is, the soul is so uuableto acquiesce in death as tlie end 
 of its being, that it cannot choose but keep interrogating the world of sense for 
 answers wliich must come from a higher source; and'this is taken as arguing that 
 the soul is itself framed and attuned to a world above and beyond the present. 
 Thus the poet finds cause to rejoice in the moral disappointments he has sustained, — 
 to rejoice that the glories he saw in childliood have fallen awav from him, and van- 
 ished under the pressure of experience ; because all this is a sort of pledge that his 
 being has in it something gi-eater and better than this world; that the soul's true 
 home is in a world where life is unfailing and death is unknown. And so, in his 
 view, for the purpose in question, the "philosophic mind" more than compensates 
 the loss of the instinctive faith of childhood. Wordsworth here shows that the 
 thought is at least a good one for poetical use; and I think it mav be shown to be a 
 good one for practical use. For, in fact-, the strongest natural argument for a future 
 life is, that the higher needs and instincts of our moral being are not met in this 
 world: m other words, conscience and thepi-esent state of thing do not go together; 
 the one does not answer to the other; and the world is full of beginnings that are 
 to be finished elsewhere, if finished at all. See page 214, note 4. 
 
250 WOEDSWOKTH. 
 
 Hence in a season of calm weather, 
 Though inland far we be, 
 Our souls have sight of that immortal sea 
 Which brought us hither, 
 Can in a moment travel thither, 
 And see the Children sport upon the shore, 
 And hear the mighty waters rolling evermore. 
 
 X. 
 
 Then sing, ye Birds, sing, sing a joyous song ! 
 
 And let the young Lambs bound 
 
 As to the tabor's sound ! 
 "We in thought will join your throng, 
 
 Ye that pipe and ye that play. 
 
 Ye that through your hearts to-day 
 
 Feel the gladness of the May ! 
 What though the radiance which was once so bright 
 Be now for ever taken from my sight. 
 
 Though nothing can bring back the hour 
 Of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower; 
 
 We will grieve not, rather find 
 
 Strength in what remains behind; 
 
 In the primal sympathy 
 
 Which having been must ever be ; 
 
 In the soothing thoughts that spring 
 
 Out of human suffering ; 
 
 In the faith that looks through death, 
 In years that bring the philosophic mind. 
 
 XI. 
 
 And 0, 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 relinquish'd one delight 
 
 To live beneath your more habitual sway. 
 
 I love the Brooks which down their channels fret, 
 
 Even more than when I tripjD'd lightly as they ; 
 
 The innocent brightness of a new-born Day 
 
 Is lovely yet ; 
 The Clouds that gather round the setting Sun 
 Do take a sober colouring from an eye 
 That hath kept watch o'er man's mortality : 
 Another race hath been, and other palms are won. 
 Thanks to the human heart by which we live. 
 Thanks to its tenderness, its joys, and fears, 
 
THE PRELUDE. — INTEODUCTIOi^. 251 
 
 To me the meanest flower tliat blows can give 
 
 Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tearsJ [1803-6. 
 
 THE PRELUDE, 
 
 Prefatory Note. — This poem was begun earlv in 1799, and was finished in the 
 Summer of 1805. During that time, the author, as lie himself tells us, was meditating 
 a much larger work, of which The Excursion forms a part; and by way of preparation 
 for this work, " he undertook to record, in verse, the origin and'progi'ess of his own 
 powers, so fiir as he was acquainted with them." And he adds the following: " The 
 preparatory poem is autobiographical, and conducts the history of the author's mind 
 to the point when he was emboldened to hope that his faculties were sufficiently 
 matured for entering upon the arduous labour which he had proposed to himself ; 
 and the two works have the same kind of relation to eacli otjier, if he may so express 
 himself, a« the Ante-chapel has to the body of a Gothic Church."— The 'Prelude was 
 addressed to Coleridge, who was residing in Malta for the restoration of his health 
 when the greater part of it was composed. On his return to England, Wordsworth 
 read the poem to him ; and the impression it made upon him is set forth in some very 
 noble verses addressed to Wordsworth, wliich will be found among the poems by 
 Coleridge given in this volume. Wordsworth speaks of The Prelude as being " ad- 
 dressed to a dear friend, most distinguished for his knowledge and genius, and to 
 whom the author's intellect is deeply indebted." — The poem was not published till 
 1850, soon after the author's death. 'On its first appearance, it was, I think, rather 
 disappointing to the lovers of Wordsworth; but it wears well, and, if my own ex- 
 perience be anj- test, never fails to improve on further acquaintance. — The whole 
 poem consists of fourteen Books. Of these, I give the first two Books entire, and 
 portions of several others ; which is all I can make room for, without excluding other 
 pieces that seem better suited to the piu'pose of this volume. 
 
 BOOK FIEST. 
 
 IXTEODUCTIOX — CHILDHOOD AXD SCHOOL-TIME. 
 
 0, THERE is blessing in this gentle breeze, 
 A visitant that wliile it fans my cheek 
 Doth seem half-conscious of the joy it brings 
 From the green fields, and from yon azure sky. 
 Whate'er its mission, the soft breeze can come 
 To none more grateful than to me ; escaped 
 
 7 This great Ode is now commonly accepted as the crowning effort of modem 
 imaginative discourse; but I suspect that few have grown to a full comprehension 
 of its meaning. So deep and strong, indeed, is the undercurrent of thought, and so 
 rich and varied the imagery and expression bv which those depths are svmbolized, 
 that one may converse with it every day for a lifetime, without exhausting its sig- 
 nificance. I must dismiss it with a brief comment from Coleridge: '• To the Ode on 
 the Iiitimatiom of Immortn'itif from Recollection-^ of Earln Childhood, the poet might 
 have prefixed the lines which Dante addressed to one of his own Canzoni: 
 
 ' O lyric song, there will be few, think I, 
 
 Who may thy import understand aright ; 
 
 Thou axiiox'thein so arduous and so high ! ' 
 But the Ode Avas intended for such readers only as had been accustomed to watch 
 the flux and reflux of their inmost nature, to" venture at times into the twilight 
 realms of consciousness, aud to feel a deep interest in modes of inmost being, to 
 which they know tliat the attributes of time and spice arc inapplicable and alien, 
 but which yet c^tnnot be can\-e,,fd savB in symbols of time and space. For such 
 readers the sense is sufficiently plain." 
 
252 WORDSWORTH. 
 
 From the vast city/ where I long had pined 
 
 A discontented sojourner: now free, 
 
 Free as a bird to settle where I will. 
 
 What dwelling shall receive me ? in what vale 
 
 Shall be my harbour? underneath what grove 
 
 Shall I take up my home ? and what clear stream 
 
 Shall with its murmur lull me into rest ? 
 
 The earth is all before me. With a heart 
 
 Joyous, nor scared at its own liberty, 
 
 I look about ; and, should the chosen guide 
 
 Be nothing better than a wandering cloud, 
 
 I cannot miss my way. I breathe again ! 
 
 Trances of thought and mountings of the mind 
 
 Come fast upon me : it is shaken off, 
 
 That burthen of my own unnatural self. 
 
 The heavy weight of many a w^eary day 
 
 'Not mine, and such as were not made for me. 
 
 Long months of peace, (if such bold word accord 
 
 AVith any promises of human life,) 
 
 Long months of ease and undisturb'd delight 
 
 Are mine in prospect : wither shall I turn. 
 
 By road or pathway, or through trackless field, 
 
 Up hill or down, or shall some floating thing 
 
 Upon the river point me out my course ? 
 
 Dear Liberty I Yet what would it avail 
 But for a gift that consecrates the joy ? 
 For I, methought, while the sweet breath of heayen 
 Was blowing on my body, felt within 
 A correspondent breeze, that gently moved 
 With quickening virtue, but is now become 
 A tempest, a redundant energy. 
 Vexing its own creation. Thanks to both. 
 And their congenial powers, that, while they join 
 In breaking up a long-continued frost. 
 Bring with them vernal promises, the hope 
 Of active days urged on by flying hours, — 
 Days of sweet leisure, tax'd with patient thought 
 Abstruse, nor wanting punctual service high, 
 Matins and vespers of harmonious verse ! 
 
 Thus far, Friend ! did I, not used to make 
 A present joy the matter of a song, 
 Pour forth that day my soul in measured strains 
 
 1 This was the city of Goslar, in Germany, where Wordsworth and his sister spent 
 part of the W^inter of 1798-99, having arrived there on the 6th of October. The Winter 
 was intensclv cold, — the coldest of the whole century; so that the poet had to keep 
 within doors' far more than he was used to do. He left there February 10th, and was 
 much exhilarated on escaping from the dreary confinement, as these lines amply 
 testify. 
 
THE PRELUDE. — INTRODUCTION". 253 
 
 That would not be forgotten, and are here 
 
 Eecorded : to the open fields I told 
 
 A prophecy : poetic numbers came 
 
 Spontaneously to clothe in priestly robe 
 
 A renovated spirit singled out, 
 
 Such hope was mine, for holy services. 
 
 My own voice cheer'd me, and, far more, the mind's 
 
 Internal echo of th' imperfect sound ; 
 
 To both I listen'd, drawing from them both 
 
 A cheerful confidence in things to come. 
 
 Content, and not unwilling now to give 
 A respite to this passion, I paced on 
 With brisk and eager steps ; and came, at length. 
 To a green shady place, where down I sat 
 Beneath a tree, slackening my thoughts by choice, 
 And settling into gentler happiness. 
 'Twas Autumn, and a clear and placid day. 
 With warmth, as much as needed, from a Sun 
 Two hours declined towards the West; a day 
 With silver clouds, and sunshine on the grass, 
 And in the shelter'd and the sheltering grove 
 A perfect stillness. Many were the thoughts 
 Encouraged and dismiss'd, till choice was made 
 Of a known Yale,^ whither my feet should turn, 
 Nor rest till they had reach'd the very door 
 Of the one cottage which me thought I saw. 
 No picture of mere memory ever look'd 
 So fair; and, while upon the fancied scene 
 I gazed with growing love, a higher power 
 Than Fancy gave assurance of some work 
 Of glory there forthwith to be begun. 
 Perhaps too there perform'd. Thus long I mused. 
 Nor e'er lost sight of what I mused upon. 
 Save when, amid the stately grove of oaks, 
 Now here, now there, an acorn, from its cup 
 Dislodged, through sere leaves rustled, or at once 
 To the bare earth dropp'd with a startling sound. 
 From that soft couch I rose not, till the Sun 
 Had almost touch'd th' horizon ; casting then 
 A backward glance upon the curling cloud 
 Of city smoke, by distance ruralised ; 
 Keen as a Truant or a Fugitive, 
 But as a Pilgrim resolute, I took. 
 Even with the chance equipment of that hour, 
 
 2 The Vale of Grasmere, where the poet and his sister took up their abode soon 
 after tlieir return from Germany. 
 
254 WORDSWORTH. 
 
 The road that pointed toward the chosen Vale. 
 
 It was a splendid evening, and my soul 
 
 Once more made trial of her strength, nor lack'd 
 
 ^olian visitations ; but the harp 
 
 Was soon defrauded, and the banded host 
 
 Of harmony dispersed in straggling sounds, 
 
 And lastly utter silence ! " Be it so ; 
 
 Why think of any thing but present good ? " 
 
 So, like a home-bound labourer I pursued 
 
 My way beneath the mellowing Sun, that shed 
 
 Mild influence ; nor left in me one wish 
 
 Again to bend the Sabbath of that time 
 
 To a servile yoke. What need of many words ? 
 
 A pleasant loitering journey, through three days 
 
 Continued, brought me to my hermitage. 
 
 I spare to tell of what ensued, the life 
 
 In common things, — the endless store of things, 
 
 Eare, or at least so seeming, every day 
 
 Found all about me in one neighbourhood, — 
 
 The self -congratulation, and, from morn 
 
 To night, unbroken cheerfulness serene. 
 
 But speedily an earnest longing rose 
 
 To brace myself to some determined aim, 
 
 Heading or thinking ; either to lay up 
 
 New stores, or rescue from decay the old 
 
 By timely interference : and therewith 
 
 Came hopes still higher, that with outward life 
 
 I might endue some airy phantasies 
 
 That had been floating loose about for years, 
 
 And to such beings temperately deal forth 
 
 The many feelings that oppress'd my heart. 
 
 That hope hath been discouraged; welcome light 
 
 Dawns from the East, but dawns to disappear 
 
 And mock me with a sky that ripens not 
 
 Into a steady morning : if my mind, 
 
 Remembering the bold promise of the past. 
 
 Would gladly grapple with some noble theme. 
 
 Vain is her wish; where'er she turns she finds 
 
 Impediments from day to day renew'd. 
 
 And now^ it would content me to yield up 
 Those lofty hopes awhile, for present gifts 
 Of humbler industry. But, 0, dear Friend ! 
 The Poet, gentle creature as he is. 
 Hath, like the Lover, his unruly times ; 
 His fits when he is neither sick nor well. 
 Though no distress be near him but his own 
 
THE PEELUDE. — INTKODUCTIOK. 355 
 
 Unmanageable thoughts : his mind, best pleased 
 While she as duteous as the mother dove 
 Sits brooding, lives not always to that end. 
 But like the innocent bird, hath goadings-on 
 That drive her as in trouble through the groves : 
 With me is now such passion, to be blamed 
 No otherwise than as it lasts too long. 
 
 When, as becomes a man who would prepare 
 For such an arduous work, I through myself 
 Make rigorous inquisition, the report 
 Is often cheering ; for I neither seem 
 To lack that first great gift, the vital soul, 
 Nor general Truths, which are themselves a sort 
 Of Elements and Agents, Under-powers, 
 Surbordinate helpers of the living mind : 
 Nor am I naked of external things. 
 Forms, images, nor numerous other aids 
 Of less, regard, though won perhaps with toil. 
 And needful to build up a Poet's praise. 
 Time, place, and manners do I seek, and these 
 Are found in plenteous store, but nowhere such 
 As may be singled out with steady choice ; 
 No little band of yet remembered names 
 Whom I, in perfect confidence, might hope 
 To summon back from lonesome banishment. 
 And make them dwellers in the hearts of men 
 Now living, or to live in future years. 
 Sometimes th' ambitious Power of choice, mistaking 
 Proud spring-tide swellings for a regular sea. 
 Will settle on some British theme, some old 
 Eomantic tale by Milton left unsung : 
 More often turning to some gentle place 
 Within the groves of Chivalry, I pipe 
 To shepherd swains, or seated, harp in hand, 
 Amid reposing knights by a river side 
 Or fountain, listen to the grave reports 
 Of dire enchantments faced and overcome 
 By the strong mind, and tales of warlike feats, 
 Where spear encounter'd spear, and sword with sword 
 Fought, as if conscious of the blazonry 
 That the shield bore, so glorious was the strife ; 
 Whence inspiration for a song that winds 
 Through ever-changing scenes of votive quest 
 Wrongs to redress, harmonious tribute paid 
 To patient courage and unblemish'd truth, 
 To firm devotion, zeal unquenchable, 
 
256 WORDSWORTH. 
 
 And Christian meekness hallowing faithful loves. 
 
 Sometimes, more sternly moved, I would relate 
 
 How vanquish'd Mithridates northward pass'd. 
 
 And, hidden in the cloud of years, became 
 
 Odin, the Father of a race by whom 
 
 Perish'd the Eoman Empire: how the friends 
 
 And followers of Sertorious, out of Spain 
 
 Flying, found shelter in the Fortunate Isles, 
 
 And left their usages, their arts and laws, 
 
 To disappear by a slow gradual death, 
 
 To dwindle and to perish one by one. 
 
 Starved in those narrow bonds; but not the soul 
 
 Of Liberty, which fifteen hundred years 
 
 Survived, and, when the European came 
 
 With skill and power that might not be withstood. 
 
 Did, like a pestilence, maintain its hold 
 
 And wasted down by glorious death that race 
 
 Of natural heroes : or I would record 
 
 How, in tyrannic times, some high-soul'd man, 
 
 Unnamed among the chronicles of kings, 
 
 Suffer'd in silence for Truth's sake : or tell. 
 
 How that one Frenchman,' through continued force 
 
 Of meditation on tli' inhuman deeds 
 
 Of those who conquer'd first the Indian Isles, 
 
 Went single in his ministry across 
 
 The Ocean ; not to comfort the oppressed. 
 
 But, like a thirsty wind, to roam about, 
 
 Withering the Oppressor : how Gustavus sought 
 
 Help at his need in Dalecarlia's mines: 
 
 How AVallace fought for Scotland ; left the name 
 
 Of Wallace to be found, like a wild flower, 
 
 All over his dear Country ; left the deeds 
 
 Of Wallace, like a family of Ghosts, 
 
 To people the steep rocks and river banks, 
 
 Her natural sanctuaries, with a local soul 
 
 Of independence and stern liberty. 
 
 Sometimes it suits me better to invent 
 
 A tale from my own heart, more near akin 
 
 To my own passions and habitual thoughts ; 
 
 Some variegated story, in the main 
 
 Lofty, but th' unsubstantial structure melts 
 
 Before the very Sun that brightens it. 
 
 Mist into air dissolving ! Then a wish. 
 
 My best and favourite aspiration, mounts 
 
 3 Dominique de Gourges, a French gentleman who went to Florida in 1568, to 
 avenge the massacre of the French by the Spaniards there. 
 
THE PRELUDE. — CHILDHOOD. 257 
 
 With yearning toward some pliilosopliic song 
 Of Truth that cherishes our daily life ; 
 With meditations passionate from deep 
 Recesses in man's heart, immortal verse 
 Thoughtfully fitted to th' Orphean lyre : 
 But from this awful burthen I full soon 
 Take refuge and beguile myself with trust 
 That mellower years will bring a riper mind 
 And clearer insight. Thus my days are past 
 In contradiction ; with no skill to part ^ 
 Vague longing, haply bred by want of power. 
 From paramount impulse not to be withstood, 
 A timorous capacity from prudence, 
 From circumspection, infinite delay. 
 Humility and modest awe themselves 
 Betray me, serving often for a cloak 
 To a more subtle selfishness ; that now 
 Locks every function up in blank reserve, 
 Now dupes me, trusting to an anxious eye 
 That with intrusive restlessness beats off 
 Simplicity and self-presented truth. 
 Ah! better far than this, to stray about 
 Voluptuously through fields and rural walks. 
 And ask no record of the hours, resigTi'd 
 To vacant musing, unreproved neglect 
 Of all things, and deliberate holiday. 
 Far better never to have heard the name 
 Of zeal and just ambition, than to live 
 Baffled and plagued by a mind that every hour 
 Turns recreant to her task; takes heart again. 
 Then feels immediately some hollow thought 
 Hang like an interdict upon her hopes. 
 This is my lot ; for either still I find 
 Some imperfection in the chosen theme. 
 Or see of absolute accomplishment 
 Much wanting, so much wanting, in myself. 
 That I recoil and droop, and seek repose 
 In listlessness from vain perplexity, 
 Unprofitably travelling toward the grave, 
 Like a false steward who hath much received 
 And renders nothing back. 
 
 Was it for this 
 That one, the fairest of all rivers, loved 
 To blend his murmurs with my nurse's song. 
 And, from his alder shades and rocky falls, 
 And from his fords and shallows, sent a voice 
 
258 WORDSWOETH. 
 
 That flow'd along my dreams ? For this, didst thou, 
 
 Derwent ! winding among grassy holms 
 
 Where I was looking on, a babe in arms, 
 
 Make ceaseless music that composed my thoughts 
 
 To more than infant softness, giving me 
 
 Amid the fretful dwellings of mankind 
 
 A foretaste, a dim earnest, of the calm 
 
 That Nature breathes among the hills and groves ? 
 
 When he had left the mountains and received 
 
 On his smooth breast the shadow of those towers 
 
 That yet survive, a shatter'd monument 
 
 Of feudal sway, the bright blue river pass'd 
 
 Along the margin of our terrace walk ; 
 
 A tempting playmate whom we dearly loved. 
 
 O, many a time have I, a five years' child. 
 
 In a small mill-race sever'd from his stream. 
 
 Made one long bathing of a Summer's day ; 
 
 Bask'd in the sun, and plunged and bask'd again 
 
 Alternate, all a Summer's day, or scour'd 
 
 The sandy fields, leajDing through flowery groves 
 
 Of yellow ragwort ; or, when rock and hill, 
 
 The woods, and distant Skiddaw's lofty height. 
 
 Were bronzed with deepest radiance, stood alone 
 
 Beneath the sky, as if I had been born 
 
 On Indian plains, and from my mother's hut 
 
 Had run abroad in wantonness, to sport, 
 
 A naked savage, in a thunder-shower. 
 
 Fair seed-time had my soul, and I grew up 
 Foster'd alike by beauty and by fear ; 
 Much favour'd in my birth-place, and no less 
 In that beloved Vale to which erelong 
 We were transplanted ; — there were we let loose 
 Tor sports of wider range. Ere I had told 
 Ten birth-days, when among the mountain slopes 
 Frost, and the breath of frosty wind, had^ snapp'd 
 The last autumnal crocus, 'twas my joy 
 With store of springes o'er my shoulder hung 
 To range the open heights w^here woodcocks run 
 Along the smooth green turf. Through half the night, 
 Scudding away from snare to snare, I plied 
 That anxious A-isitation ; — Moon and stars 
 Were shining o'er my head. I was alone. 
 And seem'd to be a trouble to the peace 
 That dwelt among them. Sometimes it befell 
 In these night wanderings, that a strong desire 
 O'erpower'd my better reason, and the bird 
 
THE PRELUDE. — SCHOOL-TIME. 259 
 
 Which was the captive of another's toil 
 
 Became my prey; and when the deed was done 
 
 I heard among the solitary hills 
 
 Low breathings coming after me, and sounds 
 
 Of undistingnishable motion, steps 
 
 Almost as silent as the turf they trod. 
 
 Nor less when Spring had warm'd the cultured Vale, 
 Moved we as plunderers where the mother-bird 
 Had in high places built her lodge : though mean 
 Our object and inglorious, yet the end 
 "Was not ignoble. O, when I have hung 
 Above the raven's nest, by knots of grass 
 And half-inch fissures in the slippery rock 
 But ill sustained, and almost (so it seem'd) 
 Suspended by the blast that blew amain. 
 Shouldering the naked crag, O, at that time. 
 While on the perilous ridge I hung alone. 
 With what strange utterance did the loud dry wind 
 Blow through my ear ! the sky seem'd not a sky 
 Of earth ; — and with what motion moved the clouds ! 
 
 Dust as we are, th' immortal spirit grows 
 Like harmony in music ; there's a dark 
 Inscrutable workmanship that reconciles 
 Discordant elements, makes them cling together 
 In one society. How strange that all 
 The terrors, pains, and early miseries. 
 Regrets, vexations, lassitudes interfused 
 Within my mind, should e'er have borne a part, 
 And that a needful part, in making up 
 The calm existence that is mine when I 
 Am worthy of myself ! Praise to the end ! 
 Thanks to the means which Nature deign'd to employ ; 
 Whether her fearless visitings, or those 
 That came with soft alarm, like hurtless light 
 Opening the peaceful clouds ; or she may use 
 Severer interventions, ministry 
 More palpable, as best might suit her aim. 
 
 One summer evening, led by her, I found 
 A little boat tied to a willow tree 
 Within a rocky cave, its usual home. 
 Straight I unloosed her chain, and stepping in 
 Push'd from the shore. It was an act of stealth 
 And troubled pleasure, nor without the voice 
 Of mountain-echoes did my boat move on ; 
 Leaving behind her still, on either side, 
 Small circles glittering idly in the moon, 
 
260 WOKDSWORTH. 
 
 Until they melted all into one track 
 
 Of sparkling light. But now, like one who rows. 
 
 Proud of his skill, to reach a chosen point 
 
 With an unswerving line, I fix'd my view, 
 
 Upon the summit of a craggy ridge, 
 
 Th' horizon's utmost boundary ; far above 
 
 Was nothing but the stars and the gray sky. 
 
 She was an elfin pinnace : lustily 
 
 I dipp'd my oars into the silent lake. 
 
 And, as I rose upon the stroke, my boat 
 
 "Went heaving through the water like a swan ; 
 
 When, from behind that craggy steep till then 
 
 Th' horizon's bound, a huge peak, black and huge, 
 
 As if with voluntary power instinct 
 
 Uprear'd its head. I struck and struck again, 
 
 And growing still in stature the grim shape 
 
 Tower'd up between me and the stars, and still, 
 
 Eor so it seem'd, with purpose of its own 
 
 And measured motion like a living thing. 
 
 Strode after me. With trembling oars I turn'd, 
 
 And through the silent water stole my way 
 
 Back to the covert of the willow tree ; 
 
 There in her mooring-place I left my bark, — 
 
 And through the meadows homeward went, in grave 
 
 And serious mood : but, after I had seen 
 
 That spectacle, for many days, my brain 
 
 Work'd with a dim and undetermined sense . 
 
 Of unknown modes of being ; o'er my thoughts 
 
 There hung a darkness, call it solitude 
 
 Or blank desertion. No familiar shapes 
 
 Remain'd, no pleasant images of trees. 
 
 Of sea or sky, no colours of green fields ; 
 
 But huge and mighty forms, that do not live 
 
 Like living men, moved slowly through the mind 
 
 By day, and were a trouble to my dreams. 
 
 Wisdom and Spirit of the universe ! 
 Thou soul that art th' eternity of thought. 
 That giv'st to forms and images a breath 
 And everlasting motion, not in vain 
 By day or star-light thus from my first dawn 
 Of childhood didst thou intertwine for me 
 The passions that build up our human soul ; 
 Not with the mean and vulgar works of man. 
 But with high objects, with enduring things, — 
 With life and nature, purifying thus 
 The elements of feeling and of thought. 
 
THE PKELUDE. — SCHOOL-TIME. 261 
 
 And sanctifying, by such discipline, 
 Both pain and fear, until we recognise 
 A grandeur in the beatings of the heart. 
 Nor was this fellowship vouchsafed to me 
 With stinted kindness. In November days, 
 When vapours rolling down the valley made 
 A lonely scene more lonesome, among woods, 
 At noon and ^mid the calm of summer nights, 
 When, by the margin of the trembling lake. 
 Beneath the gloomy hills homeward I went 
 In solitude, such intercourse was mine ; 
 Mine was it in the fields both day and night, 
 And by the waters, all the Summer long. 
 
 And in the frosty season, when the Sun 
 Was set, and visible for many a mile 
 The cottage windows blazed through twilight gloom, 
 I heeded not their summons : happy time 
 It was indeed for all of us, — for me. 
 It was a time of rapture ! Clear and loud 
 The village clock toll'd six, — I wheel'd about, 
 Proud and exalting like an untired horse 
 That cares not for his home. All shod with steel, 
 We hiss'd along the polish'd ice in games 
 Confederate, imitative of the chase 
 And woodland pleasures, — the resounding horn, 
 The pack loud chiming, and the hunted hare. 
 So through the darkness and the cold we flew, 
 And not a voice was idle ; with the din 
 Smitten, the precipices rang aloud ; 
 The leafless trees and every icy crag 
 Tinkled like iron ; while far distant hills 
 Into the tumult sent an alien sound 
 Of melancholy not unnoticed, while the stars 
 Eastward were sparkling clear, and m the West 
 The orange sky of evening died away. 
 Not seldom from the uproar I retired 
 Into a silent bay, or sportively 
 Glanced sideway, leaving the tumultuous throng. 
 To cut across the reflex of a star 
 That fled, and, flying still before me, gleam'd 
 Upon the glassy plain ; and oftentimes. 
 When we had given our bodies to the wind. 
 And all the shadowy banks on either side 
 Came sweeping through the darkness, spinning still 
 The rapid line of motion, then at once 
 Have I, reclining back upon my heels. 
 
262 WOKDSWORTH. 
 
 Stopp'd short ; yet still the solitary cliffs 
 Whcerd by me, — even as if the Earth had roU'd 
 With visible motion her diurnal round! 
 Behind me did they stretch in solemn train, 
 Feebler and feebler, and I stood and watch'd 
 Till all was tranquil as a dreamless sleep. 
 
 Ye Presences of Nature in the sky 
 And on the Earth ! Ye Visions of the hills ! 
 And Souls of lonely places! can I think 
 A vulgar hope was yours when ye employ'd 
 Such ministry, when ye through many a year 
 Haunting me thus among my boyish sports 
 On caves and trees, upon the woods and hills, 
 Impress'd upon all forms the characters 
 Of danger or desire ; and thus did make 
 The surface of the universal Earth 
 With triumph and delight, with hope and fear. 
 Work like a sea ? 
 
 Not uselessly employ'd, 
 Might I pursue this theme through every change 
 Of exercise and play, to which the year 
 Did summon us in his delightful round. 
 
 We were a noisy crew ; the Sun in heaven 
 Beheld not vales more beautiful than ours ; 
 Nor saw a band in happiness and joy 
 Eicher, or worthier of the ground they trod. 
 I could record with no reluctant voice 
 The woods of Autumn, and their hazel boAvers 
 With milk-white clusters hung ; the rod and line, 
 True symbol of hope's foolishness, whose strong 
 And unreproved enchantment led us on 
 By rocks and pools shut out from every star, 
 All the green Summer, to forlorn cascades 
 Among the windings hid of mountain brooks. — 
 Unfading recollections ! at this hour 
 The heart is almost mine with which I felt. 
 From some hill-top on sunny afternoons. 
 The paper kite high among fleecy clouds 
 Pull at her rein like an impetuous courser; 
 Or, from the meadows sent on gusty days. 
 Beheld her breast the wind, then suddenly 
 Dash'd headlong, and rejected by the storm. 
 
 Ye lowly cottages wherein we dwelt, 
 A ministration of your own was yours : 
 Can I forget you, being as you were 
 So beautiful among the pleasant fields 
 
THE PRELUDE. — SCHOOL-TIME. 363 
 
 In which ye stood? or can I here forget 
 
 The plain and seemly countenance with which 
 
 Ye dealt out your plain comforts ? Yet had ye 
 
 Delights and exultations of your own. 
 
 Eager and never weary we pursued 
 
 Our home-amusements by the warm peat-fire 
 
 At evening, when with pencil, and smooth slate 
 
 In square divisions parcell'd out and all 
 
 With crosses and with ciphers scribbled o'er, 
 
 We schemed and puzzled, head opposed to head 
 
 In strife too humble to be named in verse : 
 
 Or round the naked table, snow-white deal, 
 
 Cherry, or maple, sat in close array. 
 
 And to the combat, Loo or Whist, led on 
 
 A thick-ribb'd army ; not, as in the world, 
 
 Neglected and ungratefully thrown by 
 
 Even for the very service they had wrought, 
 
 But husbanded through many a long campaign. 
 
 Uncouth assemblage was it, where no few 
 
 Had changed their functions; some plebeian cards, 
 
 Which Fate, beyond the promise of their birth. 
 
 Had dignified, and calFd to represent 
 
 The persons of departed potentates. 
 
 0, with what echoes on the board they fell ! 
 
 Ironic diamonds, — clubs, hearts, diamonds, spades, 
 
 A congregation piteously akin ! 
 
 Cheap matter offer'd they to boyish wit, 
 
 Those sooty knaves, precipitated down 
 
 With scoffs and taunts, like Yulcan out of Heaven : 
 
 The paramount ace, a Moon in her eclipse. 
 
 Queens gleaming through their splendour's last decay, 
 
 And monarchs surly at the wrongs sustain'd 
 
 By royal visages. Meanwhile abroad 
 
 Incessant rain was falling, or the frost 
 
 Raged bitterly, with keen and silent tooth ; 
 
 And, interrupting oft that eager game, 
 
 From under Esthwaite's splitting fields of ice 
 
 The pent-up air, struggling to free itself. 
 
 Gave out to meadow-grounds and hills a loud 
 
 Protracted yelling, like the noise of wolves 
 
 Howling in troops along the Bothnic Main. 
 
 Nor, sedulous as I have been to trace 
 How Nature by extrinsic passion first 
 Peopled the mind with forms sublime or fair, 
 And made me love them, may I here omit 
 How other pleasures have been mine, and joys 
 
264 WORDSWORTH. 
 
 Of subtler origin ; how I have felt, 
 Not seldom even in that tempestuous time, 
 Those hallow'd and pure motions of the sense 
 "Which seem, in their simplicity, to own 
 An intellectual charm; that calm delight 
 Which, if I err not, surely must belong 
 To those first-born affinities that fit 
 Our new existence to existing things, 
 And, in our dawn of being, constitute 
 The bond of union between life and joy. 
 
 Yes, I remember when the changeful earth. 
 And twice five Summers on my mind had stamped 
 The faces of the moving year, even tlien 
 I held unconscious intercourse with beauty 
 Old as creation, drinking in a pure 
 Organic pleasure from the silver wreaths 
 Of curling mist, or from the level plain 
 Of waters colour 'd by impending clouds. 
 
 The sands of Westmoreland, the creeks and bays 
 Of Cumbria's rocky limits, they can tell 
 How, when the Sea threw off his evening shade, 
 And to the shepherd's hut on distant hills 
 Sent welcome notice of the rising Moon, 
 How I have stood, to fancies such as these 
 A stranger, linking with the spectacle 
 No conscious memory of a kindred sight, 
 And bringing with me no peculiar sense 
 Of quietness or peace ; yet have I stood. 
 Even while mine eye hath moved o'er many a league 
 Of shining water, gathering as it seem'd 
 Through every hair-breadth in that field of light 
 New pleasure like a bee among the flowers. 
 
 Thus oft amid those fits of vulgar joy 
 Which, through all seasons, on a child's pursuits 
 Are prompt attendants, 'mid that giddy bliss 
 Which, like a tempest, works along the blood 
 And is forgotten ; even then I felt 
 Gleams like the flashing of a shield ; — the Earth 
 And common face of Nature spake to me 
 Eememberable things ; sometimes, 'tis true. 
 By chance collisions and quaint accidents, 
 (Like those ill-sorted unions, work supposed 
 Of evil-minded fairies,) yet not vain 
 Nor profitless, if haply they impress'd 
 Collateral objects and appearances. 
 Albeit lifeless then, and doom'd to sleep 
 
THE PRELUDE. — SCHOOL-TIME. 265 
 
 Until maturer seasons call'd them forth 
 
 To impregnate and to elevate the mind. — 
 
 And if the vulgar joy by its own weight 
 
 Wearied itself out of the memory, 
 
 The scenes which were a witness of that joy 
 
 Eemain'd in their substantial lineaments 
 
 Depicted on the brain, and to the eye 
 
 Were visible, a daily sight ; and thus, 
 
 By the impressive discipline of fear. 
 
 By pleasure and repeated happiness. 
 
 So frequently repeated, and by force 
 
 Of obscure feelings representative 
 
 Of things forgotten, these same scenes so bright, 
 
 So beautiful, so majestic in themselves, 
 
 Though yet the day was distant, did become 
 
 Habitually dear, and all their forms 
 
 And changeful colours by invisible links 
 
 Were fasten'd to th' affections. 
 
 I began 
 My story early, — not misled, I trust. 
 By an infirmity of love for days 
 Disown'd by memory, — ere the breath of Spring 
 Planting my snowdrops among winter snows : 
 Nor will it seem to thee, Friend ! so prompt 
 In sympathy, that I have lengthen'd out 
 With fond and feeble tongue a tedious tale. 
 Meanwhile my hope has been, that I might fetch 
 Invigorating thoughts from former years ; 
 Might fix the wavering balance of my mind, 
 And haply meet reproaches too, whose power 
 May spur me on, in manhood now mature, 
 To honourable toil. Yet should these hopes 
 Prove vain, and thus should neither I be taught 
 To understand myself, nor thou to know 
 With better knowledge how the heart was framed 
 Of him thou lovest ; need I dread from thee 
 Harsh judgments, if the song be loth to quit 
 Those recollected hours that have the charm 
 Of visionary things, those lovely forms 
 And sweet sensations that throw back our life, 
 And almost make remotest infancy 
 A visible scene, on which the Sun is shining ? 
 
 One end at least hath been attain'd : my mind 
 Hath been revived, and, if this genial mood 
 Desert me not, forthwith shall be brought down 
 Through later years the story of my life. 
 
266 WORDSWORTH. 
 
 The road lies plain before me ; — 'tis a theme 
 Single and of determined bounds ; and hence 
 I choose it rather at this time than work 
 Of ampler or more varied argument, 
 Where I might be discomfited and lost : 
 And certain hopes are with me, that to thee 
 This labour will be welcome, honour'd Friend ! 
 
 BOOK SECOND. 
 
 SCHOOL-TIME. — (COlirTIN^UED.) 
 
 Thus far, Eriend ! have we, though leaving much 
 
 Unvisited, endeavour'd to retrace 
 
 The simple ways in which my childhood walk'd ; 
 
 Those chiefly that first led me to the love 
 
 Of rivers, woods, and fields. The passion yet 
 
 Was in its birth, sustain'd, as might befall, 
 
 By nourishment that came unsought ; for still 
 
 Erom week to week, from month to month, we lived 
 
 A round of tumult. Duly were our games 
 
 Prolonged in Summer till the daylight fail'd : 
 
 No chair remain'd before the doors ; the bench 
 
 And threshold-steps were empty ; fast asleep 
 
 The labourer, and the old man who had sat 
 
 A later lingerer ; yet the revelry 
 
 Continued and the loud uproar : at last. 
 
 When all the ground was dark, and twinkling stars 
 
 Edged the black clouds, home and to bed we went, 
 
 Eeverish with weary joints and beating minds. 
 
 Ah ! is there one who ever has been young, 
 
 Nor needs a warning voice to tame the pride 
 
 Of intellect and virtue's self-esteem ? 
 
 One is there, though the wisest and the best 
 
 Of all mankind, who covets not at times 
 
 Union that cannot be ; — who would not give. 
 
 If so he might, to duty and to truth 
 
 The eagerness of infantine desire ? 
 
 A tranquillizing spirit presses now 
 
 On my corporeal frame, so wide appears 
 
 The vacancy between me and those days 
 
 Which yet have such self-presence in my mind. 
 
 That, musing on them, often do I seem 
 
 Two consciousnesses, conscious of myself 
 
 And of some other Being. A rude mass 
 
THE PRELUDE. — SCHOOL-TIME. 267 
 
 Of native rock, left midway in the square 
 Of our small market- village, was the goal 
 Or centre of these sports ; and when, returned 
 After long absence, thither I repair'd. 
 Gone was the old gray stone, and in its place 
 A smart Assembly-room usurp'd the ground 
 That had been ours. There let the fiddle scream, 
 And be ye happy ! Yet, my Friends ! I know 
 That more than one of you will think with me 
 Of those soft starry nights, and that old Dame 
 From whom the stone was named, who there had sat, 
 And watch'd her table with its huckster's wares 
 Assiduous, through the length of sixty years. 
 
 We ran a boisterous course ; the year span round 
 With giddy motion. But the time approach'd 
 That brought with it a regular desire 
 For calmer pleasures, when the winning forms 
 Of Kature were collaterally attached 
 To every scheme of holiday delight 
 And every boyish sport, less grateful else 
 And languidly pursued. 
 
 When Summer came, 
 Our pastime was, on bright half -holidays. 
 To sweep along the plain of Windermere 
 With rival oars ; and the selected bourne 
 Was now an Island musical with birds 
 That sang and ceased not ; now a Sister Isle 
 Beneath the oaks' umbrageous covert, sown 
 With lilies of the valley like a field ; 
 And now a third small Island, where survived 
 In solitude the ruins of a shrine 
 Once to Our Lady dedicate, and served 
 Daily with chanted rites. In such a race 
 So ended, disappointment could be none. 
 Uneasiness, or pain, or jealousy : 
 We rested in the shade, all pleased alike, 
 Conquer'd, and conqueror. Thus the pride of strength 
 And the vainglory of superior skill 
 Were temper'd ; thus was gradually produced 
 A quiet independence of the heart ; 
 And, to my Friend who knows me, I may add. 
 Fearless of blame, that hence for future days 
 Ensued a difiidence and modesty, 
 And I was taught to feel, perhaps too much, 
 The self-sufiicing power of Solitude. 
 
 Our daily meals were frugal, Sabine fare ! 
 
268 WORDSWORTH. 
 
 More than we wish'd we knew the blessing then 
 
 Of vigorous hunger, — hence corporeal strength 
 
 Unsapp'd by delicate viands ; for, exclude 
 
 A little weekly stipend, and we lived 
 
 Through three divisions of the quartered year 
 
 In penniless poverty. But now to school 
 
 From the half-yearly holidays returned. 
 
 We came with weightier purses, that sufficed 
 
 To furnish treats more costly than the Dame 
 
 Of th' old gray stone, from her scant board, supplied. 
 
 Hence rustic dinners on the cool green ground, 
 
 Or in the woods, or by a river side 
 
 Or shady fountains, while among the leaves 
 
 Soft airs were stirring, and the mid-day Sun 
 
 Unfelt shone brightly round us in our joy» 
 
 Nor is my aim neglected if I tell 
 
 How sometimes, in the length of those half-years, 
 
 We from our funds drew largely; — proud to curb, 
 
 And eager to spur on, the galloping steed ; 
 
 And with the courteous inn-keeper, whose stud 
 
 Supplied our want, we haply might employ 
 
 Sly subterfuge, if the adventure's bound 
 
 Were distant ; some famed temple where of yore 
 
 The Druids worshipp'd, or the antique walls 
 
 Of that large abbey, where within the Yale 
 
 Of Nightshade, to Saint Mary's honour built, 
 
 Stands yet a mouldering pile with fractured arch^ 
 
 BeKry, and images, and living trees, 
 
 A holy scene ! Along the smooth green turf 
 
 Our horses grazed. To more than inland peace 
 
 Left by the west wind sweeping overhead 
 
 From a tumultuous ocean, trees and towers 
 
 In that sequester'd valley may be seen. 
 
 Both silent and both motionless alike ; 
 
 Such the deep shelter that is there, and such 
 
 The safeguard for repose and quietness. 
 
 Our steeds remounted and the summons given, 
 With whip and spur we through the cliauntry flew 
 In uncouth race, and left the cross-legg'd knight, 
 And the stone-abbot, and that single wren 
 Which one day sang so sweetly in the nave 
 Of the old church, that — though from recent showers 
 The earth was comfortless, and, touch'd by faint 
 Internal breezes, sobbings of the place 
 And respirations, from the roofless walls 
 The shuddering ivy dripp'd large drops — yet still 
 
THE PRELUDE. — SCHOOL-TIME. 269 
 
 So sweetly 'mid the gloom th' invisible bird 
 
 Sang to herself, that there I could have made 
 
 My dwelling-place, and lived for ever there 
 
 To hear such music. Through the walls we flew 
 
 And down the valley, and, a circuit made 
 
 In wantonness of heart, through rough and smooth 
 
 We scamper'd homewards. 0, ye rocks and streams, 
 
 And that still spirit shed from evening air ! 
 
 Even in this joyous time I sometimes felt 
 
 Your presence, when with slackened step we breathed 
 
 Along the sides of the steep hills, or when 
 
 Lighted by gleams of moonlight from the sea 
 
 We beat with thundering hoofs the level sand. 
 
 Midway on long Winander's eastern shore, 
 Within the crescent of a pleasant bay, 
 A tavern stood ; no homely-featured house 
 Primeval like its neighbouring cottages. 
 But 'twas a splendid place, the door beset 
 With chaises, grooms, and liveries, and within 
 Decanters, glasses, and the blood-red wine. 
 In ancient times, and ere the Hall was built 
 On the large island, had this dwelling been 
 More worthy of a poet's love, a hut 
 Proud of its own bright fire and sycamore shade. 
 But — though the rhymes were gone that once inscribed 
 The threshold, and large golden characters. 
 Spread o'er the spangled sign-board, had dislodged 
 Th' old Lion and usurp'd his place, in slight 
 And mockery of the rustic painter's hand — 
 Yet, to this hour, the spot to me is dear 
 With all its foolish pomp. The garden lay 
 Upon a slope surmounted by a plain 
 Of a small bowling-green ; beneath us stood 
 A grove, with gleams of water through the trees 
 And over the tree-tops ; nor did we want 
 Refreshment, strawberries and mellow cream. 
 There, while through half an afternoon we play'd 
 On the smooth platform, whether skill prevail'd 
 Or happy blunder triumph'd, bursts of glee 
 Made all the mountains ring. But, ere night-fall, 
 When in our pinnace we return'd at leisure 
 Over the shadowy lake, and to the beach 
 Of some small island steer'd our course with one, 
 The Minstrel of the Troop, and left him there, 
 And row'd off gently, while he blew his flute 
 Alone upon the rock, — 0, then the calm 
 
270 WORDSWORTH. 
 
 And dead still water lay upon my mind 
 Even with a weight of pleasure, and the sky, 
 Never before so beautiful, sank down 
 Into my heart, and held me like a dream! 
 Thus were my sympathies enlarged, and thus 
 Daily the common range of visible things 
 Grew dear to me : already I began 
 To love the Sun ; a boy I loved the Sun, 
 Not as I since have loved him, as a pledge 
 And surety of our earthly life, a light 
 Which we behold and feel we are alive ; 
 Nor for his bounty to so many worlds ; — 
 But for this cause, that I had seen him lay 
 His beauty on the morning hills, had seen 
 The western mountain touch his setting orb, 
 In many a thoughtless hour, when, from excess 
 Of happiness, my blood appeared to flow 
 For its own pleasure, and I breathed with joy. 
 And, from like feelings, humble though intense, 
 To patriotic and domestic love 
 Analogous, the Moon to me was dear ; 
 For I could dream away my purposes. 
 Standing to gaze upon her while she hung 
 Midway between the hills, as if she knew 
 No other region, but belong'd to thee, 
 Yea, appertained by a peculiar right 
 To thee and thy gray huts, thou one dear Vale ! 
 Those incidental charms which first attached 
 My heart to rural objects day by day 
 Grew weaker, and I hasten on to tell 
 How Nature, intervenient till this time 
 And secondary, now at length was sought 
 For her own sake. But who shall parcel out 
 His intellect by geometric rules. 
 Split like a province into round and square ? 
 Who knows the individual hour in which 
 His habits were first sown, even as a seed ? 
 Who that shall point as with a wand and say, 
 " This portion of the river of my mind 
 Came from yon fountain ? " Thou, my Friend ! art one 
 More deeply read in thine own thoughts : to thee 
 Science appears but what in truth she is. 
 Not as our glory and our absolute boast, 
 But as a succedaneum, and a prop 
 To our infirmity. No officious slave 
 Art thou of that false secondary power 
 
THE PRELUDE. — SCHOOL-TIME. 271 
 
 By which we multiply distinctions, then 
 
 Deem that our puny boundaries are things 
 
 That we perceive, and not that we have made. 
 
 To thee, unblinded by these formal arts. 
 
 The unity of all hath been reveal'd ; 
 
 And thou wilt doubt, with me less aptly skill'd 
 
 Than many are to range the faculties 
 
 In scale and order, class the cabinet 
 
 Of their sensations, and in voluble phrase 
 
 Run through the history and birth of each 
 
 As of a single independent thing. 
 
 Hard task, vain hope, to analyze the mind, 
 
 If each most obvious and particular thought, 
 
 Not in a mystical and idle sense. 
 
 But in the words of Reason deeply weigh'd. 
 
 Hath no beginning. 
 
 Blest the infant Babe, 
 (For with my best conjecture I would trace 
 Our Being's earthly progress,) blest the Babe, 
 Xursed ia his Mother's arms, who sinks to sleep 
 Rock'd on his Mother's breast ; who with his soul 
 Drinks in the feelings of his Mother's eye ! 
 For him, in one dear Presence, there exists 
 A virtue which irradiates and exalts 
 Objects through widest intercourse of sense. 
 No outcast he, bewilder'd and depress'd ; 
 Along his infant veins are interfused 
 The gravitation and the filial bond 
 Of nature that connect him with the world. 
 Is there a flower to which he points with hand 
 Too weak to gather it, already love, 
 Drawn from love's purest earthly fount, for him 
 Hath beautified that flower ; already shades 
 Of pity cast from inward tenderness 
 Do fall around him upon aught that bears 
 Unsightly marks of violence or harm. 
 Emphatically such a being lives. 
 Frail creature as he is, helpless as frail, 
 An inmate of this active universe. 
 For feeling has to him imparted power 
 That through the growing faculties of sense 
 Doth like an agent of the one great Mind 
 Create, creator and receiver both, 
 Working but in alliance with the works 
 Which it beholds. — Such, verily, is the first 
 Poetic spirit of our human life, 
 
272 WORDSWORTH. 
 
 By uniform control of after years, 
 In most, abated or suppress'd ; in some, 
 Tlirongh every cliange of growth and of decay. 
 Pre-eminent till death. 
 
 From early days. 
 Beginning not long after that first time 
 In which, a Babe, by intercourse of touch 
 I held mute dialogues with my Mother's heart, 
 I have endeavour'd to display the means 
 Whereby this infant sensibility, 
 Great birthright of our being, was in me 
 Augmented and sustained. Yet is a path 
 More difficult before me ; and I fear 
 That in its broken windings we shall need 
 The chamois' sinews and the eagle's wing : 
 For now a trouble came into my mind 
 From unknown causes. I was left alone 
 Seeking the visible world, nor knowing why. 
 The props of my affections were removed. 
 And yet the building stood, as if sustain'd 
 By its own spirit ! All that I beheld 
 Was dear, and hence to finer influxes 
 The mind lay open, to a more exact 
 And close communion. Many are our joys 
 In youth, but, 0, what happiness to live 
 When every hour brings palpable access 
 Of knowledge, when all knowledge is delight. 
 And sorrow is not there ! The seasons came. 
 And every season wheresoe'er I moved 
 Unfolded transitory qualities. 
 Which, but for this most watchful power of love. 
 Had been neglected ; left a register 
 Of permanent relations, else unknown. 
 Hence life, and change, and beauty, solitude 
 More active even than "best society," — 
 Society made sweet as solitude 
 By silent inobtrusive sympathies. 
 And gentle agitations of the mind 
 From manifold distinctions, difference 
 Perceived in things, where, to th' unwatchful eye, 
 'No difference is ; and hence, from the same source, 
 Sublimer joy: for I would walk alone. 
 Under the quiet stars, and at that time 
 Have felt whate'er there is of power in sound 
 To breathe an elevated mood, by form 
 Or image unprofaned ; and I would stand, 
 
THE PRELUDE. — SCHOOL-TIME. 273 
 
 If the night blacken'd with a coming storm. 
 Beneath some rock, listening to notes that are 
 The ghostly language of the ancient Earth, 
 Or make their dim abode in distant winds. 
 Thence did I drink the visionary power ; 
 And deem not profitless those fleeting moods 
 Of shadowy exultation : not for this. 
 That they are kindred to our purer mind 
 And intellectual life ; but that the soul, 
 Eemembering how she felt, but what she felt 
 Remembering not, retains an obscure sense 
 Of possible sublimity, whereto 
 With growing faculties she doth aspire, 
 AVith faculties still growing, feeling still 
 That, whatsoever point they gain, they yet 
 Have something to pursue. 
 
 And not alone 
 'Mid gloom and tumult, but no less 'mid fair 
 And tranquil scenes, that universal power 
 And fitness in the latent qualities 
 And essences of things, by which the mind 
 Is moved with feelings of delight, to me 
 Came, strengthen'd with a superadded soul, 
 A virtue not its own. My morning walks 
 Were early; — oft before the hours of school 
 I traveird round our little lake, five miles 
 Of pleasant wandering. Happy time! more dear 
 For this, that one was by my side, a Friend 
 Then passionately loved; with heart how full 
 W^ould he pursue these lines ! For many years 
 Have since flow'd in between us, and, our minds 
 Both silent to each other, at this time 
 We live as if those hours had never been. 
 Nor seldom did I lift our cottage latch 
 Far earlier, ere one smoke-wreath had risen 
 From human dwelling, or the vernal thrush 
 Was audible ; and sat among the woods 
 Alone upon some jutting eminence. 
 At the first gleam of dawn-light, when the Vale, 
 Yet slumbering, lay in utter solitude. 
 How shall I seek the origin ? where find 
 Faith in the marvellous things which then I felt ? 
 Oft in these moments such a holy calm 
 Would overspread my soul, that bodily eyes 
 Were utterly forgotten, and what I saw 
 Appear'd like something in myself, a dream, 
 
274 WOEDSWOKTH. 
 
 A prospect in the mind. 
 
 'Twere long to tell 
 What Spring and Autumn, what the winter snows, 
 And what the summer shade, what day and night, 
 Evening and morning, sleep and waking, thought 
 From sources inexhaustible, pour'd forth 
 To feed the spirit of religious love 
 In which I walk'd with Nature. But let this 
 Be not forgotten, that I still retained 
 My first creative sensibility ; 
 That by the regular action of the world 
 My soul was unsubdued. A plastic power 
 Abode with me ; a forming hand, at times 
 Rebellious, acting in a devious mood; 
 A local spirit of his own, at w^ar 
 With general tendency, but, for the most, 
 Subservient strictly to external things 
 With which it communed. An auxiliar light 
 Came from my mind, which on the setting Sun 
 Bestow'd new splendour ; the melodious birds, 
 The fluttering breezes, fountains that run on 
 Murmuring so sweetly in themselves, obey'd 
 A like dominion, and the midnight storm 
 Grew darker in the presence of my eye : 
 Hence my obeisance, my devotion hence, 
 And hence my transport. 
 
 Nor should this, perchance. 
 Pass unrecorded, that I still had loved 
 The exercise and produce of a toil, 
 Than analytic industry to me 
 More pleasing, and whose character I deem 
 Is more poetic, as resembling more 
 Creative agency. The song would speak 
 Of that interminable building rear'd 
 By observation of affinities 
 In objects where no brotherhood exists 
 To passive minds. My seventeenth year was come ; 
 And, whether from this habit rooted now 
 So deeply in my mind, or from excess 
 In the great social principle of life 
 Coercing all things into sympathy. 
 To unorganic natures were transferred 
 My own enjoyments; or the power of truth. 
 Coming in revelation, did converse 
 With things that really are ; I, at this time, 
 Saw blessings spread around me like a sea. 
 
THE PRELUDE. — SCHOOL-TIME. 275 
 
 Thus, while the days flew by, and years pass'd on. 
 
 From Nature and her overflowing soul 
 
 I had received so much, that all my thoughts 
 
 Were steep'd in feeling ; I was only then 
 
 Contented, when with bliss ineffable 
 
 I felt the sentiment of Being spread 
 
 O'er all that moves and all that seemeth still; 
 
 O'er all that, lost beyond the reach of thought 
 
 And human knowledge, to the human eye 
 
 Invisible, yet liveth to the heart ; 
 
 O'er all that leaps and runs, and shouts and sings, 
 
 Or beats the gladsome air ; o'er all that glides 
 
 Beneath the wave, yea, in the wave itself, 
 
 And mighty depth of waters. Wonder not 
 
 If high the transport, great the joy I felt, 
 
 Communing in this sort through earth and heaven 
 
 With every form of creature, as it look'd 
 
 Towards tli' Uncreated with a countenance 
 
 Of adoration, with an eye of love. 
 
 One song they sang, and it was audible, 
 
 Most audible then, when the fleshly ear, 
 
 O'ercome by humblest prelude of that strain, 
 
 Forgot her functions, and slept undisturb'd. 
 
 If this be error, and another faith 
 Find easier access to the pious mind, 
 Yet were I grossly destitute of all 
 Those human sentiments that make this Earth 
 So dear, if I should fail with grateful voice 
 To speak of you, ye mountains, and ye lakes 
 And sounding cataracts, ye mists and winds 
 That dwell among the hills where I was born. 
 If in my youth I have been pure in heart, 
 If, mingling with the world, I am content 
 With my own modest pleasures, and have lived 
 With Grod and JSTature communing, removed 
 From little enmities and low desires. 
 The gift is yours ; if in these times of fear, 
 This melancholy waste of hopes o'erthrown, 
 If, 'mid indiflerence and apathy, 
 And wicked exultation, when good men 
 On every side fall off, we know not how, 
 To selfishness, disguised in gentle names 
 Of peace and quiet and domestic love, 
 Yet mingled not unwillingly with sneers 
 On visionary minds ; if, in this time 
 Of dereliction and dismay, I yet 
 
276 WOKDSWORTH. 
 
 Despair not of our nature, but retain 
 
 A more than Eoman confidence, a faith 
 
 That fails not, in all sorrow my support. 
 
 The blessing of my life ; the gift is yours, 
 
 Ye winds and sounding cataracts ! 'tis yours, 
 
 Ye mountains ! thine, Nature ! Thou hast fed 
 
 My lofty speculations ; and in thee. 
 
 For this uneasy heart of ours, I find 
 
 A neyer-f ailing principle of joy 
 
 And purest passion. 
 
 Thou, my Friend, wert reared 
 In the great city, 'mid far other scenes ; 
 But we, by different roads, at length have gain'd 
 The self-same bourne. And for this cause to thee 
 I speak, unapprehensive of contempt, 
 Th' insinuated scoff of coward tongues. 
 And all that silent language which so oft 
 In conversation between man and man 
 Blots from the human countenance all trace 
 Of beauty and of love. For thou hast sought 
 The truth in solitude, and, since the days 
 That gave thee liberty, full long desired. 
 To serve in Nature's temple, thou hast been 
 The most assiduous of her ministers ; 
 In many things my brother, chiefly here 
 In this our deep devotion. 
 
 Fare thee well ! 
 Health and the quiet of a healthful mind 
 Attend thee ! seeking oft the haunts of men, 
 And yet more often living with thyself. 
 And for thyself ; so, haply, shall thy days 
 Be many, and a blessing to mankind. 
 
 FIRST YEAR m COLLEGE. 
 
 (From the Prelude, Book in.) 
 
 Th' Evangelist Saint John my patron was : 
 Three Gothic courts are his, and in the first 
 Was my abiding-place, a nook obscure ; 
 Right underneath, the College kitchens made 
 A humming sound, less tuneable than bees. 
 But hardly less industrious ; with shrill notes 
 Of sharp command and scolding intermix'd. 
 Near me hung Trinity's loquacious clock. 
 Who never let the quarters, night or day, 
 
FIRST YEAR IN COLLEGE. 277 
 
 Slip b}^ liim unproclaim'cl, and told the hours 
 Twice over with a male and female voice. 
 Her pealing organ was my neighbour too ; 
 And from my pillow, looking forth by light 
 Of Moon or favouring stars, 1 could behold 
 The antechapel where the statue stood 
 Of Newton wdth his prism and silent face, 
 The marble index of a mind for ever 
 Voyaging through strange seas of Thought,, alone. 
 
 Of College labours, of the Lecturer's room 
 All studded round, as thick as chairs could stand, 
 With loyal students faithful to their books, 
 Half-and-half idlers, hardy recusants. 
 And honest dunces ; of important days. 
 Examinations, when the man was weigh'd 
 As in a balance ; of excessive hopes. 
 Tremblings withal and commendable fears. 
 Small jealousies, and triumphs good or bad, — 
 Let others that know more speak as they know. 
 Such glory vv^as but little sought by me. 
 And little won. Yet, from the first crude days 
 Of settling-time in this untried abode, 
 I was disturb'd at times by prudent thoughts. 
 Wishing to hope without a hope, some fears 
 About my future worldly maintenance. 
 And, more than all, a strangeness in the mind, 
 A feeling that I was not for that hour, 
 Nor for that place. But wherefore be cast down ? 
 For (not to speak of Reason and her pure 
 Reflective acts to fix the moral law 
 Deep in the conscience, nor of Christian Hope, 
 Bowing her head before her sister Faith 
 As one far mightier) hither I had come. 
 Bear witness Truth, endow'd with holy powers 
 And faculties, whether to work or feel. 
 Oft when the dazzling show no longer new 
 Had ceased to dazzle, of ttimes did I quit 
 My comrades, leave the crowd, buildings and groves, 
 And, as I paced alone the level fields 
 Far from those lovely sights and sounds sublime 
 With which I had been conversant, the mind 
 Droop'd not ; but there into herself returning 
 With prompt rebound seem'd fresh as heretofore. 
 At least I more distinctly recognised 
 Her native instincts : let me dare to speak 
 A higher language, say that now I felt 
 
278 
 
 WORDSWORTH. 
 
 What independent solaces were mine, 
 
 To mitigate th' injurious sway of place 
 
 Or circumstance, how far soever changed 
 
 In youth, or to be changed in manhood's prime; 
 
 Or for the few who shall be calFd to look 
 
 On the long shadows in our evening years, 
 
 Ordain'd precursors to the night of death. 
 
 As if awaken' d, summon'd, roused, constrain'd, 
 
 I look'd for universal things ; perused 
 
 The common countenance of earth and sky ; 
 
 Earth, nowhere unimbellish'd by some trace 
 
 Of that first Paradise whence man was driven ; 
 
 And sky, whose beauty and bounty are express'd 
 
 By the proud name she bears, — the name of Heaven. 
 
 I calFd on both to teach me what they might ; 
 
 Or turning the mind in upon herself 
 
 Pored, watch' d, expected, listen'd, spread my thoughts, 
 
 And spread them with a wider creeping; felt 
 
 Incumbencies more awful, vi sitings 
 
 Of the Upholder of the tranquil soul. 
 
 That tolerates th' indignities of Time, 
 
 And, from the centre of Eternity, 
 
 All finite motions overruling, lives 
 
 In glory immutable. But peace ! enough 
 
 Here to record that I was mounting now 
 
 To such community with highest truth, — 
 
 A track pursuing, not untrod before, 
 
 From strict analogies by thought supplied 
 
 Or consciousnesses not to be subdued. 
 
 To every natural form, rock, fruit or flower. 
 
 Even the loose stones that cover the high-way, 
 
 I gave a moral life : I saw them feel, 
 
 Or link'd them to some feeling: the great mass 
 
 Lay bedded in a quickening soul, and all 
 
 That I beheld respired with inward meaning. 
 
 Add that whate'er of Terror or of Love 
 
 Or Beauty Nature's daily face put on 
 
 From transitory passion, unto this 
 
 I was as sensitive as waters are 
 
 To the sky's influence in a kindred mood 
 
 Of passion ; was obedient as a lute 
 
 That waits upon the touches of the wind. 
 
 Unknown, unth ought of, yai I was most rich, — 
 
 I had a world about me, — 'twas my own ; 
 
 I made it, for it only lived to me. 
 
 And to the God who sees into the heart. 
 
FLRST YEAR IX COLLEGE, 279 
 
 Such sympathies, though rarely, were betray'd 
 
 By outward gestures and by visible looks : 
 
 Some call'd it madness, — so indeed it was, 
 
 If childlike fruitfulness in passing joy. 
 
 If steady moods of thoughtfulness matured 
 
 To inspiration, sort with such a name ; 
 
 If prophecy be madness ; if things yiew'd 
 
 By poets in old time, and higher up 
 
 By the first men. Earth's first inhabitants, 
 
 May in these tutor'd days no more be seen 
 
 With undisorder'd sight. But, leaving this, 
 
 It was no madness, for the bodily eye 
 
 Amid my strongest workings evermore 
 
 Was searching out the lines of difference. 
 
 As they lie hid in all external forms, 
 
 Kear or remote, minute or vast ; an eye 
 
 Which from a tree, a stone, a wither'd leaf, 
 
 To the broad ocean and the azure heavens 
 
 Spangled with kindred multitudes of stars, 
 
 Could find no surface where its power might sleep ; 
 
 Which spake perpetual logic to my soul, 
 
 And by an unrelenting agency 
 
 Did bind my feelings even as in a chain. 
 
 Full oft the quiet and exalted thoughts 
 Of loneliness gave way to empty noise 
 And superficial pastimes ; now and then 
 Forced labour, and more frequently forced hopes ; 
 And, worst of all, a treasonable growth 
 Of indecisive judgments, that impair d 
 And shook the mind's simplicity. — And yet 
 This was a gladsome time. Could I behold, — 
 Who, less insensible than sodden clay 
 In a sea-river's bed at ebb of tide. 
 Could have beheld ? — with undelighted heart, 
 So many happy youths, so wide and fair 
 A congregation in its budding-time 
 Of health and hope and beauty, all at once 
 So many divers samples fi'om the growth 
 Of life's sweet season, — could have seen unmoved 
 That miscellaneous garland of wild flowers 
 Decking the matron temples of a place 
 So famous through the world ? To me, at least, 
 It was a goodly prospect : for, in sooth. 
 Though I had learnt betimes to stand unpropp'd, 
 And independent musings pleased me so 
 That spells seem'd on me when I was alone, 
 
280 WORDSWORTH. 
 
 Yet could I only cleave to solitude 
 In lonely places ; if a throng was near 
 That way I lean'd by nature ; for my heart 
 Was social, and loved idleness and joy. 
 
 Not seeking those who might participate 
 My deeper pleasures, easily I pass'd 
 From the remembrances of better things. 
 And slipped into the ordinary works 
 Of careless youth, unburtheu'd, unalarm'd. 
 Caverns there were within my mind which sun 
 Could never penetrate, yet did there not 
 Want store of leafy arhours where the light 
 Might enter in at will. Companionships, 
 Friendships, acquaintances, were welcome all. 
 We saunter'd, play'd, or rioted ; we talk'd 
 Unprofitable talk at morning hours ; 
 Drifted about along the streets and walks, 
 Eead lazily in trivial books, went forth 
 To gallop through the country in blind zeal 
 Of senseless horsemanship, or on the breast 
 Of Cam sail'd boisterously, and let the stars 
 Come forth, perhaps without one quiet thought. 
 
 Such was the tenour of the second act 
 In this new life. Imagination slept. 
 And yet not utterly. I could not print 
 Ground where the grass had yielded to the steps 
 Of generations of illustrious men, 
 Unmoved. I could not always lightly pass 
 Through the same gateways, sleep where they had slept. 
 Wake where they had waked, range that inclosure old, 
 That garden of great intellects, undisturb'd. 
 Place also by the side of this dark sense 
 Of noble feeling, that those spiritual men, 
 Even the great Newton's own ethereal self, 
 Seem'd humbled in these precincts, thence to be 
 The more endear'd. Their several memories here 
 (Even like their persons in their portraits clothed 
 With the accustom'd garb of daily life) 
 Put on a lowly and a touching grace 
 Of more distinct humanity, that left 
 All genuine admiration unimpair'd. 
 
 Beside the pleasant Mill at Trompington 
 I laugh'd with Chaucer in the hawthorn shade ; 
 Heard him, while birds were warbling, tell his tales 
 Of amorous passion. And that gentle Bard, 
 Chosen by the Muses for their Page of State, — 
 
FIRST YEAR IN COLLEGE. 281 
 
 Sweet Spenser, moving through his clouded heaven 
 
 With the Moon's beauty and the Moon's soft pace, 
 
 I call'd him Brother, Englishman, and Friend ! 
 
 Yea, our blind Poet, who, in his later day, 
 
 Stood almost single ; uttering odious truth, — 
 
 Darkness before, and danger's voice behind, — 
 
 Soul awful, — if the Earth has ever lodged 
 
 An awful soul ; — I seem' d to see him here 
 
 Familiarly, and in his scholar's dress 
 
 Bounding before me, yet a stripling youth, — 
 
 A boy, no better, with his rosy cheeks 
 
 Angelical, keen eye, courageous look, 
 
 And conscious step of purity and pride. 
 
 Among the band of my compeers was one 
 
 Whom chance had station'd in the very room 
 
 Honour'd by Milton's name. temperate Bard ! 
 
 Be it confest that, for the first time, seated 
 
 Within thy innocent lodge and oratory. 
 
 One of a festive circle, I pour'd out 
 
 Libations, to thy memory drank, till pride 
 
 And gratitude grew dizzy in a brain 
 
 Never excited by the fumes of wine 
 
 Before that hour, or since. Then forth I ran 
 
 From the assembly ; through a length of streets, 
 
 Ean, ostrich-like, to reach our chapel-door 
 
 In not a desperate or opprobrious time, 
 
 Albeit long after the importunate bell 
 
 Had stopp'd, with wearisome Cassandra voice 
 
 No longer haunting the dark winter night. 
 
 Call back, Friend! a moment to thy mind 
 
 The place itself and fashion of the rites. 
 
 With careless ostentation shouldering up 
 
 My surplice, through th' inferior throng I clove 
 
 Of the plain Burghers, who in audience stood 
 
 On the last skirts of their permitted ground. 
 
 Under the pealing organ. Empty thoughts ! 
 
 I am ashamed of them : and that great Bard, 
 
 And thou, O Friend ! who in thy ample mind 
 
 Hast placed me high above my best deserts, 
 
 Ye will forgive the weakness of that hour. 
 
 In some of its unworthy vanities. 
 
 Brother to many more. 
 
 In this mix'd sort 
 The months pass'd on, remissly, not given up 
 To wilful alienation from the right. 
 Or walks of open scandal, but in vague 
 
282 WORDSWORTH. 
 
 And loose indifference, easy likings, aims 
 
 Of a low pitch, — duty and zeal dismiss'd. 
 
 Yet nature, or a happy course of things 
 
 Not doing in their stead the needful work. 
 
 The memory languidly revolved, the heart 
 
 Reposed in noontide rest, the inner pulse 
 
 Of contemplation almost fail'd to beat. 
 
 Such life might not inaptly be compared 
 
 To a floating island, an amphibious spot 
 
 Unsound, of spongy texture, yet withal 
 
 Not wanting a fair face of water-weeds 
 
 And pleasant flowers. The thirst of living praise, 
 
 Fit reverence for the glorious Dead, the sight 
 
 Of those long vistas, sacred catacombs, 
 
 Where mighty minds lie visibly entomb'd. 
 
 Have often stirr'd the heart of youth, and bred 
 
 A fervent love of rigorous discipline. — 
 
 Alas ! such high emotion touch'd not me. 
 
 Look was there none within these walls to shame 
 
 My easy spirits, and discountenance 
 
 Their light composure, far less to instil 
 
 A calm resolve of mind, firmly addressed 
 
 To puissant efforts. Nor was this the blame 
 
 Of others, but my own ; I should, in truth, 
 
 As far as doth concern my single self. 
 
 Misdeem most widely, lodging it elsewhere. 
 
 But peace to vain regrets ! We see but darkly - 
 Even when we look behind us, and best things 
 Are not so pure by nature that they needs 
 Must keep to all, as fondly all believe. 
 Their highest promise. If the mariner. 
 When at reluctant distance he hath pass'd 
 Some tempting island, could but know the ills 
 That must have fall'n upon him had he brought 
 His bark to land upon the wish'd-for shore. 
 Good cause would oft be his to thank the surf 
 Whose white belt scared him thence, or wind that blew 
 Inexorably adverse : for myseK 
 I grieve not ; happy is the gowned youth, 
 Who only misses what I miss'd, who falls 
 No lower than I fell. 
 
BOOKS. 283 
 
 BOOKS. 
 
 (From the Prelude, Book v.) 
 
 Great and benign, indeed, must be the power 
 Of living Nature, which could thus so long 
 Detain me from the best of other guides * 
 And dearest helpers, left unthank'd, unpraised. 
 Even in the time of lisping infancy ; 
 And later down, in prattling childhood even, 
 "While I was travelling back among those days, 
 How could I ever play an ingrate's part ? 
 Once more should I have made those bowers resound, 
 By intermingling strains of thankfulness 
 With their own thoughtless melodies; at least 
 It might have well beseem'd me to repeat 
 Some simply-fashion'd tale, to tell again. 
 In slender accents of sweet verse, some tale 
 That did bewitch me then, and soothes me now. 
 Friend ! Poet ! brother of my soul, 
 Think not that I could pass along untouched 
 By these remembrances. Yet wherefore speak ? 
 Why call upon a few weak words to say 
 What is already written in the hearts 
 Of all that breathe ? — what in the path of all 
 Drops daily from the tongue of every child, 
 Wherever man is found ? The trickling tear 
 Upon the cheek of listening Infancy 
 Proclaims it, and th' insuperable look 
 That drinks as if it never could be full. 
 That portion of my story I shall leave 
 There register'd : whatever else of power 
 Or pleasure sown or foster'd thus, may be 
 Peculiar to myself, let that remain 
 Where still it works, though hidden from all search 
 Among the depths of time. Yet is it just 
 That here, in memory of all books which lay 
 Their sure foundations in the heart of man, 
 Whether by native prose or numerous verse. 
 That in the name of all inspired souls, 
 From Homer the great Thunderer, from the voice 
 That roars along the bed of Jewish song, 
 And that more varied and elaborate. 
 Those trumpet- tones of harmony that shake 
 Our shores in England, — from those loftiest notes 
 Down to the low and wren-like warblings, made 
 
 4 The " other guides '' here referred to are books. 
 
284 WORDSWORTH. 
 
 For cottagers and spinners at the wheel, 
 
 And snn-burnt travellers resting their tired limbs. 
 
 Stretch "d under wayside hedge-rows, ballad tunes. 
 
 Food for the hungry ears of little ones. 
 
 And of old men who have survived their joys ; — 
 
 'Tis just that in behalf of these, the works. 
 
 And of the men that framed them, whether known 
 
 Or sleeping nameless in their scatter'd graves. 
 
 That I should here assert their rights, attest 
 
 Their honours, and should, once for all, pronounce 
 
 Their benediction ; speak of them as Powers 
 
 For ever to be hallow'd ; only less. 
 
 For what we are and what we may become. 
 
 Than Nature's self, which is the breath of God, 
 
 Or His pure AYord by miracle reveal'd. 
 
 Rarely and with reluctance would I stoop 
 To transitory themes; yet I rejoice, 
 And, by these thoughts admonish'd, will pour out 
 Thanks with uplifted heart, that I was rear'd 
 Safe from an evil which these days have laid 
 Upon the children of the land, a pest 
 That might have dried me up, body and soul. 
 This verse is dedicate to Nature's self, 
 And things that teach as Nature teaches : then, 
 0, wJiere had been the Man, the Poet where. 
 Where had we been, we two, beloved Friend ! 
 If in the season of unperilous choice. 
 In lieu of wandering, as we did, tli rough vales 
 Rich with indigenous produce, open ground 
 Of Fancy, happy pastures ranged at will. 
 We had been followed, hourly watch'd, and noosed, 
 Each in his several melancholy walk 
 String'd like a poor man's heifer at its feed, 
 Led through the lanes in forlorn servitude ; 
 Or rather like a stalled ox debarr'd 
 From touch of growing grass, that may not taste 
 A flower till it have yielded up its sweets 
 A prelibation to the mower's scythe. 
 
 Behold the parent hen amid her brood, 
 Though fledged and feather'd, and well pleased to part 
 And straggle from her presence, still a brood. 
 And she herself from the maternal bond 
 Still undischarged ; yet doth she little more 
 Than move with them in tenderness and love, 
 A centre to the circle v,?hich they make ; 
 And now and then, alike from need of theirs 
 
BOOKS. 285 
 
 And call of her own natural appetites, 
 
 She scratches, ransacks up the earth for food, 
 
 Which they partake at pleasure. Early died • 
 
 My honour 'd Mother, she who was the heart 
 
 And hinge of all our learnings and our loves : 
 
 She left us destitute, and, as we might, 
 
 Trooping together. Little suits it me 
 
 To break upon the sabbath of her rest 
 
 "With any thought that looks at others' blame ; 
 
 Nor would I praise her but in perfect love. 
 
 Hence am I check'd : but let me boldly say. 
 
 In gratitude, and for the sake of truth, 
 
 Unheard by her, that she, not falsely taught. 
 
 Fetching her goodness rather from times past 
 
 Than shaping novelties for times to come, 
 
 Had no presumption, no such jealousy, 
 
 Nor did by habit of her thoughts mistrust 
 
 Our nature, but had virtual faith that He 
 
 Who fills the mother's breast with innocent milk, 
 
 Doth also for our nobler part provide. 
 
 Under His great correction and control, 
 
 As innocent instincts and as innocent food ; 
 
 Or draAvs for minds that are left free to trust 
 
 In the simplicities of opening life 
 
 Sweet honey out of spurn'd or dreaded weeds. 
 
 This was her creed, and therefore she was pure 
 
 From anxious fear of error or mishap, 
 
 And evil, overweeningly so call'd ; 
 
 Was not puff'd up by false unnatural hopes, 
 
 Nor selfish with unnecessary cares. 
 
 Nor with impatience from the season ask'd 
 
 More than its timely produce ; rather loved 
 
 The hours for what they are than from regard 
 
 Glanced on their promises in restless pride. 
 
 Such was she ; not from faculties more strong 
 
 Than others have, but from the times, perhaps, 
 
 And spot in which she lived, and through a grace 
 
 Of modest meekness, simple-mindedness, 
 
 A heart that found benignity and hope. 
 
 Being itself benign. 
 
 My drift I fear 
 Is scarcely obvious ; but, that common sense 
 May try this modern system by its fruits. 
 Leave let me take to place before her sight 
 A specimen portray'd with faithful hand. 
 Full early trained to worship seemliness. 
 
286 WORDSWORTH. 
 
 This model of a child is never known 
 
 To mix in quarrels ; that were far beneath 
 
 His dignity; with gifts he bubbles o'er 
 
 As generous as a fountain ; selfishness 
 
 May not come near him, nor the little throng 
 
 Of flitting pleasures tempt him from his path; 
 
 The wandering beggars propagate his name. 
 
 Dumb creatures find him tender as a nun, 
 
 And natural or supernatural fear, 
 
 Unless it leap upon him in a dream. 
 
 Touches him not. To enhance the wonder, see 
 
 How arch his notices, how nice his sense 
 
 Of the ridiculous ; not blind is he 
 
 To the broad follies of the licensed world, 
 
 Yet innocent himself withal, though shrewd. 
 
 And can read lectures upon innocence : 
 
 A miracle of scientific lore. 
 
 Ships he can guide across the pathless sea. 
 
 And tell you all their cunning; he can read 
 
 The inside of the earth, and spell the stars ; 
 
 He knows the policies of foreign lands ; 
 
 Can string you names of districts, cities, towns, 
 
 The whole world over, tight as beads of dew 
 
 Upon a gossamer thread ; he sifts, he weighs ; 
 
 All things are put to question; he must live 
 
 Knowing that he grows wiser every day 
 
 Or else not live at all, and seeing too 
 
 Each little drop of wisdom as it falls 
 
 Into the dimplmg cistern of his heart : 
 
 For this unnatural growth the trainer blame. 
 
 Pity the tree. — Poor human vanity, 
 
 Wert thou extinguish'd, little would be left 
 
 Which he could truly love : but how escape ? 
 
 For ever, as a thought of purer birth 
 
 Rises to lead him toward a better clime. 
 
 Some intermeddler still is on the watch 
 
 To drive him back, and pound him, like a stray. 
 
 Within the pinfold of his own conceit. 
 
 Meanwhile old grandame Earth is grieved to find 
 
 The playthings, which her love design'd for him, 
 
 Unthought of : in their woodland beds the flowers 
 
 Weep, and the river sides are all forlorn. 
 
 0, give us once again the wishing cap 
 
 Of Fortunatus, and th' invisible coat 
 
 Of Jack the Giant-Killer, Robin Hood, 
 
 And Sabra in the forest with Saint George ! 
 
BOOKS. 287 
 
 The child whose love is here at least doth reap 
 One precious gain, that he forgets himself. 
 
 These mighty workmen of our later age, 
 Who, with a broad highway, have overbridged 
 The f reward chaos of futurity, 
 Tamed to their bidding ; they Avho have skill 
 To manage books, and things, and make them act 
 On infant minds as surely as the Sun 
 Deals with a flower ; the keepers of our time. 
 The guides and wardens of our faculties, 
 Sages who in their prescience would control 
 All accidents, and to the very road 
 Which they have fashion'd would confine us down, 
 Like engines; — when will their presumption learn, 
 That in th' unreasoning progress of the world 
 A wiser spirit is at work for us, 
 A better eye than theirs, most prodigal 
 Of blessings, and most studious of our good. 
 Even in what seem our most unfruitful hours ? 
 
 There was a Boy : ye knew him well, ye cliffs 
 And islands of Winander ! — many a time 
 At evening, when the earliest stars began 
 To move along the edges of the hills, 
 Kising or setting, would he stand alone 
 Beneath the trees or by the glimmering lake, 
 And there, with fingers interwoven, both hands 
 Press'd closely j)alm to palm, and to his mouth 
 Uplifted, he, as through an instrument, 
 Blew mimic hootings to the silent owls. 
 That they might answer him : and they would shout 
 Across the watery vale, and shout again, 
 Eesponsive to his call, with quivering peals. 
 And long halloos and screams, and echoes loud, 
 Eedoubled and redoubled, — concourse wild 
 Of jocund din; and, when a lengthen'd pause 
 Of silence came and baffied his best skill. 
 Then sometimes, in that silence while he hung 
 Listening, a gentle shock of mild surprise 
 Has carried far into his heart the voice 
 Of mountain torrents ; or the visible scene 
 Would enter unawares into his mind. 
 With all its solemn imagery, its rocks. 
 Its woods, and that uncertain heaven, received 
 Lato the bosom of the steady lake. 
 
 This Boy was taken from his mates, and died 
 Jn childhood, ere he was full twelve years old. 
 
288 WORDSWORTH. 
 
 Fair is the spot, most beautiful the vale 
 
 Where he was born; the grassy church yard hangs 
 
 Upon a sloj^e above the village school, 
 
 And through that churchyard when my way has led 
 
 On summer evenings, I believe that there 
 
 A long half hour together I have stood 
 
 Mute, looking at the grave in which he lies ! 
 
 Even now appears before the mind's clear eye 
 
 That self-same village church ; I see her sit 
 
 (The throned Lady whom erewhile we hail'd) 
 
 On her green hill, forgetful of this Boy 
 
 Who slumbers at her feet, — forgetful, too. 
 
 Of all her silent neighbourhood of graves, 
 
 And listening only to the gladsome sounds 
 
 That, from the rural school ascending, play 
 
 Beneath her and about her. May she long 
 
 Behold a race of 5^0 ung ones like to those 
 
 With whom I herded ! — (easily, indeed, 
 
 We might have fed upon a fatter soil 
 
 Of arts and letters, but be that forgiven,) — 
 
 A race of real children ; not too wise. 
 
 Too learned, or too good; but wanton, fresh, 
 
 And bandied up and down by love and hate ; 
 
 JSTot unresentful where self -justified; 
 
 Fierce, moody, patient, venturous, modest, shy ; 
 
 Mad at their sports like wither 'd leaves in winds ; 
 
 Though doing wrong and suffering, and full oft^ 
 
 Bending beneath our life's mysterious weight 
 
 Of pain and doubt and fear, yet yielding not 
 
 In happiness to the happiest upon Earth. 
 
 Simplicity in habit, truth in speech, 
 
 Be these the daily strengtheners of their minds ; 
 
 May books and Nature be their early joy ! 
 
 And knowledge, rightly honour'd with that name, — 
 
 Knowledge not purchased by the loss of power ! 
 
 A gracious spirit o'er this Earth presides, 
 And o'er the heart of man : invisibly 
 It comes, to works of unreproved delight 
 And tendency benign, directing those 
 Who care not, know not, think not what they do. 
 The tales that charm away the wakeful night 
 In Araby, romances ; legends penn'd 
 For solace by dim light of monkish lamps ; 
 Fictions, for ladies of their love, devised 
 By youthful squires ; adventures endless spun 
 By the dismantled warrior in old age, 
 
SIGHTS IK LOifDOK. 28^. 
 
 Out of the bowels of those very schemes 
 
 In which his youth did first extravagate, — 
 
 These spread like day, and something in the shape 
 
 Of these will live till man shall be no more. 
 
 Dumb yearnings, hidden appetites, are ours, 
 
 And they must have their food. Our childhood sits, 
 
 Our simple childhood sits upon a throne 
 
 That hath more power than all the elements, 
 
 I guess not what this tells of Being past, 
 
 Nor what it augurs of the life to come ; 
 
 But so it is, and, in that dubious hour, 
 
 That twilight when we first begin to see 
 
 This dawning Earth, to recognise, expect, 
 
 And in the long probation that ensues, 
 
 The time of trial, ere we learn to live 
 
 In reconcilement with our stinted powers ; 
 
 To endure this state of meagre vassalage. 
 
 Unwilling to forego, confess, submit. 
 
 Uneasy and unsettled, yoke-fellows 
 
 To custom, mettlesome, and not yet tamed 
 
 And humbled down ; 0, then we feel, we feel. 
 
 We know where we have friends. Ye dreamers, then, 
 
 Forgers of daring tales, we bless you then. 
 
 Impostors, drivellers, dotards, as the ape 
 
 Philosophy will call you ; then we feel 
 
 With what, and how great might ye are in league, 
 
 Who make our wish, our power, our thought a deed, 
 
 An empire, a possession, — ye whom time 
 
 And seasons serve ; all Faculties to w^hom 
 
 Earth crouches, th' elements are potter's clay, 
 
 Space like a heaven fill'd up with northern lights. 
 
 Here, nowhere, there, and everywhere at once. 
 
 SIGHTS m LONDON. 
 
 {Fr<ym the Prelude, Book vii.) 
 
 Pass we from entertainments, that are such 
 Professedly, to others titled higher. 
 Yet, in the estimate of youth at least, 
 More near akin to those than names imply, — 
 I mean the braw^ls of lawyers in their courts 
 Before the ermined Judge, or that great stage 
 Where senators, tongue-favour'd men, perform, 
 Admired and envied. 0, the beating heart ! 
 When one among tlie prime of these rose up, — 
 
290 WOKDSWORTH. 
 
 One, of whose name from childhood we had heard 
 
 Familiarly, a household term, like those. 
 
 The Bedfords, Glosters, Salsburys, of old 
 
 Whom the fifth Harry talks of.* Silence ! hush I 
 
 This is no trifler, no short-flighted wit, 
 
 No stammerer of a minute, painfully 
 
 Deliver'd. No ! the Orator hath yoked 
 
 The Hours, like young Aurora, to his car. 
 
 Thrice welcome Presence ! how can patience e'er 
 
 Grow weary of attending on a track 
 
 That kindles with such glory ! All are charm'd, 
 
 Astonish'd ; like a hero in romance, 
 
 He winds away his never-ending horn ; 
 
 Words follow words, sense seems to follow sense: 
 
 What memory and what logic ! till the strain 
 
 Transcendent, superhuman as it seem'd. 
 
 Grows tedious even in a young man's ^ear. 
 
 Genius of Burke 1 forgive the pen s'educed 
 By specious wonders, and too slow to tell 
 Of what th' ingenuous, what bewilder'd men, 
 Begiiming to mistrust their boastful guides. 
 And wise men, willing to grow wiser, caught, 
 Kapt auditors! from thy most eloquent tongue, — 
 Now mute, for ever mute in the cold grave. 
 I see him — old, but vigorous in age — • 
 Stand like an oak whose stag-horn branches start 
 Out of its leafy brow, the more to awe 
 The younger brethren of the grove. But some, — 
 While he forewarns, denounces, launches forth. 
 Against all systems built on abstract rights. 
 Keen ridicule ; the majesty proclaims 
 Of Institutes and Laws, hallow'd by time ; 
 Declares the vital power of social ties 
 Endear'd by Custom ; and, with high disdain 
 Exploding upstart Theory, insists 
 Upon th' allegiance to which men are born ; — 
 Some — say at once a f roward multitude — 
 Murmur, (for truth is hated, where not loved,) 
 As the winds fret within th' ^olian cave, 
 Gall'd by their monarch's chain. The times were big 
 With ominous change, which, night by night, provoked 
 Keen struggles, and black clouds of passion raised ; 
 But memorable moments intervened, 
 When Wisdom, like the Goddess from Jove's brain, 
 
 6 The allusion is to the King's speech in Shakespeare's King Henry the Fifth, Act 
 iv. scene 3, beginning, ♦' What's he, that wishes so? " 
 
ME]S^ AS THEY AKE MEI^. 291 
 
 Broke forth in armour of resplendent words, 
 Startling the Synod. Could a youth, and one 
 In ancient story versed, whose breast hath heaved 
 Under the weight of classic eloquence. 
 Sit, see, and hear, unthankful, uninspired?® 
 
 Nor did the Pulpit's oratory fail 
 To achieve its higher triumph. — Not unf elt 
 Were its admonishments, nor lightly heard 
 The awful truths deliver'd thence by tongues 
 Endow'd with various power to search the soul; 
 Yet ostentation, domineering, oft 
 Pour'd forth harangues, how sadly out of place ! — 
 There have I seen a comely bachelor, 
 Fresh from a toilet of two hours, ascend 
 His rostrum, with seraphic glance look up. 
 And, in a tone elaborately low 
 Beginning, lead his voice through many a maze 
 A minuet course ; and, winding up his mouth, 
 From time to time, into an orifice 
 Most delicate, a lurking eyelet, small. 
 And only not invisible, again 
 Open it out, diffusing thence a smile 
 Of rapt irradiation, exquisite. 
 Meanwhile th' Evangelists, Isaiah, Job, 
 Moses, and he who penn'd, the other day. 
 The Death of Abel, Shakespeare, and the Bard 
 Whose genius spangled o'er a gloomy theme 
 With fancies thick as his inspiring stars,' 
 And Ossian (doubt not, 'tis the naked truth) 
 Summon'd from streamy Morven, — each and all 
 Would, in their turns, lend ornaments and flowers 
 To entwine the crook of eloquence that help'd 
 This pretty Shepherd, pride of all the plains, 
 To rule and guide his captivated flock. 
 
 "MEN AS THEY ARE MEN." 
 
 {From The Prelude, Book xiii.) 
 
 0, KEXT to one dear state of bliss, vouchsafed, 
 Alas ! to few in this untoward world. 
 The bliss of walking daily in life's prime 
 
 6 At first, Wordsworth deeply regretted, not to saj?' resented, the ground Burke 
 took on the French revolution. The great statesman, in his prophetic rapture, then 
 seemed to him little better than downright crazy. But he afterwards became con- 
 vinced, as he well might, that Burke's folly was wiser than the wisdom of auy or of 
 all who maligned or opposed him. 
 
 7 Beferring, probably, to Young's Night Thoughts. 
 
292 WOKDSWOKTH. 
 
 Through field or forest with the maid we love, 
 While yet our hearts are young, while yet we breathe 
 Nothing but happiness, in some lone nook, 
 Deep Yale, or anywhere, the home of both, 
 From which it would be misery to stir ; — 
 0, next to such enjoyment of our youth, 
 In my esteem, next to such dear delight. 
 Was that of wandering on from day to day 
 Where I could meditate in peace, and cull 
 Knowledge that step by step might lead me on 
 To wisdom ; or, as lightsome as a bird 
 Wafted upon the wind from distant lands, 
 Sing notes of greeting to strange fields or groves, 
 Which lack'd not voice to welcome me in turn : 
 And, when tliat pleasant toil had ceased to please, 
 Converse with men, where if we meet a face 
 We almost meet a friend, on naked heaths 
 With long, long ways before, by cottage bench, 
 Or well-spring where the weary traveller rests. 
 
 Who doth not love to follow with his eye 
 The windings of a public way ? the sight, 
 Familiar object as it is, hath wrought 
 On my imagination since the morn 
 Of childhood, when a disappearing line. 
 One daily present to my eyes, that cross'd 
 The naked summit of a far-off hill 
 Beyond the limits that my feet had trod. 
 Was like an invitation into space 
 Boundless, or guide into eternity. 
 Yes, something of the grandeur which invests 
 The mariner who sails the roaring sea 
 Through storm and darkness, early in my mind 
 Surrounded, too, the wanderers of the earth ; 
 Grandeur as much, and loveliness far more. 
 Awed have I been by strolling Bedlamites ; 
 From many other uncouth vagrants (pass'd 
 In fear) have walk'd with quicker step ; but why 
 Take note of this ? When I began to inquire. 
 To watch and question those I met, and speak 
 Without reserve to them, the lonely roads 
 Were open schools in which I daily read 
 W ith most delight the passions of mankind. 
 Whether by words, looks, sighs, or tears, reveal'd; 
 There saw into the depth of human souls, 
 Souls that appear to have no depth at all 
 To careless eyes. And — now convinced at heart 
 
M^:S AS THEY ARE MEif. 293 
 
 How little those formalities, to wliich 
 
 With overweening- trust alone we give 
 
 The name of Education, have to do 
 
 With real feeling and just sense ; how vain 
 
 A correspondence with the talking "worJd 
 
 Proves to the most; and call'd to make good search 
 
 If man's estate, hy doom of Nature yoked 
 
 With toil, be therefore yoked with ignorance; 
 
 If virtue be indeed so hard to rear, 
 
 And intellectual strength so rare a boon — 
 
 I prized such walks still more, for there I found 
 
 Hope to my hope, and to my pleasure peace 
 
 And steadiness, and healing and repose 
 
 To every angry passion. There I heard. 
 
 From mouths of men obscure and lowly, truths 
 
 Eeplete with honour ; sounds in unison 
 
 With loftiest promises of good and fair. 
 
 There are who think that strong affection, love 
 Known by whatever name, is falsely deenrd 
 A gift, to use a term which they would use. 
 Of vulgar nature; that its growth requires 
 Retirement, leisure, language purified 
 By manners studied and elaborate ; 
 That whoso feels such passion in its strength 
 Must live within the very light and air 
 Of courteous usages refined by art. 
 True is it, where oppression worse than death 
 Salutes the being at his birth, where grace 
 Of culture hath been utterly unknown. 
 And poverty and labour in excess 
 From day to day pre-occupy the ground 
 Of the affections, and to Nature's self 
 Oppose a deeper nature ; there, indeed. 
 Love cannot be ; nor does it thrive with ease 
 Amon^ the close and overcrowded haunts 
 Of cities, w^here the human heart is sick, 
 And the eye feeds it not, and cannot feed. — 
 Yes, in those wanderings deeply did I feel 
 How we mislead each other ; above all, 
 How books mislead us, seeking their reward 
 From judgments of the wealthy Few, who see 
 By artificial lights ; how they debase 
 The Many for the pleasure of those Few ; 
 Effeminately level down the truth 
 To certain general notions, for the sake 
 Of being understood at once, or else 
 
294 WORDSWORTH. 
 
 Through want of better knowledge in the heads 
 That framed them ; flattering self-conceit with words 
 That, while they most ambitiously set forth 
 Extrinsic differences, the outward marks 
 Whereby society has parted man 
 From man, neglect the universal heart. 
 
 Here, calling up to mind what then I saw, 
 A youthful traveller, and see daily now 
 In the familiar circuit of my home, 
 Here might I pause, and bend in reverence 
 To Nature, and the poAver of human minds, 
 To men as they are men within themselves. 
 How oft high service is perform'd within, 
 When all th' external man is rude in show, — 
 Not like a temple rich with pomp and gold, 
 But a mere mountain chapel, that protects 
 Its simple worshippers from sun and snow. 
 Of these, said I, shall be my song; of these. 
 If future years mature me for the task, 
 W^ill I record the praises, making verse 
 Deal boldly with substantial things ; in truth 
 And sanctity of passion, speak of these. 
 That justice may be done, obeisance paid 
 Where it is due : thus haply shall I teach, 
 Inspire, through unadulterated ears 
 Pour rapture, tenderness, and hope ; my theme , 
 'No other than the very heart of man. 
 As found among the best of those who live, 
 Not unexalted by religious faith. 
 Nor uninform'd by books, good books, though few. 
 In Nature's presence : thence may I select 
 Sorrow, that is not sorrow, but delight ; 
 And miserable love, that is not pain 
 To hear of, for the glory that redounds 
 Therefrom to human kind, and what we are. 
 Be't mine to follow with no timid step 
 Where knowledge leads me: it shall be my pride 
 That I have dared to tread this holy ground, 
 Speaking no dream, but things oracular ; 
 Matter not lightly to be heard by those 
 W^ho to the letter of the outward promise 
 Do read th' invisible soul; by men adroit 
 In speech, and for communion with the world 
 Accomplish'd ; minds whose faculties are then 
 Most active when they are most eloquent. 
 And elevated most when most admired. 
 
LOVE AND IMAGINATIOlf. 295 
 
 Men may be found of other mould than these, 
 Who are their own upholders, to themselves 
 Encouragement, and energy, and will, 
 Expressing liveliest thoughts in lively words 
 As native passion dictates. Others, too, 
 There are among the walks of homely life 
 Still higher, men for contemplation framed, 
 Shy, and unpractised in the strife of phrase ; 
 Meek men, whose very souls perhaps would sink 
 Beneath them, summon'd to such intercourse : 
 Theirs is the language of the heavens, the power 
 The thought, the image, and the silent joy : 
 Words are but under-agents in their souls ; 
 When they are grasping with their greatest strength, 
 They do not breathe among them : this I speak 
 In gratitude to God, who feeds our hearts 
 For His own service ; knoweth, loveth us, 
 When we are unregarded by the world. 
 
 LOYE AND IMAGINATION. 
 
 (From the Prelude, Book xiv.) 
 
 By love subsists 
 All lasting grandeur, by pervading love ; 
 That gone, we are as dust. — Behold the fields 
 In balmy spring-time full of rising flowers 
 And Joyous creatures; see that pair, the lamb 
 And the lamb's mother, and their tender ways 
 Shall touch thee to the heart : thou call'st this love. 
 And not inaptly so, for love it is, 
 Far as it carries thee. In some green bower 
 Best, and be not alone, but have thou there 
 The One who is thy choice of all the world : 
 There linger, listening, gazing, with delight 
 Impassioned, but delight how pitiable ! 
 Unless this love by a still higher love 
 Be hallow'd, love that breathes not without awe ; 
 Love that adores, but on the knees of prayer, 
 By Heaven inspired ; that frees from chains the soul, 
 Lifted, in union with the purest, best 
 Of earth-born passions, on the wings of praise 
 Bearing a tribute to th' Almighty's Throne. 
 This spiritual Love acts not nor can exist 
 Without Imagination, which, in truth. 
 Is but another name for absolute power 
 
296 WORDSWOKTH. 
 
 And clearest insight, amplitude of mind, 
 And Eeason in her most exalted mood. 
 This faculty hath been the feeding source 
 Of our long labour : we have traced the stream 
 From the blind cavern whence is faintly heard 
 Its natal murmur ; f ollow'd it to light 
 And open day ; accompanied its course 
 Among the ways of Nature, for a time 
 Lost sight of it bewilder'd and ingulf d ; 
 Then given it greeting as it rose once more 
 In strength, reflecting from its placid breast 
 The works of man and face of human life ; 
 And lastly, from its progress have we drawn 
 Faith in life endless, the sustaining thought 
 Of human Being, Eternity, and God. 
 
 Imagination having been our theme. 
 So also hath that intellectual Love, 
 For they are each in each, and cannot stand 
 Dividually. — Here must thou be, Man ! 
 Power to thyself ; no Helper hast thou here ; 
 Here keepest thou in singleness thy state : 
 No other can divide with thee this work : 
 No secondary hand can intervene 
 To fashion this ability ; 'tis thine, 
 The prime and vital principle is thine 
 In the recesses of thy nature, far 
 From any reach of outward fellowship. 
 Else is not thine at all. But joy to him, 
 0, joy to him who here hath sown, hath laid 
 Here, the foundation of his future years ! 
 For all that friendship, all that love can do. 
 All that a darling countenance can look 
 Or dear voice utter, to complete the man, 
 Perfect him, made imperfect in himself, 
 All shall be his: and he whose soul hath risen 
 Up to the height of feeling intellect 
 Shall want no humbler tenderness; his heart 
 Be tender as a nursing mother's heart ; 
 Of female softness shall his life be full, 
 Of humble cares and delicate desires. 
 Mild interests and gentlest sympathies. 
 
 Child of my parents ! Sister of my soul ! 
 Thanks in sincerest verse have been elsewhere 
 Pour'd out for all the early tenderness 
 Which I from thee imbibed :^ and 'tis most true 
 
 8 See the short poem entitled The SparrouPs Nest, page 129. 
 
LOVE AND IMAGIIfATION-. 297 
 
 That later seasons owed to thee no less ; 
 
 For, spite of thj sweet influence and the touch 
 
 Of kindred hands that open'd out the springs 
 
 Of genial thought in childhood ; and in spite 
 
 Of all that unassisted I had mark'd 
 
 In life or nature of those charms minute 
 
 That win their way into the heart by stealth ; 
 
 Still, to the very going-out of youth, 
 
 I too exclusively esteemed that love. 
 
 And sought tliat beauty which, as Milton sings, 
 
 Hath terror in it. Thou didst soften doAvn 
 
 This over-sternness ; but for thee, dear Friend ! 
 
 My soul, too reckless of mild grace, had stood 
 
 In her original self too confident, 
 
 Eetain'd, too long, a countenance severe ; 
 
 A rock with torrents roaring, with the clouds 
 
 Familiar, and a favourite of the stars : 
 
 But thou didst plant its crevices with flowers, 
 
 Hang it w4th shrubs that twinkle in the breeze, 
 
 And teach the little birds to build their nests 
 
 And warble in its chambers. At a time 
 
 When Xature, destined to remain so long 
 
 Foremost in my affections, had fallen back 
 
 Into a second j^lace, pleased to become 
 
 A handmaid to a nobler than herself, 
 
 TThen every day brought with it some new sense 
 
 Of exquisite regard for common things. 
 
 And all the Earth was budding with these gifts 
 
 Of more refined humanity, thy breath. 
 
 Dear Sister ! was a kind of gentler Spring 
 
 That went before my steps. Thereafter came 
 
 One whom with thee friendship had early pair'd; 
 
 She came, no more a phantom to adorn 
 
 A moment,® but an inmate of the heart. 
 
 And yet a spirit, there for me enshrined 
 
 To penetrate the lofty and the low ; 
 
 Even as one essence of pervading light 
 
 Shines in the brightest of ten thousand stars. 
 
 And the meek worm that feeds her lonely lamp 
 
 Couch'd in the dewy grass. 
 
 9 See the little piece, beginning, '.' She was a Phantom, of delight," page 131. 
 
298 WORDSWORTH. 
 
 THE EXCURSTOK 
 
 PREFATORY NOTE. 
 
 The Excursion, first published in 1814, was originally designed as the second part 
 of a larger work, to consist of tiiree parts, and to be entitled The Recluse. The first and 
 third parts of this work were never completed : in fact, only a small portion of the first 
 — one book, I think — was Avritten; and nothing at all was done towards the third; 
 though the author tells us that much, if not most, of the matter intended for that use was 
 worked up into various of liis other poems. In ihe preface to the original edition.we have 
 the following : " Several years ago, when the Author retired to his native mountains, 
 with the hope of being enabled to construct a literar}^ Work that might live, it was a 
 reasonable thing that he should take a review of his own mind, and examine how far 
 Nature and Education had qualified him for such employment; and the result was 
 a determination to compose a philosophical poem, containing views of Man, Nature, 
 and Society; and to be entitled The Recluse; as having for its principal subject the 
 sensations'aud opinions of a poet living in retirement." The same Preface informs 
 us, also, that the first and third parts of The Ecclnse were to " consist chiefly of medi- 
 tations in the Author's own person ; " while The Excursion, as will readily be seen, is 
 cast into something of a dramatic form, with various interlocutors speaking in a man- 
 ner suited to their respective characters. 
 
 It may not be amiss to add, that The Excursion, on its first appearance, was re- 
 ceived with many howls of censure by the professional critics and reviewers of that 
 day. Jettrey, in particular, spouted against it in the Edinburgh Review, opening his 
 article with'the dictum, " This will never do." But the poem held its ground, not- 
 withstanding, and slowly won its waj', educating a "fit audience" for itself as 
 time wore on ; and it has been steadily growing in favour and influence ever since. 
 On the other hand, many of the best contemporary judges, such as Coleridge, 
 Southey, Lamb, Wilson, and others, Avere from the first most emphatic and out- 
 epoken in approval of the work. Southey, on being told how Jefl"rey was boasting 
 that he had " crushed The Excursion," uttered the famous saying, " He crush 
 The Excursion ! Tell him he might as well fancy that he could crush Skiddaw." 
 Lamb, also, wrote, "It is the noblest conversational poem I ever read, — a day 
 in Heaven." Again he speaks of it as follows : " The poet of The Excursion walks 
 through comiuon forests as through some Dodona or enchanted wood; and every 
 casual bird that flits upon the boughs, like that miraculous one in Tasso, but in 
 language more piercing than any articulate sounds, reveals to him far lovelier lays." 
 
 To the original edition the author prefixed the following grand passage, from the 
 first book of The Recluse, " as a kind of Prospectus of the design and scope of the 
 whole Poem." 
 
 0:n^ Man^, on JSTature, and on Human Life, 
 
 Musing in solitude, I oft perceive 
 
 Fair trains of imagery before me rise, 
 
 Accompanied by feelings of delight 
 
 Pure, or with no unpleasing sadness mix'd ; 
 
 And I am conscious of affecting thoughts 
 
 And dear remembrances, whose presence soothes 
 
 Or elevates the Mind, intent to weigh 
 
 The good and evil of our mortal state. 
 
 To these emotions, whencesoe'er they come. 
 
 Whether from breath of outward circumstance. 
 
 Or from the Soul, — an impulse to herself, — 
 
 I would give utterance in numerous verse. 
 
 Of Truth, of Grandeur, Beauty, Love, and Hope, 
 
 And melancholy Fear subdued by Faith ; 
 
 Of blessed consolations in distress ; 
 
 Of moral strength, and intellectual Power; 
 
 Of joy in widest commonalty spread; 
 
 Of th' individual Mind that keeps her own 
 
 Inviolate retirement, subject there 
 
THE EXCURSIOlf. 299 
 
 To Conscience only, and the law supreme 
 
 Of that intelligence which governs all, — - 
 
 I sing : " fit audience let me find, though few ! " 
 
 So pray'd, more gaining than he ask'd, the Bard, 
 In holiest mood.^ Urania, I shall need 
 Thy guidance, or a greater Muse, if such 
 Descend to Earth or dwell in highest Heaven ! 
 For I must tread on shadowy ground, must sink 
 Deep, — and, aloft ascending, breathe in worlds 
 To which the Heaven of heavens is but a veil. 
 All strength, — all terror, single or in bands, 
 That ever was put forth in personal form, — 
 Jehovah, with His thunder, and the choir 
 - Of shouting Angels, and th' empyreal thrones, — 
 I pass them unalarm'd. Not Chaos, not 
 The darkest pit of lowest Erebus, 
 Nor aught of blinder vacancy, scoop'd out 
 By help of dreams, can breed such fear and awe 
 As fall upon us often when we look 
 Into our Minds, into the Mind of Man, — 
 My haunt, and the main region of my song. — 
 Beauty — a living Presence of the Earth, . 
 Surpassing the most fair ideal Forms 
 Which craft of delicate Spirits hath composed 
 From Earth's materials — waits upon my steps; 
 Pitches her tents before me as I move, 
 An hourly neighbour. Paradise, and groves 
 Elysian, Fortunate Fields, — like those of old 
 Sought in th' Atlantic Main, — why should they be 
 A history only of departed things, 
 Or a mere fiction of what never was ? 
 For the discerning intellect of Man, 
 When wedded to this goodly Universe 
 In love and holy passion, shall find these 
 A simple produce of the common day. — 
 I, long before the blissful hour arrives. 
 Would chant, in lonely peace, the spousal verse 
 Of this great consummation : and, by words 
 Which speak of nothing more than what we are, 
 Would I arouse the sensual from their sleep 
 Of Death, and win the vacant and the vain 
 To noble raptures ; while my voice proclaims 
 How exquisitely th' individual Mind 
 
 1 Milton is the *• Bard " referred to. The quotation is from Paradise Lost, vii. 31 : 
 
 " Still govern thou my song, 
 Urania, and fit audience find, though few." 
 
300 WORDSWORTH. 
 
 (And the progressive powers perhaps no less 
 
 Of the whole species) to th' external World 
 
 Is fitted ; — and how exquisitely, too, — 
 
 Theme this but little heard of among men, — 
 
 Th' external World is fitted to the Mind ; 
 
 And the creation (by no lower name 
 
 Can it be call'd) which they with blended might 
 
 Accomplish : — this is our high argument. — 
 
 Such grateful haunts foregoing, if I oft 
 
 Must turn elsewhere, — to travel near the tribes 
 
 And fellowships of men, and see ill sights 
 
 Of madding passions, mutually inflamed; 
 
 Must hear Humanity in fields and groves 
 
 Pipe solitary anguish ; or must hang 
 
 Brooding above the fierce confederate storm 
 
 Of sorrow, barricado'd evermore 
 
 Within the walls of cities, — may these sounds 
 
 Have their authentic comment ; that, even these 
 
 Hearing, I be not downcast or forlorn ! — 
 
 Descend, prophetic Spirit ! that inspir'st 
 
 The human Soul of universal Earth, 
 
 Dreaming on things to come ; ^ and dost possess 
 
 A metropolitan temple in the hearts 
 
 Of mighty Poets : upon me bestow 
 
 A gift of genuine insight ; that my Son^ 
 
 With star-like virtue in its place may shine. 
 
 Shedding benignant influence, and secure, 
 
 Itself, from all malevolent effect 
 
 Of those mutations that extend their sway 
 
 Throughout the nether sphere ! — And if with this 
 
 I mix more lowly matter ; with the thing 
 
 Contem23lated, describe the Mind and Man 
 
 Contemplating ; and who and what he was, — 
 
 The transitory Being that beheld 
 
 This Vision ; when and where and how he lived ; — 
 
 Be not this labour useless. If such theme 
 
 May sort with highest objects, then, dread Power! 
 
 Whose gracious favour is the primal source 
 
 Of all illumination, may my Life 
 
 Express the image of a better time. 
 
 More wise desires, and simpler manners ; — nurse 
 
 My Heart in genuine freedom: — all pure thoughts 
 
 Be with me ; — so shall Thy unfailing love 
 
 Guide, and support, and cheer me to the end ! 
 
 2 So in Shakespeare's lOTth sonnet : 
 
 " Not mine own fears, nor the projjhetic soul 
 
 Of the wide world dreaming on things to come," &c. 
 
THE EXCURSION. 301 
 
 BOOK FIEST. 
 
 THE AYAXDEEER.3 
 
 '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, show'd far off 
 
 A surface dappled o'er with shadows flung 
 
 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 
 
 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 sidelong eye looks out upon the scene, 
 
 By power of that impending covert thrown 
 
 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. 
 
 3 My lamented friend Southey used to say that, had he been a Papist, the course 
 of life which in all probability would have been his was that of a Benedictine Monk, 
 in a convent famished, as many once were, and some still are, with an inexhaustible 
 libraiy. Books, as appears from many passages in his writings, and was evident to 
 those who had opportunities of observing his daily life, were in tact Jus passion ; and 
 waudering, I can with truth affirm, was mine : but this propensity in me was happily 
 counteracted by inability from want of fortune to fulfil my wishes. But, had I been 
 born in a class "which would have deprived me of what iscalled a liberal education, 
 it is not unlikelj" that, being strong in body, I should have taken to a way of life such 
 as that in which my " Wanderer" passed the greater part of his days. At all events, 
 I am here called upon freely to acknowledge that the character I have represented 
 in his person is chiefly an idea of what I fancied my own character might have be- 
 come in his circumstances. Nevertheless much of what he says and does had an 
 external existence, that fell under my own youthful and subsequent observation. 
 An individual named Patrick, by birth and education a Scotchman, followed this 
 humble occupation for many years, and afterwards settled in the town of Kendal. 
 He married a kinsman of my wife's, and her sister Sarah spent part other chihlhood 
 under this good man's eye. " My own imagination I was happy to find clothed in re- 
 ality, and fresh ones suggesteci, by what she reported of this man's tenderness of 
 heart, his sti-ong and pure "imagination, and his solid attainments in literature, chiefly 
 religious, whether iu prose or verse. At Hawkshead, also, while I was a school- 
 boy, there occasionally resided a packman, (the name then generally given to this 
 calling.) with whom I "had frequent conversations upon Avhat had befallen him, and 
 what he had observed during his wandering life; and, as was natural, we took much 
 to each other: and upon the subject of Pedlarism in general, as then followed, and its 
 favourableness to an intimate knowledge of human concerns, not merely among the 
 humbler classes of society, I need say nothing here in addition to what is to be 
 found in The Excursion. — Author's Note's, 1843. 
 
 4 Downs, in French dunes, are, properly, sand-banks. But in some parts of En- 
 gland the word appears to be used for certain risings or swellings of earth, probably 
 from their resemblance to sand-banks. 
 
302 WORDSWORTH. 
 
 Across a bare wide Common * I was toiling 
 With languid steps that by the slippery tiirf 
 Were baffled ; nor could my weak arm* disperse 
 The host of insects gathering round my face, 
 And ever with me as I paced along. 
 
 Upon that open moorland stood a grove, 
 The wish'd-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 
 That stared upon each other ! I look'd 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 unimpair'd. 
 There was he seen upon the cottage-bench, 
 Eecumbent in the shade, as if asleep ; 
 An iron-pointed staff lay at his side. 
 
 Him had I mark'd the day before, — alone 
 And station'd in the public way, with face 
 Turn'd toward the Sun then setting, while that staff 
 Afforded, to the figure of the man 
 Hetain'd for contemplation or repose, 
 Graceful support : his countenance as he stood 
 Was hidden from my view, and he remain'd 
 Unrecognised ; but, stricken by the sight. 
 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 
 He by appointment waited for me here, 
 Under the covert of these clustering elms. 
 
 We were tried Friends : amid a pleasant vale, 
 In th' antique market-village where was pass'd 
 My school-time, an apartment he had own'd, 
 To which at intervals the Wanderer drew, 
 And found a kind of home or harbour 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 
 To be his chosen comrade. Many a time, 
 On holidays, we rambled through the woods; 
 We sate, we walk'd ; he pleased me with report 
 Of things which he had seen ; and often touch'd 
 
 5 A common^ as the word is here used, is a piece of land, generally paBture, occu- 
 pied by the people of a given neighborhood in common, as distinguished from lands 
 owned exclusively by individuals. 
 
THE EXCURSIOi?^. 303 
 
 Abstrusest matter, reasonings of the mind 
 
 Tnrn'd inward ; or at my request would sing 
 
 Old songs, the product of his native hills ; 
 
 A skilful distribution of sweet sounds. 
 
 Feeding the soul, and eagerly imbibed 
 
 As cool refreshing water, by the care 
 
 Of the industrious husbandman, diffused 
 
 Through a parch 'd meadow-ground, in time of drought. 
 
 Still deeper welcome found his pure discourse; 
 
 How precious when in riper days I learn'd 
 
 To weigh with care his words, and to rejoice 
 
 In the plain presence of his dignity ! 
 
 0, many are the Poets that are sown 
 By Nature ! men endow 'd with highest gifts, 
 The vision and the faculty divine ; ® 
 Yet wanting the accomplishment of verse, 
 (Which, in the docile season of their youth, 
 It was denied them to acquire, through lack 
 Of culture and th' inspiring aid of books, 
 Or haply by a temper too severe, 
 Or a nice backwardness afraid of shame,) 
 Nor having e'er, as life advanced, been led 
 By circumstance to take unto the height 
 The measure of themselves, these favour'd Beings, 
 All but a scatter'd few, live out their time. 
 Husbanding that which they possess within. 
 And go to til' grave, unthought of. Strongest minds 
 Are often those of whom the noisy world 
 Hears least ; else surely this Man had not left 
 His graces unreveal'd and uuproclaim'd. 
 But, as the mind was fill'd with inward light, 
 So not without distinction had he lived. 
 Beloved and honour'd, — far as he was known. 
 And some small portion of his eloquent speech. 
 And something that may serve to set in view 
 The feeling pleasures of his loneliness. 
 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, 
 
 6 This line has grown to be a sort of proverbial expression for the high gift of 
 poetic genius. — Coleridge questions the truth of this line passage. •' Such sentiments," 
 says lie, " in such language do one's heart good; tliough I, for my part, have not the 
 fullest faith in the truth of the observation. When I find, even in situations the 
 most favorable, according to Mr. Wordsworth, for the formation of a pure and poet- 
 ical hmguage,— in situations which ensure familiarity with the grandest objects of 
 the imagination — but one Burns among the shepherds of Scotland, and not a single 
 poet of humble life among those of English lakes and mountains ; I conclude that 
 Poetic Genius is not only a very delicate but a very rare plant." 
 
304 WORDSWORTH. 
 
 The high and tender Muses shall accept 
 With gracious smile, deliberately j^leased. 
 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, 
 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, 
 And an habitual piety, maintained 
 Witli strictness scarcely known on English ground. 
 
 From his sixth year, tlie Boy of whom I speak, 
 In Summer, tended cattle on the hills ; 
 But, through th' inclement and the perilous days 
 Of long-continuing Winter, he repair d, 
 Equipp'd with satchel, to a school, that stood 
 Sole building on a mountain's dreary edge. 
 Remote from view of city spire, or sound 
 Of minster clock. From that bleak tenement 
 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 travell'd through the wood, with no one near 
 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 
 Of greatness ; and deep feelings had impress'd 
 So vividly great objects that they lay 
 Upon his mind like substances, whose presence 
 Perplex'd the bodily sense. He had received 
 A precious gift ; for, as he grew in years, 
 With these impressions would he still compare 
 All his remembrances, thoughts,- shapes, and forms; 
 And, being still unsatisfied Avitli aught 
 Of dimmer character, he thence attain'd 
 An active power to fasten images 
 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 
 
THE EXCUKSIOK. 305 
 
 On all things which the moving seasons brought 
 To feed such appetite ; — nor tliis alone 
 Appeased his yearning : in the after-day 
 Of boyhood, many an hour in caves forlorn, 
 And 'mid the hollow depths of naked crags 
 He sate, and even in their fix'd lineaments. 
 Or from the power of a peculiar eye. 
 Or by creative feeling overborne. 
 Or by predominance of thought oppress'd, 
 Even in their fix'd and steady lineaments 
 He traced an ebbing and a flowing mind, 
 Expression ever varying ! 
 
 Thus inform'd, 
 He had small need of books ; for many a tale 
 Traditionary, round the mountains hung, 
 And many a legend, peopling the dark woods, 
 Xourish'd Imagination in her growth. 
 And gave the Mind that apprehensive power 
 By which she is made quick to recognise 
 The moral properties and scope of things. 
 But eagerly he read, and read again, 
 Whate'er the minister's old shelf supplied ; 
 The life and death of martyrs, who sustain'd, 
 With will inflexible, those fearful pangs 
 Triumphantly display'd in records left 
 Of persecution and the Covenant, — times 
 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. 
 Profuse in garniture of wooden cuts 
 Strange and uncouth ; dire faces, figures dire. 
 Sharp-kneed, sharp-elbow' d, and lean-ankled too. 
 With long and ghostly shanks, — forms which once seen 
 Could never be forgotten ! 
 
 In his heart. 
 Where Fear sate thus a cherish'd 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 
 Of earth and sky. But 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 
 
306 WORDSWORTH. 
 
 Whom Nature, by whatever means, has taught 
 To feel 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 
 Eise up, and bathe the world in light ! He looked, — 
 Ocean and earth, the solid frame of earth 
 And ocean's liquid mass, in gladness lay 
 Beneath him : far and wide the clouds were touch'd. 
 And in their silent faces could he read 
 Unutterable love. Sound needed none, 
 Nor any voice of joy; his spirit drank 
 The spectacle: sensation, soul, and form, 
 All melted into him ; they swallow'd up 
 His animal being ; in them did he live. 
 And by them did he live ; they were his life. 
 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 proffer'd no request ; 
 Eapt into still communion that transcends 
 Th' imperfect offices of prayer and praise, 
 His mind was a thanksgiving to the Power 
 That made him ; it was blessedness and love ! 
 
 A Herdsman on the lonely mountain tops, 
 Such intercourse was his, and in this sort 
 Was his existence oftentimes possessed. 
 0, then how beautiful, how bright, appear'd 
 The written promise ! Early had he learn 'd 
 To reverence the volume that displays 
 The mystery, the life which cannot die ; 
 But in the mountains did \\q 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 
 Seem'd infinite ; and there his spirit shaped 
 Her prospects, nor did he believe, — he saiu. 
 What wonder if his being thus became 
 Sublime and comprehensive ! Low desires. 
 Low thoughts had there no place ; yet was his heart 
 Lowly ; for he w^as meek in gratitude. 
 Oft as he calTd those ecstasies to mind. 
 And Avhence they flow'd ; and from them he acquired 
 Wisdom, which works thro' patience ; thence he learned 
 In oft-recurring hours of sober thought 
 
THE EXCURSION". 30? 
 
 To look on Nature with a humble heart, 
 Self -questioned where it did not understand. 
 And with a superstitious eye of love. 
 
 So pass'd the time ; yet to the nearest town 
 He duly went with what small overplus 
 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. 
 The annual savings of a toilsome life, 
 His School-master supplied ; books that explain 
 The purer elements of truth involved 
 .In lines and numbers, and, by charm severe, 
 (Especially perceived where nature droops 
 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 
 In pensive idleness. What could he do. 
 Thus daily thirsting, in that lonesome life. 
 With blind endeavours ? Yet, still uppermost, 
 Nature was at his heart as if he felt. 
 Though yet he knew not how, a wasting power 
 In all things that from her sweet influence 
 Miglit tend to wean him. Therefore with her hues, 
 Her forms, and with the spirit of her forms, 
 He clothed the nakedness of austere truth. 
 ^Tiile yet he linger d in the rudiments 
 Of science, and among her simplest la\rs. 
 His triangles, — they were the stars of heaven, 
 The silent stars ! Oft did he take delight 
 To measure tli' altitude of some tall crag 
 That is the eagle's birth-place, or some peak 
 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. 
 Accumulated feelings press'd his heart 
 With still increasing weight ; he was o'ei-power'd 
 By Nature ; by the turbulence subdued 
 Of his own mind ; by mystery and hope. 
 And the first virgin passion of a soul 
 Communing with the glorious universe. 
 
308 WOKDSWORTH. 
 
 Full often wish'd 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 
 That live in darkness. From his intellect 
 And from the stillness of abstracted thought 
 He ask'd repose ; and, failing oft to win 
 The peace required, he scanned the laws of light 
 Amid the roar of torrents, where they send 
 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. 
 
 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 
 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 
 To yield him no unAvorthy maintenance. 
 Urged by his Mother, he essay'd to teach 
 A village-school; but wandering thoughts were then 
 A misery to him ; and the Youth resign'd 
 A task he w^as unable to perform. 
 
 That stern yet kindly Spirit who constrains 
 The Savoyard to quit his native rocks. 
 The free-born Swiss to leave his narrow vales, 
 (Spirit attached to regions mountainous 
 Like their own steadfast clouds,) did now impel 
 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 : 
 Yet do such travellers find their own delight ; 
 And their hard service, deem'd debasing now, 
 Gained merited respect in simpler times ; 
 When squire, and priest, and they who round them dwelt 
 In rustic sequestration — all dependent 
 Upon the Pedlar's toil — supplied their wants, 
 Or pleased their fancies, with the wares he brought. 
 
THE EXCURSION". 309 
 
 Not ignorant was the Youth that still no few 
 
 Of his adventurous countiymen were led 
 
 By perseverance in this track of life 
 
 To competence and ease : — for him it bore 
 
 Attractions manifold ; — and this he chose. 
 
 His Parents on the enterprise bestow'd 
 
 Their farewell benediction, but with hearts 
 
 Foreboding evil. From his native hills 
 
 He wander'd 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, 
 
 Exist more simple in their elements. 
 
 And speak a plainer language.^ In the woods, 
 
 A lone Enthusiast, and among the fields. 
 
 Itinerant in this labour, he had passed 
 
 The better portion of his time ; and there 
 
 Spontaneously had his affections thriven 
 
 Amid the bounties of the year, the peace 
 
 And liberty of Nature ; there he kept 
 
 In solitude and solitary thought 
 
 His mind in a just equipoise of love. 
 
 Serene it was, unclouded by the cares 
 
 Of ordinary life ; unvex'd, unwarp'd 
 
 By partial bondage. In his steady course, 
 
 No piteous revolutions had he felt, 
 
 No wild varieties of joy and grief. 
 
 7 In his original notes, the author remarks upon this passage as follows : " At 
 the risk of giving a shock to the prejudices of artificial society, I have ever been 
 ready to pay homage to the aristocracj^ of nature; under a conviction that vigorous 
 human-heartedness is the constitueut principle of true taste. It may still, however, 
 be satisfactory to have prose testimony how far a Character, employed for purposes 
 of imagination, is founded upon general fact." He then quotes the following from 
 Heron's Jonrnen in Scotland : " We leam from Cjesar and other Koman Writers, that 
 the travelling riierchants who frequented Gaul and other barbarous countries, either 
 newly conquered by the Roman arms, or bordering on the Koman conquests, were 
 ever the first to make the inhabitants of those counti'ies familiarly acquainted with 
 the Roman modes of life, and to inspire them with an inclination to follow the Ro- 
 man fashions, and to enjoy Roman conveniences. It is further to be observed, for 
 the credit of this most useful class of men, that they commonly contribute, by their 
 personal manners, no less than by the sale of their wares, to the refinement of the 
 people among whom they travel. " Having constant occasion to recommend them- 
 selves and their goods, they acquire habits of the most obliging attention, and the 
 most insinuating address. 'As in their peregrinations they have opportunity of con- 
 templating the manners of various men and various cities, they become eminently 
 skilled in the knowledge of the world. As they wander, each alone, through thinly, 
 inhabited districts, they fot-m habits of reflection and of sublime conteynplation. With all 
 these qualifications,' no wonder that they should often be, in remote parts of the 
 country, the best mirrors of fashion, and censors of manners; and should contribute 
 much to polish the roughness, and soften the rusticity of our peasantry. It is not 
 more than twenty or thirty vears since a young man going from any part of Scot- 
 land to England, of purpose to cami the pack, was considered as going to lead the 
 life and acquire the fortune of a gentleman. When, after twenty years' absence, in 
 that honourable line of emplovment, he returned with bis acquisitions to his native 
 country, he was regarded as a'gentleman to all intents and purposes." 
 
SIO WORDSWORTH. 
 
 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 enjoy'd where'er he went, 
 
 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 
 
 AVith coward fears. He could afford to suffer 
 
 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 
 
 Of many minds, of minds and bodies too ; 
 
 The history of many families ; 
 
 How they had prosper'd ; how they were o'erthrown 
 
 By passion or mischance, or such misrule 
 
 ximong th' unthinking masters of the earth 
 
 As makes the nations groan. 
 
 This active course 
 He follow'd till provision for his wants 
 Had been obtain'd : the Wanderer then resolved 
 To pass the remnant of his days untask'd 
 W^ith needless services, from hardship free. 
 His calling laid aside, he lived at ease : 
 But still he loved to pace the public roads 
 And the wild j^aths ; and, by the Summer's warmth 
 Invited, often would he leave his home 
 And journey far, revisiting the scenes 
 That to his memory were most endear'd. — 
 Vigorous in health, of hopeful spirits, undamp'd 
 By worldly-mindedness or anxious care ; 
 Observant, studious, thoughtful, and refreshed 
 By knowledge gathered up from day to day; 
 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 watch'd him with an unrelenting eye. 
 This he remember'd in his riper age 
 With gratitude and reverential thoughts. 
 But, by the native vigour of his mind. 
 By iiis habitual wanderings out of doors. 
 By loneliness and goodness and kind works. 
 
THE EXCUESIOlf. 311 
 
 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 seem'd to me 
 Self-taught, as of a dreamer in the woods ; 
 Who to the model of his own i^ure heart 
 Shaped his belief, as grace divme inspired, 
 And human reason dictated with awe. — 
 And surely never did there live on Earth 
 A man of kindlier nature. The rough sports 
 And teasing ways of children yex'd not him ; 
 Indulgent listener was he to the tongue 
 Of garrulous age ; nor did the sick man's tale, 
 To his fraternal sympathy address'd, 
 Obtain reluctant hearing. 
 
 Plain his garb ; 
 Such as might suit a rustic Sire, prepared 
 For sabbath duties ; yet he was a man 
 Whom no one could liaye pass'd without remark. 
 Active and nervous was his gate ; his limbs 
 And his whole figure breathed intelligence. 
 Time had compress'd the freshness of his cheek 
 Into a narrower circle of deep red, 
 But had not tamed his eye : that, under brows 
 Shaggy and grey, had meaniugs which it brought 
 From years of youth ; which, like a Being made 
 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, 
 The prized memorial of relinquish'd toils, 
 Upon that cottage-beuch reposed his limbs, 
 Screen'd from the Sun. Supine the Wanderer lay. 
 His eyes as if in drowsiness half shut. 
 The shadows of the breezy elms above 
 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 hail'd him, seeing that his hat 
 Was moist with water-drops, as if the brim 
 Had newly scoop'd a running stream. He rose. 
 And ere our lively greeting into peace 
 Had settled, '' Tfs," said I, " a burning day : 
 My lips are parch'd with thirst, but you, it seems. 
 Have somewhere found relief." He, at the word. 
 
312 WORDSWORTH. 
 
 Pointing towards a sweet-briar, bade me climb 
 
 The fence where that aspiring shrub look'd out 
 
 Upon the public way. It was a plot 
 
 Of garden ground run wild, its matted weeds 
 
 Mark'd with the steps of those, whom, as they pass'd- 
 
 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 look'd around, and there, 
 
 Where two tall hedge-rows of thick alder boughs 
 
 Join'd 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 return'd 
 
 Where sate the old Man on the cottage bench; 
 
 And, while beside him, with uncover'd 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 ; 
 
 Nor we alone, but that wdiich 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 
 
 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 
 
 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 w^e seem'd to feel 
 
 One sadness, they and I. Por them a bond 
 
 Of brotherhood is broken : time has been 
 
 When, every day, the touch of human hand 
 
 Dislodged the natural sleep that binds them up 
 
 In mortal stillness ; and they minister'd 
 
 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 : 
 
 There let it lie, — how foolish are such thoughts ! 
 
THE EXCUESION". 313 
 
 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. 0, Sir ! the good die first, 
 And they whose hearts are dry as summer dust 
 Burn to the socket. Many a passenger 
 Hath bless'd poor Margaret for her gentle looks. 
 When she upheld the cool refreshment drawn 
 From that forsaken spring ; and no one came 
 But he was welcome ; no one went away 
 But that it seem'd she loved him. She is dead, 
 The light extinguish'd of her lonely hut. 
 The hut itself abandoned to decay, "^ 
 . And she forgotten in the quiet grave. 
 
 I speak," continued he, " of One whose stock 
 Of virtues bloom'd 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 
 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 lack'd not on his side 
 The humble worth that satisfied her heart ; 
 Frugal, affectionate, sober, and withal 
 Keenly industrious. She with pride would tell 
 That he was often seated at his loom. 
 In Summer, ere the mower was abroad 
 Among the dewy grass, — in early Spring, 
 Ere the last star had vanish'd. They who pass'd, 
 At evening, from behind the garden fence 
 Might hear his busy spade, which he would ply, 
 After his daily work, until the light 
 Had fail'd, 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 Ood in Heaven. 
 
 Not twenty years ago, — but you I think 
 Can scarcely "bear it now in mind, — there came 
 
 8 The lines beginnings, " She was aAvomanof a steady mind," faithfully delineate, 
 so far as they go, the character possessed in common by many women whom it has 
 been mj'^ happiness to know in humble life ; and several of the most touching things 
 which Margaret is represented as saying and doing arc taken from actual obserVa- 
 tion of the distresses and trials under which diiierent persons were suffering ; some 
 of them strangoi'S to me, and others daily under my notice. I was born too late to 
 have a distinct remembrance of the origin of the American war ; but the state in 
 which I represent Robert's mind to be, I had frequent opportunities of observing at 
 tlie commencement of our rupture with France in ndS.—Authoi^'s Notes,. 1843. 
 
314 WORDSWORTH. 
 
 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 ! 
 
 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, 
 
 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 Autiunn, 
 
 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. 
 
 Was all consumed. A second infant now 
 
 Was added to the troubles of a time 
 
 Laden, for them and all of their degree. 
 
 With care and sorrow : shoals of astisans 
 
 From ill-requited labour turn'd adrift 
 
 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 ! 
 
 A sad reverse it was for him who long 
 Had fiU'd 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 
 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. 
 He mingled, where he might, the various tasks 
 Of Summer, Autumn, Winter, and of Spring. 
 But this endured not ; his good humour soon 
 Became a weight in which no pleasure was ; 
 And poverty brought on a petted mood 
 And a sore temper: day by day he droop'd. 
 And he would leave his work, and to the town 
 
THE EXCUESION". 315 
 
 Would turn without an errand Ms slack steps ; 
 Or wander here and there among the fields. 
 One while he would speak lightly of his babes, 
 And with a cruel tongue : at other times 
 He toss'd them with a false unnatural joy : 
 And 'twas a rueful thing to see the looks 
 Of the poor innocent children. ^ Every smile/ 
 Said Margaret to me, here beneath these trees, 
 * Made my heart bleed.' " 
 
 At this the Wanderer paused ; 
 And, looking up to those enormous elms, 
 He said, " 'Tis now the hour of deepest noon. 
 At this still season of repose and peace. 
 This hour when all things which are not at rest 
 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, 
 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 : 
 
 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 
 
 Pass'd from my mind like a forgotten sound. 
 
 Awhile on trivial things we held discourse, 
 
 To me soon tasteless. In my own despite, 
 
 I thought of that poor Woman as of one 
 
 Whom I had kno^vn and loved. He had rehearsed 
 
 Her homely tale with such familiar power. 
 
 With such an active countenance, an eye 
 
 So busy, that the things of which he spake 
 
 Seem'd present ; and, attention now relax'd, 
 
 A heart-felt chillness crept along my veins. 
 
 I rose ; and, having left the breezy shade. 
 
 Stood drinking comfort from the warmer sun. 
 
 That had not cheer'd me long, — ere, looking round 
 
 Upon that tranquil Ruin, I return'd. 
 
 And begg'd of the old Man that, for my sake. 
 
 He would resume his story. 
 
 He replied, 
 
316 WORDSWOKTH. 
 
 *' It Avere 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 mark'd 
 
 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 
 
 An idle dreamer ! 'Tis 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 
 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 
 O'er the flat Common ! — With quick step I reach'd 
 The threshold, lifted with light hand the latch ; 
 But, when I enter'd, Margaret look'd at me 
 A little while ; then turn'd her head away 
 Speechless, — and, sitting down upon a chair. 
 Wept bitterly. 1 Avist 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 
 Unutterably helpless, and a look 
 That seem'd 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 
 That he had disappear'd, — not two mouths 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. 
 Within her chamber-casement she espied 
 A folded paper, lying as if placed 
 To meet her waking eyes. This tremblingly 
 She open'd, — found no writing, but beheld 
 Pieces of money carefully enclosed, 
 
THE EXCURSIOlf. 317 
 
 Silver and gold. ^ I shudder 'd at the sight,' 
 Said Margaret, * for I knew it was his hand 
 That must have placed it there ; and ere tliat day 
 TTas ended, that long anxious day, I learn'd. 
 From one who by my husband had been sent 
 With the sad news, that he had join'd 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 fear'd 
 That I should follow with my babes, and sink 
 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 
 To cheer us both. But long we had not talk'd 
 Ere we built up a pile of better thoughts, 
 And with a brighter eye she look'd around 
 As if she had been shedding tears of joy. 
 We parted. — 'Twas the time of early Spring; 
 I left her busy with her garden tools ; 
 And well remember, o'er that fence she look'd. 
 And, while I paced along the foot-way path, 
 Call'd out, and sent a blessing after me. 
 With tender cheerfulness, and with a voice 
 That seem'd the very sound of happy thoughts. 
 
 I roved o'er many a hill and many a dale, 
 With my accustom'd load ; in heat and cold. 
 Through many a wood and man}^ an open ground, 
 In sunshine and in shade, in wet and fair, 
 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 pass'd between. 
 And disappear'd. 
 
 I journey'd 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, 
 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 seem'd, 
 The honeysuckle, crowding round the porch. 
 
318 WORDSWORTH. 
 
 Hung down in heavier tufts ; and that bright weed, 
 The yellow stone-crop, suffer'd to take root 
 Along the window's edge, profusely grew 
 Blinding the lower panes. I turn'd aside, 
 And stroll 'd into her garden. It appear'd 
 To lag behind the season, and had lost 
 Its pride of neatness. Daisy-flowers and thrift 
 Had broken their trim border-lines, and straggled 
 O'er paths they used to deck : carnations, once 
 Prized for surpassing beauty, and no less 
 For the peculiar pains they had required, 
 Declined their languid heads, wanting support. 
 The cumbrous bind-weed, with its wreaths aud bells, 
 Had twined about her two small rows of peas. 
 And dragg'd them to the earth. 
 
 Ere this an hour 
 Was wasted. — Back I turn'd my restless steps ; 
 A stranger pass'd ; and, guessing whom I sought, 
 He said that she was used to ramble far. — 
 The Sun was sinking in the West ; and now 
 I sate with sad impatience. From within 
 Her solitary infant cried aloud ; 
 Then, like a blast that dies away self-still'd, 
 The Yoice was silent. From the bench I rose ; 
 But neither could divert nor soothe my thoughts. 
 The spot, though fair, was very desolate, — 
 The longer I remain'd, more desolate : 
 And, looking round me, now I first observed 
 The corner stones, on either side the porch, 
 With dull red stains discolour'd, and stuck o'er 
 With tufts and hairs of wool, as if the sheep. 
 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 turn'd, and saw her distant a few steps. 
 Her face was pale and thin ; her figure, too. 
 Was changed. As she unlock'd the door, she said, 
 * It grieves me you have waited here so long. 
 But, in good truth, Fve wander'd much of late ; 
 And sometimes — to' my shame I speak — have need 
 Of my best prayers to bring me back again.' 
 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 ; 
 
THE EXCURSION-. 319 
 
 To a kind master on a distant farm 
 Now happily apprenticed. — ^ I perceive 
 You look at me, and yon have cause : to-day 
 I have been travelling far ; and many days 
 About the fields I wander, knowing this 
 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 
 Have flow'd 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 
 "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 
 'Tis long and tedious ; but my spirit clings 
 To that poor "Woman : — so familiarly 
 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 
 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 suffer'd. Yes, it would have grieved 
 Your very soul to see her : evermore 
 Her eyelids droop'd, 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, 
 Pertaining to her house-affairs, appear'd 
 The careless stillness of a thinking mind 
 Self-occupied ; to which all outward things 
 Are like an idle matter. Still she sigh'd. 
 But yet no motion of the breast was seen, 
 ISTo heaving of the heart. "While by the fire 
 "We sate together, sighs came on my ear, 
 I knew not how, and hardly whence they came. 
 
 Ere my departure, to her care I gave, 
 Eor her son's use, some tokens of regard. 
 
320 WORDSWORTH, 
 
 Which with a look of welcome she received ; 
 And I exhorted her to place her trust 
 In God's good love, and seek His helj^ by prayer. 
 I took my staff, and, when I kiss'd her babe, 
 The tears stood in her eyes. I left her then 
 With the best hope and comfort I could give : 
 She thank'd me for my wish ; but for my hope 
 It seem'd she did not thank me. 
 
 I returned, 
 And took my rounds along this road again 
 When on its sunny bank the primrose flower 
 Peep'd forth, to give an earnest of the Spring. 
 I found her sad and drooping : she had learn'd 
 '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 seem'd the same 
 In person and appearance ; but her house 
 Besjoake a sleepy hand of negligence ; 
 The floor was neither dry nor neat, the hearth 
 Was comfortless, and her small lot of books, 
 Which, in the cottage- window, heretofore 
 Had been piled up against the corner panes 
 In seemly order, now, with straggling leaves, 
 Lay scatter'd here and there, open or shut, 
 As they had chanced to fall. Her infant Babe 
 Had from its Mother caught the trick of grief, 
 And sigh'd 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 harden'd soil, and knots of wither'd grass : 
 No ridges there appear'd of clear black mould, 
 No winter greenness ; of her herbs and flowers, 
 It seemed the better part were gnaw'd away 
 Or trampled into earth ; a chain of straw, 
 Which had been twined about the slender stem 
 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 
 Ere Eobert come again.' When to the House 
 We had return'd 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 
 
THE EXCUKSION. 321 
 
 Of sorrow. Yet I saw the idle loom 
 Still in its place ; liis Sunday garments hung 
 Upon the self -same nail ; his very staff 
 Stood undisturb'd behind the door. 
 
 And when. 
 In bleak December, I retraced this way, 
 She told me that her little babe was dead, 
 And she was left alone. She now, released 
 From her maternal cares, had taken up 
 Th' employment common through these wilds, and gained, 
 By si3inning hemp, a pittance for herself ; 
 And for this end had hired a neighbour's boy 
 To give her needful help. That very time 
 Most willingly she put her work aside. 
 And walk'd with me along the miry road, 
 Heedless how far ; and, in such piteous sort 
 That any heart had ached to hear her, begg'd 
 That, wheresoe'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 return'd 
 Into this tract again. 
 
 Nine tedious years ; 
 From their first separation, nine long years. 
 She linger'd in unquiet widowhood ; 
 A Wife and Widow. Needs must it have been 
 A sore heart-wasting ! I have heard, my Friend, 
 That in yon arbour oftentimes she sate 
 Alone, through half the vacant Sabbath-day ; 
 And, if a dog pass'd by, she still would quit 
 The shade, and look abroad. On this old bench 
 For hours she sate ; and evermore her eye 
 W^as 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 grey line ; 
 There, to and fro, she paced through many a day 
 Of the warm Summer, from a belt of hemp 
 That girt her waist spinning the long-drawn thread 
 With backward steps. Yet ever as there pass'd 
 A man whose garments show'd the soldier's red, 
 Or crippled mendicant in sailor's garb. 
 The little child who sate to turn the wheel 
 Ceased from his task ; and she Avith faltex'ing voice 
 Made many a fond inquiry ; and, when they 
 Whose presence gave no comfort wei'e gone by, 
 Her heart was still more sad. And by yon gate 
 
322 WORDSWORTH. 
 
 That bars the traveller's road she often stood, 
 
 And, when a stranger horseman came, the latch 
 
 Would lift, and in his face look wistfully ; 
 
 Most happy, if, from aught discover'd there 
 
 Of tender feeling, she might dare repeat 
 
 The same sad question. Meanwhile her poor Hut 
 
 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 
 
 Chequer'd the green-grown thatch. And so she lived 
 
 Through the long Winter, reckless and alone ; 
 
 Until her house by frost, and thaw, and rain. 
 
 Was sapp'd ; and while she slept, the nightly damps 
 
 Did chill her breast ; and in the stormy day' 
 
 Her tatter'd clothes were ruffled by the wind, 
 
 Even at the side of her own fire. Yet still 
 
 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 endear'd, 
 
 Fast rooted at her heart : and here, my Friend, 
 
 In sickness she remain'd; and here slie died; 
 
 Last human tenant of these ruin'd walls ! " 
 
 The old Man ceased ; he saw that I was moved ; 
 From that low bench, rising instinctively 
 I turn'd aside in weakness, nor had power 
 To thank him for the tale which he had told. 
 I stood, and leaning o'er the garden wall 
 Eeview'd that Woman's sufferings ; and it seem'd 
 To comfort me while with a brother's love 
 I bless'd her in the impotence of grief. 
 Then towards the cottage I return'd ; and traced 
 Fondly, though Avith 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. 
 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 oft times felt 
 Th' unbounded might of prayer ; and learn'd, with soul 
 Fix'd 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 ? 
 
THE EXCUBSION. 323 
 
 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 silver'd o'er, 
 
 As once I pass'd, into my heart convey'd 
 
 So still an image of tranquillity. 
 
 So calm and still, and look'd so beautiful 
 
 Amid th' uneasy thoughts which fill'd my mind, 
 
 That what we feel of sorrow and despair 
 
 From ruin and from change, and all the grief 
 
 That passing shows of Being leave behind, 
 
 Appeared an idle dream, that could maintain, 
 
 Nowhere, dominion o'er th' enlighten'd spirit 
 
 Whose meditative sympathies repose 
 
 Upon the breast of Faith. I turn'd away. 
 
 And walk'd along my road in happiness." 
 
 He ceased. Ere long the Sun declining shot 
 A slant and mellow radiance, which began 
 To fall upon us, while, beneath the trees. 
 We sate on that low bench : and now we felt, 
 Admonish'd 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 
 Of hopeful preparation, grasp'd his staff : 
 Together casting then a farewell look 
 Upon those silent walls, we left the shade; 
 And, ere the stars were visible, had reach'd 
 A village-inn, — our evening resting-place. 
 
 BOOK SECOND. 
 
 THE SOLITARY.^ 
 
 In" days of yore how fortunately fared 
 
 The Minstrel ! wandering on from hall to hall. 
 
 Baronial court or royal ; cheer'd with gifts 
 
 Munificent, and love, and ladies' praise ; 
 
 Now meeting on his road an armed knight, 
 
 Now resting with a pilgrim by the side 
 
 Of a clear brook ; beneath an abbey's roof 
 
 9 Now for the Solitary. Not long after we took tip our abode at Grasmere, came 
 to reside there a Scotchman, a little past the middle of life, who had for many years 
 
324 WORDSWORTH. 
 
 One evening sumptuously lodged ; the next. 
 
 Humbly in a religious hospital ; 
 
 Or with some merry outlaws of the wood ; 
 
 Or haply shrouded in a hermit's cell. 
 
 Him, sleeping or awake, the robber spared ; 
 
 He walk'd, protected from the sword of war 
 
 By virtue of that sacred instrument 
 
 His harp, suspended at the traveller's side ; 
 
 His dear companion wheresoe'er he went, 
 
 Opening from land to land an easy way 
 
 By melody, and by the charm of verse. 
 
 Yet not the noblest of that honour'd Eace 
 
 Drew happier, loftier, more impassion'd thouglits 
 
 From his long journeyings and eventful life, 
 
 Than this obscure Itinerant had skill 
 
 To gather, ranging through the tamer ground 
 
 Of these our unimaginative days ; 
 
 Both while he trod the earth in humblest guise 
 
 Accoutred with his burthen and his staff; 
 
 And now, when free to move with lighter pace. 
 
 What wonder, then, if I, whose favourite school 
 Hath been the fields, the roads, and rural lanes, 
 Look'd on this guide with reverential love ? 
 Each with the other pleased, we now pursued 
 Our journey, under favourable skies. 
 Turn whersoe'er we would, he was a light 
 Unfailing : not a hamlet could we pass, 
 Earely a house, that did not yield to him 
 Eemembrances ; or from his tongue call forth 
 Some way-beguiling tale. Nor less regard 
 Accompanied those strains of apt discourse, 
 Which Nature's various objects might inspire ; 
 And in the silence of his face I read 
 His overflowing spirit. Birds and beasts, 
 And the mute fish that glances in the stream, 
 And harmless reptile coiling in the sun. 
 And gorgeous insect hovering in the air, 
 
 been chaplain to a Highland regiment. Of his former position I availed myself, to 
 connect with the Wanderer, also a Scotchman, a character suitable to my purpose, 
 the elements of which I drew from several persons with whom I had been connected 
 and who fell under my observation during frequent residences in London at the be- 
 ginning of the French Revolution. The chief of these was a Mr. Fawcet, a preacher 
 at a dissenting meeting-liouse at the Old Jewry. It happened to me several times to 
 be one of his congregation through my connection Avith Mr. Nicholson, who, at a 
 time when I had not many acquaintances in London, used often to invite us to dine 
 with him on Sundays; and I took the opportunity (3Ir. Nicholson being a dissenter) 
 of going to hear Fawcet, who was an able and eloquent man. But his Christianity 
 was probaoly never very deeply rooted; and, like many others in those times of like 
 showy talents, he had not strength of character to withstand the effects of the French 
 Revolution, and of the wild and lax opinions which had done so much towards pro- 
 ducing it, and far more in canying it forward in its extremes. — Author's Notes, 1843. 
 
THE EXCURSION. 325 
 
 The fowl domestic, and the household dog, — 
 
 In his capacious mind, he loyed them all : 
 
 Their rights acknowledging he felt for all. 
 
 Oft was occasion given me to perceive 
 
 How the calm pleasures of the pasturing herd 
 
 To happy contemplation soothed his walk ; 
 
 How the poor hrute's condition, forced to run 
 
 Its course of suffering in the public road. 
 
 Sad contrast ! all too often smote his heart 
 
 With unavailing pity. Kich in love 
 
 And sweet humanity, he was, himself, 
 
 To the degree that he desired, beloved. 
 
 Smiles of good-will from faces that he knew 
 
 Greeted us all day long ; we took our seats 
 
 By many a cottage-hearth, where he received 
 
 The Avelcome of an Inmate from afar. 
 
 And I at once forgot I was a Stranger. — 
 
 Nor was he loth to enter ragged huts. 
 
 Huts where his charity was blest ; his voice 
 
 Heard as the voice of an experienced friend. 
 
 And sometimes — where the poor man held dispute 
 
 With his own mind, unable to subdue 
 
 Impatience through inaptness to perceive 
 
 General distress in his particular lot ; 
 
 Or cherishing resentment, or in vain 
 
 Struggling against it ; with a soul perplex'd, 
 
 And tin ding in herself no steady power 
 
 To draw the line of comfort that divides 
 
 Calamity, the chastisement of Heaven, 
 
 From the injustice of our brother men — 
 
 To him appeal was made as to a judge ; 
 
 Who, with an understanding heart, allay'd 
 
 The perturbation ; listen'd to the plea ; 
 
 Ecsolved the dubious point; and sentence gave 
 
 So grounded, so applied, that it was heard 
 
 With soften'd spirit, even when it condemn'd. 
 
 Such intercourse I witness'd, while we roved, 
 Kow as his choice directed, now as mine ; 
 Or both, with equal readiness of will. 
 Our course submitting to the changeful breeze 
 Of accident. But when the rising Sun 
 Had three times calFd us to renew our walk, 
 My Fellow-traveller, Avith earnest voice. 
 As if the thought were but a moment old, 
 Claim- d absolute dominion for the day. 
 We started, — and he led me toward the hills. 
 
326 WORDSWORTH. 
 
 Up tlirougli an ample vale, with higher hills 
 
 Before us, mountains stern and desolate ; 
 
 But, in the majesty of distance, now 
 
 Set off, and to our ken appearing fair 
 
 Of aspect, with aerial softness clad, 
 
 And beautified with morning's pui*ple beams. 
 
 The wealthy, the luxurious, by the stress 
 Of business roused, or pleasure, ere their time, 
 May roll in chariots, or provoke the hoofs 
 Of the fleet coursers they bestride, to raise 
 From earth the dust of morning, slow to rise ; 
 And they, if blest with wealth and hearts at ease, 
 Shall lack not their enjoyment ; — but how faint 
 Compared with ours ! who, pacing side by side, 
 Could, with an eye of leisure, look on all 
 That we beheld ; and lend the listening sense 
 To every grateful sound of earth and air ; 
 Pausing at will, — our spirits braced, our thoughts 
 Pleasant as roses in the thickets blown. 
 And pure as dew bathing their crimson leaves. 
 
 Mount slowly, Sun ! that we may journey long, 
 By this dark hill protected from thy beams ! 
 Such is the summer pilgrim's frequent wish ; 
 But quickly from among our morning thoughts 
 'Twas chased away : for, toward the western side 
 Of the broad vale, casting a casual glance. 
 We saw a throng of people ; — wherefore met ? , 
 Blithe notes of music, suddenly let loose 
 On the thrill'd ear, and flags uprising, yield 
 Prompt answer; they proclaim the annual Wake, 
 Which the bright season favours. Tabor and pipe 
 In purpose join to hasten or reprove 
 The laggard Eustic ; and repay with boons 
 Of merriment a parti-colour'd knot. 
 Already f orm'd upon the village-green. — 
 Beyond the limits of the shadow cast 
 By the broad hill, glisten'd upon our sight 
 That gay assemblage. Round them and above. 
 Glitter, with dark recesses interposed. 
 Casement, and cottage-roof, and stems of trees 
 Half-veil'd in vapoury cloud, the silver steam 
 Of dews fast melting on their leafy boughs 
 By the strong sunbeams smitten. Like a mast 
 Of gold, the Maypole shines ; as if the rays 
 Of morning, aided by exhaling dew. 
 With gladsome influence could re-animate 
 
THE EXCURSION. o'Z7 
 
 The faded garlands dangling from its sides. 
 
 Said I, " The music and the sprightly scene 
 Invite us ; shall we quit our road, and join 
 These festive matins ? " — He replied, '* Not loth 
 To linger I would here with you partake, 
 Not one hour merely, but till evening's close, 
 The simple pastimes of the day and place. 
 By the fleet Eacers, ere the Sun be set, 
 The turf of yon large pasture will be skimm'd ; 
 There, too, the lusty AVrestlers shall contend: 
 But know we not that he who intermits 
 Th' appointed task and duties of the day 
 Untunes full oft the pleasures of the day, 
 Checking the finer spirits that refuse 
 To flow, when purposes are lightly changed ? 
 A length of journey yet remains untraced: 
 Let us proceed." Then, pointing with his staff 
 Eaised toward those craggy summits, his intent 
 He thus imparted : 
 
 " In a spot that lies 
 Among yon mountain fastnesses concealed, 
 You will receive, before the hour of noon, . 
 Good recompense, I hope, for this day's toil, 
 From sight of One who lives secluded there. 
 Lonesome and lost : of whom, and whose past life, 
 (Not to forestall such knowledge as may be 
 More faithfully collected from himself,) 
 This brief communication shall suffice. 
 
 Though now sojourning there, he, like myself, 
 Sprang from a stock of lowly parentage 
 Among the wilds of Scotland, in a tract 
 Where many a shelter'd and well-tended plant 
 Bears, on the humblest ground of social life, 
 Blossoms of piety and innocence. 
 Such grateful promises his youth display'd : 
 And, having shown in study forward zeal, 
 He to the Ministry was duly calFd ; 
 And straight, incited by a curious mind 
 Fill'd with vague hopes, he undertook the charge 
 Of Chaplain to a military troop 
 Cheer'd by the Highland bagpipe, as they march'd 
 In plaided vest, — his fellow-countrymen. 
 This office filling, yet by native power 
 And force of native inclination made 
 An intellectual ruler in the haunts 
 Of social vanity, he walk'd the world, 
 
328 WORDSWORTH. 
 
 Gay, and affecting graceful gaiety ; 
 Lax, buoyant, — less a pastor with his flock 
 Than a soldier among soldiers, — lived and roam' d 
 Where Fortune led : and Fortune, who oft proves 
 The careless wanderer's friend, to him made known 
 A blooming Lad}', a conspicuous flower. 
 Admired for beauty, for her sweetness praised ; 
 Whom he had sensibility to love, 
 Ambition to attempt, and skill to win. 
 
 For this fair Bride, most rich in gifts of mind 
 Nor sparingly endoAv'd with worldly wealth, 
 His ofiice he relinquished ; and retired 
 From the world's notice to a rural home. 
 Youth's season yet w4th him was scarcely past. 
 And she was in youth's prime. Hov/ free their love, 
 How full their joy ! till, pitiable doom ! 
 In the short course of one undreaded year. 
 Death blasted all. Death suddenly o'erthrew 
 Two lovely Children, — all that they possess'd! 
 The Mother follow'd. Miserably bare 
 The one Survivor stood ; he wept, he pray'd 
 For his dismissal, day and night, compell'd 
 To hold communion with the grave, and face 
 With pain the regions of eternity. 
 An uncomplaining apathy displaced 
 This anguish ; and, indifferent to delight, 
 To aim and purpose, he consumed his days, 
 To private interest dead, and public care. 
 
 So lived he ; so he might have died. But now, 
 To the wide world's astonishment, appear 'd 
 A glorious opening, the unlook'd-for dawn, 
 That promised everlasting joy to France ! 
 Her voice of social transport reach'd even him. 
 He broke from his contracted bounds, repair'd 
 To the great City, an emporium then 
 Of golden expectations, and receiving 
 Freights every day from a new world of hope. 
 Thither his popular talents he transferr'd ; 
 And, from the pulpit, zealously maintain'd 
 The cause of Christ and civil liberty. 
 As one, and moving to one glorious end.^° 
 Intoxicating service ! I might say 
 
 10 The same fiilse identification, assumed as a first principle, has led many in our 
 day to an utter repudiation of the Christian Faith. The cause of civil libei'ty, how. 
 ever good in itself, is not the same as the cause of Christ; and to regard them as one 
 cannot but prove a fatal source of error and confusion, — dangerous alike, perhaps, 
 in the end, to both causes. 
 
THE EXCURSION^. 329 
 
 A happy service ; for lie was sincere 
 
 As yaiiity and fondness for applause, 
 
 And new and shapeless wishes, would allow. 
 
 That righteous cause (such power hath freedom) bound. 
 For one hostility, in friendly league. 
 Ethereal natures and the worst of slaves ; 
 Was served by rival advocates that came 
 From regions opposite as Heaven and Hell. 
 One courage seem'd to animate them all : 
 And, from the dazzling conquests daily gained 
 By their united efforts, there arose 
 A proud and most presumptuous confidence 
 In the transcendent wisdom of the age. 
 And her discernment ; not alone in rights, 
 And in the origin and bounds of power 
 Social and temporal ; but in laws divine. 
 Deduced by reason, or to faith reveal'd. 
 An overweening trust was raised ; and fear 
 Cast out, alike of person and of thing. 
 Plague from this union spread, whose subtle bane 
 The strongest did not easily escape ; 
 And He, what wonder? took a mortal taint. 
 How shall I trace the change, how bear to tell 
 That he broke faith with them whom he had laid 
 In earth's dark chambers, with a Christian's hope ! 
 An infidel contempt of Holy Writ 
 Stole by degrees upon liis mind ; and hence 
 Life, like that Roman Janus, double-faced ; 
 Vilest hypocrisy, — the laughing, gay 
 Hypocrisy, not leagued with fear, but pride. 
 Smooth words he had, to wheedle simple souls ; 
 But, for disciples of the inner school, 
 Old freedom was old servitude, and they 
 The wisest whose opinions stoop'd the least 
 To known restraints ; and who most boldly drew 
 Hopeful prognostications from a creed, 
 That, in the light of false philosophy. 
 Spread like a halo round a misty Moon, 
 Widening its circle as the storms advance. 
 
 His sacred function was at length renounced ; 
 And every day and every place enjoj^d 
 Th' unshackled layman's natural liberty ; 
 Speech, manners, morals, all without disguise. 
 I do not wish to wrong him : though the course 
 Of private life licentiously display'd 
 Unhallow'd actions, — planted like a crown 
 
330 WORDSWORTH. 
 
 Upon the insolent aspiring brow 
 
 Of spurious notions, — worn as open signs 
 
 Of prejudice subdued,^ — still he retained, 
 
 'Mid much abasement, what he had received 
 
 From Nature, an intense and glowing mind, 
 
 Wherefore, when humbled liberty grew weak, 
 
 And mortal sickness on her face appear' d, 
 
 He coloured objects to his own desire 
 
 As with a lover's passion. Yet his moods 
 
 Of pain were keen as those of better men, — 
 
 Nay, keener, as his fortitude was less : 
 
 And he continued, when worse days were come, 
 
 To deal about his sparkling eloquence. 
 
 Struggling against the strange reverse with zeal 
 
 That shew'd like happiness. But, in despite 
 
 Of all this outside bravery, within. 
 
 He neither felt encouragement nor hope : 
 
 For moral dignity and strength of mind 
 
 Were wanting ; and simplicity of life ; 
 
 And reverence for himself ; and, last and best. 
 
 Confiding thoughts, through love and fear of Him 
 
 Before whose sight the troubles of this world 
 
 Are vain, as billows in a tossing sea. 
 
 The glory of the times fading away, — 
 The splendour, which had given a festal air 
 To self-importance, hallow'd it, and veil'd 
 From his own sight, — this gone, he forfeited 
 All joy in human nature; was consumed, 
 And vex'd, and chafed, by levity and scorn, 
 And fruitless indignation ; gall'd by pride ; 
 Made desperate by contempt of men who throve 
 Before his sight in power or fame, and won. 
 Without desert, what he desired ; weak men. 
 Too weak even for his envy or his hate ! 
 Tormented thus, after a wandering course 
 Of discontent, and inwardly opprest 
 With malady, — in part, I fear, provoked 
 By weariness of life, — he fix'd his home, 
 Or, rather say, sate down by very chance. 
 Among these rugged hills ; where now he dwells. 
 And wastes the sad remainder of his hours, 
 Steep'd in a self-indulging spleen, that wants not 
 
 1 Scoffing at virtue, at her counsels and rewards, is not unfrequentlj^ taken up as 
 a badge of " prejudice subdued." So some of the chiefs and leaders m the French 
 Revolution openlv, and even ostentatiously, haunted the foulest coui'ts of vice ana 
 profligacy, as evi'dence of their having outgrown the old superstitions of purity and pi- 
 ety and seli-resti-aint. 
 
THE EXCURSIOI?^. 331 
 
 Its own voluptuousness ; — on this resolved, 
 With this content, that he will live and die 
 Forgotten, — at safe distance from ^ a world 
 Not moving to his mind.' " 
 
 These serious words 
 Closed the preparatory notices 
 That served my Fellow-traveller to beguile 
 The way, while we advanced up that wide vale. 
 Diverging now, (as if his quest had been 
 Some secret of the mountains, cavern, fall 
 Of water, or some lofty eminence, 
 Eenown'd for splendid prospect far and wide,) 
 We scaled, without a track to ease our steps, 
 A steep ascent ; and reach'd a dreary plain, * 
 With a tumultuous waste of huge hill-tops 
 Before us ; savage region ! which I paced 
 Dispirited : when, all at once, behold ! 
 Beneath our feet, a little lowly vale, 
 A lowly vale, and yet uplifted high 
 Among the mountains ; even as if the spot 
 Had been from eldest time by wish of theirs 
 So placed, to be shut out from all the world ! 
 Urn-like it was in shape, deep as an urn ; 
 With rocks encompass'd, save that to the south 
 Was one small opening, where a heath-clad ridge 
 Supplied a boundary less abrupt and close; 
 A quiet treeless nook, with two green fields, 
 A liquid pool that glitter'd in the sun, 
 And one bare dwelling ; one abode, no more ! 
 It seem'd the home of poverty and toil. 
 Though not of want : the little fields, made green 
 By husbandry of many thrifty years. 
 Paid cheerful tribute to the moorland house. 
 There crows the cock, single in his domain : 
 The small birds find in Spring no thicket there 
 To shroud them; only from the neighbouring vales 
 The cuckoo, straggling up to the hill-tops, 
 Shouteth faint tidings of some gladder place. 
 
 Ah ! what a sweet Eecess, thought I, is here ! 
 Instantly throwing down my limbs at ease 
 Upon a bed of heath ; — full many a spot 
 Of hidden beauty have I chanced to espy 
 Among the mountains ; never one like this; 
 So lonesome, and so perfectly secure ; 
 Not melancholy, — no, for it is green, 
 And bright, and fertile, furnish'd in itself 
 
332 WORDSWORTH. 
 
 With the few needful things that life requires. 
 In rugged arms how softly does it lie, 
 How tenderly protected ! Far and near 
 We have an image of the pristine Earth, 
 The planet in its nakedness : were this 
 Man's only dwelling, sole appointed seat, 
 First, last, and single, in the breathing world. 
 It could not be more quiet : peace is here 
 Or noAvhere ; days unruffled by the gale 
 Of public news or private ; years that pass 
 Forgetfully ; uncall'd upon to pay 
 The common penalties of mortal life, 
 Sickness, or accident, or grief, or pain. 
 
 On these and kindred thoughts intent I lay 
 In silence musing by my Comrade's side. 
 He also silent ; when from out the heart 
 Of that profound abyss a solemn voice, 
 Or several voices in one solemn sound. 
 Was heard ascending ; mournful, deep, and slow 
 The cadence, as of psalms, — a funeral dirge ! 
 We listeii'd, looking down upon the hut, 
 But seeing no one : meanwhile from below 
 The strain continued, spiritual as before ; 
 And now distinctly could I recognise 
 These words : '' Shall in the grave thy love ie hnoiun. 
 In death thy faithfulness ? " — " God rest his soul I " 
 Said the old man,' abruptly breaking silence, — , 
 " He is departed, and finds peace at last ! " 
 
 This scarcely spoken, and those holy strains 
 Not ceasing, forth appear'd in view a band 
 Of rustic persons, from behind the hut 
 Bearing a coffin in the midst, with which 
 They shaped their course along the sloping side 
 Of that small valley, singing as they moved; 
 A sober company and few, the men 
 Bare-headed, and all decently attired ! 
 Some steps when they had thus advanced, the dirge 
 Ended ; and, from the stillness that ensued 
 Eecovering, to my Friend I said, " You spake, 
 Methought, with apprehension that these rites 
 Are paid to Him upon whose shy retreat 
 This day we purposed to intrude." — "I did so. 
 But let us hence, that we may learn the truth : 
 Perhaps it is not he but some one else 
 For whom this pious service is perf orm'd ; 
 Some other tenant of the solitude." 
 
THE EXCURSION. 
 
 So, to a steep and difficult descent 
 Trusting ourselves, we wound from crag to crag, 
 Where passage could be won ; and, as the last 
 Of the mute train, behind the heathy top 
 Of that off-sloping outlet, disappear'd, 
 I, more impatient in my downward course. 
 Had landed upon easy ground; and there 
 Stood waiting for my Comrade. When, behold 
 An object that enticed my steps aside ! 
 A narrow, winding entry open'd out 
 Into a platform, that lay, sheepfold-wise, 
 Enclosed between an upright mass of rock 
 And one old moss-grown wall; — a cool recess, 
 . And fanciful ! For, where the rock and wall 
 Met in an angle, hung a penthouse, framed 
 By thrusting two rude staves into the wall 
 And overlaying them with mountain sods ; 
 To weather-fend a little turf -built seat 
 Whereon a full-grown man might rest, nor dread 
 The burning sunshine, or a transient shower ; 
 But the whole plainly Avrought by children's hands ! 
 Whose skill had throng'd the floor with a proud show 
 Of baby-houses, curiously arranged ; 
 Nor wanting ornament of walks between. 
 With mimic trees inserted in the turf. 
 And gardens interposed. Pleased with the sight, 
 I could not choose but beckon to my Guide, 
 Who, entering, round him threw a careless glance, 
 Impatient to pass on, when I exclaim 'd, 
 " Lo ! what is here ? " and, stooping down, drew forth 
 A book, that, in the midst of stones and moss 
 And wreck of parti-colour'd earthen-ware. 
 Aptly disposed, had lent its help to raise 
 One of those petty structures. " His it must be ! " 
 Exclaimed the Wanderer, " cannot but be his. 
 And he is gone ! " The book, which in my hand 
 Had open'd of itself, (for it was swoln 
 With searching damp, and seemingly had lain 
 To the injurious elements exposed 
 From week to week,) I found to be a work 
 In the French tongue, a ^t^ovel of Voltaire, 
 His famous Ojjtimist.^ "Unhappy Man ! " 
 Exclaimed my Friend: "here, then, has been to him 
 Eetreat within retreat, a sheltering-place 
 
 2 I have no acquaintance with this work of Voltaire's ; and the word optimist has 
 been so variously applied, that it is not easy to define. Perhaps ita sense may be 
 
334 WORDSWORTH. 
 
 Within liow deep a shelter! He had fits, 
 
 Even to the last, of genuine tenderness, 
 
 And loved the haunts of children : here, no doubt, 
 
 Pleasing and pleased, he shared their simple sports, 
 
 Or sate companionless ; and here the hook. 
 
 Left and forgotten in his careless way, 
 
 Must by the cottage-children have been found : 
 
 Heaven bless them, and their inconsiderate work ! 
 
 To what odd purpose have the darlings turn'd 
 
 This sad memorial of their hapless friend ! " 
 
 " Me," said I, " most doth it surprise, to find 
 Such book in such a place ! " — '' A book it is," 
 He ansAver'd, "to the Person suited well. 
 Though little suited to surrounding things : 
 'Tis strange, I grant ; and stranger still had been 
 To see the Man who own'd it, dwelling here. 
 With one poor shepherd, far from all the world ! 
 Now, if our errand hath been thrown away. 
 As from these intimations I forebode, 
 Grieved shall I be, — less for my sake than yours, 
 And least of all for him who is no more." 
 
 By this, the book was in the old Man's hand; 
 And he continued, glancing on the leaves 
 An eye of scorn : " The lover," said he, " doomed 
 To love when hope hath fail'd him, whom no depth 
 Of privacy is deep enough to hide, 
 Hath yet his bracelet or his lock of liair. 
 And that is joy to him. When change of times 
 Hath summon'd kings to scaffolds, do but give 
 The faithful servant, who must hide his head 
 Henceforth in whatsoever nook he may, 
 A kerchief sprinkled with his master's blood, 
 And he too hath his comforter. How poor. 
 Beyond all poverty how destitute, 
 Must that man have been left who, hither driven, 
 Flying or seeking, could yet bring with him 
 No dearer relique, and no better stay, 
 Than this dull product of a scoffer's pen. 
 Impure conceits discharging from a heart 
 Harden'd by impious pride ! — I did not fear 
 To tax you with this journey; " mildly said 
 
 best gathered from a passage in Coleridge's Table Talk : " Always believing in the 
 government of God, I was a iQY\a.\\t optimist. But, as I could not but see that the 
 present state of things was not the best, I was necessarily led to look forward to a 
 future state." Some optimists, however, deny, in eflect, the existence of moral 
 evil, and hold the course of this world to be so good, that no other is needed for the 
 consummations of goodness. 
 
THE EXCUESIOK. 335 
 
 My venerable Friend, as forth we stepp'd 
 Into the presence of the cheerful light ; 
 " For I have knowledge that you do not shrink 
 From moving spectacles; — but let us on." 
 
 So speaking, on he went, and at the word 
 I followed, till he made a sudden stand : 
 For full in view, approaching through a gate 
 That open'd from th' enclosure of green fields 
 Into the rough uncultivated ground, 
 Behold the Man whom he had fancied dead ! 
 I kncAV from his deportment, mien, and dress, 
 That it could be no other ; a pale face, 
 A meagre person, tall, and in a garb 
 Not rustic, — dull and faded like himself! 
 He saw us not, though distant but few steps ; 
 For he was busy, dealing, from a store 
 Upon a broad leaf carried, choicest strings 
 Of red ripe currants ; * gift by which he strove. 
 With intermixture of endearing words. 
 To soothe a Child, who walk'd beside liim, weeping 
 As if disconsolate. — " They to the grave 
 Are bearing him, my Little-one," he said, 
 " To the dark pit; but he will feel no pain ; 
 His body is at rest, his soul in Heaven." ^ 
 
 More miglit have foUow'd ; but my honoured Friend 
 Broke in upon the Speaker with a frank 
 And cordial greeting. — Vivid was the light 
 That flash'd and sparkled from the otlier's eyes; 
 He was all fire : no shadow on his brow 
 Remain'd, nor sign of sickness on his face. 
 Hands' join'd he with his Visitant, — a grasp, 
 An eager grasp ; and many moments' space — 
 AVhen the first glow of pleasure was no more. 
 And, of the sad appearance which at once 
 Had vauish'd, much was come and coming back — 
 An amicable smile retain'd the life 
 Which it had unexpectedly received. 
 Upon his hollow cheek. "How kind," he said, 
 " Nor could your coming have been better timed ; 
 For this, you see, is in our narrow world 
 A day of sorrow. I have here a charge," — 
 And, speaking thus, he patted tenderly 
 
 3 •* Red ripe currants " the first week iu May ! Further on, we shall have ripe 
 whortleberries also. Instances, doubtless, of *' poetical license." 
 
 4 This is a natural touch of character. The infidel Solitary must needs lapse from 
 his propriety the moment he undertakes to console a little child sorrowing over the 
 grave. 
 
336 WORDSWORTH. 
 
 The sun-burnt forehead of the weeping child, — 
 
 "A little mourner, whom it is my task 
 
 To comfort ; — but how came ye ? — if yon track 
 
 (Which doth at once befriend us and betray) 
 
 Conducted hither your most welcome feet. 
 
 Ye could not miss the funeral train, — they yet 
 
 Have scarcely disappeared." — " This blooming Child," 
 
 Said the old Man, " is of an age to weep 
 
 At any grave or solemn spectacle. 
 
 Inly distressed or overpower'd with awe, 
 
 He knows not wherefore ; — but the boy to-day 
 
 Perhaps is shedding orphan's tears ; you also 
 
 Must have sustained a loss." — " The hand of Death, 
 
 He answer'd, " has been here ; but could not well 
 
 Have fallen more lightly, if it had not fallen 
 
 Upon mj'Self." — Tlie other left these words 
 
 Unnoticed, thus continuing : 
 
 " From yon crag, 
 Down whose steep sides we dropp'd into the vale, 
 We heard the hymn they sang, — a solemn sound 
 Heard anywhere ; but in a place like this 
 'Tis more than human ! Many precious rites 
 And customs of our rural ancestry 
 Are gone, or stealing from us ; this, I hope, 
 Will last for ever. Oft on my way have I 
 Stood still, though but a casual passenger. 
 So much I felt the awfulness of life, 
 In that one moment when the corse is lifted 
 In silence, with a hush of decency ; 
 Then from the threshold moves with song of peace, 
 And confidential yearnings, towards its home. 
 Its final home on Earth. What traveller — who — 
 (How far soe'er a stranger) does not own 
 The bond of brotherhood, when he sees them go, 
 A mute procession on the houseless road ; 
 Or passing by some single tenement 
 Or cluster'd clwellings, where again they raise 
 The monitory voice ? But most of all 
 It touches, it confirms, and elevates. 
 Then, when the body, soon to be consigned 
 Ashes to ashes, dust bequeath'd to dust. 
 Is raised from the church-aisle, and forward borne 
 Upon the shoulders of the next in love. 
 The nearest in affection or in blood ; 
 Yea, by the very mourners who had knelt 
 Beside the cofiin, resting on its lid 
 
THE EXCUESIOK. 337 
 
 In silent grief their unuplifted heads, 
 And heard meanwhile the Psalmist's mournful plaint,^ 
 And that most awful scripture which declares 
 We shall not sleep, but we shall all be changed ! 
 Have I not seen — ye likewise may have seen — 
 Son, husband, brothers, — brothers side by side, 
 And son and father also side by side, — 
 Rise from that posture, and in concert move, 
 On the green turf following the vested Priest, 
 Four dear supporters of one senseless weight. 
 From which they do not shrink, and under which 
 They faint not, but advance towards tli' open grave 
 Step after step, together, with their firm 
 . Unhidden faces : he that suffers most, 
 He outwardly, and inwardly perhaps. 
 The most serene, with most undaunted eye ! — 
 0, blest are they who live and die like these. 
 Loved with such love, and with such sorrow mourned!" 
 
 " That poor Man taken hence to-day," replied 
 The Solitary, with a faint sarcastic smile 
 Which did not please me, " must be deem'd, I fear, 
 Of the unblest ; for he will surely sink 
 Into his mother earth without such pomp 
 Of grief, depart without occasion given 
 By him for such array of fortitude. 
 Full seventy Winters hath he lived, and, mark ! 
 This simple Child will mourn his one short hour, 
 And I shall miss him ; — scanty tribute ! yet. 
 This wanting, he would leave the sight of men, 
 If love were his sole claim upon their care, 
 Like a ripe date which in the desert falls 
 AVithout a hand to gather it." 
 
 At this 
 I interposed, though loth to speak, and said, 
 " Can it be thus among so small a band 
 As ye must needs be here ? in such a place 
 I would not willingly, methinks, lose sight 
 Of a departing cloud." — " 'Twas not for love," 
 Answer'd the sick Man with a careless voice, 
 " That I came hither; neither have I found 
 Among associates who have power of speech, 
 Nor in such other converse as is here. 
 Temptation so prevailing as to change 
 That mood, or undermine my first resolve." 
 
 5 Referring to the ninetieth Psalm, which is used in the Burial Service of the 
 Church of England. 
 
338 WORDSWORTH. 
 
 Then, speaking in like careless sort, lie said 
 
 To my benign Companion, " Pity 'tis 
 
 That fortune did not guide you to this house 
 
 A few days earlier; then would you have seen 
 
 What stuff the Dwellers in a solitude, 
 
 That seems by nature hollow'd out to be 
 
 The seat and bosom of pure innocence. 
 
 Are made of ; — an ungracious matter this ! 
 
 Which, for truth's sake, yet in remembrance too 
 
 Of past discussions with this zealous friend 
 
 And advocate of humble life, I now 
 
 Will force upon his notice ; undeterr'd 
 
 By the example of his own pure course. 
 
 And that respect and deference which a soul 
 
 May fairl}^ claim, by niggard age enrich'd 
 
 In what she most doth value, love of Grod 
 
 And his frail creature Man ; — but ye shall hear. 
 
 I talk, — and ye are standing in the sun 
 
 Without refreshment I " 
 
 Quickly had he spoken. 
 And, with light steps still quicker than his words. 
 Led toward the Cottage. Homely was the spot; 
 And, to my feeling, ere we reach'd the door, 
 Had almost a forbidding nakedness ; 
 Less fair, I grant, even painfully less fair. 
 Than it appear 'd when from the beetling rock 
 We had look'd down upon it. All within. 
 As left by the departed company. 
 Was silent ; save the solitary clock 
 That on mine ear tick'd with a mournful sound. 
 Following our Guide, we clomb the cottage-stairs 
 And reach'd a small apartment dark and low. 
 Which was no sooner enter'd than our Host 
 Said gaily, " This is my domain, my cell. 
 My hermitage, my cabin, what you will, — 
 I love it better than a snail his house. 
 But now ye shall be feasted with our best." 
 So, with more ardour than an unripe girl 
 Left one day mistress of her mother's stores. 
 He went about his hospitable task. 
 My eyes were busy, and my thoug'hts no less. 
 And pleased I look'd upon my grey-hair'd Friend, 
 As if to thank him ; he return'd that look, 
 Cheer'd, plainly, and yet serious. Wliat a wreck 
 Had we about us ! scatter'd was the floor. 
 And, in like sort, chair, window-seat, and shelf. 
 
THE EXCUBSIO]!^. 339 
 
 With books, maps, fossils, witliei*'d plants and flowers. 
 And tufts of mountain moss. Mechanic tools 
 Lay intermix'd with scraps of paper, some 
 Scribbled with verse : a broken angling-rod 
 And shatter'd telescope, together link'd 
 By cobwebs, stood within a dusty nook ; 
 And instruments of music, some half-made. 
 Some in disgrace, hung dangling from the walls.* 
 But speedily the promise was fulfilled ; 
 A feast before us, and a courteous Host 
 Inviting us in glee to sit and eat. 
 A napkin, white as foam of that rough brook 
 By which it had been bleach'd, overspread the board ; 
 . And was itself half-cover'd with a store 
 
 Of dainties, — oaten bread, curd, cheese, and cream; 
 
 And cakes of butter curiously emboss'd, 
 
 Butter that had imbibed from meadow-flowers 
 
 A golden hue, delicate as their own 
 
 Faintly reflected in a lingering stream. 
 
 Nor lack'd, for more delight on that warm day, 
 
 Our table small parade of garden fruits. 
 
 And whortleberries from the mountain side. 
 
 The Child, who long ere this had still'd his sobs, 
 
 Was now a help to his late comforter. 
 
 And moved, a willing Page, as he was bid, ' 
 
 Ministering to our need. 
 
 In genial mood. 
 While at our pastoral banquet thus we sate 
 Fronting the window of that little cell, 
 I could not, ever and anon, forbear 
 To glance an upward look on tAvo huge Peaks, 
 That from some other vale peer'd into this. 
 " Those lusty twins," exclaim'd our host, *' if here 
 It were your lot to dwell, would soon become 
 Your prized companions. Many are the notes 
 Which, in his tuneful course, the wind draws forth 
 From rocks, woods, caverns, heaths, and dashing shores; 
 And well those lofty brethren bear their part 
 In the wild concert, — chiefly when the storm 
 Kides high : then all the upper air they fill 
 With roaring sound, that ceases not to flow. 
 Like smoke, along the level of the blast. 
 In mighty current ; theirs, too, is the song 
 
 6 Some of the Solitaiy's traits of character are charmingly suggested in this in- 
 rentoiy of his room. The passage ahvays reminds me of Scott's delightful portrait- 
 xire of Mr. Jonathan Oldbuck's sanctum in The Antiquary, which was published in 
 1816. 
 
340 WOKDSWOETH. 
 
 Of stream and headlong flood that seldom fails; 
 And, in the grim and breathless hour oC noon, 
 Methinks that I have heard them echo back 
 The thunder's greeting. Nor have Nature's laws 
 Left them ungifted with a power to yield 
 Music of finer tone ; a harmony, 
 So do I call it, though it be the hand 
 Of silence, though there be no voice : the clouds, 
 The mist, the shadows, light of golden suns, 
 Motions of moonlight, all come thither, — touch, 
 And have an answer, — thither come, and shape 
 A language not unwelcome to sick hearts 
 And idle spirits : there the Sun himself, 
 At the calm close of Summer's longest day. 
 Rests his substantial orb : between those heights 
 And on the top of either pinnacle. 
 More keenly than elsewhere in night's blue vault, 
 Sparkle the stars, as of their station proud. 
 Thoughts are not busier in the mind of man 
 Than the mute agents stirring there : — alone 
 Here do I sit and watch." 
 
 A fall of voice, 
 Regretted like the nightingale's last note, 
 Had scarcely closed this high-wrought strain of rapture, 
 Ere with inviting smile the Wanderer said : 
 " Now for the tale with which you threaten'd us ! " — 
 " In truth the threat escaped me unawares : 
 Should the tale tire you, let this challenge stand 
 For my excuse. Dissever'd from mankind, 
 As to your eyes and thoughts we must have seem'd 
 When ye look'd down upon us from the crag, 
 Islanders 'mid a stormy mountain sea. 
 We are not so : perpetually we touch 
 Upon the vulgar ordinances of the world ; 
 And he whom this our cottage hath to-day 
 Relinquish'd lived dependent for his bread 
 Upon the laws of public charity. 
 The Housewife, tempted by such slender gains 
 As might from that occasion be distill'd, 
 Open'd, as she before had done for me, 
 Her doors to admit this homeless Pensioner; 
 The portion gave of coarse but wholesome fare 
 Which appetite required ; a blind dull nook, 
 Such as she had, the kennel of his rest! 
 This, in itself not ill, would yet have been 
 111 borne in earlier life ; but his was now 
 
THE EXCURSION. 341 
 
 The still conteiitedness of seventy years. 
 
 Calm did he sit under the wide-spread tree 
 
 Of his old age ; and yet less calm and meek, 
 
 Winningly meek or A'enerably calm, 
 
 Than slow and torpid ; paying in this wise 
 
 A penalty, if penalty it were. 
 
 For spendthrift feats, excesses of his prime. 
 
 I loved the old Man, for I pitied him. 
 
 A task it was, I own, to hold discourse 
 
 With one so slow in gathering up his thoughts, 
 
 But he was a cheap pleasure to my eyes ; 
 
 Mild, inoffensive, ready in Ms way, 
 
 And helpful to his utmost power : and there 
 
 Our housewife knew full well what she possessed I . 
 
 He was her vassal of all labour, till'd 
 
 Her garden, from the pasture fetch'd her kine ; 
 
 And, one among the orderly array 
 
 Of hay-makers, beneath the burning Sun 
 
 Maintain'd his place ; or heedf ully pursued 
 
 His course, on errands bound, to other vales. 
 
 Leading sometimes an inexperienced child 
 
 Too young for any profitable task. 
 
 So moved he like a shadow that joerform'd 
 
 Substantial service. Mark me now, and learn 
 
 For what reward ! The Moon her monthly round 
 
 Hath not completed since our dame, the queen 
 
 Of this one cottage and this lonely dale, 
 
 Into my little sanctuary rush'd, — 
 
 Voice to a rueful treble humanised. 
 
 And features in deplorable dismay. 
 
 I treat the matter lightly, but, alas ! 
 
 It is most serious : persevering rain 
 
 Had fallen in torrents ; all the mountain tops 
 
 Were hidden, and black vapours coursed their sides : 
 
 This had I seen, and saw ; but, till she spake, 
 
 Was wholly ignorant that my ancient Friend — 
 
 Who at her bidding, early and alone, 
 
 Had clomb aloft to delve the moorland turf 
 
 For winter fuel — to his noontide meal 
 
 Return'd not, and now, haply, on the heights 
 
 Lay at the mercy of tliis raging storm. 
 
 * Inhuman ! ' said I ; ^ was an old Man's life 
 
 Not worth the trouble of a thought ? — alas! 
 
 This notice comes too late.' With joy I saw 
 
 Her husband enter, — from a distant vale. 
 
 We sallied forth together ; found the tools 
 
342 WORDSWORTH. 
 
 Which the neglected veteran had dropp'd, 
 But through all quarters look'd for him in vain. 
 We shouted, — but no answer ! Darkness fell 
 Without remission of the blast or shower, 
 And fears for our own safety drove us home. 
 
 I, who weep little, did, I will confess. 
 The moment I was seated here alone, 
 Honour my little cell with some few tears 
 Which anger and resentment could not dry. 
 All night the storm endured ; and, soon as help 
 Had been collected from the neighbouring vale, 
 With morning we renew'd our quest : the wind 
 Was fallen, the rain abated, but the hills 
 Ltiy shrouded in impenetrable mist ; 
 And loilg and hopelessly we sought in vain ; 
 'Till, chancing on that lofty ridge to pass 
 A heap of ruin, almost without walls 
 And wholly without roof, (the bleach'd remains 
 Of a small chapel, where, in ancient time, 
 The peasants of these lonely valleys used 
 To meet for worship on that central height,) 
 We there espied the object of our search. 
 Lying full three parts buried among tufts 
 Of heath-plant, under and above him strewn, 
 To baffle, as he might, the watery storm : 
 And there we found him breathing peaceably. 
 Snug as a child that hides itself in sport 
 'Mid a green hay-cock in a sunny field. 
 We spake, — he made reply, bnt would not stir 
 At our entreaty ; less from want of power 
 Than apprehension and bewildering thoughts.^ 
 
 So was he lifted gently from the ground, 
 And with their freight homeward the shepherds moved 
 Through the dull mist, I following ; when a step, 
 A single step, that freed me from the skirts 
 Of the blind vapour, open'd to my view 
 Glory beyond all glory ever seen 
 By waking sense or by the dreaming soul! 
 Th' appearance, instantaneously disclosed, 
 Was of a mighty city, — boldly say 
 
 7 The account given by the Solitary, in all that belongs to the character of the Old 
 Man, was taken from a Grasmere pauper, who was boarded in the last house quit- 
 ting the vale on the road to Ambleside; the character of the hostess, and all that be- 
 fell the poor man upon the mountain, belongs to Paterdale. The Avoman I knew 
 well; and she v/as exactly such a person as I describe. The ruins of the old chapel, 
 among which the man was found lying, may yet be traced, and stood upon the ridge 
 that divides Paterdale fi'om Boardale and Martindale; having been placed there for 
 the convenience of both districts. — Author's Notes, 1843. 
 
THE EXCUESION". 34S 
 
 A wilderness of building, sinking far 
 
 And self-withdrawn into a boundless depth, 
 
 Far sinking into splendour, — without end ! 
 
 Fabric it seem'd of diamond and of gold. 
 
 With alabaster domes, and silver spires. 
 
 And blazing terrace upon terrace, high 
 
 Uplifted ; liere, serene pavilions bright, 
 
 In avenues disposed ; there, towers begirt 
 
 With battlements that on their restless fronts 
 
 Bore stars, — illumination of all gems ! 
 
 By earthly nature had th' effect been wrought 
 
 Upon the dark materials of the storm 
 
 Now pacified ; on them, and on the coves 
 
 And mountain-steeps and summits, whereunto 
 
 The vapours had receded, taking there 
 
 Their station under a cerulean sky. 
 
 0, 'twas an unimaginable sight ! 
 
 Clouds, mists, streams, watery rocks and emerald turf. 
 
 Clouds of all tincture, rocks and sapphire sky, 
 
 Confused, commingled, mutually inflamed. 
 
 Molten together, and composing thus, 
 
 Each lost in each, that marvellous array 
 
 Of temple, palace, citadel, and huge 
 
 Fantastic pomp of structure without name. 
 
 In fleecy folds voluminous, enwrapp'd. 
 
 Eight in the midst, where interspace appear'd 
 
 Of open court, an object like a throne 
 
 Under a shining canopy of state 
 
 Stood fix'd ; and fix'd resemblances were seen 
 
 To implements of ordinary use, 
 
 But vast in size, in substance glorified ; 
 
 Such as by Hebrew Prophets were beheld 
 
 In vision, — forms uncouth of mightiest power 
 
 For admiration and mysterious awe.* 
 
 This little Yale, a dwelling-place of Man, 
 
 Lay low beneath my feet ; 'twas visible, — 
 
 I saw not, but I felt that it was there. 
 
 That which I saiu was the reveal'd abode 
 
 Of Spirits in beatitude : my heart 
 
 Sweird in my breast. ' I have been dead,' I cried, 
 
 ' And now I live ! ! wherefore do I live ? ' 
 
 And with that pang I pray'd to be no more ! — 
 
 But I forget our Charge, as utterly 
 
 I then forgot him : — there I stood and gazed : 
 
 The apparition faded not away, 
 
 The glorious appearance disclosed above and among the mountains was de- 
 
344 WORDSWORTH. 
 
 And I descended. — Haying reached the house, 
 
 I found its rescued inmate safely lodged, 
 
 And in serene possession of himself, 
 
 Beside a fire whose genial warmth seem'd met 
 
 By a faint shining from the heart, a gleam 
 
 Of comfort, spread over his pallid face. 
 
 Great show of joy the housewife made, and truly 
 
 "Was glad to find her conscience set at ease ; 
 
 And not less glad, for sake of her good name, 
 
 That the poor Sufferer had escaped with life. 
 
 But, though he seem'd at first to have received 
 
 No harm, and uncomplaining as before 
 
 "Went though his usual tasks, a silent change 
 
 Soon show'd itself: he linger'd three short weeks; 
 
 And from the cottage hath been borne to-day. 
 
 So ends my dolorous tale, and glad I am 
 That it is ended." At these words he turn'd, 
 And, with blithe air of open fellowship. 
 Brought from the cupboard wine and stouter cheer, 
 Like one who would be merry. Seeing this. 
 My grey-hair'd Friend said courteously, " Nay, nay. 
 You have regaled us as a hermit ought ; 
 Now let us forth into the sun !" — Our Host 
 Eose, though reluctantly, and forth we went. 
 
 BOOK THIRD. 
 
 DESPONDENCY. 
 
 A HUMMING bee, a little tinkling rill, 
 
 A pair of falcons wheeling on the wing, 
 
 In clamorous agitation, round the crest 
 
 Of a tall rock, their airy citadel, — 
 
 By each and all of these the pensive ear 
 
 Was greeted, in the silence that ensued. 
 
 When through the cottage-threshold we had pass'd. 
 
 And, deep within that lonesome valley, stood 
 
 Once more beneath the concave of a blue 
 
 And cloudless sky. — Anon exclaim'd our Host, 
 
 Triumphantly dispersing with the taunt 
 
 The shade of discontent which ou his brow 
 
 Had gather'd, " Ye have left my cell, — but see 
 
 scribed partly from what my friend, Mr. Luff, who then lived in Paterdale, witnessed 
 upon this melancholy occasion, and partly trom what Mrs. Wordsworth and I had 
 seen, in company with Sir George and Lady Beaumont, above Hartshope Hall, on 
 our way from Paterdale to Amhleside. — Author's Notes, 1843. 
 
THE EXCUBSIO^". 345 
 
 How Xature hems you in with friendly arms ! 
 
 And by her help ye are my prisoners still. 
 
 But which way shall I lead you ? liow contrive 
 
 In spot so parsimoniously endow'd, 
 
 That the brief hours which yet remain may reap 
 
 Some recompense of knowledge or delight ? '' 
 
 So saying, round he look'd, as if perplex'd ; 
 
 And, to remove those doubts, my grey-hair*d Friend 
 
 Said, '' Shall we take this pathway for our guide ? 
 
 Upward it winds, as if, in sumuier heats, 
 
 Its line had first been fashion'd by the flock 
 
 Seeking a place of refuge at the root 
 
 Of yon black Yew-tree, whose jH-otruded boughs 
 
 Darken the silver bosom of the crag, 
 
 From which she draws her meagre sustenance. 
 
 There in commodious shelter may we rest. 
 
 Or let us trace this streamlet to its source : 
 
 Feebly it tinkles with an earthy sound, 
 
 And a few steps may bring us to the spot 
 
 Where, haply, crown'd with flowerets and green herbs. 
 
 The mountain infant to the sun comes forth, 
 
 Like human life from darkuess.'' — A quick turn 
 
 Through a strait jDassage of encumber'd ground 
 
 Proved that such hope was vain : for now we stood 
 
 Shut out from prospect of the open vale, 
 
 And saw the water, that composed this rill, 
 
 Descending, disembodied, and diffused 
 
 O'er the smooth surface of an ample crag. 
 
 Lofty, and steep, and naked as a tower. 
 
 All further progress here was barr'd. And who, 
 
 Thought I, if master of a vacant hour. 
 
 Here would not linger, willingly detain' d ? 
 
 Whether to such wild objects he were led 
 
 When copious rains have magnified the stream 
 
 Into a loud and white-robed waterfall. 
 
 Or introduced at this more quiet time. 
 
 L^pon a semicirque of turf-clad gi'ound, 
 The hidden nook discover'd to our view 
 A mass of rock, resembling, as it lay 
 Right at the foot of that moist precipice, 
 A stranded ship, with keel upturn'd, that rests 
 Fearless of ^inds and waves. Three several stones 
 Stood near, of smaller size, and not unlike 
 To monumental pillars : and, from these 
 Some little space disjoin'd, a pair were seen, 
 That with imited shoulders bore aloft 
 
346 WOBDS WORTH. 
 
 A fragment, like an altar, flat and smooth : 
 Barren the tablet, yet thereon appear'd 
 A tall and shining holly, that had found 
 A hospitable chink, and stood upright. 
 As if inserted by some human hand 
 In mockery, to wither in the sun. 
 Or lay its beauty flat before a breeze. 
 The first that enter'd. But no breeze did now 
 Find entrance : high or low appear'd no trace 
 Of motion, save the water that descended. 
 Diffused adown that barrier of steep rock, 
 And softly creeping, like a breath of air. 
 Such as is sometimes seen, and hardly seen, 
 To brush the still breast of a crystal lake. 
 
 " Behold a cabinet for sages built. 
 Which kings might envy ! " — Praise to this effect 
 Broke from the happy old Man's reverend lip ; 
 Who to the Solitary turn'd, and said, 
 " In sooth, with love's familiar privilege. 
 You have decried the wealth which is your own. 
 Among these rocks and stones, methinks I see 
 More than the heedless impress that belongs 
 To lonely Nature's casual work : they bear 
 A semblance strange of power intelligent. 
 And of design not wholly worn away. 
 Boldest of plants that ever faced the wind. 
 How gracefully that slender shrub looks forth > 
 From its fantastic birth-place ! And I own, 
 Some shadowy intimations haunt me here, 
 That in these shows a chronicle survives 
 Of purposes akin to those of Man, 
 But wrought with mightier arm. than now prevails. 
 Voiceless the stream descends into the gulf 
 With timid lapse ; and, lo ! while in this strait 
 I stand, the chasm of sky above my head 
 Is heaven's profoundest azure ; no domain 
 For fickle, short-lived clouds to occupy, 
 Or to pass through; but rather an abyss 
 In which the everlasting stars abide ; 
 And whose soft gloom and boundless depth might tempt 
 The curious eye to look for them by day. — 
 Hail Contemplation ! from the stately towers, 
 Rear'd by th' industrious hand of human art 
 To lift thee high above the misty air 
 And turbulence of murmuring cities vast; 
 From academic groves, that have for thee 
 
THE EXCUKSION^. 347 
 
 Been planted, hither come and find a lodge 
 
 To which thou mayst resort for holier peace, — 
 
 From whose calm centre thou, through height or depth, 
 
 Mayst penetrate, wherever truth shall lead ; 
 
 Measuring through all degrees, until the scale 
 
 Of time and conscious nature disappear, 
 
 Lost in unsearchable eternity ! " 
 
 A pause ensued ; and with minuter care 
 We scann'd the various features of the scene : 
 And soon the Tenant of that lonely vale 
 With courteous voice thus spake : 
 
 " I should have grieved 
 Hereafter, not escaping self-reproach. 
 If from my poor retirement ye had gone 
 - Leaving this nook unvisited : hut, in sooth, 
 Your unexpected presence had so roused 
 My spirits, that they were bent on enterprise ; 
 And, like an ardent hunter, I forgot, 
 Or, shall I say ? disdain' d, the game that lurks 
 At my own door. The shapes before our eyes 
 And their arrangement, doubtless must be deem'd 
 The sport of Nature, aided by blind Chance 
 Eudely to mock the works of toiling Man. 
 And hence, this upright shaft of unhewn stone, 
 From Fancy, willing to set oif her stores 
 By sounding titles, hath acquired the name 
 Of Pompey's pillar; that I gravely style 
 My Theban obelisk ; and, there, behold 
 A Druid cromlech ! ® — thus I entertain 
 The antiquarian humour, and am pleased 
 To skim along the surfaces of things. 
 Beguiling harmlessly the listless hours. 
 But, if the spirit be oppress'd by sense 
 Of instability, revolt, decay, 
 
 And change, and emptiness, these freaks of !N'ature, 
 And her blind helper Chance, do then suffice 
 To quicken, and to aggravate, — to feed 
 Pity and scorn, and melancholy pride, 
 Not less than that huge Pile (from some abyss 
 Of mortal power unquestionably sprung) 
 Whose hoary diadem of pendent rocks 
 Confines the slirill-voiced whirlwind round and round 
 Eddying within its vast circumference, 
 
 9 Cromlech is the name given to certain rude old structures, in which several 
 stones are placed u}3right, and a large flat stone laid upon them; found in countries 
 formerly inhabited by the Celts, and supposed to be the remains of druidical altars. 
 
348 WORDSWORTH. 
 
 On Sarnm's naked plain ; ^ than pyramid 
 
 Of Egypt, unsubverted, undissolved ; 
 
 Or Syria's marble ruins towering high 
 
 Above tlie sandy desert, in the light 
 
 Of Sun or Moon. — Forgive me, if I say 
 
 That an appearance which hath raised your minds 
 
 To an exalted pitch (the self-same cause 
 
 Different effect producing) is for me 
 
 Fraught rather with depression than delight. 
 
 Though shame it were, could I not look around. 
 
 By the reflection of your pleasure, pleased. 
 
 Yet happier, in my judgment, even than you 
 
 With your bright transports fairly may be deemed. 
 
 The w^andering Herbalist, who, clear alike 
 
 From vain, and, that worse evil, vexing thoughts. 
 
 Casts, if he ever chance to enter here. 
 
 Upon these uncouth Forms a slight regard 
 
 Of transitory interest, and peeps round 
 
 For some rare floweret of the hills, or plant 
 
 Of craggy fountain ; what he hopes for wins, 
 
 Or learns, at least, that 'tis not to be won : 
 
 Then, keen and eager, as a fine-nosed hound 
 
 By soul-eugrossing instinct driven along 
 
 Through wood or open field, the harmless Man 
 
 Departs, intent upon his onward quest ! — 
 
 E'er is that Fellow-wanderer, so deem I, 
 
 Less to be envied, (you may trace him oft 
 
 By scars which his activity has left 
 
 Beside our roads and pathways, though, thank Heaven ! 
 
 This covert nook reports not of his hand,) 
 
 He who Avith pocket-hammer smites the edge 
 
 Of luckless rock or prominent stone, disguised 
 
 In weather-stains or crusted o'er by Nature 
 
 With her first growths, detaching by the stroke 
 
 A chip or splinter, — to resolve his doubts ; 
 
 And, with that ready answer satisfied. 
 
 The substance classes by some barbarous name, 
 
 And hurries on ; or from the fragments picks 
 
 1 Sarum is an old contraction of Salisburij. and the plain so named is the largest 
 piece of level surface in England. Formerly it was a lonely, dismal, weird place, 
 and is still noted for its antiquities handed down from prehistoric times; chief of 
 which is the " huge Pile " here spoken of, a vast monument or mound composed of 
 earth and stones. Wordsworth elsewhere describes it as a " fabric of mysterious 
 form," where " winds meet in conflict, each by turns supreme." There he laid the 
 Bcene of one of his early poems, called Guilt and Sorrow, in which we have the follow- 
 ing: 
 
 " Pile of Stone-henge ! so proud to hint j-et keep 
 Thy secrets, thou that lov'st to stand and iiear 
 The Plain resounding to the whirlwind's sweep, 
 Inmate of lonesome Nature's endless year ; " &c. 
 
THE EXCURSIOif. 349 
 
 His specimen, if but liaply intervein'd 
 
 With sparkling mineral, or should crystal cube 
 
 Lurk in its cells, — and thinks himself enrich' d. 
 
 Wealthier, and doubtless wiser, than before I 
 
 Intrusted safely each to his pursuit. 
 
 Earnest alike, let both from hill to hill 
 
 Eange ; if it please them, speed from clime to clime ; 
 
 The mind is full, — and free from pain their pastime." 
 
 " Then," said I, interposing, " One is near, 
 Who cannot but possess in your esteem 
 Place worthier still of envy. May I name, 
 Without offence, that fair-faced cottage-boy ? 
 Dame Nature's pupil of the lowest form,^ 
 Youngest apprentice in the school of art ! 
 - Him, as we enter'd from the open glen. 
 You might have noticed, busily engaged — 
 Heart, soul, and hands — in mending the defects 
 Left in the fabric of a leaky dam 
 Eaised for enabling this penurious stream 
 To turn a slender mill (that new-made plaything) 
 For his dehght, — the happiest he of all ! " 
 
 " Far happiest," answer'd the desponding Man, 
 " If, such as now he is, he might remain ! 
 Ah ! what avails imagination high 
 Or question deep ? Avhat profits all that earth, 
 Or heaven's blue vault, is suffer'd to put forth 
 Of impulse or allurement, for the Sonl 
 To quit the beaten track of life, and soar 
 Far as she finds a yielding element 
 In past or future ; far as she can go 
 Through time or space, — if neither in the one, 
 ISTor in the other region, imm- in aught 
 That Fancy, dreaming o'er the map of things. 
 Hath placed beyond these penetrable bounds. 
 Words of assurance can be heard ; if nowhere 
 A habitation, for consummate good. 
 Or for progressive virtue, by the search 
 Can be attain'd, — a better sanctuary 
 From doubt and sorrow, than the senseless grave ? " 
 
 "Is this," the grey-hair'd Wanderer mildly said, 
 " The voice, which we so lately overheard. 
 To that same child addressing tenderly 
 The consolations of a hopeful mind ? 
 ' His body is at rest, liis soul 171 ffeave^i.' 
 
 2 In the English schools, form is used for class. Tlie word grew into such use 
 from being applied to the benches on which the pupils sat. 
 
350 WORDSWOKTH. 
 
 These were your words ; and, verily, methinks 
 Wisdom is oft-times nearer when we stoop 
 Than when we soar." 
 
 The Other, not displeased, 
 Promptly replied, " My notion is the same. 
 And I, without reluctance, could decline 
 All act of inquisition whence we rise. 
 And what, when breath hath ceased, we may become. 
 Here are we, in a bright and breathing world. 
 Our origin, what matters it ? In lack 
 Of worthier explanation, say at once 
 With the American (a thought which suits 
 The place where now we stand) that certain men 
 Leapt out together from a rocky cave ; 
 And these were the first parents of mankind : 
 Or, if a different image be recall'd 
 By the warm sunshine, and the jocund voice 
 Of insects chirping out their careless lives 
 On these soft beds of thyme-besprinkled turf. 
 Choose, with the gay Athenian, a conceit 
 As sound ; — blithe race ! whose mantles were bedeck'd 
 With golden grasshoppers, in sign that they 
 Had sprung, like those bright creatures, from the soil 
 Whereon their endless generations dwelt. 
 But stop! — these theoretic fancies Jar 
 On serious minds : then, as the Hindoos draw 
 Their holy Ganges from a skyey fount, 
 Even so deduce the stream of human life 
 From seats of power divine ; and hope, or trust. 
 That our existence winds her stately course 
 Beneath the Sun, like Granges, to make part 
 Of a living ocean ; or, to sink engulf d, 
 Like Niger, in impenetrable sands 
 And utter darkness; — thought which may be faced," 
 Though comfortless ! 
 
 Not of myself I speak ; 
 Such acquiescence neither doth imply, 
 In me, a meekly-bending spirit soothed 
 By natural piety ; nor a lofty mind, 
 By philosophic discipline prepared 
 For calm subjection to acknowledged law ; 
 Pleased to have been, contented not to be. 
 Such palms I boast not ; — no ! to me, who find, 
 Revievnng my past way, much to condemn. 
 Little to praise, and nothing to regret, 
 (Save some remembrances of dream-like joys 
 
THE EXCURStOK. 351 
 
 That scarcely seem to have belong'd to me,) 
 If I must take my choice between the pair 
 That rule alternately the weary hours, 
 Night is than day more acceptable; sleep 
 Doth, in my estimate of good, appear 
 A better state than waking ; death than sleep : 
 Feelingly sweet is stillness after storm, 
 Though under covert of the wormy ground ! 
 
 Yet be it said, in justice to myself, 
 That in more genial times, when I was free 
 To explore the destiny of human kind, 
 (Not as an intellectual game pursued 
 With curious subtilty, from wish to cheat 
 Irksome sensations ; but by love of truth 
 Urged on, or haply by intense delight 
 In feeding thought, wherever thought could feed,) 
 I did not rank with those — too dull or nice, 
 For to my judgment such they then appear'd. 
 Or too aspiring, thankless at the best — 
 Who, in this frame of human life, perceive 
 An object whereunto their souls are tied 
 In discontented wedlock ; nor did e'er. 
 From me, those dark impervious shades that hang 
 Upon the region whither we are bound 
 Exclude a power to enjoy the vital beams 
 Of present sunshine. — Deities that float 
 On wings, angelic Spirits, I could muse 
 O'er what from eldest time we have been told 
 Of your bright forms aad glorious faculties, 
 And with th' imagination rest content, 
 Not wishing more ; repining not to tread 
 The little sinuous path of earthly care, 
 By flowers embellish'd, and by springs refresh'd. — 
 * Blow, winds of Autumn ! let your chilling breath 
 Take the live herbage from the mead, and strip 
 The shady forest of its green attire ; 
 And let the bursting clouds to fury rouse 
 The gentle brooks ! Your desolating sway. 
 Sheds,' I exclaim' d, ^no sadness upon me, 
 And no disorder in your rage I find. 
 What dignity, what beauty, in this change 
 From mild to angry, and from sad to gay, 
 Alternate and revolving ! How benign, 
 How rich in animation and delight. 
 How bountiful these elements, compared 
 With aught, as more desirable and fair, 
 
352 WORDSWORTH. 
 
 Devised by fancy for the golden age ; 
 
 Or the perpetual warbling that prevails 
 
 In Arcady,^ beneath unaltered skies, 
 
 Through the long year in constant quiet bound, 
 
 Night hush'd as night, and day serene as day ! ' — 
 
 But why this tedious record ? — Age, we know, 
 
 Is garrulous ; and solitude is apt 
 
 To anticipate the privilege of Age. 
 
 From far ye come ; and surely with a hope 
 
 Of better entertainment: — let us hence!" 
 
 Loth to forsake the spot, and still more loth 
 To be diyerted from our present theme, 
 I said, " My thoughts, agreeing, Sir, with yours, 
 Would push this censure^ further: for, if smiles 
 Of scornful pity be the just reward 
 Of Poesy thus courteously employ'd 
 In framing models to improve the scheme 
 Of Man's existence, and recast the world. 
 Why should not grave Philosophy be styled. 
 Herself, a dreamer of a kindred stock, 
 A dreamer yet more spiritless and dull ? 
 Yes, shall the fine immunities she boasts 
 Establish sounder titles of esteem 
 For her who (all too timid and reserved 
 For onset, for resistance too inert. 
 Too weak for suffering, and for hope too tame) 
 Placed, among flowery gardens curtain'd round 
 With world-excluding groves, the brotherhood 
 Of soft Epicureans, taught — if they 
 The ends of being would secure, and win 
 The crown of wisdom — to yield up their souls 
 To a voluptuous unconcern, preferring 
 Tranquillity to all things. Or is she,'' 
 I cried, " more worthy of regard, the Power 
 Who, for the sake of sterner quiet, closed 
 The Stoic's heart against the vain approach 
 Of admiration, and all sense of joy ? " 
 
 His countenance gave notice that my zeal 
 Accorded little with his present mind ; 
 I ceased, and he resumed: "Ah! gentle Sir, 
 Slight, if you will, the mecms; but spare to slight 
 The end of those who did, by system, rank. 
 As the prime object of a wise man's aim, 
 
 3 Referring to the ancient Greek Arcadia, where the fabled golden age had its 
 principal seat. See page 242, note 7. 
 
 4 Censure here is opinion or judgment ; the old meaning of the word. Very often so 
 in Shakespeare. 
 
THE EXCUKSIOls^. 353 
 
 Security from shock of accident, 
 
 Kelease from fear; and cherish'd peaceful days 
 
 For their own sakes, as mortal life's chief good, 
 
 And only reasonable felicity. 
 
 What motive drew, what impulse, I would ask, 
 
 Through a long course of later ages, drove, 
 
 The hermit to his cell in forest wide ; 
 
 Or what detain'd him, till his closing eyes 
 
 Took their last farewell of the Sun and stars. 
 
 Fast anchor'd in the desert ? — Not alone 
 
 Dread of the persecuting sword, remorse. 
 
 Wrongs unredress'd, or insults unavenged 
 
 And unavengeable, defeated pride. 
 
 Prosperity subverted, maddening want, 
 
 Friendship betray'd, affection unreturn'd, 
 
 Love with despair, or grief in agony ; — • 
 
 Not always from intolerable pangs 
 
 He fled ; but, compass'd round by pleasure, sigh'd 
 
 For independent happiness ; craving peace, 
 
 The central feeling of all happiness. 
 
 Not as a refuge from distress or pain, 
 
 A breathing-time, vacation, or a truce. 
 
 But for its absolute self ; a life of peace. 
 
 Stability without regret or fear; 
 
 That hath been, is, and shall be evermore ! 
 
 Such the reward he sought ; and wore out life 
 
 There, where on fcAV external things his heart 
 
 AVas set, and those his own; or, if not his. 
 
 Subsisting under Nature's steadfast law. 
 
 What other yearning was the master-tie 
 Of the monastic brotherhood, upon rock 
 Aerial, or in green secluded vale. 
 One after one, collected from afar, 
 An undissolving fellowship ? What but this, 
 The universal instinct of repose. 
 The longing for confirm'd tranquillity. 
 Inward and outward ; humble, yet sublime ? 
 The life where hope and memory are as one; 
 Where earth is quiet, and her face unchanged 
 Save by the simplest toil of human hands 
 Or season's difference ; the immortal Soul 
 Consistent in self-rule ; and Heaven reveal'd 
 To meditation in that quietness ! — 
 Such was their scheme : and, tliough the wish'd-for end 
 By multitudes was miss'd, perhaps attain'd 
 By none, they for th' attempt, and pains employed, 
 
354 WORDSWORTH. 
 
 Do, ill my present censure, stand redeem'd 
 From tlie unqualified disdain, that once 
 Would have been cast upon them by my voice 
 Delivering her decisions from the seat 
 Of forward youth ; that scruple^ not to solve 
 Doubts, and determine questions, by the rules 
 Of inexperienced judgment, ever prone 
 To overweening faith ; and is inflamed. 
 By courage, to demand from real life 
 The test of act and suffering, to provoke 
 Hostility, — how dreadful when it comes, 
 Whether affliction be the foe, or guilt ! 
 
 A child of Earth, I rested, in that stage 
 Of my past course to which these thoughts advert, 
 Upon Earth's native energies ; forgetting 
 That mine was a condition which required 
 Nor energy nor fortitude, — a calm 
 Without vicissitude ; which, if the like 
 Had been presented to my view elsewhere, 
 I might have even been tempted to despise. 
 But no, — for the serene was also bright ; 
 Enliven'd happiness with Joy o'erflowing. 
 With joy, and^O, that memory should survive 
 To speak the word! — with rapture; Nature's boon. 
 Life's genuine inspiration, happiness 
 Above what rules can teach or fancy feign ; 
 Abused, as all possessions are abused 
 That are not prized according to their worth. 
 And yet, what worth ? what good is given to men. 
 More solid than the gilded clouds of heaven? 
 What joy more lasting than a vernal flower ? 
 None ! 'tis the general plaint of human kind 
 In solitude ; and mutually address'd 
 From each to all, for wisdom's sake. This truth 
 The priest announces from his holy seat : 
 And, crown'd with garlands in the summer grove. 
 The poet fits it to his pensive lyre. 
 Yet, ere that final resting-place be gain'd 
 Sharp contradictions may arise, by doom 
 Of this same life, compelling us to grieve 
 That the prosperities of love and joy 
 Should be permitted, oft-times, to endure 
 So long, and be at once cast down for ever. 
 tremble ! ye, to whom hath been assign'd 
 A course of days composing happy months, 
 And they as happy years ; the present still 
 
THE EXCURSlOiq^. 355 
 
 So like the past, and both so firm a pledge 
 
 Of a congenial future, that the wheels 
 
 Of pleasure move without the aid of hope : 
 
 For Mutability is Nature's bane ; 
 
 And slighted Hope luill be avenged ; and, when 
 
 Ye need her favours, ye shall find her not ; 
 
 But in her stead — fear — doubt — and agony ! " 
 
 This was the bitter language of the heart : 
 But, while he spake, look, gesture, tone of voice. 
 Though discomposed and vehement, were such 
 As skill and graceful nature might suggest 
 To a proficient of the tragic scene 
 Standing before the multitude, beset 
 With dark events. Desirous to divert 
 Or stem the current of the speaker's thoughts. 
 We signified a wish to leave that place 
 Of stillness and close privacy, a nook 
 That seem'd for self-examination made ; 
 Or, for confession, in the sinner's need, 
 Hidden from all men's view. To our attempt 
 He yielded not ; but, pointing to a slope 
 Of mossy turf defended from the sun. 
 And on that couch inviting us to rest. 
 Full on that tender-hearted Man he turn'd 
 A serious eye, and thus his speech renew'd : 
 
 " You never saw, your eyes did never look 
 On the bright form of Her whom once I loved : 
 Her silver voice was heard upon the Earth, 
 A sound unknown to you ; else, honour'd Friend ! 
 Your heart had borne a pitiable share 
 Of what I sufller'd, when I wept that loss. 
 And suffer now, not seldom, from the thought 
 That I remember, and can weep no more. 
 Stripp'd as I am of all the golden fruit 
 Of self-esteem ; and by the cutting blasts 
 Of self-reproach familiarly assail'd ; 
 Yet would I not be of such wintry bareness 
 But that some leaf of your regard should hang 
 Upon my naked branches. Lively thoughts 
 Give birth, full often, to unguarded words : 
 I grieve that, in your presence, from my tongue 
 Too much of frailty hath already dropp'd ; 
 But that too much demands still more. 
 
 You know. 
 Revered Compatriot, — and to you, kind Sir, 
 (Not to be deem'd a stranger, as you come 
 
356 WORDSWORTH. 
 
 Following the guidance of these welcome feet 
 
 To our secluded vale,) it may be told, — 
 
 That my demerits did not sue in vain 
 
 To One on whose mild radiance many gazed 
 
 AVith hope, and all with pleasure. This fair Bride, — 
 
 In the devotedness of youthful love. 
 
 Preferring me to parents and the choir 
 
 Of gay companions, to the natal roof, 
 
 And all known places and familiar sights, 
 
 (Eesign'd with sadness gently weighing down 
 
 Her trembling expectations, but no more 
 
 Than did to her due honour, and to me 
 
 Yielded, that day, a confidence sublime 
 
 In what I had to build upon,) — this Bride, 
 
 Young, modest, meek, and beautiful, I led 
 
 To a low cottage in a sunny bay, 
 
 Where the salt sea innocuously breaks. 
 
 And the sea breeze as innocently breathes, 
 
 On Devon's leafy shores; — a shelter'd hold, 
 
 In a soft clime encouraging the soil 
 
 To a luxuriant bounty ! — As our steps 
 
 Approach th' embower'd abode, — our chosen seat, — 
 
 See, rooted in the earth, her kindly bed, 
 
 The unendanger'd myrtle, deck'd with flowers. 
 
 Before the threshold stands to welcome us ! 
 
 While, in the flowering myrtle's neighbourhood, 
 
 Not overlook'd but courting no regard. 
 
 Those native plants, the holly and the yew. 
 
 Gave modest intimation to the mind 
 
 How willingly their aid they would unite 
 
 With the green myrtle, to endear the hours 
 
 Of Winter, and protect that pleasant place. — 
 
 Wild were the walks upon the lonely Downs, 
 
 Track leading into track ; how mark'd, how worn 
 
 Into bright verdure, between fern and gorse. 
 
 Winding away its never ending line 
 
 On their smooth surface, evidence was none: 
 
 But, there, lay open to our daily haunt, 
 
 A range of unappropriated earth, 
 
 W^here youth's ambitious feet might move at large; 
 
 Whence, unmolested wanderers, we beheld 
 
 The shining giver of the day diffuse 
 
 His brightness o'er a tract of sea and land 
 
 Gay as our spirits, free as our desires ; 
 
 As our enjoyments, boundless. From those heights 
 
THE EXCUBSIOK. 357 
 
 We dropp'd, at pleasure, into sylvan combs ; ^ 
 Where arbours of impenetrable shade, 
 And mossy seats, detain'd us side by side. 
 With hearts at ease, and knowledge in our hearts 
 * That all the grove and all the day was ours.' 
 
 happy time ! still happier was at hand ; 
 For Nature call'd my Partner to resign 
 Her share in the pure freedom of that life, 
 Enjoy'd by us in common. — To my hope. 
 To my heart's wish, my tender Mate became 
 The thankful captive of maternal bonds ; 
 And those wild paths were left to me alone. 
 There could I meditate on follies past ; 
 And, like a weary voyager escaped 
 From risk and hardship, inwardly retrace 
 A course of vain delights and thoughtless guilt. 
 And self-indulgence, — without shame pursued: 
 There, undisturb'd, could think of and could thank 
 Her whose submissive spirit was to me 
 Eule and restraint, — my guardian, — shall I say 
 That earthly Providence, whose guiding love 
 Within a port of rest had lodged me safe, — 
 Safe from temptation, and from danger far ? 
 Strains follow'd of acknowledgment address'd 
 To an Authority enthroned above 
 The reach of sight ; from whom, as from their source, 
 Proceed all visible ministers of good 
 That walk the earth, — Father of Heaven and Earth, 
 Father, and king, aud judge, adored and fear'd! 
 These acts of mind, and memory, and heart, 
 And spirit — interrupted and relieved 
 By observation, transient as the glance 
 Of flying sunbeams, or to th' outward form 
 Cleaving with power inherent and intense. 
 As the mute insect fix'd upon the plant 
 On whose soft leaves it hangs, and from whose cup 
 It draws its nourishment imperceptibly — 
 Endear'd my wanderings ; and the mother's kiss 
 And infant's smile awaited my return. 
 
 In privacy we dwelt, a wedded pair. 
 Companions daily, often all day long ; 
 Not placed by fortune within easy reach 
 Of various intercourse, nor wishing aught 
 
 5 Comb, sometimes spelt coombe, is that portion of a valley which forms its contin- 
 uation beyond and above the highest spring that issues from it. The -word, so far 
 as I know, is never used thus in this country. 
 
358 WORDSWORTH. 
 
 Beyond th' allowance of our own fire-side, 
 
 The twain within our happy cottage born, 
 
 Inmates, and heirs of our united love; 
 
 Graced mutually by difference of sex. 
 
 And with no wider interval of time 
 
 Between their several births than served for one 
 
 To establish something of a leader's sway ; 
 
 Yet left them join'd by sympathy in age ; 
 
 Equals in pleasure, fellows in pursuit. 
 
 On these two pillars rested as in air 
 
 Our solitude. 
 
 It soothes me to perceive. 
 Your courtesy withholds not from my words 
 Attentive audience. But, gentle Friends! 
 As times of quiet and unbroken peace, 
 Though, for a nation, times of blessedness. 
 Give back faint echoes from th' historian's page; 
 So, in th' imperfect sounds of this discourse, 
 Depress'd I hear how faithless is the voice 
 Which those most blissful days reverberate. 
 What special record can, or need, be given 
 To rules and habits whereby much was done, 
 But all within the sphere of little things ; 
 Of humble, though, to us, important cares. 
 And precious interests ? Smoothly did our life 
 Advance, swerving not from the path prescribed; 
 Her annual, her diurnal round alike 
 Maintain'd with faithful care. And you divine 
 The worst effects that our condition saw, 
 If you imagine changes slowly w^rought. 
 And in their progress unperceivable ; 
 Not wish'd for; sometimes noticed with a sigh, 
 (Whate'er of good or lovely they might bring,) 
 Sighs of regret, for the familiar good 
 And loveliness endear 'd which they removed. 
 
 Seven years of occupation undisturb'd 
 Establish'd seemingly a right to hold 
 That happiness ; and use and habit gave 
 To what an alien spirit had acquired 
 A patrimonial sanctity. And thus, 
 With thoughts and wishes bounded to this world, 
 I lived and breathed ; most grateful, — if to enjoy 
 Without repining or desire for more. 
 For different lot, or change to higher sphere, 
 (Only except some impulses of pride 
 With no determined object, though upheld 
 
THE EXCUESIOK. 359 
 
 By theories with suitable support,) — 
 Most grateful, if in such wise to en joy- 
 Be proof of gratitude for what we have ; 
 Else, I allow, most thankless. — But, at once, 
 From some dark seat of fatal power was urged 
 A claim that shattered all. Our blooming girl. 
 Caught in the gripe of death, with such brief time 
 To struggle in as scarcely would allow 
 Her cheek to change its colour, was convey'd 
 From us to inaccessible worlds, to regions 
 Where height, or depth, admits not the approach 
 Of living man, though longing to pursue. 
 With even as brief a warning, — and how soon. 
 What with short interval of time between, 
 I tremble yet to think of, — our last prop, 
 Our happy life's only remaining stay. 
 The brother follow'd; and was seen no more! 
 Calm as a frozen lake when ruthless winds 
 Blow fiercely, agitating earth and sky. 
 The Mother now remained ; as if in her. 
 Who, to the lowest region of the soul, 
 Had been erewhile unsettled and disturbed. 
 This second visitation had no power 
 To shake ; but only to bind up and seal ; 
 And to establish thankfulness or heart 
 In Heaven's determinations, ever just. 
 The eminence whereon her spirit stood, 
 Mine was unable to attain. Immense 
 The space that sever'd us ! But, as the sight 
 Communicates with heaven's ethereal orbs 
 Incalculably distant ; so, I felt 
 That consolation may descend from far, 
 (And that is intercourse and union too,) 
 While, overcome with speechless gratitude. 
 And, with a holier love inspired, I look'd 
 On her, — at once superior to my woes 
 And partner of my loss. — heavy change ! 
 Dimness o'er this clear luminary crept 
 Insensibly ; — th' immortal and divine 
 Yielded to mortal reflux ; her pure glory. 
 As from the pinnacle of worldly state 
 Wretched ambition drops astounded, fell 
 Into a gulf obscure of silent grief 
 And keen heart-anguish, — of itself ashamed. 
 Yet obstinately cherishing itself: 
 And, so consumed, she melted from my arms. 
 
360 WOEDSWOKTH. 
 
 And left me, on this Earth, disconsolate ! 
 
 What followed cannot be review'd in thought; 
 Much less, retraced in words. If she, of life 
 Blameless, so intimate with love and joy 
 And all the tender motions of the soul, 
 Had been supplanted, could I hope to stand, — 
 Infirm, dependent, and now destitute ? 
 I call'd on dreams and visions to disclose 
 That which is veil'd from waking thought; conjured 
 Eternity, as men constrain a ghost 
 To appear and answer ; to the grave I spake 
 Imploringly; look'd up, and ask'd the Heavens 
 If Angels traversed their cerulean floors. 
 If fix'd or wandering star could tidings yield 
 Of the departed spirit, — what abode 
 It occupies, — what consciousness retains 
 Of former loves and interests. Then my soul 
 Turn'd inward, to examine of what stuff 
 Time's fetters are composed ; and life was put 
 To inquisition, long and profitless. 
 By pain of heart — now check'd, and now impell'd— 
 The intellectual power, through words and things. 
 Went sounding on, a dim and perilous way ! 
 And from those transports, and these toils abstruse, 
 Some trace am I enabled to retain 
 Of time, else lost ; — existing unto me 
 Only by records in myself not found. 
 
 From that abstraction I was roused, — and how ? 
 Even as a thoughtful shepherd by a flash 
 Of lightning startled in a gloomy cave 
 Of these wild hills. For, lo ! the dread Bastile, 
 With all the chambers in its horrid towers. 
 Fell to the ground ; — by violence overthrown 
 Of indignation ; and with shouts that drown'd 
 The crash it made in falling ! From the wreck 
 A golden palace rose, or seem'd to rise, 
 Th' appointed seat of equitable law 
 And mild paternal sway. The potent shock 
 I felt ; the transformation I perceived. 
 As marvellously seized as in that moment 
 When, from the blind mist issuing, I beheld 
 Glory — beyond all glory ever seen, 
 Confusion infinite of heaven and earth. 
 Dazzling the soul. Meanwhile, prophetic harps 
 In every grove were ringing, ' War shall cease; 
 Did ye not hear that conquest is abjured? 
 
THE EXCURSION. 361 
 
 Bring garlands, bring forth choicest flowers, to deck 
 
 The tree of Liberty/ — My heart rebounded; 
 
 My melancholy voice tlie chorus join'd : 
 
 * Be Joyful all ye nations ; in all lands, 
 
 Ye that are capable of joy, be glad ! 
 
 Henceforth, whate'er is wanting to yourselves 
 
 In others ye shall promptly find ; and all, 
 
 Enrich'd by mutual and reflected wealth. 
 
 Shall with one heart, honour their common kind.' 
 
 Thus was I reconverted to the world ; 
 Society became my glittering bride. 
 And airy hopes my children. Erom the depths 
 Of natural passion seemingly escaped. 
 My soul diffused herself in wide embrace 
 Of institutions, and the forms of things. 
 As they exist, in mutable array, 
 Upon life's surface. What though in my veins 
 There flow'd no Gallic blood, nor had I breathed 
 The air of France, not less than Gallic zeal 
 Kindled and burnt among the sapless twigs 
 Of my exhausted heart. If busy men 
 In sober conclave met, to weave a web 
 Of amity whose living threads should stretch 
 Beyond the seas and to the farthest pole. 
 There did I sit, assisting. If, with noise 
 And acclamation, crowds in open air 
 Express'd the tumult of their minds, my voice 
 There mingled, heard or not. The powers of song 
 I left not uninvoked ; and, in still groves. 
 Where mild enthusiasts tuned a pensive lay 
 Of thanks and expectation, in accord 
 With their belief, I sang Saturnian rule 
 Eeturn'd, — a progeny of golden years 
 Permitted to descend, and bless mankind. 
 With promises the Hebrew Scriptures teem: 
 I felt their invitation ; and resumed 
 A long-suspended office in the House 
 Of public worship, where, the glowing phrase 
 Of ancient inspiration serving me, 
 I promised also, — with undaunted trust 
 Foretold, and added prayer to prophecy ; 
 The admiration winning of the crowd; 
 The help desiring of the pure devout. 
 
 Scorn and contempt forbid me to proceed! 
 But History, time's slavish scribe, will tell 
 How rapidly the zealots of the cause 
 
362 WORDSWORTH. 
 
 Disbanded, or in hostile ranks appear'd ; 
 
 Some, tired of honest service ; these, outdone. 
 
 Disgusted therefore, or appall'd, by aims 
 
 Of fiercer zealots : so confusion reign'd, 
 
 And the more faithful were compelPd to exclaim. 
 
 As Brutus did to Virtue, * Liberty, 
 
 I worshipped thee, and find thee but a Shade 1' 
 
 Such recantation had for me no charm, 
 Nor would I bend to it; who should have grieved 
 At aught, however fair, that bore the mien 
 Of a conclusion or catastrophe. 
 Why, then, conceal that, when the simply good 
 In timid selfishness withdrew, I sought 
 Other support, not scrupulous whence it came ; 
 And, by what compromise it stood, not nice ? 
 Enough if notions seem'd to be high-pitch'd. 
 And qualities determined. — Among men 
 So character'd did I maintain a strife 
 Hopeless, and still more hopeless every hour ; 
 But, in the process, I began to feel 
 That, if th' emancipation of the world 
 Were miss'd, I should at least secure my own. 
 And be in part compensated. For rights. 
 Widely — inveterately usurp'd upon, 
 I spake with vehemence ; and promptly seized 
 All that Abstraction furnish'd for my needs 
 Or purposes ; nor scrupled to proclaim. 
 And propagate, by liberty of life. 
 Those new persuasions. Not that I rejoiced. 
 Or even found pleasure, in such vagrant course, 
 Eor its own sake ; but farthest from the walk 
 Which I had trod in happiness and peace. 
 Was most inviting to a troubled mind ; 
 That, in a struggling and distemper'd world. 
 Saw a seductive image of herself. 
 Yet, mark the contradictions of which Man 
 Is still the sport ! Here nature was my guide. 
 The nature of the dissolute ; but thee, 
 
 fostering Nature 1 I rejected, — smiled 
 At others' tears in pity ; and in scorn 
 
 At those which thy soft influence sometimes drew 
 From my unguarded heart. The tranquil shores 
 Of Britain circumscribed me ; else, perhaps 
 
 1 might have been entangled among deeds. 
 Which, now, as infamous, I should abhor, — 
 Despise, as senseless : for my spirit relish'd 
 
THE EXCURSION". 363 
 
 Strangely th' exasperation of that Land 
 Which turn'd an angry beak against the down 
 Of her own breast; confounded into hope 
 Of disencumbering thus her fretful wings. 
 
 But all Avas quieted by iron bonds 
 Of military sway. The shifting aims, 
 The moral interests, the creative might. 
 The varied functions and high attributes 
 Of civil action yielded to a power 
 Formal, and odious, and contemptible. — 
 In Britain, ruled a panic dread of change ; 
 The weak were praised, rewarded, and advanced ; 
 And, from the impulse of a just disdain, 
 . Once more did I retire into myself. 
 There feeling no contentment, I resolved 
 To fly, for safeguard, to some foreign shore, 
 Remote from Europe ; from her blasted hopes ; 
 Her fields of carnage, and polluted air. 
 
 Fresh blew the wind, when o'er th' Atlantic Main 
 The ship went gliding with her thoughtless crew ; 
 And who among them but an Exile, freed 
 From discontent, indifferent, pleased to sit 
 Among the busily-employ'd, not more 
 With obligation charged, with service tax'd. 
 Than the loose pendant — to the idle wind 
 Upon the tall mast streaming ? But, ye Powers 
 Of soul and sense mysteriously allied, 
 0, never let the Wretched, if a choice 
 Be left him, trust the freight of his distress 
 To a long voyage on the silent deep ! 
 For, like a plague, will memory break out ; 
 And, in the blank and solitude of things, 
 Upon his spirit, with a fever's strength. 
 Will conscience prey. Feebly must they have felt 
 Who, in old time, attired with snakes and w^hips 
 The vengeful Furies. Beaidiful regards 
 Were turn'd on me, — the face of her I loved ; 
 The Wife and Mother pitifully fixing 
 Tender reproaches, insupportable ! 
 Where now that boasted liberty ? No welcome 
 From unknown objects I received ; and those. 
 Known and familiar, which the vaulted sky 
 Did, in the placid clearness of the night, 
 Disclose, had accusations to prefer 
 Against my peace. Within the cabin stood 
 That volume — as a compass for the soul — 
 
364 WOEDSWOETH. 
 
 Revered among the nations. I implored 
 Its guidance ; but th' infallible support 
 Of faith was wanting. Tell mo, why refused 
 To One by storms annoy'd and adverse winds ; 
 Perplex'd with currents ; of his weakness sick ; 
 Of vain endeavours tired ; and by his own, 
 And by his nature's, ignorance, dismay'd ! 
 
 Long-wish'd-f or sight, the Western World appeared ; 
 And, when the ship was moor'd, I leap'd ashore 
 Indignantly, — resolved to be a man 
 Who, having o'er the past no power, would live 
 No longer in subjection to the past. 
 With abject mind, — from a tyrannic lord 
 Inviting penance, fruitlessly endured : 
 So, like a fugitive, whose feet have clear'd 
 Some boundary, which his followers may not cross 
 In prosecution of their deadly chase. 
 Respiring I look'd round. — How bright the Sun, 
 The breeze how soft ! Can any thing produced 
 In the Old World compare, thought I, for power 
 And majesty with this gigantic stream. 
 Sprung from the desert ? And, behold, a city 
 Fresh, youthful, and aspiring ! What are these 
 To me, or I to them ? As much at least 
 As he desires that they should be, whom Avinds 
 And waves have wafted to this distant shore, 
 In the condition of a damaged seed, 
 Whose fibres cannot, if they Avould, take root. 
 Here may I roam at large ; — my business is. 
 Roaming at large, to observe, and not to feel. 
 And therefore not to act, — convinced that all 
 Which bears the name of action, howsoe'er 
 Beginning, ends in servitude, — still painful, 
 And mostly profitless. And, sooth to say. 
 On nearer view, a motley spectacle 
 Appear 'd, of high pretensions, unreproved 
 But by th' obstreperous voice of higher still ; 
 Big passions strutting on a petty stage ; 
 Which a detach'd spectator may regard 
 Not unamused. — But ridicule demands 
 Quick change of objects: and, to laugh alone, 
 At a composing distance from the haunts 
 Of strife and folly, though it be a treat 
 As choice as musing Leisure can bestow; 
 Yet, in the very centre of the crowd, 
 To keep the secret of a poignant scorn. 
 
THE EXCURSION. 9^ 
 
 Howe'er to airy Demons suitable, 
 
 Of all unsocial courses is least fit 
 
 For the gross spirit of mankind, — the one 
 
 That soonest fails to please, and quickliest turns 
 
 Into vexation. 
 
 Let us, then, I said, 
 Leave this unknit Eepublic® to the scourge 
 Of her own passions ; and to regions haste, 
 Whose shades have never felt th' encroaching axe, 
 Or soil endured a transfer in the mart 
 Of dire rapacity. There, Man abides. 
 Primeval Nature's child. A creature weak 
 In combination, (wherefore else driven back 
 So far, and of his old inheritance 
 So easily deprived ?) but, for that cause. 
 More dignified, and stronger in himself; 
 Whether to act, judge, suffer, or enjoy. 
 True, the intelligence of social art 
 Hath overpower'd liis forefathers, and soon 
 Will sweep the remnant of his line away ; 
 But contemplations, wortliier, nobler far 
 Than her destructive energies, attend 
 His independence, when along the side 
 Of Mississippi, or that northern stream 
 That spreads into successive seas, he walks ; 
 Pleased to perceive his own unshackled life, 
 * And his innate capacities of soul, 
 
 There imaged : or when, having gain'd the top 
 Of some commanding eminence, which yet 
 Intruder ne'er beheld, he thence surveys 
 Eegions of wood and wide savannah, vast 
 Expanse of unappropriated earth. 
 With mind that sheds a light on what he sees ; 
 Free as the Sun, and lonely as the Sun, 
 Pouring above his head its radiance down 
 Upon a living and rejoicing world! 
 
 So, westward, toward th' unviolated woods 
 I bent my way ; and, roaming far and wide, 
 Faird not to greet the merry Mocking-bird ; 
 And, while the melancholy Muccawiss 
 (The sportive bird's companion in the grove) 
 
 6 It should be borne in mind that this was written as early as 1814; at which time 
 the United States might well appear to AVordswortli, or even to such a man as the 
 Solitary, an " unknit llepubLic." Not more unknit, however, than many of our own 
 people supposed it to be, or than it would have proved, if "Secession" had had its 
 way. But recent events have either shown our National Government to be strong, 
 or nave made it so. 
 
366 WOKDSWORTH. 
 
 Repeated, o'er and o'er, his plaintive cry, 
 I sympathised at leisure with the sound : 
 But that pure archetype of human greatness, 
 I found him not. There, in his stead, appear'd 
 A creature squalid, vengeful, and impure ; 
 Eemorseless, and submissive to no law 
 But superstitious fear, and abject sloth. 
 
 Enough is told ! Here am I ; — ye have heard 
 What evidence I seek, and vainly seek ; 
 What from my fellow-beings I require, 
 And either they have not to give, or I 
 Lack virtue to receive ; what I myself, 
 Too oft by wilful forfeiture, have lost, 
 Nor can regain. How languidly I look 
 Upon this visible fabric of the world. 
 May be divined, — perhaps it hath been said: 
 But spare your pity, if there be in me 
 Aught that deserves respect : for I exist. 
 Within myself, not comfortless. — The ten our 
 Which my life holds, he readily may conceive 
 Whoe'er hath stood to watch a mountain brook 
 In some still passage of its course, and seen. 
 Within the depths of its capacious breast. 
 Inverted trees, rocks, clouds, and azure sky ; 
 And, on its glassy surface, specks of foam, 
 And conglobated bubbles undissolved. 
 Numerous as stars ; that, by their onward lapse,- 
 Betray to sight the motion of the stream. 
 Else imperceptible. Meanwhile is heard 
 A sof ten'd roar, or murmur ; and the sound. 
 Though soothing, and the little floating isles 
 Though beautiful, are both by Nature charged 
 With the same pensive office ; and make known 
 Through what perplexing labyrinths, abrupt 
 Precipitations, and untoward straits, 
 The earth-born wanderer hath pass'd ; and quickly, 
 That respite o'er, like traverses and toils 
 Must he again encounter. — Such a stream 
 Is human Life ; and so the Spirit fares 
 In the best quiet to her course allow'd ; 
 And such is mine, — save only for a hope 
 That my particular current soon will reach 
 Th' unfathomable gulf, where all is still ! " 
 
THE EXCUBSIOIT. 367 
 
 BOOK FOURTH. 
 
 DESPOISTDEKCY COERECTED. 
 
 Here closed the Tenant of that lonely vale 
 His mournful narrative, — commenced in pain, 
 In pain commenced, and ended without peace ; 
 Yet temper'd, not unfrequently, with strains 
 Of native feeling, grateful to our minds ; 
 And yielding surely some relief to his. 
 While we sate listening with compassion due. 
 A pause of silence followed ; then, with voice 
 That did not falter though the heart was moved, 
 The Wanderer said : 
 
 " One adequate support 
 Eor the calamities of mortal life 
 Exists, — one only; — an assured belief 
 That the procession of our fate, howe'er 
 Sad or disturbed, is order'd by a Being 
 Of infinite benevolence and power ; 
 Whose everlasting purposes embrace 
 All accidents, converting them to good. — 
 The darts of anguish /a; not where the seat 
 Of suffering hath been thoroughly fortified 
 By acquiescence in the Will supreme 
 For time and for eternity ; by faith. 
 Faith absolute in God, including hope. 
 And the defence that lies in boundless love 
 Of His perfections ; with habitual dread 
 Of aught unworthily conceived, endured 
 Impatiently, ill-done, or left undone, 
 To the dishonour of His holy name. — 
 Soul of our Souls, and safeguard of the world ! 
 Sustain, Thou only canst, the sick of heart ; 
 Restore their languid spirits, and recall 
 Their lost aJffections unto Thee and Thine ! " 
 Then, as we issued from that covert nook, 
 He thus continued, lifting up his eyes 
 To heaven : " How beautiful this dome of sky ; 
 And the vast hills, in fluctuation fix'd 
 At Thy command, how awful ! Shall the Soul, 
 Human and rational, report of Thee 
 Even less than these ? Be mute who will, who can. 
 Yet I will praise Thee with impassion'd voice: 
 My lips, that may forget Thee in the crowd, 
 
368 WORDSWORTH. 
 
 Cannot forget Thee here, where Thou hast built, 
 
 For Thy own glory, in the wilderness ! 
 
 Me didst Thou constitute a priest of Thine, 
 
 In such a temple as we now behold 
 
 Eeared for Thy presence : therefore am I bound 
 
 To worship, here and everywhere, — as one 
 
 Not doom'd to ignorance, though forced to tread, 
 
 From childhood up, the ways of poverty ; 
 
 From unreflecting ignorance preserved, 
 
 And from debasement rescued. By Thy grace 
 
 The particle divine remain'd unquench'd ; 
 
 And, 'mid the wild weeds of a rugged soil, 
 
 Thy bounty caused to flourish deathless flowers, 
 
 From Paradise transplanted : wintry age 
 
 Impends ; the frost will gather round my heart ; 
 
 If the flowers wither, I am worse than dead ! — 
 
 Come labour, when the worn-out frame requires 
 
 Perpetual sabbath ; come disease and want. 
 
 And sad exclusion through decay of sense ; 
 
 But leave me unabated trust in Thee, — 
 
 And let Thy favour, to the end of life, 
 
 Inspire me with ability to seek 
 
 Eepose and hope among eternal things, — 
 
 Father of Heaven and Earth ! and I am rich. 
 
 And will possess my portion in content. 
 
 And what are things eternal ? — Powers depart," 
 The grey-hair'd Wanderer steadfastly replied, > 
 Answering the question which himself had ask'd, 
 " Possessions vanish, and opinions change, 
 And passions hold a fluctuating seat : 
 But, by the storms of circumstance unshaken. 
 And subject neither to eclipse nor wane, 
 Duty exists ; — immutably survive. 
 For our support, the measures and the forms 
 Which an abstract intelligence supplies ; 
 Whose kingdom is where time and space are not. 
 Of other converse which mind, soul, and heart 
 Do, with united urgency, require, 
 
 What more that may not perish ? — Thou, dread source, 
 Prime, self-existing cause and end of all 
 That in the scale of being fill their place ; 
 Above our human region, or below. 
 Set and sustain'd; Thou, who didst wrap the cloud 
 Of infancy around us, that Thyself, 
 Therein, with our simplicity awhile 
 Mightst hold, on Earth, communion undisturb'd; 
 
THE EXCUKSIOK. 369 
 
 "Who from the anarchy of dreaming sleep, 
 Or from its death-like void, with punctual care, 
 And touch as gentle as the morning light, 
 Eestor'st us, daily, to the powers of sense 
 And reason's steadfast rule, — Thou, Thou alone 
 Art everlasting, and the blessed Spirits 
 Which Thou includest, as the sea her waves : 
 For adoration Thou endur'st ; endure 
 For consciousness the motions of Thy will ; 
 For apprehension those transcendent truths 
 Of the pare intellect, that stand as laws 
 (Submission constituting strength and power) 
 Even to Thy Being's infinite majesty ! 
 This universe shall pass away, — a work 
 Glorious, because the shadow of Thy might, 
 A step, or link, for intercourse with Thee. 
 Ah ! if the time must come in which my feet 
 ISTo more shall stray where meditation leads. 
 By flowing stream, through wood, or craggy wild, 
 Loved haunts like these ; the unimprison'd Mind 
 May yet have scope to range among her own, 
 Her thoughts, her images, her high desires. 
 If the dear faculty of sight should fail. 
 Still it may be allow'd me to remember 
 What visionary powers of eye and soul 
 In youth were mine ; when, station'd on the top 
 Of some huge hill, expectant, I beheld 
 The Sun rise up, from distant climes return'd 
 Darkness to chase, and sleep ; and bring the day. 
 His bounteous gift ! or saw him toward the deep 
 Sink, with a retinue of flaming clouds 
 Attended : then my spirit was entranced 
 With joy exalted to beatitude ; 
 The measure of my soul was fill'd with bliss, 
 And holiest love ; as earth, sea, air, with light, 
 With pomp, with glory, with magnificence ! 
 Those fervent raptures are for ever flown ; 
 And, since their date, my soul hath undergone 
 Change manifold, for better or for worse : 
 Yet cease I not to struggle, and aspire 
 Heavenward ; and chide the part of me that flags 
 Through sinful choice, or dread necessity 
 On human nature from above imposed. 
 'Tis, by comparison, an easy task 
 Earth to despise ; but, to converse with Heaven, — 
 This is not easy : — to relinquish all 
 
370 WOKDSWOETH. 
 
 We have, or liope, of happiness and joy, 
 
 And stand in freedom loosen'd from this world, 
 
 I deem not arduous ; but must needs confess 
 
 That 'tis a thing impossible to frame 
 
 Conceptions equal to the soul's desires; 
 
 And the most difficult of tasks to heep 
 
 Heights which the soul is competent to gain. - — 
 
 Man is of dust : ethereal hopes are his, 
 
 Which, when they should sustain themselves aloft, 
 
 Want due consistence ; like a pillar of smoke. 
 
 That with majestic energy from earth 
 
 Rises ; but, having reach'd the thinner air, 
 
 Melts and dissolves, and is no longer seen. 
 
 From this infirmity of mortal kind 
 
 Sorrow proceeds, which else were not ; at least, 
 
 If grief be something hallow'd and ordain'd, 
 
 If, in proportion, it be just and meet, 
 
 Yet, through this weakness of the general heart, 
 
 Is it enabled to maintain its hold 
 
 In that excess which conscience disapproves. 
 
 For who could sink and settle to that point 
 
 Of selfishness ; so senseless who could be 
 
 As long and perseveringiy to mourn 
 
 For any object of his love removed 
 
 From this unstable world, if he could fix 
 
 A satisfying view upon that state 
 
 Of pure, imperishable blessedness 
 
 Which reason promises, and Holy Writ 
 
 Ensures to all believers ? — Yet mistrust 
 
 Is of such incapacity, methinks, 
 
 No natural branch \ despondency far less ; 
 
 And, least of all, is absolute despair. — 
 
 And, if there be whose tender frames have droop'd 
 
 Even to the dust; apparently, through weight 
 
 Of anguish unreliev'd, and lack of power 
 
 An agonizing sorrow to transmute ; 
 
 Deem not that proof is here of hope withheld 
 
 When wanted most ; a confidence impair'd 
 
 So pitiably, that, having ceased to see 
 
 With bodily eyes, they are borne doAvn by love 
 
 Of what is lost, and perish through regret. 
 
 no! the innocent Sufferer often sees 
 
 Too clearly ; feels too vividly ; and longs 
 
 To realise the vision, with intense 
 
 And over-constant yearning ; — there — there lies 
 
 Th' excess by which the balance is destroy'd. 
 
THE EXCURSION. 371 
 
 Too, too contracted are these walls of flesh, 
 
 Tliis Adtal warmth too cold, these visual orbs, 
 
 Though inconceivably endow'd, too dim 
 
 For any passion of the soul that leads 
 
 To ecstasy ; and, all the crooked paths 
 
 Of time and change disdaining, takes its course 
 
 Along the line of limitless desires. 
 
 I, speaking now from such disorder free, 
 
 Nor rapt nor craving, but in settled peace, 
 
 I cannot doubt that they whom you deplore 
 
 Are glorified ; or, if they sleep, shall wake 
 
 From sleep, and dwell with God in endless love. 
 
 Hope, below this, consists not with belief 
 
 In mercy, carried infinite degrees 
 
 Beyond the tenderness of human hearts : 
 
 Hope, below this, consists not with belief 
 
 In perfect wisdom, guiding mightiest power. 
 
 That finds no limits but her own pure will. 
 
 Here, then, we rest ; not fearing for our creed 
 The worst that human reasoning can achieve, 
 To unsettle or perplex it : yet with pain 
 Acknowledging, and grievous self-reproach. 
 That, though immovably convinced, we want 
 Zeal, and the virtue to exist by faith 
 As soldiers live by courage ; as, by strength 
 Of heart, the sailor fights with roaring seas. 
 Alas ! th' endowment of immortal power 
 Is match'd unequally with custom,^ time, 
 And domineering faculties of sense 
 In all ; in most with superadded foes, 
 Idle temptations ; open vanities, 
 Ephemeral offspring of th' unblushing world ; 
 And, in the private regions of the mind, 
 Ill-govern'd passions, ranklings of despite, 
 Immoderate wishes, pining discontent. 
 Distress, and care. What then remains? — To seek 
 Those helps for his occasions ever near 
 Who lacks not will to use them ; vows, renew'd 
 On the first motion of a holy thought ; 
 Vigils of contemplation ; praise ; and prayer, — 
 A stream which, from the fountain of the heart 
 Issuing, however feebly, nowhere flows 
 Without access of unexpected strength. 
 But, above all, the victory is most sure 
 
 7 The effect of custom in dulling or dimming the finer moral perceptions of the 
 soul is set forth more fully in the Author's Ode on Immortality. See pages 246-8. 
 
372 WORDSWORTH. 
 
 For him wlio, seeking faith by virtue, strives 
 To yield entire submission to the law 
 Of conscience, — conscience reverenced and obey'd, 
 As God's most intimate presence in the soul, 
 And His most perfect image in the world. . — 
 Endeavour thus to live; these rules regard; 
 These helps solicit ; and a steadfast seat 
 Shall then be yours among the happy few 
 Who dwell on Earth, yet breathe empjTcal air, 
 Sons of the morning. For your nobler part. 
 Ere disencumbered of her mortal chains. 
 Doubt shall be quelFd and trouble chased away ; 
 With only such degree of sadness left 
 As may support longings of pure desire ; 
 And strengthen love, rejoicing secretly 
 In the sublime attractions of the grave." 
 
 While, in this strain, the venerable Sage 
 Pour'd forth his aspirations, and announced 
 His judgments, near that lonely house we paced 
 A plot of green-sward, seemingly preserved 
 By Nature's care from wreck of scatter'd stones. 
 And from encroachment of encircling heath : 
 Small space ! but, for reiterated steps. 
 Smooth and commodious; as a stately deck 
 Which to and fro the mariner is used 
 To tread for pastinie, talking with his mates. 
 Or haply thinking of far-distant friends. 
 While the ship glides before a steady breeze. 
 Stillness prevail'd around us : and the voice 
 That spake was capable to lift the soul 
 Toward regions yet more tranquil. But methought 
 That he, whose fix'd despondency had given 
 Impulse and motive to that strong discourse, 
 Was less upraised in spirit than abash'd ; 
 Shrinking from admonition, like a man 
 Who feels that to exhort is to reproach. 
 Yet not to be diverted from his aim, 
 The Sage continued : 
 
 " For that other loss, 
 The loss of confidence in social man. 
 By th' unexpected transports of our age 
 Carried so high, that every thought which looked 
 Beyond the temporal destiny of the kind 
 To many seem'd superfluous ; as no cause 
 Could e'er for such exalted confidence 
 
THE EXCUESION. 373 
 
 Exist ; ^ so none is now for fix'd despair ; 
 
 The two extremes are equally disown'd . > 
 
 By reason : if, with sharp recoil, from one .^ '^•, 
 
 You have been driven far as its opposite, ^ ^^ 
 
 Between them seek the point whereon to build 'f^%>^ ' 
 
 Sound expectations. So doth he advise 'i^ 9^^ 
 
 Who shared at first th' illusion ; but was soon '^ %• 
 
 Cast from the pedestal of pride by shocks ' K'^ 
 
 Which Nature gently gave, in woods and fiel . 
 
 Nor unreproved by Providence, thus speakiii 
 
 To th' inattentive children of the world: 
 
 * Vain-glorious Generation ! what new pov; / 
 
 On you have been conferr'd ? Avhat gifts,. , iiield 
 
 From your progenitors, have ye received^ ^ ' " 
 
 Fit recompense of new desert ? what claim 
 
 Are ye prepared to urge, that my decrees 
 
 For you should undergo a sudden change ; 
 
 And the weak functions of one busy day, 
 
 Reclaiming and extirpating, perform 
 
 What all the slowly-moving years of time, 
 
 With their united force, have left undone ? 
 
 By Nature's gradual processes be taught ; 
 
 By story be confounded ! Ye aspire 
 
 Rashly, to fall once more ; and that false fruit 
 
 Which, to your over-weening spirits, yields 
 
 Hope of a flight celestial, will produce 
 
 Misery and shame. But Wisdom of her sons 
 
 Shall not the less, though late, be justified.' 
 
 Such timely warning," said the Wanderer, " gave 
 That visionary voice ; and, at this day, 
 When a Tartarean darkness overspreads 
 The groaning nations ; when the impious rule, 
 By will or by establish'd ordinance, 
 Their own dire agents, and constrain the good 
 To acts which they abhor ; though I bewail 
 This triumph, yet the pity of my heart 
 Prevents me not from owning that the law 
 By which mankind now suffers is most Just. 
 For by superior energies ; more strict 
 Affiance in each other ; faith more firm 
 
 8 At the time here referi'ed to, England, and still more France, abounded in men 
 BO carried away with the enthusiasm of visionary progress as to believe that no aims 
 or aspirations looking beyond the present worm were needed for the support of hu- 
 man virtue. So confident were they of their own illumination, that they expected, 
 if they could but have their way, to project a heaven upon eai'th from their own 
 swelling breasts. But this is a favorite conceit with the extreme radicals of all 
 times. On the other side, Coleridge happily remarks, " it is only from celestial ob- 
 servations that good teiTCStrial chax'ts can be constmicted." 
 
374 WORDSWORTH. 
 
 In their unliallow'd principles ; the bad 
 Have fairly earn'd a victory o'er the weak, 
 The vacillating, inconsistent good. 
 Therefore, not unconsoled, I wait, in hope 
 To see the moment when the righteous cause 
 Shall gain defenders zealous and devout 
 As they who have opposed her ; in which Virtue 
 WilJi ti) her efforts, tolerate no bounds 
 TIt.o dw^ not lofty as her rights ; aspiring 
 By iiof tise of her own ethereal zeal. 
 That Isenct only can redeem mankind; 
 And wBhalj^.hat sacred spirit shall appear, 
 Then shly siur triumph be complete as theirs. 
 Yet, should^'his confidence prove vain, the wise 
 Have still the keeping of their proper peace ; 
 Are guardians of their own tranquillity. 
 They act, or they recede, observe, and feel ; 
 * Knowing the heart of man is set to be 
 The centre of this world, about the which 
 Those revolutions of disturbances 
 Still roll ; where all th' aspects of misery 
 Predominate ; whose strong effects are such 
 As he must bear, being powerless to redress ; 
 And that unless above himself he can 
 Erect himself, how poor a thing is Man ! ' • 
 
 Happy is he who lives to understand 
 Not human nature only, but explores 
 All natures, — to the end that he may find 
 The law that governs each ; and where begins 
 The union, the partition where, that makes 
 Kind and degree, among all visible Beings ; 
 The constitutions, powers, and faculties, 
 Which they inherit, — cannot step beyond, — 
 And cannot fall beneath ; that do assign 
 To every class its station and its office. 
 Through all the mighty commonwealth of things ; 
 Up from the creeping plant to sovereign Man. 
 Such converse, if directed by a meek. 
 Sincere, and humble spirit, teaches love: 
 For knowledge is delight ; and such delight 
 Breeds love : yet, suited as it rather is 
 To thought and to the climbing intellect, 
 It teaches less to love than to adore; 
 
 9 This quotation is from a very noble poem by Samuel Daniel, addressed to the 
 Lady Margaret, Countess of Cumberland; and the last two lines are translated by 
 him from Seneca. The poem contains an admirable picture of a wise man's state of 
 mind in a time of public commotion; too long, however, to be quoted here. 
 
THE EXCURSIOl^. 375 
 
 If that be not indeed the highest love ! " 
 
 "Yet," said I, tempted here to interpose, 
 " The dignity of life is not impair'd 
 By aught that innocently satisfies 
 The humbler cravings of the heart ; and he 
 Is a still happier man, who, for those heights 
 Of speculation not unfit, descends ; 
 And such benign affections cultivates 
 Among th' inferior kinds ; not merely those 
 That he may call his own, and which depend, 
 As individual objects of regard, 
 Upon his care, from whom he also looks 
 For signs and tokens of a mutual bond ; 
 But others, far beyond this narrow sphere, 
 Whom, for the very sake of love, he loves. 
 Nor is it a mean praise of rural life 
 And solitude, that they do favour most. 
 Most frequently call forth, and best sustain. 
 These pure sensations ; that can penetrate 
 Th' obstreperous city ; on the barren seas 
 Are not unfelt; and much might recommend, 
 How much they might inspirit and endear. 
 The loneliness of this sublime retreat ! " 
 
 " Yes," said the Sage, resuming the discourse 
 Again directed to his downcast Friend, 
 " If, with the fro ward will and grovelling soul 
 Of man, offended, liberty is here. 
 And invitation every hour renew'd. 
 To mark their plaoid state who never heard 
 Of a command which they have power to break. 
 Or rule which they are tempted to transgress : 
 These, with a soothed or elevated heart. 
 May we behold ; their knowledge register ; 
 Observe their ways ; and, free from envy, find 
 Complacence there. But wherefore this to you? 
 I guess that, welcome to your lonely hearth, 
 The redbreast, ruffled up by Winter's cold 
 Into a ' feathery bunch,' feeds at your hand 
 A box, perchance, is from your casement hung 
 For the small wren to build in; — not in vain. 
 The barriers disregarding that surround 
 This deep abiding -place, before your sight 
 Mounts on the breeze the butterfly ; and soars. 
 Small creature as she is, from earth's bright flowers, 
 Into the dewy clouds. Ambition reigns 
 In the waste wilderness : the Soul ascends 
 
376 WORDSWORTH. 
 
 Drawn towards her native firmament of Heaven, 
 When the fresh eagle, in the month of May, 
 Upborne, at evening, on replenish'd wing, 
 This shaded valley leaves; and leaves the dark 
 Empurpled hills, conspicuously renewing 
 A proud communication with the Sun 
 Low sunk beneath th' horizon ! — List ! -- 1 heard, 
 Erom yon huge breast of rock, a voice sent forth 
 As if the visible mountain made the cry. 
 Again !" — Th' effect upon the soul was such 
 As he express'd : from out the mountain's heart 
 The solemn voice appear'd to issue, startling 
 The blank air ; for the region all around 
 Stood empty of all shape of life, and silent 
 Save for that single cry, th' unanswer'd bleat 
 Of a poor lamb, — left somewhere to itself. 
 The plaintive spirit of the solitude ! 
 lie paused, as if unwilling to proceed. 
 Through consciousness that silence in such place 
 Was best, the most affecting eloquence. 
 But soon his thoughts return'd upon themselves. 
 And, in soft tone of speech, thus he resumed : 
 
 " Ah ! if the heart, too confidently raised, 
 Perchance too lightly occupied, or lull'd 
 Too easily, despise or overlook 
 The vassalage that binds her to the Earth, 
 Her sad dependence upon time, and all 
 The trepidations of mortality. 
 What place so destitute and void, but there 
 The little flower her vanity shall check; 
 The trailing worm reprove her thoughtless pride ? 
 
 These craggy regions, these chaotic wilds. 
 Does that benignity pervade that warms 
 The mole contented with her darksome walk 
 In the cold ground ; and to the emmet gives 
 Her foresight, and intelligence that makes 
 The tiny creatures strong by social league ; 
 Supports the generations, multiplies 
 Their tribes, till we behold a spacious plain 
 Or grassy bottom, all, with little hills, 
 - Their labour, cover'd, as a lake with waves ; 
 Thousands of cities, in the desert place 
 Built up of life, and food, and means of life ! 
 Kor wanting here, to entertain the thought. 
 Creatures that in communities exist. 
 Less, as might seem, for general guardianship 
 
THE EXCURSIOK. 377 
 
 Or through dependence upon mutual aid, 
 
 Than by participation of delight 
 
 And a strict Ioyc of fellowship, combined. 
 
 What other spirit can it be thaL prompts 
 
 The gilded summer flies to mix and weave 
 
 Their sports together in the solar beam. 
 
 Or in the gloom of twilight hum their joy ? 
 
 More obviously the self -same influence rules 
 
 The feather'd kinds ; the fieldfare's pensive flock. 
 
 The cawing rooks, and sea-mews from afar, 
 
 Hovering above these inland solitudes, 
 
 By the rough wind unscatter'd, at whose call 
 
 Up through the trenches of the long-drawn vales 
 
 Their voyage was begun : nor is its power 
 
 XJnfelt among the sedentary fowl 
 
 That seek yon pool, and there prolong their stay 
 
 In silent congress ; or together roused 
 
 Take flight ; while with their clang the air resounds. 
 
 And, over all, in that ethereal vault. 
 
 Is the mute company of changeful clouds ; 
 
 Bright apparition, suddenly put forth, 
 
 The rainbow smiling on the faded storm ; 
 
 The mild assemblage of the starry heavens ; 
 
 And the great Sun, Earth's universal lord ! 
 
 How bountiful is JSTature ! he shall find 
 Who seeks not ; and to him who hath not ask'd 
 Large measure shall be dealt. Three sabbath-days 
 Are scarcely told, since, on a service bent 
 Of mere humanity, you clomb those heights; 
 And what a marvellous and heavenly show 
 Was suddenly reveal'd ! — the swains moved on, 
 And heeded not : you linger'd, you perceived 
 And felt, deeply as living man could feel. 
 There is a luxury in self -dispraise ; 
 And inward self-disparagement affords 
 To meditative spleen a grateful feast. 
 Trust me, pronouncing on your own desert. 
 You judge unthankf ully : distemper'd nerves 
 Infect the thoughts : the languor of the frame 
 Depresses the soul's vigour. Quit your couch, — 
 Cleave not so fondly to your moody cell ; 
 Nor let the hallow'd powers, that shed from Heaven 
 Stillness and rest, with disapproving eye 
 Look down upon your taper, through a watch 
 Of midnight hours, unseasonably twinkling 
 In this deep Hollow, like a sullen star 
 
578 WORDSWORTH. 
 
 Dimly reflected in a lonely pool. 
 
 Take courage, and withdraw yourself from ways 
 
 That run not parallel to Nature's course. 
 
 Kise with the lark ! your matins shall obtain 
 
 Grace, be their composition what it may, 
 
 If but with hers perform'd ; climb once again, 
 
 Climb every day, those ramparts ; meet the breeze 
 
 Upon their tops, adventurous as a bee 
 
 That from your garden thither soars, to feed 
 
 On new-blown heath ; let yon commanding rock 
 
 Be your frequented watch-tower ; roll the stone 
 
 In thunder down the mountains ; with all your might 
 
 Chase the wild goat ; and if the bold red deer 
 
 Fly to those harbours, driven by hound and horn 
 
 Loud echoing, add your speed to the pursuit ; 
 
 So, wearied to your hut shall you return, 
 
 And sink at evening into sound repose." 
 
 The Solitary lifted toward the hills 
 A kindling eye : — accordant feelings rush'd 
 Into my bosom, whence these words broke forth : 
 " 0, what a joy it were, in vigorous health. 
 To have a body, (this our vital frame 
 With shrinking sensibility endued, 
 And all the nice regards of flesh and blood,) 
 And to the elements surrender it 
 As if it were a spirit I — How divine, 
 The liberty, for frail, for mortal man 
 To roam at large among unpeopled glens 
 And mountainous retirements, only trod 
 By devious footsteps ; regions consecrate 
 To oldest Time ! and, reckless of the storm. 
 That keeps the raven quiet in her nest, 
 Be as a presence or a motion, — one 
 Among the many there ; and, while the mists 
 n3dng, and rainy vapours, call out shapes 
 And phantoms from the crags and solid earth 
 As fast as a musician scatters sounds 
 Out of an instrument; and while the streams, 
 (As at a first creation and in haste 
 To exercise their untried faculties,) 
 Descending from the region of the clouds, 
 And starting from the hollo^vs of the earth 
 More multitudinous every moment, rend 
 Their way before them ; what a joy to roam 
 An equal among mightiest energies ; 
 And haply sometimes with articulate voice, 
 
THE EXCUESION. 379 
 
 Amid the deafening tumult, scarcely heard 
 
 By him that utters it, exclaim aloud, 
 
 * fiage on, ye elements ! let Moon and stars 
 
 Their aspects lend, and mingle in their turn 
 
 With this commotion (ruinous though it be) 
 
 From day to night, from night to day, prolong'd ! ^ " 
 
 " Yes," said the Wanderer, taking from my lips 
 The strain of transport, " whosoe'er in youth 
 Has, through ambition of his soul, given way 
 To such desires, and grasp'd at such delight. 
 Shall feel congenial stirrings late and long, 
 In spite of all the weakness that life brings, 
 Its cares and sorrows : he, though taught to own 
 The tranquillizing power of time, shall wake, 
 Wake sometimes to a noble restlessness. 
 Loving the sports whicli once he gloried in. 
 
 Compatriot, Friend, remote are Garry's hills, 
 The streams far distant of your native glen ; 
 Yet is their form and image here express'd 
 With brotherly resemblance. Turn your steps 
 Wherever fancy leads ; by day, by niglit, 
 Are various engines working, not the same 
 As those with which your soul in youth was moved, 
 But by the great Artificer endow'd 
 With no inferior power. You dwell alone ; 
 You walk, you live, you speculate alone ; 
 Yet doth remembrance, like a sovereign prince, 
 For you a stately gallery maintain 
 Of gay or tragic pictures. You have seen. 
 Have acted, sufEer'd, travell'd far, observed 
 With no incurious eye ; and books are yours. 
 Within whose silent chambers treasure lies 
 Preserved from age to age ; more precious far 
 Than that accumulated store of gold 
 And orient gems which, for a day of need. 
 The Sultan hides deep in ancestral tombs. 
 These hoards of truth you can unlock at will : 
 And music waits upon your skilful touch. 
 Sounds which the wandering shepherd from these heights 
 Hears, and forgets his purpose : — furnish'd thus, 
 How can you droop, if willing to be upraised ? 
 
 A piteous lot it were to flee from Man, 
 Yet not rejoice in Nature. He whose hours 
 Are by domestic pleasures uncaress'd 
 And unenliven'd ; who exists whole years 
 Apart from benefits received or done 
 
380 WORDSWORTH. 
 
 ^Mid the transactions of the bustling crowd ; 
 
 Who neither hears, nor feels a wish to hear, 
 
 Of the world's interests, — such a one hath need 
 
 Of a quick fancy and an active heart, 
 
 That, for the day's consumption, books may yield 
 
 Food not unwholesome ; earth and air correct 
 
 His morbia humour, with delight sujoplied 
 
 Or solace, varying as the seasons change. — 
 
 Truth has her pleasure-grounds, her haunts of ease 
 
 And easy contemplation ; gay parterres. 
 
 And labyrinthine walks, her sunny glades 
 
 And shady groves in studied contrast, — each. 
 
 For recreation, leading into each : 
 
 These may he range, if willing to partake 
 
 Their soft indulgences, and in due time 
 
 May issue thence, recruited for the tasks 
 
 And course of service Truth requires from those 
 
 Who tend her altars, wait upon her throne. 
 
 And guard her fortresses. Who thinks, and feels. 
 
 And recognises ever and anon 
 
 The breeze of Nature stirring in his soul, 
 
 AVhy need such man go desperately astray. 
 
 And nurse ' the dreadful appetite of death ' ? 
 
 If tired with systems, each in its degree 
 
 Substantial, and all crumbling in their turn, 
 
 Let him build systems of his own, and smile 
 
 At the fond work, demolish'd with a touch ; 
 
 If unreligious, let him be at once. 
 
 Among ten thousand innocents, enrolFd 
 
 A pupil in the mauy-chamber'd school 
 
 Where superstition weaves her airy dreams. 
 
 Life's Autumn past, I stand on Winter's verge ; 
 And daily lose what I desire to keep : 
 Yet rather would I instantly decline 
 To the traditionary sympathies 
 Of a most rustic ignorance, and take 
 A fearful apprehension from the owl 
 Or death-watch; and as readily rejoice. 
 If two auspicious magpies cross'd my way; — 
 To this would rather bend than see and hear 
 The repetitions wearisome of sense. 
 Where soul is dead, and feeling hath no place ; 
 Where knowledge, ill begun in cold remark 
 On outward things, with formal inference ends; 
 Or, if the mind turn inward, she recoils 
 At once, — or, not recoiling, is perplex'd, — 
 
THE EXCURSION. 381 
 
 Lost in a gloom of uninspired research : 
 Meanwhile the heart within the heart, the seat 
 Where peace and happy consciousness should dwell, 
 On its own axis restlessly revolving, 
 Seeks, yet can nowhere find, the light of truth. 
 
 Upon the breast of new-created Earth 
 Man walk'd ; and when and whersoe'er he moved, 
 Alone or mated, solitude was not. 
 He heard, borne on the wind, th' articulate voice 
 Of God ; and Angels to his sight appear'd 
 Crowning the glorious hills of paradise ; 
 Or through the groves gliding like morning mist 
 Enkindled by the Sun. He sate, — and talked 
 With winged Messengers ; who daily brought 
 To his small island in th' ethereal deed 
 Tidings of joy and love. From those pure heights 
 (Whether of actual vision, sensible 
 To sight and feeling, or that in this sort 
 Have condescendingly been shadow'd forth 
 Communications spiritually maintain'd. 
 And intuitions moral and divine) 
 Fell Human-kind, — to banishment condemned 
 That flowing years repeal' d not : and distress 
 And grief spread wide ; but Man escaped the doom 
 Of destitution ; — solitude was not. — 
 Jehovah — shapeless Power above all Powers, 
 Single and one, the omnipresent God, 
 By vocal utterance, or blaze of light. 
 Or cloud of darkness, localised in Heaven ; 
 On Earth, enshrined within the wandering ark; 
 Or, out of Sion, thundering from His throne 
 Between th^ Cherubim — on the chosen Eace 
 Shower'd miracles, and ceased not to dispense 
 Judgments, that fill'd the land from age to age 
 With hope, and love, and gratitude, and fear ; 
 And with amazement smote ; — thereby to assert 
 His scorn'd or unacknowledged sovereignty. 
 And when the One, ineffable of name, 
 Of nature indivisible, withdrew 
 From mortal adoration or regard. 
 Not then was Deity engulf'd ; nor Man, 
 The rational creature, left to feel the weight 
 Of his own reason, without sense or thought 
 Of higher reason and a purer will. 
 To benefit and bless, through mightier power : — 
 Whether the Persian, — zealous to reject 
 
382 WOEDSWORTH. 
 
 Altar and image, and tli' inclusive walls 
 And roofs of temples built by human hands, — 
 To loftiest heights ascending, from their tops, 
 With myrtle-wreathed tiara on his brow, 
 Presented sacrifice to Moon and stars. 
 And to the winds and mother elements. 
 And the whole circle of the heavens, for him 
 A sensitive existence, and a God, 
 "With lifted hands invoked, and songs of praise : ^ 
 Or, less reluctantly to bonds of sense 
 Yielding his soul, the Babylonian framed 
 For influence undefined a personal shape ; 
 And, from the plain, with toil immense, uprear'd 
 Tower eight times planted on the top of tower, 
 That Belus, nightly to his splendid couch 
 Descending, there might rest ; upon that height 
 Pure and serene, diffused, — to overlook 
 Winding Euphrates, and the city vast 
 Of his devoted worshippers, far-stretch'd. 
 With grove and field and garden interspersed ; 
 Their town, and foodful region for support 
 Against the pressure of beleaguering war. 
 
 Chaldean Shepherds, ranging trackless fields, 
 Beneath the concave of unclouded skies 
 Spread like a sea,^ in boundless solitude, 
 Look'd on the polar star, as on a guide 
 And guardian of their course, that never closed- 
 His steadfast eye. The planetary Five 
 With a submissive reverence they beheld ; 
 Watch'd, from the centre of their sleeping flocks, 
 Those radiant Mercuries that seem'd to move 
 Carrying through ether, in perpetual round, 
 Decrees and resolutions of the Gods ; 
 And, by their aspects, signifying works 
 Of dim futurity, to Man reveal'd. — 
 Th' imaginative faculty was lord 
 Of observations natural ; and, thus 
 Led on, those shepherds made report of stars 
 In set rotation passing to and fro, 
 
 1 The ancient religion of the Persians is very happily rtescribed by Herodotus. 
 I quote the passage as translated by Gibbon: "They reject the use of teraples, of. 
 altars, and of statues, and smile at the :'"olly of those nations who imagine that the 
 gods are sprung from, or bear any affinity with, the Imman nature. The tops of the 
 highest mountains are the places chosen for sacrifices. Hymns and prayers arc the 
 principal M'orship; the supreme God, who fills the wide circle of heaven, is the ob- 
 ject to Avhora they are addressed." 
 
 2 Spread is here a participle agreeing with fields ; the construction being, " track- 
 less fields spread out like a sea, beneath unclouded skies." 
 
THE EXCURSIOIT. 383 
 
 Between the orbs of our apparent sphere 
 And its invisible counterpart, adorn'd 
 With answering constellations, under earth, 
 Eemoved from all approach of living sight, 
 But present to the dead ; who, so they deem'd. 
 Like those celestial messengers * beheld 
 All accidents, and judges were of all. 
 
 The lively Grecian, — in a land of hills, 
 Kivers, and fertile plains, and sounding shores, — 
 Under a cope of sky more variable, 
 Could find commodious place for every God, 
 Promptly received, as prodigally brought. 
 From the surrounding countries, at the choice 
 Of all adventurers. With unrivall'd skill, 
 As nicest observation furnished hints 
 For studious fancy, his quick hand bestow'd 
 On fluent operations a fix'd shape; 
 Metal or stone, idolatrously served. 
 And yet — triumphant o'er this pompous show 
 Of art, this palpable array of sense. 
 On every side encounter'd ; in despite 
 Of the gross fictions chanted in the streets 
 By wandering Rhapsodists ; and in contempt 
 Of doubt and bold denial hourly urged 
 Amid the wrangling schools — a spirit hung. 
 Beautiful region ! o'er thy towns and farms. 
 Statues and temples, and memorial tombs ; 
 And emanations were perceived ; and acts 
 Of immortality, in ]^ature's course, 
 Exemplified by mysteries, that were felt 
 As bonds, on grave philosopher imposed 
 And armed warrior ; and in every grove 
 A gay or pensive tenderness prevail'd, 
 When piety more awful had relax'd. — 
 * Take, running river, take these locks of mine,' — 
 Thus would the Votary say, — ' this sever'd hair, 
 
 3 '♦ Those celestial messengers '• are the " stars in set rotation passing to and tro," 
 as they are described a little before; stars which the shepherds, though they saw 
 them not, believed to exist, because their behefwas shaped by "the imaginative 
 faculty," more than by what their senses beheld. Modern astronomy has i-endered 
 it somewhat difficult for us to form such astronomical conceptions as the ancients 
 had. In this passage the Chaldeans are supposed to regard the Earth as a level sur- 
 face of indefinite extent, and to believe that the upper celestial hemisphere, which 
 was apparent to them during night, had a corresponding hemisphere below, which 
 was apparent to the dead; while those imaginai-^^ stars cu-culated between the two 
 hemispheres, and so were intelligent of all that was done in both. Of course this lower 
 celestial hemisphere, with its starry splendours, was what is known to us as the 
 southern hemisphere, the constellations of which are invisible to us in the North.— 
 This whole discourse about the religious ideas and sentiments of the ancients is in 
 Wordsworth's best manner, and is enough of itself to set him in the highest rank of 
 poets. 
 
384 WOKDS WORTH. 
 
 My vow fulfilling, do I here present, 
 
 Thankful for my beloved child's return. 
 
 Thy banks, Oephisus, he again hath trod, 
 
 Thy murmurs heard ; and drunk the crystal lymph 
 
 With which thou dost refresh the thirsty lip, 
 
 And, all day long, moisten these flowery fields ! ' 
 
 And doubtless, sometimes, when the hair was shed 
 
 Upon the flowing stream, a thought arose 
 
 Of Life continuous, Being unimpair'd; 
 
 That hath been, is, and where it was and is 
 
 There shall endure, — existence unexposed 
 
 To the blind walk of mortal accident ; 
 
 From diminution safe and weakening age ; 
 
 While man grows old, and dwindles, and decays ; 
 
 And countless generations of mankind 
 
 Depart ; and leave no vestige where they trod. 
 
 We live by Admiration, Hope, and Love ; 
 And, even as these are well and wisely fix'd, 
 In dignity of being we ascend. 
 But what is error ? " — "Answer he who can ! " 
 The Sceptic somewhat haughtily exclaim'd : 
 " Love, Hope, and Admiration, — are they not 
 Mad Fancy's favourite vassals ? Does not life 
 Use them, full oft, as pioneers to ruin. 
 Guides to destruction ? Is it well to trust 
 Imagination's light when reason's fails, 
 Th' unguarded taper where tlie guarded faints ? — 
 Stoop from those heights, and soberly declare 
 What error is ; and, of our errors, which 
 Doth most debase the mind ; the genuine seats 
 Of power, where are they ? Who shall regulate, 
 With truth, the scale of intellectual rank ? " 
 
 " iVIethinks," persuasively the Sage replied, 
 " That for this arduous office you possess 
 Some rare advantages. Your early days 
 A grateful recollection must supply 
 Of much exalted good by Heaven vouchsafed 
 To dignify the humblest state. — Your voice 
 Hath, in my hearing, often testified 
 That poor men's children, they, and they alone, 
 By their condition taught, can understand 
 The wisdom of the prayer that daily asks 
 For daily bread. A consciousness is yours 
 How feelingly religion may be learn'd. 
 In smoky cabins, from a mother's tongue, — 
 Heard while the dwelling vibrates to the din 
 
THE EXCUKSIOK. 385 
 
 Of the contiguous torrent, gathering strength 
 
 At every moment, — and, with strength, increase 
 
 Of fury"; or, while snow is at the door, 
 
 Assaulting and defending, and the wind, 
 
 A sightless labourer, whistles at his work, — 
 
 Fearful ; but resignation tempers fear, 
 
 And piety is sweet to infant minds. — 
 
 The Shepherd-lad, that in the sunshine carves 
 
 On the green turf a dial, to divide 
 
 The silent hours ; and who to that report 
 
 Can portion out his pleasures, and adapt. 
 
 Throughout a long and lonely Summer's day. 
 
 His round of pastoral duties, is not left 
 
 With less intelligence for moral things 
 
 Of gravest import. Early he perceives. 
 
 Within himself, a measure and a rule. 
 
 Which to the Sun of truth he can apply. 
 
 That shines for him, and shines for all mankind. 
 
 Experience daily fixing his regards 
 
 On nature's wants, he knows how few they are. 
 
 And where they lie, how answer'd and appeased. 
 
 This knowledge ample recompense affords 
 
 For manifold privations ; he refers 
 
 His notions to this standard ; on this rock 
 
 Eests his desires ; and hence, in after-life. 
 
 Soul-strengthening patience, and sublime content. 
 
 Imagination — not permitted here 
 
 To waste her powers, as in the worldling's mind, 
 
 On fickle pleasures and superfluous cares 
 
 And trivial ostentation — is left free 
 
 And puissant to range the solemn walks 
 
 Of time and Nature, girded by a zone 
 
 That, while it binds, invigorates and supports. 
 
 Acknowledge, then, that, whether by the side 
 
 Of his poor hut, or on the mountain top. 
 
 Or in the cultured field, a Man so bred 
 
 (Take from him what you will upon the score 
 
 Of ignorance or illusion) lives and breathes 
 
 For noble purposes of mind : his heart 
 
 Beats to th' heroic song of ancient days ; 
 
 His eye distinguishes, his soul creates. 
 
 And those illusions wliich excite the scorn 
 
 Or move the pity of unthinking minds. 
 
 Are they not mainly outward ministers 
 
 Of inward conscience ? with whose service charged 
 
 They came and go, appeared and disappear, 
 
386 WORDSWORTH. 
 
 Diverting evil purposes, remorse 
 Awakening, chastening an intemperate grief, 
 Or pride of heart abating : and, whene'er 
 For less important ends those phantoms move, 
 Who would forbid them, if their presence serve — 
 On thinly -peopled mountains and wild heaths. 
 Filling a space, else vacant — to exalt 
 The forms of Nature, and enlarge her powers ? 
 
 Once more to distant ages of the world 
 Let us revert, and place before our thoughts 
 The face which rural solitude might wear 
 To th' unenlighten'd swains of pagan Greece. — 
 In that fair clime, the lonely herdsman, stretch'd 
 On the soft grass through half a Summer's day, 
 With music lull'd his indolent repose : 
 And, in some fit of weariness, if he. 
 When his own breath was silent, chanced to hear 
 A distant strain, far sweeter than the sounds 
 Which his poor skill could make, his fancy fetch'd. 
 Even from the blazing chariot of the Sun, 
 A beardless Youth, who touch'd a golden lute. 
 And fiird th' illumined groves with ravishment. 
 The nightly hunter, lifting a bright eye 
 Up towards the crescent Moon, with grateful heart 
 Call'd on the lovely wanderer who bestow'd 
 That timely light, to share his joyous sport : 
 And hence, a beaming Goddess with her Nymphs, 
 Across the laAv^n and through the darksome grove, 
 Not unaccompanied with tuneful notes 
 By echo multiplied from rock or cave. 
 Swept in the storm of chase ; as Moon and stars 
 Glance rapidly along the clouded heaven. 
 When winds are blowing strong.* The traveller slaked 
 His thirst from rill or gushing fount, and thank'd 
 The Naiad. Sunbeams, upon distant hills 
 Gliding apace, with shadows in their train. 
 Might, with small help from fancy, be transformed 
 Into fleet Oreads sporting visibly. 
 The Zephyrs fanning, as they pass'd, their wings, 
 Lack'd not, for love, fair objects whom they woo'd 
 With gentle whisper. Wither'd boughs grotesque, 
 Stripp'd of their leaves and twigs by hoary age, 
 
 4 The itnclassical reader may like to be told that Diana and her train of virgin 
 attendants, ranging" the forest by moonlight, were mythical impersonations of the 
 Moon and stars, as these appear to sweep through the upper air, when winds are 
 driving clouds across the face of the sky. 
 
THE EXCURSION. 387 
 
 From depth of shaggy covert peeping forth 
 In the low vale, or on steep mountain side ; 
 And, sometimes, intermix'd with stirring horns 
 Of the live deer, or goat's depending beard, — 
 These were the lurking Satyrs, a wild brood 
 Of gamesome Deities ; or Pan himself, 
 The simple shepherd's awe-inspiring God ! " * 
 
 The strain was aptly chosen ; and I could mark 
 Its kindly influence, o'er the yielding brow 
 Of our Companion, gradually diffused ; 
 While, listening, he had paced the noiseless turf, 
 Like one whose untired ear a murmuring stream 
 Detains ; but, tempted now to interpose, 
 He with a smile exclaim'd : 
 
 " 'Tis well you speak 
 At a safe distance from our native land. 
 And from the mansions where our youth was taught. 
 The true descendants of those godly men 
 Who swept from Scotland, in a flame of zeal, 
 Shrine, altar, image, and the massy piles 
 That harbour'd them, — the souls retaining yet 
 The churlish features of that after-race 
 Who fled to woods, caverns, and jutting rocks, 
 In deadly scorn of superstitions rites. 
 Or what their scruples construed to be such, — 
 How, think you, would they tolerate this scheme 
 Of fine propensities, that tends, if urged 
 Far as it might be urged, to sow afresh 
 The weeds of Eomish phantasy, in vain 
 Uprooted ; would re-consecrate our wells 
 To good Saint Fillan and to fair Saint Anne; 
 And from long banishment recall Saint Giles, 
 To watch again with tutelary love 
 O'er stately Edinborough throned on crags ? 
 A blessed restoration, to behold 
 The patron, on the shoulders of his priests. 
 Once more parading through her crowded streets 
 Now simply guarded by the sober powers 
 Of science, and philoso23hy, and sense ! " 
 
 This answer follow'd : " You have turn'd my thoughts 
 Upon our brave Progenitors, who rose 
 Against idolatry with warlike mind. 
 And shrunk from vain observances, to lurk 
 In woods, and dwell under impending rocks 
 
 5 For some account of Pan and the Satyrs, see page 242, note 8. 
 
388 WOKDSWORTH. 
 
 Ill-shelter'd, and oft wanting fire and food : 
 
 Why ? — for this very reason that they felt, 
 
 And did acknowledge, wheresoever they moved, 
 
 A spiritual presence, oft-times misconceived, 
 
 But still a high dependence, a divine 
 
 Bounty and government, that fill'd their hearts 
 
 With joy and gratitude, and fear and love ; 
 
 And from their fervent lips drew hymns of praise, 
 
 That through the desert rang. Though favour'd less, 
 
 Far less, than these, yet such, in their degree, 
 
 Were those bcAvilder'd Pagans of old time. 
 
 Beyond their own poor natures and above 
 
 They look'd ; were humbly thankful for the good 
 
 Which the warm Sun solicited, and earth 
 
 Bestow'd; were gladsome, — and their moral sense 
 
 They fortified with reverence for the Gods ; 
 
 And they had hopes that overstepp'd the Grave. 
 
 Now, shall our great Discoverers," he exclaim'd, 
 Raising his voice triumphantly, " obtain 
 From sense and reason less than these obtained, 
 Thongh far misled ? Shall men for whom our age 
 Unbaffled powers of vision hath prepared. 
 To explore the world without and world within. 
 Be joyless as the blind ? Ambitious spirits. 
 Whom Earth, at this late season, hath produced, 
 To regulate the moving spheres, and weigh 
 The planets in the hollow of their hand ; 
 And they who rather dive than soar, whose pains 
 Have solved the elements, or analysed 
 The thinking principle, — shall they in fact 
 Prove a degraded Pace ? and what avails 
 Renown, if their presumption make them such ? 
 0, there is laughter at their work in Heaven I 
 Inquire of ancient Wisdom ; go, demand 
 Of mighty Nature, if 'twas ever meant 
 That we should pry far off, yet be unraised ; 
 That we should pore, and dwindle as we pore. 
 Viewing all objects unremittingly 
 In disconnection dead and spiritless; 
 And, still dividing, and dividing still. 
 Break down all grandeur, still unsatisfied 
 With the perverse attempt, while littleness 
 May yet become more little ; ^ waging thus 
 
 6 The moral starvation of the soul, which naturally results from shirking off all 
 impressions of awe and reverence, and confining the attention to such tilings as our 
 poor little minds can comprehend, was a favourite theme with Wordsworth. See 
 page 170, note 9. 
 
THE EXCURSION. 
 
 An impious warfare with the very life 
 Of our own souls ! 
 
 And if indeed there be 
 An all-pervading Spirit upon whom 
 Our dark foundations rest, could He design 
 That this magnificent effect of power, 
 The earth we tread, the sky that we behold 
 By day, and all the pomp which night reveals; 
 That these — and that superior mystery 
 Our vital frame, so fearfully devised. 
 And the dread soul within it — should exist 
 Only to be examined, ponder'd, searched. 
 Probed, vex'd, and criticised ? — Accuse me not 
 Of arrogance, unknown Wanderer as I am. 
 If, having walked with Nature threescore years. 
 And offer'd, far as frailty would allow, 
 My heart a daily sacrifice to Truth, 
 I now affirm of Nature and of Truth, 
 Whom I have served, that their Divinity 
 Eevolts, offended at the ways of men 
 Sway'd by such motives, to such ends employ'd ; 
 Philosophers, who, though the human soul 
 Be of a thousand faculties composed. 
 And twice ten thousand interests, do yet prize 
 This soul, and the transcendent universe, 
 No more than as a mirror that reflects 
 To proud Self-love her own intelligence ; 
 That one, poor, finite object, in th' abyss 
 Of infinite Being, twinkling restlessly ! 
 
 Nor higher place can be assigned to him 
 And his compeers, — the laughing Sage of France^ 
 Crown'd was he, if my memory do not err. 
 With laurel planted upon hoary hairs, 
 In sign of conquest by his wit achieved 
 And benefits his wisdom had conferr'd ; 
 His tottering body was with wreaths of flowers 
 Opprest, far less becoming ornaments 
 Than Spring oft twines about a mouldering tree ; 
 Yet so it pleased a fond, a vain old Man, 
 And a most frivolous people.® Him I mean 
 
 7 The allusion is to Voltaire, who is said to have declared, " I am tired of hearing 
 it reported that tn-elve men -were sufficient to found Christianity : I will show the 
 woi'ld that one is sufficient to destroy it." And this prince of persi'fleurs fancied that 
 he Avas going to scoff, and flout, and laugh Christianity out of the world, and thus 
 deliver the liuinan mind from " the tyranny of superstition " ! 
 
 8 This was in March, 1778, Voltaire being then eighty-four years old. Having 
 groAAHi rather weary of his retirement at Ferney, the hyperbolical old fop made a 
 visit to Paris, and was there almost suffocated with hyperbolical ovations. I quote 
 
390 WORDSWORTH. 
 
 Who penn'd, to ridicule confiding faith, 
 
 This sorry Legend ; which hy chance we found 
 
 Piled in a nook, through malice, as might seem, 
 
 Among more innocent ruhbish." — Speaking thus. 
 
 With a brief notice when and how and where 
 
 We had espied the book, he drew it forth ; 
 
 And courteously, as if the act removed 
 
 At once all traces from the good Man's heart 
 
 Of unbenign aversion or contempt. 
 
 Restored it to its owner. '- Gentle Friend," 
 
 Herewith he grasp'd the Solitary's hand, 
 
 " You have known lights and guides better than these. 
 
 Ah ! let not aught amiss within dispose 
 
 A noble mind to practise on herself. 
 
 And tempt opinion to support the wrongs 
 
 Of passion : whatsoe'er be felt or feai*'d. 
 
 From higher judgment-seats make no appeal 
 
 To lower : can you question that the soul 
 
 Inherits an allegiance, not by choice 
 
 To be cast off, upon an oath proposed 
 
 By each new upstart notion ? In the ports 
 
 Of levity no refuge can be found, 
 
 No shelter, for a spirit in distress. 
 
 He, who by wilful disesteem of life 
 
 And proud insensibility to hope, 
 
 Affronts the eye of Solitude, shall learn 
 
 TJiat her mild nature can be terrible ; 
 
 That neither she nor Silence lack the power 
 
 To avenge their own insulted majesty. 
 
 blest seclusion ! when the mind admits 
 The law of duty; and can therefore move 
 Through each vicissitude of loss and gain, 
 Link'd in entire complacence with her choice ; 
 When youth's presumptuousness is mellow'd down 
 And manliood's vain anxiety dismiss'd; 
 When wisdom shows her seasonable fruit. 
 Upon the boughs of sheltering leisure hung 
 In sober plenty; when the spirit stoops 
 To drink with gratitude the crystal stream 
 
 from Carlyle's essay on Voltaire : " To our view, that final visit to Paris has a strange 
 half-frivolous, half-'fateful aspect : there is, as it were, a sort of dramatic justice m 
 this catastrophe, that he, who hatl all liit, life hungered and thirsted after public fa- 
 vour, should at length die by excess of it; should find the door of his Heaven-on-earth 
 unexpectedly throwni wide open, and enter there, only to l)e, as he himself said, 
 •smothered under roses.' Had Paris any suitable theogony or theology, as Rome 
 and Athens had, this might almost be reclioned, as those ancients accounted of death 
 by lightning, a sacred death, a death from tlie gods, — from their many-headed god, 
 Popularity."— Voltaire died on the 30th of May following. 
 
THE EXCURSIOlf. 391 
 
 Of uiireproved enjoyment ; and is pleased 
 
 To muse, and be saluted by the air 
 
 Of meek repentance, wafting wall-flower scents 
 
 From out the crumbling ruins of fallen pride 
 
 And chambers of transgression, now forlorn. 
 
 calm contented days and peaceful nights! 
 
 Who, when such good can be obtain'd, would strive 
 
 To reconcile his manhood to a couch. 
 
 Soft, as may seem, but, under that disguise, 
 
 Stuff'd with the thorny substance of the past 
 
 For fix'd annoyance ; and full oft beset 
 
 \Yith floating dreams, black and disconsolate. 
 
 The vapouiy phantoms of futurity ? 
 
 Within the soul a faculty abides, 
 " That with interpositions, which would hide 
 And darken, so can deal that they become 
 Contingencies of pomp, and seiTe to exalt 
 Her native brightness. As the ample Moon, 
 In the deep stillness of a summer even 
 Rising behind a thick and lofty grove. 
 Burns, like an unconsuming fire of light. 
 In the green trees ; and, kindling on all sides 
 Their leafy umbrage, turns the dusky veil 
 Into a substance glorious as her own. 
 Yea, with her own incorporated, by power 
 Capacious and serene. Like power abides 
 In man's celestial spirit ; virtue thus 
 Sets forth and magnifies herself ; thus feeds 
 A calm, a beautiful, and silent fire. 
 From the encumbrances of mortal life. 
 From error, disappointment, — nay, from guilt; 
 And sometimes, so relenting justice wills, 
 From palpable oppressions of despair." 
 
 The Solitary by these words was touch'd 
 With manifest emotion, and exclaim'd : 
 *' But how begin ? and whence ? — ' The Mind is free, — 
 Resolve,' the haughty Moralist would say, 
 ' This single act is all that we demand.' 
 Alas ! such wisdom bids a creature fly 
 Whose very sorrow is, that time hath shorn 
 His natural wings ! — To friendship let him turn 
 For succour ; but perhaps he sits alone 
 On stormy waters, toss'd in a little boat 
 That holds but him, and can contain no more ! 
 Religion tells of amity sublime 
 Which no condition can preclude ; of One 
 
392 WORDSWORTH. 
 
 Who sees iill suffering, comprehends all wants, 
 
 All weakness fathoms, can supply all needs : 
 
 But is that bounty absolute ? His gifts. 
 
 Are they not, still, in some degree, rewards 
 
 For acts of service ? Can His love extend 
 
 To hearts that own not Him ? Will showers of grace, 
 
 When in the sky no promise may be seen, 
 
 Fall to refresh a parch'd and withered land ? 
 
 Or shall the groaning Spirit cast her load 
 
 At the Redeemer's feet ? " 
 
 In rueful tone, 
 With some impatience in his mien, he spake : 
 Back to my mind rush'd all that had been urged. 
 To calm the Sufierer when his story closed ; 
 I look'd for counsel as unbending now ; 
 But a discriminating sympathy 
 Stoop'd to this apt re^Dly : 
 
 " As men from men 
 Do, in the constitution of their souls, 
 Differ, by mystery not to be explained ; 
 And as we fall by various ways, and sink 
 One deeper than another, self-condemn'd, 
 Through manifold degrees of guilt and shame ; 
 So manifold and various are the ways 
 Of restoration, fashion'd to the steps 
 Of all infirmity, and tending all 
 To the same point, attainable by all, — 
 Peace in ourselves, and union with our God. 
 For you, assuredly, a hopeful road 
 Lies open : we have heard from you a voice 
 At every moment soften'd in its course 
 By tenderness of heart ; have seen your eye. 
 Even like an altar lit by fire from Heaven, 
 Kindle before us. Your discourse this day. 
 That, like the fabled Lethe, wish'd to flow 
 In creeping sadness, through oblivious shades 
 Of death and night, has caught at every turn 
 The colours of the Sun. Access for you 
 Is yet preserved to principles of truth. 
 Which the imaginative Will upholds 
 In seats of wisdom, not to be approach'd 
 By the inferior Faculty that moulds. 
 With her minute and speculative pains. 
 Opinion, ever changing ! 
 
 I have seen 
 A curious child, who dwelt upon a tract 
 
THE EXCURSION. 393 
 
 Of inland ground, applying to his ear 
 
 The convolutions of a smooth-lipp'd shell ; 
 
 To which, in silence hush'd, his very soul 
 
 Listen'd intensely ; and his countenance soon 
 
 Brighten'd with joy ; for from within were heard 
 
 Murmurings, whereby the monitor express'd 
 
 Mysterious union with its native sea. 
 
 Even such a shell the Universe itself 
 
 Is to the ear of Faith ; and there are times, 
 
 I doubt not, when to you it doth impart 
 
 Authentic tidings of invisible things ; 
 
 Of ebb and flow, and ever-during power ; 
 
 And central peace, subsisting at the heart 
 
 Of endless agitation. Here you stand. 
 
 Adore, and worship, when you know it not; 
 
 Pious beyond th' intention of your thought ; 
 
 Devout above the meaning of your wall. — 
 
 Yes, you have felt, and may not cease to feel. 
 
 Th' estate of man would be indeed forlorn 
 
 If false conclusions of the reasoning power 
 
 Made the eye blind, and closed the passages 
 
 Through which the ear converses with the heart. 
 
 Has not the soul, the being of your life, 
 
 Eeceived a shock of awful consciousness. 
 
 In some calm season, when these lofty rocks 
 
 At night's approach bring down th' unclouded sky. 
 
 To rest upon their circumambient walls ? 
 
 A temple framing of dimensions vast. 
 
 And yet not too enormous for the sound 
 
 Of human anthems, — choral song, or burst 
 
 Sublime of instrumental harmony, 
 
 To glorify th' Eternal ! What if these 
 
 Did never break the stillness that prevails 
 
 Here, — if the solemn nightingale be mute, 
 
 And the soft woodlark here did never chant 
 
 Her vespers, — Nature fails not to provide 
 
 Impulse and utterance. The whispering air 
 
 Sends inspiration from the shadowy heights. 
 
 And blind recesses of the cavern'd rocks ; 
 
 The little rills, and waters numberless. 
 
 Inaudible by daylight, blend their notes 
 
 With the loud streams : and often, at the hour 
 
 When issue forth the first pale stars, is heard. 
 
 Within the circuit of this fabric huge, 
 
 One voice, — the solitary raven, flying 
 
 Athwart the concave of the dark blue dome, 
 
394 WORDSWORTH. 
 
 Unseen, perchance above all power of sight, — 
 
 An iron knell ! with echoes from afar 
 
 Faint — and still fainter — as the cry, with which 
 
 The wanderer accompanies her flight 
 
 Through the calm region, fades upon the ear, 
 
 Diminishing by distance till it seem'd 
 
 To expire ; yet from th' abyss is caught again, 
 
 And yet again recover'd ! 
 
 But, descending 
 From these imaginative heights, that yield 
 Far-stretching views into eternity. 
 Acknowledge that to Nature's humbler power 
 Your cherish'd sullenness is forced to bend 
 Even here, where her amenities are sown 
 AVith sparing hand. Then trust yourself abroad 
 To range her blooming bowers and spacious fields. 
 Where on the labours of the happy throng 
 She smiles, including in her wide embrace 
 City, and town, and tower, — and sea with ships 
 Sprinkled ; — be our Companion while we track 
 Her rivers populous with gliding life ; 
 While, free as air, o'er printless sands we march, 
 Or pierce the gloom of her majestic woods ; 
 Eoaming, or resting under grateful shade 
 In peace and meditative cheerfulness ; 
 Where living things, and things inanimate, 
 Do speak, at Heaven's command, to eye and ear. 
 And speak to social reason's inner sense. 
 With inarticulate language. 
 
 For, the Man — 
 Who, in this spirit, communes ^ with the Forms 
 Of Nature, who with understanding heart 
 Both knows and loves such objects as excite 
 No morbid passions, no disquietude, 
 No vengeance, and no hatred — needs must feel 
 The joy of that pure principle of love 
 So deeply, that, unsatisfied with aught 
 Less pure and exquisite, he cannot choose 
 But seek for objects of a kindred love 
 In fellow-natures, and a kindred joy. 
 Accordingly he by degrees perceives 
 His feelings of aversion soften'd down; 
 A holy tenderness pervades his frame. 
 His sanity of reason not impair'd, 
 
 9 Wordsworth, Milton, and, I think, the English poets generally, lay the accent, 
 as here, on the flrat syllable of commune. 
 
THE EXCURSION. 395 
 
 Say rather, all his thoughts now flowing clear, 
 From a clear fountain flowing, he looks round 
 And seeks for good ; and finds the good he seeks : 
 Until abhorrence and contempt are things 
 He only knows by name; and, if he hear. 
 From other mouths, the language which they speak, 
 He is compassionate ; and has no thought, 
 No feeling, which can overcome his love. 
 
 And further : by contemplating these Forms 
 In the relations which they bear to man, 
 He shall discern how, through the various means 
 Which silently they yield, are multiplied 
 The spiritual presences of absent things. 
 Trust me that, for th' instructed, time will come 
 -When they shall meet no object but may teach 
 Some acceptable lesson to their minds 
 Of human suffering, or of human joy. 
 So shall they learn, while all things speak of man, 
 Their duties from all forms ; and general laws 
 And local accidents shall tend alike 
 To rouse, to urge ; and, with the will, confer 
 Th' ability to spread the blessings wide 
 Of true philanthropy. The light of love 
 Not failing, perseverance from their steps 
 Departing not, for them shall be confirm'd 
 The glorious habit by which sense is made 
 Subservient still to moral purposes, 
 Auxiliar to divine. That change shall clothe 
 The naked spirit, ceasing to deplore 
 The burthen of existence. Science then 
 Shall be a precious visitant ; and then. 
 And only then, be worthy of her name : 
 For then her heart shall kindle ; her dull eye, 
 Dull and inanimate, no more shall hang 
 Chain'd to its object in brute slavery : 
 But, taught with patient interest to watch 
 The processes of things, and serve the cause 
 Of order and distinctness, not for this 
 Shall it forget that its most noble use. 
 Its most illustrious province, must be found 
 In furnishing clear guidance, a support 
 Not treacherous, to the mind's excursive power. — 
 So build we up the Being that we are ; 
 Thus deeply drinking-in the soul of things. 
 We shall be wise perforce ; and, while inspired 
 By choice, and conscious that the Will is free, 
 
396 WORDSWOKTH. 
 
 Shall move unswerving, even as if impell'd 
 By strict necessity, along the path 
 Of order and of good. Whate'er we see, 
 Or feel, shall tend to quicken and refine ; 
 Shall fix, in calmer seats of moral strength. 
 Earthly desires ; and raise, to loftier heights 
 Of divine love, our intellectual soul." 
 
 Here closed the Sage that eloquent harangue, 
 Pour'd forth with fervour in continuous stream. 
 Such as, remote, ^mid savage wilderness, 
 An Indian Chief discharges from his hreast 
 Into the hearing of assembled tribes. 
 In open circle seated round, and hush'd 
 As the unbreathing air, when not a leaf 
 Stirs in the mighty woods. — So did he speak : 
 The words he utter'd shall not pass away 
 Dispersed, like music that the wind takes up 
 By snatches, and lets fall, to be forgotten ; 
 !N^o, — they sank into me, the bounteous gift 
 Of one whom time and Nature had made wise, 
 Gracing his doctrine with authority 
 Which hostile spirits silently allow ; 
 Of one accustom'd to desires that feed 
 On fruitage gather'd from the tree of life ; 
 To hopes on knowledge and experience built ; 
 Of one in whom persuasion and belief 
 Had ripen'd into faith, and faith become 
 A passionate intuition ; whence the Soul, 
 Though bound to Earth by ties of pity and love, 
 Erom all injurious servitude was free. 
 
 The Sun, before his place of rest were reach'd, 
 Had yet to travel far, but unto us. 
 To us who stood low in that hollow dell. 
 He had become invisible, — a pomp 
 Leaving behind of yellow radiance spread 
 Over the mountain sides, in contrast bold 
 With ample shadows, seemingly, no less 
 Than those resplendent lights, his rich bequest ; 
 A dispensation of his evening power. — 
 Adown the path that from the glen had led 
 The funeral train, the Shepherd and his Mate 
 Were seen descending : forth to greet them ran 
 Our little Page : the rustic pair approach ; 
 And in the Matron's countenance may be read 
 Plain indication that the words, which told 
 How that neglected Pensioner was sent 
 
THE EXCURSIOIT. 397 
 
 Before his time into a quiet grave, 
 
 Had done to her humanity no wrong: 
 
 But we are kindly welcomed, — promptly served 
 
 With ostentatious zeal. — Along the floor 
 
 Of the small Cottage in the lonely Dell 
 
 A grateful couch was spread for our repose ; 
 
 Where, in the guise of mountaineers, we lay, 
 
 Stretch'd upon fragrant heath, and lull'd by sound 
 
 Of far-off torrents charming the still night, 
 
 And, to tired limbs and over-busy thoughts. 
 
 Inviting sleep and soft forgetfulness. 
 
 BOOK FIFTH. 
 
 THE PASTOR. 
 
 " Farewell, deep Valley, with thy one rude House, 
 
 And its small lot of life-supporting fields, 
 
 And guardian rocks I Farewell, attractive seat ! 
 
 To the still influx of the morning light 
 
 Open, and day's pure cheerfulness, but veil'd 
 
 From human observation, as if yet 
 
 Primeval forests wrapped thee round with dark 
 
 Impenetrable shade ; once more farewell. 
 
 Majestic circuit, beautiful abyss. 
 
 By Nature destined from the birth of things 
 
 For quietness profound ! " 
 
 Upon the side 
 Of that brown ridge, sole outlet of the vale 
 Which foot of boldest stranger would attempt. 
 Lingering behind my comrades, thus I breathed 
 A parting tribute to a spot that seem'd 
 Like the fix'd centre of a troubled world. 
 Again I halted with reverted eyes ; 
 The chain that would not slacken was at length 
 Snapt ; and, pursuing leisurely my way. 
 How vain, thought I, is it by change of place 
 To seek that comfort which the mind denies; 
 Yet trial and temptation oft are shunn'd 
 Wisely ; and by such tenure do we hold. 
 Frail life's possessions, that even they whose fate 
 Yields no peculiar reason of complaint 
 Might, by the promise that is here, be won 
 To steal from active duties, and embrace 
 Obscurity and undisturb'd repose. — 
 
398 WORDSWORTH. 
 
 Knowledge, metliinks, in these disorder'd times 
 
 Should be allow'd a privilege to have 
 
 Her anchorites, like piety of old ; 
 
 Men who, from faction sacred, and unstain'd 
 
 By war, might, if so minded, turn aside 
 
 Uncensured, and subsist, a scatter'd few 
 
 Living to God and Nature, and content 
 
 With that communion. Consecrated be 
 
 The spots where such abide ! But happier still 
 
 The Man whom, furthermore, a hope attends 
 
 That meditation and research may guide 
 
 His privacy to principles and powers 
 
 Discover'd or invented; ^ or set forth, 
 
 Through his acquaintance with the ways of truth, 
 
 In lucid order ; so that, when his course 
 
 Is run, some faithful eulogist may say, 
 
 He sought not praise, and praise did overlook 
 
 His unobtrusive merit ; but his life, 
 
 Sweet to himself, was exercised in good 
 
 That shall survive his name and memory. 
 
 Acknowledgments of gratitude sincere 
 Accompanied these musings; fervent thanks 
 For my own peaceful lot and happy choice ; 
 A choice that from the passions of the world 
 Withdrew, and fix'd me in a still retreat ; 
 Sheltered, but not to social duties lost ; 
 Secluded, but not buried ; and with song 
 Cheering my days, and with industrious thought; 
 With th* ever- welcome company of books ; 
 With virtuous friendship's soul-sustaining aid, 
 And with the blessings of domestic love. 
 
 Thus occupied in mind I paced along. 
 Following the rugged road by sledge or wheel 
 Worn in the moorland, till I overtook 
 My two Associates, in the morning sunshine 
 Halting together on a rocky knoll. 
 Whence the bare road descended rapidly 
 To the green meadows of another vale. 
 
 Here did our pensive Host put forth his hand 
 In sign of farewell. " Nay," the old Man said, 
 " The fragrant air its coolness still retains ; 
 The herds and flocks are yet abroad to crop 
 The dewy grass ; you cannot leave us now, 
 We must not part at this inviting hour." 
 
 1 Galileo, born February 15, 1564, the same year Mith Shakespeare, invented a per- 
 spective glass, with Avhich he soon after discovered the satellites of Jupiter. 
 
THE EXCURSIOl?^. 399 
 
 He yielded, though reluctant ; for his mind 
 Instinctively disposed him to retire 
 To his own covert ; as a billow, heaved 
 Upon the beach, rolls back into the sea. — 
 So we descend; and winding round a rock 
 Attain a point that show'd the valley, stretch'd 
 In length before us ; and, not distant far, 
 Upon a rising ground a grey church-tower. 
 Whose battlements were screened by tufted trees. 
 And towards a crystal Mere, that lay beyond 
 Among steep hills and woods embosom' d, flow'd 
 A copious stream with boldly-winding course ; 
 Here traceable, there hidden, — there again 
 To sight restored, and glittering in the sun. 
 ■ On the stream's bank, and everywhere appeared 
 Fair dwellings, single, or in social knots ; 
 Some scatter'd o'er the level, others perch'd 
 On the hill sides, a cheerful quiet scene, 
 Now in its morning purity array'd. 
 
 " As 'mid some happy valley of the Alps," 
 Said I, '^ once happy, ere tyrannic power, 
 Wantonly breaking in upon the Swiss, 
 Destroy'd their unoffending commonwealth, 
 A popular equality reigns here. 
 Save for yon stately House beneath whose roof 
 A rural lord might dwell." — "No feudal pomp 
 Or power," replied the Wanderer, " to that House 
 Belongs, but there in his allotted Home 
 Abides, from year to year, a genuine Priest, 
 The shepherd of his flock ; or, as a king 
 Is styled, when most affectionately praised. 
 The father of his people. Such is he ; 
 And rich and poor, and young and old rejoice 
 Under his spiritual sway. He hath vouchsafed 
 To me some portion of a kind regard ; 
 And something also of his inner mind 
 Hath he imparted, — but I speak of him 
 As he is known to all. 
 
 The calm delights 
 Of unambitious piety he chose. 
 And learning's solid dignity ; though born 
 Of knightly race, nor wanting powerful friends. 
 Hither, in prime of manhood, he withdrew 
 From academic bowers. He loved the spot, — 
 Who does not love his native soil ? — he prized 
 The ancient rural character, composed 
 
400 WORDSWORTH. 
 
 Of simple manners, feelings unsupprest 
 
 And undisguised, and strong and serious thought; 
 
 A character reflected in himself, 
 
 With such embellishment as well beseems 
 
 His rank and sacred function. This deep vale 
 
 Winds far in reaches hidden from our sight, 
 
 And one a turreted manorial hall 
 
 Adorns, in which the good Man's ancestors 
 
 Have dwelt through ages, — Patrons of this Cure. 
 
 To them, and to his own judicious pains, 
 
 The Vicar's dwelling, and the whole domain, 
 
 Owes that presiding aspect which might well 
 
 Attract your notice ; statelier than could else 
 
 Have been bestow'd, through course of common chance, 
 
 On an unwealthy mountain Benefice." 
 
 This said, oft pausing, we pursued our w^ay ; 
 Nor reach'd the village-churchyard till the Sun, 
 Travelling at steadier pace than ours, had risen 
 Above the summits of the highest hills. 
 And round our path darted oppressive beams. 
 
 As chanced, the portals of the sacred Pile 
 Stood open ; and we enter'd. On my frame, 
 At such transition from the fervid air, 
 A grateful coolness fell, that seem'd to strike 
 The heart in concert with that temperate awe 
 And natural reverence which the place inspired.^ 
 Not raised in nice proportions was the pile, 
 But large and massy ; for duration built ; 
 With pillars crowded, and the roof upheld 
 By naked rafters intricately cross'd 
 Like leafless underboughs in some thick wood, 
 All wither'd by the depth of shade above. 
 Admonitory texts inscribed the walls. 
 Each in its ornamental scroll enclosed ; 
 Each also crown'd with winged heads, — a pair 
 Of rudely-painted Cherubim. The floor 
 Of nave and aisle, in unpretending guise, 
 AYas occupied by oaken benches ranged 
 In seemly rows ; the chancel only show'd 
 Some vain distinctions, marks of earthly state 
 By immemorial privilege allow'd ; 
 
 2 One feeling I was particularly struck with, as what I recognised so very lately 
 at Harrow church on entering it after a hot and secular day's pleasure, — the instan- 
 tancous coolness, and calming, and almost transforming properties of the country 
 church just entered; a certain fragrance which it has, either from its holiness, or be- 
 in'.r kept shut all the week, or the air that is left in it being pure country. —Chakles 
 Lamu. 
 
THE EXCUESIOK. 401 
 
 Though with th' Encincture's special sanctity 
 But ill according. An heraldic shield. 
 Varying its tincture with the changeful light, 
 Imbued the altar-window ; fix'd aloft 
 A faded hatchment hung, and one by time 
 Yet undiscolour'd. A capacious pew 
 Of sculptured oak stood here, with drapery lined ; 
 And marble monuments were here displayed 
 Thronging the walls ; and on the floor beneath 
 Sepulchral stones appear' d, with emblems graven 
 And foot-worn epitaphs, and some with small 
 And shining effigies of brass inlaid.'' 
 
 The tribute by these various records claim'd, 
 Duly we paid, each after each, and read 
 ■ The ordinary chronicle of birth, 
 Office, alliance, and promotion, — all 
 Ending in dust ; of upright magistrates. 
 Grave doctors strenuous for the Mother-Church, 
 And uncorrupted senators, alike 
 To king and people true. A brazen plate, 
 Not easily decipher'd, told of one 
 Whose course of earthly honour was begun 
 In quality of page among the train 
 Of the eighth Henry, when he cross'd the seas 
 His royal state to show, and prove his strength 
 In tournament, upon the fields of France. 
 Another tablet register'd the death, 
 And praised the gallant bearing, of a Knight 
 Tried in the sea-fights of the second Charles. 
 Near this brave Knight his Father lay entomb'd ; 
 And, to the silent language giving voice, 
 I read, — how in his manhood's earlier day 
 He, 'mid th' afflictions of intestine war 
 And rightful government subverted, found 
 One only solace, — that he had espoused 
 A wtuous Lady tenderly beloved 
 For her benign perfections ; and yet more 
 Endear'd to him for this, that, in her state 
 Of wedlock richly crown'd with Heaven's regard. 
 She with a numerous issue fill'd his house. 
 Who throve, like plants, uninjured by the storm 
 
 3 The church is that of Grasmere, The mterior of it has been improved lately, — 
 made warmer by underdrawing the roof, and raising the floor; but the rude and an- 
 bique majesty of its former appearance has been impaired by painting the rafters; 
 and the oak benches, with a simple rail at the back dividing them from each other, 
 have given way to seats that have more of the appearance of ipews.— Author's Notest 
 
402 WOEDSWORTH. 
 
 That laid tlieir country waste. No need to speak 
 Of less particular notices assigned 
 To Youth or Maiden gone before their time, 
 And Matrons and unwedded Sisters old ; 
 Whose charity and goodness Avere rehearsed 
 In modest panegyric. 
 
 " These dim lines, 
 What would they tell ? " said I, — but, from the task 
 Of puzzling out that faded narrative, 
 With whisper soft my venerable Friend 
 Caird me ; and, looking down the darksome aisle, 
 I saw the Tenant of the lonely vale 
 Standing apart ; with curved arm reclined 
 On the baptismal font ; his pallid face 
 Upturn'd, as if his mind were rapt, or lost 
 In some abstraction; — gracefully he stood, 
 The semblance bearing of a sculptured form 
 That leans upon a monumental urn 
 In peace, from morn to night, from year to year. 
 
 Him from that posture did the Sexton rouse ; 
 Who enterd, humming carelessly a tune, 
 Continuation haply of the notes 
 That had beguiled the work from which he came, 
 With spade and mattock o'er his shoulder hung; 
 To be deposited, for future need, 
 In their appointed place. The pale Recluse 
 Withdrew ; and straight we f ollow'd, — to a spot 
 Where sun and shade were intermixed ; for there 
 A broad oak, stretching forth its leafy arms 
 From an adjoining pasture, overhung 
 Small space of that green churchyard with a light 
 And pleasant awning. On the moss-grown wall 
 My ancient Friend and I together took 
 Our seats ; and thus the Solitary spake, 
 Standing before us : 
 
 " Did you note the mien 
 Of that self-solaced, easy-hearted churl, 
 Death's hireling, who scoops out his neighbour's grave, 
 Or wraps an old acquaintance up. in clay. 
 All unconcern'd as he would bind a sheaf, 
 Or plant a tree. And did you hear his voice? 
 I was abruptly summon'd by the sound 
 From some affecting images and thoughts. 
 Which then were silent ; but crave utterance now. 
 
 Much/' he continued, with dejected look, 
 " Much, yesterday, was said in glowing phrase 
 
THE EXCURSION. 403 
 
 Of our sublime dependencies, and hopes 
 
 For future states of being ; and the wings 
 
 Of speculatiou, joyfully outspread, 
 
 Hover'd above our destiny on Earth : 
 
 But stoop, and place the prospect of the soul 
 
 In sober contrast with reality, 
 
 And man's substantial life. If this mute earth 
 
 Of what it holds could speak, and every grave 
 
 Were as a volume, shut, yet capable 
 
 Of yielding its contents to eye and ear, 
 
 We should recoil, stricken with sorrow and shame. 
 
 To see disclosed, by such dread proof, how ill 
 
 That which is done accords with what is known 
 
 To reason, and by conscience is enjoin'd; 
 
 How idly, how perversely, life's whole course. 
 
 To this conclusion, deviates from the line. 
 
 Or of the end stops short, proposed to all 
 
 At her aspiring outset. 
 
 Mark the babe 
 Not long accustomed to this breathing world ; 
 One that hath barely learn'd to shape a smile, 
 Though yet irrational of soul ; to grasp 
 With tiny finger, — to let fall a tear ; 
 And, as the heavy cloud of sleep dissolves, 
 To stretch his limbs, bemocking, as might seem. 
 The outward functions of intelligent man; 
 A grave proficient in amusive feats 
 Of puppetry, that from the lap declare 
 His expectations, and announce his claims 
 To tbat inheritance which millions rue 
 That they were ever born to ! In due time 
 A day of solemn ceremonial comes ; 
 When they who for this Minor hold in trust 
 Rights that transcend the loftiest heritage 
 Of mere humanity present their Charge, 
 For this occasion daintily adorn'd. 
 At the baptismal font. And when the pure 
 And consecrating element hath cleansed 
 Th' original stain, the child is there received 
 Into the second ark, Christ's Church, with trust 
 That he, from wrath redeem'd, therein shall float 
 Over the billows of this troublesome world 
 To the fair land of everlasting life. 
 Corrupt affections, covetous desires. 
 Are all renounced ; high as the thought of man 
 Can carry virtue, virtue is prof ess'd ; 
 
404 WOKDSWOETH. 
 
 A dedication made, a promise given 
 For due provision to control and guide. 
 And unremitting 2)rogress to ensure 
 In holiness and truth.'^ 
 
 " You cannot blame," 
 Here interposing fervently I said, 
 "Kites which attest that Man by nature lies 
 Bedded for good or evil in a gulf 
 Fearfully low ; nor will your judgment scorn 
 Those services whereby attempt is made 
 To lift the creature toward that eminence 
 On which, now fallen, erewhile in majesty 
 He stood ; or, if not so, whose top serene 
 At least he feels ^tis given him to descry ; 
 Not without aspirations evermore 
 Returning, and injunctions from within 
 Doubt to cast off and weariness ; in trust 
 That what the Soul perceives, if glory lost. 
 May be, through pains and persevering hope, 
 Recovered ; or, if hitherto unknown. 
 Lies within reach, and one day shall be gain'd," 
 
 "I blame them not," he calmly answer d, — " no; 
 The outward ritual and established forms 
 With which communities of men invest 
 These inward feelings, and th' aspiring vows 
 To which the lips give public utterance, 
 Are both a natural process ; and by me 
 Shall pass uncensured; though the issue prove. 
 Bringing from age to age its own reproach. 
 Incongruous, impotent, and blank. — But, ! 
 If to be weak is to be wretched, — miserable. 
 As the lost Angel by a human voice 
 Hath mournfully pronounced,* then, in my mind. 
 Far better not to move at all than move 
 By impulse sent from such illusive power, — 
 That finds and cannot fasten down ; that grasps 
 And is rejoiced, and loses while it grasps ; 
 That tempts, emboldens, — for a time sustains. 
 And then betrays ; accuses, and inflicts 
 Remorseless punishment ; and so retreads 
 Th' inevitable circle : better far 
 Than this, to graze the herb in thoughtless peace. 
 By foresight or remembrance, undisturb'd ! 
 
 4 The allusion is to Satan's reply to Beelzebub, in Paradise LosU i. 157: 
 " Fall*n cherub, to be weak is miserable, 
 Doing or suffering; " &c. 
 
THE EXCUESION. 405 
 
 Philosophy ! and thon more vaunted name, 
 Religion ! with thy statelier retinue, 
 Faith, Hope, and Charity, — from the visible world 
 Choose for your emblems whatsoe'er ye find 
 Of safest guidance or of firmest trust, — 
 The torch, the star, the anchor ; nor except 
 The cross itself, at whose unconscious feet 
 The generations of mankind have knelt 
 Ruefully seized, and shedding bitter tears, 
 And through that conflict seeking rest; — of you. 
 High-titled Powers, am I constrain'd to ask. 
 Here standing, with th' unvoyageble sky 
 In faint reflection of infinitude 
 Stretch'd overhead, and at my pensive feet 
 A subterraneous magazine of bones, 
 In whose dark vaults my own soon shall be laid, 
 Where are your triumphs ? your dominion where ? 
 And in what age admitted and confirm'd ? — 
 Not for a happy land do I inquire, 
 Island or grove, that hides a blessed few 
 Who, with obedience willing and sincere, 
 To your serene authorities conform ; 
 But whom, I ask, of individual Souls, 
 Have ye withdrawn from passion's crooked ways, 
 Inspired, and thoroughly fortified ? — If the heart 
 Could be inspected to its inmost folds 
 By sight undazzled with the glare of praise. 
 Who shall be named, — in the resplendent line 
 Of sages, martyrs, confessors, — the man 
 Whom the best might of faith, wherever fix'd, 
 For one day's little compass has preserved 
 From painful and discreditable shocks 
 Of contradiction, from some vague desire 
 Culpably cherish'd, or corrupt relapse 
 To some unsanction'd fear ? " 
 
 " If this be so. 
 And Man," said I, " be in his noblest shape 
 Thus pitiably infirm ; then He who made. 
 And who shall judge the creature, will forgive. 
 Yet, in its general tenour, your complaint 
 Is all too true ; and surely not misplaced : 
 For, from this pregnant spot of ground, such thoughts 
 Rise to the notice of a serious mind 
 By natural exhalation. With the dead 
 In their repose, the living in their mirth. 
 Who can reflect, unmoved, upon the round 
 
406 WOEDSWORTH. 
 
 Of smooth and solemnized complacencies 
 
 By which, on Christian lands, from age to age 
 
 Profession mocks performance. Earth is sick. 
 
 And Heaven is weary, of the hollow words 
 
 Which States and Kingdoms utter when they talk 
 
 Of truth and justice. Turn to private life 
 
 And social neighbourhood; look we to ourselves: 
 
 A light of duty shines on every day 
 
 For all ; and yet how few are warm'd or cheer'd ! 
 
 How few who mingle with their fellow-men, 
 
 And still remain self-govern'd, and apart, 
 
 Like this our honour'd Friend ; and thence acquire 
 
 Eight to expect his vigorous decline, 
 
 That promises to the end a blest old age ! " 
 
 " Yet," with a smile of triumph thus exclaimed 
 The Solitary, " in the life of man. 
 If to the poetry of common speech 
 Faith may be given, we see as in a glass 
 A true reflection of the circling year, 
 With all its seasons. Grant that Spring is there. 
 In spite of many a rough untoward blast. 
 Hopeful and promising with buds and flowers; 
 Yet where is glowing Summer's long rich day. 
 That ought to follow faithfully expressed ? 
 And mellow Autumn, charged with bounteous fruit. 
 Where is she imaged ? in what favoured clime 
 Her lavish pomp and ripe magnificence ? 
 Yet, Avhile the better part is miss'd, the worse 
 In Man's autumnal season is set forth 
 With a resemblance not to be denied. 
 And that contents him ; bowers that hear no more 
 The voice of gladness, less and less supply 
 Of outward sunshine and internal warmth ; 
 And, with this change, sharp air and falling leaves. 
 Foretelling aged Winter's desolate sway. 
 
 How gay the habitations that bedeck 
 This fertile valley ! Not a house but seems 
 To give assurance of content within ; 
 Embosom'd hapjoiness and placid love ; 
 As if the sunshine of the day Avere met 
 With answering brightness in the hearts of all 
 Who walk this favour'd ground. But chance-regards. 
 And notice forced upon incurious ears ; 
 These, if these only, acting in despite 
 Of the encomiums by my Friend pronounced 
 On humble life, forbid the judging mind 
 
THE EXCURSION". 407 
 
 To trust the smiling aspect of this fair 
 
 And noiseless commonwealth. The simple race 
 
 Of mountaineers (by Nature's self removed 
 
 From foul temptations, and by constant care 
 
 Of a good shepherd tended as themselves 
 
 Do tend their flocks) partake Man's general lot 
 
 With little mitigation. They escape, 
 
 Perchance, the heavier woes of guilt; feel not 
 
 The tedium of fantastic idleness : 
 
 Yet life, as with the multitude, with them 
 
 Is fashion'd like an ill-constructed tale ; 
 
 That on the outset wastes its gay desires, 
 
 Its fair adventures, its enlivening hopes. 
 
 And pleasant interests, — for the sequel leaving 
 
 Old things repeated with diminish'd grace ; 
 
 And all the laboured novelties at best 
 
 Imperfect substitutes, whose use and power 
 
 Evince the want and weakness whence they spring." 
 
 While in this serious mood we held discourse. 
 The reverend Pastor toward the churchyard gate 
 Approach'd ; and, with a mild respectful air 
 Of native cordiality, our Friend 
 Advanced to greet him. With a gracious mien 
 Was he received, and mutual Joy prevail'd. 
 Awhile they stood in conference ; and I guess 
 That he, who now upon the mossy wall 
 Sate by my side, had vanish'd, if a wish 
 Could have transferr'd him to the flying clouds, 
 Or the least penetrable hiding-place 
 In his own valley's rocky guardianship. — 
 For me, I look'd upon the pair, well pleased : 
 Nature had framed them both, and both were mark'd 
 By circumstance, with intermixture fine 
 Of contrast and resemblance. To an oak 
 Hardy and grand, a weather-beaten oak. 
 Fresh in the strength and majesty of age, 
 One might be liken'd : flourishing appear'd. 
 Though somewhat past the fulness of his prime, 
 The other, — like a stately sycamore. 
 That spreads, in gentle pomp, its honey'd shade.® 
 
 5 I am gratified by the opportunity afforded me in The Excursion to portray the 
 laracter of a country clergyman of more than ordinary talents, born and bred in the 
 pper ranks of society, so as to partake of their refinements, and at the same time 
 rought by his pastoral oflice and his love of rural life into intimate connection with 
 le peasantry of his native district. To illustrate the relations -which, in my mind, 
 lis "Pastor" bore to the "Wanderer," and the resemblances between them, or 
 Jther the points of communitj' in their nature, I likened one to an oak, and the other 
 ) a sycamore; and, having here referred to this comparison, I need only add, I bad 
 
408 WORDSWORTH. 
 
 A general greeting was exchanged ; and soon 
 The Pastor learn'd that his approach had given 
 A welcome interruption to discourse 
 Grave, and in truth too often sad. — " Is Man 
 A child of hope ? Do generations press 
 On generations, without progress made? 
 Halts th' individual, ere his hairs be grey. 
 Perforce ? Are we a creature in whom good 
 Preponderates, or evil ? Doth the will 
 Acknowledge reason's law ? A living power 
 Is virtue, or no better than a name, 
 Fleeting as health or beauty, and unsound ? 
 So that the only substance which remains, 
 (For thus the tenour of complaint hath run,) 
 Among so many shadows, are the pains 
 And penalties of miserable life, 
 Doom'd to decay, and then expire in dust ! — 
 Our cogitations this way have been drawn. 
 These are the points," the Wanderer said, '^ on which 
 Our inquest turns. Accord, good Sir, the light 
 Of your experience, to dispel this gloom : 
 By your persuasive wisdom shall the heart 
 That frets, or languishes, be still'd and cheer d." 
 
 " Our nature," said the Priest, in mild reply, 
 " Angels may weigh and fathom : they perceive, 
 "With undistemper'd and unclouded spirit, 
 The object as it is ; but, for ourselves. 
 That speculative height ive may not reach. 
 The good and evil are our own ; and we 
 Are that which we would contemplate from far. 
 Knowledge, for us, is difficult to gain — 
 Is difficult to gain, and hard to keep — 
 As virtue's self ; like virtue is beset 
 With snares ; tried, tempted, subject to decay.^ 
 
 no one individual in my mind, wishing rather to embody this idea than to break in 
 upon the simplicity of it by traits of individual character, or of any peculiarity of 
 opinion. — Author's Notes, 1843. 
 
 6 A most important truth, which the believers in " salvation by knowledge " would 
 do well to heed. Half the mental work of life is in unlearning errors which our 
 " most frail affections " have led us to mistake for knowledge. On this subject the 
 author of Ecce Homo has an apt passage : " It is quite as hard to think rightly as it is 
 to act rightly, or even to feel rightly. And as all allow that an error is a less culpa- 
 ble thing than a crime or a vicious passion, it is monst>;-ous that it should be more 
 severely punished; it is monstrous that Christ, who Avas called the friend of publi- 
 cans and sinners, should be represented as the pitiless enemy of bewildered seekers 
 of truth. HoAV could men have been guilty of such an inconsistency ? By speaking 
 of what they do not iniderstand. Men, in general, do not understand or apjn'eciate 
 the difficulty of flnding truth. All men must act, and therefore all men learn in some 
 degree how difficult it is to act rightly. The consequence is, that all men can make 
 cx<5use for those who fail to act rightly. But all men are not compelled to make au: 
 independent search for truth; and those who voluntarily undertake to do so are al- 
 ways few." 
 
THE EXCUESION. 409 
 
 Love, admiration, fear, desire, and hate, 
 
 Blind were we without these; through these alone 
 
 Are capable to notice or discern 
 
 Or to record : we judge, but cannot be 
 
 Indifferent judges. 'Spite of proudest boast, 
 
 Reason, best reason, is to imperfect man 
 
 An effort only, and a noble aim ; 
 
 A crown, an attribute of sovereign power. 
 
 Still to be courted, — never to be won. — 
 
 Look forth, or each man dive into himself: 
 
 What sees he but a creature too perturb'd ; 
 
 That is transported to excess ; that yearns. 
 
 Regrets, or trembles, wrongly, or too much ; 
 
 Hopes rashly, in disgust as rash recoils ; 
 
 Battens on spleen, or moulders in despair? 
 
 Thus comprehension fails, and truth is miss'd ; 
 
 Thus darkness and delusion round our path 
 
 Spread, from disease, whose subtle injury lurks 
 
 Within the very faculty of sight. 
 
 Yet, for the general purposes of faith 
 In Providence, for solace and support. 
 We may not doubt that who can best subject 
 The will to reason's law, can strictliest live 
 And act in that obedience, he shall gain 
 The clearest apprehension of those truths 
 Which unassisted reason's utmost power 
 Is too infirm to reach. But, waiving this. 
 And our regards confining within bounds 
 Of less exalted consciousness, through which 
 The very multitude are free to range, 
 We safely may affirm that human life 
 Is either fair and tempting, a soft scene 
 Grateful to sight, refreshing to the soul, 
 Or a forbidden tract of cheerless view. 
 Even as the same is look'd at, or approach'd. 
 Thus, when in changeful April fields are white 
 With new-fall'n snow, if from the sullen north 
 Your walk conduct you hither, ere the Sun 
 Hath gain'd his noontide height, this churchyard, fiU'd 
 With mounds transversely lying side by side 
 From east to west, before you will appear 
 An unillumined, blank, and dreary plain. 
 With more than wintry cheerlessness and gloom 
 Saddening the heart. Go forward, and look back ; 
 Look, from the quarter whence the lord of light, 
 Of life, of love, and gladness doth dispense 
 
410 WORDSWORTH. 
 
 His beams ; which, unexcluded in their fall. 
 Upon the southern side of every grave 
 Have gently exercised a melting power ; 
 Then will a vernal prospect gi-eet your eye, 
 All fresh and beautiful, and green and bright. 
 Hopeful and cheerful : vanish'd is the pall 
 That overspread and chill'd the sacred turf, 
 Vanish'd or hidden ; and the whole domain. 
 To some, too lightly minded, might appear 
 A meadow carpet for the dancing hours. — 
 This contrast, not unsuitable to life. 
 Is to that other state more apposite. 
 Death and its twofold aspect ! wintry, one. 
 Cold, sullen, blank, from hope and joy shut out ; 
 The other, which the ray divine hath touch'd, 
 Eeplete with vivid promise, bright as Spring." 
 
 " We see, then, as we feel," the Wanderer thus 
 With a complacent animation spake, 
 " And in your judgment, Sir, the mind's repose 
 On evidence is not to be ensured 
 By act of naked reason. Moral truth 
 Is no mechanic structure, built by rule ; 
 And which, once built, retains a steadfast shape 
 And undisturb'd proportions ; but a thing 
 Subject, you deem, to vital accidents; 
 And, like the water-lily, lives and thrives, 
 AVhose root is fix'd in stable earth, whose head 
 Floats on the tossing waves. With joy sincere 
 I re-salute these sentiments confirm'd 
 By your authority. But how acquire 
 The inward principle that gives effect 
 To outward argument ; the passive will 
 Meek to admit ; the active energy. 
 Strong and unbounded to embrace, and firm 
 To keep and cherish ? how shall man unite 
 With self -forget ting tenderness of heart 
 An earih-despising dignity of soul ? 
 Wise in that union, and without it blind ! " 
 
 " The way," said I, " to court, if not obtain 
 Th' ingenuous mind, apt to be set aright, — 
 This, in the lonely dell discoursing, you 
 Declared at large ; and by what exercise 
 From visible nature, or the inner self. 
 Power may be train'd, and renovation brought 
 To those who need the gift. But, after all. 
 Is aught so certain as that man is doom'd 
 
THE EXCURSION. 411 
 
 To breathe beneath a yault of ignorance ? 
 The natural roof of that dark house in which 
 His soul is pent! How little can be known, — 
 This is the wise man's sigh; how far we err, — 
 This is the good man's not nnf requent pang ! 
 And they perhaps err least, the lowly class 
 Whom a benign necessity compels 
 To follow reason's least ambitious course; — 
 Such do I mean wlio, unperplex'd by doubt, 
 And unincited by a wish to look 
 Into high objects further than they may. 
 Pace to and fro, from mom till even-tide, 
 The narrow ayenue of daily toil 
 For daily bread." 
 
 " Yes," buoyantly exclaim'd 
 The pale Recluse, **' praise to the sturdy plough 
 And patient spade ; praise to the simple crook. 
 And ponderous loom — resounding while it holds 
 Body and mind in one captivity : 
 And let tlie light mechanic tool be hail'd 
 With honour; which, encasing by the power 
 Of long companionship the artist's hand, 
 Cuts off that hand, with all its world of nerves, 
 From a too busy commerce with the heart ! — 
 Inglorious implements of craft and toil. 
 Both ye that shape and build, and ye that force, 
 By slow solicitation, earth to peld 
 Her annual bounty, sparingly dealt forth 
 With wise reluctance ; you would I extol, 
 Kot for gross good alone which ye produce, 
 But for til' impertinent and ceaseless strife 
 Of proofs and reasons ye prechide, — in those 
 Who to your dull society are born. 
 And with their humble birthright rest content. 
 Would I had ne'er renounced it ! " 
 
 A slight flush 
 Of moral anger previously had tinged 
 The old Plan's cheek ; but, at tliis closing turn 
 Of self-reproach, it pass'd away. Said he, 
 " That whicli we feel we utter ; as we think. 
 So have we argued ; reaping for our pains 
 No visible recompense. For our relief. 
 You," to the Pastor turning thus he spake, 
 "Have kindly interposed. May I entreat 
 Your further help ? The mine of real life 
 Dig for us ; and present us, in the shape 
 
412 WORDSWORTH. 
 
 Of virgin ore, that gold which we, by pains 
 
 Fruitless as those of aery alchemists, 
 
 Seek from the torturing crucible. There lies 
 
 Around us a domain where you have long 
 
 Watch'd botli the outward course and inner heart : 
 
 Give us, for our abstractions, solid facts; 
 
 For our disputes, plain pictures. Say what man 
 
 He is who cultivates yon hanging field ; 
 
 What qualities of mind she bears who comes, 
 
 For morn and evening service, with her pail. 
 
 To that green pasture ; place before our sight 
 
 The family who dwell within yon house 
 
 Fenced round with glittering laurel ; or in that 
 
 Below, from Avhich the curling smoke ascends. 
 
 Or rather, as we stand on holy earth. 
 
 And have the dead around us, take from them 
 
 Your instances; for they are Jooth best known, 
 
 And by frail man most equitably judged. 
 
 Epitomise the life ; pronounce, you can, 
 
 Authentic epitaphs on some of these 
 
 Who, from their lowly mansions hither brought, 
 
 Beneath this turf lie mouldering at our feet : 
 
 So, by your records, may our doubts be solved ; 
 
 And so, not searching higher, we may learn 
 
 To prize the 'breath lue share with human hind; 
 
 And looh upon the dust of man icith aive" 
 
 The Priest replied, " An office you impose 
 For which peculiar requisites are mine ; 
 Yet much, I feel, is wanting, — else the task 
 Would be most grateful. True indeed it is 
 That they whom death has hidden from our sight 
 Are worthiest of the mind's regard ; with these 
 The future cannot contradict the past; 
 Mortality's last exercise and proof 
 Is undergone ; the transit made that shows 
 The very Soul, reveal'd as she departs. 
 Yet, on your first suggestion, will I give, 
 Ere we descend into these silent vaults, 
 One picture from the living. 
 
 You behold, 
 High on the breast of yon dark mountain, dark 
 With stony barrenness, a shining speck 
 Bright as a sunbeam sleeping till a shower 
 Brush it away, or cloud pass over it ; 
 And such it might be deem'd, — a sleeping sunbeam; 
 But 'tis a plot of cultivated ground, 
 
THE EXCURSION. 413 
 
 Cut off, an island in the dusky waste; 
 
 And that attractive brightness is its own. 
 
 The lofty site, by nature framed to tempt 
 
 Amid a wilderness of rocks and stones 
 
 The tiller's hand, a lierrait might have chosen, 
 
 For opportunity presented, thence 
 
 Far forth to send his wandering eye o'er land 
 
 And ocean, and look down upon the works. 
 
 The habitations, and the ways of men, 
 
 Himself unseen. But no tradition tells 
 
 That ever hermit dipp'd his maple dish 
 
 In the sweet spring that lurks 'mid yon green fields ; 
 
 And no such visionary views belong 
 
 To those who occupy and till the ground. 
 
 High on that mountain where they long have dwelt 
 
 A wedded pair in childless solitude. 
 
 A house of stones collected on the spot. 
 
 By rude hands built, with rocky knolls in front, 
 
 Back'd also by a ledge of rock, whose crest 
 
 Of birch-trees waves over the chimney-top ; 
 
 A rough abode, — in colour, shape, and size, 
 
 Such as in unsafe times of border-war 
 
 Might have been wish'd for and contrived, to elude 
 
 The eye of roving plunderer, — for their need 
 
 Suffices ; and unshaken bears tli' assault 
 
 Of their most dreaded foe, the strong South-west 
 
 In anger blowing from the distant sea. — 
 
 Alone witliin her solitary hut; — 
 
 There, or within the compass of her fields. 
 
 At any moment may the Dame be found, . 
 
 True as the stock-dove to her shallow nest 
 
 And to the grove that holds it. She beguiles 
 
 By intermingled work of house and field 
 
 The Summer's day, and Winter's ; with success 
 
 Not equal, but sufficient to maintain. 
 
 Even at the worst, a smooth stream of content, 
 
 Until th' expected hour at which her Mate 
 
 From the far-distant quarry's vault returns; 
 
 And by his converse crowns a silent day 
 
 With evening cheerfulness. In powers of mind, 
 
 In scale of culture, few among my flock 
 
 Hold lower rank than this sequester'd pair : 
 
 But true humility descends from Heaven ; 
 
 And that best gift of Heaven hath fallen on them; 
 
 Abundant recompense for every want. — 
 
 Stoop from your height, ye proud, and copy these ! 
 
414 WORDSWORTH. 
 
 AVlio, in their noiseless dwelling-place, can hear 
 The voice of wisdom whisj)ering scripture texts 
 For the mind's government, or temper's peace; 
 And recommending, for their mutual need, 
 Forgiveness, patience, liox)e, and charity ! " 
 
 " Much was I pleased,-'-' the grey-hair 'd Wanderer said, 
 "When to those shining fields our notice first 
 You tnrn'd; and yet more pleased have from your lips 
 Gather'd this fair report of them who dwell 
 In that retirement ; whither, by such course 
 Of evil hap and good as oft awaits 
 A tired way-faring man, once /was brought 
 While traversing alone yon mountain pass. 
 Dark on my road th' autumnal evening fell, 
 And night succeeded with unusual gloom. 
 So hazardous that feet and hands became 
 Guides better than mine eyes, — until a light 
 High in the gloom appeared, too high, methought, 
 For human habitation ; but I long'd 
 To reach it, destitute of other hope. 
 I look'd with steadiness, as sailors look 
 On the north star, or watch-tower's distant lamp. 
 And saw the light, — now fix'd, and shifting now, — 
 Not like a dancing meteor, but in line 
 Of never-varying motion, to and fro. 
 It is no night-fire of the naked hills. 
 Thought I, — some friendly covert must be near.' 
 With this persuasion thitherward my steps 
 I turn, and reach at last the guiding light ; 
 Joy to myself ! but to the heart of her 
 Who there was standing on the open hill 
 (The same kind Matron whom your tongue hath praised) 
 Alarm and disappointment ! The alarm 
 Ceased, when she learn'd through what mishap I came, 
 And by what help had gain'd those distant fields. 
 Drawn from her cottage, on that aery height, 
 Bearing a lantern in her hand she stood. 
 Or paced the ground, to guide her Husband home, 
 By that unwearied signal kenn'd afar; 
 An anxious duty ! which the lofty site, 
 Traversed but by a few irregular paths, 
 Imposes, whensoe'er untoward chance 
 Detains him after his accustom'd hour 
 Till night lies black upon the ground. * But come, 
 Come,' said the Matron, ' to our poor abode ; 
 Those dark rocks hide it ! ' Entering, I beheld 
 
THE EXCURSION. 415 
 
 A blazing fire, — beside a cleanly hearth 
 Sate down ; and to her office, with leave ask'd 
 The Dame return'd. 
 
 Or e'er that glowing pile 
 Of mountain turf required the builder's hand 
 Its wasted splendour to repair, the door 
 Open'd, and she re-enter'd with glad looks, 
 Her Helpmate following. Hospitable fare, 
 Frank conversation, made the evening's treat : 
 Need a bewilder'd traveller wish for more ? 
 But more was given : I studied, as we sate 
 By the bright fire, the good Man's form, and face 
 Not less than beautiful ; an open brow 
 Of undisturb'd humanity ; a cheek 
 Suffused with something of a feminine hue ; 
 Eyes beaming courtesy and mild regard; 
 But, in the quicker turns of the discourse, 
 Expression slowly varying, that evinced 
 A tardy api^rehension. From a fount 
 Lost, thought I, in th' obscurities of time. 
 But honour'd once, those features and that mien 
 May have descended, though I see them here. 
 In such a man, so gentle and subdued, 
 Withal so graceful in his gentleness, 
 A race illustrious for heroic deeds. 
 Humbled, but not degraded, may expire. 
 This pleasing fancy (cherish'd and upheld 
 By sundry recollections of such fall 
 From high to low, ascent from low to high. 
 As books record, and even the careless mind 
 Cannot but notice among men and things) 
 Went with me to the place of my repose. 
 
 Eoused by the crowing cock at dawn of day, 
 I yet had risen too late to interchange 
 A morning salutation with my Host, 
 Gone forth already to the far-off seat 
 Of his day's work. ^ Three dark mid-winter months 
 Pass,' said the Matron, ' and I never see. 
 Save when the sabbath brings its kind release. 
 My Helpmate's face by light of day. He quits 
 His door in darkness, nor till dusk returns. 
 And, through Heaven's blessing, thus we gain the bread 
 For which we pray ; and for the wants provide 
 Of sickness, accident, and helpless age. 
 Companions have I many ; many friends, 
 Dependants, comforters, — my wheel, my fire. 
 
416 WORDSWORTH. 
 
 All day the house-clock ticking in mine ear, 
 The cackling hen, the tender chicken brood, 
 And the wild birds that gather round my porch. 
 This honest sheep-dog's countenance I read; 
 With him can talk ; nor blush to waste a word 
 On creatures less intelligent and shrewd. 
 And if the blustering wind that drives the clouds 
 Care not for me, he lingers round my door. 
 And makes me pastime when our tempers suit ; 
 But, above all, my thoughts are my support. 
 My comfort : — would that they were often er fix'd 
 On what, for guidance in the way that leads 
 To Heaven, I know, by my Eedeemer taught.' 
 The Matron ended ; nor could I forbear 
 To exclaim, * happy, yielding to the law 
 Of these privations, richer in the main ! 
 "While thankless thousands are opprest and clogg'd 
 By ease and leisure ; by the very wealth 
 And pride of opportunity made poor ; 
 While tens of thousands falter in their path. 
 And sink, through utter want of cheering light; 
 For you the hours of labour do not flag ; 
 For you each evening hath its shining star, 
 And every sabbath-day its golden Sun.' " 
 " Yes ! " said the Solitary with a smile 
 That seem'd to break from an expanding heart, 
 " Th' untutor'd bird may found, and so construct, 
 And with such soft materials line, her nest 
 Fix'd in the centre of a prickly brake. 
 That the thorns wound her not ; they only guard. 
 Powers not unjustly liken'd to those gifts 
 Of liappy instinct which the woodland bird 
 Shares with her species, Nature's grace sometimes 
 Upon the individual doth confer, 
 Among her higher creatures born and train'd 
 To use of reason. And I own that — tired 
 Of th' ostentatious world, a swelling stage 
 With empty actions and vain passions stuff'd; 
 And from the private struggles of mankind 
 Hoping far less than I could wish to hope. 
 Far less than once I trusted and believed — 
 I love to hear of those who, not contending 
 Nor summon'd to contend for virtue's prize, 
 Miss not the humbler good at whicli they aim. 
 Blest with a kindly faculty to blunt 
 The edge of adverse circumstance, and turn 
 
THE EXCURSION. 417 
 
 Into their contraries the petty plagues 
 
 And hindrances with which tliey stand beset. 
 
 In early youth, among my native hills, 
 
 I knew a Scottish peasant who possess'd 
 
 A few small crofts of stone-encumber'd ground; 
 
 Masses of every shape and size, that lay 
 
 Scatter'd about under the mouldering walls 
 
 Of a rough precipice ; and some, apart. 
 
 In quarters unobnoxious to such chance, 
 
 As if the Moon had shower'd them down in spite. 
 
 But he repined not. Though the plough was scared 
 
 By these obstructions, ' round the shady stones 
 
 A fertilising moisture,' said the Swain, 
 
 * Gathers, and is preserved ; and feeding dews 
 
 And damps, through all the droughty summer day 
 
 From out their substance issuing, maintain 
 
 Herbage that never fails : no grass springs up 
 
 So green, so fresh, so plentiful, as mine ! ' 
 
 But thinly sown these natures ; rare, at least, 
 
 The mutual aptitude of seed and soil 
 
 That yields such kindly product. He whose bed 
 
 Perhaps yon loose sods cover, the poor Pensioner 
 
 Brought yesterday from our sequester'd dell 
 
 Here to lie down in lasting quiet, he, 
 
 If living now, could otherwise report 
 
 Of rustic loneliness: that grey-hair'd Orphan — 
 
 So call him, for humanity to him 
 
 No parent was — feelingly could have told, 
 
 In life, in death, what solitude can breed 
 
 Of selfishness, and cruelty, and vice ; 
 
 Or, if it breed not, hath not power to cure. — 
 
 But your compliance. Sir, with our request 
 
 My words too long have hinder'd." 
 
 Undeterred, 
 Perhaps incited rather, by these shocks, 
 In no ungracious opposition, given 
 To the confiding spirit of his own 
 Experienced faith, the reverend Pastor said. 
 Around him looking, "Where shall I begin ? 
 Who shall be first selected from my flock 
 Gather'd together in their peaceful fold ? " 
 He paused, — and, having lifted up his eyes 
 To the pure heaven, he cast them down again 
 Upon the earth beneath his feet ; and spake : 
 
 " To a mysteriously-united pair 
 This place is consecrate ; to Death and Life, 
 
418 WOEDSWORTH. 
 
 And to the best affections that proceed 
 
 From their conjunction ; consecrate to faith 
 
 In Him who bled for Man npon the cross; 
 
 Hallow'd to revelation ; and no less 
 
 To reason's mandates; and the hopes divine 
 
 Of pure imagination ; — above all, 
 
 To charity and love, that have provided, 
 
 Within these precincts, a capacious bed 
 
 And receptacle, open to the good 
 
 And evil, to the just and the unjust; 
 
 In which they find an equal resting-place : 
 
 Even as the multitude of kindred brooks 
 
 And streams, whose murmur fills this hollow vale, 
 
 AVhether their course be turbulent or smooth, 
 
 Their waters clear or sullied, all are lost 
 
 Within the bosom of yon crystal Lake, 
 
 And end their journey in the same repose! 
 
 And blest are they who sleep ; and we that know, 
 While in a spot like this we breathe and walk, 
 That all beneath us by the wings are cover'd 
 Of motherly humanity, outspread 
 And gathering all within their tender shade, 
 Though loth and slow to come ! A battle-field, 
 In stillness left when slaughter is no more, 
 With this compared, makes a strange spectacle ! 
 A dismal prospect yields the wild shore strewn 
 With wrecks, and trod by feet of young and old 
 Wandering about in miserable search 
 Of friends or kindred, whom the angry sea 
 Restores not to their prayer ! Ah ! who would think 
 That all the scatter'd subjects which compose 
 Earth's melancholy vision through the space 
 Of all her climes — these wretched, these depraved, 
 To virtue lost, insensible of peace. 
 From the delights of charity cut off, 
 To pity dead, th' oppressor and th' opprest ; 
 Tyrants who utter the destroying word, 
 And slaves who will consent to be destroy'd — 
 Were of one species with the shelter'd few. 
 Who, with a dutiful and tender hand. 
 Lodged, in a dear appropriated spot. 
 This file of infants ; some that never breathed 
 The vital air; others, which, though allow'd 
 That privilege, did yet expire too soon. 
 Or with too brief a warning, to admit 
 Administration of the holy rite 
 
THE EXCURSION. 419 
 
 That lovingly consigns the babe to th' arms 
 
 Of Jesus, and His everlasting care. 
 
 These that in trembling hope are laid apart ; 
 
 And the besprinkled nursling, unrequired 
 
 Till he begins to smile upon the breast 
 
 That feeds him ; and the tottering little-one 
 
 Taken from air and sunshine v/hen the rose 
 
 Of infancy first blooms upon his cheek ; 
 
 The thinking, thoughtless, school-boy ; the bold youth 
 
 Of soul impetuous, and the bashful maid 
 
 Smitten while all the promises of life 
 
 Are opening round her ; those of middle age, 
 
 Cast down while confident in strength they stand, 
 
 Like pillars fix'd more firmly, as might seem, 
 
 And more secure, by very weight of all 
 
 That, for support, rests on them ; the decay'd 
 
 And burthensome ; and lastly, that poor few 
 
 Whose light of reason is with age extinct ; 
 
 The hopeful and the hopeless, first and last. 
 
 The earliest summon'd, and the longest spared, — 
 
 Are here deposited, with tribute paid 
 
 Various, but unto each some tribute paid ; 
 
 As if, amid these peaceful hills and groves, 
 
 Society were touch'd with kind concern, 
 
 And gentle ^ Xature grieved, that one should die ; ' 
 
 Or, if the change demanded no regret, 
 
 Observed the liberating stroke, — and bless'd. 
 
 And whence that tribute ? wherefore these regards? 
 Kot from the naked heart alone of Man, 
 (Though claiming high distinction upon Earth, 
 As the sole spring and fountain-head of tears. 
 His own peculiar utterance for distress 
 Or gladness, — no," the philosophic Priest 
 Continued, " 'tis not in the vital seat 
 Of feeling to produce them, without aid 
 From the pure soul, the soul sublime and pure ; 
 With her two faculties of eye and ear. 
 The one by which a creature, whom his sins 
 Have render'd prone, can upward look to Heaven ; 
 The other that empowers him to perceive 
 The voice of Deity, on height and plain. 
 Whispering those truths in stillness, which the Word, 
 To the four quarters of the winds, proclaims.*^ 
 
 7 This subject is eloquentlv discoursed by Wordsworth in his Essay upon Epitaphs, 
 from which I can but quote the following: *" The invention of epitaphs, Wecrer, in 
 his Discourse on Funeral Monuments, says rightly, « proceeded from the presage or 
 
420 WOEDSWORTH. 
 
 Not without siicli assistance could tlie use 
 Of these benign observances prevail : 
 Thus are they born, thus foster d, thus maintain'd; 
 ' And by the care prospective of our Avise 
 Forefathers, who, to guard against the shocks, 
 The fluctuation and decay of things, 
 Embodied and establish'd these high truths 
 In solemn institutions ; — men convinced 
 That life is love and immortality, 
 The being one, and one the element. 
 There lies the channel and original bed, 
 From the beginning hollow'd out and scoop'd 
 For Man's affections — else betray'd and lost. 
 And swallow'd up 'mid deserts infinite ! 
 This is the genuine course, the aim, and end 
 Of prescient reason ; all conclusions else 
 Are abject, vain, presumptuous, and perverse. 
 The faith partaking of those holy times. 
 Life, I repeat, is energy of love 
 Divine or human ; exercised in pain. 
 In strife, and tribulation ; and ordain'd, 
 If so approved and sanctified, to pass. 
 Through shades and silent rest, to endless joy." 
 
 BOOK SIXTH. 
 
 THE CHURCHYAED AMOKG THE MOUKTAIKS. 
 
 Hail to the crown by Freedom shaped, to gird 
 An English Sovereign's brow ! and to the throne 
 Whereon he sits ! whose deep foundations lie 
 In veneration and the people's love ; 
 Whose steps are equity, whose seat is law. — 
 Hail to the State of England ! And conjoin 
 
 fore-feeling of immortality, implanted in all men naturally, and is referred to the 
 scholars of Linus the Theban poet, who flourished about the year of the world two 
 thousand seven hundred.' — And, verily, without the consciousness of a principle of 
 immortality in the hxunan soul, Man could never have had awakened in him the de- 
 sire to live in the remembrance of his fellows : mere love, or the yearning of kind 
 towards kind, could not have produced it. The dog or horse perishes in the field, or 
 in the stall, by the side of his companions, and is incapable of anticipating the sor- 
 row with which his suri'ounding associates shall bemoan his death, or pine for his 
 loss : he cannot preconceive this regi-et, he can form no thought of it; and therefore 
 cannot possibly have a desire to leave such regret or remembrancte behind liim. Adtl 
 to the principle of love which exists in the inferior animals, the faculty of reason 
 which exists in man alone; wiU the conjunction of these account for the desire? 
 Doubtless it is a necessaiy consequence of this conjunction; yet not I think as a di- 
 rect result, but only to be come at thi'ough an intermediate thought, namely, that of 
 an intimation or assurance within us, that some part of our nature is imperishable. 
 At least the precedence, in the order of birth, of one feeling to the other, is unques- 
 tionable." See, also, page 248, note 5. 
 
THE EXCUBSION^. 421 
 
 With tliis a salutation as devout, 
 Made to the spiritual fabric of her Church ; 
 Founded in truth ; by blood of Martyrdom 
 Cemented ; by the hands of Wisdom rear'd 
 In beauty of holiness, with order'd pomp, 
 Decent and unreproved. The voice that greets 
 The majesty of both shall pray for both; 
 That, mutually protected and sustain'd. 
 They may endure long as the sea surrounds 
 This favoured Land, or sunshine warms her soil. 
 And, ye swelling hills, and spacious plains ! 
 Besprent from shore to shore with steeple-towers. 
 And spires whose " silent finger points to Heaven ; " * 
 Nor wanting, at wide intervals, the bulk 
 ' Of ancient minster lifted above the cloud 
 Of the dense air, which town or city breeds 
 To intercept the Sun's glad beams ; — may ne'er 
 That true succession fail of English hearts, 
 Who, with ancestral feeling, can perceive 
 What in those holy structures ye possess 
 Of ornamental interest, and the charm 
 Of pious sentiment diffused afar. 
 And human charity, and social love. — 
 Thus never shall th' indignities of time 
 Approach their reverend graces, unopposed ; 
 Nor shall the elements be free to hurt 
 Their fair proportions ; nor the blinder rage 
 Of bigot zeal madly to overturn ; 
 And, if the desolating hand of war 
 Spare them, they shall continue to bestow, 
 Upon the throng'd abodes of busy men 
 (Depraved, and ever prone to fill the mind 
 Exclusively with transitory things) 
 An air and mien of dignified pursuit ; 
 Of sweet civility, on rustic wilds. 
 
 The Poet, fostering for his native land 
 Such hope, entreats that servants may abound 
 Of those pure altars worthy ; ministers 
 Detach'd from pleasure, to the love of gain 
 Superior, insusceptible of pride, 
 And by ambitious longings undisturb'd ; 
 Men, whose delight is where their duty leads 
 
 8 An instinctive taste teaches men to build their churches, in flat countries, with 
 spire-steeples which, as they cannot be referred to any other object, point as with 
 silent linger to the sky and stars, and sometimes, when they refle(;t the brazen light 
 of a rich though rainy sunset, appear like a pyramid of flame burning heaven- ward. 
 
422 WORDSWORTH. 
 
 Or fixes them ; whose least distinguished day 
 
 Shines with some portion of that heavenly lustre 
 
 Which makes the sabbath lovely in the sight 
 
 Of blessed angels, pitying human cares. — 
 
 And, as on Earth it is the doom of truth 
 
 To be perpetually attack'd by foes 
 
 Open or covert, be that priesthood still, 
 
 For her defence, replenished with a band 
 
 Of strenuous champions, in scholastic arts 
 
 Thoroughly disciplined ; nor (if in course 
 
 Of the revolving world's disturbances 
 
 Cause should recur, which righteous Heaven avert ! 
 
 To meet such trial) fi*om tlieir spiritual sires 
 
 Degenerate ; who, constrain'd to wield the sword 
 
 Of disputation, shrunk not, though assail'd 
 
 With hostile din, and combating in sight 
 
 Of angry umpires, partial and unjust; 
 
 And did, thereafter, bathe their hands in fire, 
 
 So to declare the conscience satisfied : 
 
 Nor for their bodies would accept release ; 
 
 But, blessing God and praising Him, bequeathed 
 
 With their last breath, from out the smouldering flame, 
 
 The faith which they by diligence had earn'd, 
 
 Or, through illuminating grace, received, 
 
 For their dear countrymen, and all mankind. 
 
 high example, constancy divine ! 
 
 Even such a Man (inheriting the zeal 
 And from the sanctity of elder times 
 Not deviating, — a priest, the like of whom, 
 If multiplied, and in their stations set, 
 Would o'er the bosom of a joyful land 
 Spread true religion and her genuine fruits) 
 Before me stood that day ; on holy ground 
 Fraught with the relics of mortality. 
 Exalting tender themes, by just degrees 
 To lofty raised ; and to the highest, last ; 
 The head and mighty paramount of truths, — 
 Immortal life, in never-fading worlds, 
 For mortal creatures, conquer'd and secured. 
 
 That basis laid ; those principles of faith 
 Announced, as a preparatory act 
 Of reverence done to the spirit of the place, 
 The Pastor cast his eyes upon the ground; 
 Not, as before, like one oppress'd with awe, 
 But with a mild and social cheerfulness ; 
 Then to the Solitary turn'd, and spake: 
 
THE EXCURSION. 423 
 
 " At morn or eve, in your retired domain, 
 Perchance you not unfrequently haye mark'd 
 A Visitor in quest of herbs and flowers ; 
 Too delicate employ, as would appear, 
 For one who, though of drooping mien, had yet 
 From Xature's kindliness received a frame 
 Eobust as ever rural labour bred/"' 
 
 The Solitary answer'd : " Such a Form 
 Full well I recollect. We often cross'd 
 Each other's path ; but, as th' Intruder seem'd. 
 Fondly to prize the silence which he kept, 
 And I as willingly did cherish mine, 
 We met, and pass'd, like shadows. I have heard 
 From my good Host that, being crazed in brain 
 By unrequited love, he scaled the rocks, 
 Dived into caves, and pierced the matted woods, 
 In hope to find some virtuous herb of power 
 To cure his malady ! " 
 
 The Vicar smiled, — 
 "Alas! before to-morrow's Sun goes down 
 His habitation will be here : for him 
 That open grave is destined." 
 
 " Died he, then. 
 Of pain and grief ? " the Solitary ask'd : 
 " Do not believe it ; never could that be ! " 
 
 '* He loved," the Vicar answer'd, '•' deeply loved, 
 Loved fondly, truly, fervently ; and dared 
 At length to tell his love, but sued in vain ; 
 Eejected, yea, repell'd ; and, if with scorn 
 Upon the haughty maiden's broAv, 'tis but 
 A high-prized plume which female Beauty wears 
 In wantonness of conquest, or puts on 
 To cheat the world, or from herself to hide 
 Humiliation, when no longer free. 
 That he could brook, and glory in : but when 
 The tidings came that she whom he had woo'd 
 Was wedded to another, and his heart 
 Was forced to rend away its only hope ; 
 Then Pity could have scarcely found on Earth 
 An object worthier of regard than he, 
 In the transition of that bitter hour ! 
 Lost was she, lost ; nor could the Sufferer say 
 That in the act of preference he had been 
 Unjustly dealt with ; but the Maid was gone ! 
 Had vanish'd from, his prospects and desires ; 
 Not by translation to the heavenly choir 
 
424 WOEDSWORTH. 
 
 Who have put off their mortal spoils, — ah no ! 
 She lives another's wishes to complete : 
 " Joy he their lot, and happiness,' he cried, 
 
 * His lot and hers, as misery must be mine ! ' 
 
 Such was that strong concussion: but the Man, 
 Who trembled, trunk and limbs, like some huge oak 
 By a fierce tempest shaken, soon resumed 
 The steadfast quiet natural to a mind 
 Of composition gentle and sedate, 
 And, in its movements, circumspect and slow. 
 To books, and to the long-forsaken desk, 
 O'er which enchain'd by science he had loved 
 To bend, he stoutly re-address'd himself, 
 Eesolved to quell his pain, and search for truth 
 With keener appetite (if that might be) 
 And closer industry. Of what ensued 
 Within the heart no outward signs appear'd, 
 Till a betraying sickliness was seen 
 To tinge his cheek; and through his frame it crept 
 With slow mutation unconcealable ; 
 Such universal change as Autumn makes 
 In the fair body of a leafy grove 
 Discolour'd, then divested. 
 
 'Tis affirmed 
 By poets skill'd in Nature's secret ways 
 That Love will not submit to be controlled 
 By mastery : and the good Man lack'd not friends 
 Who strove to instil this truth into his mind, 
 A mind in all lieart-mysteries unversed. 
 
 * Go to the hills,' said one, ^ remit awhile 
 This baneful diligence : at early morn 
 
 Court the fresh air, explore the heaths and woods; 
 
 And, leaving it to others to foretell. 
 
 By calculations sage, the ebb and flow 
 
 Of tides, and when the Moon will be eclipsed. 
 
 Do you, for your own benefit, construct 
 
 A calendar of flowers, pluck'd as they blow 
 
 Where health abides, and cheerfulness, and peace.' 
 
 Th' attempt was made ; — 'tis needless to report 
 
 How hopelessly ; but innocence is strong, 
 
 And an entire simplicity of mind 
 
 A thing most sacred in the eye of Heaven ; 
 
 That opens, for such sufferers, relief 
 
 Within the soul, fountains of grace divine ; 
 
 And doth commend their weakness and disease 
 
 To Nature's care, assisted in her office 
 
THE EXCURSION. 425 
 
 By all the elements that round her wait 
 To generate, to preserve, and to restore; 
 And by her beautiful array of forms 
 Shedding sweet influence from above ; or pure 
 Delight exhaling from the ground they tread/' 
 
 "Impute it not to impatience, if," exclaim'd 
 The Wanderer, " I infer that he was heal'd 
 By perseverance in the course prescribed." 
 
 " You do not err ; the powers, that had been lost 
 By slow degrees, were gradually regained ; 
 The fluttering nerves composed; the beating heart 
 In rest establish'd ; and the jarring thoughts 
 To harmony restored. — But yon dark mould 
 "Will cover him, in the fulness of his strength, 
 Hastily smitten by a fever's force ; 
 Yet not with stroke so sudden as refused 
 Time to look back with tenderness on her 
 Whom he had loved in passion ; and to send 
 Some farewell words, — with one, but one request; 
 That from his dying hand she would accept 
 Of his possessions that which most he prized ; 
 A book, upon whose leaves some chosen plants. 
 By his own hand disposed with nicest care. 
 In undecaying beauty were preserved ; 
 Mute register, to him, of time and place. 
 And various fluctuations in the breast; 
 To her, a monument of faithful love 
 Conquer'd, and in tranquillity retained!® 
 
 Close to his destined habitation, lies 
 One who achieved a humbler victory. 
 Though marvellous in its kind. A place there is 
 High in these mountains, that allured a band 
 Of keen adventurers to unite their pains 
 In search of precious ore : they tried, were f oil'd, — 
 And all desisted, all, save him alone. 
 He, taking counsel of his own clear thoughts. 
 And trusting only to his own weak hands, 
 Urged unremittingly the stubborn work, 
 Unseconded, uncountenanced ; then, as time 
 
 9 His story is here truly related. He was a school-fellow of mine for some years, 
 le came to us when he was at least seventeen years of age, very tall, robust, and full- 
 frown. This prevented him from falling into the amusements and games of the 
 school ; consequently he gave more time to books. He was not remarkably bright or 
 luick, but by industry he made a progress moi-e than respectable. His parents not 
 )eing wealthy enougli to send him to college wiien lie left Hawkshead, he became a 
 schoolmaster, with u view to preparing himself for holy orders. About this time he 
 fell in love, as related in the poem, and every thing followed as there described, ex- 
 !ept that I do not know exactly when and where he (he(\.— Author's Notes, 1843. 
 
426 WOKDSWORTH. 
 
 Pass'd on, wliile still his lonely efforts found 
 
 No recompense, derided; and at length 
 
 By many pitied, as insane of mind ; 
 
 By others dreaded, as the luckless thrall 
 
 Of subterranean Spirits feeding- hope 
 
 By various mockery of sight and sound; 
 
 Hope after hope, encouraged and destroy'd. — 
 
 But when the lord of seasons had matured 
 
 The fruits of earth through space of twice ten years, 
 
 The mountain's entrails offer 'd to his view 
 
 And trembling grasp the long-deferr'd reward. 
 
 Not with more transport did Columbus greet 
 
 A world, his rich discovery ! But our Swain, 
 
 A very hero till his point was gain'd, 
 
 Proved all unable to support the weight 
 
 Of prosperous fortune. On the fields he look'd 
 
 With an unsettled liberty of thought, 
 
 Wishes and endless schemes ; by da3'light walk'd 
 
 Giddy and restless ; ever and anon 
 
 Quaff'd in his gratitude immoderate cups ; 
 
 And truly migiit be said to die of joy!^ 
 
 He vanish'd; but conspicuous to this day 
 
 The path remains that liuk'd his cottage-door 
 
 To the mine's mouth; a long and slanting track, 
 
 Upon the rugged mountain's stony side. 
 
 Worn by his daily visits to and from 
 
 The darksome centre of a constant hope. 
 
 This vestige neither force of beating rain 
 
 Nor the vicissitudes of frost and thaw 
 
 Shall cause to fade, till ages pass away; 
 
 And it is named, in memory of th' event, 
 
 The Path of Perseveea^stce." 
 
 " Thou from whom 
 Man has his strength," exclaim'd the Wanderer, " 0, 
 Do Thou direct it ! To the virtuous grant 
 The penetrative eye which can perceive 
 In this blind world the guiding vein of hope ; 
 That, like this Labourer, such may dig their way, 
 * Unshaken, unseduced, unterrified ; ' 
 
 1 The miner lived in Paterdale, and the story is true to the letter. It seems to me, 
 however, rather remarkable, that the strength of mind which had supported hiir 
 through liis long unrewarded laboui did not enable him to bear its successful issue 
 Several times in the course of mv life, 1 have heard of sudden influxes of wealth be 
 ing followed bv derangement; and, in one instance, the shock of good fortune was sc 
 great as to produce absolute idiocy. But these all happened where there had beei 
 little or no previous effort to acquire the riches, and therefore such a consequence 
 might the more naturally be expected, than in the case of the solitary minQr.—Au. 
 thor's Notes, 1843. 
 
THE EXCURSION. 427 
 
 Grant to the wise his firmness of resolve ! " 
 
 " That prayer were not superfluous," said the Priest, 
 "Amid the noblest relics, proudest dust. 
 That Westminster, for Britain's glory, holds 
 Within the bosom of her awful pile, 
 Ambitiously collected. Yet the sigh 
 Which wafts that prayer to Heaven is due to all, 
 Wherever laid, who living fell below 
 Their virtue's humbler mark ; a sigh of pain, 
 If to the opposite extreme they sank. 
 How would you pity her who yonder rests; 
 Him, further off ; the pair who here are laid ; 
 But, above all, that mixture of earth^s mould 
 Whom sight of this green hillock to my mind 
 Eecalls ! 
 
 He lived not till his locks were nipp'd 
 By seasonable frost of age ; nor died 
 Before his temples, prematurely forced 
 To mix the manly brown with silver grey, 
 Gave obvious instance of the sad effect 
 Produced, when thoughtless Folly hath usurp'd 
 The natural crown that sage Experience wears. 
 Gay, volatile, ingenious, quick to learn, 
 And prompt to exhibit all that he possessed 
 Or could preform ; a zealous actor, hired 
 Into the troop of mirth, a soldier, sworn 
 Into the lists of giddy enterprise, — 
 Such was he ; yet, as*^if witliin his frame 
 TVo several souls alternately had lodged. 
 Two sets of manners could the Youth put on ; 
 xind, fraught with antics as the Indian bird 
 That writhes and chatters in her wiry cage. 
 Was graceful, when it pleased him, smooth and still 
 As tlie mute swan that floats adown the stream. 
 Or, on the waters of th' unruffled lake. 
 Anchors her placid beauty. Not a leaf. 
 That flutters on the bough, lighter than he ; 
 And not a flower, that droops in the green shade, 
 More winningly reserved ! If ye inquire 
 How such consummate elegance was bred 
 Amid these wilds, this answer may suffice : 
 "Twas Nature's will ; who sometimes undertakes. 
 For the reproof of human vanity. 
 Art to outstrip in her peculiar walk. 
 Hence, for this Favourite — lavishly endow'd 
 AYith personal gifts, and bright instinctive wit. 
 
423 WORDSWORTH. 
 
 While both, embellishing each other, stood 
 
 Yet further recommended by the charm 
 
 Of fine demeanour, and by dance and song. 
 
 And skill in letters — every fancy shaped 
 
 Fair expectations ; nor, when to tlie world's 
 
 Capacious field forth w^ent th' Adventurer, there 
 
 Were he and his attainments overlook 'd. 
 
 Or scantily rewarded : but all hopes, 
 
 Cherish'd for him, he sufier'd to depart. 
 
 Like blighted buds ; or clouds that mimick'd land 
 
 Before the sailor's eye ; or diamond drops 
 
 That sparkling deck'd the morning grass ; or aught 
 
 That luas attractive, and hath ceased to be ! 
 
 Yet, when this Prodigal return'd, the rites 
 Of joyful greeting were on him bestow'd, 
 Who, by humiliation undeterr'd, 
 Souglit for his w^eariness a j^lace of rest 
 Within his Father's gates. Whence came he ? — clothec 
 In tatter'd garb, from hovels where abides 
 Necessity, the stationary host 
 Of vagrant poverty ; from rifted barns 
 Where no one dwells but the wide-staring owl 
 And the owl's prey ; from these bare haunts, to which 
 He had descended from the proud saloon. 
 He came, the ghost of beauty and of health, 
 The wreck of gaiety ! But, soon revived 
 In strength, in power refitted, he renew'd - 
 His suit to Fortune ; and she smiled again 
 Upon a fickle Ino-rate. Thrice he rose. 
 Thrice sank as willingly. For he — whose nerves 
 Were used to thrill with pleasure, while his A^oice 
 Softly accompanied the tuneful harp, 
 By the nice finger of fair ladies touch'd 
 In glittering halls — was able to derive 
 No less enjoyment from an abject choice. 
 Who happier for the moment, — who more blithe 
 Than this fall'n Spirit ? in those dreary holds 
 His talents lending to exalt the freaks 
 Of merry-making beggars, — now provoked 
 To laughter multiplied in louder peals 
 By his malicious wit; then, all enchain'd 
 With mute astonishment, themselves to see 
 In their oAvn arts outdone, their fame eclipsed, 
 As by the very presence of the Fiend 
 Who dictates and inspires illusive feats, 
 For knavish purposes ! The city, too, 
 
THE EXCUBSIOlf. 429 
 
 (With shame I speak it,) to her guilty bowers 
 
 Allured him, sunk so low in self-respect 
 
 As there to linger, there to eat his bread, 
 
 Hired minstrel of voluptuous blandishment; 
 
 Charming the air with skill of hand or voice. 
 
 Listen who would, be wrought upon who might. 
 
 Sincerely wretched hearts, or falsely gay. — 
 
 Such the too frequent tenour of his boast 
 
 In ears that relish'd the report ; — but all 
 
 Was from his Parents happily conceal'd ; 
 
 Wlio saw enough for blame and pitying love. 
 
 They also were permitted to receive 
 
 His last, repentant breath ; and closed his eyes, 
 
 No more to open on that irksome world 
 
 Where he had long existed in the state 
 
 Of a young fowl beneath one mother hatch'd, 
 
 Though from another sprung, different in kind : 
 
 Where he had lived, and could not cease to live, 
 
 Distracted in propensity ; content 
 
 With neither element of good or ill ; 
 
 And yet in both rejoicing; man unblest; 
 
 Of contradictions infinite the slave. 
 
 Till his deliverance, when Mercy made him 
 
 One with himself, and one with them that sleep." ^ 
 
 "'Tis strange," observed the Solitary, "strange 
 It seems, and scarcely less than pitiful, 
 That in a land where charity provides 
 For all that can no longer feed themselves, 
 A man like this should choose to bring his sha,me 
 To the parental door ; and with his sighs 
 Infect the air which he had freely breathed 
 In happy infancy. He could not pine. 
 Through lack of converse ; no, — he must have found 
 Abundant exercise for thought and speech, 
 In his dividual being, self-review'd. 
 Self-catechised, self -pun ish'd. — Some there are 
 Who, drawing near their final home, and much 
 And daily longing that the same were reach'd. 
 Would rather shun than seek the fellowship 
 Of kindred mould. Such haply here are laid ? " 
 
 " Yes," said the Priest, " the Genius of our hills — 
 Who seems, by these stupendous barriers cast 
 
 2 Taken from a person born ancl bred in Grasmere, by name Dawson, and whose 
 alents, disposition, and way of life were such as are here delineated. I did not 
 :now him, but all was fresh in memory when we settled at Grasmere in the begin- 
 ling of the century. — Author's Notes, 1843. 
 
430 WORDSWORTH. 
 
 Eound his domain, desirous not alone 
 To keep his own, but also to exclude 
 All other progeny — doth sometimes lure. 
 Even by his studied depth of privacy, 
 Th'- unhappy alien hoping to obtain 
 Concealment, or seduced Ijy wish to find. 
 In place from outward molestation free, 
 Helps to internal ease. Of many such 
 Could I discourse ; but as their stay was brief, 
 So their departure only left behind 
 Fancies and loose conjectures. Other trace 
 Survives, for worthy mention, of a pair 
 Who, from the pressure of their several fates, 
 Meeting as strangers in a petty town 
 Whose blue roofs ornament a distant reach 
 Of this far-winding vale, remain'd as friends 
 True to their choice; and gave their bones in trust 
 To this loved cemetery, here to lodge 
 With unescutcheon'd privacy interr'd 
 Far from the family vault. — A Chieftain one 
 By right of birth ; within whose spotless breast 
 The fire of ancient Caledonia burn'd: 
 He, with the foremost whose impatience hail'd 
 The Stuart, landing to resume, by force 
 Of arms, the crown which bigotry had lost, 
 Aroused his clan ; and, fighting at their head, 
 With his brave sword endeavour'd to prevent 
 Culloden's fatal overthrow. Escaped 
 From that disastrous rout, to foreign shores 
 He fled; and when the lenient hand of time 
 Those troubles had appeased, he sought and gain'd, 
 For his obscured condition, an obscure 
 Retreat, within this nook of EngHsh ground. 
 The other, born in Britain's southern tract, 
 Had fix'd his milder loyalty, and placed 
 His gentler sentiments of love and hate, 
 Tliere where they placed them who in conscience prized 
 The new succession, as a line of kings 
 Whose oath had virtue to protect the land 
 Against the dire assaults of papacy 
 And arbitrary rule. But launch thy bark 
 On the distemper'd flood of public life, 
 And cause for most rare triumph will be thine 
 If, spite of keenest eye and steadiest hand, 
 The stream that bears thee forward prove not, soon 
 Or late, a perilous master. He — who oft, 
 
THE EXCURSION. 431 
 
 Beneath the battlements and stately trees 
 
 That round his mansion cast a sober gloom, 
 
 Had moralised on this, and other truths 
 
 Of kindred import, pleased and satisfied — 
 
 Was forced to vent his wisdom with a sigh 
 
 Heaved from the heart in fortune's bitterness, 
 
 When he had crushed a plentiful estate 
 
 By ruinous contest, to obtain a seat 
 
 In Britain's senate. Fruitless was th' attempt : 
 
 And, while the uproar of that desperate strife 
 
 Continued yet to vibrate on his ear, 
 
 The vanquished Whig, under a borrow'd name, 
 
 (For the mere sound and echo of his own 
 
 -Haunted him with sensations of disgust 
 
 That he was glad to lose,) slunk from the world 
 
 To the deep shade of those untravell'd Wilds 
 
 In which the Scottish Laird had long possess'd 
 
 An undisturbed abode. Here, then, they met. 
 
 Two doughty champions; flaming Jacobite 
 
 And sullen Hanoverian ! You might think 
 
 That losses and vexations, less severe 
 
 Than those which they had severally sustained, 
 
 Would have inclined each to abate his zeal 
 
 For his ungrateful cause ; no, — I have heard 
 
 My reverend Father tell that, 'mid the calm 
 
 Of that small town encountering thus, they fill'd, 
 
 Daily, its bowling-green with harmless strife ; 
 
 Plagued with uncharitable thoughts the church ; 
 
 And vex'd the market-place. But in the breasts 
 
 Of these opponents gradually was wrought. 
 
 With little change of general sentiment. 
 
 Such leaning towards each other, that their days 
 
 By choice were spent in constant fellowship ; 
 
 And if, at times, they fretted with the yoke, 
 
 Those very bickerings made them love it more. 
 
 A favourite boundary to their lengthen'd Avalks 
 This Church-yard was. And, whether they had come 
 Treading their path in sympathy and link'd 
 In social converse, or by some short space 
 Discreetly parted to preserve the peace. 
 One spirit seldom fail'd to extend its sway 
 Over both minds, when they awhile had mark'd 
 The visible quiet of this holy ground, 
 And breathed its soothing air ; — the spirit of hope 
 And saintly magnanimity ; that — spurning 
 The field of selfish difference and dispute. 
 
432 WORDSWORTH. 
 
 And every care which transitory things, 
 
 Earth and the kingdoms of the Earth, create — 
 
 Doth, by a rapture of forgetfulness, 
 
 Preclude forgiveness, from the praise debarr'd 
 
 Which else the Christian virtue might have claim'd.^ 
 
 There live who yet remember here to have seen 
 Their courtly figures, seated on the stump 
 Of an old yew, their favourite resting-place. 
 But, as the remnant of the long-lived tree 
 Was disappearing by a swift decay. 
 They, with joint care, determined to erect, 
 Upon its site, a dial, that might stand 
 For public use preserved, and thus survive 
 As their own private monument : for this 
 Was the particular spot, in which they wish'd 
 (And Heaven was pleased to accomplish the desire) 
 That, undivided, their remains should lie. 
 So, where the moulder'd tree had stood, was raised 
 Yon structure, framing, with th' ascent of steps 
 That to the decorated pillar lead, 
 A work of art more sumptuous than might seem 
 To suit this place; yet built in no proud scorn 
 Of rustic homeliness : they only aim'd 
 To ensure for it respectful guardianship. 
 Around the margin of the plate, whereon 
 The shadow falls to note the stealthy hours. 
 Winds an inscriptive legend." — At these words 
 Thither we turn'd ; and gather'd, as we read, 
 Th' appropriate sense, in Latin numbers couch'd : 
 " Time flies ; it is Ms melanclioly tash 
 To hring, and hem' away, delusive liopes, 
 And reproduce the troubles he destroys. 
 But, while Ms blindness thus is occupied. 
 Discerning Mortal I do thou serve the luill 
 Of Time's eternal Master, and that peace 
 Wliich the world wants shall be for thee confirmed I " 
 
 " Smooth verse, inspired by no unletter'd Muse,'' 
 Exclaim'd the Sceptic ; " and the strain of thouglat 
 
 3 The conversation leads to the mention of two individuals who hj^ their several 
 fortunes were, at different times, driven to take refuge in the small and obscure town 
 of Hawkshead. Their stories I had from the dear old dame with whom, as a school- 
 bov, and afterwards, I lodged for the space of nearly ten years. The older, the Ja- 
 cobite.was named Drummond, and was of a high faniilvin Scotland; the Hanoverian 
 Whig hore the name of Vandeput, and might, perhaps, be the descendant of some 
 Dutchman wdio had come over in the train of King William. At all events, his zeal 
 was such, that he ruined himself bv a contest for the representation of London or 
 Westminster, undertaken to support his party, and retired to this conierof the woi-ld, 
 selected as it had been by Dnmmiond for that obscurity which, since visiting the 
 Lakes became fashionable, it has no longer retixined. — ^uj/tor's i\'oi<o., 1S43. 
 
THE EXCURSIOiq". 433 
 
 Accords with Nature's language ; — the soft voice 
 Of yon white torrent falling down the rocks 
 Speaks, less distinctly, to the same effect. 
 If, then, their blended influence be not lost 
 Upon our hearts, — not wholly lost, I grant, 
 Even upon mine, — the more are we required 
 To feel for those among our fellow-men 
 Who, offering no obeisance to the world, 
 Are yet made desperate by ' too quick a sense 
 Of constant infelicity,' cut off 
 From peace like exiles on some barren rock. 
 Their life's appointed prison ; not more free 
 Than sentinels, between two armies, set, 
 - With nothing better, in the chill night air, 
 Than their own thoughts to comfort them. Say, why 
 That ancient story of Prometheus chain'd 
 To the bare rock, on frozen Caucasus ; 
 The vulture, th' inexhaustible repast 
 Drawn from his vitals ? Say, what meant the woes 
 By Tantalus entail'd upon his race, 
 And the dark sorrows of the line of Thebes ? * 
 Fictions in form, but in their substance truths. 
 Tremendous truths ! familiar to the men 
 Of long-past times, nor obsolete in ours. 
 Exchange the shepherd's frock of native grey 
 For robes with regal purple tinged ; convert 
 The crook into a sceptre ; give the pomp 
 Of circumstance ; and here the tragic Muse 
 Shall find apt subjects for her highest art. 
 Amid the groves, under the shadowy hills, 
 The generations are prepared ; the pangs, 
 Th' internal pangs, are ready ; the dread strife 
 Of poor humanity's afflicted will 
 Struggling in vain with ruthless destiny." 
 
 4 The three myths here so appositely referred to are much too long, in their sev- 
 eral particulars, for the compass of a note. That of Prometheus, however, is pretty 
 generally known; and the other two agree with it in embodying a common principle, 
 namely, the seeming lack of moral discrimination in the government of the world, as 
 if gooilness were not the law of the Divine a(hnini strati on. Afllictions and calami- 
 ties often faU, in overwhelming measm-e, upon the righteous or the innocent; while 
 men of the opposite character often have their portion carved out to them out of the 
 best that tliis world has to bestow. Nay, more; good men are sometimes punished, 
 apparently, for their virtue and beneficence; while guilt and wrong-doing find im- 
 punity, and somethnes even appear to gather the rewards due to goodness. Thus, 
 as Davison piits it, in his Discourses on Prophecii, " Conscience and the present consti- 
 tution of things are not corresponding terms : the one is not the object of perception 
 to the other." Those old mythical embodiments of this principle seem to have had a 
 strange fascination for the ancient Greek mind. It is hardly needful to obsei've how, 
 in this point, they reflect the moral import of the great Christian Sacrifice. Perhaps 
 I should add that *' the line of Thebes " refers to the story of OEdipus, who solved the 
 Sphinx's riddle, and tliereby delivered his country from the most terrible calamities, 
 but brought unsj)eakable wbes upon hunself. See page 249, note 6. 
 
434 WORDSWORTH. 
 
 " Though," said the Priest in answer, " these he terms 
 Which a diyine philosophy rejects. 
 We, whose established and unfailing trust 
 Is in controlling Providence, admit 
 That through all stations human life abounds 
 With mysteries ; — for, if Faith were left untried, 
 How could the might, that lurks within her, then 
 Be shown ? her glorious excellence — that ranks 
 Among the first of Powers and Virtues — proved ? 
 Our system is not fashion'd to preclude 
 That sympathy which you for others ask ; 
 And I could tell, not travelling for my theme 
 Beyond these humble graves, of grievous crimes 
 And strange disasters ; but I pass them by. 
 Loth to disturb what Heaven hath hush'd in peace. 
 Still less, far less, am I inclined to treat 
 Of Man degraded in his Maker's sight 
 By the deformities of brutish vice : 
 For, in such portraits, though a vulgar face 
 And a coarse outside of repulsive life 
 And unaffecting manners might at once 
 Be recognised by all " — " Ah ! do not think," 
 The Wanderer somewhat eagerly exclaim'd, 
 " Wish could be ours that you, for such poor gain, 
 (Gain shall I call it ? — gain of what ? — for whom ?) 
 Should breathe a word tending to violate 
 Your own pure spirit. Not a step we look for' 
 In slight of that forbearance and reserve 
 Which common h u man -heart edn ess inspires. 
 And mortal ignorance and frailty claim. 
 Upon this sacred ground, if nowhere else." 
 
 " True," said the Solitary, " be it far 
 From us to infringe the laws of charity. 
 Let judgment here in mercy be pronounced ; 
 This, self-respecting Nature prompts, and this. 
 Wisdom enjoins : but if the thing we seek 
 Be genuine knowledge, bear we then in mind 
 How, from his lofty throne, the Sun can fling 
 Colours as bright on exhalations bred 
 By weedy pool or pestilential swamp. 
 As by the rivulet sparkling where it runs. 
 Or the pellucid lake." 
 
 " Small risk," said I, 
 " Of such illusion do we here incur ; 
 Temptation here is none to exceed the truth ; 
 No evidence appears that they who rest 
 
THE EXCURSION. 435 
 
 "Within this gronud were covetous of praise. 
 
 Or of remembrance even, deserved or not. 
 
 Green is the Chnrch-yard, beautiful and green, 
 
 Kidge rising gently by the side of ridge, 
 
 A heaving surface, almost wholly free 
 
 From interruption of sepulchral stones, 
 
 And mantled o'er with aboriginal turf 
 
 And everlasting flowers. These Dalesmen tiTist 
 
 The lingering gleam of their departed lives 
 
 Tt) oral record, and the silent heart; 
 
 Depositories faithful and more kind 
 
 Than fondest epitaph : ^ for, if those fail. 
 
 What boots the sculptured tomb ? And who can blame, 
 
 Who rather would not envy, men that feel 
 
 This mutual confidence; if from such source 
 
 The practice flow, — if thence, or from a deep 
 
 And general humility in death ? 
 
 Nor should I much condemn it, if it spring 
 
 From disregard of time's destructive power, 
 
 As only capable to prey on tilings 
 
 Of earth, and human nature's mortal part. 
 
 Yet — in less simple districts, where we see 
 Stone lift its forehead emulous of stone 
 In courting notice ; and the ground all paved 
 With commendations of departed worth ; 
 Eeading, where'er we turn, of innocent lives. 
 Of each domestic charity fulfill'd. 
 And sufferings meekly borne — I, for my part, 
 Though with the silence pleased that here prevails, 
 Among those fair recitals also range. 
 Soothed by the natural spirit which they breathe. 
 And, in the centre of a world whose soil 
 Is rank with all unkindness, compass'd round 
 With such memorials, I have sometimes felt, 
 It was no momentary happiness 
 To have one Enclosure where the voice that speaks 
 In envy or detraction is not heard ; 
 Which malice may not enter ; where the traces 
 Of evil inclinations are unknown ; 
 Where love and pity tenderly unite 
 With resignation ; and no jarring tone 
 Intrudes, the peaceful concert to disturb 
 Of amity and gratitude." 
 
 " Thus sanction'd," 
 The Pastor said, " I willingly confine 
 
 5 See a passage on this subject in The Brothers, page 45. 
 
436 WORDSWORTH. 
 
 My narratives to subjects that excite 
 
 Feelings with these accordant, — love, esteem. 
 
 And admiration ; lifting up a veil, 
 
 A sunbeam introducing among hearts 
 
 Eetired and covert ; so that ye shall have 
 
 Clear images before your gladden'd eyes 
 
 Of Nature's unambitious underwood, 
 
 And flowers that prosper in the shade. And when 
 
 I speak of such among my flock as swerved 
 
 Or fell, those only shall be singled out 
 
 Upon whose lapse, or error, something more 
 
 Than brotherly forgiveness may attend; 
 
 To such will we restrict or notice, else 
 
 Better my tongue were mute. 
 
 And yet there are, 
 I feel, good reasons why we should not leave 
 Wholly untraced a more forbidding way. 
 For, strength to persevere and to support, 
 And energy to conquer and repel — 
 These elements of virtue, that declare 
 That native grandeur of the human soul — • 
 Are oft-times not unprofitably shown 
 In the perverseness of a selfish course : 
 Truth every day exemplified, no less 
 In the grey cottage by the murmuring stream 
 Than in fantastic conqueror's roving camp, 
 Or 'mid the factious senate unappall'd 
 Whoe'er may sink, or rise, — to sink again, 
 As merciless proscription ebbs and flows. 
 
 There," said the Vicar, pointing as he spake, 
 ^^ A woman rests in peace ; ® surpass'd by few 
 In power of mind and eloquent discourse. 
 Tall was her stature ; her complexion dark 
 And saturnine ; her head not raised to hold 
 Converse with heaven, nor yet deprest towards earth. 
 But in projection carried, as she walk'd 
 For ever musing. Sunken were her eyes ; 
 Wrinkled and furrow'd with habitual thought 
 Was her broad forehead. ; like the brow of one 
 Whose visual nerve shrinks from a painful glare 
 
 6 This person lived at Town-End, and was almost our next neighbour. I have 
 little to notice concerning her beyond what is said in the poem. She was a most 
 striking instance how far a woman may surpass in talent, in knowledge, and in cult- 
 ure of the mind, those with and among whom she lives, and yet fall belOAv them in 
 Christian virtues of the heart and spirit. It seemed almost, and I say it with grief, 
 that, in proportion as she excelled in the one, she failed in the other. How frequently 
 has one to observe in both sexes the same thing, and how mortifying is the reflec- 
 tion!— ylui/ior's Notes, 1843. 
 
THE EXCURSION. 437 
 
 Of overpowering light. — While yet a child, 
 She, 'mid the luimble flowerets of the vale, 
 Tower'd like th' imperial thistle, not unfurnish'd 
 With its appropriate grace, yet rather seeking 
 To be admired than coveted and loved. 
 Even at that age she ruled, a sovereign queen, 
 Over her comrades ; else their simple sports. 
 Wanting all relish for her strenuous mind, 
 Had cross'd her only to be shunn'd with scorn. 
 0, pang of sorrowful regret for those 
 Whom, in their youth, sweet study has enthrali'd. 
 That they have lived for harsher servitude, 
 Whether in soul, in body, or estate ! 
 Such doom was hers ; yet nothing could subdue 
 Her keen desire of knowledge, nor efface 
 Those brighter images by books imprest 
 Upon her memory, faithfully as stars 
 That occup}^ their places, and, though oft 
 Hidden by clouds, and oft bedimm'd by haze, 
 Are not to be extinguished, nor impaird. 
 
 Two passions, both degenerate, for they both 
 Began in honour, gradually obtained 
 Eule over her, and vex'd lier daily life, — 
 An unremitting, avaricious thrift; 
 And a strange thraldom of maternal love, 
 That held her spirit, in its own despite. 
 Bound — by vexation, and regret, and scorn, 
 Constraiu'd forgiveness, and relenting vows. 
 And tears, in pride suppressed, in shame conceal'd — 
 To a poor dissolute Son, her only child. 
 Her wedded days had open'd with mishap. 
 Whence dire dependence. What could she perform 
 To shake the burthen off ? Ah ! there was felt, 
 Indignantly, the weakness of her sex. 
 She mused, resolved, adhered to her resolve ; 
 The hand grew slack in alms-giving, the heart 
 Closed by degrees to charity ; Heaven's blessing 
 Not seeking from that source, she placed her trust 
 In ceaseless pains, — and strictest parsimony 
 AVhich sternly hoarded all that could be spared. 
 From each day's need, out of each day's least gain. 
 
 Thus all was re-establish'd, and a pile 
 Constructed, that sufficed for every end. 
 Save the contentment of the builder's mind ; 
 A mind by nature indisposed to aught 
 So placid, so inactive, as content ; 
 
438 WORDSWORTH. 
 
 A mind intolerant of lasting peace, 
 And cherishing the pang her heart deplored. 
 Dread life of conflict! which I oft compared 
 To th' agitation of a brook tliat runs 
 Down a rocky mountain, buried now and lost 
 In silent pools, now in strong eddies chain'd ; 
 But never to be charm'd to gentleness : 
 Its best attainment fits of such repose 
 As timid eyes might shrink from fathoming. 
 A sudden illness seized her in the strength 
 Of life's autumnal season. — Shall I tell 
 How on her bed of death the Matron lay, 
 To Providence submissive, so she thought ; 
 But fretted, vex'd, and wrought upon, almost 
 To anger, by the malady that griped 
 Her prostrate frame with unrelaxing power, 
 As the fierce eagle fastens on the lamb ? 
 She pray'd, she moan'd : her husband's sister watch 'd 
 Her dreary pillow, waited on her needs ; 
 And yet the very sound of that kind foot 
 Was anguish to her ears ! ' And must she rule,' 
 This was the death -doom'd Woman heard to say 
 In bitterness, *and must she rule and reign. 
 Sole Mistress of this house, when I am gone ? 
 Tend what I tended, calling it her own ! ' 
 Enough; — I fear, too much. — One vernal evening, 
 While she was yet in prime of health and strength, 
 I well remember, while I pass'd her door 
 Alone, with loitering step, and upward eye 
 Turn'd towards the planet Jupiter that hung 
 Above the centre of the Vale, a voice 
 Roused me, her voice ; it said, * That glorious star 
 In its untroubled element will shine 
 As now it shines, when we are laid in earth 
 And safe from all our sorrows.' With a sigh 
 She spake, yet, I believe, not unsustain'd 
 By faith in glory that shall far transcend 
 Aught by these perishable heavens disclosed 
 To sight or mind. Nor less than care divine 
 Is divine mercy. She who had rebell'd 
 Was into meekness sof ten'd and subdued ; 
 Did, after trials not in vain prolong'd. 
 With resignation sink into the grave; 
 And her uncharitable acts, I trust, 
 And harsh unkindnesses are all forgiven, 
 Though, in this Vale, remember'd with deep awe." 
 
THE EXCURSION. 439 
 
 The Vicar paused ; and toward a seat advanced, 
 A long stone-seat, fix'd. in the Church-yard, wall ; 
 Part shaded by cool sycamore, and part 
 Offering a sunny resting-place to them 
 Who seek the House of worship, while the bells 
 Yet ring with all their voices, or before 
 The last hath ceased its solitary knoll. 
 Beneath the shade we all sate down ; and there 
 His office, uninvited, he resumed. 
 
 " As on a sunny bank a tender lamb 
 Lurks in safe shelter from the winds of March, 
 Screen'd by its parent, so that little mound 
 Lies guarded by its neighbour ; the small heap 
 Speaks for itself ; an Infant there doth rest ; 
 The sheltering hillock is the Mother's grave.'' 
 If mild discourse, and manners that conferr'd 
 A natural diguity on humblest rank ; 
 If gladsome spirits, and benignant looks, 
 That for a face not beautiful did more 
 Than beauty for the fairest face can do ; 
 And if religious tenderness of heart. 
 Grieving for sin, and penitential tears 
 Shed when the clouds had gathered and distain'd 
 The spotless ether of a maiden life ; 
 If these may make a hallow'd spot of earth 
 More holy in the sight of God or Man ; 
 Then, o'er that mould, a sanctity shall brood 
 Till the stars sicken at the day of doom. 
 
 Ah ! what a warning for a thoughtless man, 
 Could field or grove, could any spot of earth. 
 Show to his eye an image of the pangs 
 Which it hath witness'd ; render back an echo 
 • Of the sad steps by which it hath been trod ! 
 There, by her innocent Baby's precious grave, 
 And on the very turf that roofs her own, 
 The Mother oft was seen to stand or kneel 
 In the broad day, a weeping Magdalene. 
 Now she is not ; the swelling turf reports 
 Of the fresh shower, but of poor Ellen's tears 
 Is silent ; nor is any vestige left 
 Of the path worn by mournful tread of her 
 
 7 The story that follows was told Mrs. Wordsworth and my sister, by the sister 
 of this unhappy young woman. Every particular was exactly as I have related. 
 The party was not knoAvn to me, though she lived at Hawkshead; but it was after I 
 left school. The clergyman who administered comfort to her I knew well. Her sis- 
 ter, who told the story, was the wife of a leading yeoman in the vale of Grasmere ; 
 and they were an affectionate pair, and greatly respected by every one who knew 
 them.— Author's Notes, 1843. 
 
440 WOEDSWOETH. 
 
 Who, at lier heart's light bidding, once had moved 
 In virgin fearlessness, with step that seem'd 
 Caught from the pressure of elastic turf 
 Upon the mountains gemm'd with morning dew. 
 In the prime hour of sweetest scents and airs. 
 Serious and thoughtful was her mind; and yet, 
 By reconcilement exquisite and rare, 
 The form, port, motions, of this Cottage-girl 
 Were such as might have quicken'd and inspired 
 A Titian's hand, addrest to picture forth 
 Oread or Dryad glancing through the shade 
 What time the hunter's earliest horn is heard 
 Startling the golden hills. 
 
 A wide-spread elm 
 Stands in our valley, named The Joyful Tree ; 
 From dateless usage which our peasants hold 
 Of giving Avelcome to the first of May 
 By dances round its trunk. And if the sky 
 Permit, like honours, dance and song, are paid 
 To the Twelfth Night, beneath the frosty stars 
 Or the clear Moon. The queen of these gay sports, 
 If not in beauty yet in sprightly air. 
 Was hapless Ellen. Ko one touch'd the ground 
 So deftly, and the nicest maiden's locks 
 Less gracefully were braided ; — but this praise, 
 Methinks, would better suit another place. 
 
 She loved, and fondly deem'd herself beloved. — 
 The road is dim, the current unperceived. 
 The weakness painful and most pitiful. 
 By which a ^drtuous woman, in pure youth. 
 May be deliver'd to distress and shame. 
 Such fate was hers. The last time Ellen danced. 
 Among her equals, round The Joyful Tkee, 
 She bore a secret burthen; and full soon 
 Was left to tremble for a breaking vow, — 
 Then, to bewail a sternly-broken vow. 
 Alone, within her widow'd Mother's house. 
 It was the season of unfolding leaves. 
 Of days advancing toward their utmost length, 
 And small birds singing happily to mates 
 Happy as they. With spirit-saddening power 
 Winds pipe through fading woods ; but those blithe notes 
 Strike the deserted to the h6art : I speak 
 Of what I know, and what we feel within. — 
 Beside the cottage in which Ellen dwelt 
 Stands a tall ash-tree ; to whose topmost twig 
 
THE EXCURSIOIif. 441 
 
 A thrusli resorts, and annually chants, 
 
 At morn and evening from that naked perch, 
 
 While all the undergrove is thick with leayes, 
 
 A time-beguiling ditty, for delight 
 
 Of his fond partner, silent in the nest. — 
 
 * Ah, why,' said Ellen, sighing to herself, 
 
 * Why do not words, and kiss, and solemn pledge ; 
 And nature that is kind in woman's breast, 
 And reason that in man is wise and good. 
 
 And fear of Him who is a righteous judge ; 
 
 Why do not these prevail for human life, 
 
 To keep two hearts together, that began 
 
 Their spring-time with one love, and that have need 
 
 Of mutual pity and forgiveness, sweet 
 
 To grant, or be received ; while that poor bird, — 
 
 O, come and hear him ! thou who hast to me 
 
 Been faithless, hear him, though a lowly creature. 
 
 One of God's simple children that yet know not 
 
 The universal Parent, how he sings 
 
 As if he wish'd the firmament of heaven 
 
 Should listen, and give back to him the voice 
 
 Of his triumphant constancy and love ; 
 
 The proclamation that he makes, how far 
 
 His darkness doth transcend our fickle light!" 
 
 Such was the tender passage, not by me 
 Eepeated without loss of simple phrase, 
 Which I perused, even as the words had been 
 Committed by forsaken Ellen's hand 
 To the blank margin of a Valentine, 
 Bedropp'd with tears. 'Twill please you to be told 
 That, studiously withdrawing from the eye 
 Of all companionship, the Sufferer yet 
 In lonely reading found a meek resource : 
 How thankful for the warmth of summer days, 
 When she could slip into the cottage-barn, 
 And find a secret oratory there; 
 Or, in the garden, under friendly veil 
 Of their long twilight, pore upon her book 
 By the last lingering help of th' open sky 
 Until dark night dismiss'd her to her bed ! 
 Thus did a waking fancy sometimes lose 
 Th' unconquerable pang of despised love. 
 
 A kindlier passion open'd on her soul 
 When that poor Child was born. Upon its face 
 She gazed as on a pure and spotless gift 
 Of unexpected promise, where a grief 
 
442 WORDSWORTH. 
 
 Or dread Avas all that had been thought of, — joy 
 Far livelier than bewilder'd traveller feels, 
 Amid a perilous waste that all night long 
 Hath harass'd him toiling through fearful storm, 
 When he beholds the first pale speck serene 
 Of day-spring in the gloomy East reveal'd, 
 And greets it with thanksgiving. ^ Till this hour,' 
 Thus, in her Mother's hearing, Ellen spake, 
 * There was a stony region in my heart ; 
 But He at whose command the "parched rock 
 Was smitten, and pour'd forth a quenching stream, 
 Hath soften'd that obduracy, and made 
 Unlook'd-for gladness in the desert place, 
 To save the perisliing ; and, lienceforth, I breathe 
 The air with cheerful spirit, for thy sake, 
 ' My Infant ! and for that good Mother dear 
 
 Who bore me; and hath pray'd for me in vain; — 
 Yet not in vain ; it shall not be in vain.' 
 She spake, nor was th' assurance unfulfill'd ; 
 And, if heart-rending thoughts would oft return, 
 They stay'd not long. — The blameless Infant grew ; 
 The Child whom Ellen and her Mother loved 
 They soon were proud of ; tended it and nursed ; 
 A soothing comforter, although forlorn ; 
 Like a poor singing-bird from distant lands; 
 Or a choice shrub, which he who passes by 
 With vacant mind not seldom may observe 
 Fair-flowering in a thinly-peopled house, 
 Whose window, somewhat sadly, it adorns. 
 
 Through four months' space the Infant drew its food 
 From the maternal breast ; then scruples rose ; 
 Thoughts, which the rich are free from, came and cross'd 
 The fond affection. She no more could bear 
 By her offence to lay a twofold weight 
 On a kind parent willing to forget 
 Their slender means : so, to that parent's care 
 Trusting her child, she left their common home. 
 And undertook with dutiful content 
 A Foster-mother's office. 
 
 'Tis, perchance. 
 Unknown to you that in these simple vales 
 The natural feeling of equality 
 Is by domestic service unimpair'd ; 
 Yet, though such service be, with us, removed 
 From sense of degradation, not the less 
 Th' ungentle mind can easily find means 
 
THE EXCURSIOK. 443 
 
 To impose severe restraints and laws unjust, 
 Which hapless Ellen now was doom'd to feel: 
 For (blinded by an over-anxions dread 
 Of such excitement and divided thought 
 As with her office would but ill accord) 
 The pair whose infant she was bound to nurse 
 Forbade her all communion with her own : 
 Week after week the mandate they enforced. — 
 So near ! yet not allow'd upon that sight 
 To fix her eyes, — alas ! 'twas hard to bear ! 
 But worse affliction must be borne, far worse ; 
 For 'tis Heaven's will that, after a disease 
 Begun and ended within three days' space, 
 Her child should die ; as Ellen now exclaim'd, 
 Her own — deserted child ! Once, only once, 
 She saw it in that mortal malady ; 
 And, on the burial-day, could scarcely gain 
 Permission to attend its obsequies. 
 She reacli'd the house, last of the funeral train ; 
 And some one, as she enter'd, having chanced 
 To urge unthinkingly their prompt departure, 
 ^ Nay,' said she, with commanding look, a spirit 
 Of anger never seen in her before, 
 * Nay, ye must wait my time ! ' and down she sate, 
 And by the unclosed coffin kept her seat 
 Weeping and looking, looking on and weeping, 
 Upon the last sweet slumber of her Child, 
 Until at length her soul was satisfied. 
 
 You see the Infant's Grave ; and to this spot, 
 The Mother, oft as she was sent abroad, 
 On whatsoever errand, urged her steps : 
 Hither she came ; here stood, and sometimes knelt 
 In the broad day, a rueful Magdalene ! 
 So call her; for not only she bewail'd 
 A mother's loss, but mourn'd in bitterness 
 Her own transgression ; penitent sincere 
 As ever raised to Heaven a streaming eye ! — 
 At length the parents of the foster-child, 
 Noting that in despite of their commands 
 She still renew'd and could not but renew 
 Those visitations, ceased to send her forth ; 
 Or, to the garden's narrow bounds, confined, 
 I fail'd not to remind them that they err'd ; 
 For holy Nature might not thus be cross'd, » 
 
 Thus wrong'd in woman's breast : in vain I pleaded, — 
 But the green stalk of Ellen's life was snapp'd, 
 
444 WORDSWOETH. 
 
 And the flower droop'd ; as every eye could see, 
 
 It hung its head in mortal languishment. 
 
 Aided by this appearance, I at length 
 
 PrevaiFd ; and, from those bonds released, she went 
 
 Home to her mother's house. 
 
 The Youth was fled; 
 The rash betrayer could not face the shame 
 Or sorrow which his senseless guilt had caused ; 
 And little would his presence, or proof given 
 Of a relenting soul, have now avaiFd; 
 For, like a shadow, he was pass'd away 
 From Ellen's thoughts; had perish'd to her mind 
 For all concerns of fear, or hope, or love. 
 Save only those which to their common shame, 
 And to liis moral being appertain'd : 
 Hope from that quarter would, I know, have brought 
 A heavenly comfort; there she recognised 
 An unrelaxing bond, a mutual need ; 
 There, and, as seem'd, there only. 
 
 She had built, 
 Her fond maternal heart had built, a nest 
 In blindness all too near the rivei-'s edge : 
 That work a summer flood with hasty swell 
 Had swept away ; and now her Spirit long'd 
 For its last flight to Heaven's security. 
 The bodily frame wasted from day to day ; 
 Meanwhile, relinquishing all other cares, 
 Her mind she strictly tutor'd to find peace 
 And pleasure in endurance. Much she thought. 
 And much she read ; and brooded feelingly 
 Upon her own unworthiness. To me. 
 As to a spiritual comforter and friend, 
 Her heart she open'd ; and no pains were spared 
 To mitigate, as gently as I could. 
 The sting of self-reproach, with healing words. 
 Meek Saint ! through patience glorified on Earth ! 
 In whom, as by her lonely hearth she sate, 
 The ghastly face of cold decay put on 
 A sun-like beauty, and appear'd divine ! 
 May I not mention that, within those walls, 
 In due observance of her pious wish. 
 The congregation join'd with me in prayer 
 For her soul's good ? Nor was that office vain. — 
 Much did she suffer: but, if any friend. 
 Beholding her condition, at the sight 
 Gave way to words of pity or complaint. 
 
THE EXCURSIOIT. 445 
 
 She stiird them with a prompt reproof, and said, 
 ' He who afflicts me knows what I can bear ; 
 And, when I fail, and can endure no more, 
 TVill mercifully take me to Himself.' 
 So, through the cloud of death, her Spirit pass'd 
 Into that pure and unknown world of love 
 Where injury cannot come : — and here is laid 
 The mortal Body by her Infant's side." 
 
 The Vicar ceased ; and downcast looks made known 
 That each had listen'd with, his inmost heart. 
 For me, th' emotion scarcely was less strong 
 Or less benign than that which I had felt 
 When, seated near my venerable Friend 
 Under those shady elms, from him I heard 
 ' The story that retraced the slow decline 
 Of Margaret, sinking on the lonely heath, 
 With the neglected house to which she clung. — 
 I noted that the Solitary's cheek 
 Confess'd the power of nature. Pleased though sad. 
 More pleased than sad, the grey-hair'd Wanderer sate ; 
 Thanks to his pure imaginative soul 
 Capacious and serene ; his blameless life. 
 His knoAvledge, wisdom, love of truth, and love 
 Of human kind ! He was it who first broke 
 The pensive silence, saying : 
 
 " Blest are they 
 Whose sorrow rather is to suffer wrong 
 Than to do wrong, albeit themselves have err'd. 
 This tale gives proof that Heaven most gently deals 
 With such, in their affliction. Ellen's fate, 
 Her tender spirit, and her contrite heart. 
 Call to my mind dark hints which I have heard 
 Of one who died within this vale, by doom 
 Heavier, as his offence was heavier far. 
 Where, Sir, I pray you, where are laid the bones 
 Of Wilfred Armatliwaite ? " 
 
 The Vicar answer'd, . 
 " Fn that green nook, close by the Church-yard wall. 
 Beneath yon hawthorn, planted by myself 
 In memory and for warning, and in sign 
 Of sweetness where dire anguish had been known. 
 Of reconcilement after deep oft'ence, — 
 There dotli he rest. No theme his fate supplies 
 For the smooth glozings of th' indulgent world; 
 Nor need the windings of his devious course 
 Be here retraced ; — enough that, by mishap 
 
446 WORDSWORTH. 
 
 And venial error, robb'd of competence, 
 
 And her obsequious shadow, j^eace of mind. 
 
 He craved a substitute in troubled joy; 
 
 Against his conscience rose in arms, and, braving 
 
 Divine displeasure, broke the marriage-vow. 
 
 That which he had been weak enough to do 
 
 "Was misery in remembrance; he Avas stung, 
 
 Stung by his inward thoughts, and by the smiles 
 
 Of wife and children stung to agony. 
 
 Wretched at home, he gain'd no peace abroad ; 
 
 Eanged through the mountains, slept upon the earth 
 
 Ask'd comfort of the open air, and found 
 
 No quiet in the darkness of the night, 
 
 No pleasure in the beauty of the day. 
 
 His flock he slighted : his paternal fields 
 
 Became a clog to him, whose spirit wish'd 
 
 To fly, — but whither ? And this gracious Church, 
 
 That wears a look so full of peace and hope 
 
 And love, benignant mother of the vale, 
 
 How fair amid her brood of cottages ! 
 
 She was to him a sickness and reproach. 
 
 Much to the last remain'd unknown : but this 
 
 Is sure, that through remorse and grief he died; 
 
 Though pitied among men, absolved by God, 
 
 He could not find forgiveness in himself ; 
 
 Nor could endure the weight of his own shame. 
 
 Here rests a Mother. But from her I turn 
 And from her grave. — Behold — upon that ridge 
 That, stretching boldly from the mountain side, 
 Carries into the centre of the vale 
 Its rocks and woods — the Cottage where she dwelt; 
 And where yet dwells her faithful Partner, left 
 (Full eight years past) the solitary prop 
 Of many helpless Children. I begin 
 With words that might be prelude to a tale 
 Of sorrow and dejection ; but I feel 
 No sadness, when I think of what mine eyes 
 See daily in that happy family. — 
 Bright garland form they for the pensive brow 
 Of their undrooping Father's widowhood, 
 Those six fair Daughters, budding yet, — not one, 
 Not one of all the band, a full-blown flower. 
 Deprest, and desolate of soul, as once 
 That Father was, and filFd with anxious fear, 
 Now, by exjoerience taught, he stands assured 
 That God, who takes away, yet takes not half 
 
THE EXCURSION. 447 
 
 Of what He seems to take ; or gives it back, 
 
 Not to our prayer, but far beyond our prayer ; 
 
 He gives it — tlie boon produce of a soil 
 
 Which our endeavours have refused to till. 
 
 And hope hath never water 'd. The Abode 
 
 Whose grateful owner can attest these truths. 
 
 Even were the object nearer to our sight, 
 
 W^ould seem in no distinction to surpass 
 
 The rudest habitations. Ye might think 
 
 That it had sprung self -raised from earth, or grown 
 
 Out of the living rock, to be adorn'd 
 
 By Nature only ; but, if thither led. 
 
 Ye would discover, then, a studious work 
 
 Of many fancies prompting many hands. 
 
 Brought from the woods the honeysuckle twines 
 Around the porch, and seems, in that trim place, 
 A plant no longer wild; the cultured rose 
 There blossoms, strong in health, and will be soon 
 Eoof-high ; the wild pink crowns the garden-wall ; 
 And with the flowers are intermingled stones 
 Sparry and bright, rough scatterings of the hills. 
 These ornaments, that fade not with tlie year, 
 A hardy Girl continues to provide ; 
 Who, mounting fearlessly the rocky heights. 
 Her Father's prompt attendant, does for him 
 All that a boy could do, but with delight 
 More keen and prouder daring ; yet hath she, 
 Within the garden, like the rest, a bed 
 For her own flowers and favourite herbs, a space, 
 By sacred charter, holden for her use. — 
 These, and whatever else the garden bears 
 Of fruit or flower, permission ask'd or not, 
 I freely gather ; and my leisure draws 
 A not unfrequent pastime from the hum 
 Of bees around their range of shelter'd hives 
 Busy in that enclosure ; while the rill 
 That sparkling thrids the rocks attunes his voice 
 To the pure course of human life which there 
 Flows on in solitude. But, when the gloom 
 Of night is falling round my steps, then most 
 This Dwelling charms me ; often I stop short, 
 (Who could refrain ?) and feed by stealth my sight 
 With prospect of the company within. 
 Laid open through the blazing window: — there 
 I see the eldest Daughter at her wheel 
 Spinning amain as if to overtake 
 
448 WOKDSWOETH. 
 
 The never-lialting time ; or, in her turn, 
 Teacliing some Novice of the sisterhood 
 That skill in this or other household work 
 AVhich, from her Father's hononr'd hand, herself, 
 While she was yet a little one, had learned. 
 Mild Man ! he is not gay, but they are gay; 
 And the whole house seems fill'd with gaiety. 
 Thrice happy, then, the Mother may be deemed. 
 The Wife, from whose consolatory grave 
 I turn'd, that ye in mind might witness where. 
 And how, her Spirit yet survives on Earth!" 
 
 BOOK SEVEIS^TH. 
 
 THE CHURCH-YAKD AMONG THE MOUKTAIKS. 
 
 While thus from theme to theme th' Historian pass'd. 
 
 The words he utter'd, and the scene that lay 
 
 Before our eyes, awaken'd in my mind 
 
 Vivid remembrance of those long-past hours, 
 
 When, in the hollow of some shadowy vale, 
 
 (What time the splendour of the setting Sun 
 
 Lay beautiful on Snowdon's sovereign brow, 
 
 On Cader Idris. or huge Penmanmaur,) 
 
 A wandering Youth, I listen'd with delight 
 
 To pastoral melody or warlike air. 
 
 Drawn from the chords of th' ancient British harp. 
 
 By some accompli sh'd Master, while he sate 
 
 Amid the quiet of the green recess. 
 
 And there did inexhaustibly dispense 
 
 An interchange of soft or solemn tunes. 
 
 Tender or blithe ; now, as the varying mood 
 
 Of his own spirit urged, — now, as a voice 
 
 From youth or maiden, or some honour'd chief 
 
 Of his compatriot villagers, (that hung 
 
 Around him, drinking in th' impassion'd notes 
 
 Of the time-hallow'd minstrelsy,) required 
 
 For the heart's ease or pleasure.^ Strains of power 
 
 8 In his longer poems, Wordsworth quite too often well-nigh strangles the proper 
 effect of his workmanship with an unfortiinate prolixity both of language and of 
 thoiight; gathering-in point after point tlvit Avere better left out, and running his 
 sentences into inti-icacy and obscurity. Here is an apt instance of the fault. Much 
 of clearness, without any loss of poetry, would, 1 think, be gained in this passage, if 
 about half the lines were sti-ickcn out. His nianyijrosaic passages I do not complain 
 of, for Milton has many such also, and so have all great poets; for the great poet and 
 the little poet differ especially in this, that the former, if he has a prosaic thing to say. 
 Is content to say it prosaically, whereas the latter must trick it out in the fineriea 
 of •* poetic diction." 
 
THE EXCURSIOiT. 449 
 
 Were tliey to seize and occupy the sense ; 
 
 But to a liiglier mark than song can reach 
 
 Rose this pure eloquence. And, when the stream 
 
 Which overflow 'd the soul was pass'd away, 
 
 A consciousness remained that it had left, 
 
 Deposited upon the silent shore 
 
 Of memory, images and precious thoughts, 
 
 That shall not die, and cannot he destroy'd. 
 
 " These grassy heaps lie amicably close," 
 Said I, ^' like surges heaving in the wind 
 Along the surface of a mountain pool : 
 Whence comes it, then, that yonder we behold 
 Five graves, and only five, that rise together 
 Unsociably sequester'd, and encroaching 
 On the smooth play-ground of the village-school ? " 
 
 The Vicar answer'd : '' No disdainful pride 
 In them who rest beneath, nor any course 
 Of strange or tragic accident, hath help'd 
 To place those hillocks in that lonely guise. 
 Once more look forth, and follow with your sight 
 The length of road that from yon mountain's base 
 Through bare enclosures stretches, 'till its line 
 Is lost within a little tuft of trees ; 
 Then, reappearing in a moment, quits 
 The cultured fields ; and up the heathy waste 
 Mounts, as you see, in mazes serpentine. 
 Led towards an easy outlet of the vale. 
 That little shady spot, that sylvan tuft. 
 By which the road is hidden, also hides 
 A cottage from our view ; though I discern 
 (Ye scarcely can) amid its sheltering trees 
 The smokeless chimney-top. 
 
 All unembower'd 
 And naked stood that lowly Parsonage 
 (For such in truth it is, and appertains 
 To a small Chapel in the vale beyond) 
 When hither came its last Inhabitant. 
 Rough and forbidding were the choicest roads 
 By which our northern wilds could then be cross'd; 
 And into most of these secluded vales 
 Was no access for w^ain, heavy or light. 
 So, at his dwelling-place the Priest arrived 
 With store of household goods in panniers slung 
 On sturdy horses graced with jingling bells. 
 And on the back of more ignoble beast ; 
 That, with like burthen of effects most prized 
 
450 WORDSWORTH. 
 
 Or easiest carried, closed the motley train. 
 Young was I then, a school-boy of eight years ; 
 But still methinks I see them as they pass'd 
 In order, drawing toward their wish'd-for home. 
 Rock'd by the motion of a trusty ass 
 Two ruddy children hung, a well-poised freight, 
 Each in his basket nodding drowsily; 
 Their bonnets, I remember, wreathed with flowers, 
 Which told it was the pleasant month of June ; 
 And, close behind, the comely Matron rode, 
 A woman of soft speech and gracious smile. 
 And with a lady's mien. From far they came, 
 Even from Northumbrian hills ; yet theirs had been 
 A merry journey, rich in pastime, cheer'd 
 By music, prank, and laughter-stirring jest ; 
 And freak put on, and arch word dropp'd, to swell 
 The cloud of fancy and uncouth surmise 
 That gather'd round the slowly-moving train. 
 'Whence do they come ? and with what errand charged? 
 Belong they to the fortune-telling tribe 
 Who pitch tlieir tents under the green-wood tree ? 
 Or Strollers are they, furnish'd to enact 
 Eair Rosamond, and the Children of the Wood, 
 And, by that whisker'd tabby's aid, set forth 
 The lucky venture of sage Whittington, 
 When the next village hears the show announced 
 By blast of trumpet ? ' Plenteous was the growth 
 Of such conjectures, overheard, or seen 
 On many a staring countenance portray'd 
 Of boor or burgher, as they march 'd along. 
 And more than once their steadiness of face 
 Was put to proof, and exercise supplied 
 To their inventive humour, by stern looks, 
 And questions in authoritative tone, 
 Erom some staid guardian of the public peace, 
 Checking the sober steed on which he rode, 
 In his suspicious wisdom ; of tener still, 
 By notice indirect, or blunt demand 
 From traveller halting in his own despite, 
 • A simple curiosity to ease : 
 Of which adventures, that beguiled and cheer'd 
 Their grave migration, the good pair would tell, 
 With undiminish'd glee, in hoary age. 
 
 A Priest he was by function ; but his course 
 From his youth up, and high as manhood's noon, 
 (The hour of life to which he then v/as brought,) 
 
THE EXCUKSION. 451 
 
 Had been iiTegular, I might say, wild ; 
 
 By books unsteadied, by his pastoral care 
 
 Too little check'd. An active, ardent mind ; 
 
 A fancy pregnant with resource and scheme 
 
 To cheat tlie sadness of a rainy day ; 
 
 Hands apt for all ingenious arts and games ; 
 
 A generous spirit, and a body strong 
 
 To cope with stoutest champions of the bowl, — 
 
 Had earn'd for him sure welcome, and the rights 
 
 Of a prized visitant, in the jolly hall 
 
 Of country 'squire ; or at the statelier board 
 
 Of duke or earl, from scenes of courtly pomp 
 
 Withdrawn, to while away the summer hours 
 
 In condescension among rural guests. 
 
 "With these high comrades he had revell'd long, 
 Frolick'd industriously, a simple Clerk 
 By hopes of coming patronage beguiled 
 Till the heart sicken'd. So, each loftier aim 
 Abandoning and all his showy friends. 
 For a life's stay (slender it was, but sure) 
 He turn'd to this secluded chapelry. 
 That had been offer'd to his doubtful choice 
 By an unthought-of patron. Bleak and bare 
 They found the cottage, their allotted home ; 
 Naked without, and rude within ; a spot 
 With which the Cure not long had been endow'd: 
 And far remote the chapel stood, — remote. 
 And, from his Dwelling, unapproachable, 
 Save through a gap high in the hills, an opening 
 Shadeless and shelterless, by driving showers 
 Frequented, and beset with howling winds. 
 Yet cause was none, whate'er regret might hang 
 On his own mind, to quarrel with the choice 
 Or the necessity that fix'd him here ; 
 Apart from old temptations^ and constrain'd 
 To jiunctual labour in his sacred charge. 
 See him a constant preacher to the poor! 
 And visiting, though not with saintly zeal, 
 Yet, when need was, with no reluctant will. 
 The sick in body or distrest in mind ; 
 And by as salutary change compell'd 
 To rise from timely sleep, and meet the day 
 With no engagement in his thoughts more proud 
 Or splendid than his garden could afford. 
 His fields, or mountains by the heath-cock ranged, 
 Or the wild brooks ; from which he now return'd 
 
452 WORDSWORTH. 
 
 Contented to partake the quiet meal 
 
 Of his own board, where sat his gentle Mate 
 
 And three fair Children, plentifully fed, 
 
 Though simply, from their little household farm; 
 
 Nor wanted timely treat of fish or fowl 
 
 By nature yielded to his practised hand, — 
 
 To help the small but certain comings-in 
 
 Of that spare benefice. Yet not the less 
 
 Theirs was a hospitable board, and theirs 
 
 A charitable door. 
 
 So days and years 
 Pass'd on : — the inside of that rugged house 
 Was trimm'd and brighten'd by the Matron^s care. 
 And gradually enrich'd with things of price, 
 Which might be lack'd for use or ornament. 
 What though no soft and costly sofa there 
 Insidiously stretch'd out its lazy length. 
 And no vain mirror glitter'd upon the walls ; 
 Yet were the windows of the low abode 
 By shutters weather-fended, which at once 
 Eepell'd the storm and deadened its loud roar. 
 There snow-white curtains hung in decent folds; 
 Tough moss, and long-enduring mountain plants. 
 That creep along the ground with sinuous trail, 
 Were nicely braided ; and composed a work 
 Like Indian mats, that with appropriate grace 
 Lay at the threshold and the inner doors ; 
 And a fair carpet, woven of homespun wool, 
 But tinctured daintily with florid hues. 
 For seemliness and warmth, on festal days, 
 CoYcr'd the smooth blue slabs of mountain-stone 
 With which the j)arlour-floor, in simplest guise 
 Of pastoral homesteads, had been long inlaid. 
 
 Those pleasing w^orks the Housewife's skill produced 
 Meanwhile th' unsedentary Master's hand 
 Was busier Avith his task, — to rid, to plant. 
 To rear for food, for shelter, and delight ; 
 A thriving covert! And when wishes, form'd 
 In youth, and sauction'd by the riper mind, 
 Restored me to my native valley, here 
 To end my days ; well pleased was I to see 
 The once-bare cottage, on the mountain-side, 
 Screen'd from assault of every bitter blast ; 
 While the dark shadows of the summer leaves 
 Danced in the breeze, chequering its mossy roof. 
 Time, which had thus afforded willing help 
 
THE EXCURSIOIT. 453 
 
 To beautify with Nature's fairest growths 
 This rustic tenement, had gently shed 
 Upon its Master's frame a wintry grace ; 
 The comeliness of unenfeebled age. 
 
 But how could I say, gently ? for he still 
 Retain'd a flashing eye, a burning palm, 
 A stirring foot, a head which beat at nights 
 Upon its pillow with a thousand schemes. 
 Few likings had he dropp'd, few pleasures lost ; 
 Generous and charitable, prompt to serve ; 
 And still his harsher passions kept their hold, — 
 xYnger and indignation. Still he loved 
 The sound of titled names, and talk'd in glee 
 Of long-past banquetings with high-born friends : 
 Then, from those lulling fits of vain delight 
 Uproused by recollected injury, rail'd 
 At their false ways disdainfully, — and oft 
 In bitterness, and with a threatening eye 
 Of fire, incensed beneath its hoary brow. — 
 Those transports, with staid looks of pure good-will, 
 And with soft smile, his consort would reprove. 
 She, far behind him in the race of years. 
 Yet keeping her first mildness, was advanced 
 Far nearer, in the habit of her soul. 
 To that still region whither all are bound. 
 Him might we liken to the setting Sun 
 As seen not seldom on some gusty day. 
 Struggling and bold, and shining from the West 
 With an inconstant and unmellow'd light : 
 She w^as a soft attendant cloud, that hung 
 As if with wish to veil the restless orb ; 
 From which it did itself imbibe a ray 
 Of pleasing lustre. — But no more of this; 
 I better love to sprinkle on the sod 
 That now divides the pair, or, rather say, 
 That still unites them, j)raises, like heaven's dew. 
 Without reserve descending upon both. 
 
 Our very first in eminence of years 
 This old Man stood, the patriarch of the Vale ! 
 And, to his unmolested mansion, death 
 Had never come, through space of forty years ; 
 Sparing both old and young in that abode. 
 Suddenly then they disappear'd : not twice 
 Had Summer scorch'd the fields ; not twice had fallen, 
 On those high peaks, the first autumnal snow, 
 Before the greedy visiting was closed, 
 
454 WORDSWORTH. 
 
 And the long-privileged house left empty, — swept 
 
 As by a plague. Yet no rapacious plague 
 
 Had been among them ; all was gentle death. 
 
 One after one, with intervals of peace. 
 
 A happy consummation ! an accord 
 
 Sweet, perfect, to be wish'd for ! save that here 
 
 Was something which to mortal sense might sound 
 
 Like harshness, — that the old grey-headed Sire, 
 
 The oldest, he was taken last, survived 
 
 When the meek Partner of his age, his Son, 
 
 His Daughter, and that late and high-j)rized gift, 
 
 His little smiling Grandchild, were no more. 
 
 ^ All gone, all vanish* d ! he deprived and bare. 
 How will he face the remnant of his life ? 
 What will become of him ? ' we said, and mused 
 In sad conjectures, — ' Shall we meet him now 
 Haunting with rod and line the craggy brooks ? 
 Or shall we overhear him, as we pass, 
 Striving to entertain the lonely hours 
 AVith music ? ^ (for he had not ceased to touch 
 The harp or viol which himself had framed, 
 For their sweet purposes, with perfect skill.) 
 * What titles will he keep ? will he remain 
 Musician, gardener, builder, mechanist, 
 A planter, and a rearer from the seed ? 
 A man of hope and forward-looking mind 
 Even to the last!' — Such was he, unsubdued. 
 But Heaven was gracious ; yet a little while. 
 And this Survivor, with his cheerful throng 
 Of open projects, and his inward hoard 
 Of unsunn'd griefs, too many and too keen. 
 Was overcome by unexpected sleep, 
 In one blest moment. Like a shadow thrown 
 Softly and lightly from a passing cloud. 
 Death fell upon him, while reclined he lay 
 For noontide solace on the summer grass. 
 The warm lap of his mother earth : and so. 
 Their leiiient term of separation past, 
 That family (whose graves you there behold) 
 By yet a higher privilege once more 
 Were gather'd to each other." ^ 
 
 Calm of mind 
 And silence waited on these closing words ; 
 
 9 The clergyman and his family described in the beginning of this Book were, 
 during many years, our principal associates in the vale of Grasmere, unless I were to 
 except our very nearest neighbours. I have entered so particularly into the main 
 
THE EXCURSION. 455 
 
 Until the Wanderer (whether moved by fear 
 
 Lest in those passages of life were some 
 
 That might have touch'd the sick heart of his Friend 
 
 Too nearly, or intent to reinforce 
 
 His own firm spirit in degree deprest 
 
 By tender sorrow for our mortal state) 
 
 Thus silence broke : " Behold a thoughtless Man 
 
 From vice and premature decay preserved 
 
 By useful habits, to a fitter soil 
 
 Transplanted ere too late. The hermit, lodged 
 
 Amid th' untrodden desert, tells his beads. 
 
 With each repeating its allotted prayer, 
 
 And thus divides and thus relieves the time ; 
 
 Smooth task with Ms compared, whose mind could string, 
 
 Not scantily, bright minutes on the thread 
 
 Of keen domestic anguish ; and beguile 
 
 A solitude, unchosen, unprofess'd; 
 
 Till gentlest death released him. 
 
 Far from us 
 Be the desire, too curiously to ask 
 How much of this is but the blind result 
 Of cordial spirits and vital temperament, 
 And what to higher powers is justly due. 
 But you. Sir, know that in a neighbouring vale 
 A Priest abides before whose life such doubts 
 Fall to the ground ; whose gifts of nature lie 
 Eetired from notice, lost in attributes 
 Of reason, honourably effaced by debts 
 Which her poor treasure-house is content to owe. 
 And conquests over her dominion gain'd, 
 To which her frowardness must needs submit. 
 In this one Man is shown a temperance proof 
 Against all trials ; industry severe 
 And constant as the motion of the day; 
 Stern self-denial round him spread, with shade 
 That might be deem'd forbidding, did not there 
 All generous feelings flourish and rejoice; 
 Forbearance, charity in deed and thought. 
 And resolution competent to take 
 Out of the bosom of simplicity 
 All that her holy customs recommend, 
 And the best ages of the world prescribe. 
 
 points of their histoiy, that I will barely testify in prose that (with the single excep- 
 tion of the particulars of their journey to Grasmere, wliich, however, was exactly 
 copied from real life) the whole that I have said of them is as faithful to the truth as 
 words can make it. There was much talent in the family, and the eldest son was 
 distingmshed for poetical talent. — A uthor's Notes, 1843. 
 
456 WORDSWORTH. 
 
 Preaching, administering, in every work 
 
 Of his sublime vocation, in the walks 
 
 Of worldly intercourse between man and man, 
 
 And in his humble dwelling, he appears 
 
 A labourer, with moral virtue girt, 
 
 With spiritual graces, like a glory, crown'd." 
 
 "Doubt can be none," the Pastor said, "for whom 
 This portraiture is sketch'd. The great, the good, 
 The well-beloved, the fortunate, the wise, — 
 These titles emperors and chiefs have borne, 
 Honour assumed or given : and him, the Wonderful, 
 Our simple shepherds, speaking from the heart. 
 Deservedly have styled. — From his abode 
 In a dependent chapelry that lies 
 Behind yon hill, a poor and rugged wild. 
 Which in his soul he lovingly embraced, 
 And, having once espoused, would never quit ; 
 Into its graveyard wall ere long be borne 
 That lowly, great, good Man. A simple stone 
 May cover him ; and by its help, perchance, 
 A century shall hear his name pronounced, 
 With images attendant on the sound ; 
 Then shall the slowly-gathering twilight close 
 In utter night ; and of his course remain 
 'No cognizable vestiges, no more 
 Than of this breath, which shapes itself in words 
 To speak of him, and instantly dissolves." ^ 
 
 The Pastor, press'd by thoughts which round his theme 
 Still linger'd, after a brief pause resumed : 
 " Noise is there not enough in doleful war. 
 But that the Heaven-born poet must stand forth, 
 And lend the echoes of his sacred shell, 
 To multiply and aggravate the din ? 
 Pangs are there not enough in hopeless love. 
 And, in requited passion, all too much 
 Of turbulence, anxiety, and fear. 
 But that the minstrel of the rural shade 
 
 1 In connection with one of his other poems, Wordsworth gives, at considerable 
 length, a memoir of tlie good man whose character is here briefly sketched. He was 
 the Rev. Robert Walker ; born in 1709, the j^oiingest of twelve children ; being sickly- 
 in his youth, he was "brought up a scholar;" became a schoolmaster, and while 
 thus occupied fitted himself "for holy orders ; entered upon the curacy of Seathwaite 
 in 1735, and there remained till his death, sixty-six years aftenvards. At first, the 
 income of his curacy was only £5 a year, and it never exceeded £50. Yet he brought 
 up a family of eight children, all that lived out of twelve, and educated them well, 
 and lell; £2000 to his family. Withal he was distinguished for his hospitality and 
 generosity ; his house is described as a nursery of virtue ; his family as all industri- 
 ous and amiable. He himself educated, without charge, the children of the whole 
 parish, at the same time spinning wool to clothe his household; and was "at once 
 tlie pastor, lawyer, and scrivener for the whole district." 
 
THE EXCUESION". 457 
 
 Must tune his pipe, insidiously to nurse 
 
 The perturbation in the suffering breast, 
 
 And propagate its kind, far as he may ? 
 
 Ah ! who (and with such rapture as befits 
 
 The hallow'd theme) will rise and celebrate 
 
 The good man's purposes and deeds ; retrace 
 
 His struggles, his discomfitures deplore, 
 
 His triumphs hail, and glorify his end ? 
 
 That virtue, like the fumes and vapoury clouds 
 
 Through fancy's heat redounding in the brain, 
 
 And like the soft infections of the heart. 
 
 By charm of measured words may spread o'er field, 
 
 Hamlet, and town ; and piety survive 
 
 Upon the lips of men in hall or bower ; 
 
 Not for reproof, but high and warm delight, 
 
 And grave encouragement, by song inspired. — 
 
 Vain thought ! but wherefore murmur or repine ? 
 
 The memory of the just survives in Heaven ; 
 
 And, without sorrow, will the ground receive 
 
 That venerable clay. Meanwhile the best 
 
 Of what lies here confines us to degrees 
 
 In excellence less difficult to reach, 
 
 And milder worth : nor need we travel far 
 
 From those to whom our last regards were paid, 
 
 For such example. 
 
 Almost at the root 
 Of that tall pine, the shadow of whose bare 
 And slender stem, while here I sit at eve. 
 Oft stretches toward me, like a long straight path 
 Traced faintly in the greensward ; there, beneath 
 A plain blue stone, a gentle Dalesman lies. 
 From whom, in early childhood, was withdrawn 
 The precious gift of hearing. He grew up 
 From year to year in loneliness of soul; 
 And this deep mountain-valley was to him 
 Soundless, with all its streams. The bird of dawn 
 Did never rouse this Cottager from sleep 
 With startling summons ; not for his delight 
 The vernal cuckoo shouted ; not for him 
 Murmur'd tlie labouring bee. When stormy winds 
 Were working the broad bosom of the lake 
 Into a thousand thousand sparkling waves, 
 Rocking the trees, or driving cloud on cloud 
 Along the sharp edge of yon lofty crags, 
 The agitated scene before his eye 
 Was silent as a picture : evermore 
 
458 WORDSWORTH. 
 
 Were all things silent, wheresoe'er lie moved. 
 
 Yet, by the solace of liis own pure thoughts 
 
 Upheld, he diiteonsly pursued the round 
 
 Of rural labours ; the steep mountain-side 
 
 Ascended, with his staff and faithful dog ; 
 
 The plough he guided, and the scythe he sway'd; 
 
 And the ripe corn before his sickle fell 
 
 Among the jocund reapers. For himself, 
 
 All watchful and industrious as he was, 
 
 He wrought not : neither field nor flock he own'd: 
 
 No wish for wealth had place within his mind; 
 
 Kor husband's love, nor father's hope or care. 
 
 Though born a younger brother, need Avas none 
 That from the floor of his paternal home 
 He should depart, to plant himself anew. 
 And when, mature in manhood, he beheld 
 His parents laid in earth, no loss ensued 
 Of rights to him ; but he remain'd well pleased. 
 By the pure bond of independent love, 
 An inmate of a second family ; 
 The fellow-labourer and friend of him 
 To whom the small inheritance had fallen. 
 Nor deem that his mild presence was a weight 
 That press'd upon his brother's house ; for books 
 Were ready comrades whom he could not tire ; 
 Of whose society the blameless Man 
 Was never satiate. Their familiar voice. 
 Even to old age, with unabated charm 
 Beguiled his leisure hours ; ref resh'd his thoughts ; 
 Beyond its natural elevation raised 
 His introverted spirit ; and bestow'd 
 Upon his life an outward dignity 
 Which all acknowledged. The dark winter night. 
 The stormy day, each had its own resource ; 
 Song of the Muses, sage historic tale. 
 Science severe, or word of Holy Writ 
 Announcing immortality and joy 
 To the assembled spirits of just men 
 Made perfect, and from injury secure. — 
 Thus soothed at home, thus busy in the field. 
 To no perverse suspicion he gave way, 
 No languor, peevishness, nor vain complaint : 
 And they who were about him did not fail 
 In reverence or in courtesy ; they prized 
 His gentle manners : and his peaceful smiles. 
 The gleams of his slow-varying countenance. 
 
THE EXCUKSIOi^". 459 
 
 Were met with answering sympathy and love. 
 
 At length, when sixty years and five were told, 
 A slow disease insensibly consumed 
 The powers of nature : and a feAv short steps 
 Of friends and kindred bore him from his home 
 (Yon cottage shaded by the woody crags) 
 To the profounder stillness of the grave. 
 Nor was his funeral denied the grace 
 Of many tears, virtuous and thoughtful grief; 
 Heart-sorrow rendered sweet by gratitude. 
 And now that monumental stone preserves 
 His name, and unambitioiisly relates 
 How long, and by what kindly outward aids. 
 And in what pure contentedness of mind. 
 The sad privation was by him endured. 
 And yon tall pine-tree, whose composing sound 
 Was wasted on the good Man's living ear. 
 Hath now its own peculiar sanctity ; 
 And, at the touch of every wandering breeze. 
 Murmurs, not idly, o'er his peaceful grave.^ 
 
 Soul-cheering Light, most bountiful of things I 
 Guide of our way, mysterious comforter ! 
 Whose sacred influence, spread thro' earth and heaven, 
 We all too thanklessly participate. 
 Thy gifts were utterly withheld from him 
 Whose place of rest is near yon ivied porch. 
 Yet, of the wild brooks ask if he complain'd; 
 Ask of the channell'd rivers if they held 
 A safer, easier, more determined course. 
 What terror doth it strike into the mind 
 To think of one, blind and alone, advancing 
 Straight toward some precipice's airy brink ! 
 But, timely warn'd, He would have stay'd his steps, 
 Protected, say enlighten'd, by his ear ; 
 And on the very edge of vacancy 
 Not more endanger'd than a man whose eye 
 Beholds the gulf beneath. No floweret blooms 
 Throughout the lofty range of these rough hills. 
 Nor in the woods, that could from him conceal 
 Its birth-place; none whose figure did not live 
 Upon his touch. The bowels of the earth 
 Enrich'd with knowledge his industrious mind ; 
 The ocean paid him tribute from the stores 
 
 2 His epitaph may be seen at Ha wes- water, and his qualities of mind and heart, 
 and their benign influence in conjunction with his privations, I had from liis relatives 
 on the &^ot.— Author's Notes, 1843. 
 
460 WORDSWOETH. 
 
 Lodged in her bosom ; and, by science led, 
 His genius mounted to the plains of heaven. 
 Methinks I see him, — how his eye-balls rolFd, 
 Beneath his ample brow, in darkness pair'd, — 
 But each instinct with spirit ; and the frame 
 Of the whole countenance alive with thought. 
 Fancy, and understanding ; while the voice 
 Discoursed of natural or moral truth 
 With eloquence, and such authentic power. 
 That, in his presence, humbler knowledge stood 
 Abash'd, and tender pity overawed." ^ 
 
 "A noble, and, to unreflecting minds, 
 A marvellous spectacle," the Wanderer said, 
 " Beings like these present ! But proof abounds 
 Upon the Earth that faculties, which seem 
 Extinguish 'd, do not therefore cease to be. 
 And to the mind among her poAvers of sense 
 This transfer is permitted, — not alone 
 That the bereft their recompense may win ; 
 But for remoter purposes of love 
 And charity ; nor last nor least for this, 
 That to th' imagination may be given 
 A type and shadow of an awful truth ; 
 How, likewise, under sufferance divine, 
 Darkness is banish'd from the realms of death. 
 By man's imperishable spirit, quell'd. 
 Unto the men who see not as we see 
 Futurity was thought, in ancient times, 
 To be laid open, and they prophesied. 
 And know we not that from the blind have flow'd 
 The highest, holiest raptures of the lyre, 
 And wisdom married to immortal verse ? " 
 
 Among the humbler Worthies, at our feet 
 Lying insensible to human praise. 
 Love, or regret, — wliose lineaments would next 
 Have been portray'd, I guess not ; but it chanced 
 That, near the quiet churchyard where we sate, 
 A team of horses, with a ponderous freight 
 Pressing behind, adown a rugged slope. 
 Whose sharp descent confounded their array. 
 Came at that moment, ringing noisily. 
 
 " Here," said the Pastor, '• do we muse, and mourn 
 The waste of death ; and, lo ! the giant oak 
 
 3 The Blind Man was John Goiigh, of Kendal, a man known far beyond his neigh- 
 bourhood, for his talents and attaiimients in natural histoiy and science.— ^wt/tor'a 
 Notes, 1843. 
 
THE EXCUBSION. 461 
 
 Stretcli'd on his bier, — that massy timber- wain ; 
 Nor fail to note the Man who guides the team." 
 
 He was a peasant of the lowest class : 
 Grey locks profusely round his temples hung 
 In clustering curls, like ivy, which the bite 
 Of Winter cannot thin ; tlie fresh air lodged 
 Within his cheek, as light within a cloud ; 
 And he return'd our greeting with a smile. 
 When he had pass'd, the Solitary spake : 
 " A Man he seems of cheerful yesterdays 
 And confident to-morrows ; with a face 
 Not worldly-minded, for it bears too much 
 Of Nature's impress, — gaiety and health, 
 Freedom and hope ; but keen, withal, and shrewd. 
 His gestures note, — and, hark ! his tones of voice 
 Are all vivacious as his mien and looks/' 
 
 The Pastor answer'd: "You have read him well. 
 Year after year is added to his store 
 With sile7it increase : Summers, AVinters, — past, 
 Past or to come ; yea, boldly might I say. 
 Ten Summers and ten Winters of a space 
 That lies beyond life's ordinary bounds, 
 Upon his sprightly vigour cannot fix 
 The obligation of an anxious mind, 
 A pride in having, or a fear to lose ; 
 Possess'd, like outskirts of some large domain, 
 By any one more thought of than by him 
 Who holds the land in fee, its careless lord! 
 Yet is the creature rational ; endow'd 
 With foresight ; hears, too, every sabbath-day. 
 The Christian promise with attentive ear; 
 Nor will, I trust, the Majesty of Heaven 
 Reject the incense offered up by him. 
 Though of the kind which beasts and birds present 
 In grove or pasture, — cheerfulness of soul, 
 From trepidation and repining free. 
 How many scrupulous worshippers fall down 
 Upon their knees, and daily homage pay 
 Less worthy, less religious even, than his ! 
 
 This qualified respect, the old Man's due, 
 Is paid without reluctance ; but, in truth," 
 (Said the good Vicar with a fond half -smile,) 
 " I feel at times a motion of despite 
 Towards one whose bold contrivances and skill. 
 As you have seen, bear such conspicuous part 
 In works of havoc ; taking from these vales, 
 
462 WORDSWORTH. 
 
 One after one, their proudest ornaments. 
 
 Full oft his doings leave me to deplore 
 
 Tall ash-tree, sown by winds, by vapours nursed, 
 
 In the dry crannies of the pendent rocks ; 
 
 Light birch, aloft upon th' horizon's edge, 
 
 A veil of glory for th' ascending Moon ; 
 
 And oak whose roots by noontide dew were damp'd. 
 
 And on whose forehead inaccessible 
 
 The raven lodged in safety. — Many a ship 
 
 Launch'd into Morecamb-bay, to Mm hath owed 
 
 Her strong knee-timbers, and the mast that bears 
 
 The loftiest of her pendants ; he from park 
 
 Or forest fetch'd th' enormous axle-tree 
 
 That whirls (how slow itself!) ten thousand spindles: 
 
 And the vast engine labouring in the mine, 
 
 Content with meaner prowess, must have lack'd 
 
 The trunk and body of its marvellous strength, 
 
 If his undaunted enterprise had fail'd 
 
 Among the mountain coves. 
 
 Yon household fir, 
 A guardian planted to fence off the blast. 
 But towering high the roof above, as if 
 Its humble destination were forgot ; 
 That sycamore, which annually holds 
 Within its shade, as in a stately tent 
 On all sides open to the fanning breeze, 
 A grave assemblage, seated while they shear 
 The fleece-encumber'd flock ; the Joyful Elm, 
 Around whose trunk the maidens dance in May ; 
 And the Lord's Oak, — would plead their several rights 
 In vain, if he were master of their fate ; 
 His sentence to the axe would doom them all. 
 But, green in age and lusty as he is. 
 And promising to keep his hold on Earth 
 Less, as might seem, in rivalship with men 
 Than with the forest's more enduring growth, 
 His own appointed hour will come at last ; 
 And, like the haughty Spoilers of the world. 
 This keen Destroyer, in his turn, must fall. 
 !N^ow from the living pass we once again: 
 From Age," the Priest continued, " turn your thoughts ; 
 From Age, that often unlamented drops. 
 And mark that daisied hillock, three spans long ! — 
 Seven lusty Sons sate daily round the board 
 Of Gold-riil side ; and, when the hope had ceased 
 Of other progeny, a Daughter then 
 
THE EXCURSION. 463 
 
 Was given, tlie crowning bounty of the whole ; 
 And so acknowledged with a tremulous joy 
 Felt to the centre of that heavenly calm 
 With which by nature every mother's soul 
 Is stricken in the moment when her throes 
 Are ended, and her ears have heard the cry 
 Which tells her that a living child is born ; 
 And she lies conscious, in a blissful rest, 
 That the dread storm is weather'd by them both. 
 
 The Father, — him at this unlook'd-f or gift 
 A bolder transport seizes. From the side 
 Of his bright hearth, and from his open door, 
 Day after day the gladness is diffused 
 To all that come, almost to all that pass ; 
 Invited, summoned, to partake the cheer 
 Spread on the never-empty board, and drink 
 Health and good wishes to his new-born girl, 
 From cups replenish'd by his joyous hand. — 
 Those seven fair brothers variously were moved 
 Each by the thoughts best suited to his years : 
 But most of all and with most thankful mind 
 The hoary grandsire felt himself enrich'd ; 
 A happiness that ebb'd not, but remained 
 To fill the total measure of his soul ! 
 From the low tenement, his own abode, 
 Whither, as to a little private cell, 
 He had withdrawn from bustle, care, and noise, 
 To spend the sabbath of old age in peace, 
 Once every day he duteously repair'd 
 To rock the cradle of the slumbering babe : 
 For in that female infant's name he heard 
 The silent name of his departed wife; 
 Heart-stirring music ! hourly heard that name : 
 Full blest he was ; * Another Margaret G-reen,' 
 Oft did he say, * was come to Gold-rill side.' 
 
 0, pang unthought of, as the precious boon 
 Itself had been unlook'd-forl 0, dire stroke 
 Of desolating anguish for them all ! 
 Just as the Child could totter on the floor. 
 And, by some friendly finger's help upstay'd. 
 Range round the garden walk, while she perchance 
 Was catching at some novelty of Spring, 
 Ground-flower, or glossy insect from its cell 
 Drawn by the sunshine, — at that hopeful season 
 The winds of March, smiting insidiously. 
 Raised in the tender passage of the throat 
 
464 WORDSWORTH. 
 
 Viewless obstruction ; whence, all unforewarn'd, 
 
 The household lost their pride and soul's delight. — 
 
 But time hath power to soften all regrets. 
 
 And pra3^er and thought can bring to worst distress 
 
 Due resignation. Therefore, though some tears 
 
 Fail not to spring from either Parent/s eye 
 
 Oft as they hear of sorrow like their own. 
 
 Yet this departed Little-one, too long 
 
 The innocent troubler of their quiet, sleeps 
 
 In what may now be calFd a peaceful bed.* 
 
 On a bright day — so calm and bright, it seem'd 
 To us, with our sad spirits, heavenly-fair — 
 These mountains echo'd to an unknown sound ; 
 A Yolley, thrice repeated o'er the Corse 
 Let down into the hollow of that grave. 
 Whose shelving sides are red with naked mould. 
 Ye rains of April, duly wet this earth ! 
 Spare, burning sun of midsummer, these sods. 
 That they may knit together, and therewith 
 Our thoughts unite in kindred quietness! 
 Nor so the Valley shall forget her loss. 
 Dear Youth, by young and old alike beloved. 
 To me as jjrecious as my own ! — Green herbs 
 May creep (I wish that they would softly creep) 
 Over thy last abode, and we may pass 
 Eeminded less imperiously of thee ; — 
 The ridge itself may sink into the breast 
 Of earth, the great abyss, and be no more ; 
 Yet shall not thy remembrance leave our hearts, 
 Thy image disappear ! 
 
 The Mountain-ash 
 Xo eye can overlook, when 'mid a grove 
 Of yet unfaded trees she lifts her head 
 Deck'd with autumnal berries, that outshine 
 Spring's richest blossoms; and ye may have mark'd. 
 By a brook-side or solitary tarn. 
 How she her station doth adorn : the pool 
 Glows at her feet, and all the gloomy rocks 
 Are brighten'd round her. In his native vale 
 Such and so glorious did this Youth appear ; 
 A sight that kindled pleasure in all hearts 
 By his ii;Q^enuous beauty, by the gleam 
 Of his fiiir eyes, by his capacious brow, 
 
 4 Of the Infant's grave, I will only say, it is an exact picture of what fell under mj 
 o\vtl observation ; and all persons who are intimately acquainted with cottage lire 
 must often have observed like instances of the worMng of the domestic affectioua. — 
 Author s Notes, 1843. 
 
THE EXCURSION. 465 
 
 By all the graces Avitli wliicli INTatiire's hand 
 
 Had lavishly array'd him. As old bards 
 
 Tell in their idle songs of wandering gods, 
 
 Pan or Apollo, veil'd in hnman form ; 
 
 Yet, like the sweet-breathed violet of the shade 
 
 Discoyer'd in their own despite to sense 
 
 Of mortals, (if such fables without blame 
 
 May find chance-mention on this sacred ground,) 
 
 So, through a simple rustic garb's disguise, 
 
 And through th' impediment of rural cares. 
 
 In him reyeal'd a scholar's genius shone ; 
 
 And so, not wholly hidden from men's sight, 
 
 In him the spirit of a hero walk'd 
 
 Our unpretending valley. — How the quoit 
 
 Whizz'd from the Stripling's arm ! If touch'd by him, 
 
 Th' inglorious foot-ball mounted to the pitch 
 
 Of the lark's flight, — or shaped a rainbow curve. 
 
 Aloft, in prospect of the shouting field ! 
 
 The indefatigable fox had learn'd 
 
 To dread his perseverance in the chase. 
 
 With admiration would he lift his eyes 
 
 To the wide-ruling eagle, and his hand 
 
 Was loth to assault the majesty he loved : 
 
 Else had the strongest fastnesses proved weak 
 
 To guard the royal brood. The sailing glead. 
 
 The wheeling swallow, and the darting snipe. 
 
 The sportive sea-gull dancing with the waves. 
 
 And cautious water-fowl, from distant climes, 
 
 Fix'd at their seat, the centre of the Mere, 
 
 Were subject to young Oswald's steady aim. 
 
 And lived by his forbearance. 
 
 From the coast 
 Of France a boastful Tyrant hurl'd his threats ; 
 Our Country mark'd the preparation vast 
 Of hostile forces ; and she call'd — with voice 
 That fiird her plains, that reach'd her utmost shores. 
 And in remotest vales was heard — to arms! 
 Then, for the first time, here you might have seen 
 The shepherd's grey to martial scarlet changed. 
 That flash'd uncouthly through the woods and fields. 
 Ten hardy Striplings, all in bright attire. 
 And graced with shining weapons, weekly march'd 
 From this lone valley to a central spot 
 Where, in assemblage with the flower and choice 
 Of the surrounding district, they might learn 
 The rudiments of war; ten — hardy, strong. 
 
466 WORDSWORTH. 
 
 And valiant; but young Oswald, like a chief, 
 
 And yet a modest comrade, led them forth 
 From their shy solitude, to face the world. 
 With a gay confidence and seemly pride; 
 Measuring the soil beneath their happy feet 
 Like Youths released from labour, and yet bound 
 To most laborious service, though to them 
 A festival of unencumber d ease ; 
 The inner spirit keeping holiday. 
 Like vernal ground to sabbath sunshine left. 
 
 Oft have I mark'd him, at some leisure hour, 
 Stretch'd on the grass, or seated in the shade, 
 Among his fellows, while an ample map 
 Before their eyes lay carefully outspread, 
 From which the gallant teacher would discourse, 
 I^ow pointing this way, and now that. ' Here flows,' 
 Thus would he say, Hhe Khine, that famous stream! 
 Eastward, the Danube toward this inland sea, 
 A mightier river, winds from realm to realm ; 
 And, like a serpent shows his glittering back 
 Bespotted with innumerable isles : 
 Here reigns the Eussian, there the Turk ; observe 
 His capital city ! ' Thence, along a tract 
 Of livelier interest to his hopes and fears. 
 His finger moved, distinguishing the spots 
 Where wide-spread conflict then most fiercely raged; 
 Nor left unstigmatized those fatal fields 
 On which the sons of mighty Germany 
 Were taught a base submission. — 'Here behold 
 A nobler race, the Switzers, and their land, 
 Vales deeper far than these of ours, huge woods. 
 And mountains white with everlasting snow ! ' — 
 And, surely, he that spake with kindling brow 
 Was a true patriot, hopeful as the best 
 Of that young peasantry, who in our days 
 Have fought and perish'd for Helvetia's rights, — 
 Ah, not in vain ! — or those who in old time, 
 For work of happier issue, to the side 
 Of Tell came trooping from a thousand huts, 
 When he had risen alone ! No braver Youth 
 Descended from Judean heights, to march 
 With righteous Joshua ; nor appear'd in arms 
 When grove was fell'd, and altar was cast down, 
 And Gideon blew the trumpet, soul-inflamed. 
 And strong in hatred of idolatry." 
 
 The Pastor, even as if by these last words 
 
THE EXCURSION. 467 
 
 Raised from his seat within the chosen shade, 
 Moved toward the grave ; — instinctively his steps 
 We follow'd : and my voice with joy exclaim'd : 
 " Power to th' Oppressors of the world is given, 
 A might of which they dream not. 0, the curse, 
 To be th' awakener of divinest thoughts. 
 Father and founder of exalted deeds; 
 And, to whole nations bound in servile straits, 
 The liberal donor of capacities 
 More than heroic ! this to be, nor yet 
 Have sense of one connatural wish, nor yet 
 Deserve the least return of human thanks ; 
 Winning no recompense but deadly hate 
 With pity mix'd, astonishment with scorn ! " 
 
 When this involuntary strain had ceased. 
 The Pastor said : " So Providence is served ; 
 The forked weapon of the skies can send 
 Illumination into deep, dark holds, 
 AVhich the mild sunbeam hath not power to pierce. 
 Ye Thrones that have defied remorse, and cast 
 Pity away, soon shall ye quake with /e^r / 
 For, not unconscious of the mighty debt 
 Which to outrageous wrong the sufferer owes, 
 Europe, through all her habitable bounds, 
 Is thirsting for their overthrow, who yet 
 Survive, as pagan temples stood of yore. 
 By horror of their impious rites, preserved ; 
 Are still permitted to extend their pride, 
 Like cedars on the top of Lebanon 
 Darkening the sun. 
 
 But less impatient thoughts, 
 And love ' all hoping and expecting all,' 
 This hallow'd grave demands, where rests in peace 
 A humble champion of the better cause ; 
 A Peasant-youth, so call him, for he ask'd 
 No higher name ; in whom our country show'd. 
 As in a favourite son, most beautiful. 
 In spite of vice and misery and disease. 
 Spread with the spreading of her wealthy arts, 
 England, the ancient and the free, appear'd 
 In him to stand before my swimming eyes, 
 Unconquerably virtuous and secure. — 
 No more of this, lest I offend his dust ; 
 Short was his life, and a brief tale remains. 
 
 One day, — a Summer's day of annual pomp 
 And solemn chase, — from morn to sultry noon 
 
468 WORDSWORTH. 
 
 His steps had followed, fleetest of the fleet, 
 The red-deer driven along its native heights 
 With cry of hound and horn ; and, from that toil 
 Eeturn'd Avith sinews weaken'd and relaxed, 
 Tliis generous Youth, too negligent of self, 
 ' Plunged — 'mid a gay and busy throng convened 
 To wash the fleeces of his Father's flock — 
 Into the chilling flood. Convulsions dire 
 Seized him that self-same night ; and through the space 
 Of twelve ensuing days his frame was wrench'd 
 Till nature rested from her work in death. 
 To him, thus snatch'd away, his comrades paid 
 A soldier's honours. At his funeral hour 
 Bright was the Sun, the sky a cloudless blue, 
 A golden lustre slept upon the hills ; 
 And if by chance a stranger, wandering there, 
 From some commanding eminence had look'd 
 Down on this spot, well pleased would he have seen 
 A glittering spectacle ; but every face 
 Was pallid : seldom hath that eye been moist 
 With tears that wept not then ; nor were the few. 
 Who from their dwellings came not forth to join 
 In this sad service, less disturb'd than we. 
 They started at the tributary peal 
 Of instantaneous tliunder which announced. 
 Through the still air, the closing of the Grave ; 
 And distant mountains echo'd with a sound 
 Of lamentation, never heard before ! " * 
 
 The Pastor ceased. — My venerable Friend 
 Victoriously upraised his clear bright eye ; 
 And, when that eulogy was ended, stood 
 Enrapt, as if his inward sense perceived 
 The prolongation of some still response. 
 Sent by the ancient Soul of this wide land, 
 The Spirit of its mountains and its seas, 
 Its cities, temples, fields, its awful power, 
 Its rights and virtues, — by that Deity 
 Descending, and supporting his pure heart 
 With patriotic confidence and joy. 
 And, at the last of those memorial Avords, 
 
 5 ThivS young volunteer bore the name of D.awson, and was younger brother, if I 
 am not mistaken, to the prodigal of whose character and fortunes an account is given 
 towards tlie beginning of the preceding Book. Tlie father of the family 1 knew well; 
 he was a man of literary education and considerable experience in soc"iety, niu(;h be- 
 yond what was common among the inhabitants of the vale. The pi-ematiire death of 
 this gallant young man was much lamented ; and, as an attendant iipon the funeral, 
 I mvself witnessed the ceremony, and the effect of it, as described in theijoem. — Au' 
 thor's Notes, 1843. 
 
THE EXCURSIOJ?^. 469 
 
 The pining Solitary turn'd aside; 
 Whether through manly instinct to conceal 
 Tender emotions spreading from the heart 
 To his worn cheek ; or with uneasy shame 
 For those cold humours of habitual spleen 
 That, fondly seeking in dispraise of man 
 Solace and self-excuse, had sometimes urged 
 To self -abuse a not ineloquent tongue. — 
 Eight toward the sacred JEdifice his steps 
 Had been directed ; and we saw him now 
 Intent upon a monumental stone. 
 Whose uncouth form was grafted on the wall. 
 Or rather seem'd to have grown into the side 
 Of the rude pile ; as oft-times trunks of trees, 
 Where Nature works in wild and craggy spots. 
 Are seen incorporate with the living rock, — 
 To endure for aye. The Vicar, taking note 
 Of his employment, with a courteous smile 
 Exclaim'd : 
 
 '"' The sagest Antiquarian's eye 
 That task would foil; " then, letting fall his voice 
 While he advanced, thus spake : " Tradition tells 
 That, in Eliza's golden days, a Knight 
 Came on a war-horse sumptuously attired. 
 And fix'd his home in this sequester'd vale. 
 'Tis left untold if here he first drew breath, 
 Or as a stranger reach'd this deep recess, 
 Unknowing and unknown. A pleasing thought 
 I sometimes entertain, that haply bound 
 To Scotland's Court in service of his Queen, 
 Or sent on mission to some northern Chief 
 Of England's realm, this vale he might have seen 
 With transient observation ; and thence caught 
 An image fair which, brightening in his soul 
 When joy of war and pride of chivalry 
 Languish'd beneath accumulated years. 
 Had power to draw him from the world, resolved 
 To make that paradise his chosen home 
 To Avhich his peaceful fancy oft had turn'd. 
 
 Vague thoughts are these; but, if belief may rest 
 Upon unwritten story fondly traced 
 From sire to son, in this obscure retreat 
 The Knight arrived, w4th spear and shield, and borne 
 Upon a Charger gorgeously bedeck'd 
 With broider'd housings. And the lofty Steed — 
 His sole companion, and his faithful friend, 
 
470 WORDSWORTH. 
 
 Whom ho, in gratitude, let loose to range 
 
 In fertile pastures — was beheld with eyes 
 
 Of admiration and delightful awe, 
 
 By those untravell'd Dalesmen. With less pride, 
 
 Yet free from touch of envious discontent, 
 
 They saw a mansion at his bidding rise. 
 
 Like a bright star, amid the lowly band 
 
 Of their rude homesteads. Here the Warrior dwelt 
 
 And, in that mansion, children of his own. 
 
 Or kindred, gather'd round him. As a tree 
 
 That falls and disappears, the house is gone ; 
 
 And, through improvidence or want of love 
 
 For ancient worth and honourable things. 
 
 The spear and shield are vanisliM, which the Knight 
 
 Hung in his rustic hall. One ivied arch 
 
 Myself have seen, a gateway, last remains 
 
 Of that foundation in domestic care 
 
 Raised by his hands.® And now no trace is left 
 
 Of the mild-hearted Champion, save this stone, 
 
 Faithless memorial ! and his family name 
 
 Borne by yon clustering cottages, that sprang 
 
 From out the ruins of his stately lodge : 
 
 These, and the name and title at full length, — 
 
 Sir Alfred Irthij^g, with appropriate words 
 
 Accompanied, still extant, in a wreath 
 
 Or posy, girding round the several fronts 
 
 Of three clear-sounding and harmonious bells, 
 
 That in the steeple hang, his pious gift.'^ 
 
 " So fails, so languishes, grows dim, and dies," 
 The grey-hair'd Wanderer pensively exclaim'd, 
 "" All that this world is proud of. From their spheres 
 The stars of human glory are cast down ; 
 Perish the roses and the flowers of kings, 
 Princes, and emperors, and the crowns and palms 
 Of all the mighty, wither'd and consumed ! 
 Nor is power given to lowliest innocence 
 Long to protect her own. The man himself 
 Departs ; and soon is spent the line of those 
 Who, in the bodily image, in the mind, 
 In heart or soul, in station or pursuit. 
 Did most resemble him. Degrees and ranks, 
 Fraternities and orders — heaping high 
 
 6 The pillars of the gateway in front of the mansion remained when we first took 
 up our abode at Grasmere. Two or three cottages still remain, which are called 
 Knott Houses, from the name of the gentleman (I have called him a Kniglit) concern- 
 ing whom these traditions survive. He was the ancestor of the Knott family, for- 
 merly considerable proprietors in the district. — Author* s Notes, 1843. 
 
THE EXCUKSION. 471 
 
 New wealth upon the burthen of the old, 
 
 And placing trust in privilege confirm'd 
 
 And re-conlirni'd — are scoff'd at with a smile 
 
 Of greedy foretaste, from the secret stand 
 
 Of Desolation, aim'd : to slow decline 
 
 These yield, and these to sudden overthrow : 
 
 Their virtue, service, happiness, and state 
 
 Expires ; and Nature's pleasant robe of green, 
 
 Humanity's appointed shroud, enwraps 
 
 Their monuments and their memory. The vast Frame 
 
 Of social nature changes evermore 
 
 Her organs and her members with decay 
 
 Restless, and restless generation, powers 
 
 And functions dying and produced at need, — 
 
 And by this law the mighty whole subsists : 
 
 With an ascent and progress in the main ; 
 
 Yet, 0, how disproportion'd to the hopes 
 
 And expectations of self -flattering minds ! 
 
 The courteous Knight, whose bones are here interr'd, 
 Lived in an age conspicuous as our own 
 For strife and ferment in the minds of men ; 
 Whence alteration in the forms of things 
 Various and vast. A memorable age ! 
 Which did to him assign a pensive lot, — 
 To linger 'mid the last of those bright clouds 
 That on the steady breeze of honour sail'd 
 In long procession calm and beautiful. 
 He who had seen his own bright order fade, 
 And its devotion gradually decline, 
 (AYhile war, relinquishing the lance and shield. 
 Her temper changed, and bow'd to other laws,) 
 Had also witness'd, in his morn of life, 
 That violent commotion which o'erthrew, 
 In town and city and sequester'd glen. 
 Altar, and cross, and church of solemn roof, 
 And old religious house, — pile after pile; 
 And shook their tenants out into the fields. 
 Like wild beasts without home ! Their hour was come : 
 But why no softening thought of gratitude, 
 No just remembrance, scruple, or wise doubt ? 
 Benevolence is mild; nor borrows help. 
 Save at worst need, from bold impetuous force, 
 Fitliest allied to anger and revenge. 
 But Human-kind rejoices in the might 
 Of mutability ; and airy hopes, 
 Dancing around her, hinder and disturb 
 
472 WORDSWORTH. 
 
 Those meditations of the soul that feed 
 The retrospective virtues. Festive songs 
 Break from tlie madden'd nations at the sight 
 Of sudden overthrow ; and cold neglect 
 Is the sure consequence of slow decay. 
 
 Even," said the Wanderer, "as that courteous Knight, 
 Bound by his vow to labour for redress 
 Of all who suffer wrong, and to enact 
 By sword and lance the law of gentleness, 
 (If I may venture of myself to speak, 
 Trusting that not incongruously I blend 
 Low things with lofty,) I too shall be doom'd 
 To outlive the kindly use and fair esteem 
 Of the poor calling which my youth embraced 
 With no unworthy prospect. But enough ; — 
 Thoughts crowd upon me, — and Hwere seemlier now 
 To stop, and yield our gracious Teacher thanks 
 For the pathetic records which his voice 
 Hath here deliver'd; words of heartfelt truth, 
 Tending to patience when affliction strikes ; 
 To hope and love ; to confident repose 
 In God ; and reverence for the dust of Man." 
 
 BOOK EIGHTH. 
 
 THE PARSOI^TAGE. 
 
 The pensive Sceptic of the lonely vale 
 
 To those acknowledgments subscribed his own. 
 
 With a sedate compliance, which the Priest 
 
 Fail'd not to notice, inly pleased, and said: 
 
 " If ye, by whom invited I began 
 
 These narratives of calm and humble life, 
 
 Be satisfied, 'tis well, — the end is gain'd; 
 
 And, in return for sympathy bestow'd 
 
 x\nd patient listening, thanks accept from me. — 
 
 Life, death, eternity ! momentous themes 
 
 Are they, and might demand a seraph's tongue, 
 
 Were they not equal to their own support ; 
 
 And tlierefore no incompetence of mine 
 
 Could do them wrong. The universal forms 
 
 Of human nature, in a spot like this. 
 
 Present themselves at once to all men's view: 
 
 Ye wisli'd for act and circumstance, that make 
 
 The individual known and understood ; 
 
THE EXCURSIOJ?^. 473 
 
 And sucli as my best judgment could select 
 From what the' place afforded have been given; 
 Though apprehensions crossed me that my zeal 
 To his might well I)e liken'd, who unlocks 
 A cabinet stored with gems and pictures, — draws 
 His treasures forth, soliciting regard 
 To this, and this, as worthier than the last. 
 Till the spectator, who awhile was pleased 
 More than th' exhibitor himself, becomes 
 Weary and faint, and longs to be released. — 
 But let us hence! my dwelling is in sight, 
 And there " — 
 
 At tliis the Solitary shrunk 
 With backward will ; but, wanting not address 
 That inward motion to disguise, he said 
 To liis Compatriot, smiling as he spake : 
 " The peaceable remains of this good Knight 
 Would be disturb'd, I fear, with wrathful scorn, 
 If consciousness could reach him Avhere he lies 
 That one, albeit of these degenerate times. 
 Deploring changes past, or dreading change 
 Foreseen, had dared to couple, even in thought. 
 The fine vocation of the sword and lance 
 AVith the gross aims and body-bending toil 
 Of a poor brotherhood who walk the earth 
 Pitied, and, where they are not known, despised. 
 
 Yet, by the good Knight's leave, the two estates 
 Are graced with some resemblance. Errant those, 
 Exiles and wanderers, — and the like are these ; 
 Who, with their burthen, traverse hill and dale, 
 Carrying relief for nature's simple wants. — 
 What though no higher recompense be sought 
 Than honest maintenance, by irksome toil 
 Full oft procnred, yet may they claim respect, 
 Among th' intelligent, for what. this course 
 Enables them to be and to perform. 
 Their tardy steps give leisure to observe, 
 While solitude permits the mind to feel ; 
 Instructs, and prompts her to supply defects 
 By the division of her inward self 
 For grateful converse : and to these poor men 
 Nature (I but repeat your favourite boast) 
 Is bountiful ; — go wheresoe'er they may, 
 Kind Nature's various wealth is all their own. 
 Versed in the characters of men ; and bound. 
 By ties of daily interest, to maintain 
 
474 WOKDSWOKTH. 
 
 Conciliatory manners and smooth speech ; 
 Such have been, and still are in their degree, 
 Examples efficacious to refine 
 Eude intercourse ; apt agents to expel. 
 By importation of unlook'd-for arts, 
 Barbarian torpor, and blind prejudice ; 
 Eaising, through just gradation, savage life 
 To rustic, and the rustic to urbane. 
 Within their moving magazines is lodged 
 Power that comes fortli to quicken and exalt 
 Affections seated in the mother's breast. 
 And in the lover's fancy ; and to feed 
 The sober sympathies of long-tried friends. 
 By these Itinerants, as experienced men, 
 Counsel is given ; contention they appease 
 With gentle language; in remotest wilds, 
 Tears wipe away, and pleasant tidings bring : 
 Could the proud quest of chivalry do more ? " 
 
 "Happy/' rejoin'd the Wanderer, "they who gain 
 A panegyric from your generous tongue ! 
 But, if to these Wayfarers once pertain'd 
 Aught of romantic interest, it is gone: 
 Their purer service, in this realm at least, 
 Is past for ever. — An inventive Age 
 Has wrought, if not with speed of magic, yet 
 To most strange issues.'^ I have lived to mark 
 A new and unforeseen creation rise 
 From out the labours of a peaceful Land, 
 Wielding her potent enginery to frame 
 And to produce, with appetite as keen 
 As that of war, which rests not night or day. 
 Industrious to destroy ! With fruitless pains 
 Might one like me noiv visit many a tract 
 Which, in his youth, he trod, and trod again, 
 A lone pedestrian with a scanty freight, 
 Wish'd-for, or welcome, wheresoe'er he came. 
 Among the tenantry of thorpe and vill ; * 
 
 7 What follows in the discourse of the Wanderer, upon the changes he had wit- 
 nessed in rural life, by the introduction of machinery, is truly described from Avha't I 
 myself saw during my boyhood and early youth,, and from what was often told me 
 by persons of this humble calling. Parliament has interfered, to prevent the night- 
 work which was ojice carried on in these mills as actively as during the day-time, 
 and by necessity still more pernicioush^ — a sad disgrace "to the propi'ietors, and to 
 tlie nation which could so long tolerate*^such unnatural proceedings. Reviewing at 
 this late period, 1843, what I put into the mouths of my interlocutors a fe^v years after 
 the commencement of the century, I grieve that so little progress has been made in 
 diminishing the evils deplored, or promoting the benefits of education which the Wan- 
 derer anticipjites. — Author's Notes. 
 
 8 The words thorpe and vill have both nearly the same meaning, — a hamlet, villa, 
 or any small collection of houses. 
 
THE EXCURSIOS^. 475 
 
 Or straggling burgli, of ancient cliarter proud, 
 
 And dignified by battlements and towers 
 
 Of some stern castle, mouldering on the brow 
 
 Of a green bill or bank of rugged stream. 
 
 The foot-path faintly mark'd, tlie horse-track wild, 
 
 And formidable length of plashy lane., 
 
 (Prized avenues ere others had been shaped 
 
 Or easier links connecting place with place,) 
 
 Have vanish 'd, — swallow 'd up by stately roads 
 
 Easy and bold, that penetrate the gloom 
 
 Of Britain's farthest glens. The Earth has lent 
 
 Her waters, Air her breezes ; and the sail 
 
 Of traffic glides with ceaseless intercourse, 
 
 Glistening along the low and woody dale ; 
 
 Or, in its progress, on the lofty side 
 
 Of some bare hill, with w^onder kenn'd from far. 
 
 Meanwhile, at social Industry's command, 
 How quick, hoAV vast an increase ! From the germ 
 Of some poor hamlet, rapidly produced 
 Here a huge town, continuous and compact, 
 Hiding the face of earth for leagues; and there. 
 Where not a habitation stood before, 
 Abodes of men irregularly mass'd 
 Like trees in forests, spread through spacious tracts, 
 O'er which the smoke of unremitting fires 
 Hangs permanent, and plentiful as wreaths 
 Of vapour glittering in the morning sun. 
 And, w^heresoe'er the traveller turns his steps. 
 He sees the barren wilderness erased, 
 Or disappearing; triumph that proclaims 
 How much the mild Directress of the plough 
 Owes to alliance with these new-born arts! 
 Hence is the wide sea peopled ; hence the shores 
 Of Britain are resorted to by ships 
 Freighted from every climate of the world 
 Witii the world's choicest produce. Hence that sum 
 Of keels that rest within her crowded ports, 
 Or ride at anchor in her sounds and bays ; 
 That animating spectacle of sails 
 1'hat, through her inland regions, to and fro 
 Pass with the respirations of the tide. 
 Perpetual, multitudinous! Finally, 
 Hence a dread arm of floating power, a voice 
 Of thunder daunting those who would approach 
 With hostile purposes the blessed Isle, 
 Truth's consecrated residence, the seat 
 
476 WOEDSWORTH. 
 
 Impregnable of Liberty and Peace. 
 
 And yet, happy Pastor of a flock 
 Faithfully watch'd, and, by that loving care 
 And Heaven's good providence, preserved from taint ! 
 AVith you I grieve, Avhen on the darker side 
 Of this great change I look ; and there behold 
 Such outrage done to Nature as compels 
 Th' indignant power to justify herself; 
 Yea, to avenge her violated rights, 
 For England's bane. When soothing darkness spreads 
 O'er hill and vale," the Wanderer thus express'd 
 His recollections, "and the punctual stars. 
 While all things else are gatliering to their homes, 
 Advance, and in the firmament of heaven 
 Glitter, — but undisturbing, undisturb'd; 
 As if their silent company were charged 
 With peaceful admonitions for the heart 
 Of all-beholding Man, Earth's thoughtful lord ; 
 Then, in full many a region, once like this 
 Th' assured domain of calm simplicity 
 And pensive quiet, an unnatural light 
 Prepared for never-resting Labour's eyes 
 Breaks from a many-window'd fabric huge ; 
 And at th' appointed hour a bell is heard, 
 Of harsher import than the curfew-knoll® 
 That spake the Norman Conqueror's stern behest, — 
 A local summons to unceasing toil ! 
 Disgorged are now the ministers of day ; 
 And, as they issue from th' illumined pile, 
 A fresh band meets them, at the crowded door. 
 And in the courts, and Avhere the rumbling stream, 
 That turns the multitude of dizzy wheels. 
 Glares, like a troubled spirit, in its bed 
 Among the rocks below. Men, maidens, youths, 
 Mother and little children, boys and girls. 
 Enter, and each the wonted task resumes 
 W^ithin this temple, where is offer'd up 
 To Gain, the master idol of the realm. 
 Perpetual sacrifice. Even thus of old 
 Our ancestors, within the still domain 
 Of A^ast cathedral or conventual church. 
 Their vigils kept ; where tapers day and night 
 On the dim altar burn'd continually, 
 
 9 A law was made hy William the Conqueror, that all people should put out their 
 fires and lights at the eight o'clock bell, and go to bed. Hence this signal came to be 
 called the curfexo bell, from the French couvre-feUf that is, cover-fire. 
 
THE EXCURSIOIT. 477 
 
 In token that the house was evermore 
 Watching to God. Eeligions men Avere they; 
 Nor would their reason, tntor'd to aspire 
 Above this transitory world, allow 
 That there should pass a moment of the year, 
 When in their land tli' Almighty's service ceased. 
 
 Triumph who will in these profaner rites 
 Which we, a generation self-extolFd, 
 As zealously perform! I cannot share 
 His proud complacency : — yet do I exult, 
 Casting reserve away, exult to see 
 An intellectual mastery exercised 
 O'er the blind elements ; a purpose given, 
 A perseverance fed ; almost a soul 
 Imparted to brute matter. I rejoice, 
 Measuring the force of those gigantic powers 
 That, by the thinking mind, have been compell'd 
 To serve the will of feeble-bodied Man. 
 For with the sense of admiration blends 
 The animating hope that time may come 
 When, strengthen'd, yet not dazzled, by the might 
 Of this dominion over nature gain'd, 
 Men of all lands shall exercise the same 
 In due proportion to their country's need ; 
 Learning, though late, that all true glory rests, 
 All praise, all safety, and all happiness. 
 Upon the moral law. Egyptian Thebes, 
 Tyre, by the margin of the sounding waves. 
 Palmyra, central in the desert, fell ; 
 And the Arts died by which they had been raised. 
 Call Archimedes from his buried tomb 
 Upon the grave of vanish'd Syracuse, 
 And feelingly the Sage shall make report 
 How insecure, bow baseless in itself. 
 Is the Philosophy whose sway depends 
 On mere material instruments ; how weak 
 Those arts and high inventions, if unpropp'd 
 By virtue. He, sighing with pensive grief, 
 Amid his calm abstractions, would admit 
 That not the slender privilege is theirs 
 To save themselves from blank forgetfulness ! " 
 
 When from the Wanderer's hps these words had fallen, 
 I said, '- And, did in truth those vaunted Arts 
 Possess such privilege, how could we escape 
 Sadness and keen regret, we who revere. 
 And would preserve as things above all price, 
 
478 WOKDSWORTH. 
 
 The old domestic morals of the land, 
 
 Her simple manners, and the stable worth 
 
 That dignified and cheer'd a low estate ? 
 
 ! where is now the character of peace. 
 
 Sobriety, and order, and chaste loye. 
 
 And honest dealing, and nntainted speech, 
 
 And pure good-will, and hospitable cheer. 
 
 That made the very thought of country-life 
 
 A thought of refuge, for a mind detain'd 
 
 Eeluctantly amid the bustling crowd? 
 
 Where now the beauty of the sabbath kept 
 
 With conscientious reverence, as a day 
 
 By the almighty Lawgiver pronounced 
 
 Holy and blest ? and where the winning grace 
 
 Of all the lighter ornaments attach'd 
 
 To time and season, as the year roU'd round ? " 
 
 " Fled ! " was the Wanderer's passionate response; 
 " Fled utterly ! or only to be traced 
 In a few fortunate retreats like this ; 
 Which I behold with trembling, when I think 
 What lamentable change, a year — a month — 
 May bring; that brook converting as it runs 
 Into an instrument of deadly bane 
 For those who, yet untempted to forsake 
 The simple occupations of their sires. 
 Drink the pure water of its innocent stream 
 With lip almost as pure. — Domestic bliss, 
 (Or call it comfort, by a humbler name,) 
 How art thou blighted for the poor man's heart ! 
 Lo ! in such neighbourhood, from morn to eve, 
 The habitations empty ! or perchance 
 The Mother left alone, — no helping hand 
 To rock the cradle of her peevish babe ; 
 No daughters round her, busy at the wheel, 
 Or in despatch of each day's little growth 
 Of household occupation ; no nice arts 
 Of needle-work; no bustle at the fire. 
 Where once the dinner was prepared with pride ; 
 Nothing to speed the day, or cheer the mind ; 
 Nothing to praise, to teach, or to command ! 
 
 The Father, if perchance he still retain 
 His old employments, goes to field or wood. 
 No longer led or follow'd by the Sons ; 
 Idlers perchance they were, — but in his sight; 
 Breathing fresh air, and treading the green earth ; 
 Till their short holiday of childhood ceased, 
 
THE EXCURSION. 479 
 
 Ne'er to return ! That birthright now is lost. 
 
 Economists will tell you that the State 
 
 Thrives by the forfeiture, — unfeeling thought, 
 
 And false as monstrous ! Can the mother thrive 
 
 By the destruction of her innocent sons. 
 
 In whom a premature necessity 
 
 Blocks out the forms of Mature, preconsumes 
 
 The reason, famishes the heart, shuts up 
 
 The infant Being in itself, and makes 
 
 Its very Scoring a season of decay! 
 
 The lot is wretched, the condition sad, 
 
 Whether a pining discontent surviye. 
 
 And thirst for change ; or habit hath subdued 
 
 The soul deprest, dejected — even to love 
 
 Of her close tasks and long captivity. 
 
 0, banish far such wisdom as condemns 
 A native Briton to these inward chains, 
 Fix'd in his soul, so early and so deep; 
 Without his own consent, or knowledge, fix'd ! 
 He is a slave to whom release comes not. 
 And cannot come. The boy, where'er he turns, 
 Is still a prisoner ; when the wind is up 
 Among tlie clouds, and roars through th' ancient woods ; 
 Or when the Sun is shining in the East, 
 Quiet and calm. Behold him, — in the school 
 Of his attainments ? no ; but with the air 
 Fanning his temjiles under heaven's blue arch. 
 His raiment, whiten'd o'er Avith cotton-flakes 
 Or locks of wool, announces whence he comes. 
 Creeping his gait and cowering, his lip pale, 
 His respiration quick and audible ; 
 And scarcely could you fancy that a gleam 
 Could break from out those languid eyes, or a blush 
 Mantle upon his cheek. Is this the form. 
 Is that the countenance, and such the port. 
 Of no mean Being ? one who should be clothed 
 With dignity befitting his proud hope ; 
 Who, in his very childhood, should appear 
 Sublime from present purity and joy ? 
 The limbs increase ; but liberty of mind 
 Is gone for ever ; and this organic frame. 
 So joyful in its motions, is become 
 Dull, to the joy of her own motions dead; 
 And even the touch, so exquisitely pour'd 
 Through the whole body, with a languid will 
 Performs its functions ; rarely competent 
 
480 WORDSWOKTH. 
 
 To impress a vivid feeling on the mind 
 
 Of what there is delightful in the breeze, 
 
 The gentle visitations of the sun, 
 
 Or lapse of liquid element, — by hand 
 
 Or foot or lip, in Summer's warmth, — perceived. 
 
 Can hope look forward to a manhood raised 
 
 On such foundations ? " 
 
 '' Hope is none for him ! " 
 The pale Eecluse indignantly exclaim'd, 
 " And tens of thousands suffer wrong as deep. 
 Yet be it ask'd, in justice to our age, 
 If there were not, before those arts appeared, 
 These structures rose, commingling old and young, 
 And unripe sex with sex, for mutual taint ; 
 If there were not, then, in our far-famed Isle, 
 Multitudes, who from infancy had breathed 
 Air unimprison'd, and had lived at large ; 
 Yet walk'd beneath the Sun, in human shape, 
 As abject, as degraded ? At this day. 
 Who shall enumerate the crazy huts 
 And tottering hovels, whence do issue forth 
 A ragged Offspring, w^th their upright hair 
 Crown'd like the image of fantastic Fear; 
 Or wearing, (shall we say ?) in that white growth. 
 An ill-adjusted turban, for defence 
 Or fierceness, wreathed around their sun-burnt -brows, 
 By savage Nature ? Shrivell'd are their lips ; 
 Naked, and colour'd like the soil, the feet 
 On which they stand ; as if thereby they drew 
 Some nourishment, as trees do by their roots, 
 From earth, the common mother of us all. 
 Figure and mien, complexion and attire 
 Are leagued to strike dismay ; but outstretched hand 
 And whining voice denote them supplicants 
 For the least boon that pity can bestow. 
 Such on the breast of darksome heaths are found; 
 And with their parents occupy the skirts 
 Of furze-clad commons ; such are born and reared 
 At the mine's mouth under impending rocks ; 
 Or dwell in chambers of some natural cave; 
 Or where their ancestors erected huts, 
 For the convenience of unlawful gain. 
 In forest purlieus; and the like are bred. 
 All England through, where nooks and slips of ground 
 Purloin'd, in times less jealous than our own, 
 From the green margin of the public way, 
 
THE EXCUESION. 481 
 
 A residence afford tliem, 'mid the bloom 
 
 And gaiety of cultivated fields. 
 
 Such (we will hope the lowest in the scale) 
 
 Do I remember oft-times to have seen 
 
 'Mid Buxton's dreary heights. In earnest watch, 
 
 Till the swift vehicle approach, they stand ; 
 
 Then, following closely with the cloud of dust, 
 
 An uncouth feat exhibit, and are gone 
 
 Heels over head, like tumblers on a stage. 
 
 Up from the ground they snatch the copper coin. 
 
 And, on the freight of merry passengers 
 
 Fixing a steady eye, maintain their speed ; 
 
 And spin — and pant — and overhead again, 
 
 Wild pursuivants ! until their breath is lost. 
 
 Or bounty tires, — and every face that smiled 
 
 Encouragement hath ceased to look that way. 
 
 But, like the vagrants of the gipsy tribe. 
 
 These, bred to little pleasure in themselves, 
 
 Are profitless to others. 
 
 Turn we, then, 
 To Britons born and bred wdthin the pale 
 Of civil polity, and early train'd 
 To earn, by wholesome labour in the field, 
 The bread they eat. A sample should I give 
 Of what this stock hath long produced to enrich 
 The tender age of life, ye would exclaim, 
 * Is this the whistling plough-boy whose shrill notes 
 Impart new gladness to the morning air ? ' 
 Forgive me if I venture to suspect 
 That many, sweet to hear of in soft verse. 
 Are of no finer frame. Stiff are his joints; 
 Beneath a cumbrous frock, that to the knees 
 Invests the thriving churl, his legs appear. 
 Fellows to those that lustily upheld 
 The wooden stools for everlasting use, 
 l^hereon our fathers sate. And mark his brow ! 
 IJnder whose shaggy canopy are set 
 Two eyes — not dim, but of a healthy stare — 
 Wide, sluggish, blank, and ignorant, and. strange, — 
 Proclaiming boldly that they never drew 
 A look or motion of intelligence 
 From infant-conning of the Christ-cross-row, 
 Or puzzling through a primer, line by line. 
 Till perfect mastery crown the pains at last. 
 What kindly warmth from touch of fostering hand, 
 What penetrating power of sun or breeze, 
 
482 WORDSWORTH. 
 
 Shall e'er dissolve the crust wherein his soul 
 
 Sleeps, like a caterpillar sheath'd in ice? 
 
 This torpor is no pitiable work 
 
 Of modern ingenuity ; no town 
 
 Nor crowded city can be tax'd with aught 
 
 Of sottish vice or desperate breach of law, 
 
 To which (and who can tell where or how soon ?) 
 
 He may be roused. This Boy the fields produce : 
 
 His spade and hoe, mattock and glittering scythe. 
 
 The carter's whip that on his shoulder rests 
 
 In air high-towering with a boorish pomp. 
 
 The sceptre of his sway, his country's name. 
 
 Her equal rights, her churches and her schools, — 
 
 What have they done for him ? And, let me ask, 
 
 Eor tens of thousands uninform'd as he ? 
 
 In brief, what liberty of mind is here ? " 
 
 This ardent sally pleased the mild good Man, 
 To whom th' appeal couch'd in its closing words 
 Was pointedly address'd ; and to the thoughts 
 That, in assent or opposition, rose 
 Within his mind, he seem'd prepared to give 
 Prompt utterance ; but the Vicar interposed 
 With invitation urgently renew'd. — 
 We follow'd, taking as he led, a path 
 Along a hedge of hollies dark and tall. 
 Whose flexile boughs, low bending with a weight 
 Of leafy spray, conceal'd the stems and roots 
 That gave them nourishment. When frosty winds 
 Howl from the North, what kindly warmth, methought. 
 Is here, — how grateful this impervious screen I 
 Not shaped by simple wearing of the foot 
 On rural business passing to and fro 
 Was the commodious walk : a careful hand 
 Had mark'd the line, and strewn its surface o'er 
 With pure cerulean gravel, from the heights 
 Fetch'd by a neighbouring brook. Across the vale 
 The stately fence accompanied our steps ; 
 And thus the pathway, by perennial green 
 Guarded and graced, seem'd fashion'd to unite. 
 As by a beautiful yet solemn chain. 
 The Pastor's mansion with the house of prayer. 
 
 Like image of solemnity, conjoin'd 
 With feminine allurement soft and fair. 
 The mansion's self display'd ; — a reverend pile. 
 With bold projections and recesses deep ; 
 Shadowy, yet gay and lightsome as it stood 
 
THE EXCURSION. 483 
 
 Fronting the noontide Sun. We paused to admire 
 
 The pillar'd porch, elaborately emboss'd ; 
 
 The low wide windows with their mullions old ; 
 
 The cornice, richly fretted, of grey stone ; 
 
 And that smooth slope from which the dwelling rose. 
 
 By beds and banks Arcadian of gay flowers 
 
 And flowering shrubs, protected and adorn'd: 
 
 Profusion bright! and every flower assuming 
 
 A more than natural vividness of hue, 
 
 From unaffected contrast with the gloom 
 
 Of sober cypress, and the darker foil 
 
 Of yew, in which survived some traces, here 
 
 Not unbecoming, of grotesque device 
 
 And uncouth fancy. From behind the roof 
 
 Rose the slim ash and massy sycamore, 
 
 Blending their diverse foliage with the green 
 
 Of ivy, flourishing and thick, that clasp'd 
 
 The iiuge round chimneys, harbour of delight 
 
 For wren and redbreast, — where they sit and sing 
 
 Their slender ditties when the trees are bare. 
 
 Nor must I leave untouch'd (the picture else 
 
 Were incomplete) a relique of old times 
 
 Happily spared, a little Gothic niche 
 
 Of nicest workmanship ; that once had held 
 
 The sculptured image of some patron-saint. 
 
 Or of the blessed Virgin, looking down 
 
 On all who enter'd those religions doors. 
 
 But, lo ! where from the rocky garden -mount, 
 Crown'd by its antique summer-house, descends. 
 Light as the silver fawn, a radiant Girl ; 
 For she hath recognised her honour'd friend, 
 The Wanderer ever welcome ! A prompt kiss 
 The gladsome Child bestows at his request ; 
 And, up the flowery lawn as we advance. 
 Hangs on the old Man with a happy look. 
 And with a pretty restless hand of love. 
 We enter, — by the Lady of the place 
 Cordially greeted. Graceful was her port : 
 A lofty stature undepressed by time, 
 Whose visitation had not wholly spared 
 The finer lineaments of form and face ; 
 To that complexion brought which prudence trusts in 
 And wisdom loves. — But, when a stately ship 
 Sails in smooth Aveather by the placid coast 
 On homeward voyage, what if wind and wave. 
 And hardship undergone in various climes, 
 
484 WOKDSWORTH. 
 
 Have caused her to abate the virgin pride, 
 And that full trim of inexperienced hope 
 With which she left her haven ? not for this, 
 Should the sun strike her, and th' impartial breeze 
 Play on her streamers, fails she to assume 
 Brightness and touching beauty of her own. 
 That charm all eyes. So bright, so fair, appear'd 
 This goodly Matron, shining in the beams 
 Of unexpected pleasure. — Soon the board 
 Was spread, and we partook a plain repast. 
 Here, resting in cool shelter, we beguiled 
 The mid-day hours with desultory talk ; 
 From trivial themes to general argument 
 Passing, as accident or fancy led. 
 Or courtesy prescribed. AVhile question rose 
 And answer flow'd, the fetters of reserve 
 Dropping from every mind, the Solitary 
 Eesumed the manners of his happier days ; 
 And in the various conversation bore 
 A willing, nay, at times, a forward part ; 
 Yet with the grace of one who in the world 
 Had learn'd the art of pleasing, and had now 
 Occasion given him to display his skill. 
 Upon the steadfast 'vantage-ground of truth. 
 He gazed, with admiration unsuppress'd, 
 Upon the landscape of the sun-bright vale, 
 Seen, from the shady room in which we sate, 
 In soften'd perspective ; and more than once 
 Praised the consummate harmony serene 
 Of gravity and elegance, diffused 
 Around the mansion and its whole domain ; 
 Not, doubtless, without help of female taste 
 And female care. — "A blessed lot is yours I " 
 The words escaped his lip, with a tender sigh 
 Breathed over them : but suddenly the door 
 Flew open, and a pair of lusty Boys 
 Appear'd, confusion checking their delight. — 
 Not brothers they in feature or attire, 
 But fond companions, so I guess'd, in field, 
 And by the river's margin, — whence they come. 
 Keen anglers with unusual spoil elated. 
 One bears a willow-pannier on his back. 
 The boy of plainer garb, whose blush survives 
 More deeply tinged. Twin might the other be 
 To that fair girl who from the garden -mount 
 Bounded: — triumphant entry this for him! 
 
THE EXCURSION". 485 
 
 Between his hands he holds a smooth blue stone, 
 
 On whose capacious snrface see outspread 
 
 Large store of gleaming crimson-spotted tronts; 
 
 Ranged side by side, and lessening by degrees 
 
 Up to the dwarf that tops the pinnacle. 
 
 Upon the board he lays the sky-blue stone 
 
 With its rich freight ; their number he proclaims ; 
 
 Tells from what pool the noblest had been dragg'd; 
 
 And where the very monarch of the brook, 
 
 After long struggle, had escaped at last, — 
 
 Stealing alternately at them and us 
 
 (As doth his comrade too) a look of pride: 
 
 And, verily, the silent creatures made 
 
 A sjDlendid sight, together thus exposed ; 
 
 Dead, — but not sullied or deform'd by death, 
 
 That seem'd to pity what he could not spare. 
 
 But, 0, the animation in the mien 
 Of those two boys ! yea in the very words 
 With which the young narrator was inspired. 
 When, as our questions led, he told at large 
 Of that day's prowess I Him might I compare, 
 His looks, tones, gestures, eager eloquence. 
 To a bold brook that splits for better speed. 
 And at the self-same moment works its way 
 Through many channels, ever and anon 
 Parted and re-united : his compeer, 
 To the still lake, whose stillness is to sight 
 As beautiful, — as grateful to the mind. — 
 But to what object shall the lovely Girl 
 Be liken'd? — she whose countenance and air 
 Unite the graceful qualities of both. 
 Even as she shares the pride and joy of both. 
 
 My grey-hair'd Friend was moved ; his vivid eye 
 Glisten'd with tenderness; his mind, I knew, 
 AVas full ; and had, I doubted not, return'd, 
 U])on this impulse, to the theme — erewhile 
 Abruptly broken off. The ruddy boys 
 Withdrew, on summons to their well-earn'd meal ; 
 And He, — to whom all tongues rcsign'd their rights 
 With willingTiess, to whom the general ear 
 Listen'd with readier patience than to strain 
 Of music, late or harp, a long delight 
 That ceased not when his voice had ceased, — as one 
 Who from truth's central point serenely views 
 The compass of his argument, began 
 Mildly, and with a clear and steady tone. 
 
486 WORDSWORTH. 
 
 BOOK NINTH. 
 
 DISCOURSE OF THE WANDERER, AND AN EVENING VISIT TO 
 
 THE LAKE. 
 
 " To every Form of being is assign'd," 
 
 Thus calmly spake the venerable Sage, 
 
 " An active Principle : — howe'er removed 
 
 From sense and observation, it subsists 
 
 In all things, in all natures ; in the stars 
 
 Of azure heaven, the unenduring clouds, 
 
 In flower and tree, in every pebbly stone 
 
 That paves the brooks, the stationary rocks, 
 
 The moving waters, and th' invisible air. 
 
 Whate'er exists hath properties that spread 
 
 Beyond itself, communicating good, 
 
 A simple blessing, or with evil mix'd ; 
 
 Spirit that knows no insulated spot. 
 
 No chasm, no solitude ; from link to link 
 
 It circulates, the Soul of all the worlds. 
 
 This is the freedom of the universe; 
 
 Unfolded still the more, more visible. 
 
 The more we know; and yet is reverenced least, 
 
 And least respected in the human Mind, 
 
 Its most apparent home. The food of hope 
 
 Is meditated action ; robb'd of this 
 
 Her sole support, she languishes and dies. 
 
 "We perish also ; for we live by hope 
 
 And by desire ; we see by the glad light 
 
 And breathe the sweet air of futurity ; 
 
 And so we live, or else we have no life. 
 
 To-morrow — nay perchauce this very hour 
 
 (For every moment hath its own to-moiTow !) 
 
 Those blooming Boys, whose hearts are almost sick 
 
 With present triumph, will be sure to find 
 
 A field before them freshen'd with the dew 
 
 Of other expectations ; — in which course 
 
 Their happy year spins round. The youth obeys 
 
 A like glad impulse ; and so moves the man 
 
 'Mid all his apprehensions, cares, and fears, — 
 
 Or so he ought to move. Ah ! why in age 
 
 Do we revert so fondly to the walks 
 
 Of childhood, but tliat there the Soul discerns 
 
 The dear memorial footsteps unimpair'd 
 
 Of her own native vigour ; thence can hear 
 
THE EXCUKSION. 487 
 
 Rcverbei-ations ; and a choral song, 
 Commingling with the incense that ascends, 
 Undaunted, toward th' imperishable heavens 
 From her own lonely altar ? 
 
 Do not think 
 The good and wise ever will be allow'd, 
 Though strength decay, to breathe in such estate 
 As shall divide them wholly from the stir 
 Of hopeful nature. Rightly is it said 
 That Man descends into the Vale of years; 
 Yet have I thought that we might also speak, 
 And not presumptuously, I trust, of Age, 
 As of a final Emixexce"; though bare 
 In aspect and forbidding, yet a point 
 On which 'tis not impossible to sit 
 In awful sovereignty ; a place of power, 
 A throne, that may be liken'd unto his 
 Who, in some placid day of Summer, looks 
 Down from a mountain-top, — say one of those 
 High peaks that bound the vale where now we are. 
 Faint, and dimiuish'd to the gazing eye. 
 Forest and field, and hill and dale appear, 
 "With all the shapes over their surface spread: 
 But, while the gi-oss and visible frame of things 
 Relinquishes its^hold upon the sense. 
 Yea, almost on the Mind herself, and seems 
 All unsubstantialized, — how loud the voice 
 Of waters, with invigorated peal 
 From the full river in the vale below. 
 Ascending I For on that superior height 
 Who sits, is disencumber'd from the press 
 Of near obstructions, and is privileged 
 To breathe in solitude, above the host 
 Of ever-humming insects, 'mid thin air 
 That suits not them. The murmur of the leaves 
 Many and idle visits not his ear : 
 This he is freed from, and from thousand notes 
 (Xot less unceasing, not less vain than these) 
 By which the finer passages of sense 
 Are occupied ; and the Soul, that would incline 
 To listen, is prevented or deterred. 
 
 And may it not be hoped that, placed by age 
 In like removal, tranquil though severe, 
 We are not so removed for utter loss ; 
 But for some favour, suited to our need ? 
 What more than that the severing should confer 
 
488 WORDSWOKTH. 
 
 Fresh power to commune with th' invisible world, 
 
 And hear t]ie mighty stream of tendency 
 
 Uttering, for elevation of our thought, 
 
 A clear sonorous voice, inaudible 
 
 To the vast multitude ; whose doom it is 
 
 To run the giddy round of vain deliglit. 
 
 Or fret and labour on the Plain below. 
 
 But, if to such sublime ascent the hopes 
 Of Man may rise, as to a welcome close 
 And termination of his mortal course ; 
 Them only can such hope inspire whose minds 
 Have not been starved by absolute neglect ; 
 Nor bodies crushed by unremitting toil ; 
 To whom kind JSTature therefore may afford 
 Proof of the sacred love she bears for all; 
 Whose birthright Keason therefore may ensure. 
 For me, consulting what I feel within. 
 In times when most existence with herself 
 Is satisfied, I cannot but believe 
 That, far as kindly Nature hath free scope 
 And Eeason's sway predominates, even so far 
 Country, society, and time itself. 
 That saps the individual's bodily frame, 
 And lays the generations low in dust. 
 Do, by th' almighty Euler's grace, partake 
 Of one maternal spirit, bringing forth 
 And cherishing with ever-constant love, 
 That tires not, nor betrays. Our life is turned 
 Out of her course, wherever man is made 
 An offering or a sacrifice, a tool 
 Or implement, a passive thing employ'd 
 As a brute mean, without acknowledgment 
 Of common right or interest in the end ; 
 Used or abused, as selfishness may prompt. 
 Say, what can follow for a rational soul 
 Perverted thus, but weakness in all good, 
 And strength in evil ? Hence an after-call 
 For chastisement, and custody, and bonds, 
 And oft-times Death, avenger of the past, 
 And the sole guardian in whose hands we dare 
 Entrust the future. — Not for these sad issues 
 Was Man created ; but to obey the law 
 Of life, and hope, and action. And 'tis known 
 That when we stand upon our native soil, 
 Unelbow'd by such objects as oppress 
 Our active j)owers, those powers themselves become 
 
THE EXCUKSION. 489 
 
 Strong to subvert our noxious qualities : 
 They sweep distemper from the busy day, 
 And make the chalice of the big round year 
 Kun o'er with gladness ; whence the Being moves 
 In beauty through the w^orld ; and all who see 
 Bless him, rejoicing in his neighbourhood." 
 
 " Then," said the Solitary, ^' by what force 
 Of language shall a feeling heart express 
 Her sorrow for that multitude in whom 
 We look for health from seeds that have been sown 
 In sickness, and for increase in a power 
 That works but by extinction ? On themselves 
 They cannot lean, nor turn to their own hearts 
 To know what they must do ; their wisdom is 
 To look into the eyes of others, thence 
 To be instructed what they must avoid : 
 Or rather, let us say, how least observed, 
 How with most quiet and most silent death, 
 With the least taint and injury to the air 
 Th' oppressor breathes, their human form divine, 
 And their immortal soul, may waste away." 
 
 The Sage rejoin'd, "I thank you, — you have spared 
 My voice the utterance of a keen regret, 
 A wide compassion which with you I share. 
 When, heretofore, I placed before jouv sight 
 A Little-one, subjected to the arts 
 Of modern ingenuity, and made 
 The senseless member of a vast machine, 
 Serving as doth a spindle or a wheel ; 
 Think not that, pitying him, I could forget 
 The rustic Boy who walks the fields, untaught ; 
 The slave of ignorance, and oft of want. 
 And miserable hunger. Much, too much, 
 Of this unhappy lot, in early youth 
 We both have wdtness'd, — lot which I myself 
 Sliared, though in mild and merciful degree : 
 Yet was the mind to hindrances exposed. 
 Through which I struggled, not without distress 
 And sometimes injury, like a lamb enthrall'd 
 'Mid thorns and brambles ; or a bird that breaks 
 Through a strong net, and mounts upon the wind. 
 Though with her plumes impair'd. If they, whose souls 
 Should open while they range the richer fields 
 Of merry England, are obstructed less 
 By indigence, their ignorance is not less, 
 Nor less to be deplored. For who can doubt 
 
490 WORDSWORTH. 
 
 That tens of thousands at this day exist 
 Such as the boy you painted, lineal heirs 
 Of those who once were vassals of her soil, 
 Following its fortunes like the beasts or trees 
 Which it sustained. But no one takes delight 
 In this oppression ; none are proud of it ; 
 It bears no sounding name, nor ever bore; 
 A standing grievance, an indigenous vice 
 Of every country under heaven. My thoughts 
 Were turn'd to evils that are new and chosen, 
 A bondage lurking under shape of good, — 
 Arts, in themselves beneficent and kind, 
 But all too fondly followed and too far ; — 
 To victims, which the merciful can see. 
 Nor think that they are victims ; turn'd to wrongs. 
 By women, who have children of their own. 
 Beheld without compassion, yea, with praise! 
 I spake of mischief by the wise diffused 
 With gladness, thinking that the more it spreads 
 The healthier, the securer, we become; 
 Delusion which a moment may destroy! 
 Lastly, I mourn'd for those whom I had seen 
 Corrupted and cast down, on favoured ground, 
 Where circumstance and nature had combined 
 To shelter innocence and cherish love; 
 Who, but for this intrusion, would have lived, , 
 Possess'd of health, and strength, and peace of mind; 
 Thus would have lived, or never have been born. 
 Alas ! what differs more than man from man ! 
 And whence that difference ? whence but from himself ? 
 For see the universal Eace endow'd 
 With the same upright form ! — The Sun is fix'd, 
 And th' infinite magnificence of heaven 
 Fix'd, within reach of every human eye ; 
 The sleepless ocean murmurs for all ears ; 
 The vernal field infuses fresh delight 
 Into all hearts. Throughout the world of sense. 
 Even as an object is sublime or fair. 
 That object is laid open to the view 
 Without reserve or veil ; and as a power 
 Is salutary, or an influence sweet. 
 Are each "and all enabled to perceive 
 That power, that influence, by impartial law. 
 Gifts nobler are vouchsafed alike to all ; 
 Eeason, and, with that reason, smiles and tears; 
 Imagination, freedom in the will ; 
 
THE EXCUfiSIOX. 491 
 
 Conscience to guide and check; and death to be 
 
 Foretasted, immortality conceived 
 
 By all, — a blissful immortality, 
 
 To them whose holiness on Earth shall make 
 
 The Spirit capable of Heaven, assured. 
 
 Strange, then, nor less than monstrous, might be deem'd 
 
 The failure, if th' Almighty, to this point 
 
 Liberal and undistinguishing, should hide 
 
 The excellence of moral qualities 
 
 From common understanding ; leaving truth 
 
 And virtue difficult, abstruse, and dark ; 
 
 Hard to be won, and only by a few ; 
 
 Strange, should He deal herein with nice respects, 
 
 And frustrate all the rest ! Believe it not : 
 
 The primal duties shine aloft — like stars ; 
 
 The charities that soothe, and heal, and bless. 
 
 Are scatter 'd at the feet of Man — like flowers. 
 
 The generous inclination, the just rule. 
 
 Kind wishes, and good actions, and pure thoughts, — 
 
 No mystery is here [ Here is no boon 
 
 For high, — yet not for low ; for proudly graced, — 
 
 Yet not for meek of heart. The smoke ascends 
 
 To heaven as lightly from the cottage-hearth 
 
 As from the haughtiest palace. He whose soul 
 
 Ponders this true equality may walk 
 
 The fields of earth with gratitude and hope ; 
 
 Yet, in that meditation, will he find 
 
 Motive to sadder grief, as we have found ; 
 
 Lamenting ancient virtues overthrown. 
 
 And for th' injustice grieving, that hath made 
 
 So wide a difference between man and man. 
 
 Then let us rather fix our gladden'd thoughts 
 Upon the brighter scene. How blest that pair 
 Of blooming Boys, (whom we beheld even now,) 
 Blest in their several and their common lot! 
 A few short hours of each returning day 
 The thriving prisoners of their village-school; 
 And thence let loose, to seek their pleasant homes 
 Or range the grassy lawn in vacancy ; 
 To breathe and to be happy, run and shout, 
 Idle, — but no delay, no harm, no loss; 
 For every genial power of Heaven and Earth, 
 Through all the seasons of the changeful year, 
 Obsequiously doth take upon herself 
 To labour for them ; bringing each in turn 
 The tribute of enjoyment, knowledge, health, 
 
4:92 WOEDSWOIITH. 
 
 Beauty, or strength ! Sucli privilege is theirs. 
 
 Granted alike in th' outset of their course 
 
 To both ; and, if that partnership must cease, 
 
 I grieve not," to the Pastor here he turned, 
 
 " Much as 1 glory in that child of yours, 
 
 Eepine not for his cottage-comrade, Avhom 
 
 Belike no higher destiny awaits 
 
 Than th' old hereditary wish fulfill'd; 
 
 The wish for liberty to live, — content 
 
 With what Heaven grants, and die, in peace of mind, 
 
 Within the bosom of his native vale. 
 
 At least, whatever fate the noon of life 
 
 Reserves for either, sure it is that both 
 
 Have been permitted to enjoy the dawn; 
 
 Whether regarded as a jocund time. 
 
 That in itself may terminate, or lead 
 
 In course of nature to a sober eve. 
 
 Both have been fairly dealt with ; looking back 
 
 They will allow that justice has in them 
 
 Been shown, alike to body and to mind." 
 
 He paused, as if revolving in his soul 
 Some weighty matter; then, with fervent voice 
 And an impassion'd majesty, exclaim'd : 
 
 " 0, for the coming of that glorious time 
 When, prizing knowledge as her noblest wealth 
 And best protection, this imperial Eealm, 
 While she exacts allegiance, shall admit 
 An obligation, on her part, to teach 
 Them who are born to serve her and obey ; 
 Binding herself by statute to secure 
 For all the children whom her soil maintains 
 The rudiments of letters, and inform 
 The mind with moral and religious truth. 
 Both understood and practised : so that none, 
 However destitute, be left to droop 
 By timely culture unsustain'd ; or run 
 Into a wild disorder ; or be forced 
 To drudge through a weary life without the help 
 Of intellectual implements and tools ; 
 A savage horde among the civilized, 
 A servile band among the lordly free ! 
 This sacred right the lisping babe proclaims 
 To be inherent in him, by Heaven's will, 
 For the protection of his innocence ; 
 And the rude boy — who, having overpast 
 The sinless age, by conscience is enroll' d, 
 
THE EXCURSIOi?^. 493 
 
 Yet mutinously knits liis angry brow, 
 And lifts his wilful hand on mischief bent. 
 Or turns the godlike faculty of speech 
 To impious use — by process indirect 
 Declares his due, while he makes known his need. 
 This sacred right is fruitlessly announced. 
 This uniyersal plea in vain addressed, 
 To eyes and ears of parents who themselves 
 Did, in the time of their necessity. 
 Urge it in vain ; and therefore, like a prayer 
 That from the humblest floor ascends to Heaven, 
 It mounts to reach the State's parental ear; 
 Who, if indeed she own a mother's heart, 
 ' And be not most unfeelingly devoid 
 Of gratitude to Providence, will grant 
 Th' unquestionable good, — which England, safe 
 From interference of external force. 
 May grant at leisure ; without risk incurr'd 
 That what in wisdom for herself she doth, 
 Others shall e'er be able to undo. 
 
 Look ! and behold, from Calpe^s sunburnt cliffs 
 To the flat margin of the Baltic sea,^ 
 Long-reverenced titles cast away as weeds ; 
 Laws overturn'd ; and territory split. 
 Like fields of ice rent by the polar wind, 
 And forced to join in less obnoxious shapes 
 Which, ere they gain consistence, by a gust 
 Of the same breath are shatter'd and destroy'd. 
 Meantime the sovereignty of these fair Isles 
 Eemains entire and indivisible : 
 And, if that ignorance were removed which breeds 
 W^ithin the compass of their several shores 
 Dark discontent or loud commotion, each 
 Might still preserve the beautiful repose 
 Of heavenly bodies shining in their spheres. — 
 The discipline of slavery is unknown 
 Amon^^ us, — hence the more do we require 
 The discipline of virtue ; order else 
 Cannot subsist, nor confidence, nor peace. 
 Thus, duties rising out of good possest. 
 And j)rudent caution needful to avert 
 Impending evil, equally require 
 That the whole people should be taught and train'd. 
 
 1 That is, tliroughout the whole extent of Western Continental Europe; Calpihe- 
 ing the ancient name of the southennnost point of Spain. The allusion is to the rndu 
 cal doings of Napoleon in overturning ancient thi'ones and states, and substituting 
 8word-law, generally. 
 
494 WORDSWORTH. 
 
 So shall licentiousness and black resolve 
 Be rooted out, and virtuous habits take 
 Their place ; and genuine piety descend, 
 Like an inheritance, from age to age. 
 
 With such foundations laid, avaunt the fear 
 Of numbers crowded on their native soil. 
 To the prevention of all healthful growth 
 Through mutual injury ! Eather in the law 
 Of increase and the mandate from above 
 Rejoice! — and ye have special cause for joy. 
 For, as the element of air affords 
 An easy passage to th' industrious bees 
 Fraught with their burthens ; and a way as smooth 
 For those ordain'd to take their sounding flight 
 From the throng'd hive, and settle where they list 
 In fresh abodes, — their labour to renew ; 
 So the wide waters, open to the power, 
 The will, the instincts, and appointed needs 
 Of Britain, do invite her to cast off 
 Her swarms, and in succession send them forth; 
 Bound to establish new communities 
 On every shore whose aspect favours hope 
 Or bold adventure ; promising to skill 
 And perseverance their deserved reward. 
 
 Yes," he continued, kindling as he spake, 
 " Change wide, and deep, and silently performed. 
 This Land shall witness ; and, as days roll on. 
 Earth's universal frame shall feel th' effect; 
 Even till the smallest habitable rock. 
 Beaten by lonely billows, hear the songs 
 Of humanised society ; and bloom 
 With civil arts, that shall breathe forth their fragrance, 
 A grateful tribute to all-ruling Heaven. 
 From culture, unexclusively bestow'd 
 On Albion's noble Race in freedom born. 
 Expect these mighty issues : from the pains 
 And faithful care of unambitious schools 
 Instructing simple childhood's ready ear : 
 Thence look for these magnificent results ! — 
 Vast the circumference of hope, — and ye 
 Are at its centre, British Lawgivers ; 
 All ! sleep not there in shame ! Shall Wisdom's voice 
 From out the bosom of these troubled times 
 Repeat the dictates of her calmer mind, 
 And shall the venerable halls ye fill 
 Refuse to echo the sublime decree ? 
 
THE EXCURSION". 495 
 
 Trust not to partial care a general good ; 
 Transfer not to futurity a work 
 Of urgent need. Your country must complete 
 Her glorious destiny. Begin even now, 
 Now, when oppression, like th' Egyptian plague 
 Of darkness, stretcli'd o'er guilty Europe, makes 
 The brightness more conspicuous that invests 
 The happy Island where ye think and act ; 
 Now, when destruction is a prime pursuit. 
 Show to the wretched nations for what end 
 The powers of civil polity were given." 
 
 Abruptly here, but with a graceful air, 
 The Sage broke off. No sooner had he ceased 
 Than, looking forth, the gentle Lady said, 
 " Behold the shades of afternoon have fallen 
 Upon this flowery slope ; and see — beyond — 
 The silvery lake is streak'd with placid blue ; 
 As if preparing for the peace of evening. 
 How temptingly the landscape shines ! The air 
 Breathes invitation ; easy is the walk 
 To the lake's margin, where a boat lies moor'd 
 Under a sheltering tree." — Upon this hint 
 We rose together: all were pleased; but most 
 The beauteous girl, whose cheek was flushed with joy. 
 Light as a sunbeam glides along the hills 
 She vanish'd, eager to impart the scheme 
 To her loved brother and his shy compeer. 
 Now was there bustle in the Vicar's house 
 And earnest preparation. — Forth we went. 
 And down the vale along the streamlet's edge 
 Pursued our way, a broken company. 
 Mute or conversing, single or in pairs. 
 Thus having reach'd a bridge, that overarch'd 
 The hasty rivulet where it lay becalm'd 
 In a deep pool, by happy chance we saw 
 A twofold image ; on a grassy bank 
 A snow-white ram, and in the crystal flood 
 Another and the same ! Most beautiful. 
 On the green turf, with his imperial front 
 Shaggy and bold, and wreathed horns superb. 
 The breathing creature stood ; as beautiful. 
 Beneath him, shew'd his shadowy counterpart. 
 Each had his glowing mountains, each his sky. 
 And each seem'd centre of his own fair world ; 
 Antipodes unconscious of each other. 
 Yet, in partition, with their several spheres. 
 
496 WORDSWOETH. 
 
 Blended in perfect stillness, to our sight ! 
 
 " Ah ! what a pity were it to disperse, 
 Or to disturb, so fair a spectacle, 
 And yet a breath can do it ! " 
 
 These few words 
 The Lady whisper'd, while we stood and gazed, 
 Gather'd together, all in still delight, 
 Not without awe. Thence passing on, she said 
 In like low yoice to my particular ear, 
 " I love to hear that eloquent old Man 
 Pour forth his meditations, and descant 
 On human life from infancy to age. 
 HoAv pure his spirit ! in what vivid hues 
 His mind gives back the various forms of things. 
 Caught in their fairest, liappiest attitude ! 
 While he is speaking, I have power to see 
 Even as he sees ; but, when his voice hath ceased. 
 Then, with a sigh, sometimes I feel, as now, 
 That combinations so serene and bright 
 Cannot be lasting in a world like ours, 
 AYhose highest beauty, beautiful as it is. 
 Like that reflected in yon quiet pool, 
 Seems but a fleeting sun-beam's gift, whose peace 
 The sufferance only of a breath of air ! " 
 
 Moi-e liad she said, but sportive shouts were heard 
 Sent from the jocund hearts of those two Boys,- 
 Who, bearing each a basket on his arm, 
 Down the green field came tripping after us. 
 With caution we embark'd ; and now the pair 
 For prouder service were addrest ; but each. 
 Wishful to leave an opening for my choice, 
 Dropp'd the light oar his eager hand had seized. 
 Thanks given for that becoming courtesy, 
 Their place I took, — and for a grateful office 
 Pregnant with recollections of the time. 
 When, on thy bosom, spacious Windermere ! 
 A Youth, I practised this delightful art ; 
 Toss'd on the weaves alone, or 'mid a crew 
 Of joyoi\s comrades. Soon as the reedy marge 
 Was clear'd, I dipp'd, with arms accordant, oars 
 Free from obstruction; and the boat advanced 
 Through crystal water, smoothly as a hawk 
 That, disentangled from the shady boughs 
 Of some thick wood, her place of covert, cleaves 
 With correspondent wings th' abyss of air. — 
 " Observe," the Vicar said, " yon rocky isle 
 
THE EXCURSION". 497 
 
 With bircli-trees fringed : my hand shall guide the helm, 
 
 While thitherward, we shape onr course ; or while 
 
 We seek that other, on the western shore ; 
 
 Where the bare cokimns of those lofty firs. 
 
 Supporting gracefully a massy dome 
 
 Of sombre foliage, seem to imitate 
 
 A Grecian temple rising from the Deep." 
 
 "Turn where we may," said I, "we cannot err 
 In this delicious region." — Cultured slopes, 
 Wild tracts of forest-ground, and scatter'd groyes. 
 And mountains bare, or clothed with ancient woods, 
 Surrounded us ; and, as w^e held our way 
 Along the leyel of the glassy flood. 
 They ceased not to surround us ; change of place, 
 From kindred features diversely combined. 
 Producing change of beauty ever new. — 
 Ah ! that such beauty, varying in the light 
 Of living Nature, cannot be portray'd 
 By words, nor by the pencil's silent skill ; 
 But is the property of him alone 
 Who hath beheld it, noted it with care, 
 And in his mind recorded it with love ! 
 Suffice it, therefore, if the rural Muse 
 Vouchsafe sweet influence, while her Poet speaks 
 Of trivial occupations well devised, 
 And unsought pleasures springing up by chance ; 
 As if some friendly Genius had ordain'd 
 That, as the day thus far had been enriched 
 By acquisition of sincere delight. 
 The same should be continued to its close. 
 
 One spirit animating old and young, 
 A gipsy-fire we kindled on the shore 
 Of the fair Isle with birch-trees fringed; and there. 
 Merrily seated in a ring, partook 
 A choice repast, — served by our young companions 
 With, rival earnestness and kindred glee. [lake; 
 
 Launch'd from our hands the smooth stone skimm'd the 
 With shouts we raised the echoes ; — stiller sounds 
 The lovely Girl supplied, — a simple song. 
 Whose low tones reach'd not to the distant rocks 
 To be repeated thence, but gently sank 
 Into our hearts ; and charm'd the peaceful flood. 
 Rapaciously we gather'd flowery spoils 
 From land and water ; lilies of each hue. 
 Golden and white, that float upon the waves. 
 And court the wind ; and leaves of that shy plant, 
 
498 WORDSWORTH. 
 
 (Her flowers were shed,) the hly of the vale, 
 
 That loves the ground, and from the sun withholds 
 
 Her pensive beauty; from the breeze her sweets. 
 
 Such product, and such pastime, did the place 
 And season yield ; but, as we re-embark'd. 
 Leaving, in quest of other scenes, the shore 
 Of that wild spot, the Solitary said 
 In a low voice, yet careless who might hear, 
 " The fire, that burn'd so brightly to our wish, 
 Where is it now ? — Deserted on the beach, — 
 Dying, or dead ! Nor shall the fanning breeze 
 Eevive its ashes. What care we for this. 
 Whose ends are gain'd ? Behold an emblem here 
 Of one day's pleasure, and all mortal joys ! 
 And, in this unpremeditated slight 
 Of that which is no longer needed, see 
 The common course of human gratitude ! " 
 
 This plaintive note disturbed not the repose 
 Of the still evening. Right across the lake 
 Our pinnace moves ; then, coasting creek and bay, 
 Glades we behold, and into thickets peep. 
 Where couch the spotted deer ; or raised our eyes 
 To shaggy steeps on which the careless goat 
 Browsed by the side of dashing waterfalls ; 
 And thus the bark, meandering with the shore. 
 Pursued her voyage, till a natural pier 
 Of jutting rock invited us to land. 
 
 Alert to follow as the Pastor led. 
 We clomb a green hill's side ; and, as we clomb. 
 The Valley, opening out her bosom, gave 
 Fair prospect, intercepted less and less. 
 O'er the flat meadows and indented coast 
 Of the smooth lake, in compass seen : — far off. 
 And yet conspicuous, stood the old Church-tower, 
 In majesty presiding over fields 
 And habitations seemingly preserved 
 From all intrusion of the restless world 
 By rocks impassable and mountains huge. 
 
 Soft heath this elevated spot supplied, 
 And choice of moss-clad stones, whereon we couch'd 
 Or sate reclined ; admiring quietly 
 The general aspect of the scene ; but each 
 Not seldom over anxious to make known 
 His own discoveries; or to favourite points 
 Directing notice, merely from a wish 
 To impart a joy, imperfect while unshared. 
 
THE EXCURSION^. 499 
 
 That rapturous moment never shall I forget 
 When these particular interests were effaced 
 From every mind ! — Already had the Sun, 
 Sinking with less than ordinary state, 
 Attained his western bound ; but rays of light — 
 Now suddenly diverging from the orb 
 Eetired behind the mountain-tops or veiFd 
 By the dense air — shot upwards to the crown 
 Of the blue firmament, — aloft, and wide: 
 And multitudes of little floating clouds. 
 Through their ethereal texture pierced, — ere we, 
 Who saw, of change were conscious, — had become 
 Vivid as fire ; clouds separately poised, — 
 Innumerable multitude of forms 
 Scatter'd through half the circle of the sky ; 
 And giving back, and shedding each on each, 
 With prodigal communion, the bright hues 
 Which from the unapparent fount of glory 
 They had imbibed, and ceased not to receive. 
 That which the heavens display'd, the liquid deep 
 Repeated ; but with unity sublime ! 
 
 While from the grassy mountain's open side 
 We gazed, in silence hush'd, with eyes intent 
 On the refulgent spectacle diffused 
 Through earth, sky, water, and all visible space, 
 The Priest in holy transport thus exclaim'd : 
 
 *^ Eternal Spirit! universal God! 
 Power inaccessible to human thought. 
 Save by degrees and steps which Thou hast deign'd 
 To furnish ; for this effluence of Thyself, 
 To the infirmity of mortal sense 
 Vouchsafed; this local transitory type 
 Of Thy paternal splendours, and the pomp 
 Of those who fill Thy courts in highest Heaven, 
 The radiant Cherubim, — accept the thanks 
 Which we, thy humble Creatures, here convened, 
 Presume to oif er ; we who — from the breast 
 Of the frail Earth, permitted to behold 
 The faint reflections only of Thy face — 
 Are yet exalted, and in soul adore! 
 Such as they are who in Thy presence stand 
 Unsullied, incorruptible, and drink 
 Imperishable majesty stream'd forth 
 From Thy empyreal throne, th' elect of Earth 
 Shall be, — divested at th' appointed hour 
 Of all dishonour, cleansed from mortal stain. 
 
500 WOEDSWORTH. 
 
 Accomplish, then, their number; and conclude 
 Time's weary course ! Or if, by Thy decree, 
 The consummation that will come by stealth 
 Be yet far distant, let Thy Word prevail, 
 ! let Thy Word prevail, to take away 
 The sting of human nature. Spread the law. 
 As it is written in Thy holy book. 
 Throughout all lands : let every nation hear 
 The high behest, and every heart obey; 
 Both for the love of purity, and hope 
 Which it afiords, to such as do Thy will 
 And persevere in good, that they shall rise. 
 To have a nearer view of Thee, in Heaven. 
 Father of good ! this prayer in bounty grant. 
 In mercy grant it, to thy wretched sons. 
 Then, nor till then, shall persecution cease, 
 And cruel wars expire. The way is mark'd. 
 The guide appointed, and the ransom paid. 
 Alas ! the nations, who of yore received 
 These tidings, and in Christian temples meet 
 The sacred truth to acknowledge, linger still ; 
 Preferring bonds and darkness to a state 
 Of holy freedom, by redeeming love 
 Proffer'd to all, while yet on Earth detained. 
 
 So fare the many ; and the thoughtful few. 
 Who in the anguish of their souls bewail 
 This dire perverseness, cannot choose but ask. 
 Shall it endure ? — Shall enmity and strife. 
 Falsehood and guile, be left to sow their seed ; 
 And the kind never perish? Is the hope 
 Fallacious, or shall righteousness obtain 
 A peaceable dominion, wide as Earth, 
 And ne'er to fail ? Shall that blest day arrive 
 When they, whose choice or lot it is to dwell 
 In crowded cities, without fear shall live 
 Studious of mutual benefit ; and he. 
 Whom Morn awakens, among dews and flowers 
 Of every clime, to till the lonely field. 
 Be happy in himself ? — The law of faith 
 Working through love, such conquest shall it gain. 
 Such triumph over sin and guilt achieve ? 
 Almighty Lord, Thy further grace impart! 
 And with that help the wonder shall be seen 
 Fulfill'd, the hope accomplish'd ; and Thy praise 
 Be sung with transport and unceasing joy. 
 
 Once," and with mild demeanour, as he spake. 
 
THE EXCURSIOIS'. 501 
 
 On us the venerable Pastor tiirn'd 
 
 His beaming- eye that had been raised to Heaven, 
 
 " Once, while the Name Jehovah was a sound 
 
 Within the circuit of this sea-girt isle 
 
 Unheard, the savage nations bow'd the head 
 
 To Gods delighting in remorseless deeds; 
 
 Gods which themselves had fashion'd, to promote 
 
 111 purposes, and flatter foul desires. 
 
 Then, in the bosom of yon mountain-cove, 
 
 To those inventions of corrupted man 
 
 Mysterious rites were solemnised; and there — ^ 
 
 Amid impending rocks and gloomy woods — 
 
 Of those terrific Idols some received 
 
 Such dismal service, that the loudest voice 
 
 Of the swoln cataracts (which now are heard 
 
 Soft murmuring) was too weak to overcome, 
 
 Though aided by wild winds, the groans and shrieks 
 
 Of human victims, offer'd up to appease 
 
 Or to propitiate. And, if living eyes 
 
 Had visionary faculties to see 
 
 The thing that hath been as the thing that is. 
 
 Aghast we might behold this crystal Mere 
 
 Bedimm'd with smoke, in wreaths voluminous, 
 
 Flung from the body of devouring fires. 
 
 To Taranis erected on the heights 
 
 By priestly hands, for sacrifice performed 
 
 Exnltingly, in view of open day 
 
 And full assemblage of a barbarous host ; 
 
 Or to Andates, female Power ! who gave 
 
 (For so they fancied) glorious victory. 
 
 A few rude monuments of mountain-stone 
 
 Survive ; all else is swept away. — How bright 
 
 Th' appearances of things ! From such, how changed 
 
 Th' existing worship ; and w4th those compared, 
 
 The worshippers how innocent and blest ! 
 
 So wade the difference, a willing mind 
 
 Might almost think, at this affecting hour. 
 
 That Paradise, the lost abode of man, 
 
 Was raised again : and to a ha^^py few. 
 
 In its original beauty, here restored. 
 
 Whence but from Thee, the true and only God, 
 And from the faith derived through Him who bled 
 Upon the cross, this marvellous advance 
 Of good from evil ; as if one extreme 
 Were left, the other gain'd. — ye, who come 
 To kneel devoutly in yon reverend Pile, 
 
503 WORDSWORTH. 
 
 CalFd to such office by the peaceful sound 
 
 Of sabbath bells ; and ye, who sleep in earth. 
 
 All cares forgotten, round its hallow'd walls 1 
 
 For you, in presence of this little band 
 
 Gather'd together on the green hill-side, 
 
 Your Pastor is embolden'd to prefer 
 
 Vocal thanksgivings to th' eternal King; 
 
 Whose love, whose counsel, whose commands, have made 
 
 Your very poorest rich in peace of thought 
 
 And in good works ; and him, who is endow'd 
 
 With scantiest knowledge, master of all truth 
 
 Which the salvation of his soul requires. 
 
 Conscious of that abundant favour shower'd 
 
 On you, the children of my humble care. 
 
 And this dear land, our country, while on Earth 
 
 We sojourn, have I lifted up my soul, 
 
 Joy giving voice to fervent gratitude. 
 
 These barren rocks, your stern inheritance ; 
 
 These fertile fields, that recompense your pains; 
 
 The shadowy vale, the sunny mountain-top ; 
 
 Woods waving in the wind their lofty heads, 
 
 Or hush'd ; the roaring waters, and the still, — 
 
 They see the offering of my lifted hands. 
 
 They hear my lips present their sacrifice. 
 
 They know if I be silent, morn or even : 
 
 For, though in whispers speaking, the full heart 
 
 Will find a vent ; and thought is praise to Him, — 
 
 Audible praise, to Thee, omniscient Mind, 
 
 From wiiom all gifts descend, all blessings flow ! " 
 
 This vesper-service closed, without dela}^, 
 From that exalted station to the plain 
 Descending, we pursued our homeward course. 
 In mute composure, o'er the shadowy lake, 
 Under a faded sky. No trace remained 
 Of those celestial splendours ; grey the vault, — 
 Pure, cloudless ether; and the star of eve 
 Was wanting; but inferior lights appear'd 
 Faintly, too faint almost for sight ; and some 
 Above the darkened hills stood boldly forth 
 In twinkling lustre, ere the boat attained 
 Her mooring-place ; wdiere, to the sheltering tree, 
 Our youthful Voyagers bound fast her prow. 
 With prompt yet* careful hands. This done, we paced 
 The dewy fields ; but ere the Vicar's door 
 Was reach'd, the Solitary check'd his steps; 
 Then, intermingling thanks, on each bestow'd 
 
THE EXCUKSIOK. 503 
 
 A farewell salutation; and, the like 
 
 Receiving, took the slender path that leads 
 
 To the one cottage in the lonely dell : 
 
 But turn'd not without welcome promise made 
 
 That he would share the pleasures and pursuits 
 
 Of yet another Summer's day,^ not loth 
 
 To wander with us through the fertile vales. 
 
 And o'er the mountain-wastes. " Another sun," 
 
 Said he, "shall shine upon us, ere we part; 
 
 Another sun, and peradventure more ; 
 
 If time, with free consent, be yours to give. 
 
 And season favours." 
 
 To enfeebled Power, 
 ' From this communion with uninjured Minds, 
 What renovation had been brought; and what 
 Degree of healing to a wounded spirit, 
 Dejected, and habitually disposed 
 To seek, in degradation of the Kind, 
 Excuse and solace for her own defects ; 
 How far those erring notions were reformed ; 
 And whether aught, of tendency as good 
 And pure, from further intercourse ensued; 
 This — if delightful hopes, as heretofore. 
 Inspire the serious song, and gentle Hearts 
 Cherish, and lofty Minds approve the past — 
 My future labours may not leave untold. 
 
 nrHi ^^rH} ^epOTted this promise of the Solitary, and long after, it was my wish, 
 ders iZ^Kl n^fi^i''"*''''';^^'''*^'^^ should resume our wanderings, and pass the Bor! 
 thJ w«mi?i^. ""l'"^® country, where, as I hoped, he might witness, in the society of 
 hi? I^ri^^hfwk'^'^^*' religious ceremony which, by recalling to his mind the days of 
 and neSes^ kiS;i'';^f^ht\^'''^ been present on such occasions with his parents 
 ana nearest kindred, might have dissolved his heart into tenderness, and so have 
 4^fh t'^^T.Sirnf'/^''^^^"^ "'^ Christian faith in which he had been edSteS, and! 
 SfflS^L hi^thS'''''^ ^"i"^ ^T^" cheerfulness of mind, than all that the Wanderer 
 f«r,P lit! fAJl^J?®'-"^ ^'"''^•'■'1^ addressee and effusions, had been able to effect. An 
 issue like this was m my intentions. But, alas ! ^"cv.t. .aoj 
 
 , " Mid the wreck of is and was. 
 Things incomplete and purposes betray'd 
 Make sadder transits o'er thought's optic glass 
 Than noblest objects utterly decayed."— ^««Aor's Notes, 1843. 
 
SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE: 
 
 SKETCH OF HIS LIEE. 
 
 This " wonderful man " was the youngest of ten children, and was born Oct. 
 21 1772 nearly two and a half years later than Wordsworth, The place of 
 his birth was in the parish of Otterv St. Mary's, Devonshire. _ His father, the 
 Rev. John Coleridge, was the vicar of that parish, and was living in the vicar- 
 ao-e He is said to have been very studious, absorbed in books, unknowing 
 and reo-ardless of the world and its ways, of simple character^ and primitive 
 manners, and commonly known as "the absent man." Notwithstanding his 
 oddities he was a good faithful Christian pastor, much beloved and respected 
 by his flock. Though Samuel was only seven years old when his father died, 
 he remembered him to the last with deep reverence and love : "0, that I might 
 so pass away if, like him, I were an Israelite without guile ! The image ot m3r 
 father — mv revered, kind, learned, simple-hearted father — is a religion to me. 
 
 Durino- his childhood, Coleridge never shared in the plays and games ot 
 his brothers, but sought refuge by his mother's side, to read his little books and 
 listen to the talk of his elders. He had the simplicity and docility of a child, 
 but never thought or spoke as a child. At the age of nine, he was removed to 
 Christ's Hospital, London, a large charity school, intended, says Charles 
 Lamb who was there at the same time, " to keep those who yet hold up their 
 heads in the world from sinking." Of this removal, Colendge wrote ong after- 
 wards •" O, what a change, from home to this city school ; depressed moping, 
 friendless, a poor orphan, half-starved ! " It seems that for boys of his grade, 
 what was' then called " the lower school," the supply ot food was at that time 
 cruelly insufficient ; and as he had no friends within reach, to make up the de- 
 ficiency, his sufferings were sometimes very great. On holidays in Summer, 
 the boVs were very fond of going on bathing excursions to a stream called JSew 
 River • and on one of those excursions Coleridge swam the river in his clothes, 
 and let them dry on his back : this planted in him the seeds of those rheumatic 
 nains which did so much to frustrate the large promise of his youth. 
 
 Colerido-e, however, did not spend his time in idleness. Even then he was 
 a great devourer of books ; and this appetite wa,s fed by a strange incident. 
 One day, as he walked down the Strand, going with his arms as in the act of 
 swimming, he touched the pocket of a passer-by. _ " What, so young and so 
 wicked!" exclaimed the stranger, at the same time seizing him for a pick- 
 pocket. " I am not a pickpocket," said he ; " I only thought I was Leander 
 swimming the Hellespont." The man was so struck with the reply that in- 
 stead of handing him over to the police, he subscribed to a library, tha Cole- 
 rid..e might thence have his full of books. In a short tune he read ngh 
 thrSuo-h the catalogue, and exhausted the library. Another circumstance put 
 h m upon devouring Greek, Latin, and English books on mediane; and he is 
 said to have got by heart a whole Latin medical dictionary. This carried him 
 on into a deep course of metaphysics ; which set him for a time to spor ing infi- 
 del Dr Bowyer, the Head-master, who was noted as a severe disciplmanan, 
 on hearing of this, sent for Coleridge. " So, sirrah ! you are an inhdel, are 
 you" Then I'll flog vour infidelity out of you." Thereupon he gave him the 
 severest, and as Cokridge used to say, the only just flogging he ever received. 
 
 50d: 
 
SKETCH OF HIS LIFE. 505 
 
 Dr. Bowyer's instructions were always remembered by Coleridge with grate- 
 ful affection. In his Biographia Literdria, he sjicaks of the Head-master as one 
 who taught him to prefer Demosthenes to Cicero, Homer and Theocritus to 
 Vxrgil, and Virgil to Ovid ; who accustomed his pupils to compare Lucretius, 
 Terence, and the purer poems of Catulus, not only with " the Koman poets of 
 the silver, but even with those of the Augustan era, and, on grounds of plain 
 sense and universal logic, to see the superiority of the former in the truth and 
 nativeness both of their thoughts and diction." — In his sixteenth year, Cole- 
 ridge's poetical genius began to put forth, and this in such a shape as seemed 
 to mark him out for a life of poetry. While he was in the upper school, meta- 
 physics and controversial theology struggled for some time for the mastery ; 
 but at last, owing to certain happy influences, poetry carried the day, and lor 
 some years was paramount. I must dismiss his life at Christ's Hospital with 
 the following passage from Charles Lamb : 
 
 ^ " Come back to my memory, like as thou wert in the day-spring of my fan- 
 cies, with hope like a fiery column before thee, — the dark pillar not yet turned, 
 — Samuel Taylor Coleridge, Logician, Metaphysician, Bard ! How have I 
 seen the casual passer through the cloisters stand still, (while he weighed the 
 disproportion between the speech and the garb of the young Mirandula,) to 
 hear thee unfold, in thy deep and sweet intonations, the mysteries of Jambli- 
 chus and Plotinus ; for even then thou waxedst not pale at such philosophic 
 draughts ; or reciting Homer in his Greek, or Pindar ; while the waUs of the 
 old Grey-Friars re-echoed the accents of the inspired charity boy ! " 
 
 Coleridge entered Jesus College, Cambridge, in February, 1791, just a month 
 after Wordsworth had left the University. And in his case, as in that of 
 Wordsworth, it soon appeared that Cambridge was not the place for him, or 
 he was not for the place. He never made much headway there. As the 
 French devolution was then in full career, he plunged into politics, and was 
 carried away with the prevailing frenzy. " In the general conflagration," says 
 he, " my feelings and imagination did not remain unkindled. 1 should have 
 been ashamed rather than proud of myself, if they had." At length, the press- 
 ure of some college debts, incurred through his own inexperience, drove him 
 to despondency. He Avent to London, and there seeing an advertisement for 
 recruits to the 15th regiment of Light Dragoons, he enlisted as a private under 
 the name ot Comberbach, and went to drilling in military horsemanship. For 
 the grooming of his horse, and other like offices, he was indebted to his com- 
 rades, with whom he was a great favourite. He repaid them by writing all their 
 letters to their wives and sweethearts. In the stable, he had written under his 
 saddle, the words, "Eheu, quam infortuni miserrimum est fuisse felicem!'' 
 This was seen by a captain who had Latin enough to translate it, and heart 
 enough to feel it. About the same time he was seen by an old Cambridge ac- 
 quaintance, who informed his friends : so, after serving some four months, he 
 was bought off, and returned to college ; where he stayed but a short time, and 
 finally left in June, 1794, without taking a degree. 
 
 Soon after, he fell in with Southey, and struck up a warm friendship with 
 him ; and the two went to live at Bristol. Though their characters were vastly 
 different, their tastes and opinions were in full accord. Both were then enthu- 
 siastically democratic in politics and Unitarian in religion; and Southey at 
 once responded to the day-dream of Pantisocracy which Coleridge opened to 
 him. This was a plan for founding a community in America, where a band of 
 brothers were to have all things in common, and selfishness was to be unknown. 
 The land was to be tilled by the common toil of the men ; their wives, for all 
 were to be married, were to do all t\iQ household work ; and abundant leisure 
 was to remain for literature and social intercourse. The banks of the Susque- 
 hanna were to be the place of this earthly paradise ; chosen, it is said, more for 
 the melody of the name than for any known advantages. But they could not 
 dream money into their pockets, and without money the scheme would not go. 
 
506 COLEEIDGE. 
 
 Early in 1795 it was given up ; and in the Fall of that year the two young men 
 were married, Coleridge to Sarah Fricker, and Southey to her sister Edith. 
 
 The next few years were mainly spent by Coleridge in various attempts to 
 solve the rather tough problem of bread and butter. First he tried lecturing to 
 the Bristol people on the political subjects of the day and on religious ques- 
 tions. Then he tried the publication of a weekly miscellany. Neither of these 
 brought in the expected returns. The third enterprise was the publication of 
 his Juvenile Poems, in 1796, for the copyright of which he received thirty gui- 
 neas. His next undertaking seemed at first to promise something better. He 
 ordained himself to the ministry, and engaged to preach from time to time in 
 the Unitarian chapels in the neighbourhood of Bristol. In this office he contin- 
 ued for some time, taking his texts from the Bible, but his real subjects from the 
 political events of tlv3 time. At Birmingham he was heard by Hazlitt, who 
 thus recorded the matter : 
 
 " It was in January, 1798, that I rose one morning before daylight, to walk 
 ten miles in the mud to hear this celebrated person preach. Never, the longest 
 day I have to live, shall I have §uch another walk as that cold, raw, comfort- 
 less one. When I got there the organ was playing the 100th Psalm, and when 
 it was done Mr. Coleridge arose and gave out his text, ' He departed again 
 into a mountain himself alone.' As he gave out this text, his voice rose like a 
 stream of rich distilled perfumes ; and when he came to the last two words, 
 which he pronounced loud, deep, and distinct, it seemed to me, who was then 
 young, as if the sound had echoed from the bottom of the human heart, and as 
 if that prayer might have floated in solemn silence through the vmiverse. The 
 preacher then launched into his subject, like an eagle dallying with the wind. 
 For myself, I could not have been more delighted if I had heard the music of 
 the spheres. Poetry and Philosophy had met together. Truth and Genius had 
 embraced, under the eye and sanction of religion. This was even beyond my 
 hopes." 
 
 Of the first meeting and life-long friendship of Coleridge and Wordsworth, 
 some account is given in the Sketch of Wordsworth's Life. WordsAvorth with 
 his sister was then living at Racedown in Dorsetshire, and in 1797 Coleridge 
 removed with his family from Bristol, and took up his abode at Nether Stowey, 
 tinder the Quantock hills. Thus the two poets were settled within easy reach 
 of each other ; and, mainly for the sake of being still nearer to Coleridge, 
 Wordsworth soon after removed to Alfoxden. 
 
 I must here quote Miss Wordsworth's description of Coleridge, written to a 
 friend who had left Racedown some time before : " You had a great loss in not 
 seeing Coleridge. He is a wonderful man. His conversation teems with soul, 
 mind, and spirit. Then he is so benevolent,. so good-tempered, and cheerful, 
 and, like William, interests himself so much about every little trifle. At first 
 I thought him very plain, that is, for about three minutes : he is pale, thin, has 
 a wide mouth, thick lips, and not very good teeth, longish, loose-growing, half- 
 curling, rough, black hair. But, if you hear him speak for five minutes, you 
 think no more of them. His eye is large and full, not very dark, but grey, — 
 such an eye as would receive from a heavy soul the dullest expression ; but it 
 speaks every emotion of his animated mind : it has more of ' the poet's eye in 
 a fine frenzy rolling' than I ever Avitnessed. He has fine dark eyebrows, and 
 an overhanging forehead." 
 
 While living at Nether StoAvey, Coleridge shot up at once into poetic man- 
 hood. The Ancient Mariner, the first part of Chrisfabel, and several of his best 
 smaller poems Avere written there. In 1798, the WedgAvoods settled on him 
 £150 a year for life ; Avhich enabled him to undertake a tour on the Continent, 
 as he had for some time desired to do. Before this, hoAvcvcr, we have one 
 item which is sadly significant in reference to his subsequent life. He Avas 
 troubled with violent neuralgic pains, Avhich threatened to OA^erpower him. 
 " But I took," says he, " betAveen sixty and seventy drops of laudanum, and 
 
SKETCH OF HIS LIFE. 507 
 
 sopped the Cerberus." That remedy was soon to become worse than the 
 disease. 
 
 In the fall of 1798, Coleridge and the Wordsworths made a trip to Germany, 
 landing at Hamburg. After an interview with the aged Klop.stock, the two 
 poets separated, and Coleridge passed on to Gottingcn, to attend lectures, and 
 consort with German students and professors. Of his sojourn in Germany, he 
 writes, " I made the best use of my time and means, and there is no period of 
 my life to which I look back with such unmingled satisfaction." He was there 
 in the school of Kant and his disciples, who were then leading the philosophic 
 thought of Germany into new regions. Coleridge drank deep of this stream, 
 and thereby qualified himself, perhaps, for the office of a great teacher to his 
 nation ; but it may well be doubted whether, on the whole, he gained much, 
 either for himself or others, by swamping his fine poetic genius in ideal or 
 transcendental metaphysics. Be this as it may, there was at least one good 
 result from his knowledge of German thus acquired. He returned to England 
 in November, 1799, and his next work was to translate Schiller's Walknstein, 
 accomplishing in three weeks what many competent judges regard as the best 
 translation ever made of any poem into English. 
 
 This done, Coleridge joined Wordsworth in a tour among the lakes of Cum- 
 berland and Westmoreland ; — his first sight of English mountains. About 
 this time he became a contributor to the Morning Post, and so continued till 
 the close of 1802. He was then in sympathy with Fox and the Whigs, not 
 having yet grown to recognise what he afterwards acknowledged to be the 
 **' transcendent greatness" of Burke, But the progress of things in France, 
 especially as the military despotism of Napoleon towered up in such gigantic 
 proportions, was rapidly curing him of that delusion, and was working such 
 changes in his mind, that in effect he soon passed over to the side of the Gov- 
 ernment. Already his belief in the Unitarian theology had been shaken ; and 
 now a closer study of Scripture, together with his hard discipline of suffering, 
 was not long in bringing him back to the creed in which he had been reared; 
 and he became staunch in his adhesion to the faith and worship of the Estab- 
 lished Church. 
 
 In 1801, Coleridge transferred his family to Keswick, in the Lake country, 
 where they lived much, if not most, of the time for many years, along Avith the 
 Southeys. At this time the poetic season of his genius was already passing 
 into " the sere, the yellow leaf," though he was but thirty years old ; the Ode 
 to Dejection and a few smaller pieces being all the poetry that came from him. 
 In the Spring of 1804, he went to Malta for his health, where he soon became 
 knoAvn to the Governor, Sir Alexander Ball, and for some time serA^ed as his 
 secretary. He there conceived a great admiration of Sir Alexander, Avhose 
 character he afterAvards painted in gloAving colours in The Friend. But he did 
 not find at Malta what he went in quest of, and in the Fall of 1805 he returned 
 to England. 
 
 It is not easy to keep track of him through the next ten years. Sometimes 
 he was Avith his family at KesAvick ; sometimes at Grasmere Avith WordsAvorth ; 
 sometimes in London, Avriting for the Courier, or lecturing at the Royal Insti- 
 tution. MeauAvhile his only Avork of real importance Avas The Friend, a series 
 of weekly essays intended as a help to the formation of opinions in morals, poli- 
 tics, and art, grounded on true and permanent principles. The Avork Avas 
 continued from June, 1809, to March, 1810, when it AA'as given up because it did 
 not pay the cost of publishing. It was afterwards recast and much enlarged, 
 and published as a book in 1818 ; and a most instructive book it is too. 
 
 Coleridge's first use of laudantira has already been mentioned. At Malta, 
 opium-taking became a confirmed habit, and for ten years quite overmastered 
 him. He himself, Avith the utmost frankness, pleads guilty to the evil habit. 
 "After my death," says he, " I earnestly entreat that a full and unqualified 
 narrative of my wretchedness, and of its guilty cause, may be made public, that 
 
508 COLEEIPGE. 
 
 at least some little good may be effected by the direful example." He strag- 
 gled hard ac^ainst the tyrant habit, but without success. At last he put him- 
 self under the care of Dr. Gilman, who lived in a retired house at Highgate, 
 and boarded in his family. Here he lived for the remaining eighteen years of 
 his life, and with the good doctor's help gained the mastery over himself. 
 
 During this period, the poor, dear, great man laboured with all his might 
 to make up for lost time ; and, wreck as he was, he was one of the best and 
 wisest of England's teachers. His Two Lay Sermons, his Biographia Literaria, 
 his recast of The Friend, his Aids to Reflection, and his Church and State, all of 
 them the fruits of this period, were published during his life. A small volume 
 on the inspiration of Scripture, and entitled Confessions of an Inquiring Spirit, 
 was published after his death. The last three of these works have placed him in 
 the highest rank of modern religious philosophers, and through them he has 
 probably done more than any other one man to shape the religious thought of 
 his countrymen. His Literary Remains, also published since his death, is now 
 perhaps our best English text-book of criticism. His circle of thought was in- 
 deed prodigious. And perhaps his great mind had its most effective organ 
 when he sat the centre of a social gathering, and overflowed in living talk. 
 To his retirement at Highgate flocked, as on a pilgrimage, most of what was 
 then brilliant in intellect or ardent in youthful genius, to hang upon his spoken 
 words ; and in those marvellous conversations the " old man eloquent" poured 
 forth treasures of wisdom which became seed-points of intellectual life in many 
 of the best minds of his time. 
 
 In the Summer of 1833 Coleridge was for the last time in public, at the meet- 
 ing of the British Association in Cambridge. He died at the house of Dr. Gil- 
 man on the 25th of July, 1834. 
 
 Here is a brief passage from his nephew, Henry Nelson Coleridge, which it 
 would hardly be right to leave unquoted : " Coleridge, — blessings on his gen- 
 tle memory! — Coleridge was a frail mortal. He had indeed his peculiar 
 weaknesses as well as his unique powers ; sensibilities that an averted look 
 would rack, a heart which would beat calmly in the tremblings of an earth- 
 quake. He shrank from mere uneasiness like a child, and bore the preparatory 
 agonies of his death-attack like a martyr. He suffered an almost life-long pun- 
 ishment for his errors, whilst the world at large has the unwithering fruits of 
 his labours, his genius, and his sufferings." 
 
 Little room can here be spared for criticism of Coleridge's poetry. — He has 
 large variety both of matter and of style ; he abounds in tenderness, delicacy, 
 pathos ; has many passages of condensed and close-twisted vigour ; some, of 
 austere, soul-lifting grandeur and sublimity ; and not seldom searches the mind 
 with happy aphoristic sayings, such as are apt to twine themselves inextrica- 
 bly into the reader's memory. His beauty, like that of Wordsworth, always 
 lies first and chiefly in the thought ; beauty of language coming in as the con- 
 nate incarnation of beautiful thought. Sir Walter Scott, with, I believe, 
 Christabel in his mind, pronounced him " the most imaginative poet of the 
 age." This may well be doubted ; but even a doubt on that point infers ima- 
 gination enough in him to furnish out a whole regiment of ordinary poets. 
 Though at all times wonderfully subtile and sinewy of discourse, still I am not 
 aware that, in the poems Avritten in the manhood of his genius, he ever lapses 
 from good-sense, which is indeed the chief corner-stone of all high poetry. 
 Therewithal, next after Wordsworth, he was the most original poet of his 
 time : and it may well be questioned whether, in powers of versification, he . 
 was not even superior to his great friend. He was indeed a consummate mas- 
 ter of rhythmical modulation. And how exquisitely, too, his diction every- 
 where feels the swiftest and the finest variations of his mental pulse ! The 
 " piercing sweetness " of his lingual melody is well-nigh unequalled : and that 
 melody has all the limbemess and subtility of his most subtile and limber 
 discourse. 
 
POEMS 
 
 BY 
 
 SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE. 
 
 GENEVIEVE. 
 Maid of my Love, sweet Genevieve I 
 -In Beauty's light you glide along : 
 Your eye is Kke the star of eve, 
 And sweet your Voice as Seraph's song 
 Yet not your heavenly Beauty gives 
 This heart with passion soft to glow : 
 Within your soul a Voice there lives ! 
 It bids you hear the tale of Woe. 
 When sinking low the Sufferer wan 
 Beholds no hand outstretch'd to save, 
 Fair, as the bosom of the Swan 
 That rises graceful o'er the wave, 
 I've seen your breast with pity heave. 
 And therefore love I you, sweet Genevieve ! 
 
 LOVE. 
 
 All thoughts, all passions, all delights, 
 Whatever stirs this mortal frame. 
 All are but ministers of Love, 
 And feed his sacred flame. 
 
 Oft in ray waking dreams do I 
 Live o'er agafii that happy hour, 
 When midway on the mount I lay, 
 Beside the ruin'd tower. 
 
 The moonshine, stealing o'er the scene, 
 Had blended with the lights of eve; 
 And she was there, my hope, my joy. 
 My own dear Genevieve ! 
 
 She lean'd against the armfed man, 
 The statue of the armM knight; 
 She stood and listeu'd to my lay. 
 Amid the lingering light. 
 
 Few sorrows hath she of her own, 
 My hope, my joy, my Genevieve! 
 She loves me best, whene'er I sing 
 The songs that make her grieve. 
 
 I play'd a soft and doleful air, 
 I sang an old and moving story, — 
 An old rude song, that suited well 
 That ruin wild and hoary. 
 
 She listen'd with a flitting blush, 
 With downcast eyes and modest grace; 
 For well she knew I could not choose 
 But gaze upon her face. 
 
 I told her of the Knight that wore 
 Upon his shield a burning brand; 
 And that for ten long years he woo'd 
 The Lady of the Land. 
 
 I told her how he pined; and, ah ! 
 The deep, the low, the pleading tone 
 With which I sang another's love 
 Intei-preted my own. 
 
 She listen'd with a flitting blush. 
 With downcast eyes and modest grace ; 
 And she forgave me, that I gazed 
 Too fondly on her face I 
 
 But when I told the cruel scorn 
 That crazed that bold and lovely Knight, 
 And that he cross'd the mountain- woods, 
 Nor rested day nor night; 
 
 That sometimes from the savage den, 
 And sometimes from the darksome shade, 
 And sometimes starting up at once 
 In green and sunny glade, — 
 
 There came and look'd him in the face 
 An angel beautiful and bright ; 
 And that he knew it was a Fiend, 
 This miserable Knight; 
 
 And that, unknowing what he did, 
 He leap'd amid a murderous band, 
 And saved from outrage worse than death 
 The Lady of the Land ; — 
 
 509 
 
510 
 
 COLERIDGE. 
 
 And how she wept, and clasp'd his knees : 
 And how she tended him in vain, — 
 And ever strove to expiate 
 
 That scorn that crazed his brain; — 
 
 And that she nursed him in a cave ; 
 And how his madness went away, 
 When on the yellow forest-leaves 
 A dying man he lay; — . 
 
 His dying words,— But when I reach'd 
 That tenderest strain of all the ditty. 
 My faltering voice and pausing harp 
 Disturb'd her soul with pity! 
 
 All impulses of soul and sense 
 Had thrill'd my guileless Genevieve; 
 The music and the doleful tale, 
 The rich and balmy eve; 
 
 And hopes, and fears that kindle hope, 
 An undistinguishable throng, 
 And gentle wishes long subdued. 
 Subdued and cherish'd long ! 
 
 She wept with pity and delight, 
 She blush'd with love and virgin-shame; 
 And, like the murmur of a dream, 
 I heard her breathe my name. 
 
 Her bosom heaved, — she stepp'd aside. 
 As conscious of my look she stepp'd,— 
 Then suddenly, with timorous eye, 
 She fled to me and wept. 
 
 She half enclosed me with her arms. 
 She press'd me with a meek embi-ace ; 
 And, bending back her head, look'd up, 
 And gazed upon my face. 
 
 'Twas partly love, and partly fear, 
 And partly 'twas a bashful art. 
 That I might rather feel than see 
 The swelling of her heart. 
 
 I calm'd her fears, and she was calm. 
 And told her love with virgin pride; 
 And so I won my Genevieve, 
 
 My bright and beauteous Bride. 
 
 DOMESTIC PEACE. 
 Tell me, on what holy ground 
 May Domestic Peace be found? 
 Halcyon Daughter of the skies ! 
 Far on fearful wings she flies. 
 From the pomp of scepter'd State, 
 From the Rebel's noisy hate. 
 In a cottaged vale she dwells 
 Listening to the Sabbath bells ! 
 Still around her steps are seen 
 
 Spotless Honour's meeker mien. 
 Love, the sire of pleasing fears, 
 Sorrow smiling through her tears. 
 And, conscious of the past employ, 
 Memory, bosom-spring of joy. 
 
 THE ANCIENT MAiUNER.i 
 
 IN SEVEN PARTS. 
 PAKT I. 
 
 It is an ancient Mariner, 
 Andhe stoppeth one ofthree. [eye, 
 
 '•By thy long grey beard and glittering 
 Now wherefore stopp'st thou me ? 
 
 The Bridegroom's doors are open'd wide» 
 And I am next of kin ; 
 The guests are met, the feast is set : 
 Mayst hear the merry din." 
 
 He holds him with his skinny hand, 
 "There was a ship," quoth he. [loon I" 
 "Hold off ! unhand me, grey-beard 
 Eftsoons his hand dropt he. 
 
 He holds him with his glittering eye; 
 The Wedding-Guest stood still, 
 And listens like a three years child: 
 The Mariner hath his will.^ 
 
 The Wedding-Guest sat on a stone : 
 He cannot choose but hear; 
 And thus spake on that ancient man. 
 The bright- eyed Mariner : - 
 
 1 The Rev. Alexander Dyce, in a letter 
 to the poet's nephew, H. N. Coleridge, 
 says that Wordsworth, dining with him 
 one day in London, told him as follows : 
 " The Ancient Mariner was founded on a 
 strange dream which a friend of Coleridge 
 had, who fancied that he saw a skeleton 
 ship, with figures in it. We had both 
 determined to write some poetry for a 
 monthly magazine, the profits of which 
 were to defray the expenses of a little 
 excursion we were to make together. The 
 Ancient Mariner was intended for this pe- 
 riodical, but was too long. I had very 
 little share in the composition of it, for I 
 soon found that the style of Coleridge and 
 myself would not assimilate." Then, after 
 remarking that he furnished some ten or 
 eleven lines of the poem, Wordsworth ad- 
 ded the following : "The idea of 'shoot- 
 ing an albatross' was mine; for I had 
 been reading Shelvocke's Voyages, which 
 pi'obably Coleridge never saw. I also 
 suggested the reanimation of the dead 
 bodies, to work the ship." 
 
 2 Wordsworth, in his conversation 
 Avith Dyce, stated that this stanza was 
 furnished by himself. The other lines of 
 his were in various parts of the poem. 
 
THE ANCIENT MARINER. 
 
 511 
 
 " The Bhip was cheer'd, the harbour 
 Merrily did we drop [clear'd, 
 
 Below the kirk, below the hill, 
 Below the light-house top. 
 
 The Sun came up upon the left, 
 Out of the sea came he ! 
 And he shone bright, and on the right 
 "Went down into the sea. 
 
 Higher and higher every day, 
 
 Till over the mast at noon " — 
 
 The Wedding-Guest here beat his breast. 
 
 For he heard the loud bassoon. 
 
 The bride hath paced into the hall, 
 Red as a rose is she ; 
 Nodding their heads, before her goes 
 The merry minstrelsy. 
 
 The Wedding-Guest he beat his breast, 
 Yet he cannot choose but hear; 
 And thus spake on that ancient man, 
 The bright-eyed Mariner : 
 
 "AndnowtheStorm-blast came, and he 
 Was tyrannous and strong : 
 He sti-uck with his o'ertaking wings, 
 And chased us south along. 
 
 With sloping masts and dipping prow. 
 As who pursued with yell and blow 
 Still treads the shadow of his foe. 
 And forward bends his head, 
 The ship drove fast, loud roar'd the blast, 
 And southward aye we fled. 
 
 And now there came both mist and snow, 
 And it grew wondrous cold ; 
 And ice, mast-high, came floating by, 
 As green as emerald : 
 
 And through the drifts the snowy clifls 
 Did send a dismal sheen; 
 Nor shapes of men nor beasts we ken, — 
 The ice was all between. 
 
 The ice was here, the ice was there, 
 The ice was all around; [howl'd, 
 
 It crack'd and growl'd, and roar'd and 
 Like noises in a swoundl 
 
 At length did cross an Albatross ; 
 Thorough the fog it came ; 
 As if it had been a Christian soul, 
 We hail'd it in God's name. 
 
 It ate the food it ne'er had eat» 
 And round and round it flew ; 
 
 The ice did split with a thunder-fit; 
 The helmsman steer'd us through. 
 
 And a good south wind sprang up behind; 
 The Albati-oss did follow, 
 Aud every day, for food or play. 
 Came to the mariners' hollo. 
 
 In mist or cloud, on mast or shroud, 
 It perch'd for vespers nine ; [white, 
 
 Whiles all the night, through fog-smoke 
 Glimmer'd the white moon-sliine." 
 
 " God save thee, ancient Mariner, 
 From the fiends, that plague thee thus ! — 
 Why look'st thou so ? " — " With my cross- 
 I shot the Albatross." [bow 
 
 PART n. 
 " The Sun now rose upon the right: 
 Out of the sea came he. 
 Still hid in mist, and on the leit 
 Went down into the sea. 
 
 And the good south wind still blew be- 
 But no sweet bird did follow, [hind. 
 Nor any day for food or play 
 Came to the mariners' hollo. 
 
 And I had done an hellish thing, 
 
 And it would work 'em woe : 
 
 For all averr'd, I had kill'd the bird 
 
 That made the breeze to blow. 
 
 Ah wretch ! said they, the bird to slay, 
 
 That made the breeze to blow ! 
 
 Nor dim nor red, like God's own head, 
 
 The glorious Sun uprist : 
 
 Then all averr'd, I had kill'd the bird 
 
 Tl>at brought the fog and mist. 
 
 'Twas right, said they, such birds to slay, 
 
 That bring the fog and mist. 
 
 The fair breeze blew, the white foam flew, 
 
 The furrow foUow'd free : 
 
 We were the first that ever burst 
 
 Into that silent sea. 
 
 Down dropt the breeze, the sails dropt 
 'Twas sad as sad could be : [down, 
 
 And we did speak only to break 
 The silence of the sea ! 
 
 All in a hot and copper sky, 
 The bloody Sun, at noon, 
 Right up above the mast did stand, 
 No bigger than the Moon. 
 
512 
 
 COLERIDGE. 
 
 Day after day, day after day, 
 We stuck, nor breath nor motion ; 
 As idle as a jjainted ship 
 Upon a painted ocean. 
 
 Water, water, everywhere, 
 And all the hoards did shrink; 
 Water, water, everywhere, 
 Nor any drop to drink. 
 
 The very deep did rot : O Christ, 
 That ever this should be I 
 Yea, slimy things did crawl with legs 
 Upon the slimy sea. 
 
 About, about, in reel and rout 
 The death-flres danced at night; 
 The water, like a witch's oils, 
 Burnt green, and blue, and white. 
 
 And some in dreams assurM were 
 Of the spirit that plagued us so : 
 Nine fathom deep he had follow'd us 
 From the land of mist and snow.^ 
 
 And every tongue, through utter drought. 
 Was wither'd at the root; 
 We could not speak, no more than if 
 We had been choked with soot. 
 
 Ah, well a-day I what evil looks 
 Had I from old and young ! 
 Instead of the cross, the Albatross 
 About my neck was himg." 
 
 PART in. 
 There pass'd a weary time. Each throat 
 Was parch'd, and glazed each eye. 
 A weary time ! a weary time ! 
 How glazed each weary eye! 
 When, looking westward, I beheld 
 A something in the sky. 
 
 At first it seem'd a little speck. 
 And then it seem'd a mist : 
 It moved and moved, and took at last 
 A certain shape, I wist. 
 
 A speck, a mist, a shape, I wist! 
 And still it near'd and near'd ; 
 As if it dodged a water-sprite. 
 It plunged and tack'd and veer'd. 
 
 3 A spirit had followed them ; one of 
 the invisible inhabitants of this planet, 
 neither departed souls nor angels; con- 
 cerning which the learned Jew, Josephus, 
 and the Platonic Constantinopolitan, Mi- 
 chael Psellus, may be consulted. They 
 are verv numerous, and there is no clim- 
 ate or element without one or more. 
 
 With throats unslacked, with black lips 
 We could nor laugh nor wail ; [baked, 
 Through utter drought all dumb we stood ! 
 I bit my arm, I suck'd the blood, 
 And cried, A sail! a sail! 
 
 With throats unslacked, with black lips 
 Agape they heard me call : [baked, 
 
 Gramercy ! they for joy did grin. 
 And all at once their breath drew in, 
 As they were drinking all. 
 
 See ! see ! I cried, she tacks no more, 
 Hither to work us weal ! 
 Without a breeze, without a tide. 
 She steadies with upright keel ! 
 
 The western wave was all a-flame. 
 
 The day was well-nigh done ! 
 
 Almost upon the western wave 
 
 Rested the broad bright Sun ; 
 
 When that strange shape drove suddenly 
 
 Betwixt us and the Sun. 
 
 And straight the Sun was fleck'd with 
 (Heaven's Mother send us grace !) [bars. 
 As if through a dungeon-grate he peer'd. 
 With broad and burning face. 
 
 Alas ! thought I, and my heart beat loud, 
 How fast she nears and nears ! 
 Are those her sails that glance in the Sun, 
 Like restless gossameres? 
 
 Are those her ribs through which the Sun 
 Did peer, as through a grate? 
 And is that Woman all her crew? 
 Is that a Death? and are there two? 
 Is Death that woman's mate? 
 
 Her lips were red, her looks were fl?ee. 
 Her locks were yellow as gold; 
 Her skin was as white as leprosy : 
 The Night-mare Life-in-Death was she, 
 Who thicks man's blood with cold. 
 
 The naked hulk alongside came, 
 And the twain were casting dice ; 
 ♦ Tlie game is done ! I've won, I've won ! ' 
 Quoth she, and whistles thrice. 
 
 The Sun's rim dips; the stars rush out; 
 At one stride comes the dark ; 
 Yvlth far-heard whisper, o'er the sea. 
 Off shot the spectre-bark. 
 
 We listen'd and look'd sideways up ; 
 Fear at my heart, as at a cup, 
 
THE ANCIENT MAKINER. 
 
 513 
 
 My life-blood seem'd to sip ! 
 
 The stars were dim, and thick the night, 
 
 The steersman's face by his lamp gleam'd 
 
 white; 
 From the sails the dew did drip,— 
 Till clomb above the eastern bar 
 The horned Moon, with one blight star 
 Within the nether tip. 
 
 One after one, by the star-dogg'd Moon, 
 Too qxiick for groan or sigh. 
 Each turn'd his face with a ghastly pang, 
 And cursed me with his eye. 
 
 Four times fifty living men, 
 (And I heard nor sigh nor groan,) 
 With heavy thump, a lifeless lump, 
 They dropp'd down one by one. 
 
 The souls did from their bodies fly, — 
 They fled to bliss or woe ! 
 And every soul, it pass'd me by, 
 Like the whizz of my cross-bow ! " 
 
 PART IV. 
 
 «* I FEAR thee, ancient Mariner! 
 
 I fear thy skinny hand ! 
 
 And thou art long and lank, and brown 
 
 As is the ribb'd sea-sand. 
 
 I fear thee and thy glittering eye. 
 And thy skinny hand, so brown." — 
 "Fear not, fear not, thou Wedding-Guest ! 
 This body dropt not down. 
 
 Alone, alone, all, all alone, 
 Alone on a wide wide sea! 
 And never a saint took pity on 
 My soul in agony. 
 
 The many men, so beautiful! 
 
 And they all dead did lie : 
 
 And a thousand thousand slimy things 
 
 Lived on ; and so did I. 
 
 I look'd upon the rotting sea, 
 And drew my eyes away; 
 I look'd upon the rotting deck, 
 And there the dead men lay. 
 
 I look'd to Heaven, and tried to pray; 
 But, or ever a prayer had gusht, 
 A wicked whisper came, and made 
 My heart as dry as dust. 
 
 I closed my lids, and kept them close, 
 And the balls like pulses beat ; [the sky 
 For the sky and the sea, and the sea and 
 
 Lay like a load on my weary eye, 
 And the dead were at my feet. 
 
 The cold sweat melted from their limbs, 
 Nor rot nor reek did they; 
 The look with which they look'd on me 
 Had never pass'd away. 
 
 An orphan's curse woidd drag to Hell 
 
 A spirit from on high ; 
 
 But, O, more horrible than that 
 
 Is a curse in a dead man's eye! 
 
 Seven days, seven nights, I saw that curse, 
 
 And yet I could not die. 
 
 The moving Moon went up the sky. 
 And nowhere did abide : 
 Softly she Avas going up. 
 And a star or two beside : * 
 
 Her beams bemock'd the sultry main, 
 Like April hoar-frost spread ; 
 But, where the ship's huge shadow lay, 
 The charmed water burnt alway 
 A still and awful red. 
 
 Beyond the shadow of the ship, 
 
 I watch'd the water-snakes : 
 
 They moved in tracks of shining white. 
 
 And, when they rear'd, the elfish light 
 
 Fell off in hoary flakes. 
 
 Within the shadow of the ship 
 
 I watch'd their rich attire ; 
 
 Blue, glossy green, and velvet black. 
 
 They coiPd and swam ; and every track 
 
 Was a flash of golden fire. 
 
 O happy living things! no tongue 
 
 Their beauty might declare ; 
 
 A spring of love gush'd from my heart, 
 
 And I bless'd them unaware : 
 
 Sure my kind saint took pity on me. 
 
 And I bless'd them unaware. 
 
 The self-same moment I could pray; 
 And from my neck so free 
 The Albatross fell off, and sank 
 Like lead into the sea." 
 
 4 In loneliness and fixedness he yearn- 
 eth towards the journeying Moon, and the 
 stars that still sojourn," and still move on- 
 ward; and everywhere the blue sky be- 
 longs to them, and is their appointedVest, 
 and their native country, and their own 
 natural homes, which they enter unan- 
 nounced, as lords that are certainly ex- 
 pected, and yet there is a silent joy at 
 I their arrival. 
 
514 
 
 COLERIDGE. 
 
 *' O SLEEP 1 it is a gentle thiug, 
 Beloved from pole to pole ! 
 To aiaiy Queen the praise be given! 
 She sent the gentle sleep from Heaven, 
 That slid into my soul. 
 
 The silly buckets on the deck 
 
 That had so long remain'd, 
 
 I dreamt that they were fiU'd with dew ; 
 
 And when I awoke, it rain'd. 
 
 My lips were wet, my throat was cold, 
 My garments all were dank; 
 Sure I had drunken in my dreams, 
 And still my body drank. 
 
 I moved, and could not feel my limbs : 
 I was so light, — almost 
 I thought that I had died in sleep, 
 And was a blessed ghost. 
 
 And soon I heard a roaring wind : 
 It did not come anear ; 
 But with its sound it shook the sails, 
 That were so thin and sere. 
 
 The upper air burst into life ! 
 And a hundred fii'e-flags sheen, 
 To and fro they were hurried about I 
 And to and fro, and in and out, 
 The wan stars danced between. 
 
 And the coming wind did roar more loud, 
 And ihe sails did sigh like sedge ; [cloud ; 
 And the rain pour'd down from one black 
 The Moon was at its edge. 
 
 The thick black cloud was cleft, and still 
 The Moon was at its side : 
 Like waters shot from some high crag, 
 The lightning fell with never a jag, 
 A river steep and wide. 
 
 The loud wind never reach'd the ship, 
 Yet now the ship moved on ! 
 Beneath the lightning and the Moon 
 The dead men gave a groan. 
 
 They groan'd, they stirr'd, they all uprose, 
 Nor spake, nor moved their ej-es ; 
 It had been strange, even in a dream, 
 To have seen those dead men rise. 
 
 The helmsman steer'd, the ship moved on ; 
 Yet never a breeze up-blew; 
 The mariners all 'gan work the ropes. 
 Where they were wont to do : 
 
 They raised their limbs like lifeless 
 We were a ghastly crew. [tools,— 
 
 The body of my brother's son 
 Stood by me, knee to knee : 
 The body and I puU'd at one rope, 
 But he said nought to me." — 
 
 " I fear thee, ancient Mariner! " — 
 " Be calm, thou Weddiug-Guest! 
 'Twas not those souls that fled in pain, 
 Which to their corses came again. 
 But a troop of spirits blest : 
 
 For, when it dawn'd, they dropp'd their 
 And cluster'd round the mast; [arms, 
 Sweet sounds rose slowly through their 
 And from their bodies pass'd. [mouths, 
 
 Around, around flew each sweet sound, 
 Then darted to the Sun; 
 Slowly the sounds came back again, 
 Now mix'd, now one by one. 
 
 Sometimes a-dropping from the sky 
 I heard the sky-lark sing; 
 Sometimes all little birds that are. 
 How they seem'd to fill the sea and air 
 With their sweet jargoning ! 
 
 And now 'twas like all instruments, 
 Now like a lonely flute ; 
 And now it is an angel's song. 
 That makes the Heavens be mute. 
 
 It ceased; yet still the sails made on 
 
 A pleasant noise till noon, 
 
 A noise like of a hidden brook 
 
 In the leafy month of June, 
 
 That to the sleeping woods all night 
 
 Singeth a quiet tune. 
 
 Till noon we quietly sail'd on, 
 Yet never a breeze did breathe : 
 Slow^ly and smoothly went the ship 
 Moved onward from beneath. 
 
 Under the keel nine fathom deep, 
 From the land of mist and snoAV, 
 The spirit slid; and it was he 
 That made the ship to go. « 
 The sails at noon left off their tune. 
 And the ship stood still alsd. 
 
 5 The lonesome spirit from the south 
 pole carries on the ship as far as the Line, 
 in obedience to the angelic troop, but still 
 requireth vengeance. 
 
THE AI^rCIENT MARIJS^ER. 
 
 515 
 
 The Sun, right up above the mast, 
 Had lix'd her to the ocean : 
 But in a minute she 'gan stir, 
 Witii a short imeasy motion, — 
 Backwards and forwards half her length, 
 With a short uneasy motion. 
 
 Then, like a pawing horse let go, 
 She made a sudden bound : 
 It flung the blood into mj- head, 
 And I fell down in a swound. 
 
 How long in that same fit I lay, 
 I have not to delcare ; 
 But, ere my living life return'd, 
 I heard and in my soul discern'd 
 Two Voices in the air.o 
 
 ' Is it he? ' quoth one, * Is this the man? 
 By Him wlio died on cross. 
 With his cruel bow he laid full low 
 The harmless Albatross. 
 
 The spirit who bideth by himself 
 In the land of mist and snow, 
 He loved the bird that loved the man 
 Who shot him with his bow.' 
 
 The other was a softer voice, 
 
 As soft as honey-dew : 
 
 Quoth he, ' The man hath penance done. 
 
 And penance more will do.' " 
 
 PART VI. 
 
 First Voice. 
 '* 'But tell me, tell me f speak again. 
 Thy soft response renewing, — 
 What makes that ship drive on so fast ? 
 What is the Ocean doing? ' 
 
 Second Voice. 
 * Still as a slave before his lord. 
 The Ocean hath no blast; 
 His gi-eat bright eye most silently 
 Up to the Moon is cast, — 
 
 If he may know which way to go ; 
 For she guides him smooth or grim. 
 Sec, brother, see ! how graciously 
 She looketh down on him.' 
 
 6 The Polar Spirit's fellow-demons, the 
 invisible inhabitants of the element, take 
 
 {)art in his wrong; and two of them re- 
 ate, one to the other, that penance long 
 and heavy for the ancient Mariner hath 
 been accorded to the Polar Spirit, who 
 returneth southward. 
 
 First Voice. 
 ' But why drives on that ship so fast, 
 Without or wave or wind?' 
 
 Second Voice. 
 ' The air is cut away before, 
 And closes from behincL^ 
 
 Fly, brother, fly! more high, more highl 
 Or we shall be belated : 
 For slow and slow that ship will go. 
 When the Mariner's trance is abated.' 
 
 I woke, and we were sailing on 
 
 As in a gentle weather ; 
 
 'Twas night, calm night, the Moon was 
 
 The dead men stood together.^ [high; 
 
 All stood together on the deck, 
 For a chai-nel-dungeon fitter : 
 All fix'd on me their stony eyes. 
 That in the Moon did glitter. 
 
 The pang, the curse, with which they died. 
 Had never pass'd away : 
 I could not draw ray eyes from theirs, 
 Nor turn them up to pray. 
 
 And now this spell was snapt : once more 
 
 I view'd the ocean green. 
 
 And look'd far forth, yet little saw 
 
 Of what had else been seen, — 
 
 Like one, that on a lonesome road 
 Doth walk in fear and dread, 
 And having once tuna'd round walks on, 
 And turns no more his head ; 
 Because he knows, a frightful fiend 
 Doth close behind him tread. 
 
 But soon there breathed a wind on me, 
 Nor sound nor motion made : 
 Its path was not upon the sea. 
 In ripple or in shade. 
 
 It raised my hair, it faim'd my cheek. 
 Like a meadow-gale of Spring, — 
 It mingled strangely with mj' fears. 
 Yet it felt like a welcoming. 
 
 Swiftly, swiftlyflew the ship. 
 Yet she sail'd softly too : 
 
 7 The Mariner hath been cast into a 
 trance; for the angelic ]iower causetli the 
 vessel to drive northward faster than ha- 
 man life could endure. 
 
 The supernatuial motion is retarded ; 
 and the Mariner awakes, and his penance 
 begins anew. 
 
516 
 
 COLERIDGE. 
 
 Sweetly, sweetly blew the breeze,— 
 Ou me alone it blew. 
 
 O, dream of joy ! is this indeed 
 The light-house top I see? 
 Is this the hill? is this the kirk? 
 Is this mine own countree? 
 
 We drifted o'er the harboui*-bar, 
 And I with sobs did pray, — 
 O, let me be awake, my God! 
 Or let me sleep alwdy. 
 
 The harbour-bay was clear as glass, 
 So smoothly it was strewn ! 
 And on the bay the moonlight lay, 
 Arul the shadow of the Moon. 
 
 The rock shone bright, the kirk no less, 
 That stands above the rock : 
 The moonlight steep'd in silentness 
 The steady weathercock. 
 
 And the bay was white with silent light, 
 Till, rising from the same. 
 Full many shapes, that shadows were, 
 In crimson colours came. 
 
 A little distance from the prow 
 Those crimson shadows were : 
 I turn'd ray eyes upon the deck, — 
 
 Christ! what saw I there? 
 
 Each corse lay flat, lifeless and flat, 
 And, by the holy i-ood! 
 A man all light, a seraph-man, 
 On every corse there stood. 
 
 This seraph-band each waved his hand : 
 It was a heavenly sight! 
 They stood as sijjnals to the land. 
 Each one a lovely light : 
 
 This seraph-band each waved his hand; 
 No voice did they impart, — 
 No voice ; but, O ! the silence sank 
 Like music on my heart. 
 
 But soon I heard the dash of oars, 
 
 1 heard the Pilot's cheer; 
 
 My head was turn'd perforce away. 
 And I saw a boat appear. 
 
 The Pilot and the Pilot's boy, 
 I heard them coming fast : 
 Dear Lord in Heaven ! it was a joy 
 The dead men could not blast. 
 
 1 saw a third, — I heard his voice; 
 It is the Hermit good! 
 
 He singeth loud his godly hymns 
 That he makes in the wood. 
 He'll shrive my soul, he'll wash away 
 The Albatross's blood." 
 
 PART VII. 
 
 " This Hermit good lives in that wood 
 Which slopes down to the sea. 
 How loudly his sweet voice he rears 1 
 He loves to talk with marinei-es 
 That come from a far countree. 
 
 He kneels at morn and noon and eve, — 
 
 He hath a cushion plump. 
 
 It is the moss that wholly hides 
 
 The rotted old oak-stump. 
 
 The skiff-boat near'd : I heard them talk, 
 ' Why, this is strange, I trow ! 
 Where are those lights so many and fair, 
 That signal made but now? ' 
 
 ' Strange, by my faith!' the Hermit said, 
 
 ' And they answer'd not our cheer ! 
 
 The planks look'd warp'd ! and see those 
 
 How thin they are and sere ! [sails, 
 
 I never saw aught like to them, 
 
 Unless perchance it were 
 
 Brown skeletons of leaves that lag 
 
 My forest-brook along; 
 
 When the ivy -tod is heavy with snow, 
 
 And the owlet whoops to the wolf below, 
 
 That eats the she-wolf 's young.' 
 
 ' Dear Lord ! it hath a fiendish look,' 
 The Pilot made reply, 
 * I am afear'd,'— 'Push on, push on! ' 
 Said the Hermit cheerily. 
 
 The boat came closer to the ship, 
 But I nor spake nor stirr'd; 
 The boat came close beneath the ship, 
 And straight a sound was heard. 
 
 Under the water it rumbled on, 
 Still louder and more dread : 
 It reach'd the ship, it split the bay ; 
 The ship went down like lead. 
 
 Stunn'd by that loud and dreadful sound 
 Which sky and ocean smote, 
 Like one that hath been seven days 
 My body lay afloat ; [drown'd 
 
 But, swift as dreams, myself I found 
 Within the Pilot's boat. 
 
 Upon the whirl, where sank the ship, 
 The boat spun round and round; 
 
THE ANCIEKT MARINEE. 
 
 517 
 
 And all was still, save that the hill 
 Was telling of the sound. 
 
 I moved my lips, — the Pilot shi-iek'd 
 And fell down in a fit; 
 The holy Hermit raised his eyes, 
 And pray'd where he did sit. 
 
 I took the oars : the Pilot's boy, 
 
 Who now doth crazy go, 
 
 Laugh'd loud and long, and all the while 
 
 His eyes went to and tro. 
 
 ' Ha, ha ! ' quoth he ' full plain I see. 
 
 The Devil knows how to row. ' 
 
 And now, all in my own countree, 
 I stood on the firm land ! 
 The Hermit stepp'd forth from the boat, 
 And scarcely he could stand. 
 
 ♦ O, shrive me, shrive me, holy man ! ' — 
 The Hermit cross'd his brow. — 
 
 • Say quick,' quoth he, * I bid thee say, — 
 What manner of man ai*t thou?' 
 
 Forth with this frame of mine was Avreuch'd 
 With a woful agony, 
 Which forced me to begin my tale; 
 And then it lelt me free. 
 
 Since then, at an uncertain houx-. 
 That agony returns; 
 And, till my ghastly tale is told. 
 This heart within me burns. 
 
 I pass, like night, from land to land; 
 I have strange power of speech; 
 That moment that his face I see, 
 I know the man that must hear me : 
 To him my tale I teach. 
 
 What loud uproar bursts from that door ! 
 The Wedding-Guests are there : 
 But in the garden-bower the bride 
 And bride-maids singing ai-e : 
 And, hark ! the little vesper bell, 
 Wliich biddeth me to prayer 1 
 
 O Wedding-Guest ! this soul hath been 
 Alone on a wide wide sea : 
 So lonely 'twas, that God himself 
 Scarce seemfed there to be. 
 
 O, sweeter than the marriage-feast, 
 •Tis sweeter far to me. 
 To walk together to the kirk 
 With a goodly company ! — 
 
 To walk together to the kirk. 
 
 And all together pi-ay. 
 
 While each to his great Father bends, 
 
 Old men, and babes, and loving friends, 
 
 And youths and maidens gay ! 
 
 Fare well, farewell! but this I tell 
 To thee, thou Wedding-Guest, — 
 He prayeth well, who loveth well 
 Both man and bird and beast. 
 
 He prayeth best, who loveth best 
 All things both great and small ; 
 For the dear God who loveth us. 
 He made and loveth all." 
 
 The Mariner, whose eye is bright, 
 Whose beard with age is hoar. 
 Is gone : and now the Wedding-Guest 
 Turn'd from the bridegroom's door. 
 
 He went like one that hath been stunn'd, 
 And is of sense forlorn : 
 A sadder and a wiser man. 
 He rose the mon-ow morn.o 
 
 CHRISTABEL. 
 
 [From the PREFACE prefixed to the edition 
 0/1816.] 
 
 The first part of the following poem was 
 written in the year 1797, at Stovvey in the 
 county of Somerset ; the second part, af- 
 ter my return Irom Germany, in the year 
 1800, at Keswick, Cumberland. Since the 
 latter date, my poetic powers have been, 
 till very lately, in a state of suspended 
 animation. But as, in my very first con- 
 ception of the tale, I liad the whole prcs- 
 ent to my mind, witli the wholeness, no 
 less than with the loveliness of a vision; 
 I trust that I shall yet be able to embody 
 in verse the three parts yet to come 
 
 The metre of the Christabd is not, prop- 
 erly speaking, irregular, though it may 
 seem so from its being founded on a new 
 principle; namely, that of counting in 
 each line the accents, not the syllables. 
 Though the latter may vary from seven 
 to twelve, yet in each Hue the accents 
 will be found to be only four. Neverthe- 
 less this occasional variation in number 
 of syllables is not introduced wantonly, 
 or for the mere ends of convenience, but 
 in correspondence with some transition in 
 the natux-e of the imageiy or passion. 
 
 9 The author accompanied the text of 
 this poem with a running comment in 
 prose, axid printed in tlie margin, intend- 
 ed to explain the course of the stoxy. So 
 much of the common t as seems "at all 
 needful for that purpose is here thrown 
 into the preceding notes. 
 
518 
 
 COLERIDGE. 
 
 PART I. 
 
 Tis the middle of night by the castle clock, 
 And the owls have awaken'd the crowing 
 
 Tu— whiti Tu — whoo! [cock; 
 
 And hark, again ! the crowing cock, 
 How drowsily it crew. 
 
 Sir LeoUne, the Baron rich, 
 Hath a toothless mastiff bitch ; 
 From her kennel beneath the rock 
 She maketh answer to the clock, [hour ; 
 Four for the quarters, and twelve for the 
 Ever and aye, by shine and shower, 
 Sixteen short howls, not over loud : 
 Some say, she sees my lady's shroud. 
 
 Is the night chilly and dark? 
 The night is chilly, but not dark : 
 The thin grey cloud is spread on high. 
 It covers but not hides the sky : 
 The Moon is behind, and at the full; 
 And yet she looks both small and dull. 
 The night is chill, the cloud is grey : 
 'Tis a month before the month of May, 
 And the Spring comes slowly up this way. 
 
 The lovely lady, Christabel, 
 
 Whom her fsxther loves so well, 
 
 What makes her in the wood so late, 
 
 A furlong from the castle gate? 
 
 She had dreams all yesternight 
 
 Of her own betrothed knight ; 
 
 And she in the midnight wood will pray 
 
 For the weal of her lover that's far away. 
 
 She stole along, she nothing spoke, 
 The sighs she heaved were soft and low. 
 And nought was green upon the oak 
 But moss and rarest misletoe : 
 She kneels beneath the huge oak tree. 
 And in silence prayeth she. 
 
 The lady sprang up suddenly. 
 
 The lovely lady, Christabel! 
 
 It moan'd as near as near can be, 
 
 But what it is, she cannot tell. — 
 
 On the other side it seems to be, 
 
 Of the huge, broad-breasted, old oak tree. 
 
 The night is chill; the forest bare : 
 Is it the wind that moaneth bleak? 
 There is not wind enough in the air 
 To move away the ringlet curl 
 From the lovely lady's cheek; — 
 There is not wind enough to twirl 
 Tlie one red leaf, the last of its clan. 
 That dances as often as dance it can, 
 
 Hanging so light, and hanging high, [sky. 
 On the topmost twig that looks up at the 
 
 Hush, beating heart of Christabel! 
 Jesu, Maria, shield her well! 
 She folded her arms beneath her cloak, 
 And stole to the other side of the oak. 
 What sees she there? 
 
 There she sees a damsel bright, 
 Drest in a silken robe of white. 
 That shadowy in the moonlight shone : 
 The neck that made that white robe wan, 
 Her stately neck, and ai-ms were bare; 
 Her blue-vein'd feet unsandall'd were. 
 And wildly glitter'd here and there 
 The gems entangled in her hair. 
 I guess 'twas frightful there to see 
 A lady so richly clad as she, — 
 Beautiful exceedingly! 
 
 " Mary mother, save me now ! " 
 
 Said Christabel, " and who art thou? " 
 
 The lady strange made answer meet, 
 And her voice was faint and sweet : 
 " Have pity on my sore distress, 
 I scarce can speak for weai-iness. 
 Stretch forth thy hand, and have no fear ! " 
 Said Christabel, " How cam'st thou 
 here? ♦ [sweet. 
 
 And the lady, whose voice was faint and 
 Did thus pursue her answer meet: 
 
 " My sire is of a noble line, 
 
 And my name is Geraldine : 
 
 Five warriors seized me yestermorn, 
 
 Me, even me, a maid forlorn : 
 
 They choked my cries with force and 
 
 And tied me ou a palfrey white : [fright. 
 
 The palfrey was as fleet as wind, 
 
 And they rode furiously behind, [white ; 
 
 They spurr'd amain, their steeds were 
 
 And once we cross'd the shade of night. 
 
 As sure as Heaven shall rescue me, 
 
 I have no thought what men they be ; 
 
 Nor do I know how long it is 
 
 (For I have lain entranced I wis) 
 
 Since one, the tallest of the five. 
 
 Took me from the palfrey's back, 
 
 A weary woman, scarce alive. 
 
 Some mutter'd words his comrades spoke : 
 
 He placed me underneath this oak; 
 
 He swore they would return with haate; 
 
 Whither they went I cannot tell, — 
 
 I thought I heard, some minutes past, 
 
CHRISTABEL. 
 
 519 
 
 Sounds as of a castle bell. 
 
 Stretch forth thy hand," thus ended she, 
 
 "And help a wretched maid to flee." 
 
 Then Christabel stretch'd forth her hand 
 
 And comforted fair Geraldine : 
 
 '• O, well, bright dame, may you command 
 
 The service of Sir Leoliue ; 
 
 And gladly our stout chivalry 
 
 Will he send forth and friends withal 
 
 To guide and guard you safe and free 
 
 Home to your noble father's hall." 
 
 She rose : and forth with steps they pass'd 
 
 That strove to be, and were not, fast. 
 
 Her gracious stars the lady blest, 
 
 And thus spake on sweet Christabel : 
 
 *'^ All our household are at rest, 
 
 The hall as silent as the cell; 
 
 Sir Leoline is weak in health 
 
 And may not well aAvakend be ; 
 
 But we will move as if in stealth; 
 
 And I beseech your courtesy. 
 
 This night, to share your couch with me." 
 
 They cross'd the moat, and Christabel 
 
 Took the key that fitted well ; 
 
 A little door she open'd straight, 
 
 All in the middle of the gate ; [out, 
 
 The gate that was iron'd within and with- 
 
 Where an armj- in battle array had 
 
 march'd out. 
 The lady sank, belike through pain, 
 And Christabel with might and main 
 Lifted her up, a weaiy weight, 
 Over the threshold of the gate : 
 Then the lady rose again. 
 And moved, as she wei-e not in pain. 
 
 So free from danger, free from fear, 
 
 They cross'd the court: right glad they 
 
 And Christabel devoutly cried [were. 
 
 To the lady by her side, 
 
 "Praise we the Virgin all divine 
 
 Who hath rescued thee from thy distress ! " 
 
 '•Alas, alas ! " said Geraldine, 
 
 " I cannot speak for weariness." 
 
 So free from danger, free from fear, [were. 
 
 They cross'd the court : right glad they 
 
 Outside her kennel, the mastiff old 
 Lay fast asleep, in moonshine cold. 
 The mastiff old did not awake. 
 Yet she an angry moan did make ! 
 And what can ail the mastiff bitch? 
 Never tiU now she utter'd yell 
 Beneath the eye of Christabel. 
 
 Perhaps it is the owlet's scritch : 
 For what can ail the mastiff bitch? 
 
 They pass'd the hall, that echoes still, 
 Pass as lightly as you will! [dying. 
 
 The brands were flat, the brands were 
 Amid their own Avhite ashes lying; 
 But, when the lady pass'd, there came 
 A tongue of light, a fit of flame ; 
 And Christabel saw the lady's eye, 
 And nothing else saw she thereby, [tall, 
 Save the boss of the shield of Sir Leoline 
 AVhich hung in a murky old niche in the 
 " O, softly tread," said Christabel, [wall. 
 " My father seldom sleepeth well." 
 
 Sweet Christabel her feet doth bare; 
 And, jealous of the listening air, 
 They steal their way from stair to stair, 
 Now in glimmer, and now in gloom, 
 And now they pass the Baron's room, 
 As still as death Avith stifled breath ! 
 And now have reach'd her chamber door; 
 And now doth Geraldine press down 
 The rushes of the chamber floor. 
 
 The Moon shines dim in the open air. 
 
 And not a moonbeam enters here. 
 
 But they without its light can see 
 
 The chamber carved so curiously. 
 
 Carved with figures sti-ange and sweet, 
 
 All made out of the carver's brain, 
 
 For a lady's chamber meet : 
 
 The lamp with twofold silver chain 
 
 Is fasten'd to an angel's feet. 
 
 The silver lamp burns dead and dim ; 
 
 But Christabel the lamp will trim. 
 
 She ti-imm'd the lamp, and made it bright, 
 
 And left it swinging to and fro. 
 
 While Geraldine, in wretched plight, 
 
 Sank down upon the floor below. 
 
 " O, weary lady, Geraldine, 
 I pi*ay you, drink this cordial wine f 
 It is a wine of virtuous powers ; 
 My mother made it of wild flowers." 
 
 " And will your mother pity me. 
 Who am a maiden most forlorn? " 
 Christabel answer'd, — " Woe is me I 
 She died the hour that I was born. 
 I have heard the grey-hair'd friar tell, 
 How on her death-bed she did say 
 That she should hear the castle bell 
 Strike twelve upon my wedding day. — 
 O mother dear, that thou wert here I " 
 ♦• I would, " said Geraldine, " she werel " 
 
520 
 
 COLERIDGE. 
 
 But soon with alter'd voice said she, — 
 ' ' Off, wandering mother ! Peak and pine ! 
 I have power to bid thee flee." 
 Alas! what ails poor Geraldine? 
 Why stares she with unsettled eye? 
 Can she the bodiless dead espy? 
 And why with hollow voice cries she, — 
 ♦' Off, woman, off! this hour is mine, — 
 Though thou her guardian spirit be, 
 Off, woman, off! 'tis given tome." 
 
 Then Christabel knelt by the lady's side. 
 And raised to heaven her eyes so blue, — 
 " Alas! " said she, '• this ghastly ride — 
 Dear lady, it hath wilder'd you ! " 
 The lady wiped her moist cold brow, 
 And faintly said, " 'Tis over now ! " 
 
 Again the wild-flower wine she drank : 
 Her fair large eyes 'gan glitter bright, 
 And from the floor whereon she sank, 
 The lofty lady stood upright; 
 She was most beautiful to see, 
 Like a lady of a far countr^e. 
 
 And thus the lofty lady spake, — 
 " All they who live in the upper sky 
 Do love you, holy Christabel ! 
 And you love them, and for their sake, 
 And for the good which me hefell, 
 Even I in my degree will try. 
 Fair maiden, to requite you well. 
 But now unrobe yourself; for I 
 Must pray, ere yet in bed I lie." 
 
 Quoth Christabel, " So let it he I " 
 And as the lady bade, did she. 
 Her gentle limbs did she undress, 
 And lay down in her loveliness. 
 But, through her brain, of weal and woe 
 So many thoughts moved to and fro. 
 That vain it were her lids to close ; 
 So half-way from the bed she rose, 
 And on her elbow did recline 
 To look at the lady Geraldine. 
 
 Beneath the lamp the lady bow'd, 
 And slowly roU'd her eyes around ; 
 Then drawing in her bi'eath aloud. 
 Like one that shudder'd, she unbound 
 The cincture from beneath her breast; 
 Her silken robe, and inner vest, 
 Dropt to her feet, and full in view, 
 Behold ! her bosom and half her side — 
 A sight to dream of, not to tell ! 
 O, shield her I shield sweet Christabel! 
 
 Yet Geraldine nor speaks nor stirs : 
 Ah ! what a stricken look was hers ! 
 Deep from within she seems half-way 
 To lift some weight with sick assay. 
 And eyes the maid and seeks delay ; 
 Then suddenly as one defled 
 Collects herself in scorn and pride. 
 And lay down by the maiden's side : 
 And in her arms the maid she took, 
 
 Ah well-a-day ! 
 And with low voice and doleful look 
 
 These words did say : [a spell, 
 " In the touch of this bosom there worketh 
 Which is loi-d of thy utterance, Christabel ! 
 Thou knowest to-night, and wilt know 
 
 to-morrow, [sorrow : 
 
 This mark of my shame, this seal of my 
 But vainly thou warrest. 
 
 For this is alone in 
 Thy power to declare, 
 
 That in the dim forest 
 Thou heard'st a low moaning, [fair : 
 And found'st a bright lady, surpassingly 
 And didst bring her home with thee in 
 
 love and in charity, 
 To shield her and shelter her from the 
 
 damp air." 
 
 THE CONCLUSION TO PART I. 
 
 It was a lovely sight to see 
 The lady Christabel, when she 
 Was praying at the old oak tree. 
 
 Amid the jagged shadows 
 
 Of mossy leafless boughs, 
 
 Kneeling in the moonlight. 
 
 To make her gentle vows ; 
 Her slender palms together prest, 
 Heaving sometimes on her breast; 
 Her face resigned to bliss or bale, — 
 Her face, O, call it fair not pale ! 
 And both blue eyes more bright than clear. 
 Each about to have a tear. 
 
 With open eyes, (ah, woe is me !) 
 Asleep, and dreaming fearfully, 
 Fearfully dreaming, yet, I wis. 
 Dreaming that alone whi(;h is — 
 O, sorrow and shame ! Can this be she. 
 The lady, who knelt at the old oak tree? 
 And, lo! the worker of those harms. 
 That holds the maiden in her arms, 
 Seems to slumber still and mild, 
 As a mother with her child. 
 
CHRISTABEL, 
 
 521 
 
 A star hath set, a star hath risen, 
 O Geraldine ! since arras of thine 
 Have been the lovely lady's prison. 
 O GeraMiue! one hour was thine, — 
 Thou'st had thy will! By tarn i and rill, 
 The night-birds all that hour were still : 
 But now they are jubilant anew, [whoo ! 
 From cliff and tower, tu — whoo ! tu — 
 Tu— whoo ! tu— whoo 1 from wood and fell ! 
 
 And see! the lady Christabel 
 Gathers herself from out her trance; 
 Her limbs relax, her countenance 
 Grows sad and soft; the smooth thin lids 
 Close o'er her eyes ; and tears she sheds, — 
 Large tears that leave the lashes bright! 
 And oft the while she seems to smile. 
 As infants at a sudden light! 
 Yea, she doth smile, and she doth weep, 
 Like a youthful hennitess, 
 Beauteous in a wilderness. 
 Who, praying always, prays in sleep. 
 And, if she move unquietly, 
 Perchance 'tis but the blood so free, 
 Comes back and tingles in her feet. 
 No doubt, she hath a vision sweet. 
 "What if her guardian spirit 'twere? 
 What if she knew her mother near ? 
 But this she knows, in joys and woes. 
 That saints will aid if men will call: 
 For the blue sky bends over all! 
 
 PART II. 
 
 Each matin bell, the Baron saith, 
 Knells us back to a world of death. 
 These words Sir Leoline first said, 
 When he rose and found his lady dead : 
 These words Sir Leoline wiU say. 
 Many a morn to his dying day ! 
 And hence the custom and law began, 
 That still at dawn the sacristan, 
 WTio duly pulls the heavy bell, 
 Five-and-fortj' beads must tell 
 Bet^veen each stroke, — a warning knell, 
 Wliich not a soul can choose but hear 
 From Bratha-Head to Windermere. 
 
 Saith Bracy the bard, " So let it knell I 
 And let the drowsy sacristan 
 Still count as slowly as he can! 
 There is no lack of such, I ween, 
 As well fill up the space between. 
 In Langdale Pike and Witch's Lair, 
 
 1 Tarn is a small inoimtain lake. See 
 page 137, note 6. 
 
 And Dungeon.ghyll2 so foully rent. 
 With ropes of rock and bells of air 
 Three sinful sextons' ghosts are pent, 
 ^Yho all give back, one after t'other, 
 The death-note to their living brother; 
 And oft too, by the knell offended, 
 Just as their one, two, three, is ended. 
 The Devil mocks the doleful tale 
 With a merry peal from Borrowdale." 
 
 The air is still! through mist and cloud 
 That merry peal comes ringing loud; 
 And Geraldine shakes off her dread, 
 And rises lightly from the bed; 
 Puts on her silken vestments white. 
 And tricks her hair in lovely plight. 
 And nothing doubting of her speU 
 Awakens the lady Christabel : 
 "Sleep you, SAveet lady Christabel? 
 I trust that you have rested well." 
 
 And Christabel awoke and spied 
 The same w^ho lay down by her side, — 
 O, rather say, the same whom she 
 Raised up beneath the old oak tree! 
 Nay, fairer yet ! and yet more fair! 
 For she belike hath drunken deep 
 Of all the blessedness of sleep ! 
 
 vVnd, while she spake, her looks, her air 
 Such gentle thankfulness declare. 
 That (so it seem'd) her girded vests 
 Grew tight beneath her heaving breasts. 
 " Sure I have sinn'd! " said Christabel, 
 " Now Heaven be praised if all be well! " 
 And in low faltering tones, yet sweet. 
 Did she the lofty lady greet 
 With such perplexity of mind 
 As dreams too lively leave behind. 
 
 So quickly she rose, and quickly array'd 
 Her maiden Umbs, and having pray'd 
 That He who on the ci'oss did groan 
 Might wash away her sins unknown, 
 She forthwith led fair Geraldine 
 To meet her sire. Sir Leoline. 
 The lovely maid and the lady tall 
 Are pacing both into the hall. 
 And pacing on through page and groom 
 Enter the Baron's presence-i'oom. 
 
 2 Glnill is a short, steep, nan'ow val- 
 ley, with a stream running through it : so 
 used in Cumberland and Westmoreland. 
 Several of the names occurring here are 
 of places in CumberlaDd, as the author, 
 at the time of writing the Second Part, 
 was residing at Keswick, in that county. 
 
522 
 
 COLERIDGE. 
 
 The Baron rose, and while he prest 
 His gentle daughter to his breast, 
 With cheerful wonder in his eyes 
 The lady Geraldine espies, 
 And gave such welcome to the same, 
 As might beseem so bright a dame! 
 
 But when he heard the lady's tale. 
 And when she told her fathei-'s name, 
 Why wax'd Sir Leoline so pale. 
 Murmuring o'er the name again, 
 Lord Roland de Vaux of Tryermaine ? 
 
 Alas! they had been Mends in youth; 
 But whispering tongues can poison truth ; 
 And constancy lives in realms above; 
 And life is thorny; and youth is vain; 
 And to be \vroth with one we love. 
 Doth Avork like madness in the brain. 
 And thus it chanced, as I divine, 
 With Roland and Sir Leoline. 
 Each spake words of high disdain 
 And insult to his heart's best brother : 
 They parted, — ne'er to meet again I 
 But never either found another 
 To free the hoUow heart from paining; — 
 They stood aloof, the scars remaining. 
 Like cliffs which had been rent asunder; 
 A dreary sea now flows between; — 
 But neither heat, nor frost, nor thunder, 
 Shall wholly do away, I ween, 
 The marks of that which once hath been. 
 
 Sir Leoline, a moment's space, ' 
 Stood gazing on the damsel's face; 
 And the youthful Lord of Tryermaine 
 Came back upon his heart again. 
 
 O, then, the Baron forgot his age, 
 
 His noble heart swell'd high with rage ; 
 
 He swore by the wounds in Jesu's side, 
 
 He would proclaim it far and wide 
 
 With trump and solemn heraldry. 
 
 That they who thus had wrong'd the dame 
 
 Were base as spotted infamy I 
 
 '♦And if they dare deny the same. 
 
 My herald shall appoint a week. 
 
 And let the recreant traitors seek 
 
 My tourney court, — that there and then 
 
 I may dislodge their reptile souls 
 
 From the bodies and forms of men! " 
 
 He spake : his eye in lightning rolls ! 
 
 For the lady v/as ruthlessly seized ; and 
 
 he kenn'd 
 In the beautiful lady the child of his 
 
 friend I 
 
 And now the tears were on his face. 
 
 And fondly in his arms he took 
 
 Fair Geraldine, who met the embrace, 
 
 Prolonging it wiih joyous look. 
 
 Which when she view'd, a vision fell 
 
 Upon the soul of Christabel, 
 
 The vision of fear, the touch and pain I 
 
 She shrunk and shudder'd, and saw again, 
 
 (Ah, woe is me ! was it for thee. 
 
 Thou gentle maid! such sights to see?) 
 
 Again she saw that bosom old. 
 
 Again she felt that bosom cold, [sound : 
 
 And drew in her breath with a hissing 
 
 Whereat the Knight turn'd Avildly round. 
 
 Add nothing saw but his own sweet maid 
 
 With eyes upraised, as one that pray'd. 
 
 The touch, the sight, had pass'd away. 
 
 And in its stead that vision blest 
 Which comforted her after-rest, 
 While in the lady's arms she lay, 
 Had put a rapture in her breast, 
 And on her lips and o'er her eyes 
 Spread smiles like light! 
 
 With new suiT)ri8e, 
 " What ails then my belovM child? " 
 The Baron said. — His daughter mild 
 Made answer, " AH will yet be well! " 
 I ween, she had no power to tell 
 Aught else : so mighty was the spell. 
 Yet he, who saw this Geraldine, 
 Had deem'd her sure a thing divine; 
 Such sorrow with such grace she blended, 
 As if she fear'd she had offended 
 Sweet Christabel, that gentle maid ! 
 And with such lowly tones she pray'd 
 She might be sent without delay 
 Home to her father's mansion. 
 
 "Nay! 
 Nay, by my soul! " said Leoline. 
 " Ho ! Bracy the bard, the charge be thine! 
 Go thou, with music sweet and loud. 
 And take two steeds with trappings proud. 
 And take the youth whom thou lov'st best 
 To bear thy harp, and learn thy song, 
 And clothe you both in solemn vest, 
 And over the mountains haste along, 
 Lest wandering folk, that are abroad, 
 Detain you on the valley road. 
 And when he has cross'd the Irthing flood, 
 My merry bard ! he hastes he hastes 
 Up Knorren Moor, through Halegarth 
 And reaches soon that castle good, [Wood, 
 Which stands and threatens Scotland's 
 wastes. 
 
CHRISTABEL. 
 
 523 
 
 «* BardBracy ! bard Bracy ! your horses are 
 
 fleet, 
 Ye must ride up the hall, your music so 
 
 sweet, 
 More loud than yoiir horses' echoing feet ! 
 And loud and loud to Lord Roland call, 
 Thy daughter is safe in Langdale hall! 
 Thy beautiful daughter is safe and free : 
 Sir Leoline greets thee thus through me. 
 He bids thee come without delay 
 With all thy numerous array ; 
 And take thy lovely daughter home ; 
 And he will meet thee on the way 
 With all his numerous array 
 White with their panting palfreys' foam : 
 And, by mine honour f I will say, 
 That I repent me of the day 
 When I spake words of fierce disdain 
 To Roland de Vaux of Tryermaine I — 
 For, since that evil hour hath flown, 
 Many a Summer's Sun hath shone ; 
 Yet ne'er found I a friend again 
 Like Roland de Vaux of Tryermaine." 
 
 The lady fell, and clasp'd his knees, 
 Her face upraised, her eyes o'erfl owing; 
 And Bracy replied, with faltering voice, 
 His gracious hail on all bestowing: 
 " Thy words, thou sire of Christabel, 
 Are sweeter than my harp can tell ; 
 Yet, might I gain a boon of thee, 
 This day my journey should not be. 
 So strange a dream hath come to me; 
 That I had vow'd with music loud 
 To clear yon wood fx'om thing unblest, 
 Warn'd by a vision in my rest ! 
 For in my sleep I saw that dove. 
 That gentle bird whom thou dost love, 
 And call'st by thy own daughter's name,— 
 Sir Leoline 1 I saw the same. 
 Fluttering, and uttering fearful moan. 
 Among the green herbs in the forest alone. 
 Which when I saw and when I heard, 
 I wonder'd what might ail the bird : 
 For nothing near it could I see. 
 Save the grass and green herbs under- 
 neath the old ti-ee. 
 
 " And in my dream methought I went 
 To search out what might there be found ; 
 And what the sweet bird's trouble meant, 
 That thus lay fluttering on the ground. 
 I went and peer'd, and could descry 
 Ko cause for her distressful cry; 
 But yet for her dear lady's sake 
 I stoop'd, methought, the dove to take, 
 
 When, lol I saw a bright green snake 
 Coil'd around its wings and neck, — 
 Green as the herbs on which it couch'd, 
 Close by the dove's its head it crouch'd; 
 And with tlie dove it heaves and stirs, 
 Swelling its neck as she swell'd hers 1 
 I woke ; it was the midnight hour. 
 The clock was echoing in the tower; 
 But, though my slumber was gone by, 
 This dream it would not pass away,— 
 It seems to live upon ray eye ! 
 And thence I vow'd this self-same day 
 With music strong and saintly song 
 To wander through the forest bare, 
 Lest aught unholy loiter Uiei-e." 
 
 Thus Bracy said : the Baron, the while, 
 Half-b'st'ning heard him with a smile; 
 Then tum'd to Lady Geraldine, 
 His eyes made up of wonder and love ; 
 And said in courtly accents fine, 
 '* Sweet maid. Lord Roland's beauteous 
 dove, [song. 
 
 With arms more strong than harp or 
 Thy sire and I will ci'ush the snake ! " 
 He kiss'd her forehead as he spake, 
 And Geraldine, in maiden wise, 
 Casting down her large bright eyes, 
 With blushing cheek and courtesy flue. 
 She tum'd her from Sir Leoline ; 
 Softly gather'd up her tiain, 
 That o'er her right arm fell again ; 
 And folded her arms across her chest. 
 And couch'd her head upon her breast, 
 And look'd askance at Christabel,— 
 Jesu, Maria, shield her well I 
 
 A snake's small eye blinks dull and shy, 
 And the lady's eyes they shriink in her 
 
 head. 
 Each shrunk up to a serpent's eye. 
 And with somewhat of malice, and more 
 
 of dread, 
 At Christabel she look'd askance ! — 
 One moment, — and the sight was fled ! 
 But Christabel in flizzy trance, 
 Stumbling on tlie unsteady ground, 
 Shudder'd aloud, with a hissing sound; 
 And Geraldine again tum'd round, 
 And, like a thing that sought relief, 
 Full of wonder and full of grief. 
 She roll'd her large bright eyes divine 
 Wildly on Sir Leoline. 
 
 The maid, alas ! her thoughts are gone. 
 She nothing sees, — no sight but one f 
 
524 
 
 COLERIDGE. 
 
 The maid, deroid of guile and sin, 
 
 I know not how, in fearful wise 
 
 So deeply had she drunken in 
 
 That look, those shrunken serpent eyes, 
 
 That all her features were resign'd 
 
 To this sole image in her mind ; 
 
 And passively did imitate 
 
 That look of dull and treacherous hate I 
 
 And thus she stood, in dizzy trance. 
 
 Still picturing that look askance. 
 
 With forced unconscious sympathy 
 
 Full before her father's view, — 
 
 As far as such a look could be, 
 
 In eyes so innocent and blue ! 
 
 And, when the trance was o'er, the maid 
 
 Paused awhile, and inly pray'd; 
 
 Then falling at her father's feet, 
 
 " By my mother's soul do I entreat 
 
 That thou this woman send away ! " 
 
 She said; and more she could not say; 
 
 For what she knew she could not tell, 
 
 O'er-master'd by ihe mighty spell. 
 
 Why is thy cheek so wan and wild, 
 SirLeoline? Thy only child 
 Lies at thy feet, thy joy, thy pride, 
 So fair, so innocent, so mild ; 
 The same for whom thy lady died! 
 O, by the pangs of her dear mother, 
 Think thou no evil of thy child ! 
 For her, and thee, and for no other, 
 She pray'd the moment ere she died ; 
 Pray'd that the babe for whom she died 
 Might prove her dear lord's joy and prid e ! 
 That prayer her deadly pangs beguiled. 
 
 Sir Leoline ! 
 And would'st thou wrong thy only child. 
 
 Her child and thine? 
 Within the Baron's heart and brain 
 If thoughts, like these, had any share, 
 They only swell'd his rage and pain, 
 And did but work confusion there. 
 His heart was cleft Avith pain and rage. 
 His choeks they quiver'd, his eyes were 
 Dishonour'd thus in his old age; [wild. 
 Dishonom^d by liis only child. 
 And all his hospitality 
 To the Tvrong'd daixghter of his friend 
 By more than woman's jealousy 
 Brought thus to a disgraceful end, — 
 Heroll'd his eye with stern regard 
 Upon the gentle minstrel bard. 
 And said in tones abrupt, austere, 
 •' Why, Bracy I dost thou loiter here? 
 I bade thee hence ! " The bard obcy'd, 
 
 And, turning from his own sweet maid. 
 The ag^d knight. Sir Leoline, 
 Led forth the lady Geraldine ! 
 
 THE CONCLUSION TO PART n. 
 
 A UTTLE Child, a limber elf, 
 
 Singing, dancing to itself, 
 
 A fairy thing with red round cheeks, 
 
 That always finds, and never seeks, 
 
 Makes such a vision to the sight 
 
 As fills a father's eyes with light; 
 
 And pleasm-es flow in so thick and fast 
 
 Upon his heart, that he at last 
 
 Must needs express his love's excess 
 
 With words of unmeant bitterness. 
 
 Perhaps 'tis pretty to force together 
 
 Thoughts so all unlike each other; 
 
 To mutter and mock a broken charm, 
 
 To dally with wrong that does no harm. 
 
 Perhaps 'tis tender too and pretty 
 
 At each wild word to feel within 
 
 A sweet recoil of love and pity. 
 
 And what if, in a world of sin, 
 
 (O, sorrow and shame should this be true !) 
 
 Such giddiness of heart and brain 
 
 Comes seldom save from rage and pain, 
 
 So talks as it's most used to do.3 
 
 3 Much regret, as was natural, has 
 been felt, that this strange poem was not 
 finished: and various conjectui-os have 
 been thrown out, as to how it would have 
 ended, had the author canied through his 
 design. Some have rather thought the 
 poem naturally incapable of being com- 
 pleted, and that an instinct of genius to 
 this efl'ect was what really kept the author 
 from going on, though without his being 
 aware of it. But there appears no sufli- 
 cient reason to question that he had a de- 
 finite plan in his mind, and saw his way 
 clearly to a completion of the story ; and 
 it is said that, sometimes, on being asked 
 how the poem Avas to end, he answered 
 substantially as follows: "Geraldine, 
 who was wholly evil and supernatural by 
 some alliance with the Devil, was to aim 
 at the ruin of Christabcl by taking various 
 shapes; first, as Ave see lier in the poem, 
 afterwards as Christabel's absent lover, 
 but without the pov.er of doing entirely 
 aAvay Avith a certain hidcousness which 
 she concealed under her dress. The a\ ed- 
 ding night AA'as to draAV on, and the poem 
 to conclude happily by the advent of the 
 real loAor returning home." — The mj-ste- 
 rious Avitchcry that hangs about this 
 piece Avholly fascinates and somewhat be- 
 wilders the mind; while the limber and 
 finely-modulated rhythm of the verse fills 
 the atmosphere of the iJoem with uncloy- 
 ing delectation. 
 
TO THE DEPARTIlfG TEAR. 525 
 
 ODE TO THE DEPAETING YEAE.* 
 
 Aegitment. — The Ode commences with an Address to the Divine Providence, 
 that regulates into one vast harmony all the events of time, however calamitous 
 some of them may appear to mortals. The second Strophe calls on men to 6U:?pend 
 their private joys and sorrows, and devote them for a while ro the cause of human 
 nature in general. The first Epode speaks of the Empress of Russia, who died of an 
 apoplexy on the ITth of November, 1796; having just concluded a subsidiary ti-eaty 
 with the Kings combined against France. The first and second Antistrophe describe 
 the Image of the Departing Year, &c., as in a vision. The second prophesies, in an^ 
 guish of spirit, the downfall of this country. 
 
 Spirit who sweepest the wild harp of Time, 
 
 It is most hard, with an untroubled ear 
 
 Thy dark inwoven harmonies to hear ! 
 Yet, mine eye fix'd on Heaven's unchanging clime, 
 Long had I listen'd, free from mortal fear, 
 
 With inward stillness, and a bowed mind ; 
 
 When, lo ! its folds far Avaviug on the wind, 
 I saw the train of the departing year! 
 
 Starting from my silent sadness 
 
 Then with no unholy madness. 
 Ere yet the enter'd cloud foreclosed my sight, 
 I raised th' impetuous song, and solemnized his flight. 
 
 Hither, from the recent tomb, 
 From the prison's direr gloom. 
 From distemper's midnight anguish ; 
 And thence, Avhere poverty doth waste and languish ; 
 
 Or where, his two bright torches blending. 
 Love illumines manhood's maze ; 
 
 Or where o'er cradled infants bending 
 Hope has fix'd her wishful gaze ; 
 Hither, in perplexed dance. 
 Ye Woes, ye young-eyed Joys, advance! 
 By Time's wild harp, and by the hand 
 Whose indefatigable sweep 
 Eaises its fateful strings from sleep, 
 I bide you haste, a mix'd tumultuous band ! 
 From every jirivate bower. 
 
 And each domestic hearth. 
 Haste for one solemn hour ; 
 And with a loud and yet a louder voice. 
 O'er Nature struggling in portentous birth. 
 
 Weep and rejoice! 
 Still echoes the dread name that o'er the Earth 
 Let slip the storm, and woke the brood of Hell : 
 
 4 This Ode was composed on the 24th, 25th, and 26th days of December, 1796; and 
 was first published on the last day of that year. 
 
526 COLERIDGE. 
 
 And now advance in saintly jubilee 
 Justice and Truth ! They too have heard thy spell, 
 They too obey thy name, divinest Liberty ! 
 
 I mark'd Ambition in his war-array ! 
 
 I heard the mailed Monarch's troublous cry, — 
 " Ah ! wherefore does the Northern Conqueress stay ? 
 Groans not her chariot on its onward way ? '' 
 Fly, mailed Monarch, fly! 
 Stunn'd by Death's twice mortal mace, 
 No more on murder's lurid face 
 Th' insatiate hag shall gloat with drunken eye! 
 Manes of th' unnumber'd slain ! 
 Ye that gasp'd on \Yarsaw's plain ! 
 Ye that erst at Ismail's tower, 
 "When human ruin choked the streams. 
 
 Fell in conquest's glutted hour, 
 'Mid women's shrieks and infants' screams! 
 Spirits of th' uncoffin'd slain, 
 
 Sudden blasts of triumph swelling, 
 Oft, at night, in misty train, 
 
 Eush around her narrow dwelling! 
 Th' exterminating fiend is fled, — 
 
 (Foul her life, and dark her doom,) 
 Mighty armies of the dead 
 
 Dance like death-fires round her tomb I 
 Then with prophetic song relate 
 Each some tyrant-murderer's fate ! 
 
 Departing Year, 'twas on no earthly shore 
 
 My soul beheld thy vision ! Where alone. 
 
 Voiceless and stern, before the cloudy throne, 
 Aye Memory sits : thy robe inscribed with gore. 
 With many an unimaginable groan 
 
 Thou storied'st thy sad hours ! Silence ensued, 
 
 Deep silence o'er th' ethereal multitude. 
 Whose locks with wreaths, whose wreaths with glories shone. 
 Then, his eye wild ardours glancing. 
 From the choired Gods advancing. 
 The Spirit of the Earth made reverence meet. 
 And stood up, beautiful, before the cloudy seat. 
 
 Throughout the blissful throng, 
 Hush'd were harp and song : 
 Till wheeling round the throne the Lampads seven 
 (The mystic Words of Heaven) 
 
TO THE DEPARTING YEAR. 527 
 
 Permissive signal make : 
 The fervent Spirit bow'cl, then spread his wings and spake : 
 " Thou in stormy blackness throning 
 
 Love and uncreated Light, 
 By the Earth's unsolaced groaning, 
 Seize thy terrors. Arm of might ! 
 By Peace with proffer'd insult scared, 
 Masked hate and euA^ying scorn ; 
 By years of havoc yet unborn. 
 And hunger's bosom to the frost- winds bared; 
 But chief by Afric's wrongs. 
 Strange, horrible, and foul ; 
 
 By what deep guilt belongs 
 To the deaf Synod, ^ full of gifts and lies ; ' 
 By wealth's insensate laugh, by torture's howl, — 
 Avenger, rise ! 
 For ever shall the thankless Island scowl, 
 Her quiver full, and with unbroken bow ? 
 Speak ! from thy storm-black Heaven, 0, speak aloud ! 
 And on the darkling foe 
 Open thine eye of fire from some uncertain cloud ! 
 
 0, dart the flash ! 0, rise and deal tlie blow ! 
 The Past to thee, to tliee the Future cries ! 
 
 Hark ! how wide Nature joins her groans below! 
 Eise, God of Nature, rise ! " 
 
 The voice had ceased, the vision fled ; 
 Yet still I gasp'd and reel'd with dread. 
 And ever, when the dream of night 
 Eenews the phantom to my sight. 
 Cold sweat-drops gather on my limbs ; 
 
 My ears throb hot ; my eye-balls start ; 
 My brain with horrid tumult swims ; 
 
 Wild is the tempest of my heart ; 
 And my thick and struggling breath 
 Imitates the toil of death ! 
 'No stranger agony confounds 
 
 The soldier on the war-field spread. 
 When all fordone with toil and wounds. 
 
 Death-like he dozes among heaps of dead ! 
 (The strife is o'er, the day-light fled. 
 
 And the night-wind clamours hoarse! 
 See ! the starting wTetch's head 
 
 Lies pillow'd on a brother's corse!) 
 
628 COLERIDGE. 
 
 Not yet enslavecl, not wholly vile, 
 Albion ! my mother Isle ! 
 Thy valleys, fair as Eden's bowers, 
 Glitter green with sunny showers ; 
 Thy grassy uplands' gentle swells 
 
 Echo to the bleat of flocks ; 
 (Those grassy hills, those glittering dells 
 • Proudly ramparted with rocks ;) 
 And Ocean 'mid his uproar wild 
 Speaks safety to his island-child. 
 
 Hence for many a fearless age 
 
 Has social Quiet loved thy shore ; 
 Nor ever proud Invader's rage 
 Or sack'd thy towers, or stain'd thy fields with gore. 
 
 Abandon'd of Heaven ! mad Avarice thy guide, 
 At cowardly distance, yet kindling with pride, — 
 'Mid thy herds and thy corn-fields secure thou hast stood. 
 And join'd the wild yelling of famine and blood! 
 The nations curse thee! They with eager wondering 
 Shall hear Destruction, like a Vulture, scream I 
 Strange-eyed Destruction ! who with many a dream 
 Of central fires through nether seas upthuudering 
 
 Soothes her fierce solitude ; yet as she lies 
 By livid fount, or red volcanic stream, 
 
 If ever to her lidless dragon-eyes, 
 
 O Albion ! thy predestined ruins rise, 
 The fiend-hag on her perilous couch doth leap, 
 . Muttering distemper'd triumph in her charmed sleep. 
 
 Away, my soul, away ! 
 In vain, in vain the birds of warning sing, — 
 And, hark ! I hear the f amish'd brood of prey 
 Flap their lank pennons on the groaning wind ! 
 Away, my soul, away ! 
 I unpartaking of the evil thing, 
 With daily prayer and daily toil 
 Soliciting for food my scanty soil. 
 Have wail'd my country with a loud Lament. 
 Now I recentre my immortal mind 
 
 In the deep sabbath of meek self-content ; 
 Cleansed from the vaporous passions that bedim 
 God's Image, sister of the Seraphim. 
 
FBANCB. 529 
 
 FRANCE. AN ODE. 
 
 Ye Clouds, that far above me float and pause, 
 
 Whose pathless march no mortal may control ! 
 
 Ye Ocean-Waves, that, wheresoe'er ye roll, 
 Yield homage only to eternal laws ! 
 Ye Woods, that listen to the night-birds singing, 
 
 Midway the smooth and perilous slope reclined. 
 Save when your own imperious branches swinging 
 
 Have made a solemn music of the wind ! 
 Where, like a man beloved of God, 
 Through glooms, which never woodman trod, 
 
 How oft, pursuing fancies holy, 
 My moonlight way o'er flowering weeds I wound. 
 
 Inspired, beyond the guess of folly. 
 By each rude shape and wild unconquerable sound! 
 
 ye loud Waves ! and ye Forests high ! 
 And ye Clouds that far above me soar'd ! 
 
 Thou rising Sun! thou blue rejoicing Sky! 
 Yea, every thing that is and will be free ! 
 Bear witness for me, wheresoe'er ye be. 
 With what deep worship I have still adored 
 The spirit of divinest Liberty. 
 
 When France in wrath her giant limbs uprear'd, 
 
 And with that oath which smote air, earth, and sea, 
 
 Stamp'd her strong foot, and said she would be free, 
 Bear witness for me, how I hoped and fear'd ! 
 With what a joy my lofty gratulation 
 
 Unawed I sang, amid a slavish band : 
 And when, to whelm the disenchanted nation, 
 
 Like fiends embattled by a wizard's wand, 
 The Monarchs march'd in evil day, 
 And Britain join'd the dire array; 
 
 Though dear her shores and circling ocean, 
 Though many friendships, many youthful loves 
 
 Had swoln the patriot emotion. 
 And flung a magic light o'er all her hills and groves; 
 Yet still my voice, unalter'd, sang defeat 
 
 To all that braved the tyrant-quelling lance, 
 And shame too long delay'd and vain retreat ! 
 For ne'er, Liberty! with partial aim 
 
 1 dimm'd thy light or damp'd thy holy flame ; 
 
 But bless'd the paeans of deliver'd France, 
 And hung my head and wept at Britain's name. 
 
630 COLERIDGE. 
 
 " And what/' I said, " though Blasphemy's loud scream 
 
 With that sweet music of deliverance strove! 
 
 Though all the fierce and drunken passions wove 
 A dance more wild than e'er was maniac's dream ! 
 
 Ye storms, that round the dawning East assembled, 
 The Sun was rising, though ye hid his light ! " 
 
 And when, to soothe my soul, that hoped and trembled. 
 The dissonance. ceased, and all seem'd calm and bright; 
 
 When France her front deep-scarred and gory 
 
 Conceal'd with clustering wreaths of glory ; 
 When, in supportably advancing, 
 
 Her arm made mockery of the warrior's tramp; 
 While timid looks of fury glancing. 
 
 Domestic treason, crush'd beneath her fatal stamp. 
 Writhed like a wounded dragon in his gore ; 
 
 Then 1 reproach'd my fears that would not flee ; 
 "And soon," I said, "shall Wisdom teach her lore 
 In the low huts of them that toil and groan ! 
 And, conquering by her happiness alone, 
 
 Shall France compel the nations to be free, 
 Till Love and Joy look round, and call the Earth their own." 
 
 Forgive me. Freedom ! 0, forgive those dreams I 
 
 I hear thy voice, I hear thy loud lament. 
 
 From bleak Helvetia's icy caverns sent, — 
 I hear thy groans upon her blood-stain'd streams! 
 
 Heroes, that for your peaceful country perish 'd. 
 And ye that, fleeing, spot your mountain-snows 
 
 With bleeding wounds ; forgive me, that I cherish'd 
 One thought that ever bless'd your cruel foes! 
 
 To scatter rage and traitorous guilt, 
 
 AVhere Peace her jealous home had built ; 
 A patriot-race to disinherit 
 Of all th^it made their stormy wilds so dear; 
 
 And with inexpiable spirit 
 To taint the bloodless freedom of the mountaineer, — 
 France, that mockest Heaven, adulterous, blind. 
 
 And patriot only in pernicious toils ! 
 Are these thy boasts, Champion of human kind ? 
 To mix with Kings in the low lust of sway. 
 Yell in the hunt, and share the murderous prey? 
 To insult the shrine of Liberty with spoils 
 From freemen torn ? to tempt and to betray ? ^ 
 
 5 Coleridge's Table Talk, under date July 23, 1832, has the following: "No man 
 was more enthusiastic than I was tor France and the Revolution : it had all my 
 wishes, none of my expectations. Before 1793, 1 clearly saw, and often enough stat- 
 
FEARS IK SOLITUDE. 531 
 
 The Sensual and the Dark rebel in vain, 
 Slaves by their own compulsion ! In mad game 
 They burst their manacles and wear the name 
 
 Of Freedom, graven on a heavier chain 1 
 Liberty ! with profitless endeavour 
 Have I pursued thee, many a weary hour; 
 
 But thou nor swell'st the victor's strain, nor ever 
 Didst breathe thy~soul in forms of human power. 
 Alike from all, howe'er they praise thee, 
 (Not prayer, nor boastful name delays thee,) 
 
 Alike from Priestcraft's harpy minions, 
 And factious Blasphemy's obscener slaves. 
 Thou speedest on thy subtle pinions. 
 The guide of homeless winds, and playmate of the waves! 
 And there I felt thee ! — on tliat sea-ciiS's verge, 
 
 Whose pines, scarce travelled by tbe breeze above, 
 Had made one murmur with the distant surge ! 
 Yes, while I stood and gazed, my temples bare. 
 And shot my being through earth, sea, and air, 
 Possessing all things with intensest love, 
 Liberty ! my spirit felt thee there. 
 Febkuary, 1797. 
 
 FEARS m SOLITUDE. 
 
 (Written in April, 1798, during the alarm of an invasion.) 
 
 A GREEN" and silent spot, amid the hills, 
 A small and silent dell! O'er stiller place 
 No singing sky-lark ever poised himself. 
 The hills are heathy, save that swelling slope. 
 Which hath a gay and gorgeous covering on, 
 All golden with the never-bloomless furze. 
 Which now blooms most profusely : but the dell, 
 Bathed by the mist, is fresh and delicate 
 As vernal corn-field, or the unripe flax, 
 
 ed in public, the horrid delusion, the vile mockery of the whole affair."— The subju- 
 gation of Switzerland Avas long a favourite object with the revolutionary leaders in 
 France. Machinations to that end were begun as early as 1791; and in the Fall of 
 1792, the National Convention unanimously passed a decree which placed France 
 openly at war with all established governments. A military invasion of Switzerland 
 soon followed ; and the sanguniary work was continued from time to time till 1798, 
 when, at length the French carried through their purpose. This wanton and unpro- 
 voked assault on the ancient freedom and independence of the Swiss disenchanted 
 many of tlie sympathisers with the French cause, botli in England and elsewhere. 
 Sir James Mackintosh denomiced it as " an act in comparison with which all the 
 deeds of rapine and bloodshed perpetrated in the Avorld are innocence itself." But 
 the Swiss did not at that time stay conquered ; and the final extinction of their old 
 Confederacy did not take place till 1802. Perhaps, alter all, that great crime has 
 earned our thanks, in having prompted the composition of this mighty Ode. See 
 page 192, note 6. 
 
632 COLERIDGE. 
 
 AYhen, through its half -transparent stalks, at eve, 
 The level sunshine glimmers with green light. 
 O, 'tis a quiet spirit-healing nook ! 
 Which all, methinks, would love ; hut chiefly he, 
 The humble man, who, in his youthful years, 
 Knew just so much of folly, as had made 
 His early manhood more securely wise ! 
 Here he might lie on fern or wither'd heath, 
 While from the singing lark, (that sings unseen 
 The minstrelsy that solitude loves best,) 
 And from the Sun, and from the breezy air, 
 Sweet influences trembled o'er his frame ; 
 And he, with many feelings, many thoughts, 
 Made up a meditative joy, and found 
 Eeligious meanings in the forms of Nature 1 
 And so, his senses gradually wrapt 
 In a half sleep, he dreams of better worlds. 
 And dreaming hears thee stil], singing lark. 
 That singest like an angel in the clouds ! 
 
 My God ! it is a melancholy thing 
 For such a man, who would full fain preserve 
 His soul in calmness, yet perforce must feel 
 For all his human brethren, — my God ! 
 It weighs upon the heart, that he must think 
 What nproar and what strife may now be stirring 
 This way or that way o'er these silent hills, — 
 Invasion, and the thunder and the shout. 
 And all the crash of onset ; fear and rage, 
 And undetermined conflict, — even now. 
 Even now, perchance, and in his native isle: 
 Carnage and groans beneath this blessed Sun ! 
 We have offended, my countrymen ! 
 We have offended very grievously. 
 And been most tyrannous. From East to West 
 A groan of accusation pierces Heaven ! 
 The wretched plead against us ; multitudes 
 Countless and vehement, the sons of God, 
 Our brethren ! Like a cloud that travels on, 
 Steam'd up from Cairo's swamps of pestilence, 
 Even so, my countrymen, have we gone forth 
 And borne to distant tribes slavery and pangs. 
 And, deadlier far, our vices, whose deep taint 
 With slow perdition murders the whole man, 
 His body and his soul ! Meanwhile, at home, 
 All individual dignity and power 
 Engulf'd in courts, committees, institutions. 
 
FEARS IK SOLITUDE. 633 
 
 Associations and societies, 
 
 A vain, speech-mouthing, speech-reporting guild. 
 
 One benetit-club for mutual flattery. 
 
 We have drunk up, demure as at a grace, 
 
 Pollutions from the brimming cup of wealth ; 
 
 Contemptuous of all honourable rule, 
 
 Yet bartering freedom and the poor man's life 
 
 For gold, as at a market ! The sweet words 
 
 Of Christian promise, words that even yet 
 
 Might stem destruction, were they wisely preach'd, 
 
 Are mutter'd o'er by men whose tones proclaim 
 
 How flat and wearisome they feel their trade ; 
 
 Rank scoffers some, but most too indolent 
 
 To deem them falsehoods or to know their truth. 
 
 0, blasphemous ! the book of life is made 
 
 A superstitious instrument, on which 
 
 We gabble o'er the oaths we mean to break ; 
 
 For all must swear, — all and in every place. 
 
 College and wharf, council and justice-court ; 
 
 All, all must swear, the briber and the bribed. 
 
 Merchant and lawyer, senator and priest. 
 
 The rich, the poor, the old man and the young ; 
 
 All, all make up one scheme of perjury. 
 
 That faith doth reel ; the very name of God 
 
 Sounds like a juggler's charm ; and, bold with joy. 
 
 Forth from his dark and lonely hiding-place, 
 
 (Portentous sight!) the owlet Atheism, 
 
 Sailing on obscene wings athwart the noon. 
 
 Drops his blue-fringed lids, and holds them close, 
 
 And, hooting at the glorious Sun in heaven, 
 
 Cries out, " Where is it ? " 
 
 Thankless too for peace, 
 (Peace long preserved by fleets and perilous seas,) 
 Secure from actual warfare, we have loved 
 To swell the war-whoop, passionate for war ! 
 Alas! for ages ignorant of all 
 Its ghastlier workings, (famine or blue plague, 
 Battle, or siege, or flight through wintry-snows,) 
 We, this whole people, have been clamorous 
 For war and bloodshed ; animating sports. 
 The which we pay for as a thing to talk of. 
 Spectators and not combatants ! No guess 
 Anticipative of a wrong unfelt, 
 No speculation or contingency. 
 However dim and vague, too vague and dim 
 To yield a justifying cause ; and forth 
 
534 COLERIDGE. 
 
 ( Stuff 'd out with big preamble, holy names, 
 
 And adjurations of the God in Heaven) 
 
 We send our mandates for the certain death 
 
 Of thousands and ten thousands! Boys and girls. 
 
 And women that would groan to see a child 
 
 Pull off an insect's leg, all read of war, 
 
 The best amusement for our morning meal ! 
 
 The poor wretch, who has learnt his only prayers 
 
 From curses, who knows scarcely words enough 
 
 To ask a blessing from his Heavenly Father, 
 
 Becomes a fluent phraseman, absolute 
 
 And technical in victories and defeats. 
 
 And all our dainty terms for fratricide ; 
 
 Terms which we trundle smoothly o'er our tongues 
 
 Like mere abstractions, empty sounds to which 
 
 We join no feeling and attach no form ! 
 
 As if the soldier died without a wound ; 
 
 As if the fibres of this godlike frame 
 
 Were gored without a pang ; as if the wretch 
 
 Who fell in battle, doing bloody deeds, 
 
 Pass'd off to Heaven, translated and not kill'd ; 
 
 As though he had no wife to pine for him, 
 
 1^0 God to judge him! Therefore evil days 
 
 Are coming on us, my countrymen ! 
 
 And what if all-avenging Providence, 
 
 Strong and retributive, should make us know 
 
 The meaning of our words, force us to feel 
 
 The desolation and the agony 
 
 Of our fierce doings ! 
 
 Spare us yet awhile. 
 Father and God ! 0, spare us yet awhile ! 
 0, let not English women drag their flight 
 Fainting beneath the burthen of their babes. 
 Of the sweet infants, that but yesterday 
 Laugh'd at the breast ! Sons, brothers, husbands, all 
 Who ever gazed with fondness on the forms 
 Which grew up with you round the same fire-side, 
 And all who ever heard the sabbath-bells 
 Without the infidel's scorn, make yourselves pure I 
 Stand forth ! be men ! repel an impious foe, 
 Impious and false, a light yet cruel race, 
 Who laugh away all virtue, mingling mirth 
 With deeds of murder ; and still promising 
 Freedom, themselves too sensual to be free. 
 Poison life's amities, and cheat the heart 
 Of faith and quiet hope, and all that soothes 
 
FEARS IN SOLITUDE. 535 
 
 And all that lifts the spirit ! Stand we forth ; 
 Eender them back upon th' insulted ocean, 
 And let them toss as idly on its waves 
 As the vile sea- weed, whicli some mountain-blast 
 Swept from our shores ! And, 0, may we return 
 Not with a drunken triumph, but with fear, 
 Repenting of the wrongs with w^hich we stung 
 So fierce a foe to frenzy ! 
 
 I have told, 
 O Britons ! my brethren ! I have told 
 Most bitter truth, but without bitterness. 
 Nor deem my zeal or factious or mis-timed ; 
 For never can true courage dwell with them 
 Who, playing tricks with conscience, dare not look 
 At their own vices. We have been too long 
 Dupes of a deep delusion ! Some, belike, 
 Groaning with restless enmity, expect 
 All change from change of constituted power ; 
 As if a Government had been a robe. 
 On which our vice and wretchedness were tagg'd 
 Like fancy-points and fringes, with the robe 
 Pull'd off at pleasure. Fondly these attach 
 A radical causation to a few 
 Poor drudges of chastising Providence, 
 Who borrow all their hues and qualities 
 From our own folly and rank wickedness, 
 Which gave them birth and nursed them. Others, meanwhile. 
 Dote with a mad idolatry ; and all 
 Who will not fall before their images. 
 And yield them worship, they are enemies 
 Even of their country ! 
 
 Such have I been deem'd 
 But, dear Britain ! my Mother Isle ! 
 Needs must thou prove a name most dear and holy 
 To me, a son, a brother, and a friend, 
 A husband, and a father; who revere 
 All bonds of natural love, and find them all 
 Within the limits of thy rocky shores. 
 native Britain ! my Mother Isle ! 
 How shouldst thou prove aught else but dear and holy 
 To me, who from thy lakes and mountain-hills. 
 Thy clouds, thy quiet dales, thy rocks and seas. 
 Have drunk in all my intellectual life, 
 AH sweet sensations, all ennobling thoughts, 
 All adoration of the God in Nature, 
 All lovely and all honourable things. 
 
536 COLERIDGE. 
 
 Whatever makes this mortal spirit feel 
 The joy and greatness of its future being ? 
 There lives nor form nor feeling in my soul 
 Unborrow'd from my country. divine 
 And beauteous island ! thou hast been my sole 
 And most magnificent temple, in the which 
 I walk with awe, and sing my stately songs, 
 Loving the God that made me ! 
 
 May my fears. 
 My filial fears, be vain ! and may the vaunts 
 And menace of the vengeful enemy 
 Pass like the gust, that roar'd and died away 
 In the distant tree ! which, heard, and only heard, 
 In this low dell, bow'd not the delicate grass. 
 But now the gentle dew-fall sends abroad 
 The fruit-like perfume of the golden furze : 
 The light has left the summit of the hill. 
 Though still a sunny gleam lies beautiful, 
 Aslant the ivied beacon. Now farewT'll, 
 Farewell, awhile, soft and silent spot ! 
 On the green sheep-track, up the heathy hill, 
 Homeward I wind my way ; and, lo ! recall'd 
 From bodings that have well nigh wearied me, 
 I find myself upon the brow, and pause 
 Startled ! And, after lonely sojourning 
 In such a quiet and surroundecl nook, 
 This burst of prospect, here the shadowy main. 
 Dim tinted, there the mighty majesty 
 Of that huge amphitheatre of rich 
 And elmy fields, seems like society, — 
 Conversing with the mind, and giving it 
 A livelier impulse and a dance of thought. 
 And now, beloved Stowey, I behold 
 Thy church-tower, and, methinks, the four huge elms 
 Clustering, which mark the mansion of my friend ; 
 And close behind them, hidden from my view, 
 Is my own lowly cottage, where my babe 
 And my babels motlier dwell in peace. With light 
 And quicken 'd footsteps thitherward I tend, 
 Eemembering thee, green and silent dell ! 
 And grateful, that by JsTature's quietness, 
 And solitary musings, all my heart 
 Is soften'd, and made worthy to indulge 
 Love, and the thoughts that yearn for human kind. 
 Nether Stowey, April 28, 1798. 
 
HYM:N^ to MONT BLANC. 537 
 
 HYMN BEFOKE SUN-EISE, IN THE VALE OF 
 CHAMOUNY.« 
 
 Besides the Rivers Ai-vb and Arveiron, which have their sources in the foot of 
 Mont Blanc, five conspicuous torrents rush down its sides; and, within a few paces 
 of the Glaciers, the Gentiana Major grows in immense numbers, with its '• flowers 
 of loveliest blue." 
 
 Hast tliou a charm to stay the morning-star 
 In his steep course ? So long he seems to pause 
 On thy bald awful head, sovran Blanc ! 
 The Arve and Arveiron at thy base 
 Eave ceaselessly ; but thou, most awful Form, 
 Eisest from forth thy silent sea of pines, 
 How silently ! Around thee and above 
 Deep is the air and dark, substantial, black. 
 An ebon mass: methinks thou piercest it. 
 As with a wedge ! But, when I look again, 
 It is thine own calm home, thy crystal shrine, 
 Thy habitation from eternity. 
 
 dread and silent Mount ! I gazed upon thee, 
 Till thou, still present to the bodily sense, 
 
 Didst vanish from my thought : entranced in prayer, 
 
 1 worshipped the Invisible alone. 
 
 Yet, like some sweet beguiling melody, 
 So sweet, we know not we are listening to it, 
 Thou, the meanwhile, wast blending with my thought, 
 Yea, with my life and life's own secret joy : 
 Till the dilating Soul — enrapt, transfused. 
 Into the mighty Vision passing — there. 
 As in her natural form, swell'd vast to Heaven ! 
 
 Awake, my soul ! not only passive praise 
 Thou owest ; not alone these swelling tears. 
 Mute thanks, and secret ecstasy. Awake, 
 Voice of sweet song ! Awake, my Heart, awake ! 
 Green vales and icy cliffs, all join my Hymn. 
 
 Thou first and chief, sole sovran of the Vale ! 
 0, struggling with the darkness all the night, 
 And visited all night by troops of stars, 
 Or when they climb the sky or when they sink ; 
 
 6 It having: been mentioned to Mr. Wordsworth, that Coleridge had said a visit to 
 the battle-field of Marathon would raise in him no kindling emotion, Wordsworth 
 replied as foUoAvs : " O, that was mere bi-avado for the purpose of astonishing his 
 hearers! And yet it might in some sense be true, for Coleridge was not under the 
 influence of external objects. He had extraordinary powers of summoning up an 
 image or series of images in his own mind; and it might be that he meant that bis 
 idea of Marathon was so vivid, that no visible observation could make it more so. 
 A remarkable instance of this is his poem, said to be composed in the Vale of Cha- 
 mouui ! Now he never was at Chamouni, or near it, in his life" 
 
538 COLERIDGE. 
 
 Companion of the morning-star at dawn, 
 Thyself Earth's rosy star, and of the dawn 
 Co-herald ; wake, 0, wake, and utter praise ! 
 ATho sank thy sunless pillars deep in Earth ? 
 Who filFd thy countenance with rosy light ? 
 Who made thee parent of perpetual streams ? 
 
 And you, ye five wild torrents fiercely glad ! 
 Who call'd you forth from night and utter death, 
 From dark and icy caverns call'd you forth, 
 Down those precipitous, black, jagged rocks, 
 For ever shattered and the same for ever ? 
 Who gave you your invulnerable life. 
 Your strength, your speed, your fury, and your joy, 
 Unceasing thunder and eternal foam ? 
 And who commanded, (and the silence came,) 
 Here let the billows stiffen, and have rest ? 
 
 Ye ice-falls ! ye tliat from the mountain's brow 
 Adown enormous ravines slope amain, — 
 Torrents, methinks, that heard a mighty Voice, 
 And stopp'd at once amid their maddest plunge ! 
 Motionless torrents ! silent cataracts ! 
 Who made you glorious as the gates of Heaven 
 Beneath the keen full Moon ? Who bade the Sun 
 Clothe you with rainbows ? AVho, with living flowers 
 Of loveliest blue, spread garlands at your feet ? — 
 God! let the torrents, like a shout of nations 
 Answer ! and let the ice-plains echo, God ! 
 God ! sing ye meadow-streams with gladsome voice ! 
 Ye pine-groves, with your soft and soul-like sounds ! 
 And they too have a voice, yon piles of snow, 
 And in their perilous fall shall thunder, God ! 
 
 Ye living flowers that skirt th' eternal frost ; 
 Ye wild goats sporting round the eagle's nest ; 
 Ye eagles, play-mates of the mountain-storm ; 
 Ye lightnings, the dread arrows of the clouds ; 
 Ye signs and wonders of the element, — 
 Utter forth God, and fill the hills with praise ! 
 
 Thou too, hoar Mount, with thy sky-pointing peaks, 
 Oft from whose feet the avalanche, unheard. 
 Shoots downward, glittering through the pure serene 
 Into the depth of clouds, that veil thy breast, — 
 Thou too again, stupendous Mountain! thou 
 That, as I raise my head, awhile bow'd low 
 In adoration, upward from thy base 
 Slow travelling with dim eyes suffused with tears, 
 Solemnly seemest, like a vapoury cloud, 
 
THE EOLIAN HARP. 539 
 
 To rise before me, — rise, 0, ever rise, 
 Eise like a cloud of incense, from the Earth! 
 Thou kingly Spirit throned among the hills, 
 Thou dread ambassador from Earth to Heaven, 
 Great hierarch ! tell thou the silent Sky, 
 And tell the stars, and tell yon rising Sun, 
 Earth, with her thousand voices, praises God. 
 
 THE EOLIAN HAEP. 
 
 (^Composed at Clevedon, Somersetshire.) 
 
 My pensive Sara ! thy soft cheek reclined 
 
 Thus on mine arm, most soothing sweet it is 
 
 To sit beside our cot, our cot o'ergrown 
 
 With white-flower'd jasmin and the broad-leaved myrtle, 
 
 (Meet emblems they of Innocence and Love !) 
 
 And watch the clouds, that late were rich with light, 
 
 Slow saddening round, and mark the star of eve 
 
 Serenely brilliant (such should wisdom be) 
 
 Shine opposite ! How exquisite the scents 
 
 Snatch'd from yon bean-field ! and the world so hush'd ! 
 
 The stilly murmur of the distant sea 
 
 Tells us of silence. 
 
 And that simplest lute. 
 Placed lengthways in the clasping casement, hark! 
 How by the desultory breeze caress'd. 
 Like some coy maid half yielding to her lover, 
 It pours such sweet upbraiding as must needs 
 Tempt to repeat the wrong ! And now, its strings 
 Boldlier swept, the long sequacious notes 
 Over delicious surges sink and rise, — 
 Such a soft floating witchery of sound 
 As twilight Elfins make, when they at eve 
 Voyage on gentle gales from Fairy-Land, 
 Where Melodies round honey-dropping flowers, 
 Footless and wild, like birds of Paradise, 
 Nor pause, nor perch, hovering on untamed wing ! 
 0, the one life within us and abroad. 
 Which meets all motion and becomes its soul, 
 A light in sound, a sound-like power in light, 
 Ehythm in all thought, and joyance everywhere, — 
 Methinks it should have been impossible 
 Not to love all things in a world so fill'd ; 
 Where the breeze warbles, and the mute still air. 
 Is Music slumbering on her instrument. 
 
540 COLERIDGE. 
 
 And thus, my love! as on the midway slope 
 Of yonder hill I stretch my limbs at noon, 
 Whilst through my half-closed eyelids I behold 
 The sunbeams dance, like diamonds, on the main. 
 And tranquil muse upon tranquillity; 
 Full many a thought uncall'd and undetain'd, 
 And many idle flitting phantasies. 
 Traverse my indolent and passive brain. 
 As wild and various as the random gales 
 That swell and flutter on this subject lute ! 
 
 And what if all of animated nature 
 Be but organic harps diversely framed. 
 That tremble into thought, as o'er them sweeps, 
 Plastic and vast, one intellectual breeze, 
 At once the Soul of each, and God of All ? 
 
 But thy more serious eye a mild reproof 
 Darts, beloved woman ! nor such thoughts 
 Dim and unhallow'd dost thou not reject. 
 And biddest me walk humbly with my God. 
 Meek daughter in the family of Christ! 
 Well hast thou said and holily dispraised 
 These shapings of the unregenerate mind ; 
 Bubbles that glitter as they rise and break 
 On vain Philosophy's aye-babbling spring. 
 For never guiltless may I speak of Him, 
 Th' Incomprehensible ! save when with awe 
 I praise Him, and with Faith that inly feels ; 
 Who with His saving mercies healed me, 
 A sinful and most miserable Man, 
 Wildered and dark, and gave me to possess 
 Peace, and this cot, and thee, heart-honour'd Maid ! 
 
 REFLECTIONS ON HAVING LEFT A PLACE OF 
 EETIEEMENT. 
 
 Low was our pretty Cot : our tallest rose 
 Peep'd at the chamber-window. We could hear 
 At silent noon, and eve, and early morn. 
 The sea's faint murmur. In the open air 
 Our myrtles blossom'd ; and across the porch 
 Thick jasmins twined : the little landscape round 
 Was green and woody, and refresh'd the eye. 
 It was a spot which you might aptly call 
 The Valley of Seclusion ! Once I saw 
 (Hallowing his Sabbath-day by quietness) 
 
REFLECTIONS ON RETIREMENT. 541 
 
 A wealthy son of commerce saunter by, 
 Bristowa's citizen : metliouglit it calm'd 
 His thirst of idle gold, and made him muse 
 With wiser feelings: for he paused, and look'd 
 With a pleased sadness, and gazed all around. 
 Then eyed our Cottage, and gazed round again. 
 And sigh'd, and said it was a Blessed Place. 
 And we were blessed. Oft with patient ear 
 Long-listening to the viewless sky-lark's note, 
 (Viewless, or haply for a moment seen 
 Gleaming on sunny wings,) in whisper'd tones 
 I've said to my beloved, " Such, sweet girl ! 
 The inobtrusive song of happiness. 
 Unearthly minstrelsy! then only heard 
 When the soul seeks to hear; when all is hush'd, 
 And the heart listens ! " 
 
 But the time, when first 
 From that low dell steep up the stony mount 
 I climb'd with perilous toil, and reach'd the top, 
 O, what a goodly scene 1 Here the bleak mount. 
 The bare bleak mountain speckled thin with sheep; 
 Grey clouds, that shadowing spot the sunny fields; 
 And river, now with bushy rocks o'erbrow'd, 
 Now winding bright and full, with naked banks ; 
 And seats, and lawns, the abbey, and the wood, 
 And cots, and hamlets, and faint city-spire ; 
 The Channel there, the Islands and white sails, 
 Dim coasts, and cloud-like hills, and shoreless Ocean, — 
 It seem'd like Omnij^resence ! God, methought. 
 Had built Him there a temple : the whole World 
 Seem'd imaged in its vast circumference. 
 No luisli profaned my overwhelmed heart. 
 Blest hour ! It w^as a Luxury; — to be ! 
 
 Ah, quiet dell, dear Cot, and mount sublime ! 
 I was constrain'd to quit you. Was it right. 
 While my unnumber'd brethren toil'd and bled. 
 That I should dream away th' entrusted hours 
 On rose-leaf beds, pampering the coward heart 
 With feelings all too delicate for use ? 
 Sweet is the tear that from some Howard's eye 
 Drops on the cheek of one he lifts from earth : 
 And he that works me good with unmoved face 
 Does it but half : he chills me while he aids. 
 My benefactor, not my brother man ! 
 Yet even this, this cold beneficence. 
 Praise, praise it, my Soul! oft as thou scann'st 
 
643 COLERIDGE. 
 
 The sluggard Pity's vision-weaving tribe ! 
 
 Who sigh for wretchedness, yet shun the wretched, 
 
 Nursing in some dehcious solitude 
 
 Their slothful loves and dainty sympathies ! 
 
 I therefore go, and join head, heart, and hand, 
 
 Active and Srm, to fight the bloodless fight 
 
 Of science, freedom, and the truth in Christ. 
 
 Yet oft when after honourable toil 
 Rests the tired mind, and waking loves to dream, 
 My spirit shall revisit thee, dear Cot ! 
 Thy jasmin and thy window-peeping rose. 
 And myrtles fearless of the mild sea-air. 
 And I shall sigh fond wishes, — sweet abode! 
 Ah ! — had none greater ! And that all had such ! 
 It might be so, — but the time is not yet. 
 Speed it, Father ! Let Thy kingdom come I 
 
 THIS LIME-TEEE BOWER MY PRISON. 
 
 In the June of 1797, some long-expected friends paid a visit to the Author's Cot- 
 tage; and on the morning of tlieir arrival, he met with an accident, which disabled 
 him from walking during the whole time of their stay. One evening, when they had 
 left him for a few hours, he composed the following lines in the Garden-Bower. 
 
 Well, they are gone, and here must I remain, 
 
 This lime-tree bower my prison! I have lost^ 
 
 Beauties and feelings, such as would have been 
 
 Most sweet to my remembrance even when age 
 
 Had dimm'd mine eyes to blindness ! They, meanwhile. 
 
 Friends, whom I never more may meet again, 
 
 On springy heath, along the hill-top edge. 
 
 Wander in gladness, and wind down, perchance. 
 
 To that still-roaring dell of which I told; 
 
 The roaring dell, o'erwooded, narrow, deep. 
 
 And only speckled by the mid-day Sun ; 
 
 Where its slim trunk the ash from rock to rock 
 
 Flings arching like a bridge ; — that branchless ash, 
 
 Unsunn'd and damp, whose few poor yellow leaves 
 
 Ne'er tremble in the gale, yet tremble still, 
 
 Fann'd by the water-fall! and there my friends 
 
 Behold the dark green file of long lank weeds,^ 
 
 That all at once (a most fantastic sight !) 
 
 7 The Asplenium Scolopendrium, called in some oounti-ies the Adder's Tongue, in 
 others the Hart's Tongue ; but Withering gives the Adder's Tongue as the trivial 
 name of the Ophioglossmn only. 
 
MY LIME-TBEE BOWER. 543 
 
 Still nod and drip beneath the dripping edge 
 Of the blue clay-stone. 
 
 Now, my friends emerge 
 Beneath the wide wide heaven, — and view again 
 The many-steepled track magnificent 
 Of hilly tields, and meadows, and the sea, 
 Witli some fair bark, perhaps, whose sails light up 
 The slip of smooth clear blue betwixt two Isles 
 Of purple shadow. Yes ! they wander on 
 In gladness all; but thou, methinks, most glad, 
 My gentle-hearted Charles ! for thou hast pined 
 And hunger'd after Nature, many a year, 
 In the great City pent, winning thy way, 
 With sad yet patient soul, through evil and pain 
 And strange calamity. Ah! slowly sink 
 Behind the western ridge, thou glorious Sun ! 
 Shiue in the slant beams of the sinking orb. 
 Ye purple heath-flowers ! richlier burn, ye clouds ! 
 Live in the yellow light, ye distant groves ! 
 And kindle, thou blue ocean ! So my Friend 
 Struck with deep Joy may stand, as I have stood, 
 Silent with swimming sense; yea, gazing round 
 On the wide landscape, gaze till all doth seem 
 Less gross than bodily ; and of sach hues 
 As veil th' Almighty Spirit, when He makes 
 Spirits perceive His presence. 
 
 A delight 
 Comes sudden on my heart, and I am glad 
 As I myself were there ! Nor in this bower. 
 This little lime-tree bower, have I not mark'd 
 Much that has soothed me. Pale beneath the blaze 
 Hung the transparent foliage ; and I watch'd 
 Some broad and sunny leaf, and loved to see 
 The shadow of the leaf and stem above 
 Dappling its sunshine. And that walnut-tree 
 Was richly tinged, and a deep radiance lay 
 Full on the ancient ivy, which usurps 
 Those fronting elms, and now with blackest mass 
 Makes their dark branches gleam a lighter hue 
 Through the late twilight : and though now the bat 
 Wheels silent by, and not a swallow twitters, 
 Yet still the solitary humble-bee 
 Sings in the bean-flower ! Henceforth I shall know 
 That Nature ne'er deserts the wise and pure ; 
 No plot so narrow, be but Nature there. 
 No waste so vacant, but may well employ 
 
544 COLERIDGE. 
 
 Each faculty of sense, and keep the heart 
 Awake to Love and Beauty ! and sometimes 
 'Tis well to be bereft of promised good, 
 That we may lift the Soul, and contemplate 
 With lively joy the joys we cannot share. 
 My gentle-hearted Charles ! when the last rook 
 Beat its straight path along the dusky air 
 Homewards, I blest it ; deeming, its black wing 
 (Now a dim speck, now vanishing in light) 
 Had crossed the mighty orb's dilated glory. 
 While thou stood'st gazing ; or, when all was still. 
 Flew creeking o'er thy head,^ and had a charm 
 For thee, my gentle-hearted Charles, to whom 
 No sound is dissonant which tells of Life. 
 
 TO WILLIAM WORDSWOETH. 
 
 (Composed on the night after his recitation of a Poem on the Growth of an IndividtuU Mind.) 
 
 Frieitd of the Wise, and Teacher of the Good ! 
 Into my heart have I received that lay 
 More than historic, that prophetic lay 
 Wherein (high theme by thee first sung aright) 
 Of the foundations and the building up 
 Of a Human Spirit, thou hast dared to tell 
 What may be told, to th' understanding mind 
 Revealable ; and what within the mind 
 By vital breathings, like the secret soul 
 Of vernal growth, oft quickens in the heart 
 Thoughts all too deep for words ; — 
 
 Theme hard as high, 
 Of smiles spontaneous, and mysterious fears, 
 (The first-born they of Reason and twin-birth;) 
 Of tides obedient to external force. 
 And currents self-determined, as might seem, 
 Or by some inner power; of moments awful, 
 Now in thy inner life, and now abroad, 
 When ]")ower streamed from thee, and thy soul received 
 The light reflected, as a light bestow'd ; 
 Of fancies fair, and milder hours of youth, 
 Hj^blean murmurs of poetic thought 
 
 8 Some months after I had written this line, it gave me pleasure to observe that 
 Bf^rtram had observed the same eircumstaiice of the Savanna crane. "When these 
 Bii-ds move their wings in flight, their strokes are slow, moderate, and regular; and 
 even when at a considerable distance or high above us, we i)lainlyhear the quill- 
 feathers ; their shafts and webs upon one another creek as the joints or working of a 
 vessel in a tempestuous sea." 
 
TO WILLIAM WORDSWOETH. 645 
 
 Industrious in its joy, in vales and glens 
 Native or outland, lakes and famous hills ; 
 Or on the lonely high-road, Avhen the stars 
 Were rising ; or by secret mountain-streams, 
 The guides and the companions of thy way. 
 Of more than Fancy, of the Social Sense 
 Distending wide, and man beloved as man. 
 Where France in all her towns lay vibrating 
 Like some becalmed bark beneath the burst 
 Of Heaven's immediate thunder, when no cloud 
 Is visible, or shadow on the main. 
 For thou wert there, thine own brows garlanded. 
 Amid the tremor of a realm aglow, 
 Amid a mighty nation jubilant. 
 When from the general heart of human kind 
 Hope sprang forth like a full-born Deity ! — 
 Of that dear Hope afflicted and struck down. 
 So summon'd homeward, thenceforth calm and sure. 
 From the dread watch-tower of man's absolute self. 
 With light unwaning on her eyes, to look 
 Far on, — herself a glory to behold. 
 The Angel of the vision ! Then (last strain) 
 Of Duty, chosen laws controlling choice. 
 Action and joy! — An Orphic song indeed, 
 A song divine of high and passionate thoughts 
 To their own music chanted ! 
 
 great Bard! 
 Ere yet that last strain dying awed the air, 
 With steadfast eye I view'd thee in the choir 
 Of ever-enduring men. The truly great 
 Have all one age, and from one visible space 
 Shed influence ! They, both in power and act. 
 Are permanent, and Time is not with them, 
 Save as it worketh for them, they in it. 
 Nor less a sacred roll than those of old, 
 And to be placed, as they, with gradual fame 
 Among the archives of mankind, thy work 
 Makes audible a linked lay of truth. 
 Of truth profound a sweet continuous lay, 
 Not learnt, but native, her own natural notes! 
 Ah ! as I listen'd with a heart forlorn 
 The pulses of my Being beat anew : 
 And even as life returns upon the drown'd. 
 Life's joy rekindling roused a throng of pains, — 
 Keen pangs of love, awakening as a babe 
 Turbulent, with an outcry in the heart ; 
 
546 COLERIDGE. 
 
 And fears self-wilFd, that shunn'd the eye of hope ; 
 And hope that scarce would know itself from fear; 
 Sense of past youth, and manhood come in vain, 
 And genius given, and knowledge won in vain ; 
 And all which I had cull'd in wood-walks wild, 
 And all which patient toil had rear'd, and all, 
 Commune with thee had opened out, — but Flowers 
 Strew'd on my corse, and borne upon my bier. 
 In the same coffin, for the self -same grave ! 
 
 That way no more ! and ill beseems it me, 
 Who came a welcomer in herald's guise. 
 Singing of glory and futurity, 
 To wander back on such unhealthful road, 
 Plucking the poisons of self -harm! And ill 
 Such intertwine beseems triumphal wreaths 
 Strew'd before thy advancing ! 
 
 Nor do thou, 
 Sage Bard ! impair the memory of that hour 
 Of thy communion with my nobler mind 
 By pily or grief, already felt too long ! 
 Nor let my words import more blame than needs. 
 The tumult rose and ceased : for peace is nigh 
 Where wisdom's voice has found a listening heart. 
 Amid the hoAvl of more than wintry storms, 
 The halcyon hears the voice of vernal hours 
 Already on the wing. 
 
 Eve following eve. 
 Dear tranquil time, when the sweet sense of home 
 Is sweetest ! moments for their own sake hail'd. 
 And more desired, more precious for thy song, 
 In silence listening, like a devout child. 
 My soul lay passive, by thy various strain 
 Driven as in surges now beneath the stars. 
 With momentary stars of my own birth. 
 Fair constellated foam,® still darting off 
 Into the darkness ; now a tranquil sea. 
 Outspread and bright, yet Gwelling to the Moon. 
 
 And when — Friend ! my comforter and guide, — 
 Strong in thyself, and powerful to give strength ! — 
 Thy long-sustained Song finally closed. 
 And thy deep voice had ceased, — j^et thou thyself 
 Wert still before my ej^es, and round us both 
 
 9 "A beautiful white cloud of foam at momentary intervals coursed by the side 
 of the vessel Avith a i-oar, and little stars of flame danced and spai-kled and went out 
 in it: and every now and then light detachments of this white cloud-like foam darted 
 off from the vessel's side, each with its OAvn small constellation, over the sea, and 
 scoured out of sight like a Tartar troop over a wilderness." — The Friend. 
 
THE NIGHTINGALE. 547 
 
 That happy vision of beloved Faces, — 
 Scarce conscious, and yet conscious of its close, 
 I sate, my being blended in one thought, 
 (Thought was 't ? or aspiration ? or resolve ?) 
 Absorb'd, yet hanging still upon the sound ; 
 And when I rose, I found myself in prayer. 
 
 THE NIGHTINGALE; 
 
 A CONVEESATION POEM. APKIL, 1798. 
 
 No cloud, no relique of the sunken day 
 
 Distinguishes the WestJ no long thin slip 
 
 Of sullen light, no obscure trembling hues. 
 
 Come, we will rest on this old mossy bridge ! 
 
 You see the glimmer of the stream beneath, 
 
 But hear no murmuring : it flows silently, 
 
 O'er its soft bed of verdure. All is still, 
 
 A balmy night ! and though the stars be dim, 
 
 Yet let us think upon the vernal showers 
 
 That gladden the green earth, and we shall find 
 
 A pleasure in the dimness of the stars. 
 
 And, hark ! the Nightingale begins its song, 
 
 "Most musical, most melancholy" bird!^° 
 
 A melancholy bird ? 0, idle thought ! 
 
 In Nature there is nothing melancholy. 
 
 But some night-wandering man, whose heart was pierced 
 
 With the remembrance of a grievous wrong. 
 
 Or slow distemper, or neglected love, 
 
 (And so, poor wretch ! fill'd all things with himself, 
 
 And made all gentle sounds tell back the tale 
 
 Of his own sorrow,) he, and such as he. 
 
 First named these notes a melancholy strain : 
 
 And many a poet echoes the conceit ; 
 
 Poet who hath been building up the rhyme 
 
 When he had better far have stretch'd his limbs 
 
 Beside a brook in mossy forest-dell. 
 
 By sun or moon light, to the influxes 
 
 Of shapes and sounds and shifting elements 
 
 Surrendering his whole spirit, of his song 
 
 And of his fame forgetful : so his fame 
 
 Should share in Nature's immortality, 
 
 A venerable thing ! and so his song 
 
 10 This passage in Milton possesses an excellence far superior to that of mere de- 
 scription. It is spoken in the character of the melancholy man, and has therefore a 
 dramatic propriety. The author makes this I'emai'k, to rescue himself from the 
 charge of having alluded with levity to a line in Milton. — See page 119, note 7. 
 
548 COLERIDGE. 
 
 Should make all Nature lovelier, and itself 
 Be loved like Nature ! But 'twill not be so ; 
 And youths and maidens most poetical 
 Who lose the deepening twilights of the Spring 
 In ball-rooms and hot theatres, they still 
 Full of meek sympathy must heave their sighs 
 O'er Philomela's pity-pleading strains. 
 
 My Friend, and thou, our Sister ! we have learnt 
 A different lore : we may not thus profane 
 Nature's sweet voices, always full of love 
 And joyance ! 'Tis the merry Nightingale 
 That crowds, and hurries, and precipitates 
 With fast thick warble his delicious notes, 
 As he were fearful that an April night 
 Would be too short for him to utter forth 
 His love-chant, and disburthen his full soul 
 Of all its music 1 
 
 And I know a grove 
 Of large extent, hard by a castle huge. 
 Which the great lord inhabits not; and so 
 This grove is wild with tangling underwood. 
 And the trim walks are broken up, and grass, 
 Thin grass and king-cups grow within the paths. 
 But never elsewhere in one place I knew 
 So many nightingales ; and far and near. 
 In wood and thicket, over the wide grove. 
 They answer and provoke each other's song,- 
 With skirmish and capricious passagings. 
 And murmurs musical and swift jug jug. 
 And one low piping sound more sweet than all ; 
 Stirring the air with such a harmony. 
 That, should you close your eyes, you might almost 
 Forget it was not day ! On moon-lit bushes. 
 Whose dewy leaflets are but half disclosed. 
 You may perchance behold them on the twigs, 
 Their bright, bright eyes, their eyes both bright and full. 
 Glistening, while many a glow-worm in the shade 
 Lights up her love-torch. 
 
 A most gentle Maid, 
 Who dwelleth in her hospitable home 
 Hard by the castle, and at latest eve 
 (Even like a Lady vow'd and dedicate 
 To something more than Nature in the grove) 
 Glides through the pathways ; she knows all their notes, 
 That gentle Maid ! and oft a moment's space. 
 What time the Moon was lost behind a cloud, 
 
FKOST AT MIDNIGHT. 549 
 
 Hath heard a pause of silence ; till the Moon, 
 Emerging, hath awaken'd earth and sky 
 With one sensation, and these wakeful birds 
 Have all burst forth in choral minstrelsy, 
 As if some sudden gale had swept at once 
 An hundred airy harps ! And she hath watch'd 
 Many a nightingale perch'd giddily 
 On blossomy twig still swinging from the breeze, 
 And to that motion tune his wanton song. 
 Like tipsy joy that reels with tossing head. 
 Farewell, Warbler ! till to-morrow eve. 
 And you, my friends, farewell, a short farewell ! 
 We have been loitering long and pleasantly. 
 And now for our dear homes. — That strain again ? 
 Full fain it would delay me ! My dear babe 
 Who, capable of no articulate sound 
 Mars all things with his imitative lisp, 
 How he would place his hand beside his ear, 
 His little hand, the small forefinger up. 
 And bid us listen ! And I deem it Avise 
 To make him Nature's play-mate. He knows well 
 The evening-star ; and once, when he awoke 
 In most distressful mood, (some inward pain 
 Had made up that strange thing, an infant's dream,) 
 I hurried with him to our orchard-plot. 
 And he beheld the Moon, and, hush'd at once. 
 Suspends his sobs, and laughs most silently. 
 While his fair eyes, that swam with undropp'd tears. 
 Did glitter in the yellow moonbeam ! Well ! — 
 It is a father's tale : But if that Heaven 
 Should give me life, his childhood shall grow up 
 Familiar with these songs, that with the night 
 He may associate joy ! Once more farewell. 
 Sweet Nightingale ! Once more, my friends, farewell ! 
 
 FEOST AT MIDNIGHT. 
 
 The frost performs its secret ministry, 
 Unhelp'd by any wind. The owlet's cry 
 Came loud, — and, hark, again ! loud as before. 
 The inmates of my cottage, all at rest, 
 Have left me to that solitude which suits 
 Abstruser musings ; save that at my side 
 My cradled infant slumbers peacefully. 
 'Tis calm indeed ! so calm, that it disturbs 
 
650 COLEllIDGE. 
 
 And vexes meditation with its strange 
 And extreme sileniness. 8ea, hill, and wood, 
 This populous village! — sea, and hill, and wood, 
 With all the numberless goings-on of life, 
 Inaudible as dreams! the thin blue flame 
 Lies on my low-burnt fire, and quivers not : 
 Only that film which flutter'd on the grate 
 Still flutters there, the sole unquiet thing. 
 Methinks its motion in this hush of Nature 
 Gives it dim sympathies with me who live. 
 Making it a companionable form. 
 To which the living spirit in our frame, 
 That loves not to behold a lifeless thing, 
 Transfuses its own pleasures, its own will. 
 
 How oft, at school, with most believing mind, 
 Presageful, have I gazed upon the bars. 
 To watch that fluttering stranger! and as oft, 
 With unclosed lids, already had I dreamt 
 Of my sweet birth-place, and the old church-tower, 
 Whose bells, the poor man's only music, rang 
 From morn to evening, all the hot Fair-day, 
 So sweetly, that they stirr'd and haunted me 
 With a wild pleasure, falling on mine ear 
 Most like articulate sounds of things to come ! 
 So gazed I, till the soothing things I dreamt 
 Luird me to sleep, and sleep prolonged my dreams ; 
 And so I brooded all the following morn. 
 Awed by the stern preceptor's face, mine eye 
 Fix'd with mock study on my swimming book ; 
 Save if the door half open'd, and I snatch'd 
 A hasty glance, and still my heart leap'd up. 
 For still I hoped to see the stranger's face. 
 Townsman, or aunt, or sister more beloved. 
 My play-mate when we both were clothed alike. 
 
 Dear babe, that steepest cradled by my side. 
 Whose gentle breathings, heard in this deep calm. 
 Fill up the interspersed vacancies 
 And momentary pauses of the thought ; 
 My babe so beautiful ! it thrills my heart 
 With tender gladness, thus to look at thee. 
 And think that thou shalt learn far other lore 
 And in far other scenes ! For I was rear'd 
 In the great city, pent 'mid cloisters dim. 
 And saw nought lovely but the sky and stars. 
 But thou, my babe, shalt wander like a breeze 
 By lakes and sandy shores, beneath the crags 
 
DEJECTION. 551 
 
 Of ancient mountain, and beneath the clouds, 
 Which image in their bulk both lakes and shores 
 And mountain crags : so shalt thou see and hear 
 The lovely shapes and sounds intelligible 
 Of that eternal language which thy God 
 Utters, who from eternity doth teach 
 Himself in all, and all things in Himself. 
 Great universal Teacher, He shall mould 
 Thy spirit, and by giving make it ask. 
 
 Therefore all seasons shall be sweet to thee. 
 Whether the Summer clothe the general earth 
 With greenness, or the redbreast sit and sing 
 Betwixt the tufts of snow on the bare branch 
 Of mossy apple-tree, while the nigh thatch 
 Smokes in the sun-thaw; whether the eve-drops fall, 
 Heard only in the trances of the blast, 
 Or if the secret ministry of frost 
 Shall hang them up in silent icicles. 
 Quietly shining to the quiet Moon. 
 
 DEJECTION: A]^ ODE. 
 
 Late, late yestreen I saw the new Moon, 
 
 With the old Moon in her ai'ras; 
 
 And I fear, I fear. m\ Master dear! 
 
 We shall have a deadly storm, — Sir Patrick Spencob. 
 
 Well! If the Bard was weather-wise, who made 
 The grand old ballad of Sir Patrick Spence, 
 This night, so tranquil now, will not go hence 
 TJnroused by winds, that ply a busier trade 
 Than those which mould yon cloud in lazy flakes. 
 Or the dull sobbing draft, that moans and rakes 
 Upon the strings of this ^olian lute. 
 Which better far were mute. 
 For, lo ! the new Moon winter-bright, 
 And overspread with phantom light, 
 (With swimming phantom light o'erspread, 
 But rimm'd and circled by a silver thread,) 
 I see the old Moon in her lap, foretelling 
 
 The coming on of rain and squally blast. 
 And 0, that even now the gust were swelling, 
 
 And the slant night-shower driving loud and fast! 
 Those sounds which oft have raised me whilst they awed, 
 
 And sent my soul abroad. 
 Might now perhaps their wonted impulse give, 
 Might startle this dull pain, and make it move and live ! 
 
553 COLEKIDGE. 
 
 A grief without a pang, void, dark, and drear, 
 A stifled, drowsy, unimpassion'd grief. 
 Which finds no natural outlet, no relief, 
 In word, or sigh, or tear, — 
 
 Lady ! in this wan and heartless mood, 
 To other thoughts by yonder throstle woo'd 
 
 All this long eve, so balmy and serene, 
 Have I been gazing on the western sky. 
 
 And its peculiar tint of yellow green : 
 And still I gaze, — and with how blank an eye ! 
 And those thin clouds above, in flakes and bars. 
 That give away their motion to the stars ; 
 Those stars, that glide behind them or between. 
 Now sparkling, now bedimm'd, but always seen; 
 Yon crescent Moon, as fix'd as if it grew 
 In its own cloudless, starless lake of blue ; 
 
 1 see them all so excellently fair, 
 
 I see, not feel how beautiful they are ! 
 
 My genial spirits fail ; 
 
 And what can these avail. 
 To lift the smothering weight from off my breast? 
 
 It were a vain endeavour. 
 
 Though I should gaze for ever 
 On that green light that lingers in the "West : 
 I may not hope from outward forms to win 
 The passion and the life, whose fountains are .within. 
 
 Lady ! we receive but what we give. 
 And in our life alone does nature live : 
 Ours is her wedding-garment, ours her shroud ! 
 
 And would we aught behold, of higher worth, 
 Than that inanimate cold world allow'd 
 To the poor loveless ever-anxious crowd, 
 
 Ah ! from the soul itself must issue forth 
 A light, a glory, a fair luminous cloud 
 
 Enveloping the Earth ; 
 And from the soul itself must there be sent 
 
 A sweet and potent voice, of its own birth. 
 Of all sweet sounds the life and element ! 
 
 O pure of heart ! thou need'st not ask of me 
 What this strong music in the soul may be ; 
 What, and wherein it doth exist. 
 This light, this glory, this fair luminous mist, 
 This beautiful and beauty-making power. 
 
DEJECTION. 553 
 
 Joy, virtuous Lady! Joy that ne'er was given, 
 Save to the pure, and in their purest hour, 
 Life, and Life's effluence, cloud at once and shower; 
 Joy, Lady ! is the spirit and the power 
 Which wedding Nature to us gives in dower, 
 
 A new Earth and new Heaven, 
 Undreamt of by the sensual and the proud, — 
 Joy is the SAveet voice, Joy the luminous cloud, — 
 
 We in ourselves rejoice! 
 And thence flows all that charms or ear or sight, 
 
 All melodies the echoes of that voice, 
 AH colours a suffusion from that light. 
 
 There was a time when, though my path was rough, 
 
 This joy within me dallied with distress, 
 And all misfortunes were but as the stuff 
 
 Wlience Fancy made me dreams of happiness: 
 For hope grew round me, like the twining vine. 
 And fruits and foliage, not my own, seem'd mine. 
 But now afflictions bow me down to earth ; 
 Nor csjLre I that they rob me of my mirth : 
 
 But ! each visitation 
 Suspends what Nature gave me at my birth, 
 
 My shaping spirit of Imagination. 
 For not to think of what I needs must feel, 
 
 But to be still and patient all I can ; 
 And haply by abstruse research to steal 
 
 From my own nature all the natural man, — 
 
 This was my sole resource, my only plan; 
 Till that which suits a part infects the whole, 
 And now is almost grown the habit of my soul. 
 
 Hence, viper thoughts, that coil around my mind, 
 
 Reality's dark dream ! 
 I turn from you, and listen to the wind, 
 Which long has raved unnoticed. What a scream 
 Of agony by torture lengthen'd out 
 That lute sent forth! Thou Wind, that rav'st without. 
 
 Bare crag, or mountain-tarn^ or blasted tree. 
 Or pine-grove whither woodman never clomb. 
 Or lonely house, long held the witches' home, 
 
 Methinks were fitter instruments for thee, 
 Mad Lutanist ! who in this month of showers, 
 Of dark brown gardens, and of peeping flowers, 
 Mak'st Devils' yule, with worse than wintry song. 
 The blossoms, buds, and timorous leaves among. 
 
554 COLERIDGE. 
 
 Thou Actor, perfect in all tragic sounds ! 
 Thou mighty Poet, e'en to frenzy bold ! 
 What tell'st thou now about ? 
 'Tis of the rushing of a host in rout, 
 With groans of trampled men, with smarting wounds, — 
 At once they groan with pain, and shudder with the cold ! 
 But, hush ! there is a pause of deepest silence; 
 
 And all that noise, as of a rushing crowd. 
 With groans, and tremulous shudderings, — all is over, — 
 It tells another tale, with sounds less deep and loud I 
 A tale of less affright. 
 And temper'd with delight, 
 As Otway's self had framed the tender lay; 
 'Tis of a little child 
 Upon a lonesome wild, 
 Kot far from home, but she hath lost her way ; 
 And now moans low in bitter grief and fear. 
 And now screams loud, and hopes to make her mother hear. 
 
 'Tis midnight, but small thoughts have I of sleep : 
 Full seldom may my friend such vigils keep ! 
 Visit her, gentle Sleep ! with wings of healing. 
 
 And may this storm be but a mountain-birth, 
 May all the stars hang bright above her dwelling, 
 
 Silent as though they watch'd the sleeping Earth ! 
 With light heart may she rise. 
 Gay fancy, cheerful eyes, 
 
 Joy lift her spirit, joy attune her voice; 
 To her may all things live, from pole to pole, 
 Their life the eddying of her living soul ! . 
 
 simple spirit, guided from above. 
 Dear Lady ! friend devoutest of my choice, 
 Thus mavst thou ever, evermore rejoice! 
 
 TO A YOUNG MAN OF FORTUNE 
 
 WHO ABAKDOKED HIMSELF TO AN IlifDOLENT AND CAUSELESS 
 MELANCHOLY. 
 
 Hence that fantastic wantonness of woe, 
 
 Youth to partial Fortune vainly dear ! 
 
 To plunder'd want's half-shelter'd hovel go, 
 
 Go, and some hunger-bitten infant hear 
 
 Moan haply in a dying mother's ear : 
 
 Or when the cold and dismal fog-damps brood 
 
 O'er the rank church-yard with sear elm-leaves strew'd. 
 
TO THE RIVER OTTER. 555 
 
 Pace round some widow's grave, whose dearer part 
 
 Was slanghter'd, where o'er his iincoffin-d limbs 
 
 The flocking flesh-birds scream'd ! Then, while thy heart 
 
 Groans, and thine eye a fiercer sorrow dims, 
 
 Know, (and the truth shall kindle thy young mind,) 
 
 What Nature makes thee mourn, she bids thee heal ! 
 
 abject ! if, to sickly dreams resign'd. 
 
 All effortless thou leave life's common-weal 
 
 A prey to tyrants, murderers of mankind. 
 
 TO A FRIE:N'D who asked, how I FELT WHEX THE XURSE 
 FIRST PRESENTED MY i:S"FANT TO ME. 
 
 Charles ! my slow heart was only sad, when first 
 I scann'd that face of feeble infancy : 
 For dimly on my thoughtful spirit'burst 
 All I had been, and all my child might be ! 
 But when I saw it on its mother's arm, 
 And hanging at her bosom, (she the while 
 Bent o'er its features with a tearful smile,) 
 Then I was thrill'd and melted, and most warm 
 Impress'd a father's kiss : and, all beguiled 
 Of dark remembrance and presageful fear, 
 I seem'd to see an angel-form appear, — 
 'Twas even thine, beloved woman mild ! 
 So, for the mother's sake the child was dear, 
 And dearer was the mother for the child. 
 
 TO THE EIVER OTTER. 
 
 Dear native brook ! wild streamlet of the West ! 
 
 How many various-fated years have past, 
 
 What happy, and what mournful hours, since last 
 
 I skimm'd the smooth thin stone along thy breast, 
 
 Numbering its light leaps ! yet so deep imprest 
 
 Sink the sweet scenes of childhood, that mine eyes 
 
 I never shut amid the sunny ray, 
 
 But straight with all their tints thy waters rise, 
 
 Thy crossing-plank, thy marge with willows grey. 
 
 And bedded sand that, vein'd with various dies, 
 
 Gleam'd through thy bright transparence ! On my way, 
 
 Visions of childhood ! oft have ye beguiled 
 
 Lone manhood's cares, yet waking fondest sighs : 
 
 Ah ! that once more I were a careless child ! 
 
556 COLERIDGE. 
 
 WORK WITHOUT HOPE. 
 
 All Nature seems at work. Stags leave their lair — 
 
 The bees are stirring — birds are on the wing, 
 
 And Winter, slumbering in the open air. 
 
 Wears on his smiling face a dream of Spring ! 
 
 And I, the while, the sole unbusy thing, 
 
 Nor honey make, nor pair, nor build, nor sing. 
 
 Yet well I ken the banks where amaranths blow, 
 Have traced the fount whence streams of nectar flow. 
 Bloom, ye amaranths ! bloom for whom ye may. 
 For me ye bloom not ! Glide, rich streams, away 1 
 With lips unbrighten'd, wreathless brow, I stroll : 
 And would you learn the spells that drowse my soul? 
 Work without hope draws nectar in a sieve. 
 And hope without an object cannot live. [1837. 
 
 LOVE, HOPE, AND PATIENCE IN EDUCATION. 
 
 O'er wayward childhood wouldst thou hold firm rule, 
 And sun thee in the light of happy faces ; 
 Love, Hope, and Patience, these must be thy graces 
 And in thine own heart let them first keep school. 
 For, as old Atlas on his broad neck places 
 Heaven's starry globe, and there sustains it, so 
 Do these upbear the little world below 
 Of Education, — Patience, Love and Hope. 
 Methinks I see them group'd, in seemly show. 
 The straighten'd arms upraised, the palms aslope, 
 And robes that, touching as adown they flow. 
 Distinctly blend, like snow emboss'd in snow. 
 0, part them never ! If Hope prostrate lie. 
 
 Love too will sink and die. 
 But Love is subtle, and doth proof derive 
 From her own life that Hope is yet alive; 
 And, bending o'er with soul-transfusing eyes. 
 And the soft murmurs of the mother dove, 
 Woos back the fleeting spirit, and half -supplies : 
 Thus Love repays to Hope what Hope first gave to Love. 
 Yet haply there will come a weary day. 
 
 When overtask'd at length 
 Both Love and Hope beneath the load give way. 
 Then with a statue's smile, a statue's strength. 
 Stands the mute sister, Patience, nothing loth. 
 And, both supporting, docs the work of both. 
 
ROBERT BURNS 
 
 SKETCH or HIS LIFE. 
 
 Robert Burns, the greatest of Scotland's poets, was born the 25th of Jan- 
 uary, 1759, in a clay-built cottage, raised by his father's own hands, on the 
 banks of the Doon, in the district of Kyle, and county of Ayr. He was the 
 eldest of seven children, the next after hira being Gilbert, whose name is often 
 met with in connection with the poet's. At the time of his birth, and for some 
 seven years after, his fiither was in the employment of a Mr. Ferguson as gar- 
 dener and overseer ; living all the while, however, in his own house, his wife 
 managing her family, and her little dairy, which consisted of two or three 
 cows. In this service he won the entire respect and confidence of Mr. Fer- 
 guson ; who accordingly leased him a farm of about ninety English acres at 
 Mount Oliphant, in the parish of Ayr; and also lent him a hundred pounds 
 to aid in stocking the farm. To this place he removed in the Spring of 1 766. 
 At the age of six years, Robert was sent by his father to a school at AUoway, 
 about a mile distant, taught by Mr. John Murdoch. Under his instruction, 
 Robert and Gilbert pursued their studies together, and with much success ; 
 their father's " dearest wish and prayer being, that he might have it in his 
 power to keep his children under his OAvn eye till they could discern between 
 good and evil." " At those years," says the poet, " I was by no means a fa- 
 vourite with anybody. I was a good deal noted for a retentive memory, a 
 stubborn, sturdy something in my disposition, and an enthusiastic idiot piety. 
 I say idiot piety, because I was then but a child. Though it cost the school- 
 master some thrashings, I made an excellent English scholar, and by the time 
 I was ten or eleven years of age, I was a critic in substantives, verbs, and par- 
 ticles." 
 
 The farming at Mount Oliphant did not prosper ; the land being poor, and 
 various adversities falling upon the family. I quote from Gilbert Burns : " To 
 the buffetings of misfortune we could only oppose hard labour and the most 
 rigid economy. We lived very sparingly. For several years butcher's meat 
 was a stranger in the house, while all the members of the family exerted them- 
 selves to the utmost of their strength, and rather beyond it, in the labours of 
 the farm. My brother, at the age of thirteen, assisted in threshing the crop 
 of corn, and at fifteen was the principal labourer on the farm, for we had no 
 hired servant, male or female." — By the terms of the lease, the lessee had a 
 right to tlirow it up, if he chose, at the end of every sixth year. He tried to 
 better himself at the end of the first six years, but, failing in this, he continued 
 there six more : he then took the farm of Lochlea, 130 acres, in the parish of 
 Tarbolton, and removed thither in the Spring of 1777. As the contract was 
 not in writing, a misunderstanding arose, the decision of which involved the 
 lessee's affairs in ruin. There the poet's father died in February, 1784, after 
 an occupancy of about seven years. 
 
 The acquisitions which Burns made, and the poetical talent he displaA^ed, 
 under the })ressure of early and incessant toil, show at once the extraordinary 
 force and activity of his mind. In the various labours of the farm, he ex- 
 celled all his competitors. IJis brother Gilbert says that in mowing, the exer- 
 cise that tries all the muscles most severelv, Robert was the only man that, at 
 
 557 
 
558 BURNS. 
 
 the end of a Summer's day, he was ever obliged to acknowledge as his master. 
 But while the poet gave his powers of body to the labours of the farm, his 
 thoughts were elsewhere. Whether " following his plough along the moun- 
 tain-side," or wielding his scythe in the hay-field, he was humming the songs of 
 his country, musing on the deeds of ancient valour, or rapt in the illusions of 
 fancy. On Sundays he was wont to indulge in free intercourse with the 
 charms of Nature. It was his delight to wander alone on the banks of the 
 Ayr, and listen to the song of the blackbird at the close of the Summer's day. 
 But still greater was his pleasure, as he himself informs us, in walking on the 
 sheltered side of a wood, in a cloudy winter day, and hearing the storm rave 
 among the trees; and more elevated still his delight to ascend some eminence 
 during the agitations of nature, to stride along its summit while the lightning 
 flashed around him, and, amidst the bowlings of the tempest, to apostrophize 
 the spirit of the storm. Such situations he declares most favourable to devo- 
 tion — " Rapt in enthusiasm, I seem to ascend towards Him who walks on the 
 wings of the unnd! " 
 
 In the Summer of 1781, as his father had concluded to try flax-growing, the 
 poet went to Irvine to learn the trade of dressing flax. While thus at work, 
 his food consisted chiefly of oatmeal sent to him from his father's family. Even 
 there misfortune pursued him. " As we were giving," says he, " a welcome 
 carousal to the new year, the shop took fire and burnt to ashes, and I was 
 left, like a true poet, not worth a sixpence." — Soon after their father's death, 
 the poet and his brother collected together what little property law and mis- 
 fortune had spared, and took the farm of Mossgiel, 118 acres. Their mother 
 superintended the dairy and the household, while they undertook for the rest. 
 
 It appears that love and poetry shot up together in the soul of Burns ; and 
 that the love-shoots came pretty early in life. It was at the age of fifteen that he 
 first began to feel the power of "dear, deluding woman," his Parnassus at that 
 time being a stubble-field, and his inspirer a fair-haired girl from whose hands 
 he picked the thistle-stings. And so onward the Muses from whom he caught 
 his inspirations were various "lasses" who came within the circle of his 
 acquaintance. "My heart," says he, "was completely tinder, and was eter- 
 nally lighted up by some goddess or other; and, as in every other warfare in 
 this world, sometimes I was received with favour, and sometimes mortified 
 with repulse." One of these heroines was a servant in the family of General 
 Stewart, of Afton : Burns, during a visit with David Sillar, is said to have 
 left one of his songs, which was soon chanted in bower and hall, and attracted 
 the notice of Mrs. Stewart, a beautiful and accomplished lady, who sent for the 
 poet on his next visit, and by her remarks and praise confirmed his inclination 
 to lyric verse. 
 
 Thus, before the removal to Mossgiel, poetry had become a passion with 
 Burns. Without any settled plan of study, he composed at the plough, at the 
 harrow, and with the reaping-hook in his hand ; and commonly had several 
 poems in progress, taking them up as his mood of mind suited the theme, and 
 laying them down as he grew careless or tired. 
 
 Meanwhile a bad form of evil was working itself deeply into his habits. 
 Many farmers on the sea-coast were engaged in contraband trade ; and Burns, 
 though perhaps taking no part in the traffic, associated with those M'ho carried 
 it on; thinking, apparently, that insight into new ways of life, and human 
 character, would more than compensate the risk. But, as Cunningham ob- 
 serves, in his Life of Burns, " it is dangerous for a bare hand to pluck a lily 
 from among nettles ; men of few virtues and many follies are unsafe compan- 
 ions." Gilbert tells us that at Irvine his brother "had contracted some ac- 
 quaintance of a freer manner of thinking, whose society prepared him for over- 
 leaping the bounds of rigid virtue which had hitherto restrained him." This 
 evil tendency was no doubt strengthened by the fierce theologic Avarfare which 
 was agitating the Kirk between the two factions known as the Old Light and 
 the New Light. Burns himself sided with the latter; and as he was gifted 
 
SKETCH OF HIS LIFE. 559 
 
 with a vein of tlic most powerful and pungent satire, here was a mark for his 
 wit too inviting for him to i-efrain. In this wretched warfare his genius got 
 infected with the worst venom of theologic rancour : the poems in which he 
 harrowed the Old Light arc indeed terrible for their satire, but their wit does 
 not redeem their profanity. " I now began," says Burns himself, " to be known 
 in the neighbourhood as a maker of rhymes. The first of my poetic offspring 
 that saw the light was a burlesque lamentation on a quarrel between two rev- 
 erend Calvinists, both of them dramatis personce in my Holy Fair." 
 
 The poet's first serious love-passage, so tiir as we know, was with her whom 
 his divine song To Mary in Heaven has taught lis to reverence so tenderly. 
 This girl was Mary Campbell, a peasant's daughter, who, at the time she cap- 
 tivated Burns, was serving in the humble capacity of dairymaid in the Castle 
 of Montgomery. She was beautiful, but she had something better than beauty. 
 She returned the poet's affection with the fer.vour of innocence and youth. 
 " After a pretty long trial," says Burns, " of the most ardent reciprocal affec- 
 tion, we met, by appointment, on the second Sunday of May, in a sequestered 
 spot on the banks of the Ayr, where we spent a day in taking a farewell, before 
 she should embark for the West Highlands, to arrange matters among her 
 friends for our projected change of life. At the close of the Autumn following, 
 she crossed the sea to meet me at Greenock, where she had scarce landed, when 
 she was seized with a malignant fever, which hurried my dear girl to her grave 
 in a few days, before I could even learn of her illness." How deep and true 
 was his religion towards this gentle creature, is shown by the songs wherein he 
 celebrates so pathetically her person and her virtues. 
 
 He had another love-entrancement in which Jean Armour was the heroine. 
 Jean's father was exceedingly rigid in his piety, and a staunch believer in the 
 glory of the Old Light, and she was his favourite child. He would not tolerate 
 the addresses of " a profane scoffer ; " and so the lovers had recourse to stolen 
 meetings under the cloud of night, and twilight interviews under the green- 
 wood tree. This perilous courtship resulted in the poet's being likely to be- 
 come " a f^ithcr before he was a husband." The father, on learning his daugh- 
 ter's condition, was overwhelm.ed with grief; and when, on her knees before 
 him, she implored forgiveness, and showed " the marriage lines," — as the pri- 
 vate acknowledgment of marriage, without the sanction of the Kirk, was 
 called, — he snatched the certificate from her, threw it into the fire, and com- 
 manded her to think herself no longer the poet's wife. Jean trembled and 
 obeyed : forgetting that Burns was still her husband in the sight of Heaven, 
 and according to the laws of man also, she refused to see him, or listen to 
 aught he could say. 
 
 AH this was felt by Burns as a most crushing affliction : at times he fairly 
 went frantic from the effects of it. Duty, however, and affection alike held 
 him true and steadfast to Jean Armour. Some time after her sickness, he went 
 to visit her, and was received with due civility. Jean held np a pretty female 
 infant to him : he took it lovingly in his arms, and after a while returned it to 
 the mother, asking the blessing of God upon her and her infant. He was 
 turning away to converse with other people present, when Jean said archly, 
 " But this is not all, — here is another baby," and handed him a male child 
 born at the same tin)e. He was much surprised, but took that child too in his 
 arms, and repeated his blessing upon it. On a later occasion, when the Ar- 
 mours were doing their utmost to exclude him, he made his way into the house, 
 and flew to the bod where the mother and infants were lying, and, putting his 
 cheek to Jean's, and then to those of the sleeping babes, wept bitterly. All 
 this shows conclusively what stuff the poet's heart was made of 
 
 Some time before, Burns had made arrangements for publishing a volume of 
 his poems ; and now, amidst all these miseries and sufferings, he brought out 
 that volume which first told the world that a new and mighty poet had risen in 
 the land. The volume made its appearance in July, 1786, and the poems were 
 everywhere received with the most eager admiration and delight. 
 
560 BURNS. 
 
 At this time Burns was in despair of being: able to live in Scotland, and had 
 determined on seeking refuge in the West Indies, where he had engaged to serve 
 as overseer on an estate belonging to Dr. Douglas. The poems were now 
 bringing him some considerable returns in money ; and as soon as he was mas- 
 ter of nine guineas, the price of carrying him across the Atlantic, he took a 
 steerage passage on the first ship that was to sail from the Clyde. But it so 
 happened at this time that the Rev. Mr. Laurie, minister of Loudoun, a kind 
 and steadfast friend of Burns, had sent a copy of the poems to the blind poet. 
 Dr. Blacklock, of Edinburgh. This drew a Tetter from Blacklock, which gave 
 a new turn to affairs. I must give the matter in the poet's own Avords : 
 
 " I had been for some days skulking from covert to covert, under all the terrors 
 of a jail, as some ill-advised people had uncoupled the merciless pack of the law 
 at my heels. I had taken the last farewell of my few friends ; my chest Avas on 
 the road to Greenock ; I had composed the last song I should ever measure in 
 Caledonia, — 'The gloomy night is gathering fast,' — Avhen a letter from Dr. 
 Blacklock to a friend of mine overthrew all my schemes by opening new pros- 
 pects to my poetic ambition. The Doctor belonged to a set of critics for 
 whose applause I had not dared to hope. His opinion that I should meet Avith 
 encouragement in Edinburgh for a second edition fired me so much, that aAvay 
 I posted for that city, without a single acquaintance, or a single letter of intro- 
 duction." 
 
 Burns set out for Edinburgh in November, 1786, and arriA'ed the second day 
 after, having performed the journey on foot. Within a month after his arrival, 
 he Avas in the midst of the first society both for rank and talent. Jane, Duch- 
 ess of Gordon, then the leader of fashion in the Scotch metropolis, appreciated 
 his poetry, and eagerly patronized him. Lord Monboddo, Dr. Robertson, Dr. 
 Blair, Dr. Gregory, Dr. Adam Ferguson, Mackenzie the novelist, and Mr. 
 Eraser Tytler, all extended to the rustic poet the Avarmest and most generous 
 encouragement. 
 
 Nor Avas he a whit spoiled by all this homage. His native good sense carried 
 him through it unhurt. Nothing could be more manly and dignified than the 
 manner in Avliich he received the praises and attentions of fair ladies and learned 
 divines. No thought of forsaking his original calling appears to have entered 
 his mind. He returned gladly to the home and friends of his youth. He re- 
 ceived £500 for the Edinburgh edition of his poems, and was thus enabled, 
 soon after, to take a farm, called Ellisland, on the banks of the Nith, and also 
 to lend his brother Gilbert £180 to enable him to support the family on that of 
 Mossgiel. 
 
 He Avas no sooner possessed of a house of his OAvn than he made the only 
 reparation he could to Jean Armour. He priA'ately married her the latter end 
 of April, 1788, and the next month took her to his ncAv dAvel ling-place. But 
 misfortune still dogged his steps. The farm proved a ruinous undertaking. 
 Burns was finally compelled to give it up, and remove into the tOAvn of Dum- 
 fries, Avhere he remained till his death. He supported his family on his income 
 as an exciseman, — £50 per annum, — the only appointment, under GoA^ern- 
 ment, Avhich his friends had been able to procure him. Debt and difficulties 
 gathered round his path ; and an accidental circumstance, which occurred in 
 January, 1796, brought physical suffering also on the sad struggling years of 
 the great Scottish poet. He had sat late one CA^ening at the Globe TaA^ern, 
 and on his return home, overcome by drowsiness, and, alas ! slightly intoxi- 
 cated, he sank doAA^n on the snoAv, and slept for some hours in the open air. A 
 severe cold, from the effects of Avhich he never recovered, fblloAved. Change of 
 air and sea-bathing Avere tried for the restoration of his health in vain. On the 
 18th of July he became unable to stand. His mind sank into delirium, unless 
 when roused by conversation ; the fever increased rapidly, and on the fourth 
 day " the sufferings of this great but ill-fated genius terminated, and a life was 
 closed in which virtue and passion had been at perpetual variance." 
 
POEMS 
 
 BY 
 
 ROBERT BURNS 
 
 THE COTTER'S SATURDAY NIGHT. 
 
 Let not ambition mock their useful toil, 
 
 Their iiomely joys, and destiny obscure; 
 Nor grandeur hear, with a disdainful smile. 
 
 The short but simple annals of the poor. — Gray. 
 
 1 My loved, my honoiir'd much respected friend ! ^ 
 No mercenary bard his homage pays ; 
 
 With honest pride I scorn each selfish end : 
 My dearest meed, a friend's esteem and praise: 
 To you I sing, in simple Scottish lays, 
 The lowly train in life's sequester'd scene ; 
 The native feelings strong, the guileless ways ; 
 What Aiken in a cottage would have been ; 
 Ah ! though his worth unknown, far happier there, I ween. 
 
 2 November chill blaws loud wi' angry sugh ; 
 The shortening winter-day is near a close; 
 The miry beasts retreating frae the pleugh ; 
 The blackening trains o' craws to their repose ; 
 The toil-worn Cotter frae his labour goes. 
 This night his weekly moil is at an end. 
 Collects his spades, his mattocks, and his hoes. 
 Hoping the morn in ease and rest to spend. 
 
 And, weary, o'er the moor his course does hameward bend. 
 
 3 At length his lonely cot appears in view, 
 Beneath the shelter of an aged tree ; 
 
 Th' expectant wee-things, toddlin', stacher through 
 To meet their Dad, wi' flichterin' noise an' glee. 
 His we bit ingle, blinkin' bonnily, 
 His clean hearth-stane, his thriftie wifie's smile, 
 The lisping infant prattling on his knee. 
 Does a' his weary carking cares beguile. 
 An' makes him quite forget his labour an' his toil. 
 
 1 Robert Aiken, Esq., to whom the poem was inscribed. —For explanation of 
 Scottish terms, see Glossary at the end of the poems by Burns. 
 
562 BURNS. 
 
 4 Belyve the elder bairns come drapping in, 
 At service out, amang the farmers roun', 
 Some ca' the pleugh, some herd, some tentie rin 
 A cannie errand to a neebor town : 
 
 Their eldest hope, their Jenny, woman grown, 
 In youtht'u' bloom, love sparkling in her e'e, 
 Comes hame, perhaps to shew a braw new gown. 
 Or deposite her sair-won penny-fee. 
 To help her parents dear, if they in hardship be. 
 
 5 Wi' joy unfeign'd brothers and sisters meet, 
 And each for other's weelfare kindly spiers : 
 The social hours, swift-wing'd, unnoticed fleet; 
 Each tells the uncos that he sees or hears : 
 The parents, partial, eye their hopeful years ; 
 Anticipation forward points to view. 
 
 The mother, wi' her needle an' her shears. 
 Gars auld claes look amaist as Aveel's the new: 
 The father mixes a' wi' admonition due. 
 
 6 Their masters' an' their mistresses' command. 
 The younkers a' are warned to obey; 
 
 An' mind their labours wi' an eydent hand, 
 An' ne'er, though out o' sight, to juuk or play: 
 " An' ! be sure to fear the Lord alway ! 
 An' mind your duty duly, morn an' night ! 
 Lest in temptation's path ye gang astray. 
 Implore His counsel and assisting might : 
 They never sought in vain that sought the Lord aright ! " 
 
 7 But, hark ! a rap comes gently to the door ; 
 Jenny, wha kens the meaning o' the same, 
 Tells how a neebor lad cam' o'er the moor. 
 To do some errands, and convoy her hame. 
 The wily mother sees the conscious flame 
 Sparkle in Jenny's e'e, and flush her cheek; 
 With heart-struck anxious care inquires his name, 
 While Jenny hafflins is afraid to speak : 
 
 Weel pleased the mother hears it's nae wild, worthless rake. 
 
 8 Wi' kindly welcome Jenny brings him ben,^ 
 A strappan youth ; he tak's the mother's eye ; 
 Blithe Jenny sees the visit's no ill ta'en ; 
 
 The father cracks of horses, pleughs, and kye : 
 The youngster's artless heart o'erflows wi' joy, 
 
 2 Into Uie spence or parlour. Such is ofteu the force of 6en. 
 
563 
 
 But, blate and laithfu', scarce can weel behave : 
 The mother, wi' a woman's wdles, can spy 
 What makes the youth sae bashf u' an' sae grave ; 
 TVeel pleased to think her bairn's respected like the lave. 
 
 9 happy love, where love like this is found ! 
 heartfelt raptures ! bliss beyond compare ! 
 I've paced much this weary mortal round, 
 And sage experience bids me this declare, — 
 " If Heaven a draught of heavenly pleasure spare, 
 One cordial in this melancholy vale, 
 'Tis when a youthful, loving, modest pair, 
 In other's arms breathe out the tender tale. 
 
 Beneath the milk-white thorn that scents the evening gale." 
 
 10 Is there, in human form, that bears a heart, — 
 A wretch ! a villain ! lost to love and truth ! 
 That can, with studied, sly, ensnaring art. 
 Betray sweet Jenny's unsuspecting youth ? 
 Curse on his perjured arts! dissembling smooth! 
 Are honour, virtue, conscience, all exiled ? 
 
 Is there no pity, no relenting ruth. 
 Points to the parents fondling o'er their child ? 
 Then paints the ruin'd maid, and their distraction wild ? 
 
 11 But now the supper crowns their simple board, 
 The halesome parritch, chief o' Scotia's food: 
 The soupe their only hawkie does afford, 
 That 'yont the hallan snugly chows her cood: 
 The dame brings forth in complimental mood. 
 To grace the lad, her weel-hain'd kebbuck fell, 
 An' aft he's prest, an' aft he ca's it guid : 
 
 The frugal wifie, garrulous, will tell. 
 How 'twas a towmond auld, sin' lint was i' the bell. 
 
 12 The cheerfu' supper done, wi' serious face, 
 They round the ingle form a circle wide ; 
 The sire turns o'er, wi' patriarchal grace. 
 The big ha' Bible, ance his father's pride : 
 His bonnet reverently is laid aside. 
 
 His lyart haffets wearing thin an' bare ; 
 Those strains that once did sweet in Zion glide, 
 He wales a portion with judicious care ; 
 And " Let us worship God 1 " he says, with solemn air. 
 
 13 They chant their artless notes in simple guise ; 
 They tune their hearts, by far the noblest aim : 
 
664 BURNS. 
 
 Perhaps Dundee's wild warbling measures rise. 
 Or plaintive Martyrs^ worthy of the name : 
 Or noble Elgin beets the heavenward flame. 
 The sweetest far of Scotia's holy lays : 
 Compared with these, Italian trills are tame; 
 The tickled ears no heartfelt raptures raise ; 
 Nae unison hae they with our Creator's praise. 
 
 14 The priest-like father reads the sacred page. 
 How Abram was the friend of God on higli ; 
 Or, Moses bade eternal warfare wage 
 
 With Amalek's ungracious progeny; 
 Or how the royal bard did groaning lie 
 Beneath the stroke of Heaven's avenging ire ; 
 Or Job's pathetic plaint, and wailing cry ; 
 Or rapt Isaiah's wild, seraphic fire ; 
 Or other holy seers that tune the sacred lyre. 
 
 15 Perhaps the Christian volume is the theme, 
 How guiltless blood for guilty man was shed ; 
 How He, who bore in HeaA^en the second name. 
 Had not on Earth whereon to lay His head : 
 How His first followers and servants sped ; 
 The precepts sage they wrote to many a land : 
 How he, who lone in Patmos banished, 
 
 Saw in the Sun a mighty angel stand; [command. 
 
 And heard great Bab'lon's doom pronounced by Heaven's 
 
 16 Then kneeling down, to Heaven's Eternal King, 
 The saint, the father, and the husband prays : 
 Hope " springs exulting on triumphant wing," 
 That thus they all shall meet in future days : 
 There ever bask in uncreated rays, 
 
 No more to sigh, or shed the bitter tear. 
 Together hymning their Creator's praise. 
 In such society, yet still more dear ; 
 While circling time moves round in an eternal sphere. 
 
 17 Compared with this, how poor Eeligion's pride, 
 In all the pomp of method and of art, 
 
 When men display to congregations wide 
 Devotion's every grace, except the heart! 
 The Power, incensed, the pageant will desert, 
 The pompous strain, the sacerdotal stole; 
 But haply, in some cottage far apart, 
 May hear, well pleased, the language of the soul ; 
 And in His book of life the inmates poor enroll. 
 
cotter's SATURDAY KIGHT. 565 
 
 18 Then homeward all take off their several way; 
 The youngling cottagers retire to rest : 
 
 The parent pair their secret homage pay, 
 And proffer up to Heaven the warm request, 
 That He who stills the raven's clamorous nest, 
 And decks the lily fair in flowery pride. 
 Would, in the way His wisdom sees the hest, 
 For them and for their little-ones provide ; 
 But, chiefly, in their hearts with grace divine preside. 
 
 19 From scenes like these old Scotia's grandeur springs. 
 That makes her loved at home, revered abroad : 
 Princes and lords are but the breath of kings, 
 
 " An honest man's the noblest work of God : " 
 . And certes, in fair virtue's heavenly road, 
 
 The cottage leaves the palace far behind. 
 
 What is alordling's pomp? a cumbrous load, 
 
 Disguising oft the wretch of human kind. 
 Studied in arts of Hell, in wickedness refined ! 
 
 20 Scotia ! my dear, my native soil ! 
 
 For whom my warmest wish to Heaven is sent ! 
 Long may thy hardy sons of rustic toil 
 Be blest with health and peace and sweet content! 
 And, ! may Heaven their simple lives prevent 
 From Luxury's contagion, weak and vile ! 
 Then, howe'er crowns and coronets be rent, 
 A virtuous populace may rise the while. 
 And stand a wall of fire around their much-loved Isle. 
 
 21 Thou ! who pour'd the patriotic tide 
 
 That stream'd through Wallace's undaunted heart ; 
 Who dared to nobly stem tyrannic pride. 
 Or nobly die, the second glorious part, 
 (The patriot's God peculiarly Thou art. 
 His friend, inspirer, guardian, and reward!) 
 0, never, never, Scotia's realm desert ; 
 But still the patriot, and the patriot-bard, 
 In bright succession raise, her ornament and guard !^ 
 
 3 The characters and incidents, which the poet here describes in so interesting a 
 manner, are such as his lather's cottage presented to his observation: they are such 
 as may everywhere be found among the virtuous and intelligent peasantry of Scot- 
 land. *' I recollect once he told me," says Professor Stewart, " when I Avas'admiring 
 a distant prospect in one of our morning walks, that the sight of so many smoking 
 cottages gave a pleasure to his mind, which none could understand who had not 
 witnessed, like himself, the happiness and the worth which thev contained." With 
 such impressions as these upon his mind, he has succeeded in delineating a charm- 
 ing picture of rural innocence and felicity. The incidents are well selected, the 
 characters skilfully distinguished, and the whole composition is remarkable for the 
 propriety and sensibility which it display s. — Dr. Irvixg. 
 
666 BURNS. 
 
 TO THE OWL. 
 
 Sad bird of night, what sorrows call thee forth. 
 To vent thy plaints thus in the midnight hour? 
 Is it some blast that gathers in the North, 
 Threatening to nip the verdure of thy bower ? 
 
 Is it, sad owl, that Autumn strips the shade. 
 And leaA^es thee here, unshelter'd and forlorn ? 
 Or fear that Winter will thy nest invade ? 
 Or friendless melancholy bids thee mourn ? 
 
 Shut out, lone bird, from all the feather'd train, 
 To tell thy sorrows to th' unheeding gloom ; 
 No friend to pity when thou dost complain. 
 Grief all thy thought, and solitude thy home. 
 
 Sing on, sad mourner ! I will bless thy strain. 
 And pleased in sorrow listen to thy song : 
 Sing on, sad mourner ! to the night complain, 
 While the lone echo wafts thy notes along. 
 
 Is beauty less, when down the glowing cheek 
 Sad, piteous tears in native sorrows fall ? 
 Less kind the heart when anguish bids it break ? 
 Less hap23y he who lists to pity's call ? 
 
 Ah no, sad owl ! nor is thy voice less sweet. 
 That sadness tunes it, and that grief is there ; 
 That Spring's gay notes, unskill'd, thou can't repeat; 
 That sorrow bids thee to the gloom repair. 
 
 Nor that the treble-songsters of the day 
 Are quite estranged, sad bird of night, from thee ; 
 Nor that the thrush deserts the evening spray, 
 When darkness calls thee from thy reverie. 
 
 From some old tower, tliy melancholy dome, 
 While the grey walls and desert solitudes 
 Eeturn each note, responsive to the gloom 
 Of ivied coverts and surrounding woods ; — 
 
 There hooting, I will list more pleased to thee 
 Than ever lover to the nightingale; 
 Or drooping wretch, oppress'd with misery, 
 Lending his ear to some condoling talc. 
 
THE TWA DOGS. 
 
 567 
 
 THE TWA DOGS. A TALE. 
 
 TwAS in that place o' Scotland's isle, 
 That bears the name o' Auld King Coil.i 
 Upon a bonnie day in June, 
 When wearing through the afternoon, 
 Twa dogs that were na thrang at hame, 
 Forgathcr'd ance upon a time. 
 
 The first I'll name, they ca'd him Csesar, 
 Was keepit for his Honour's pleasure : 2 
 His hair, his size, liis mouth, his lugs, 
 Shew'd he was nane o' Scotland's dogs ; 
 But walpit some place far abroad, 
 Where sailors gang to fish for cod. 
 His locked, letter'd, braw brass collar 
 Shew'd him the gentleman and scholar : 
 But, though he was o' high degi-ee, 
 The fient a pride, nae pride had he; 3 
 But wad hae spent an hour caressin 
 Even wi' a tinkler-gipsy's messin. 
 At kirk or market, mill or smiddie, 
 Nae tawted tyke, though e'er sae duddie, 
 But he wad stan't as glad to see him. 
 And stroan't on stanes an' hillocks wi' 
 him. 
 
 The tither was a ploughman's collie, 
 A rhj-ming, ranting, raving billie, 
 Wha for his friend an' comrade had him. 
 And in his freaks hath Luath ca'd him, 
 After some dog in Highland sang,< 
 Was made lang syne— Lord knows how 
 
 lang. 
 He was a gash an' faithfu' tyke 
 As ever lap a sheugh or dyke : 
 His honest, sonsie, baws'nt face 
 
 1 Kvle, or Coil, the poet's native prov- 
 ince, derives its name from Coilus, King 
 of the Picts. 
 
 2 Oae of these representative dogs, 
 Luath, was a real character, and belonged 
 to Burns himself. Casar, the Newfound- 
 land dog, was a fictitious character, ere- 
 ated bv the poet for the purpose ot chat- 
 ting w'ith his favourite Luath. The broth- 
 ers, Henrv and Hugh Cowan, said they 
 happened* to be aiding Burns and his 
 father with a load of wood at Coilsfield, 
 when the poet's collie and the collared 
 Newfoundlander met and grew very so- 
 cial. Burns looked at them often, and 
 smiled, yet said nothing: but when the 
 poem was published, they knew to what 
 period his thoughts had wandered. 
 
 3 This old Scottish phrase seems to 
 have the force merely of a strong nega- 
 tive; the English equivalent being, "the 
 devil a bit of pride had he." 
 
 4 Cuchullin's dog in Ossian's Fingal. 
 
 Aye gat him friends in ilka place. 
 His breast was white, his towzie back 
 Weel clad wi' coat o' glossy black; 
 His gawcie tail, wi' upward curl, 
 Hung o'er his hm-dies wi' a swirl. 
 
 Nae doubt but they were fain o' ither, 
 An' unco pack an' thick thegither ; [kit ; 
 Wi' social nose Avhyles snuflfd and snow- 
 VMiyles mice an' moudieworts they how- 
 kit; 
 Whyles scour'd awa in lang excursion. 
 An' worry 'd ither in diversion; 
 Until, wi' daffin' weary grown, 
 Upon a knowe they sat them down, 
 And there began a lang digression 
 About the lords o' the creation. 
 
 C^SAR. 
 
 I've aften wonder'd, honest Luath, 
 What sort of o' life poor dogs like you have ; 
 An' when the gentry's life I saw. 
 What way poor bodies lived ava. 
 Our Laird gets in his racked rents. 
 His coals, his kain, an' a' liis stents: 
 He rises when he likes himseP ; 
 His flunkies answer at the bell; 
 He ca's his coach, he ca's his horse; 
 He draws a bonnie silken purse 
 As lang's my tail, whare, thro' the steeks, 
 The yellow lelter'd Geordie keeks. 
 Frae morn to e'en it's nought but toiling 
 At baking, roasting, frying, boiling; 
 An' though the gentry first are stechin', 
 Yet even the ha' folk fill their pechan 
 Wi' sauce, ragouts, and sic like trashtrie. 
 That's little short o' downright Avastrie. 
 Our whipper-in, wee, blastit wonner, 
 Poor worthless elf, it eats a dinner 
 Better than ony tenant man 
 His Honour has in a' the Ian' : 
 An' what poor cot-folk pit their painch in, 
 I own it's past my comprehension. 
 
 LUATH. 
 
 Trowth, Csesar, whyles they're fasht 
 A cotter howkin' in a sheugh, [enough; 
 Wi' dirty stanes biggin' a dyke. 
 Baring a quarry, an' sic like. 
 Himsel', a wife, he thus sustains, 
 A smytrie o' wee duddie weans, 
 An' nought but his han'-darg, to keep 
 Them right an' tight in thack an' rape. 
 An' when they meet wi' sair disasters, 
 Like loss o' health or Avant o' masters, 
 Ye maist wad think, a wee touch langer, 
 
568 
 
 BURNS. 
 
 An' they maun starve o' cauld an' hun- 
 But, how it comes, I never kenn'd yet, [ger : 
 They're raaistly wonderfu' contented : 
 An' buirdly chiels, an' clever hizzies. 
 Are bred in sic a way as this is. 
 
 But then to see how ye're negleckit. 
 How huff'd, and cuflPd, and disrespeckit! 
 Lord, man ! our gentry care as little 
 For delvers, ditchers, an' sic cattle; 
 They gang as saucy by poor folk 
 As I wad by a stinkin' brock. 
 I've noticed, on our Laird's court-day. 
 An' mony a time my heart's been wae. 
 Poor tenant bodies, scant o' cash. 
 How they maun thole a factor's snash : 
 He'll stamp an' threaten, curse an' swear 
 He'll appi-ehend them, poind their gear; 
 While they maun stan', wi' aspect humble. 
 An' hear it a', an' fear an' tremble ! 
 I see how folk live that hae riches ; 
 But surely poor folk maun be wretches. 
 
 LUATH. 
 
 They're nae sae vrretched's ane wad think ; 
 Tho' constantly on poortith's brink : 
 They're sae accustom'd wi' the sight, 
 The view o't gies them little fright. 
 Then chance an' fortune are sae guided, 
 They're aye in less or mair provided; 
 An' tho' fatigued wi' close employment, 
 A blink o' rest's a sweet enjoyment. 
 The dearest comfort o' their lives, 
 Their grusliie weans an' faithfu' wives ; 
 The prattling things are just their pride. 
 That sweetens a' their fireside : 
 An' whyles twalpennie-worth o' nappy 
 Can mak' the bodies unco happy ; 
 They lay aside their private cares. 
 To mind the Kirk and State affairs : 
 They'll talk o' patronage and priests, 
 Wi' kindling fury in their breasts, 
 Or tell Avhat new taxation's comin'. 
 An' ferlie at the folk in Lon'on. 
 As bleak-faced Hallowmass ^ returns. 
 They get the jovial, ranting kirns. 
 When rural life, o' every station. 
 Unite in common recreation ; 
 Love blinks, Wit slaps, an' social Mirth 
 Forgets there's Care upo' the Earth. 
 That merry day the year begins. 
 
 5 The old festival of Hallowmas, or All 
 Saints, falls on the 1st of November. 
 
 They bar the door on frosty win's; 
 The nappy reeks Avi' mantling ream. 
 An' sheds a heart-inspiring steam; 
 The luntin' pipe an' sneeshin-mill 
 Are handed round wi' right guid will; 
 The cantie auld folks crackin' crouse. 
 The young anes rantin' thro' the house; 
 My heart has been sae fain to see them, 
 That I for joy hae barkit Avi' them. 
 Still it's owre true that ye hae said, 
 Sic game is now owre aften play'd. 
 There's monie a creditable stock 
 O' decent, honest, fawsont fo'k. 
 Are riven out baith root and branch, 
 Some rascal's pridefu' greed to quench, 
 Wha thinks to knit himsel' the faster 
 In favour wi' some gentle master, 
 Wha, aiblins, thraug a-parliamentin'. 
 For Britain's guid his soul indeutin'. 
 
 C^SAR. 
 
 Haith, lad, ye little ken about it : 
 
 For Britain's guid! guid faith, I doubt it! 
 
 Say rather, gaun, as Premiers lead him. 
 
 An' saying ay or no's they bid him : 
 
 At operas an' plays parading. 
 
 Mortgaging, gambling, masquerading; 
 
 Or maybe, in a frolic daft. 
 
 To Hague or Calais tak's a waft. 
 
 To make a tour, and tak' a whirl. 
 
 To learn bun ton, an' see the worl'. 
 
 There, at Vienna or Versailles, 
 
 He rives his father's auld entails ! 
 
 Or by Madrid he takes the rout. 
 
 To thrum guitars, and fetcht AVi' nowt: 
 
 Then bouses drumly German Avater, 
 
 To mak' himsel' look fair and fatter. 
 
 For Britan's guid 1 — for her destruction! 
 
 Wi' dissipation, feud, an' faction. 
 
 LUATH. 
 
 Hech, man ! dear sirs ! is that the gate 
 They Avaste sea mony a braw estate? 
 Are AA^e sae foughten an' harass'd 
 For gear to gang that gate at last? 
 O, would they stay aback frae Courts, 
 An' please themselves Avi' countra sports. 
 It wad for every ane be better, 
 The Laird, the Tenant, an' the Cotter 1 
 For thae frank, rantin', ramblin' billies, 
 Fient haet o' them's ill-hearted fellows; 
 Except for breakin' o' their timmer, 
 Or speakin' lightly o' their iimmer, 
 Or shootin' o' a hare or moor-cock. 
 The ne'er a bit they're ill to poor folk. 
 
TAM O' SHANTER. 
 
 5G9 
 
 But will ye tell me, Master Caesar, 
 Sure gi-eat folk's life's ii life o' pleasure I 
 Xae cauld or hunger e'er can steer them, 
 The vera thought o't needna fear them. 
 
 CJESAR. 
 
 Lord, man.were ye but whyles whare I am. 
 The gentles ye wad ne'er envy 'em. 
 It's true, they needna starve or sweat, 
 Through Winter's cauld, or Simmer's 
 
 heat; 
 They've nae sair wark to craze their 
 
 banes, 
 An' fill auld age with gi'ips an' granes : 
 But human bodies are sic fools, 
 For a' their colleges and schools, 
 That when nae i-eal ills perplex them, 
 They mak' enow themsels to vex them; 
 An' aye the less they hae to sturt them, 
 In like proportion less will hurt thorn. 
 A country fellow at the pleugh. 
 His acres till'd, he's right eueugh ; 
 A country girl at her wheel, 
 Her dizzcns done, she's unco weel : 
 But Gentlemen, an' Ladies warst, 
 Wi' ev'udown want o' wark are curst. 
 They loiter, lounging, lank, an' lazy ; 
 Tho' deil haef^ hails them, yet uueasy; 
 Their days insipid, dull, an' tasteless : 
 Their nights unquiet, lang, an' restless; 
 An' e'en their sports, their balls, an' races, 
 Tlieir galloping through public places. 
 There's sic parade, sic pomp, an' art. 
 The joy can scarcely reach the heart. 
 The men cast out in party matches. 
 Then so^rther a' in deep debauches : 
 The ladies arm-in-ann in clusters. 
 As great and gracious a' as sisters ; 
 But hear their absent thoughts o' ither, 
 They're a' run deils an' jads thegither. 
 Whyles, o'er the wee bit cup an' platie, 
 They sip the scandal potion prettj-; 
 Or lee-lang nights, Avi' cvabbit leuks 
 Pore o\we the devil's pictured beuks; 
 Stake on a chance a farmer's stackyard, 
 An' cheat like onie unhang'd blackguard. 
 
 There's some exception, man an' woman; 
 But this is Gentry's life in common. 
 
 By this the Sun was out o' sight, 
 
 An' darker gloaming brought the night : 
 
 The bum-clock ^ humm'd wi' lazy drone ; 
 The kye stood rowtin' i' tlie loan : 
 When up they gat, and shook their lugs, 
 Rejoiced they were na men, but dogs ; 
 An' each took aff his several way. 
 Resolved to meet some ither day.8 
 
 TAM O' SmiXTER. A TALE.i 
 
 " Of Brownyis and of Bogilis full is this 
 Buke." Gawin Douglas. 
 
 When chapman billies leave the street, 
 An' drouthy neebors neebors meet, 
 As market-days are weariu' late, 
 An' folk begin to tak' tlie gate ; 
 While we sit bousing at the nappy, 
 An' getting fou and unco happy. 
 We think na on the lang Scots miles, 
 The mosses, waters, slaps, an' stiles, 
 That lie between us an' our hame, 
 Whare sits our sulky, sullen dame, 
 Gatherin' her brows like gatherin' stonn, 
 Nursin' her wratli to keep it warm. 
 
 6 Dcil hact, or fie7it haet, is another petty 
 oath of negation"; equivalent to nothing at 
 all. See page 507, note 3. 
 
 7 The humming-beetle that files about 
 in the summer twilight. 
 
 8 Never were two dogs so exquisitely 
 delineated. Their gambols, before they sit 
 down to moralize, are describe<l witli an 
 equal degree of happiness ; and, through 
 the whole dialogue, the character, as 
 well as tlie difterent condition, of the two 
 speakers is kej)t in view. The dogs of 
 Burns, except in their talent for moi-ali- 
 zation, are downright dogs; and not like 
 the horses of Switt, or the hind and pan- 
 ther of Di-yden, men in the shape of 
 brutes. The true dogs are constantly 
 kept before our eyes; and the contrast 
 between their fomi and character as dogs, 
 and the sagacity of their conversation, 
 heighten the liuihour and deepen the im- 
 pression of the poet's satire. — Currik. 
 
 1 The original of Tam o' Shanter was 
 an individual named Douglas Grahame, 
 a Carrick farmer. Shanter is a fiirm on 
 the Carrick shore, near Kirkoswald, 
 whicli Grahame long possessed. The 
 man was, in sober truth, the " bletherin', 
 blusterin' blellum" that the poet has de- 
 scribed; and his wife was as veritiible a 
 lady who most anxiously <liscouraged 
 drinking in her husband." Burns, when 
 a boy, spent some time at Kirkoswald, in 
 the house of a maternal uncle, who at 
 once practised the craft of a miller and 
 sold home-brewed ale. To this house, 
 Grahame and Ids brotlier-in-law, the for- 
 mer of Duquliat, used to resort ; and. find- 
 ing in Burns some (pialities whicli, boy as 
 he was, recommended him to their atten- 
 tion, they made him every thing but their 
 drinking" companion. 
 
570 
 
 BURN^S. 
 
 This truth fand honest Tam o' Shanter, 
 As he frae Ayr ae night did canter, 
 (Auld Aj-r, wham ne'er a town surpasses, 
 For honest men an' bonny lasses.) 
 
 O Tam ! hadst thou but been sae wise, 
 As ta'en thy ain wife Kate's advice ! 
 She tauld thee weel thou wast a skellum, 
 A bletherin', blusterin', drucken blellum ; 
 That, frae November till October, 
 Ae market-day thou wast na sober; 
 That ilka melder, wi' the miller. 
 Thou sat as lang as thou had siller; 2 
 That every naig was ca'd a shoe on ,3 
 The smith and thee gat roarin' fou on ; 
 That at the Lord's house, ev'n on Sunday, 
 Thou drank Avi' Kirkton Jean* till Monday. 
 She prophesied that, late or soon, 
 Thou would be found deep drown'd in 
 Or catch'd wi' warlocks i' the mirk,[Doon ; 
 By Alloway's auld haunted kirk. 
 
 Ah, gentle dames ! it gars me greet 
 To think how mony counsels sweet. 
 How many lengthen'd sage advices, 
 The husband frae the wife despises. 
 
 But to our tale : Ae market-night, 
 Tam had got planted unco right; 
 Fast by an ingle, bleezing finely, 
 Wi' reaming swats, that drank divinely ; 
 And at his elbow, Souter Johnny ,5 
 His ancient, trusty, drouthy cronj' ; 
 Tam lo'ed him like a vera brither; 
 They had been fou for weeks thegither! 
 The night drave on wV sangs an' clatter; 
 An' aye the ale was growing better : 
 The landlady and Tam grew gi-acious, 
 Wi' favours, secret, sweet, and precious : 
 The Souter tauld his queerest stories ; 
 The landlord's laugh was ready chorus : 
 The storm without might rair and rustle, 
 Tam did na mind the storm a whistle. 
 
 Care, mad to see a man sae happy, 
 E'en drown'd himself amang the nappy ! 
 
 2 MeJder is grain sent to the mill to be 
 ground. The meaning here is, that every 
 time he carried corn to the mill he sat to 
 drink w^ith the miller. 
 
 :> As often as any nag of his required 
 shoeing. 
 
 4 Jean Kennedy, a public-house keep- 
 er at Kirkoswald. In Scotland, the vil- 
 lage where the parish church stands is 
 called Kirkton, that is, kirk town. 
 
 5 Souter Johnny is John the shoe- 
 maker. 
 
 As bees flee hame wi' lades o' treasure, 
 The minutes wing'd their way wi' pleas- 
 ure: 
 Kings may be blest, but Tam was glorious, 
 O'er a' the ills o' life victorious ! « 
 
 But pleasures are like poppies spread. 
 
 You seize the flower, its bloom is shed ! 
 
 Or like the snow-fall in the river, 
 
 A moment white,— then melts for ever; 
 
 Or like the borealis race. 
 
 That flit ere you can point their place; 
 
 Or like the rainbow's lovely form 
 
 Evanishing amid the stoi-m. — 
 
 Nae man can tether time or tide ; — 
 
 The hour approaches Tam maun ride ; 
 
 That hour, o' night's black arch the key- 
 
 stane. 
 That dreary hour he mounts his beast on; 
 And sic a night he tak's the road in 
 As ne'er poor sinner was abroad in. 
 The wind blew as 'twad blawn its last; 
 The rattlin' showers rose on the blast; 
 The speedy gleams the darkness swal- 
 
 low'd; [low'd: 
 
 Loud, deep, and lang the thunder bel- 
 That night, a child might understand, 
 The Deil had business on his hand. 
 
 Weel mounted on his grey mare, Meg, 
 (A better never lifted leg,) 
 Tam skelpit on through dub and mire, 
 Despising wind, an' rain, an' fire; 
 Whiles holding fast his guid blue bonnet; 
 Whiles crooning o'er some auld Scots son- 
 net; 
 Whiles glowering round wi' prudent cares, 
 Lest bogles catch him unawares; 
 
 6 The poet fears not to tell his reader 
 in the outset, that his liero was a desper- 
 ate and Scottish drunkard, whose exces- 
 ses were frequent as his opportunities. 
 This reprobate sits down, to his cups 
 while the storm is roaring and heaven 
 and eai'th are in confusion; the night is 
 driven on by song and tumultuous noise; 
 laughter and jest thicken as tlie l)everage 
 improves upon the palate; conjugal fidel- 
 ity archly bends to the service of general 
 benevolence: selfishness is not absent, 
 but wearing the mask of social cordiality ; 
 — and while these vai'ious elements of hu- 
 manity are blended into one proud and 
 happy composition of elated spirits, the 
 anger of the tempest without doors only 
 heightens and sets ofl" the enjoyment with- 
 in. —I pity him who cannot perceive that 
 in all this,*^though there was no moral pur- 
 pose, there is a moral efl'ect. — Words- 
 
 WOETH. 
 
TAM O' SHANTER. 
 
 571 
 
 Kirk-Alloway was drawing nigh, 
 Wliare ghaists an' houlets nightly cry. 
 By this time he was cross the tord, 
 Whare in the snaw the chapman 
 
 smoor'd; 
 An' past the birks an' meikle stane, 
 Whare drucken Charlie brak's neck-bane ; 
 An' through the whins, an' by the cairn, 
 Whare hunters fand the mnrder'd bairn ; 
 An' near the thorn, aboon the well, 
 Whare Mungo's raither hang'd hersel'. 
 Before him Doon pcui's a' his floods ; 
 The doublin' storm roars thro' the woods; 
 The lightnings flash Irae pole to pole ; 
 Near and more near the thunders roll; 
 When, glimmerin' thro' the groanin' trees, 
 Kirk-Alloway seem'd in a bleeze ; 
 Thro' ilka bore the beams were glancin'; 
 An' loud resounded mirth an' dancin'. 
 
 Inspirin' bold John Bai-leycorn ! 
 What dangers thou canst mak' us scorn! 
 Wi' tippenny we fear nae evil; 
 Wi' usquabae we'll face the Devil! 
 The swats saeream'd in Tammie's noddle, 
 Fair plaj^ he cared na deils a boddle. 
 But Maggie stood right sair astonish'd. 
 Till, by the heel an' hand admonish'd, 
 She ventured forward on the light ; 
 And, wow! Tarn saw an unco sight! 
 Warlocks and witches in a dance; 
 Nae cotillion brent-new frae France, 
 But hornpipes, jigs, strathspeys, an' reels 
 Put life an' mettle i' their heels. 
 At Avinnock-bunker in the east. 
 There sat auld Nick, in shape o' beast; 
 A towzy tyke, black, grim, an' large, 
 To gie them music Avas his charge : 
 He screw'd the pipes an' gart them skirl, 
 Till roof and rafters a' did dirl! 
 Collins stood round, like open presses. 
 That shaw'd the dead in their last dresses; 
 An' by some devilish cantraip slight 
 Each in its cauld hand held a light. 
 By whicli heroic Tam was able 
 To note, upon the haly table, 
 A murderer's banes in gibbet aims; 
 Twa span-lang, wee, unchristen'd bairns ; 
 A thief, new-cutted frae a rape, 
 Wi' his last gasp his gab did gape : 
 Five tomahawks, wi' bluid red-rusted; 
 Five scimitars, wi' murder crusted ; 
 A garter, which a babe had sti-ingled ; 
 A knife, a father's throat had mangled, 
 Whom his ain son o' life bereft, 
 
 The grey hairs yet stack to the heft ; 
 Wi' mair o' horrible an' awfu', 
 Which ev'n to name wad be unlawfu'. 
 
 As Tammie glowr'd, amazed an' curious, 
 The mirth an' fun grew fast an' furious : 
 Tlie piper loud an' louder blew ; 
 The dancers quick an' quicker flew; 
 They reel'd, they set, they cross'd, they 
 
 cleekit, 
 Till ilka carlin swat and reekit. 
 An' coost her duddies to the vvark, 
 An' linket at it in her sark! 
 
 Now Tam, O Tam ! had they been queans 
 A' plump an' strappin, i' their teens; 
 Their sarks, instead o' creeshie flannen, 
 Been snaw-white seventeen hunder 
 
 linen ; ^ 
 Thir breeks o' mine, my only pair. 
 That ance were plush, o' guid blue hair, 
 I wad hae gien them aff my hurdles. 
 For ane blink o' the bonnie burdies' 
 But wither'd beldams, old an' droll, 
 Rigwoodie hags, wad spean a foal, 
 Lo\\T)iu' an' flingin' on a cummock, 
 I wonder didna turn thy stomach. 
 
 But Tam kenn'd what was what fu' 
 
 brawlie : 
 " Thei-e was ae winsome wench an'walie,"^ 
 That night inlisted in the core, 
 (Lang after kenn'd on Carrick shore; 
 For mony a beast to dead she shot. 
 An' perish'd mony a bonnie boat, 
 An' shook baith meikle corn an' bear, 
 An' kept the country-side in fear.) 
 Her cutty sark, o' Paisley harn. 
 That while a lassie she had worn. 
 In longitude though sorely scanty. 
 It was her best, ami she was vauntie. 
 Ah ! little kenn'd thy reverend grannie, 
 That sark she coft for her wee Nannie, 
 Wi' twa pund Scots, ('twas a' her riches,) 
 Wad ever graced a dance of witches ! 
 
 But here my Mnse her wing maun cour; 
 Sic flights are far beyond her power: 
 To sing how Nannie lap an' flang, 
 (A souple jade she was an' Strang,) 
 An' how Tam stood, like ane bewitch'd, 
 An' thought his verv een enrich'd ; 
 
 7 A technical phrase for linen woven 
 in a reed of 1700 divisions. It means linen 
 of the finest quality. 
 
 8 Quoted li-om Allan Ramsay. 
 
572 
 
 BURNS. 
 
 Even Satan glowr'd, and fidged fu' fain, 
 An' hotch'd an* blew Avi' might an' main ; 
 Till first ae caper, syne anither, 
 Tarn tint his reason a'thegither, 
 An' roars out, «' Weel done, Cutty-sark ! '* 
 An' in an instant a' was dai-k : 
 An' scarcely had he Maggie rallied, 
 When out the hellish legion sallied. 
 
 As bees bizz out wi' angry fyke, 
 
 "When plunderin' herds assail their byke ; 
 
 As open pussie's mortal foes 
 
 When, pop I she starts before their nose; 
 
 As eager runs the market-crowd, 
 
 When " Catch the thief! " resounds aloud ; 
 
 So Maggie runs, the witches follow, 
 
 Wi' mony an eldritch screech and hollow. 
 
 Ah,Tam! ah,Tam! thou'ltgetthyfairin'! 
 In Hell they'll roast thee like a herrin' ! 
 In vain thy Kate awaits thy comin'! 
 Kate soon will be a woefu' woman ! 
 Now, do thy speedy utmost, Meg, 
 An' win the key-stanes of the brig; 
 There at them thou thy tail may toss, 
 A running stream they darena cross. 
 But ere the key-stane she could make. 
 The fient a tail she had to shake ! 
 For Nannie, far before the rest, 
 Hard upon noble Maggie prest. 
 An' flew at Tam wi' furious ettle; 
 But little wist she Maggie's mettle, — 
 Ae spring brought off her master hale. 
 But left behind her ain grey tail : 
 The carlin claught her by the rump, 
 An' left poor Maggie scarce a stump I 
 
 Now, Avha this tale o' truth shall read, 
 Ilk man and mother's son, take heed: 
 Whene'er to drink you are inclined. 
 Or cuttj^ sarks run in your mind, 
 Think, ye may buy the joys o'er dear; 
 Remember Tam o' Shanter's mare.i 
 
 9 It is a well-known fact, that witches, 
 or any evil spirits, have no power to fol- 
 low a poor wight any further than the 
 middle of the next running stream. It 
 may be proper likewise to mention to the 
 benighted traveller, that when he falls in 
 with bogles, whatever danger mav be in 
 his going forward, there is much more 
 hazard in turning back. — Burns. 
 
 1 Upon this poem Sir Walter Scott has 
 the following: "In the inimitable tale of 
 Tamo* Shanter, Burns has left us sufficient 
 evidence of liis ability to combine the 
 ludicrous Avith the awful. No poet, with 
 the exception of Shakespeare, ever pos- 
 
 ADDRESS TO THE DEIL.a 
 
 O Prince! O Chief of many throned Pow- 
 ers, 
 That led th' embattled Seraphim to war. 
 Milton. 
 O THOU ! whatever title suit thee, 
 Auld Hornie, Satan, Nick, or Clootie, 
 Wha in yon cavern grim an' sootie, 
 
 Closed under hatches, 
 Spairges ^ about the brunstane cootie, 
 To scaud poor WTetches ! 
 
 Hear me, auld Hangie, for a wee. 
 An' let poor dammed bodies be : 
 I'm sure sma' pleasure it can gie, 
 
 E'en to a deil, 
 To skelp an' scaud poor dogs like me, 
 
 An' hear us squeel! 
 
 Great is thy power, an' great thy fame ; 
 Far kenn'd and noted is thy name : 
 An', tho' yon lowin' heugh's thy hame, 
 
 Thou travels far ; 
 An', faith ! thou's neither lag nor lame, 
 
 Nor blate nor scaur. 
 
 Whyles, ranging like a roarin' lion. 
 For prey a' holes an' corners tryin' ; 
 Whyles on the strong-wing'd tempest 
 
 Tirlin the kirks ; [flyin', 
 
 Whyles in the human bosom pryin'. 
 
 Unseen thou lui-ks. 
 
 sessed the power of exciting the most va- 
 ried and discordant emotions with such 
 rapid transitions." To this I must add a 
 choice bit from Campbell: "Burns has 
 given the elixir of life to his native dia- 
 lect. The Scottish Tam o' Shanter Avill be 
 read as long as any pi-odiiction of the 
 same century. The impression of his 
 genius is deep and universal. Into Tam 
 o' Shanter he has poured the Avhole Avitch- 
 ery of song, — humorous, gay, gloomy, 
 terrific and sublime." 
 
 2 It was, I think, in the Winter of 1784, 
 as AA-e were going Avith carts foi- coals to 
 the family fire, that Robert first repeated 
 to me the Address to the Deil. The curious 
 idea of such an address Avas suggested to 
 him by running over in his mind the many 
 ludicrous accounts and representations 
 we have from various quarters of this au- 
 gust personage. — Gilbert Burns. 
 
 3 We see the Deil standing at a large 
 boiling A'at, with something like a golf bat, 
 striking the liquid this Avay and that way 
 aslant, AA'ith all his miglit| making it fly 
 through the Avhole apavtnicnt, Avliile the 
 inmates are Avinking and holding up their 
 arms to defend their faces. This is pre- 
 cisely the idea conveyed by spairges. — 
 The Ettrick Shepherd. 
 
ADDRESS TO THE DEIL. 
 
 573 
 
 I've heard my reverend Grannie say, 
 In lanely glens ye like to stray; 
 Or, where aiild ruin'd castles, gray, 
 
 Nod to the Moon, 
 Te fright the nightly wanderer's way, 
 
 Wi' eldritch croon. 
 
 When twilight did my Grannie summon 
 To say her prayers, douce, honest woman ! 
 Aft 'yont the dyke she's Jieai'd you bum- 
 
 Wi' eerie drone ; [min', 
 
 Or, nistlin', thro' the boortries comin', 
 
 Wi' heavy groan. 
 
 Ae dreary, windy, winter night, 
 
 The stars shot down Avi' sklentin' light, 
 
 Wi' you, myscl', I gat a fright, 
 
 Ayont the lough ; 
 Ye, like a rash-bush, stood in sight, 
 
 Wi' waving sough. 
 
 The cudgel in my nieve did shake, 
 Each bristled hair stood like a stake, 
 WTien, Avi' an eldritch, stoor quaick — 
 
 Amang the springs [quack, 
 
 Away ye squatter'd, like a drake, 
 
 On whistling wings. 
 
 Let warlocks grim, an' wither'd hags, 
 Tell how wi' you, on ragweed nags. 
 They skim the muirs an' dizzy crags, 
 
 Wi' wicked speed ; 
 And in kirkyards renew their leagues 
 
 Owre howkit dead. 
 
 Thence countra wives, wi' toil an' pain, 
 May plunge an' plunge the kirn in vain; 
 For, O! the yellow treasure's ta'en 
 
 By witching skill ; 
 An' dawtit, twal-pint hawkie's gaen 
 
 As yeU's the bill.* 
 
 When thowes dissolve the snawy hoord, 
 An' float the jinglin' icy-boord, 
 Then w-ater-kelpies haunt the foord 
 
 By your direction, 
 An' 'nighted travellers are allured 
 
 To their destruction. 
 
 An' aft your moss-traversing spunkies 
 Decoy the wight that late an' drunk is : 
 The bleezin', curst, mischievous monkeys 
 Delude his eyes, 
 
 4 Asmilkless as the bull. — ^aicAfe is 
 the favourite cow. — A Scottish pint 
 equals two English quarts; so that a 
 twal-pint cow is a cow that gives twenty- 
 four quarts of milk a day. 
 
 Till in some miry slough he sunk is, 
 Xe'er mair to rise. 
 
 When masons' mystic word an' grip 
 In storms an' tempests raise you up, 
 Some cock or cat your rage maun stop, 
 
 Or, sti-ange to tell ! 
 The youngest brother ye wad whip 
 
 Aff straughttoHell! 
 
 Lang syne, in Eden's bonnie yard. 
 When youthfu' lovers first were pair'd, 
 An' all the soul of love they shared. 
 
 The raptured hour. 
 Sweet on the fragrant, flowery sward, 
 
 In shady bower : 
 
 Then you, ye auld, snick-drawing dog I 
 
 Ye came to Paradise incog., 
 
 An' play'd on man a cursed brogue, 
 
 (Black be your fa' !) 
 An' gied the infant warld a shog, 
 
 'Maist ruin'd a'. 
 
 D'ye mind that day, when in a bizz, 
 Wi' reekit dxtds an' reestit gizz, 
 Ye did present you smoutie pliiz 
 
 'Mang better folk. 
 An' sklented on the man of Uz 
 
 Your spitefu' joke? 
 
 An' how ye gat him i' your thrall, 
 An' hrak him out o' house an' hall, 
 \YhLle scabs an' blotches did him gall 
 
 Wi' bitter claw, 
 An' lows'd his ill-tongued, wicked scawl. 
 
 Was warst ava? 
 
 But a' your doings to rehearse. 
 Your wily snares an' fechtin* fierce, 
 Sin' that day Michael did you pierce,^ 
 
 Down to this time. 
 Wad ding a Lallan tongue, or Erse, 
 
 In prose or rhyme. 
 
 An' now, auld Cloots, I ken ye're thiukin' 
 A certain Bardie's rantin', drinkin' ; 
 Some luckless hour aa-IU send him linkin' 
 
 To your black pit ; 
 But, faith ! he'll turn a corner jinkin'. 
 
 An' cheat you yet. 
 
 But fare you weel, auld Xickie-ben ! 
 O, wad ye tak' a thought an' men'. 
 
 5 Alluding to the representation given 
 in Paradise Lost, Book vi. 
 
574 
 
 BURNS. 
 
 Ye aiblins might— I diiina ken — 
 
 Still hae a stake : 
 I'm wae to think upo' yon den, 
 
 Ev'n for your sake 1 « 
 
 THE VISION. 
 
 The Sun had closed the winter day, 
 The curlers quat their roaring play ,8 
 An' hunger'd maukin ta'en her way 
 
 To kail-yards green. 
 While faithless snaws ilk step betray 
 
 Whare she has been. 
 
 The thresher's weary flingin'-tree 
 
 The lee-lang day had tired me ; 
 
 And whan the day had closed his e'e, 
 
 Far i' the West, 
 Ben i' the spence, right pensivelie, 
 
 I gaed to rest. 
 
 There, lanely, by the ingle-cheek, 
 I sat and eyed the spewing reek, 
 Thatfill'd, wi' hoast-provoking smeek. 
 
 The auld clay biggin'; 
 An' heard the restless rations squeak 
 
 About the riggin'. 
 
 All in this raottie, misty clime, 
 
 I backward mused on wasted time, 
 
 HoAvI had spent my youthfu' prime. 
 
 An' done naething. 
 But stringin' blethers up in rhyme, 
 
 For fools to sing. 
 
 Had I to guid advice but harkit, 
 I might, by this, hae led a market, 
 Or strutted in a bank an' clarkit 
 
 My cash-account : 
 While here, half-mad, half-fed, half-sarkit, 
 
 Is a' th' amount. 
 
 6 Burns even pities the veiy Diel, with- 
 out knowing, I am sure, that my uncle 
 Toby had been beforeliand there Avith 
 him. "He is the father of curses and 
 lies," said Dr. Slop, '• and is cursed and 
 damned already." "I am sorry for it," 
 said my uncle Toby. A poet without love 
 were a physical and metaphysical impos- 
 sibility. — Carlyle. 
 
 7 Dunn is a term used by Ossian for 
 the divisions of a digi-essive poem. 
 
 8 Curling is a game played with stones 
 on the ice; CuWers, the players at it. The 
 game resembles bowls, but is much more 
 animated; hence aptly called *'roarinq 
 play." ^ 
 
 I started, muttering. Blockhead I coofi 
 And heaved on high my waukit loof, 
 To swear by a' yon starry roof, 
 
 Or some rash aith. 
 That I, henceforth, would be rhyme-proof 
 
 Till my last breath, — 
 
 When, click 1 the string the snick did 
 And, jee ! the door gaed to the wa'; [draw; 
 An' by my inglc-lowe I saw. 
 
 Now bleezin' bright, 
 A tight, outlandish hizzie, braw, ^B 
 
 Come full in sight. flj 
 
 Ye need na doubt, I held my whist; 
 The infant aith, half-form'd, was crusht; 
 I glowr'd as ecrie's I'd been dusht 
 
 In some wild glen ; 
 When sweet.like modest worth, she blush t, 
 
 And stepped ben. 
 
 Green, slender, leaf-clad holly boughs 
 Were twisted, gracefu', round her brows; 
 I took her for some Scottish Muse, 
 
 By that same token; 
 An' come to stop those reckless vows, 
 
 Wou'd soon been broken. 
 
 A " hair-brain'd, sentimental trace," 
 Was strongly mai-kfed in her face; 
 A wildly-witty, rustic grace 
 
 Shone full upon her; 
 Her eye, ev'n turn'd on empty space, 
 
 Beam'd keen with honour. 
 
 Down flow'd her robe, a tartan sheen. 
 Till half a leg Avas scrhnply seen ; 
 And such a leg ! my bonnie Jean 
 
 Could only peer it; 
 Sae sti-aught, sae taper, tight and clean, 
 
 Nane else came near it. 
 
 Her mantle large, of greenish hne. 
 
 My gazing Avonder chiefly drew; 
 
 Deep lights and shades, bold-mingling, 
 
 A lustre grand; [threw 
 
 And seem'd, to my astonish 'd view, 
 
 A Avell-known laud. 
 
 Here, rivers in the sea Avere lost ; 
 There, mountains to the skies Avere tost : 
 Here, tumbling billoAA-s mark'd tlie coast 
 
 With surging foam ; 
 There, distant shone Art's lofty boast, 
 
 The lordly dome. 
 
 Here, Doon pour'd down his far-fetch'd 
 
 floods; 
 There, Avell-fed Irvine stately thuds : 
 
THE visioisr. 
 
 575 
 
 Auld hemiit Ayr staw through his woods, 
 
 On to the shore ; 
 AjQd many a lesser torrent scuds, 
 
 With seeming roar. 
 
 Low, in a sandy valley spread, 
 
 An ancient borough rear'd her head;^ 
 
 Still, as in Scottish story read, 
 
 She boasts a race 
 To everj' nobler virtue bred, 
 
 And polish'd grace. 
 
 By stately tower or palace fair. 
 
 Or mins pendent in the air, 
 
 Bold stems of heroes, here and there, 
 
 I could discern : 
 Some seem'd to muse, some seem'd to 
 
 With features stem. [dare, 
 
 My heart did glowing transport feel, 
 
 To see a race heroic AAiieel,! 
 
 And brandish round the deep-dyed steel 
 
 In sturd}' blows ; 
 While back-recoiling seem to reel 
 
 Their Southron foes. 
 
 His Country's Saviour.^ mark him well! 
 Bold Richardton's 3 heroic swell ; 
 The chief on Sark* who gloi-ious fell, 
 
 In high command; 
 And he whom i-utbless fates expel 
 
 His native land. 
 
 There, where a sceptred Pictish shade ^ 
 Stalk'd rouud his ashes lowly laid, 
 I mark'd a martial race, pourtray'd 
 
 In colours strong; 
 Bold, soldiei'-featured, un dismay 'd 
 
 They strode along. 
 
 Through many a wild romantic grove,6 
 Near many a hermit-fancied cove, 
 
 9 Ayr, whose charter dat«s from the 
 beginning of the thirteenth centuiy. 
 
 1 The heroic race of the Wallaces. 
 
 2 Sir William AVallace. 
 
 3 Adam Wallace, of Richardton, cou- 
 sin of Sir William. 
 
 4 Wallace, Laird of Craigie, Avho was 
 the second in command at the battle on 
 the banks of Sark, in 1448. The victorj* 
 was chiefly owing to his conduct and val- 
 our; but lie died of his wounds alter the 
 action. 
 
 5 Coilus, King of the Picts, from Avhom 
 the district of Kyle is said to take its 
 name, lies buried," as tradition says, near 
 the family seat of the Montgomeries of 
 Coilsfield. 
 
 6 Barskiimuing, the seat of Sir Thomas 
 Miller, at one time Lord Justice-Clerk, 
 
 (Fit haunts for friendship or for love,) 
 
 In musing mood, 
 An aged Judge, I saw him rove. 
 
 Dispensing good. 
 
 With deep-struck reverential awe, 
 The learned sire and son I saw; ^ 
 To Nature's God and Nature's law 
 
 They gave their lore. 
 This, all its source and end to draw, 
 
 That, to adore. 
 
 Br7.-done's brave ward^ I well could spy, 
 Beneath old Scotia's smiling eye; 
 Who call'd on Fame, Ioav standing by, 
 
 To hand him on, 
 Whare many a patriot-name on high, 
 
 And hero shone. 
 
 DCAN SECOND. 
 
 With musing-deep, astonish'd stare, 
 I view'd the heavenly-seeming fair; 
 A whispering tlirob did Avitness bear 
 
 Of kindred sweet, 
 When with an elder sister's air 
 
 She did me greet. 
 
 " All hail, my own inspirM bard! 
 In me thy native Muse regard ; 
 Nor longer mourn thy fate is hard, 
 
 Thus poorly low ; 
 I come to give thee such reward 
 
 As we bestow. 
 
 Know, the great geinus of this land 
 Has many a light, aerial band, 
 Who, all beneath his high command, 
 
 Harmoniously, 
 As arts or arms they understand, 
 
 Their laboxirs ply. 
 
 They Scotia's race among them share ; 
 Some fire the soldier on to dare; 
 Some rouse the patriot up to bare 
 
 Cori-uption's heart; 
 Some teach the bard, a darling care, 
 
 The timeful art. 
 
 aftevAvards President of the Court of Ses- 
 sion. 
 
 7 The Rev. Dr. MatthCAV Stewart, dis- 
 tinguisbetl as a mathematician, and his 
 son, Professor Dugald StCAvart, the cele- 
 brated metaphysician. Their villa of 
 Catrine Avas situated on the Ayr. 
 
 8 Referring to Colonel Fullarton. 
 
576 
 
 BUENS. 
 
 *Mong swelling floods of reeking gore, 
 They, ardent, kindling spirits, pour; 
 Or, 'mid the venal senate's i*oar, 
 
 They sightless stand, 
 To mend the honest patriot-lore. 
 
 And grace the hand. 
 
 And when the bard or hoary sage 
 Charm or instruct the future age. 
 They bind the wild poetic rage 
 
 In energy, 
 Or point the inconclusive page 
 
 Full on the eye. 
 
 Hence Fullarton, the brave and young; 
 Hence Dempster's zeal-inspirfed tongue; 
 Hence sweet harmonious Beattie sung 
 
 His " Minsti-el Lays ; " 
 Or tore, with noble ardour stung, 
 
 The sceptic's bays." 
 
 To lower orders are assign'd 
 
 The humbler ranks of human-kind, 
 
 The rustic bard, the labouring hind. 
 
 The artisan : 
 All choose, as various they're inclined, 
 
 The various man. 
 
 When yellow waves the heavy grain, 
 The threatening storm some strongly rein ; 
 Some teach to meliorate the plain, 
 
 With tillage-skill; 
 And some instruct the shepherd-train. 
 
 Blithe o'er the hill. 
 
 Some hint the lover's harmless wile ; 
 Some grace the maiden's artless smile ; 
 Some soothe the labourer's weary toil. 
 
 For humbler gains. 
 And make his cottage-scenes beguile 
 
 His cares and pains. 
 
 Some, boiinded to a district-space. 
 Explore at large man's infant race, 
 To mark the cmbryotic trace 
 
 Of i-ustic bard ; 
 And careful note each opening grace, 
 
 A guide and guard. 
 
 Of these am I, — Coila my name; 
 And this district as mine I claim, 
 Where once the Campbells,^ chiefs of 
 Held ruling power: [fame, 
 
 I mark'd thy embryo tuneful flame, 
 Thy natal hour. 
 
 With future hope I oft would gaze, 
 
 Fond, on thy little early ways. 
 
 Thy rudely-caroU'd, chiming phrase, 
 
 In uncoi;th rhymes. 
 Fired at the simple, artless lays 
 
 Of other times. 
 
 I saw thee seek the sounding shore, 
 Delighted with the dashing roar;- 
 Or, when the North his fleecy store 
 
 Drove through the sky, 
 I saw grim Nature's visage hoar 
 
 Struck thy young eye. 
 
 Or, when the deep green-mantled earth 
 Warm cherish'd every floweret's birth. 
 And joy and music pouring forth 
 
 In every grove, 
 I saw thee eye the general mirth 
 
 With boundless love. 
 
 When ripen'd fields and azure skies 
 Call'd forth the reaper's rustling noise, 
 I saw thee leave their evening joys, 
 
 And lonely stalk, 
 To vent thy bosom's swelling rise 
 
 In pensive walk. 
 
 When youthful love, warm-blushing, 
 
 strong. 
 Keen-shivering shot thy nerves along. 
 Those accents, grateful to thy tongue, 
 
 Th' adorM name, 
 I taught thee how to pour in song. 
 
 To soothe thy flame. 
 
 I saw thy pulse's maddening play 
 Wild send thee pleasure's devious way. 
 Misled by Fancy's meteor ray. 
 
 By passion driven ; 
 But yet the light that led astray 
 
 Was light from Heaven.2 
 
 I taught thy manners-painting strains, 
 The loves, the ways of simple swains. 
 Till now, o'er all my wide domains 
 
 Thy fame extends ; 
 And some, the pride of Coila's plains, 
 
 Become thy friends. 
 
 9 Alluding to Beattie's Essajt/ on Truth, 
 Avhich was meant as a refutation of 
 Hume's sceptical reasonings. 
 
 1 The Loudoun branch of the Camp- 
 
 bells is here meant. Mossgiel and much 
 of the neighbouring land then belonged 
 to the Earl of Loudoun, 
 2 See page 159, note 3. 
 
OK PASTOKAL POETRY. 
 
 577 
 
 Thou canst not learn, nor can I show, 
 To paint with Thomson's landscape-glow 
 Or wake the bosom-melting throe 
 
 With Shenstone's art; 
 Or pour, with Gray, the moving flow 
 
 Warm on the heart. 
 
 Yet all beneath th' unrivall'd rose 
 
 The lowly daisy sweetly blows; 
 
 Tho' large the forest's monarch throws 
 
 His army shade, 
 Yet green the juicy hawthorn grows 
 
 Adown the glade. 
 
 Then never murmur or repine ; 
 Strive in thy humble sphere to shine : 
 And trust me, not Potosi's mine, 
 
 . Nor kings' regard. 
 Can give a bliss o'ermatching thine, — 
 A rustic Bard. 
 
 To give my counsels all in one, — 
 Thy tuneful flame still careful fan; 
 Preserve the Dignity of Man, 
 
 With soul erect; 
 And tiTist, the Universal Plan 
 
 Will all protect. 
 
 And wear thou this," — she solemn said, 
 And bound the holly round my head : 
 The polish'd leaves, and berries red. 
 
 Did rustling play ; 
 And, like a passing thought, she fled 
 
 In light away. 
 
 ON PASTORAL POETRY. 
 
 Hail, Poesie ! thou nymph reserved! 
 In chase o' thee, what croAvds hae swerved 
 Prae common sense, or sunk enerved 
 
 'Mang heaps o' clavers ! 
 And, och! o'er aft thy joes hae starved, 
 
 'Mid a' thy favours! 
 
 Say, Lassie, why thy train amang, 
 While loud the trump's heroic clang. 
 And sock or buskin 3 skelp alang 
 
 To death or marriage ; 
 Scarce ane has tried the shepherd-sang. 
 
 But wi' miscarriage ? 
 
 In Homer's craft Jock Milton thrives ; 
 ^schylus' pen Will Shakespeare drives ; 
 
 3 The sock and the buskin are the an- 
 cient symbols, respectively, of comedy 
 and tragedy. 
 
 Wee Pope, the knurlin, till him rives 
 
 Horatianfame; 
 In thy sweet sang, Barbauld, survives 
 
 Even Sappho's flame.* 
 
 But thee, Theocritus, ^ wha matches? 
 They're no herd's ballats, Maro's catches ; 
 Squire Pope but busks his skinklin 
 
 O' heathen tatters : [patches 
 
 I pass by hunders, nameless wretches, 
 
 That ape their betters. 
 
 In this braw age o' wit and lear, 
 Will nane the Shepherd's wliistle mair 
 Blaw sweetly in its native air 
 
 And rural grace ; 
 And, wi' the far-famed Grecian, share 
 
 A rival place? 
 
 Yes I there is ane ; a Scottish callan, — 
 There's ane : come forrit, honest Allan I^ 
 Thou need na jouk behint the hallan,^ 
 
 A chiel sae clever; 
 The teeth o' Time may gnaw Tantallan, 
 
 But thou's for ever. 
 
 Thou paints auld Nature to the nines, 
 
 In thy sweet Caledonian lines ; 
 
 Nae gowden stream thro' myrtles twines. 
 
 Where Philomel, 
 While nightly breezes sweep the vines, 
 
 Her griefs will tell ! 
 
 In gowany glens thy burnie strays, 
 Where bonnie lasses bleach their claes; 
 Or trots by hazelly shaws and braes, 
 
 Wi' hawthorns grey, 
 Where blackbirds join the shepherd's lays 
 
 At close o' day. 
 
 Thy rural loves are Nature's sel'; 
 Nae bombast spates o' nonsense swell; 
 Nae snap conceits, but that sweet spell 
 
 O' witchin' love. 
 That charm that can the strongest quell, 
 
 The sternest move. 
 
 4 See page 154, note 4. 
 
 5 A native of Syracuse, and the father 
 of bucolic poetry as a branch of Greek 
 literature. He lived in the latter part of 
 the third century before the Christian era. 
 His bucolic idyls are still held by many 
 to be the best ever written. — Maro is one 
 of Virgil's names. 
 
 Allan Ramsay, author of the Gentle 
 Shepherd. 
 
 7 Hallan is a partition wall in a cot- 
 tage, or more properly a seat of turf out- 
 side. — Tantallan is the name of a moun- 
 tain. 
 
578 
 
 BURNS. 
 
 TO A M0USE.8 
 
 Wee, sleekit, cowerin', timorous beastie, 
 O, Avhat a panic's in thy bi'castie 1 
 Thou needna start awa' sae hasty, 
 
 Wi' bickering brattle ! 
 I wad be laith to rin and chase thee, 
 
 Wi' murdering pattle ! 
 
 I'm truly sorry man's dominion 
 Has broken nature's social \mion. 
 An' justifies that ill opinion 
 
 Which mak's thee startle 
 At me, thy poor earth-born companion. 
 
 And fellow-mortal! 
 
 I doubt na, whyles, but thou may thieve; 
 Wliat then? poor beastie, thou maun live ! 
 A daimen icker in a thrave ^ 
 
 'S a sma' request ; 
 I'll get a blessin' wi* the lave, 
 
 And never miss't! 
 
 Thy wee bit housie, too, in ruin I 
 Its silly Ava's the win's are strewin' I 
 An' naething now to big a new ane, 
 
 O' foggage green ! 
 An' bleak December's winds ensuin', 
 
 Baith snell and keen I 
 
 Thou saw the fields laid bare an' waste, 
 An' weary Winter comin' fast, 
 An' cozie here, beneath the blast 
 
 Thou thought to dwell. 
 Till, crash ! the cruel coulter past 
 
 Out through thy cell. 
 
 That wee bit heap o' leaves and stibble 
 Has cost thee mony a weary nibble! 
 Now thou's turn'd out for a' thy trouble, 
 
 Buti house or hauld. 
 To thole the Winter's sleety dribble, 
 
 An' cranreuch cauld! 
 
 But, Mousie, thou art no thy lane 
 In proving foresight may be vain! 
 The best-laid schemes o' mice and men 
 
 Gang aft a-gley, 
 An' lea'e us nought but grief and pain 
 
 For promised joy. 
 
 8 A farm servant was driving the 
 plough which Burns held, when a mouse 
 ran before them. The man would have 
 killed it, but was restrained by the poet. 
 Hence originated this gem of song. 
 
 9 An ear of corn in twenty -four sheaves ; 
 that is, in a thrave. 
 
 1 But is here equivalent to without. 
 The usage is not peculiar to Scotland. 
 Shakespeare has it repeatedly. 
 
 Still thou art blest, compared wi* me I 
 The present only toucheth thee : 
 But, cell ! I backward cast my e'e 
 
 On prospects drear! 
 An' forward, though I canna see, 
 
 I guess and fear. 
 
 THE HUMBLE PETITION OF BRUAR 
 WATER.2 
 
 TO THE NOBLE DUKE OF ATHOLE. 
 
 My Lord, I know your noble ear 
 
 Woe ne'er assails in vain; 
 Embolden 'd thus, I beg you'll hear 
 
 Your humble slave complain, 
 How saucy Phoebus' scorching beams. 
 
 In flaming summer pride. 
 Dry-withering, Avaste my foamy streams, 
 
 And drink my crystal tide. 
 
 The lightly-jumpin', glowerin' trouts, 
 
 That through my waters play. 
 If, in their random, wanton spouts. 
 
 They near the margin stray; 
 If, hapless chance ! they linger lang, 
 
 I'm scorching up so shallow. 
 They're left the whitening stanes amang. 
 
 In gasping death to wallow. 
 
 Last day I grat Avi' spite and teen, 
 
 As Poet Burns came by. 
 That, to a bard, I should be seen 
 
 Wi' half my channel dry : 
 A panegyric rhyme, I ween, 
 
 Ev'n as I was he shored me; 
 But had I in my glory been. 
 
 He, kneeling, wad adored me. 
 
 Here, foaming dOAVn the shelvy rocks, 
 
 In twisting strength I rin; 
 There, high my boiling torrent smokes, 
 
 Wild-roaring o'er a linn : 
 Enjoying large each spring and well, 
 
 As Nature gave them me, 
 I am, although I say't mysel', 
 
 Worth gaun a mile to see. 
 
 Would then my noble master please 
 
 To grant my highest wishes. 
 He'll shade my banks wi' towering trees. 
 
 And bonnie spreading bushes. 
 
 2 Bruar Falls, in Athole, are exceed- 
 ingly picturesque and beautiful ; but their 
 effect is miicli impaired by the want of 
 trees and shrubs.— Burns. 
 
CASTLE-GORDOK". 
 
 579 
 
 Delighted doubly then, my Lord, 
 
 You'll wandei- on my banks, 
 And listen mony a grateful bird 
 
 Return you tuneful thanks. 
 
 The sober laverock,3 wax'bling wild, 
 
 Shall to the skies aspii-e ; 
 The gOAVdspink, music's gayest child, 
 
 Shall sweetly join the choir : 
 The blackbird strong, the lintwhite clear, 
 
 The mavis mild and melloAv; 
 The robin pensive Autumn cheer, 
 
 In all her locks of yellow. 
 
 This, too, a covert shall ensure, 
 
 To shield them from the storms; 
 And coward maukins sleep secure, 
 
 Low in her grassy forms : 
 The shepherd here shall make his seat. 
 
 To weave his crown of flowers ; 
 Or find a sheltering safe retreat. 
 
 From prone-descending showers. 
 
 And here, by sweet endearing stealth, 
 
 Shall meet the loving pair, 
 Despising worlds, with all their wealth. 
 
 As empty idle care : 
 The flowers shall vie in all their charms 
 
 The hour of heaven to grace. 
 And birks extend their fragrant amas 
 
 To screen the dear embrace. 
 
 Here haply too, at vernal dawn, 
 
 Some musing bard may stray. 
 And ej^e the smoking, dewy lawn. 
 
 And misty mountain grey; 
 Or, by the reaper's nightly beam. 
 
 Mild-chequering tlirough the trees, 
 Rave to my darkly-dashing sti'eam, 
 
 Hoarse-swelling on the breeze. 
 
 Let lofty firs, and ashes cool, 
 
 My lowly banks o'erspread. 
 And viCAV, deep-bending in the pool, 
 
 Their shadows' wateiy bed ! 
 Let fragrant birks in woodbines drest 
 
 My craggy clifl"s adorn ; 
 And, for the little songster's nest. 
 
 The close embowering thorn. 
 
 So may old Scotia's darling hope, 
 
 Your little angel band. 
 Spring, like their fathers, up to prop 
 
 Their honour'd native land! 
 
 3 Laverock is lark; gowdspink, gold- 
 finch; lintwhite, linnet; mavis, thrush. 
 
 So may through Albion's farthest ken. 
 
 To social flowing glasses, 
 Tlie grace be— " Athole's honest men, 
 
 And Athole's bonnie lasses 1 " * 
 
 CASTLE-GORDON. 
 Streams that glide in orient plains. 
 Never bound by Winter's chains! 
 
 Glowing hei*e on golden sands. 
 There commix'd with foulest stains 
 
 From tyranny's empurpled bands : 
 These, their richly-gleaming waves, 
 I leave to tj-rants and their slaves ; 
 Give me the stream that sweetly laves 
 The banks by Castle-Gordon. 
 
 Spicy forests, ever gay. 
 Shading from the bm-ning ray 
 
 Hapless wretches, sold to toil. 
 Or the ruthless native's way. 
 
 Bent on slaughter, blood, and spoil: 
 "Woods that ever verdant wave 
 I leave the tyrant and the slave ; 
 Give me the gi'oves that lofty brave 
 The storms, by Castle-Gordon. 
 
 Wildly here, without control. 
 Nature reigns and rules the whole; 
 
 In that sober pensive mood. 
 Dearest to the feeling soul, 
 
 She plants the forest, pours the flood : 
 Life's poor day I'll musing rave. 
 And find at night a sheltering cave. 
 Where waters flow and wild woods Avave, 
 By bonny Castle-Gordon.^ 
 
 4 It seems that this poem had the de- 
 sired efl"ect. So we learn from Chambers ; 
 
 Trees have been thickly planted along 
 the chasm, and are now far advanced to 
 maturity. Throughout this young forest 
 a walk has been cut, and a number of 
 fantastic little grottoes erected for the con- 
 venience of those Avho visit the spot." — 
 Professor Walker, also, notes upon the 
 poem as follows ; " Burns passed two or 
 three days with the Duke of Athole, and 
 was highly delighted by the attention he 
 received. By the Duke's advice he visit- 
 ed the Falls of Bruar; and in a few days 
 I received a letter from Inverness, with 
 the above verses inclosed." 
 
 5 Burns conceived the idea of these 
 vei'ses during a brief visit to Gordon Cas- 
 tle in 1784 ; wrote them down as he hur- 
 ried south, and inclosed them to James 
 Hay, the Duke's librarian. The Duchess 
 guessed them to be written by Beattie, 
 and, when told they were Avritten by 
 Burns, wished they had been in the Scot- 
 tish dialect. 
 
580 
 
 BUENS. 
 
 TO MISS CRUIKSHANKS, 
 A VEET YOUNG LADY.6 
 
 (Written on the blank leaf of a book presented 
 
 to her by the Author.) 
 Beauteous rose-bud, young and gay, 
 Blooming on thy early May, 
 Never mayst thou, lovely flower, 
 Chilly shrink in sleety shower I 
 Never Boreas' hoary path, 
 Never Eurus' poisonous breath, 
 Never baleful stellar lights. 
 Taint thee with untimely blights! 
 Never, never reptile thief 
 Riot on thy virgin leaf 1 
 Nor even Sol too fiercely view 
 Thy bosom blushing still with dew 1 
 
 Mayst thou long, sweet crimson gem, 
 Richly deck thy native stem; 
 Till some evening, sober, calm, 
 Dropping dews, and breathing balm, 
 While all around the woodland rings. 
 And every bird thy requiem sings ; 
 Thou, amid the dirgefal sound, 
 Shed thy dying honours roimd, 
 And resign to parent earth 
 The loveliest form she e'er gave birth.7 
 
 POOR MAELIE'S ELEGY.s 
 
 Lament in rhyme, lament in prose, 
 Wi' saut tears trickling down your nose ; 
 Our bardie's fate is at a close, 
 
 Pasta' remead; 
 The last sad cape-stane of his woes; 
 
 Poor Mailie's dead! 
 
 It's no the loss o' warl's gear, 
 That could sae bitter draw the tear, 
 Or mak' our bardie, dowie, wear 
 
 The mourning weed : 
 He's lost a friend and neebor dear 
 
 In Mailie dead. 
 
 6 The young lady who inspired these 
 beautiful lines was then only twelve years 
 old. 
 
 7 Burns often intimated his friendships 
 or attachments — in verse or prose, on the 
 blank leaf of a ftivorite book, and then 
 presented the volume to the object of his 
 regard. He was mostly attached to ladies 
 whose voices were sweet and harmoni- 
 ous, orwho excelled in music. — Walkek. 
 
 8 The sheep, whose death occasioned 
 this strain of laughing grief, or weeping 
 mirth, is described as " the author's only 
 pet yowe." 
 
 Thro' a' the totin she trotted by him; 
 A lang half-mile she could descry him ; 
 Wi' kindly bleat, when she did spy him. 
 
 She ran wi' speed : 
 A friend mair faithful ne'er cam nigh him 
 
 Than Mailie dead. 
 
 I wat she was a sheep o' sense, 
 An' could behave hersel' wi' mense : 
 I'll say't, she never brak a fence 
 
 Through thievish greed. 
 Our bardie, lanely, keeps the spence 
 
 Sin' Mailie's dead. 
 
 Or, if he wanders up the howe, 
 Her living image, in her yowe,i 
 Comes bleating to him, owi'e the knowe, 
 
 For bits o' bread ; 
 An' down the briny pearls rowe 
 
 For MaiUe dead. 
 
 She was nae get o' moorland tips, 
 
 Wi' tawted ket, an' hairy liips ; 
 
 For her forbears were brought in ships 
 
 Frae 'yont the Tweed : 
 A bonnier fleesh ne'er cross'd the clips 
 
 Than Mailie dead. 
 
 Wae worth the man wha first did shape 
 That vile, wanchancie thing, — a rape ! 2 
 It mak's guid fellows gim and gape, 
 
 Wi' chokin' dread; 
 An' Robin's bonnet wave wi' crape 
 
 For Mailie dead. 
 
 O, a' ye bards on bonnie Doon ! 
 
 An' wha on Ayr your chanters tnne ! 
 
 Come, join the melancholious croon 
 
 O' Robin's reed ! 
 His heart will never get aboon 
 
 His Mailie dead.s 
 
 1 Mailie's ewe lamb, or " yowie," that 
 she had been nursing. 
 
 2 Poor Mailie was tethered in a field 
 near the poet's house at Lochlea. She 
 got entangled in the rope, and was thrown 
 into a ditch; hence her death. 
 
 3 The pi'inciple of love, Avhich is the 
 great characteristic of Burns, often mani- 
 fests itself in the shape of hiunour. Ev- 
 eryvA^here, in his sunny mood, a full buoy- 
 ant flood of mirth runs through his mind : 
 he i-ises to the high and stoops to the low, 
 and is bi-other and plajonate to all Nat- 
 ure. He has a bold and ii-resistible fac- 
 ulty of cai-icature; this is drollery rather 
 than humour. A niuch tenderer sportful- 
 ness dwells in him than this, and comes 
 forth here and there in evanescent and 
 beautiful touches ; as in his Address to a 
 
THE AULD FARMER'S SALUTATIOif. 
 
 581 
 
 THE AULD FA^RI^IER'S 
 
 NEW- YEAR MORNING SAIATTATION TO HIS 
 
 AuLD Mare INIaggie, 
 
 ON GIVING HER THE ACCUSTOIVIED RIPP 
 OF CORN TO HANSEL IN THE NEW YEAR. 
 
 A GUID New Year I wish thee, Maggie ! 
 Hae, there's a ripp to tliy auld baggie : 
 Tho' thoii's howe-backit now an' knaggie, 
 
 I've seen the day 
 Thou could hae gaen like ony staggie 
 
 Out-OAvre the lay. 
 
 Tho' now thou's dowie, stiff, an' crazy, 
 An' thy auld hide's as white's a daisy, 
 I've seen thee dappl't, sleek, and glalzie, 
 
 A bonny grey : 
 He should been tight that daur't to raize 
 
 Ance in a day. [thee 
 
 Thou ance was i' the foremost rank, 
 A filly buirdly, steeve, an' swank, 
 An' set weel down a shapely shank 
 
 As e'er tread yii'd; 
 An' could hae flown out-owre a stank 
 
 Like onie bird. 
 
 It's now some nine-an'-twenty year 
 Sin' thou was my guid father's meere : 
 He gied me thee, o' tocher clear, 
 
 An' fifty mark ; 
 Tho' it was sma', 'twas weel- won gear, 
 
 An' thou was stark. 
 
 When first I gaed to avoo my Jenny, 
 Ye then Avas trottin' wi' your minnie : 
 Though ye was trickle, slee, an' funnie, 
 
 Ye ne'er was donsie; 
 But hamely, tawie, quiet an' cannie. 
 
 An' uuco sonsie. 
 
 That day ye pranced wi muckle pride, 
 Wlien ye bure hame my bonnie bride : 
 An' sweet an' gracefu' she did ride, 
 
 Wi' maiden air! 
 Kyle Stewart I could hae bragged wide, 
 For sic a pair. 
 
 Tho' now ye dow but hoyte an' hoble, 
 All' wintle like a saumont-coble, 
 That day yc was a j inker noble, 
 For heels an' win' ! 
 
 Mouse, or The Farmer's Auld Mare, or in 
 Poor MaUie ; which last may be reckoned 
 his happiest effort in this kind.— Car- 
 
 LYLE. 
 
 An' ran them till they a' did wauble, 
 Far, far behin'. 
 
 When thou an' I were young an' skelgh, 
 An' stable-meals at fairs were dreigh. 
 How thou wad prance, an' snore, an' 
 
 An' tak' the road ! [skreigh, 
 
 Town's bodies ran, an' stood abeigh, 
 
 An' ca't thee mad. 
 
 When thou was corn't an' I was meUow, 
 We took the road aye like a swallow : 
 At brooses thou had ne'er a fellow 
 
 For pith and speed; 
 But every tail thou pay't them hollow, 
 
 Whare'er thou gaed. 
 
 The sma', droop-rumpl't, hunter cattle 
 Might aiblins waur't thee for a brattle; 
 But sax Scotch miles thou try't their 
 
 An' gar't them Avhaizle : [mettle, 
 Nae whip nor sptir, but just a wattle 
 
 O' sough or hazle. 
 
 Thou was a noble flttie-lan',* 
 As e'er in tug or tow was drawn ! 
 Aft thee an' I, in aught hours gaun, 
 
 In guid March weather, 
 Hae turn'd sax rood beside our han', 
 
 For days thegither. 
 
 Thou never braindg't, an' fech't, an' fliskit. 
 But thy auld tail thou wad hae whiskit, 
 An' spread abreed thy weel-flU'd briskit, 
 
 Wi' pith and power, 
 Till spritty knowess would rair't and 
 
 An' slypet owre, [risket, 
 
 When frosts lay lang an' snaws were deep, 
 An' threaten'd labour back to keep, 
 I gied thy cog a wee bit heap 
 
 Aboon the timmer; 
 I kenn'd my Maggie wad na sleep 
 
 For that, or Simmer. 
 
 In cart or car thou never reestit ; 
 The stej^esfc brae thou Avad hae fac't it; 
 Thou never lap, an' sten't, an' breastit,^ 
 
 Then stood to blaw; 
 But just thy step a Avee thing hastit, 
 
 Thou snoov't awa'. 
 
 4 The near horse of the hindmost pair 
 at the plough. That is the post of honour 
 in a plough-teani. 
 
 5 Hillocks Avith tough-rooted plants in 
 them. ^Risket is a noise like tlie tearing 
 of roots. 
 
 6 Never leaped, and reared, and started 
 forward. 
 
582 
 
 BURIES. 
 
 My pleugh is now thy bairn-time a';' 
 Four gallant brutes as e'er did draw; 
 Forbye sax mae, I've sell't awa, 
 
 That thou hast nurst ; 
 They drew me thretteen pund an' twa, 
 
 The vera warst. 
 
 Monie a sair daurk we twa hae wrought, 
 An' wi' the Aveary warl' hae fought! 
 An' monie an anxious day I thought 
 
 We wad be beat! 
 Yet here to crazy age we're brought, 
 
 Wi' something yet. 
 
 An' think na, my auld, trusty servan'. 
 That now perhaps thou's less deservin'. 
 An' thy auld days may end in starvin'; 
 
 For my last fou, 
 A heapit stimpart, I'll reserve ane 
 
 Laid by for you. 
 
 We've worn to crazy years thegither; 
 We'll toyte aboiit wi' ane anither : 
 Wi' tentie care I'll flit thy tether 
 
 To some hain'd rig, 
 Whare ye may nobly rax your leather, 
 
 Wi' sma' fatigue. 
 
 TO A LOUSE. 
 
 ON SEEING ONE ON A LADY'S BONNET 
 AT CHURCH. 
 
 Ha! whare ye gaun, ye crowlin' ferliel 
 Your impudence protects you sairly : 
 I canna say but ye strunt rarely 
 
 Owre gauze and lace; 
 Tho', faith, I fear ye dine but sparely 
 
 On sic a place. 
 
 Ye ugly, creepin', blastit wonner. 
 Detested, shunn'd by saunt an' sinner, 
 How dare ye set your fit upon her, 
 
 Sae fine a lady ! 
 Gae somewhere else and seek your dinner 
 
 On some poor body. 
 
 Swith I in some beggar's haffet squattle : 
 There ye may creep an' sprawl an' sprattle 
 Wi' ither kindred jumpin' cattle. 
 
 In shoals and nations ; 
 Whare horn or bane ne'er dare unsettle 
 
 Your thick plantations. 
 
 7 My plough-team now are all thy 
 children. 
 
 Now haud you there, ye're out o' sight, 
 Below the fatt'rills, snug an' tight; 
 Na, faith ye yet ! ye'll no be right 
 
 Till ye've got on it. 
 The vera tapmost, towering height 
 
 O' Miss's bonnet. 
 
 My sooth! right bauld ye set your nose 
 As plump and grey as onie grozet : [out, 
 O, for some raiik, mercurial rozet. 
 
 Or fell red smeddum; 
 I'd gie sic ye a hearty dose o't, 
 
 Wad dress your droddum! 
 
 I wad na been surprised to spy 
 You on an auld wife's flainen toy. 
 Or aiblins some bit duddie boy, 
 
 On's wyliecoat : 
 But Miss's fine Lunardi,8— fie I 
 
 How dare ye do't! 
 
 O, Jenny, dinna toss your head, 
 An' set your beauties a' abreadi 
 Ye little ken what cursed speed 
 
 The blastie's makin' ! 
 Thae winks and finger-ends, I dread, 
 
 Are notice takin' ! , 
 
 O, wad some power the giftie gie us 
 
 To see oursels as others see us ! 
 
 It wad frae monie a blunder free us, 
 
 An' foolish notion : 
 What airs in dress an' gait wad lea'e us, 
 
 And e'en devotion"! 
 
 A BARD'S EPITAPH. 
 
 Is there a whim-inspir6d fool, 
 
 Owre fast for thought, owre hot for rule, 
 
 Owre blate to seek, owre proud to snool? 
 
 Let him draw near; 
 And OAvre this grassy heap sing dool. 
 
 And drap a tear. 
 
 Is there a bard of rustic song 
 
 Who, noteless, steals the crowds among, 
 
 That weekly this area throng? 
 
 O, pass not by ! 
 But, with a frater-feeling strong, 
 
 Here heave a sigh. 
 
 Is there a man whose judgment clear 
 Can others teach the course to steer. 
 
 8 Lunardi made two ascents in his bal- 
 loon from the Green of Glasgow in 1785. 
 It appears that a certain fashion of ladies* 
 bonnets was named from the aeronaut. 
 
TO A MOUNTAIISr DAISY. 
 
 583 
 
 Yet runs, himself, life's mad career 
 
 Wild as the wave? 
 Here pause, and, thro' the starting tear, 
 
 Survey this grave. 
 
 The poor inhabitant below 
 
 Was quick to learn, and wise to know, 
 
 And keenly felt the friendly glow, 
 
 And softer flame ; 
 But thoughtless follies laid him low, 
 
 And stain'd his name ! 
 
 Reader, attend! Whether thy soul 
 Soai-s Fancy's flights beyond the pole, 
 Or darkling grubs this earthly hole 
 
 In low pursuit; 
 Know, prudent, cautious self-control 
 - Is wisdom's root. 
 
 TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY, 
 
 ON TUENING ONE DOWN WITH THE 
 
 PLOUGH, IN APKIL, 1786. 
 
 Wee, modest, crimson-tippfed flower, 
 Thou's met me in an evil hour; 
 For I maun crush amang the stoure 
 
 Thy slender stem ; 
 To spare thee now is past my power, 
 
 Thou bonnie gem. 
 
 Alas ! it's no thy neebor sweet, 
 The bonnie lark, companion meet, 
 Bending thee 'mang the de^vy Aveet, 
 
 Wi' spreckled breast. 
 When upward-springing, bUthe, to greet 
 
 The purpling East. 
 
 Cauld blew the bitter- biting north 
 Upon thy early, humble birth ; 
 Yet cheerfully thou glinted forth 
 
 Amid the storm. 
 Scarce rear'd above the parent earth 
 
 Thy tender form. 
 
 The flaunting flowers our gardens yield, 
 High sheltering woods and wa's maun 
 
 shield ; 
 But thou, beneath the random bield 
 
 O' clod or stane. 
 Adorns the histie stibble-fleld. 
 
 Unseen, alane. 
 
 There, in thy scanty mantle clad, 
 Thy snawie bosom sunward spread, 
 Thou lifts thy unassuming head 
 
 In humble guise; 
 But now the share uptears thy bed, 
 
 And low thou lies ! 
 
 Such is the fate of artless maid, 
 Sweet flow'ret of the rural shade! 
 By love's simplicity betray'd. 
 
 And guileless trust, 
 Till she, like thee, all soil'd, is laid 
 
 Low i' the dust. 
 
 Such is the fate of simple bard, 
 
 On life's rough ocean luckless starr'dl 
 
 Unskilful he to note the card 
 
 Of prudent lore. 
 Till billows rage, and gales blow hard, 
 
 And whelm him o'er I 
 
 Such fate to suffering worth is given, 
 Who long with wants and woes has 
 
 striven. 
 By human pride or cunning driven 
 
 To misery's brink, 
 Till wrench'd of every stay but Heaven, 
 
 He, ruin'd, sink 1 
 
 Ev'n thou who moum'st the Daisy's fate, 
 That fate is thine, — no distant date : 
 Stern Ruin's ploughshare drives, elate, 
 
 Full on thy bloom. 
 Till crush'd beneath the furrow's weight, 
 
 Shall be thy doom! 
 
 ADDRESS TO THE SHADE OF 
 THOMSON, 
 
 ON CROWNING HIS BUST AT EDNAM, 
 KOXBURGHSHIRE, WITH BAYS. 
 
 While virgin Spring, by Eden's flood, 
 Unfolds her tender mantle gi-een, 
 Or pranks the sod in frolic mood. 
 Or tunes Eolian strains between : 
 
 While Summer, with a matron grace. 
 Retreats to Dryburgh's cooling shade, 
 Yet oft, delighted, stops to trace 
 The progress of the spiky blade : 
 
 While Autumn, benefactor kind, 
 By Tweed erects his agfed head, 
 And sees, with self-approving mind, 
 Each creature on his bounty fed : 
 
 While maniac Winter rages o'er 
 The hills whence classic Yarrow flows. 
 Rousing the turbid torrent's roar, 
 Or sweeping, wild, a waste of snows : 
 
 So long, sweet Poet of the year, 
 Shall bloom tliat wreath thou well hast 
 While Scotia, with exulting tear, [won; 
 Proclaims that Thomson was her son. 
 
684 
 
 bur:n^s. 
 
 TO MISS LOGAN, 
 
 WITH BEATTIE'S POEMS, AS A NEW 
 
 YEAR'S GIFT, JAN. 1, 1787. 
 
 Again the silent wheels of time 
 Theii* annual round have driven, 
 
 And you, tho' scarce in maiden prime, 
 Are so much nearer Heaven. 
 
 No gifts have I from Indian coasts 
 
 The infant year to hail; 
 I send you more than India boasts 
 
 In Edwin's simple tale.9 
 
 Our sex with guile and faithless love 
 Is charged, perhaps too ti'ue; 
 
 But may, dear maid, each lover prove 
 An Edwin still to you ! 
 
 A PRAYER, 
 
 LEFT BY THE AUTHOR IN THE ROOM 
 
 WHERE HE SLEPT AT THE HOUSE 
 
 OF A REVEREND FRIEND. 
 
 O Thou dread Power, who reign'st above ! 
 
 I know Thou wilt me hear ; 
 When for this scene of peace and love 
 
 I make my prayer sincere. 
 
 The hoary sire, — the mortal stroke, 
 liong, long, be pleased to spare 1 
 
 To bless his little filial flock. 
 And show what good men are. 
 
 She, who her lovely offspring eyes 
 
 With tender hopes and fears, 
 O, bless her with a mother's joys. 
 
 But spare a mother's tears I 
 
 Their hope, tlieir stay, then- darling youth. 
 In manhood's daAvning blush ; 
 
 Bless him, Thou God of love and truth. 
 Up to a parent's wi sh ! 
 
 The beauteous, seraph sister-band, 
 
 AVith earnest tears I pray,— 
 Thou know'st the snares on every hand, — 
 
 Guide thou their steps alway I 
 
 When, soon or late, they reach that coast. 
 O'er life's rough ocean driven. 
 
 May they rejoice, no wanderer lost, 
 A family in Heaven !i 
 
 9 Edwin is the hero's name in Beattie's 
 Mi.nstrd. 
 
 1 The first time Robert licard the spin- 
 net played upon was at the house of Dr. 
 Lawrie, then minister or Loudoun. Dr. 
 Lawrie had several daughters: one of 
 them played; the father and mother led 
 
 ELEGY ON CAPTAIN MATTHEW 
 HENDERSON, 
 
 A GENTLEMAN WHO HELD THE PATENT 
 
 FOR HIS HONOURS IMMEDIATELY 
 
 FROM ALMIGHTY GOD. 
 
 ♦' Should the poor be flattered? " — 
 
 Shakespeare. 
 
 But now his radiant course is run. 
 For Matthew's course was bright; 
 
 His soul was like the glorious sun, 
 A matchless, heavenly light 1 
 
 O Death, thou tyrant fell and bloody! 
 The meikle Devil wi' a woodie 
 Haurl thee hame to his black smiddie 
 
 O'er hurcheon hides, 
 And like stock-fish come o'er his studdie 
 
 Wi' thy auld sides ! 
 
 He's gane ! he's gane ! he's frae us torn ! 
 
 The ae best fellow e'er was born ! 
 
 Thee, Matthew, Nature's sel' shall mourn 
 
 By wood and wild. 
 Where, haply. Pity strays forlorn, 
 
 Prae man exiled I 
 
 Ye hills! near neebors o' the starns. 
 That proudly cock your cresting cairns! 
 Ye cliffs, the haunts of sailing yearns,* 
 
 Where echo slumbers ! 
 Come join, ye Nature's sturdiest bairns, 
 
 My wailing nunibers ! 
 
 Mourn, ilka grove the cushat kens I 
 Ye hazelly shaws and briery dens! 
 Ye burnies, wimplin' down your glens, 
 
 Wi toddlin' din. 
 Or foaming Strang, wi hasty stens, 
 
 Frae linn to linn ! 
 
 Mourn, little harebells o'er the lea; 
 Ye stately foxgloves fair to see ; 
 Ye woodbines, hanging bonnilie 
 
 In scented bowers ; 
 Ye roses on your thorny tree. 
 
 The first o' flowers. 
 
 down the dance ; the rest of the sisters, 
 the brother, the poet, and tlie other guests 
 mixed in it. It was a delightful family 
 scene for our poet, then lately introduced 
 to the world. His mind was" roused to a 
 poetic enthusiasm, and the stanzas wei'c 
 left in the room where he slept. — Gil- 
 bert Burns. 
 
 4 That is, eagles; so called, from their 
 flying without that motion of the wings 
 common to most other birds. 
 
Oiq^ SEI^TSIBILITY. 
 
 585 
 
 At da^vIl, when ever}'^ grassy blade 
 Droops with a diamond at its head; 
 At even, when beans their fragrance shed, 
 
 r the rustling gale ; 
 Ye niaukins whiddin' thro' the glade, 
 
 Come, join my wail. 
 
 Mourn, ye wee songsters o' the wood; 
 Ye grouse that crap the heather bud; 
 Ye curlews calling through a clud; 
 
 Ye whistUng iDlover; 
 And mourn, ye whirring paitrick brood ! 
 
 He's gane for ever. 
 
 Mourn, sooty coots, and speckled teals; 
 Ye fisher herons, watching eels; 
 Ye duck and drake, wi' airy wheels 
 
 Circling the lake; 
 Ye bitterns, till the quagmire reels, 
 
 Kair for his sake. 
 
 Mourn, clamouring craiks, at close o'day, 
 'Mang fields o' flowering clover gay; 
 And when ye wing your annual way 
 
 Frae our cauld shore, 
 Tell thae far worlds wha lies in clay, 
 
 Wham we deplore. 
 
 Ye houlets frae your ivy bower, 
 In some auld tree or eldritch tower. 
 What time the Moon, wi' silent glower, 
 
 Sets up her horn, 
 Wail through the dreary midnight hour 
 
 Till waukrife morn! 
 
 O rivers, forests, hiUs, and plains I 
 Oft have ye heard my canty strains : 
 But now, what else for me remains 
 
 But tales of woe? 
 And frae my een the drapping rains 
 
 Maun ever flow. 
 
 Mourn, Spring, thou darling of the year I 
 Ilk cowslip cup shall kep a tear : 
 Thou, Simmer, while each corny spear 
 
 Shoots up its head, 
 Thy gay, green, flowery tresses shear 
 
 For him that's dead! 
 
 Thou, Autinnn, wi' thy yellow hair, 
 In grief thy sallow mantle tear! 
 Thou, Winter, hurling through the air 
 
 The roaring blast. 
 Wide o'er the naked world declare 
 
 The worth we've lost ! 
 
 Mourn him, thou Sun, great source of 
 
 light! 
 Mourn, empress of the silent night ! 
 
 And you, ye twinkling starnies bright. 
 
 My Matthew mourn ! 
 For tln-o' your orbs he's ta'en his flight, 
 
 Ne'er to return. 
 
 O Henderson! the man, — the brother! 
 And art thou gone, and gone for ever? 
 And hast thou cross'd that ixnkmown river, 
 
 Life's dreary bound? 
 Like thee, where shall I find another 
 
 The world around ! 
 
 Go to your sculptured tombs, ye great, 
 In a' the tinsel trash o' state ! 
 But by thy honest turf I'll wait. 
 
 Thou man of worth ! 
 And weep the ae best fellow's fate 
 
 E'er lay in earth.s 
 
 ON SENSIBILITY. 
 
 Sensibility, how charming. 
 Thou, my friend, canst truly tell; 
 
 But distress, with liorrors arming. 
 Thou hast also known too well ! 
 
 Fairest flower, behold the lily. 
 Blooming in the sunny ray : 
 
 Let the blast sweep o'er the vaUey, 
 See it prostrate on the clay. 
 
 Hear the woodlai-k charm the forest, 
 
 Telling o'er his little joys : 
 Hapless bird! a prey the surest. 
 
 To each pirate of the skies. 
 
 Dearly bought the hidden treasure, 
 
 Finer feelings can bestow ; 
 Chords that vibrate sweetest pleasure 
 
 Thrill the deepest notes of woe.' 
 
 5 Captain Henderson was a retired 
 soldier, of agreeable manners and upright 
 character, who mingled in the best society 
 of Eflinburgh. In a letter to Dr. Moore, 
 February, 1791, Burns speaks as follows : 
 "The Elegy on Captain Heiulerson is a 
 ti-ibute to "the memory of a man I loved 
 much. Poets have in this the same ad- 
 vantage as Roman Catliolics : they can 
 V)e of service to their fricinds after thoy 
 have passed the bourne where all other 
 Ivindness ceases to be of any avail. 
 Whetlxer, after all, either the one or the 
 other be of any real service to the dead, 
 
 s, I fear, very problematical; but I am 
 ! tliey are higl ' -.•^- • --^- ^^--. ■>■- 
 
 ing/" 
 
 sure tliey are higlily gratifying to the liv- 
 
 7 Bxirns one day received a letter from 
 Mrs. Dunlop, of Avhich some of the senti- 
 ments charmed him so much, that ho 
 forthwith wrote these verses on sensibil- 
 
586 
 
 BURNS. 
 
 LESfCLUDEN ABBEY. 
 
 AN EVENING VIEW OF THE RUINS. 
 
 Ye holy walls, that, still sublime, 
 Resist the crumb] iug touch of time; 
 IIow sti-ongly still your form displays 
 The piety of ancient days ! 
 As thro' your rmns hoar and gi'cy, — 
 Ruins yet beauteous in decay,— 
 The silvery moonbeams ti'embling fly; 
 The forms of ages long gone by 
 Crowd tliick on Fancy's wondering eye, 
 And wake the soul to musings high. 
 Even now, as lost in thought profound, 
 I view the solemn scene around, 
 And, pensive, gaze with wistful eyes, 
 The past returns, the present flies; 
 Again the dome, in pristine pride, 
 Lifts high its roof and arches wide, 
 That, knit with curious tracery. 
 Each gothic ornament display. 
 The high-arch'd windows, painted fair. 
 Show many a saint and martyr thei'e. 
 As on their slender forms I gaze, 
 Methinks they brighten to a blaze! 
 "With noiseless step and taper bright. 
 What are yon forms that meet my sight? 
 Slowly they move, while every eye 
 Is heavenward raised in ecstasy. 
 'Tis the ftiir, spotless, vestal train, 
 That seek in prayer the midnight fane. 
 And, hark ! what more than mortal sound 
 Of music breathes the pile around? 
 'Tis the soft-chanted choral song, 
 Whose tones the echoing aisles prolong ; 
 Till, thence return'd, they softly stray 
 O'er Cluden's wave, with fond delay ; 
 Now on the rising gale swell high, 
 And now in fainting murmurs die : 
 The boatmen on Kith's gentle stream. 
 That glistens in the pale moonbeam. 
 Suspend their dashing oars, to hear 
 The holy anthem, loud and clear; 
 Each worldly thought awhile forbear. 
 And mutter forth a half-form'd prayer. 
 But, as I gaze, the vision fails, 
 Like f]-o St- work touch'd by southern gales ; 
 The altar sinks, the tapers fade. 
 And all the splendid scene's decay'd ; 
 In window fair the painted pane 
 No longer glows with holy stain. 
 But through the broken glass the gale 
 Blows chilly from the misty vale; 
 
 ity, and sent them to his •' dear and much 
 honoured friend." 
 
 Tlie bird of eve flits sullen by, 
 Her home these aisles and arches high I 
 The choral hymn, that erst so clear 
 Broke softly sweet on .Fancy's ear. 
 Is drown'd amid the moui-nful scream 
 That breaks the magic of my dream! 
 Roused by the sound, I start and see 
 The ruin'd sad reality! 8 
 
 TO THE GUIDWIFE OF WAUCHOPE 
 
 H0USE.9 
 GUIDWTFE : 
 
 I MIND it weel, in early date. 
 When I was beardless, young, and blate, 
 
 An' first could thresh the barn, 
 Or baud a yokin' at the pleugh ; 
 And tho' forfoughten sair enough, 
 
 Yet unco proud to learn : 
 When first amang the yellow com 
 
 A man I reckon'd was. 
 An' wi' the lave ilk merry mom 
 Could rank my rig and lass. 
 Still shearing, and clearing, 
 
 The tither stocked raw, 
 Wi' clavers an' haivers 
 Wearing the day awa^ 
 
 Even then a wish, (I mind its power,) 
 A wish that to my latest hour 
 
 Shall strongly heave my breast, — 
 That T, for puir auld Scotland's sake, 
 Some usefu' plan or beuk could make, 
 
 Or sing a sang at least. 
 The rough burr-thistle, spreading Avide 
 
 Amang the bearded bear, 
 I turn'd the weeding-heuk aside. 
 An' spared the symbol dear: 
 No nation, no station. 
 
 My envy e'er could raise, 
 A Scot still, buti blot still, 
 I knew nae higher praise. 
 
 But still the elements o' sang, 
 
 In formless jumble, right and wrang, 
 
 I 
 
 Lincluden Abbey, the beautiful ru- 
 ins of which prompted these beautiful 
 lines, was founded in the time of King 
 Malcolm the Fourth, on the banks of the 
 river Cluden, not far from Dumfries. 
 
 y This was Mrs. Scott of Wauchope, a 
 lady of much taste and talent ; a painter 
 and a poetess. Her sketches with the 
 pencil are said to have been very beauti- 
 ful ; anil her skill in verse is approved by 
 publislied si>e(.'imcns. 
 
 1 But, again, in the sense of ivithout. 
 See page 57S, note 1. 
 
A VISION. 
 
 587 
 
 Wild floated in my brain ; 
 Till on that hairst I said before, 
 My partner in the merry core, 
 
 She i-oused the forming strain : 
 I see her yet, the sonsie quean. 
 
 That lighted xip my jingle, 
 Her witching smile, her panky een. 
 That gart my heart-strings tingle ! 
 I firfed, inspix-^d, 
 
 At every kindling keek, 
 But bashing, and dashing, 
 I fearfed aye to speak. 
 
 Health to the sex! ilk guid chiel says, 
 Wi' mcrrj' dance in winter days. 
 
 An' we to share in common : 
 The gust o' joy, the balm of woe. 
 The. saul o' life, the heaven below, 
 
 Is rapture-giving woman. 
 Ye surly sumphs, who hate the name, 
 
 Be mindfu' o' j'our mither; 
 She, honest woman, may think shame 
 That ye're connected with her : 
 Ye'i'e Avae men, ye're nae men. 
 That slight the lovely dears; 
 To shame ye, disclaim ye, 
 Ilk honest birkie swears. 
 
 For you, no bred to barn and byre, 
 Wha sweetly tune the Scottish lyre, 
 
 Thanks to you for your line : 
 The marlfed plaid ye kindly epai'e 
 By me should gratefully be ware; 
 
 'Twad please me to the nine. 
 I'd be mair vauntie o' my hap. 
 
 Douce hingin' owre my curple, 
 Than ony ermine ever lap, 
 Or proud imperial purple. 
 Farewell then, lang heal then, 
 
 An' plenty be your fa' ; 
 May losses and crosses 
 Ne'er at your hallan ca' ! ^ 
 
 A VISION. 
 
 As I stood by yon roofless tower,^ 
 Where the wa'-flower scents the dewy air, 
 Where the howlet mourns in her ivy 
 
 bower. 
 And tells the midnight Moon her care; 
 
 The winds were laid, the air was still, 
 The stars they shot alang the sky; 
 The fox was howling on the hill, 
 And the distant-echoing glens reply. 
 
 The stream, adown its hazelly path, 
 Was rushing by the ruin'd wa's, 
 Hasting to join the sweeping Nith, 
 Whose distant roaring swells and fa's. 
 
 The cauld blue North was streaming forth. 
 Her lights wi' hissing, eerie din ; 
 Athort the lift they start and shift, 
 Like fortune's favours, tint as win. 
 
 By heedless chance I turn'd mine eyes, 
 And by the moonbeam shook to see 
 A stei-n and stalwart ghaist arise, 
 Attired as minstrels wont to be. 
 
 Had I a statue been o' stane, 
 His daring look had daunted me ; 
 And on his bonnet graved was plain. 
 The sacred posy — Licertie! 
 
 And frae his harp sic strains did flow, 
 Might roused the slumbering dead to 
 But, O, it was a talc of woe, [hear; 
 
 As ever met a Briton's earl 
 
 He sang wi' joy his former day, 
 He, weeping, wail'd his latter times; 
 But what lie said it was nae play, — 
 I winna venture't in my rhymes.* 
 
 2 O, that he, the prevailing poet, could 
 have seen the light breaking iu upon the 
 dai'kness that did too long and too deeply 
 overshadow his living lot! Some glori- 
 ous glimpses of it his prophetic soul did 
 see; — witness The Vision, or that some- 
 what humble, but yet high strain, in which, 
 bethinking him of tiie undefined aspira- 
 tions of his boyish genius that had be- 
 stirred itself in the darkness, as if the 
 touch of an angel's hand were to awaken 
 a sleeper in his cell, he said to himself, 
 *'Ev'n then a wish," &c. Such hopes 
 Avere in him, in his "bright and shining 
 youth," surrounded as it w;i3 with toil 
 and ti'ouble, that could not bend down 
 
 the brow of Burns from its natural up- 
 right inclination to the sky; and such 
 hopes, let us doubt it not, were with him 
 in his dark and faded prime, when life's 
 lamp burned low indeed, and he was 
 willing at last, early as it was, to shut his 
 eyes on this dearly beloved but sorely 
 distracting w^orld. — Wilson. 
 
 3 The ruins of Lincluden Abbey near 
 Dumfries. 
 
 4 This splendid vision of Liberty Burns 
 evoked among the ruins of old Lincluden. 
 The scene is chiefly copied from Nature ; 
 but the wall-flower and the ivy, the dis- 
 tant roaring of the Nith and the fox howl- 
 ing on the hill, seem rather to point to 
 Sweetheart Abbey. Lincluden was a fa- 
 vourite resort of the poet; and, indeed, 
 a lovelier spot, or one more suitable for 
 meditation, cannot well be imagined.— 
 Cunningham. 
 
588 
 
 BURIJrS. 
 
 EPISTLE TO DAVIE,5 
 A BROTHER POET. 
 AULD NEIBOR, 
 
 I'M three times doubly o'er your debtor, 
 For your auld-farrant friendly letter; 
 Tho' I maun say't, I doubt ye flatter, 
 
 Ye speak sae fair ; 
 For my puir, sillj-, rhjTnin' clatter 
 
 Some less maun sair. 
 
 Hale be your heart, hale be your fiddle; 
 Lang may your elbuck jink and diddle, 
 To cheer you through the weary-widdle 
 
 O' war'ly cares, 
 Till bairns' bairns kindly cuddle 
 
 Your auld grey hairs. 
 
 But, Davie, lad, I'm rede ye're glaikit; 
 I'm tauld the Muse ye ha'e negleckit; 
 An' gif it's sae, ye sud be licket 
 
 Until ye fyke; 
 Sic hauns as you sud ne'er be faiket, 
 
 Be hain't wha like. 
 
 For me, I'm on Parnassus' brink, 
 Eivin' the words to gar them clink ; 
 Whyles daez't wi' love, whyles daez't wi' 
 
 Wi' jads or masons ; [drink, 
 
 An' whyles, but aye owre late, I thiiik, 
 
 Braw sober lessons. 
 
 Of a' the thoughtless sons o' man, 
 Common' me the Bardie clan; 
 Except it be some idle plan 
 
 O' rhymin' clink. 
 The devil-haet, that I sud ban, 
 
 They ever think. 
 
 Nae thought, nae view, nae scheme o' 
 Nae cares to gie us joy orgrievin'; [livin*, 
 But just the pouchie put the nieve in, 
 
 An' while ought's there. 
 Then, hiltie-skiltie, we gae scrievin', 
 
 An' fash nae mair. 
 
 Leeze me on rhyme ! its aye a treasure, 
 My chief, amaist my only pleasure, 
 At hame, a-flel', at wark, or leisure, 
 
 The Muse, poor hizzie! 
 Tho' rough an' raploch be her measure, 
 
 She's seldom lazy. 
 
 Hand to the Muse my dainty Davie : 
 The warl' may play you mony a shavie ; 
 
 5 David Sillar, a native of Tarbolton, 
 was some time a schoolmaster, and after- 
 wards a magistrate, at Irvine, and had 
 published a volume of poems. 
 
 But, for the Muse, she'll never leave ye, 
 
 Though e'er sac puir, 
 Na, even though limp in' wi' the spavie 
 
 Frae door to door. 
 
 EPISTLE TO J. LAPRAIK, 
 
 AN OLD SCOTTISH BAKD. 
 
 ApHl 1, 1785. 
 While briers an' woodbines budding 
 
 green, 
 An' paitricks scraichin' loud at e'en. 
 An' morning poussie whidden seen, 
 
 Inspire my Muse, 
 This fi-eedom in an unknown frien' 
 
 I pray excuse. 
 
 On Fasten-e'en we had a rockin'. 
 
 To ca' the crack and weave our stockin' ; 
 
 And there was muckle fun an' jokin', 
 
 Ye need na doubt ; 
 At length we had a hearty yokin* 
 
 At sang about.'' 
 
 There was ae sang amang the rest, 
 Aboon them a' it pleased me best. 
 That some kind husband had addi-est 
 
 To some sweet wife : 
 Itthirl'd the heart-strings thro' the breast, 
 
 A' to the Ufe.8 
 
 I've scarce heard ought described sae weel 
 What generous, manly bosoms feci : 
 Thought I, " Can this be, Pope, or Steele, 
 Or Beattie's wark? " 
 
 7 The epistle to John Lapraik was 
 produced exactly on the occasion de- 
 scribed by the author. He says : " On 
 Fasten-e'en we had a rocking." Rocking 
 is a term derived from primitive times, 
 wlien our country-women employed their 
 spare houi's in spinning on the rock or 
 distaflf. This simple instrument is a very 
 portable one, and well fitted to the social 
 inclination of meeting in a neighbour's 
 house ; hence the phrase of going a-rock- 
 ing, or with the rock. As the connection 
 the phrase had with the implement was 
 forgotten when the rock gave way to the 
 spinning-wheel, the phrase came to be 
 used by both sexes on social occasions, 
 and men talk of going with their rocks as 
 well as Avomen. It was at one of these 
 rockings, at oiu* house, when they had 
 twelve or fifteen voung people with their 
 rocks, that Lapraik's song beginning, 
 "When I upon thy bosom lean," was 
 sung, and we were informed who was the 
 author. — Gilbert Bur^j s. 
 
 8 The song which prompted this epis- 
 tle is said to have been composed by La- 
 praik in one of his days of despondency, 
 when his wife refused* to be comforted. 
 
EPISTLE TO J. LAPEAIK. 
 
 589 
 
 They fcild me 'twas an odd kind chiel 
 About Muirkirk. 
 
 It pat me fidgin-fain to hear't, 
 And sae about him there I spier't; 
 Then a' that kent him round declared 
 
 He had ingine, 
 That nane excell'd it, few cam^e near't, 
 
 It was sae fine : 
 
 That, set him to a pint of ale, 
 
 An' either douce or merry tale, 
 
 Or rhymes an' sangs he'd made himsel', 
 
 Or witty catches ; 
 'Tween Inverness and Teviotdale 
 
 He had few matches. 
 
 Then up I gat, an' swoor an aith, 
 
 The' I should pawnmypleugh andgraith. 
 
 Or die a cadger pownie's death 
 
 At some dyke-back, 
 A pint an' gill I'd gie them baith, 
 
 To hear your crack. 
 
 But, first an' foremost, I should tell, 
 Amaist as soon as I could spell, 
 I to the crambo-jingle fell, 
 
 Though rude an' rough; 
 Yet crooning to a body's sel', 
 
 Does weel enough. 
 
 I am na poet, in a sense, 
 
 But just a rhymer, like, by chance, 
 
 An' hae to learning nae pretence ; 
 
 Yet, what the matter? 
 Whene'er my Muse does on me glance, 
 
 I jingle at her. 
 
 Your critic-folk may cock their nose, 
 And say, " How can you e'er propose. 
 You wha ken hardly verse frae prose, 
 
 To mak' a sang?" 
 But, by your leave, my learned foes, 
 
 Ye're may-be wrang. 
 
 What's a' your jargon o' your schools. 
 Your Latin names for horns an' stools ; 
 If honest Nature made you fools. 
 
 What sairs your grammars? 
 Ye'd better ta'en up spades and shools. 
 
 Or knappin-hammers. 
 
 A set o' dull, conceited hashes. 
 Confuse their brains in college classes ! 
 They gang in stirks, and come out asses, 
 
 Plain truth to speak; 
 An' syne they think to climb Parnassus 
 
 By dint o' Greek ! 
 
 Gie me a spai'k o' Nature's fire ! 
 That's a' the learning I desire ; 
 Then though I drudge thro' dub an' mire 
 
 At pleugh or cart, 
 My Muse, though hamely in attire, 
 
 May touch the heart. 
 
 O, for a spunk o' Allan's glee. 
 
 Or Fergusson's, the bauld and slee, 
 
 Or bright Lapraik's, my friend to be, 
 
 Iflcanhitit! 
 That would be lear enough for me. 
 
 If I could get it ! 
 
 Now, sir, if ye hae friends eneugh, 
 Though real friends, I b'lieve, are few, 
 Yet, if j'our catalogue be fu', 
 
 I'se no insist; 
 But gif ye Avant ae friend that's true, 
 
 I'm on your list. 
 
 I winna blaw about mysel'; 
 
 As ill I like my fau'ts to tell; 
 
 But friends, an' folk that wish me well, 
 
 They sometimes roose me; 
 Though I maun own, as monie still 
 
 As far abuse me. 
 
 But Mauchline race, or Mauchline fair, 
 I should be proud to meet you there ; 
 We'se gie a night's discharge to care, 
 
 If we forgather. 
 An' hae a swap o' rhymin'-ware 
 
 Wi' ane anither. 
 
 The four-gill caup, we'se gar him clatter, 
 
 An' kirsen him wi' reekin water; 
 
 Syne Ave'll sit down an' tak' our whitter. 
 
 To cheer our heart; 
 An', faith, we'se be acquainted better 
 
 Before we part. 
 
 There's naething like the honest nappy I 
 Whare will ye e'er see men sae happy. 
 Or women sonsie, saffc, and sappy, 
 
 'Tween moi-n and morn. 
 As them wha like to taste the drappy 
 
 In glass or horn? 
 
 I've seen me daez't upon a time, 
 I scai'ce cou'd wink, or see a styme; 
 Just ae half-mutchkin does me prime, 
 
 Aught less is little; 
 Then back I rattle on the rhyme. 
 
 As gleg's a whittle ! 
 
 Awa' j-e selfish war'ly race, 
 
 Wha think that bavins, sense, an' grace, 
 
590 
 
 BURNS. 
 
 E'en love and friendship, should give 
 To catch-the-plack ! [place 
 
 I dinna like to see your face, 
 Nor hear you crack. 
 
 But ye whom social pleasure charms, 
 Whose hearts the tide of kindness warms, 
 Who hold your being on the terms, 
 
 " Each aid the others," 
 Come to my bowl, come to my arms, 
 
 My friends, my brothers I 
 
 But, to conclude my lang epistle. 
 As my auld pen's worn to the grissle; 
 Twa lines from you would gar me fissle, 
 
 Who am, most fervent. 
 While I can either sing or whissle, 
 
 Your friend and servant. 
 
 TO WILLIAJM SIMPSON," OCHIL- 
 TREE. 
 
 May, 1785. 
 
 I GAT your letter, winsome Willie ; 
 Wi' gratefu' heart I thank you brawlie : 
 Tho' I maun say't, I wad be silly, 
 
 An' unco vain. 
 Should I believe, my coaxin' billie, 
 
 Your flatterin' strain. 
 
 But I'se believe ye kindly meant it, 
 I sud be laith to think he hinted 
 Ironic satire, sidelins sklented 
 
 On my poor Music ; 
 Tho' in sic phrasln' terms ye've penn'd it, 
 
 I scarce excuse ye. 
 
 My senses wad be in a creel, 
 Should I but dare a hope to speel 
 Wi' Allan, or wi' Gilbertfiel', 
 
 The braes o' fame ; 
 Or Fergusson, the writei--chiel, 
 
 A deathless name. 
 
 (O Fergusson! thy glorious parts 
 
 111 suited law's diy, musty arts ! 
 
 My curse upon your whunstane hearts, 
 
 Ye E'nbiu-gh gentry ! 
 The tithe o' what ye waste at cartes 
 
 Wad stow'd his pantry!) 
 
 Yet when a tale comes i' my head, 
 Or lasses gie my heart a screed, 
 
 9 William Simpson was, in the days 
 of Burns, schoohnastcr of the parish of 
 Ochiltree, afterwards of New Cummock. 
 He was a successful instructor of youth, 
 and a poet of no mean order. Burns 
 seems to have been partial to this class 
 of men. — Cunninghajm. 
 
 As whyles they're like to be my dead, 
 
 (O, sad disease!) 
 I kittle up my rustic reed; 
 It gies me ease. 
 
 Auld Coila now may fidge fu' fain, 
 
 She's gotten poets o' her ain, 
 
 Chiels wha their chanters winna hain, 
 
 But tune their lays, 
 Till echoes a' resound again 
 
 Her weel-sung praise. 
 
 Nae poet thought it worth his while 
 To set her name in measured style : 
 She laj' like some unkenn'd-of isle 
 
 Beside New Holland, 
 Or where wild-meeting oceans boil 
 
 Besouth Magellan. 
 
 Ramsay an' famous Fergusson 
 Gied Forth an' Tay a lift aboon ; 
 Yarrow an' Tweed, to monie a tune, 
 
 Owre Scotland i-ings ; 
 While Irwin, Lugar, Ayr, an' Doon, 
 
 Naebody sings. 
 
 Th' missus, Tiber, Thames, an' Seine, 
 Glide sweet in monie a tunefu' line; 
 But, Willie, set your lit to mine, 
 
 An' cock your crest, 
 We'll gar our streams and burnies shine 
 
 Up wi' the best. 
 
 We'll sing auld Coila's plains an' fells, 
 Her moors red-brown wi' heather-bells, 
 Her banks an' braes, her dens an' dells, 
 
 Where glorious Wallace 
 Aft bure the gree, as story tells, 
 
 Frae southron billies. 
 
 At Wallace' name, what Scottish blood 
 But boils up in a spring-tide flood ! 
 Oft have our fearless fathers sti-ode 
 
 By Wallace' side. 
 Still pressing onward, red-wat shod,i 
 
 Or glorious died. 
 
 O, sweet are Coila's haughs an' Avoods, 
 When lintwhites chant amang the buds. 
 And jinkin' hares, in amorous whids. 
 Their loves enjoy. 
 
 1 Over shoes in blood. I quote from 
 Carlyle : " Who ever uttered sharper say- 
 ings than his, — words more memorable, 
 now by their burning vehemence, now by 
 their cool vigour and laconic pith? A 
 single phrase depicts a whole subject, a 
 whole scene. Our Scottish forefathers in 
 the battle-fields struggled forward, he 
 
EPISTLE TO A YOUlfG FKIEN^D. 
 
 591 
 
 While thro' the braes the cushat croods 
 Witli wailfu' cry ! 
 
 E'en Winter bleak has charms to me, 
 When winds rave thro' the naked tree; 
 Or frosts on hills of Ochiltree 
 
 Are hoary grey ; 
 Or blinding drifts wild-furious flee, 
 
 Darkening the day ! 
 
 O Natui-e ! a' thy shows an' forms, 
 
 To feeling, pensive hearts, hae charms ! 
 
 Whether the Summer kindly Avarms 
 
 Wi' Ufe an' light, 
 Or Winter howls in gusty storms 
 
 The lang, dark night ! 
 
 The Muse, nae poet ever fand her, 
 TULby himsel' he learn'd to wander, 
 Adown some trotting burn's meander, 
 
 An' no think lang : 
 O, sweet to stray, an' pensive ponder 
 
 A heartfelt sang! 
 
 The war'ly race may drudge an' drive, 
 Hog-shouthei% jundie, stretch, an' strive; 
 Let me fail* Nature's face descrive. 
 
 And I, wi' pleasure, 
 Shall let the busy, grumbling hive 
 
 Bum o'er their treasure. 
 
 Fareweel, "my rhyme-composing brith- 
 
 er!'' 
 We've been owre lang unkenn'd to ither : 
 Sow let us lay our heads thegither, 
 
 In love fraternal : 
 May Envy wallop in a tether, 
 
 Black fiend, infernal I 
 
 While highlandmen hate tolls and taxes ; 
 While moorlan' herds like guid fat brax- 
 While terra flrma on her axis [ies ; ^ 
 
 Diurnal turns, 
 Count on a friend, in faith an' practice, 
 
 In Egbert Bukxs. 
 
 EPISTLE TO A YOUNG FELEND.^ 
 
 31ai/, 1786. 
 1 LAXG hae thought, my youthfu' Iriend, 
 A something to have sent you, 
 
 says, red-icat shod : giving, in this one 
 word, a full visien of liorror and carnage, 
 perhaps too frightfully accurate for Art." 
 
 2 Braxics are sheei) dying of disease, 
 and so falling to the herdsmen as their 
 perquisites. 
 
 3 This was Andrew Aiken, son of the 
 poet's friend, Eobert Aiken, to whom The ' years 
 
 Tho' it should seire nae other end 
 
 Thau just a kind memento : 
 But how the subject-theme may gang, 
 
 Let time and chance determine; 
 Perhaps it may turn out a sang, 
 
 Perhaps turn out a sermon. 
 
 Ye'll try the world fu' soon, my lad, 
 
 And, Andrew dear, believe me, 
 Ye'll find mankind an unco squad. 
 
 And muckle they may grieve ye : 
 For care and ti'ouble set your thought. 
 
 E'en when your end's attained; 
 And a' your views may come to nought, 
 
 TNTiere every nerve is strained. 
 
 I'll no say men are villains a'; 
 
 The real, harden'd wicked, 
 Wha hae nae check but human law, 
 
 Are to a few restricked : 
 But, och ! mankind are unco weak. 
 
 An' little to be trusted; 
 If self the wavering balance shake, 
 
 It's rarely right adjusted. 
 
 Yet they wha fa' in fortune's strife, 
 
 Their fate we should na censure. 
 For still th' important end of life 
 
 They equally may answer : 
 A man may hae an honest heart, 
 
 Though poortith hourly stare him; 
 A man may tak' a neebor's part. 
 
 Yet nae ha'e cash to spare him. 
 
 Aye free, aff-han' your story tell, 
 
 When wi' a bosom crony; 
 But still keep something to yourseP 
 
 Ye scarcely tell to ony. 
 Conceal yoursel' as weei's ye can 
 
 Frae critical dissection; 
 But keek through every other man, 
 
 Wi' sharpen'd, sly inspection. 
 
 The sacred lowe o' weel-placed love, 
 
 Luxuriantly indulge it; 
 But never tempt th' illicit rove, 
 
 Tho' naething should divulge it : 
 I wave the quantum o' the sin. 
 
 The hazard of concealing; 
 But, och ! it hardens a' within, 
 
 And petrifies the feeling ! 
 
 To catch dame Fortune's golden smile, 
 Assiduous wait upon her; 
 
 Cotter's Saturday Night was inscribed. 
 Young Aiken rose to distinction in after- 
 
592 
 
 BURNS. 
 
 And gcathcr gear by every wile 
 
 That's justified by honour; 
 Not for to hide it in a hedge, 
 
 Nor for a ti'ain-attendant; 
 But for the glorious privilege 
 
 Of being independent. 
 
 The fear o' Hell's a hangman's whip 
 
 To haud the wretch. in order; 
 But where jg feel your honour grip, 
 
 Let that aye be your border : 
 Its slightest touches, instant pause, — 
 
 Debar a' side pretences ; 
 And resolutely keep its laws. 
 
 Uncaring consequences. 
 
 The great Creator to revere, 
 
 Must sure become the creature ; 
 But still the preaching cant forbear. 
 
 And e'en the rigid feature : 
 Yet ne'er with wits profane to range. 
 
 Be complaisance extended ; 
 An atheist's laugh's a poor exchange 
 
 For Deity offended ! 
 
 When ranting round in pleasure's ring, 
 
 Religion may be blinded ; 
 Or, if she gie a random «ting. 
 
 It may be little minded; 
 But when on life Ave're tempest-driven, 
 
 A conscience but a canker, — 
 A correspondence flx'd wi' Heaven 
 
 Is sure a noble anchor! 
 
 Adieu, dear amiable youth ! 
 
 Your heart can ne'er be wanting : 
 May prudence, fortitude, and truth, 
 
 Erect your brow undaunting I [speed," 
 In ploughman phrase, "God send you 
 
 Still daily to grow wiser ! 
 And may you better reck the rede, 
 
 Than ever did th' adviser ! 
 
 EPISTLE TO JAMES SMITH.* 
 
 "Friendship! mysterious cement of the 
 soul ! 
 Sweetener of life, and solder of society! 
 I owe thee much ! " —Blair. 
 
 Dear Smith, the sleest, paukie thief 
 Til at e'er attempted stealth or rief. 
 
 4 Tlie person to whom this choice epis- 
 tle was addressed was a merchant at 
 Mauchline, and an early friend of the 
 poet's. 
 
 Ye surely hae some warlock-breef 
 
 Owre human hearts; 
 For ne'er a bosom yet was prief 
 
 Against your arts. 
 
 For me, I swear by Sun an' Moon, 
 And every star that blinks aboon, 
 Ye've cost me twenty pair of shoon 
 
 Just gaun to see you ; 
 And every ither pair that's done, 
 
 Mair ta'en I'm wi' you. 
 
 That auld capricious carlin, Nature, 
 To mak' amends for scrimpit stature, 
 She's turn'd you aff, a human creature 
 
 On her first plan ; 
 And in her freaks, on every feature 
 
 She's wrote, " The Man." 
 
 Just now I've ta'en the fit o' rhyme, 
 My barmie noddle's working prime, 
 My fancy yerkit up sublime 
 
 Wi' hasty summon : 
 Hae ye a leisure-moment's time 
 
 To hear what's comin'? 
 
 Some rhyme, a neibor's name to lash; 
 Some rhyme (vain thought!) for needfu' 
 
 cash; 
 Some rhyme, to court the countra clash, 
 
 An' raise a din : 
 For me, an aim I never fash; 
 
 I rhyme for fun. 
 
 The star that rules my luckless lot 
 
 Has fated me the russet coat, 
 
 An' damn'd my fortune to the groat; 
 
 But in requit 
 Has blest me Avi' a random shot 
 
 O' countra wit. 
 
 This while my notion's ta'en a sklent, 
 To try my fate in guid black prent; 
 But still, the mair I'm that way bent. 
 
 Something cries " Iloolie ! 
 I rede you, honest man, tak' tent! 
 
 Ye'U Shaw your folly. 
 
 There's ither poets much your betters, 
 Far seen in Gi-eek, deep men o' letters, 
 Hae thought they had ensured their debt- 
 
 A' future ages ; [ors, 
 
 Now moths deform in shapeless tatters 
 
 Their unknown pages." 
 
 Then fareweel hopes o' laurel-boughs. 
 To garland my poetic brows ! 
 Henceforth I'll rove where busy ploughs 
 Are whistling thrang, 
 
EPISTLE TO JAMES SMITH. 
 
 593 
 
 An»"teach the lanely heights an' howes 
 My rustic sang. 
 
 I'll wander on, with tentless heed 
 HoAV nevei'-halting moments speed, 
 Till fate shall snap the brittle thread; 
 
 Then, all iinkno^vn, 
 I'll lay me with tli' inglorious dead, 
 
 Forgot and gone ! 
 
 But why o' death begin a tale? 
 
 Just now we're living, sound and hale; 
 
 Then top and maintop crowd the sail, 
 
 Heave care owre side ! 
 And large, before enjoj-ment's gale, 
 
 Let's tak' the tide. 
 
 This life, sae far's I understand. 
 Is a' enchanted fairy -land. 
 Where pleasure is the magic wand 
 
 That, wielded right, 
 Mak's hours like minutes, hand in hand, 
 
 Dance by fu' light. 
 
 The magic wand, then, let us wield; 
 For, ance that flve-an'-forty's speel'd, 
 See crazy, weary, joyless eild, 
 
 Wi' wrinkled face, 
 Comes hostin', hirpliu', owre the field, 
 
 Wi' creepin' pace. 
 
 When ance life's day draws near the 
 
 gloamiu', 
 Then fareweel vacant careless roamin' ; 
 An' fareweel cheerfu' tankards foamin'. 
 
 An' social noise ; 
 An' fareweel dear deluding woman, 
 
 The joy of joys I 
 
 O Life, how pleasant is thy morning, 
 Young Fancy's rays the hills adorning! 
 Cold-pausing caution's lesson scorning. 
 
 We frisk away, 
 Like schoolboys, at th' expected warning, 
 
 To joy and play. 
 
 We wander there, we wander here, 
 We eye the rose upon the brier, 
 Unmindful that the thorn is near, 
 
 Among the leaves ; 
 And tho' the puny wound appear, 
 
 Short while it grieves. 
 
 Some, lucky, find a flowery spot, 
 For which they never toil'd nor swat; 
 They di-ink the sweet and eat the fat, 
 But 5 care or pain; 
 
 5 WitJwut. See page 586, note 1. 
 
 And, haply, eye the barren hut 
 Witli high disdain. 
 
 With steady aim some fortune chase; 
 Keen hope does every sinew brace ; 
 Thro' fair, thro' foul, they urge the race, 
 
 And seize the prey ; 
 Then cannie, in some cozie place. 
 
 They close the day. 
 
 And others, like your humble servan', 
 Poor wights ! nae rules nor roads observ- 
 To right or left eternal swer\'in', [in'; 
 
 They zig-zag on ; 
 Till curst with age, obscure and starvin', 
 
 They aften groan. 
 
 Alas! what bitter toil an' straining,— 
 But ti'uce with peevish, poor complaining ! 
 Is fortune's fickle Luna waning? 
 
 E'enlet her gang! 
 Beneath what light she has remaining 
 
 Let's sing our sang. 
 
 My pen I here fling to the door, [plore, 
 And kneel, " Ye Powers ! " and warm im- 
 " Though I should wander Terra o'er, 
 
 In all her climes. 
 Grant me but this, I ask no more, 
 
 A rowth o' I'hjones. 
 
 Gie di'ceping roasts to countra lairds. 
 Till icicles hing frae their beards ; 
 Gie fine braw claes to fine life-guards, 
 
 And maids of honour; 
 And yill an' whiskey gie to cairds, 
 
 Until they sconner. 
 
 A title, Dempster merits it; 
 A garter gie to WilUe Pitt; 
 Gie wealth to some be-ledger'd cit, 
 
 In cent, per cent. ; 
 But gie me real, sterling wit, 
 
 And I'm content. 
 
 While ye are pleased to keep me hale, 
 I'U sit down o'er my scanty meal, 
 Be'twater-brose, or muslin-kail, 
 
 Wi' cheerful face, 
 As lang's the Muses dinna fail 
 
 To say the grace." 
 
 An anxious e'e I never throws 
 Bchint my lug, or by my nose; 
 I jouk beneath misforune's blows 
 
 As wcel'slmay; 
 Sworn foe to sorrow, care, and prose, 
 
 I rhyme away. 
 
504 
 
 BURNS. 
 
 ye douce folk, that live by rule, 
 Grave, tideless-blooded, calm and cool, 
 Compared wi' you, — O fool I fool! fooll 
 
 How much unlike I 
 Your hearts are just a standing pool, 
 Your lives a dyke ! 
 
 Nae hare-brain'd, sentimental traces 
 In your unletter'd, nameless faces; 
 In arioso trills and graces 
 
 Ye never stray. 
 But, gravissimo, solemn basses 
 
 Ye hum away. 
 
 Ye are sae grave, nae doubt ye're wise; 
 Nae ferly though ye do despise 
 The hairum-scairum, ram-stam boys. 
 The rattling squad : 
 
 1 see you upward cast your eyes,— 
 
 Ye ken the road. 
 
 Whilst I— but I shall baud me there,— 
 Wi' you I'll scarce gang ony where : 
 Then, Jamie, I shall say nae mair, 
 
 But quit my sang. 
 Content wi' you to mak' a pair, 
 
 Whare'er I gang. 
 
 TO DR. BLACKLOCK.c 
 
 EUisland, Oct. 21, 1789. 
 Wow, but your letter made me vauntie ! 
 And are ye hale, and weel, and can tie? 
 I kenn'd it still your wee bit jauntie 
 
 Wad bring ye to : 
 Lord send you aye as weel's I want ye, 
 
 And then ye'll do. 
 
 The ill-thief blaw the Heron 7 south! 
 And never drink be near his drouth ! 
 He tald myself, by word o' mouth. 
 He'd tak' my letter : 
 
 6 This was the celebrated blind poet, 
 whose encouragement induced Burns to 
 stay in Scotland and court the Muses, in- 
 stead of emigrating to the West Indies. 
 He was, by all accounts, one of the sweet- 
 est and loveliest of men. Dr. Johnson 
 wrote of him in August, 1773, " I saw at 
 breakfast Dr. Blacklock, the blind poet, 
 who does not remember to have seen 
 light, and is read to by a poor scholar^ in 
 Latin, Greek, and French. He was, orig- 
 inally, a poor scholar himself. I looked 
 on him with reverence." 
 
 7 Mr. Heron was the author of a His- 
 tory of Scotland, published in 1800. After 
 suffering great privations, he sought shel- 
 ter in London, and died there in i807. 
 
 I lippen'd to the chiel in trouth, 
 And bade nae better. 
 
 But aiblins honest Master Heron 
 Had at the time some dainty fair one, 
 To ware his theologic care on. 
 
 And holy study ; 
 And, tired of sauls to waste his lear on, 
 
 E'en tried the body. 
 
 But what d'ye think, my trusty fler? 
 I'm turn'd a ganger, — Peace be here ! 
 Parnassian queens, I fear, I fear, 
 
 Ye'll now disdain me ! 
 And then my fifty pounds a year 
 
 Will little gain me. 
 
 Ye glaiket, gleesome, dainty damies, 
 
 Wha by Castalia's wimjilin' streamies 
 Lovii), sioff. and lave your pretty limbics, 
 
 Ye ken, ye ken. 
 That Strang necessity supreme is 
 
 'Mang sons o' men. 
 
 I hae a wife and twa wee laddies. 
 
 They maun hae brose an' brats o' duddies ; 
 
 Ye ken yoursels my heart right proud is : 
 I need na vaunt. 
 
 But I'll sued besoms, thraw saugh wood- 
 Before they want. [ies, 
 
 Lord help me through this warhl o' care • 
 I'm weary sick o't late and air! 
 Not but I hae a richer share 
 
 Than mony ithers ; 
 But why should ae man better fare, 
 
 And a' men brithers? 
 
 Come, firm Resolve, take thou the van, 
 Thou stock o' carl-hemp in man ! 
 And let us mind, faint heart ne'er wan 
 
 A lady fair : 
 Wha does the utmost that he can. 
 
 Will whyles do mair. 
 
 But to conclude my silly rhyme, 
 (I'm scant o' verse, and scant o' time,) 
 To make a happy fireside clime 
 
 To weans and wilb. 
 That's the true pathos and sublime 
 
 Of human life. 
 
 My compliments to sister Beckie ; 
 And eke the same to honest Luckie : 
 I wat she is a daintie chuckle, 
 
 As e'er trod clay I 
 And gratefully, my guid auld cockie, 
 
 I'm yours for aye. 
 
 Robert Buens. 
 
SOKGS. 595 
 
 s o isr G- S . 
 
 WAE SONa. 
 
 Air — The Song of Death. 
 
 Scene.— A field of battle. Time of the day— Evening. The wounded and dying of 
 the victorious army are supposed to join iu the song. 
 
 Farewell, thou fair day, tlioii green earth, and ye skies, 
 
 Now gay with the bright setting Sun ! 
 Farewell, loves and friendships, ye dear tender ties, 
 
 Our race of existence is run ! 
 
 Thou grim king of terrors, thou life's gloomy foe, 
 
 . Go, frighten the coward and slave ! 
 Go, teach them to tremble, fell tyrant ! but know, 
 i^o terrors hast thou for the brave ! 
 
 Thou strik'st the poor peasant, — he sinks in the dark, 
 
 Nor saves e'en the wreck of a name : 
 Thou strik'st the young hero, — a glorious mark! 
 
 He falls in the blaze of his fame! 
 
 In the field of proud honour, — our swords in our hands. 
 
 Our king and our country to save, — 
 While victory shines on life's last ebbing sands, — 
 
 ! who would not die with the brave ? 
 
 THE LAZY MIST. 
 
 Tune — Eere^s a health to my true love. 
 
 The lazy mist hangs from the brow of the hill, 
 Concealing the course of the dark-winding rill: 
 How languid the scenes, late so sprightly, appear, 
 As Autumn to Winter resigns the pale year ! 
 The forests are leafless, the meadows are brown, 
 And all the gay foppery of Summer is flown : 
 Apart let me wander, apart let me muse. 
 How quick time is flying, how keen fate pursues ! 
 
 How long I have lived, — but how much lived in vain! 
 
 How little of life's scanty span may remain ! 
 
 What aspects old Time, in his progress, has worn ! 
 
 What ties cruel fate in my bosom has torn ! 
 
 How foolish, or worse, till our summit is gain'd! 
 
 And, downward, how weaken'd, how darken'd, how pain'd! 
 
 This life's not worth having, with all it can give : 
 
 For something beyond it poor man sure must live. 
 
596 BUBN^S. 
 
 THE BANKS OF THE DEVON. 
 
 Tune — Bhannerach dhon na chri. 
 
 How pleasant the banks of the clear- winding Devon, 
 With green-spreading bushes and flowers blooming fair ! 
 But the bonniest flower on the banks of the Devon 
 Was once a sweet bud on the braes of the Ayr. 
 Mild be the sun on this sweet blushing flower, 
 In the gay rosy morn, as it bathes in the dew ! 
 And gentle the fall of the soft vernal shower, 
 That steals on the evening each leaf to renew. 
 
 0, spare the dear blossoms, ye orient breezes, 
 With chill hoary wing, as ye iTsher the dawn ! 
 And far be thou distant, thou reptile that seizes 
 The verdure and pride of the garden and lawn ! 
 Let Bourbon exult in his gay gilded lilies. 
 And England, triumphant, display her proud rose : 
 A fairer than either adorns the green valleys 
 Where Devon, sweet Devon, meandering flows.^ 
 
 YOUXa JESSIE. 
 
 Tune — Bonnie Dundee. 
 
 Teue-heaeted was he, the sad swain o' the Yarrow, 
 And fair are the maids on the banks o' the Ayr; 
 But by the sweet side of the Mth's winding river 
 Are lovers as faithful, and maidens as fair : 
 To equal young Jessie seek Scotland all over ; 
 To equal young Jessie you seek it in vain ; 
 Grace, beauty, and elegance fetter her lover, 
 And maidenly modesty fixes the chain. 
 
 0, fresh is the rose in the gay dewy morning. 
 And sweet is the lily at evening close ; 
 But in the fair presence o' lovely young Jessie, 
 Unseen is the lily, unheeded the rose. 
 Love sits in her smile, a wizard ensnaring. 
 Enthroned in her een he delivers his law : 
 And still to her charms she alone is a stranger ! 
 Her modest demeanour's the jewel of a'.^ 
 
 1 These vei'ses were composed on a charming girl,— Miss Charlotte Hamilton, 
 who is now married to James Mackitterick Adair, physician. She is sister to my 
 worthy friend, Gavin Hamilton, of Maixchline, and was born on the banks of the 
 Ayr; but was, at the time I wrote these lines, residing at Harvieston, in Clackman. 
 shire, on the romantic banks of the little river Devon.— Bdkns. 
 
 2 Jessie Staig, the heroine of this song, was the daughter of Provost Staig, of 
 Dumfries. She died in early life ; but her beauty and her gentleness caused her to 
 be long remembered in her native valley. 
 
soi^GS. 597 
 
 LAMENT. 
 
 WEITTEN" WHEK THE POET WAS ABOUT TO LEAVE SCOTLAND. 
 Tune— The Banks of the Devon, 
 
 O'ee the mist-shrouded cliffs of their lone mountain straying, 
 Where the wild winds of Winter incessantly rave, 
 
 What woes wring my heart while intently surveying 
 The storm's gloomy path on the breast of the wave! 
 
 Ye foam-crested billows, allow me to wail. 
 
 Ere ye toss me afar from my loved native shore ; 
 
 Where the flower which bloom'd sweetest in Coila's green vale, 
 The pride of my bosom,^ my Mary's no more ! 
 
 No more by the banks of the streamlet we'll wander. 
 And smile at the Moon's rimpled face in the wave ; 
 
 No more shall my arms cling with fondness around her, 
 For the dewdrops of morning fall cold on her grave. 
 
 No more shall the soft thrill of love warm my breast : 
 I haste with the storm to a far-distant shore ; 
 
 Where, unknown, unlamented, my ashes shall rest, 
 And joy shall revisit my bosom no more. 
 
 AFTON WATEE. 
 
 Tune — The Yellotc-haired Laddie. 
 
 Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes, 
 Flow gently, I'll sing thee a song in thy praise ; 
 My Mary's asleep by thy murmuring stream, — 
 Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream. 
 
 Thou stock-dove, whose echo resounds through the glen, 
 Ye wild whistling blackbirds in yon thorny den. 
 Thou green-crested lapwing thy screaming forbear, — 
 I charge you disturb not my slumbering fair. 
 
 How lofty, sweet Afton, thy neighbouring hills, 
 Far-mark'd with the courses of clear-winding rills ! 
 There daily I wander as noon rises high. 
 My flocks and my Mary's sweet cot in my eye. 
 
 3 Mary Campbell, so well known as the poet's " Highland Mary." 
 
598 BUKN'S. 
 
 How i^leasant thy banks and green valleys below, 
 "Where wild in the woodlands the primroses blow ! 
 There, oft as mild evening weeps over the lea. 
 The sweet-scented birk shades my Mary and me. 
 
 Thy crystal stream, Afton, how lovely it glides. 
 And winds by the cot where my Mary resides! 
 How wanton thy waters her snawy feet lave. 
 As gathering sweet flowerets she stems thy clear wave. 
 
 Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes, 
 Flow gently, sweet river, the theme of my lays ! 
 My Mary's asleep by thy murmuring stream, — 
 Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream.* 
 
 CALEDONIA. 
 
 Tune — Humours of Glen. 
 
 Their groves o' sweet myrtle let foreign lands reckon, 
 Where bright-beaming Summers exalt the perfume; 
 Far dearer to me yon lone glen o' green breckan, 
 Wi' the burn stealing under the lang yellow broom. 
 
 Far dearer to me are yon humble broom bowers. 
 Where the bluebell and gowan lurk lowly unseen ; 
 For there, lightly tripping amang the wild flowers, 
 A-listening the linnet, aft wanders my Jean. 
 
 Though rich is the breeze in their gay sunny valleys. 
 And cauld Caledonia's blast on the wave ; 
 Their sweet-scented woodlands that skirt the proud palace, 
 What are they ? The haunt of the tyrant and slave ! 
 
 The slave's spicy forests, and gold-bubbling fountains. 
 The brave Caledonian views wi' disdain ; 
 He wanders as free as the winds of his mountains, 
 Save Love's willing fetters, the chains o' his Jean.^ 
 
 4 This charming song was comioosed in honour of Mrs. Dugald Stewart, the poet's 
 ■kind and accomplished pati'ouess. It is said that when Burns presented the song to 
 lier, " she smiled at the images of beauty with which she was associated as she slum- 
 bered on the banks of her native stream; " and that " she looked upon his stxains as 
 a mark of respect, and felt them as a work of genius." Afton is a small stream in 
 Ayr-shn-e, and one of the tributaries of the Mth. 
 
 5 The hei'oine of this song was Mrs. Burns, who so charmed the poet by singing 
 it with taste and feeling, that he declared it to be one of his luckiest lyrics. It is said 
 that she sang with ease and simiDlicity ; that " science adorned Avithout injuring nat- 
 ure; " and that her " wood-note wild" was almost unequalled. 
 
SOKGS. 
 
 699 
 
 BRUCE'S ADDRESS TO HIS TROOPS 
 AT BANNOCKBURN. 
 
 Tune — Lewis Gordon. 
 Scots, wha hae wi' Wallace bled 1 
 Scots, wham Bruce has aften led ! 
 Welcome to your gory bed, 
 Or to glorious victorie ! 
 
 Now's the day, and now's the hour; 
 See the front o' battle lour ! 
 See approach pi'oud Edward's poAver, — 
 Edward! chains and slaverie! 
 
 Wha will be a traitor knave? 
 Who can fill a coward's grave? 
 Wha sae base as be a slave? 
 
 Traitor 1 coward I turn and flee ! 
 
 Wha for Scotland's king and law 
 Freedom's sword will strongly draw, 
 Free-man stand, or free-man fa', 
 Sodger! hero! onwi'me! 
 
 By Oppression's woes and pains ! 
 By your sons in servile chains ! 
 We will drain our dearest veins, 
 But they shall, they shall be free I 
 
 Lay the proud usurpers low ! 
 Tyrants fall in every foe ! 
 Liberty's in every blow ! 
 
 Forward I let us do, or die ! 
 
 THE POOR AND HONEST SODGER. 
 
 Air — The mill, mill, O ! 
 When wild War's deadly blast was blawn , 
 
 And gentle Peace returning, 
 Wi' mony a sweet babe fatherless. 
 
 And mony a widow mourning; 
 I left the lines and tented field. 
 
 Where lang I'd been a lodger, 
 My humble knapsack a' my wealth, 
 
 A poor and honest sodger. 
 
 A leal, light heart was in my breast, 
 
 My hand unstain'd wi' plunder; 
 And for fair Scotia, hame again, 
 
 I cheery on did wander. 
 I thought upon the banks o' Coil, 
 
 I thought upon my Nancy, 
 I thought upon the Avitching smile 
 
 That caught my youtlxful fancy. 
 
 At length I reach'd the bonnie glen 
 
 Where early life I sported ; 
 I pass'd the mill, and trysting-thorn. 
 
 Where Nancy aft I courted : 
 
 Wha spied I but my ain dear maid, 
 Down by her mother's dwelling? 
 
 And tum'd me round to hide the flood 
 That in my een was swelling. 
 
 Wi' alter'd voice, quoth I, " Sweet lass, 
 
 Sweet as you hawthorn's blossom, 
 O, happy, happy may he be. 
 
 That's dearest to thy bosom ! 
 My purse is light, I've far to gang, 
 
 And fain would be thy lodger; 
 I've served my king and country lang, — 
 
 Take pity on a sodger." 
 
 Sae wistfully she gazed on me, 
 
 And lovelier was than ever ; 
 Quo' she, "A sodger ance I lo'ed, 
 
 Forget him shall I never : 
 Our humble cot and hamely fare, 
 
 Ye freely shall partake it; 
 That gallant badge, the dear cockade, 
 
 Ye're welcome for the sake o't." 
 
 She gazed,— she redden'd like a rose. 
 
 Syne pale like ony lily; 
 She sank within my arms, and cried, 
 
 "Art thou my ain dear Willie? " 
 " By Him who made yon Sun and sky, — 
 
 By whom true love's regarded,— 
 I am the man ; and thus may still 
 
 True lovers be rewarded. 
 
 The wars are o'er, and I'm come hame, 
 
 And find thee still true-hearted ! 
 Though poor in gear, we're rich in love. 
 
 And mair we'se ne'er be parted." 
 Quo' she, " My grandsire left me gowd, 
 
 A mailen plenish'd fairly; 
 And come, my faithfu' sodger lad, 
 
 Thou'rt welcome to it dearly." 
 
 For gold the merchant ploughs the main, 
 
 The farmer ploughs the manor : 
 But glory is the sodger's prize. 
 
 The sodger's wealth is honour. 
 The brave poor sodger ne'er despise. 
 
 Nor count him as a stranger; 
 Remember he's his country's stay. 
 
 In day and hour of danger. 
 
 THE BONNIE BANKS OF AYR. 
 
 ( Composed when the Poet thought of leaving 
 Scotland, and going to the West Indies.) 
 Tune — Roslin Castle. 
 The gloomy night is gathering fast. 
 Loud roars the wild inconstant blast: 
 
600 
 
 BUEKS. 
 
 Yon murky cloud is foul with r.ain, 
 I see it driving o'er the plain ; 
 The hunter now has left the moor, 
 The scattcr'd coveys meet secure, 
 "While here I wander, pi*ess'd with care, 
 Along the lonely banks of Ayr. 
 
 The Autumn mourns her ripening corn 
 By early Winter's ravage torn; 
 Across her placid azure sky 
 She sees the scowling tempest fly : 
 Chill runs my blood to hear it rave; 
 I think xipon the stormy wave, 
 "Where many a danger I must dare, 
 Far from the bonnie banks of Ayr. 
 
 'Tis not the surging billow's roar; 
 'Tis not that fatal deadly shore; 
 Though death in every shape appear, 
 The Avretched have no more to fear : 
 But round my heart the ties are bound. 
 That heart transpierced with many a 
 
 wound; 
 These bleed afresh, those ties I tear. 
 To leave the bonnie banks of Ayr. 
 
 Farewell, old Coila's hills and dales, 
 Her heathy moors and Avinding vales ! 
 The scenes where wretched fancy roves, 
 Pursuing past unhappy loves : 
 Farewell, my friends ! farewell, my foes ! 
 My peace with these,my love with those :— 
 The bursting tears my heart declare. 
 Farewell, the bonnie banks of Ayrl <* 
 
 A PRAYER FOR MARY. 
 
 Tune — Blue Bonnets. 
 Powers celestial, Avhose protection 
 Ever guards the virtuous fair, 
 
 G Burns had left Dr. Laurie's family, 
 after a visit, which he expected to be his 
 last, and on his way home he had to cross 
 a wide stretch of solitary moor. His 
 mind was strongly affected by parting for 
 ever with a scene wJaere he had tasted so 
 much elegant and social pleasure; and, 
 depressed by the contrasted gloom of his 
 prospects, the aspect of Nature harmon- 
 ized with his feelings : it was a lowering 
 and l)eavy evening in the end of Autumn. 
 The wind was up, and whistled through 
 the rushes and long spear-grass which 
 bent before it. The clouds were driving 
 across the sky, and cold pelting showers 
 at intervals added discomfort of body to 
 cheerlessness of mind. Under these cir- 
 cumstances, and in this frame, Burns 
 composed his poem. — Walker. 
 
 "While in distant climes I wander, 
 
 Let my Mary be your care : 
 Let her form, sae fair and faultless, 
 
 Fair and faultless as your o^ati, — 
 Let my Mary's kindred spirit. 
 
 Draw your choicest influence down. 
 
 Make the gales you waft around her 
 
 Soft and peaceful as her breast; 
 Breathing in the breeze that fans her, 
 
 Soothe her bosom into rest : 
 Guardian angels, O, protect her. 
 
 When in distant lands I roam ! 
 To realms unknown wliile fate exiles me. 
 
 Make her bosom still my home.^ 
 
 HIGHLAND SIARY. 
 
 Tune — Katharine Ogie. 
 Ye banks and braes and streams around 
 
 The castle o' Montgomery, [ers. 
 
 Green be your woods, and fair your flow- 
 
 Your waters never drumlie ! 
 There Simmer first unfauld her robes, 
 
 And there the langest tarry ! 
 For there I took the last fareweel 
 
 O' my sweet Highland Maiy. 
 
 How sweetly bloom'd the gay green birk, 
 
 How rich the hawthorn's blossom, 
 As, underneath their fragrant shade, 
 
 I clasp'd her to my bosom ! 
 The golden hours, on angel wings, 
 
 Flew o'er me and my dearie : 
 For dear to me as light and life 
 
 Was my sweet Highland Mary, 
 
 Wi' mony a vow, and lock'd embrace, 
 
 Our parting was fu' tender; 
 And, pledging aft to meet again, 
 
 We tore oursels asunder ; 
 But, O, fell Death's untimely frost, 
 
 That nipt my flower sae early! — 
 Now green's the sod and cauld's the clay 
 
 That wraps my Highland Mary ! 
 
 O, pale,' pale now those rosy lips 
 
 I aft hae kiss'd so fondly ! 
 And closed for aye the sparkling glance 
 
 That dwelt on me sae kindly ! 
 
 7 Supposed to have been written on 
 the eve of the poet's intended departure 
 for the West Indies. It will of course be 
 understood that this and the three songs 
 following all refer to the same person. 
 
SONGS. 
 
 601 
 
 And mouldering now in silent dust 
 That heart that lo'ed me dearly, — 
 
 But still within my bosom's core 
 Shall live my Highland Mary is 
 
 TO MARY IN HEAVEN.9 
 
 Tune — Death of Captain Cook. 
 
 Thou lingering star, with lessening ray. 
 That lov'st to greet the early morn. 
 Again thou usher'st in the day 
 My Mary from my soul was torn. 
 O Mary ! dear departed shade 1 
 Where is thy place of blissful rest? 
 Seest thou thy lover lowly laid? 
 Hear'-st thou the groans that rend his 
 breast? 
 
 That sacred hour can I forget? 
 Can I forget the hallow'd grove, 
 Where by the winding Ayr we met. 
 To live one day of parting love? 
 Eternity will not efface 
 Those records dear of transports past, — 
 Thy image at our last embrace ; 
 Ah ! little thought we 'twas our last ! 
 
 Ayr, gurgling, kiss'd his pebbled shore, 
 O'erhung with wild-woods, thickening 
 
 green; 
 The fragrant birch, and hawthorn hoar. 
 
 8 Marv Campbell, the inspirer of this 
 most tender and affecting song, died sud- 
 denly of a malignant fever, at Greenock, 
 in itSG. It is said, on good authority, 
 that, "before the Mast farewell,' com- 
 memorated in the song of Highland Mary, 
 was taken, the lovers plighted mutual 
 faith, and, exchanging Bibles, stood, Avith 
 a running stream between, and, lifting 
 up its waters in their hands, vowed love 
 while the woods of Montgomery grew and 
 its waters ran." 
 
 9 The young woman whose loveliness 
 and too early death are here sung with so 
 much beauty and pathos, was from Camp- 
 bell-Town, in Ai-gyle-shire, and lived 
 some time as nurseiy-maid in the family 
 of Gavin Hamilton, tlie poet's friend and 
 patron. The song appears to have been 
 composed at the time indicated in the first 
 stanza. It is said that, on the anniversa- 
 ry of Mary's death, the poet was so agi- 
 tated, that he retii-ed from his lamih*, 
 then living at EUisland, and wandered on 
 the banks of the Nith and about the farm- 
 yard nearly the whole night, and at length 
 threw liimself on the side of a corn-stack, 
 and gave utterance to his feeUngs in this 
 divine strain. 
 
 Twined amorous round the raptured 
 
 scene ; 
 The flowers sprang wanton to be prest. 
 The birds sang love on every spray. 
 Till too, too soon the glowing West 
 Proclaim'd the speed of winged day. 
 
 Still o'er these scenes my memory wakes, 
 And fondly broods with miser care ; 
 Time but th' impression deeper makes. 
 As streams their channels deeper wear. 
 My Mary, dear departed shade ! 
 Where is thy place of blissful rest? 
 Seest thou thy lover lowly laid? 
 Hear'st thou the groans that rend his 
 breast? 
 
 EVAN BANKS. 
 
 Tune — Savourna Delish. 
 
 Slow spreads the gloom my soul desires; 
 The Sun from India's shore retii-cs : 
 To Evan Banks, with temperate ray. 
 Home of my youth, he leads the day. 
 
 O, banks to me for ever dear! 
 O, stream whose murmurs still I hear! 
 All, all my hopes of bliss reside 
 Where Evan mingles with the Clyde. 
 
 And she, in simple beauty drest. 
 Whose image lives within my breast ; 
 Who, trembling, heard my parting sigh. 
 And long pursued me with her eye ; — . 
 
 Does she, with heart unchanged as mine. 
 Oft in the vocal bowers recline? 
 Or, where yon grot o'erhangs the tide. 
 Muse while the Evan seeks the Clyde? 
 
 Te lofty banks that Evan bound. 
 Ye lavish woods that wave around, 
 And o'er the stream your shadows throw, 
 Which sweetly winds so far below; 
 
 What secret charm to memory brings 
 All that on Evan's border springs? 
 Sweet banks ! ye bloom by Mary's side : 
 Blest stream! she views thee haste to 
 X:iyde. 
 
 Can all the wealth of India's coast 
 Atone for years in absence lost? 
 Return, ye moments of delight; 
 With richer treasures bless my sight! 
 
602 
 
 BUEiq-S. 
 
 Swift from this xleserfc let me part, 
 And fly to meet a kindred heart! 
 Nor more may aught my steps divide 
 From that dear sti'eam which flows to 
 Clyde.io 
 
 THE BANIiS OF DOON. 
 
 Ye flowery hanks o' honnie Doon, 
 
 How can ye hloora sae fair; 
 How can ye chant, ye little birds. 
 
 And I sae fu' o' care? 
 
 Thou'll break my heart, thou honnie bird, 
 
 That sings upon the hough; 
 Thou minds me o' the happy days 
 
 When my fause luve was true. 
 
 Thou'll break my lieart, thou honnie bird, 
 
 That sings beside thy mate; 
 For sae I sat, and sae I sang, 
 
 And wist na o' my fate. 
 
 Aft hae I roved by honnie Doon, 
 
 To see the woodbine twine, 
 And ilka bird sang o' its love ; 
 
 And sae did I o' mine. 
 
 Wi' lightsome heart I pu'd a rose 
 
 Frae off its thorny tree : 
 And my fause luvcr staw the rose, 
 
 But left the thorn wi' me. 
 
 JOHN ANDERSON, MY JO. 
 
 Tune — John Anderson, my jo. 
 JOHN Anderson, my jo, John, 
 
 When we were first acquent. 
 Your locks were like the raven, 
 
 Your honnie brow was brent; 
 But now your brow is held, John, 
 
 Your locks are like the snaw : 
 But blessings on your frosty pow, 
 
 John Anderson, my jo. 
 
 John Anderson, my jo, John, 
 
 We clamb the hill thegither; 
 And monie a canty day, John, 
 
 We've had wi' ane anither : 
 Now we maun totter down, John, 
 
 But hand in hand we'll go ; 
 And sleep thegither at the foot, 
 
 John Anderson, my jo. 
 
 10 In this exquisite song the poet im- 
 agines himself in India; and his allusion 
 to Mary in Heaven is exceedingly pa- 
 thetic. 
 
 THE BBAES C BALLOCHMYLE. 
 
 Tune — Braes o' Ballochmyle. 
 The Catrine woods were yellow seen, 
 The floAvers decay 'd on Catrine lea, 
 Nae laverock sang on hillock green. 
 But nature sicken'd on the e'e. 
 Through faded groves Maria sang, 
 Hersel' in beauty's bloom the while, 
 And aye the wild- wood echoes rang, 
 Fareweel the braes o' BaUochmyle ! 
 
 Low in your wintry beds, ye flowers. 
 Again ye'll flourish fresh and fair; 
 Ye birdies dumb, in withering bowers. 
 Again ye'll charm the vocal air. 
 But here, alas ! for me nae mair 
 Shall birdie charm or floweret sm.ile; 
 Fareweel the honnie banks of Ayr 1 
 Fareweel, fareweel, sweet BaUochmyle!* 
 
 HONEST POVERTY. 
 
 Tune — For a* that and a' that. 
 Is there, for honest poverty. 
 
 That hangs his head, and a' that? 
 The coward-slave, we pass him by, 
 
 We dare be poor for a' that! 
 For a' that, and a' that, 
 
 Our toil's obscure, and a' that; 
 The rank is but the guinea-stamp. 
 
 The man's the gowd for a' that. 
 
 What though on hamely fare we dine, 
 
 Wear hodden grey, and a' that; 
 Gie fools their silks, and knaves their 
 
 A man's a man for a' that ! [wine. 
 
 For a' that, and a' that. 
 
 Their tinsel show, and a' that; 
 The honest man, though e'er sae poor, 
 
 Is king o' men for a' that, 
 
 Ye see yon birkie, ca'd a lord, 
 
 Wha struts, and stares, and a' that; 
 Though hundreds worship at his word, 
 
 He's but a coof for a' that. 
 For a' that, and a' that : 
 
 His riband, star, and a' that. 
 The man of independent mind, 
 
 He looks and laughs at a' that. 
 
 A king can mak' a belted knight, 
 A marquess, duke, and a' that; 
 
 1 Miss Maria Whitefoord, eldest daugh- 
 ter of Sir John Wliitetbord, was the hero- 
 ine of this sweet song; wliichwaswi'itten 
 as a farewell to the family residence. 
 
SONGS. 
 
 603 
 
 But an honest man's aboon his might,-— 
 Guitl faith, he maunna fa' thatl 
 
 For a' that, and a' that, 
 Their dignities, and a' that. 
 
 The pith o' sense and pride o' worth 
 Are higher ranks than a' that. 
 
 Then let us pray that come it may, 
 
 As come it will for a' that, 
 That sense and worth, o'er a' the Earth, 
 
 May bear the gree, and a' that : 
 For a' that, and a' that, 
 
 It's coming yet, for a' that, 
 That man to man, the warld o'er, 
 
 Shall brothers be for a' that. 
 
 THE BANKS OF NITH. 
 
 Tune — Robic donna Gorach. 
 The Thames flows proudly to the sea, 
 Where royal cities stately stand; 
 But sweeter flows the Nith, to me, 
 Where Cummius ance had high com- 
 mand : 
 When shall I see that honour'd land, 
 That winding stream I love so dear? 
 Must wayward Fortune's adverse hand 
 For ever, ever keep me here? 
 
 How lovely, Mth, thy fruitful vales. 
 Where spreading hawthorns gaily bloom ! 
 How sweetly wind thy sloping dales. 
 Where lambkins wanton through the 
 
 broom ! 
 Though wandering now must be my doom, 
 Far from thy bonnie banks and braes. 
 May there my latest hours consume. 
 Among the friends of early days ! 
 
 LOGAN BRAES. 
 
 Tune — Logan Water. 
 O Logan, sweetly didst thou glide 
 That day I was my Willie's bride; 
 And years sinsyue hae o'er us run. 
 Like Logan to the simmer sun. 
 But now thy flowery banks appear 
 Like drumlie Winter, dark and drear, 
 While my dear lad maun face his faes, 
 Far, for frae me and Logan braes. 
 
 Again the merry month o' May 
 Has made our hills and valleys gay; 
 The birds rejoice in leafy bowers, [ers : 
 The bees hum round the breathing flow- 
 
 Blithe Morning lifts his rosy eye, 
 And Evening's tears are tears of joy : 
 My soul, delightless, a' surveys, 
 While Willie's far frae Logan braes. 
 
 Within your milk-white hawthorn bush, 
 Amang her nestlings sits the tlirush; 
 Her faithfu' mate will share her toil. 
 Or wi' his song her cares beguile : 
 But I wi' my sweet nurslings here, 
 Nae mate to help, nae mate to cheer, 
 Pass widow'd nights and joyless days, 
 While Willie's far frae Logan braes. 
 
 O, wae upon you, men o' State, 
 That brethi'en rouse to deadly hate ! 
 As y6 make mony a fond heart mourn, 
 Sae may it on your heads return ! 
 How can your flinty hearts enjoy 
 The widow's tears, the orphan's cry? 
 But soon may peace bring happy days. 
 And Willie hame to Logan braes ! 
 
 I DO CONT^ESS THOU AET SAE 
 FAIR. 
 
 Tune — I do confess thou art sae fair. 
 1 DO confess thou art sae fair, 
 I wad been o'er the lugs in luve. 
 Had I na found the slightest prayer 
 That lips could speak thy heart could 
 
 muve. 
 I do confess thee sweet, but find 
 Thou art sae thriftless o' thy sweets. 
 Thy favours are the silly wind. 
 That kisses ilka thing it meets. 
 
 See yonder rosebud, rich in dew, 
 Amang its native briers sae coy ; 
 How sune it tines its scent and hue 
 When pu'd and worn a common toy I 
 Sic fate, ere lang, shall thee betide ; 
 Though thoi^ may gaily bloom awhile, 
 Yet sune thou shalt be thrown aside 
 Like ony common weed and vile. 
 
 BESS ANT) HER SPINNING-WnEEL. 
 
 Tune— The sweet lass that lo'es me. 
 O, LEEZE me on my spinning-wheel. 
 And leeze me on my rock and reel; 
 Frae tap to tac that deeds me bien, 
 And haps me liel and Avarm at e'en! 
 I'll sit me down and sing and spin, 
 While laigh descends the simmer Sun, 
 Blest wi' content, and milk and meal, — 
 O, leeze me on my spinning-wheel J 
 
G04 
 
 BUR]S"S. 
 
 On ilka hand the huruies trot, 
 And meet hclow my theekit cot; 
 The scented birk and hawthorn white 
 Across the pool their arms unite, 
 Alike to screen the birdie's nest, 
 And little fishes' caller rest : 
 The Sun blinks kindly in the biel', 
 Where blithe I turn my spinning-wheel. 
 
 On lofty aiks the cushats wail, 
 And echo cons the doolfu' tale; 
 The lintwhites in the hazel braes, 
 Delighted, rival ither's lays : 
 The craik amang the clover hay, 
 The paitrick whirrin' o'er the ley, 
 The swallow jinkin' round my shiel, 
 Amuse me at my spinning-wheel. 
 
 Wi' sma' to sell, and less to buy, 
 Aboon distress, below envy, 
 O, whii wad leave this humble state 
 For a' the pride of a' the great? 
 Amid their flaring, idle toys, 
 Amid their cumbrous, dinsome joys, 
 Can they the peace and pleasure feel 
 Of Bessy at her spinning-wheel? 
 
 COUNTRY LASSIE. 
 
 Tune— The Country Lass. 
 In Simmer, when the hay was mawn. 
 And corn waved green in ilka field. 
 While claver blooms white o'er the lea, 
 And roses blaw in ilka bield ; 
 Blithe Bessie, in the milking shiel. 
 Says, " I'll be wed, come o't what will; " 
 Outspak' a dame in wrinkled eild, 
 " O' guid advisement comes nae ill. 
 
 It's ye hae wooers monie ane. 
 And, lassie, ye're but young, ye ken; 
 Then wait a wee, and cannie wale 
 A routhie butt, a routhie ben : 
 There's Johnie o' the Buskie-glen, 
 Fu' is liis barn, fu' is his byre ; 
 Tak' this frae me, my bonnie hen, 
 It's plenty beets the lover's fire." 
 
 " For Johnnie o' the Buskie-glen, 
 I dinna care a single flie ; 
 He lo'es sae weel his craps and kye, 
 He has nae luve to spare for me : 
 But blithe's the blink o' Robie's e'e. 
 And weel I wat he lo'es me dear; 
 Ae blink o' him I wad nae gic 
 For Buskie-glen and a' his gear." 
 
 " O, thoughtless lassie, life's a faught; 
 The canniest gate, the sti-ife is sair : 
 But aye fu' han't is fechtin' best, 
 tV hungry care's an unco care : 
 But some will spend, and some will spare. 
 An' wilfu' folk maun hae their will; 
 Syne as ye brew, my maiden fair, 
 Keep mind that ye maun drink the yill." 
 
 " O, gear will buy me rigs o' land, 
 And gear will buy me sheep and kye ; 
 But the tender heart o'leesome luve, 
 The gowd and siller canna buy : 
 We may be poor, — Robie and I ; 
 Light is the burden luve lays on; 
 Content and luve bring peace and joy,— 
 What mair hae queens upon a throne? " 
 
 THE LASS OF BALLOCHMLYE. 
 Tune — Miss Forbes's Farewell to Banff. 
 'TWAS even, —the de-wy fields were green; 
 On every blade the pearls did hang; 
 The zephyrs wanton'd round the bean, 
 And bore its fragrant sweets alang; 
 In every glen the mavis sang, 
 AU Nature listening secm'd the while. 
 Except where greenwood echoes rang, 
 Amang the braes o' Ballochmyle. 
 
 With careless step I onward stray'd. 
 My heart rejoiced in Nature's joy, 
 When musing in a lonely glade, 
 A maiden fair I chanced to spy : 
 Her look was like the morning's eye, 
 Her air like Nature's vernal smile. 
 Perfection whisper 'd, passing by. 
 Behold the lass o' Ballochmyle ! 
 
 Fair is the morn in flowery May, 
 And sweet is night in Autumn mild ; 
 When roving through the garden gay, 
 Or wandering in the lonely wild : 
 But Woman, Nature's darling child I 
 There all her charms she does compile; 
 Ev'n there her other works are foil'd 
 By the bonnie lass o' Ballochmyle. 
 
 O ! had she been a country maid. 
 And I the happy country swain. 
 Though shelter'd in the lowest shed 
 That ever rose on Scotland's plain; 
 Through wcarj- Winter's wind and rain, 
 With joy, with rapture I would toil; 
 And nightly to my bosom strain 
 The bonnie lass o' Ballochmyle! 
 
SONGS. 
 
 605 
 
 Then pride might climb the slippery steep, 
 Where fame and honours lofty shine ; 
 And thirst of gold might tempt the deep, 
 Or downward seek the Indian mine; 
 Give me the cot below the puie, 
 To tend the flocks, or till the soil, 
 And every day have joys divine 
 With the bonnie lass o' Ballochmyle.2 
 
 A ROSEBUD BY IMY EARLY WALK. 
 
 Tune — The Rosebud. 
 A ROSEBUD.s by my early walk 
 Adown a corn-enclosed bawk, 
 Sae gently bent its thorny stalk, 
 
 All on a dewy morning. 
 Ere twice the shades o' dawn are fled, 
 In a' its crimson glory spread, 
 And drooping rich the dew^y head, 
 
 It scents the early morning. 
 
 Within the bush, her covert nest 
 A little linnet fondly prest; 
 The dew sat chilly on h.er breast 
 
 Sae early in the morning. 
 She soon shall see her tender brood, 
 The pride, the pleasure o' the wood, 
 Amang the fresh green leaves bedew'd, 
 
 Awake the early morning, 
 
 So thou, dear bird, young Jeany fair! 
 On trembling string, or vocal air, 
 Shall sweetly pay the tender care 
 
 That tends thy early morning. 
 So thou, sweet rosebud, young and gay, 
 Shalt beauteous blaze u])on the day. 
 And bless the parent's evening ray, 
 
 That watch'd thy early morning. 
 
 2 The heroine of this song was Miss 
 Wilhelmina Alexander, whose brother, 
 Claud Alexander, Esq., had lately be- 
 come the OAvner of Ballochmyle. One 
 summer evening, soon after her brother 
 had taken, possession of the place, the 
 young lady, who was distinguished by 
 evei'y grace of person and mind, was 
 walking along the braes, when she en- 
 countered a plain-looking man, in rustic 
 attire, who appeared to be musing, with 
 his shoulder leaning against one of the 
 trees. As the evening was far advanced, 
 and the encounter very sudden, she was 
 startled, but soon recovered herself, and 
 passed on. Some months afterwards, 
 this song was enclosed to her in a letter 
 from the poet. It is said that at first she 
 paid no attention to the matter; but after- 
 wards showed a becoming sense of the 
 honour thus conferred upon her. 
 
 3 See •' Beauteous rosebud," &c., p. 580. 
 
 CHLORIS. 
 
 Mr Cliloris, mark how green the groves, 
 The primrose banks hoAV fair; 
 
 The balmy gales awake the flowers. 
 And wave thy flaxen hair. 
 
 The laverock shuns the palace gay. 
 
 And o'er the cottage sings ; 
 For Nature smiles as sweet, I ween. 
 
 To shepherds as to kings. 
 
 Let minstrels sweep the skilfu' string 
 
 In lordly lighted ha' ; 
 The shepherd stops his simple reed, 
 
 Blithe, in the birken shaw. 
 
 The princely revel may survey 
 
 Our rustic dance wi' scorn ; 
 But are their hearts as light as ours 
 
 Beneath the milk-white thorn? 
 
 The shepherd, in the flowery glen, 
 In shepherd's phrase will woo : 
 
 The courtier tells a finer tale. 
 But is his heart as true ? 
 
 These wild-wood flowers I've pu'd, to deck 
 That spotless breast o' thine : 
 
 The courtier's gems may witness love, — 
 But 'tis na love like mine. 
 
 OF A' THE AIRTS THE WIND CAN 
 BLAW. 
 
 TunQ-^ Miss Admiral Gordon's Strathspey. 
 Of a' the airts the wind can blaw, 
 
 I dearly like the west. 
 For there the bonnie lassie lives, 
 
 The lassie I lo'e best : 
 There wild woods grow, and rivers row, 
 
 And mony a hill between ; 
 But day and night my fancy's iiiglit 
 
 Is ever wi' my Jean. 
 
 I see her in the dewy flowers, 
 
 I see her sweet and fair; 
 I hear her in the tunefu' birds, 
 
 I hear her charm the air: 
 There's not a bonnie flower that springs 
 
 By fountain, shaw, or green, 
 There's not a bonnie bird that sings. 
 
 But minds me o' my Jean. 
 
 Upon the banks o' flowing Clyde 
 
 The lasses busk them braw ; 
 But when their best they hae put on, 
 
 My Jeannie dings them a' : 
 
606 
 
 BURIs^S. 
 
 In hamely weeds she far exceeds 
 
 The fairest o' the town; 
 Baith sage and gay confess it sae, 
 
 Though dress'd in russet gown. 
 
 The gamesome lamb, that sucks its dam, 
 
 Mair harmless canna he : 
 She has nae faut, (if sic ye ca't), 
 
 Except her love for me : 
 The sparkling dew, o' clearest hue, 
 
 Is like her shining e'en ; 
 In shayje and air nane can campare 
 
 Wi' my sweet lovely Jean. 
 
 O, blaw ye westlin winds, blaw saft 
 
 Amang the leafy trees, 
 Wi' balmy gale, frae hill and dale 
 
 Bring liame the laden bees; 
 And bring the lassie back to me 
 
 That's aye sae neat and clean; 
 Ae smile o' her wad banish care, 
 
 Sae charming is my Jean. 
 
 What sighs and vows amang the knowes 
 
 Hae pass'd atween us twa ! 
 How fond to meet, how wae to part, 
 
 That night she gaed awa? 
 The PoAvers aboon can only ken, 
 
 To Avhom the heart is seen, 
 That nane can be sae dear to me 
 
 As my sweet lovely Jean ! * 
 
 AE FOND KISS. 
 
 Tune — Rory DoWs Port. 
 Ae fond kiss, and then we sever; 
 Ae farewell, and then, for ever! 
 Deep in heart- wrung tears I'll pledge thee, 
 Warring sighs and groans I'll wage thee. 
 Who shall say that Fortune grieves him. 
 While the star of hope she leaves him? 
 Me, nae cheerfu' twinkle lights me ; 
 Dark despair around benights me. 
 
 I'll ne'er blame my partial fancy; 
 Nothing could resist my Nancy ; 
 But to see her was to love her; 
 Love but her, and love for ever. 
 Had we never loved sae kindly, 
 Had we never loved sae blindly. 
 
 4 The Jean, who is here so charmingly 
 celebrated, was Jean Armour, till she be- 
 came Mrs. Burns. The poet archly in- 
 forms us that the song was written "'dur- 
 ing the honey-moon." The grace of sim- 
 ple rural beauty and pure innocence has 
 never been more felicitously expressed. 
 
 Never met, — or never parted, 
 We had ne'er been broken-hearted. 
 
 Fare thee weel, thou fii-st and fairest! 
 Fare thee weel, thou best and dearest! 
 Thine be ilka joy and treasure, 
 reace, enjoyment, love, and pleasure I 
 Ae fond kiss, and then we sever; 
 Ae farewell, alas! for ever! 
 Deep in heart-wrung tears I'll pledge thee, 
 Warring sighs and groans I'll wage thee ! <» 
 
 FAIREST OF THE FAIR. 
 
 O Nakcy ! wilt thou go with me, 
 Nor sigh to leave the flaunting town ? 
 Can silent glens have charms for thee, 
 The lowly cot and russet gown? 
 No longer drest in silken sheen. 
 No longer deck'd with jewels rare, 
 Say, canst thou quit each courtly scene. 
 Where thou wert fairest of the fair? 
 
 O Nancy ! when thou'rt far away. 
 Wilt thou not cast, a wish behind ? 
 Say, canst thou face the parching ray, 
 Nor shrink before the wintry wind ? 
 O, can that soft and gentle mien 
 Extremes of hardship learn to bear; 
 Nor, sad, regret each courtly scene, 
 Where thou wert fairest of the fair? 
 
 O Nancy ! canst thou love so true. 
 Through perils keen with 'me to go. 
 Or, when thy swain mishap shall rue, 
 To share with him the pang of woe? 
 Say, should disease or pain befall. 
 Wilt thou assume the nurse's care, 
 Nor, wistful, those gay scenes recall 
 Where thou wert fairest of the fair ? 
 
 And Avhen at last thy love shall die. 
 Wilt thou receive his parting breath? 
 Wilt thou repress each struggling sigh. 
 And cheer with smiles the bed of death? 
 And wilt thou o'er his breathless clay 
 Strew flowers, and drop the tender tear. 
 Nor then regret those scenes so gay 
 Where thou wert fairest of the fair? c 
 
 5 These exquisitely affecting stanzas 
 contain the essence of a thousand love- 
 tales.— Sir Walter Scott. 
 
 G This song was written by Bishop 
 Percy, the accomplished editor of Reliqucs 
 of Ancient English Poctrij. It is given 
 partly for its own sake, but mainly be- 
 cause Burns set it down as "perhaps the 
 most beautiful ballad in the English 
 language." 
 
GLOSSARY. 
 
 .607 
 
 OF SCOT'a?ISH: "words A-NT^ i>hr,a.ses. 
 
 A\ 
 
 AU. [way. 
 
 Ben, 
 
 Into the spence, or par- 
 
 Abeigh, 
 
 Back, aside, out of the 
 
 Besom, 
 
 A broom. [lour. 
 
 Abread, 
 
 Abroad, in sight. 
 
 Beuk, 
 
 A book. 
 
 Abreed, 
 
 In breadth. 
 
 Beulcs, the Devil 
 
 's 
 
 Aboon, 
 
 Above, up. 
 
 pictured, 
 
 Cards. 
 
 Acquent^ 
 
 Acquainted. 
 
 Bickering, 
 
 Hurrying. 
 
 Ae, 
 
 One. 
 
 Bield, or biel'. 
 
 A shelter. 
 
 Aff, 
 
 Off. 
 
 Bien, 
 
 Well, plentifully. 
 
 Aff-loof, 
 
 Off-hand, extempore. 
 
 Big, 
 
 To build. 
 
 Aft, aften. 
 
 Oft, often. 
 
 Biggin\ 
 
 Building. 
 
 A-gley, 
 
 Wrong, awry. 
 
 Bill, 
 
 A bull. 
 
 Aiblins, 
 
 Perhaps. 
 
 Billie, 
 
 A young fellow, a broth- 
 
 Ails, 
 
 Oak, 
 
 
 er, a companion. 
 
 Ain, 
 
 Own. 
 
 Birk, 
 
 A birch-tree, [fellow. 
 
 Air, 
 
 Early. 
 
 Birkie, 
 
 A conceited, forward 
 
 Aim, 
 
 Iron. 
 
 Bizz, 
 
 A bustle, to bustle. 
 
 Airt, 
 
 Point of the compass. 
 
 Blate, 
 
 Bashful. 
 
 Aith, 
 
 Oath. 
 
 Blastie, 
 
 A shrivelled dwarf. 
 
 Alang, 
 
 Along. 
 
 Blastit, 
 
 Blasted, 
 
 Amaist, 
 
 Almost. 
 
 Blaud, 
 
 A ballad. 
 
 An\ 
 
 And. 
 
 Blaw, 
 
 To blow, to boast 
 
 Ance, 
 
 Once. 
 
 BUeze, 
 
 A blaze, a flame. 
 
 Ane, 
 
 One. 
 
 Blellum, 
 
 A chattering fellow. 
 
 Anither, 
 
 Another. 
 
 Blether, 
 
 To talk nonsense. 
 
 Athort, 
 
 Athwart. 
 
 Blethers, 
 
 Idle talk, nonsense. 
 
 Aught, 
 
 Eight. 
 
 Blink, 
 
 A little while,a moment. 
 
 Auld, 
 
 Old. 
 
 Blink, 
 
 To look kindly, to shine 
 
 Auld-farrant, 
 
 Sagacious, sensible. 
 
 
 by fits. < [ingly. 
 
 Ava, 
 
 At all, of all. 
 
 BUnHn\ 
 
 Smirking, looking lov- 
 
 Awa, 
 
 Away, begone. 
 
 Bluid, 
 
 Blood. 
 
 Ayont, 
 
 Beyond. 
 
 Boddle, 
 
 A small copper coin. 
 
 JSa', 
 
 Ball. 
 
 Bodies, 
 
 People, persons. 
 
 Dade, 
 
 Deserved, expected. 
 
 Bogle, 
 
 A ghost, a hobgoblin. 
 
 Baggie, 
 
 The belly. 
 
 Bonnie, 
 
 Handsome, lovely. 
 
 Bairn, 
 
 A child. [children. 
 
 Boord, 
 
 A board. 
 
 Bairn-tiine, 
 
 A brood, a family of 
 
 Boortries, 
 
 Elder-bushes. 
 
 Baith, 
 
 Both. 
 
 Bore, 
 
 A hole in a wall. 
 
 Ballat, 
 
 A ballad. 
 
 Bouse, 
 
 To drink. 
 
 Ban, 
 
 To curse, to swear. 
 
 Brae, 
 
 A hill-side, a slope. 
 
 Bane, 
 
 Bone. 
 
 Braik, 
 
 A kind of harrow. 
 
 Barmy, 
 
 Yeasty. 
 
 Braindg't, 
 
 Plunged forwai'd. 
 
 Baivk, 
 
 A strip of unploughed 
 
 Brats, 
 
 Rags. 
 
 
 land in a corn-iield. 
 
 Brattle, 
 
 A short ]-ace, a running. 
 
 Baws'nt, 
 
 White-striped. 
 
 Bravo, 
 
 Fine, handsome, brave. 
 
 Bear, 
 
 Barley. 
 
 Breckan, 
 
 Fern. 
 
 Beastie, 
 
 Diminutive of beast. 
 
 Breef, 
 
 A mighty spell,a charm. 
 
 Beet, 
 
 To kindle, to add fuel to. 
 
 Breeks, 
 
 Breeches. 
 
 Beld, 
 
 Bald. 
 
 Brent, 
 
 Bright, clear. 
 
 Belyve, 
 
 By-and-by, presently. 
 
 Brisket, 
 
 The breast. 
 
608 
 
 BURKS. 
 
 Brither, 
 
 Brother. 
 
 Coo/, 
 
 A dunce, a ninny. 
 
 Brock, 
 
 A badger. 
 
 Coast, 
 
 Cast off. 
 
 Brogue, 
 
 A trick. 
 
 Cootie, 
 
 A kitchen dish. 
 
 Broose, 
 
 A weddiug-race. 
 
 Core, 
 
 Party, corps. 
 
 Brugh, 
 
 A borough. 
 
 Corn't, 
 
 Fed Avith oats. 
 
 Brunstane, 
 
 Brimstone. 
 
 Cotter, 
 
 A dweller in a cottage. 
 
 Buirdly, 
 
 Strong-built. 
 
 Cour, 
 
 Cower, let down. 
 
 Bum, 
 
 To hum. 
 
 Cozie, 
 
 Snug. 
 
 Bummin\ 
 
 Humming. 
 
 Crabbit, 
 
 Crabbed, fretful. 
 
 Burdies, 
 
 Diminutive of birds. 
 
 Crack, 
 
 A talk, a conversation. 
 
 Bure, 
 
 Bore, carried. 
 
 Crack, 
 
 To converse, to boast. 
 
 Burn, 
 
 A brook, a rivulet. 
 
 Craik, 
 
 The coi-n-i-ail, a bird. 
 
 Busk, 
 
 To make fine, to dress. 
 
 Crambo-jingle, 
 
 Rhymes. 
 
 But, 
 
 A kitchen. 
 
 Cranreuch, 
 
 Hoar-fi-ost. 
 
 Byke, 
 
 A beehive. 
 
 Crap, 
 
 Crop. [of a cock. 
 
 Byre, 
 
 A cow-house. 
 
 Craiv, 
 
 A rook. Also the crow 
 
 Ca\ 
 
 To caU. 
 
 Creel, 
 
 A basket; be in a creel. 
 
 Cadger, 
 
 A carrier. 
 
 Creeshie, 
 
 Greasy. [be crazed. 
 
 Caird, 
 
 A tinker. 
 
 Crood, 
 
 To coo, as a dove. 
 
 Cairn, 
 
 A loose heap of stones. 
 
 Croon, 
 
 A hoUow moan. 
 
 Callan, 
 
 A boy. 
 
 Crooning, 
 
 Humming. 
 
 Caller, 
 
 Sound, refreshing. 
 
 Crouse, 
 
 Cheerful, courageous. 
 
 Cannie, 
 
 Gentle, mild.dexterous. 
 
 Crowlin', 
 
 Crawling. 
 
 Canfie, 
 
 Cheerful, merry. 
 
 Cuddle, 
 
 To clasp, to caress. 
 
 Cantraip, 
 
 A spell, a charm. 
 
 Cumm^ck, 
 
 A staff with a crooked 
 
 Capstane, 
 
 A cope-stout!, the last 
 
 
 head. 
 
 
 stone of a building. 
 
 Cmple, 
 
 The crupper, the stern. 
 
 Carl-lieinp, 
 
 The male hemp-stalk. 
 
 Cushat, 
 
 The dove, or wood pig- 
 
 Carlin, 
 
 A stout old woman. 
 
 Cutty, 
 
 Short, [eon. 
 
 Cartes, 
 
 Cards. 
 
 naez't, 
 
 Dazed, stunned, stupe- 
 
 Cauld, 
 
 Cold. 
 
 Baffin', 
 
 Sport, merriment, [fied. 
 
 Caup, 
 
 A cup. 
 
 Daft, 
 
 Merry,, giddy, foolish. 
 
 Chanter, 
 
 A drone of a bagpipe. 
 
 
 mad. 
 
 Chapman, 
 
 A pedlar. 
 
 Daimen, 
 
 Rare, now and then. 
 
 Chiel, 
 
 A young fellow. 
 
 Damned, 
 
 Doomed. 
 
 Chow, 
 
 To chew. 
 
 Daur, 
 
 To dare. 
 
 Claes, 
 
 Clothes. 
 
 Daurg, or daurk 
 
 , A day's work. 
 
 Clarkit, 
 
 Wrote, -written. 
 
 Dawtit, 
 
 Fondled, petted. 
 
 Clash, 
 
 Idle tales, such as are 
 
 Dead, 
 
 Death. 
 
 
 in vogue at the time. 
 
 Deil, 
 
 Devil. 
 
 Claught, 
 
 Laid hold of, seized. 
 
 Descrive, 
 
 To describe,to perceive. 
 
 Claver, 
 
 Clover. 
 
 Ding, 
 
 To worst, to excel. 
 
 Clavers, 
 
 Idle stories. 
 
 Dinna, 
 
 Do not. 
 
 Claw, 
 
 To scratch. 
 
 Dirl, 
 
 To shake, to ti-emble. 
 
 deed, 
 
 To clothe. 
 
 Dizzens, 
 
 Dozens, that is, task. 
 
 Cleekit, 
 
 Caught, snatched. 
 
 Donsie, 
 
 Mischievous. [ment. 
 
 Clud, 
 
 A cloud. 
 
 Dool, 
 
 Sorrow; sing dool, la- 
 
 Coble, 
 
 A fishing-boat. 
 
 Douce, 
 
 Grave, sober, wise. 
 
 Coft, 
 
 Bought. [ure. 
 
 Dowff, 
 
 Pithless, fesble. 
 
 Cog, 
 
 A wooden dishormeas- 
 
 Dowie, 
 
 Grieved,spiritless, half- 
 
 Coila, or Coil, 
 
 Kyle, a district in Ayr- 
 
 
 asleep. 
 
 
 shire. 
 
 Dow, 
 
 Can, to be able. 
 
 Collie, 
 
 A country cur. [ingly. 
 
 Drappy, 
 
 Diminutive of drop. 
 
 Convoy, 
 
 To attend, to escort lov- 
 
 Dreeping, 
 
 Dropping, oozing. 
 
 Cood, 
 
 The cud. 
 
 Dreigh, 
 
 Tedious, long about it. 
 

 GLOSSAKY. 
 
 609 
 
 Droddum, 
 
 The breech, the stern. 
 
 Flingin'-tree, 
 
 A flail. 
 
 Droop-rumple t. 
 
 Stooping at the rump. 
 
 Fliskit, 
 
 Fretted. 
 
 Drouth, 
 
 Thirst. 
 
 FlunJde, 
 
 A liveried servant. 
 
 DrucJcen, 
 
 Drunken. 
 
 Foggage, 
 
 After-grass. 
 
 Dni7nly, 
 
 Muddy. 
 
 Foord, 
 
 A ford. 
 
 Duh, 
 
 A pool, or small pond. 
 
 Forbears, 
 
 Foi'efathers. 
 
 Duddie, 
 
 Eagged. 
 
 Forhye, 
 
 Besides. 
 
 Duds, 
 
 Rags, clothes. [ram. 
 
 Forfoughten, 
 
 Fatigued. 
 
 Dusht, 
 
 Pushed or butted by a 
 
 Forgather, 
 
 To meet, to encounter. 
 
 E'e, 
 
 The eye. 
 
 Forjeskit, 
 
 Jaded, used up. 
 
 E'eiiy 
 
 Evening. 
 
 Forrit, 
 
 Forward. 
 
 Een, 
 
 The eyes ; evening. 
 
 Fou, 
 
 Drank. 
 
 Eerie, 
 
 Frightful, sprighted, 
 
 Fow, 
 
 A measure, a bushel. 
 
 
 haunted, ghosted. 
 
 Frae, 
 
 From. 
 
 Eikl, 
 
 Old age. 
 
 Fu\ 
 
 Full. [ed, well off. 
 
 Elbuck, 
 
 The elbow. [vish. 
 
 Fu'-hant, 
 
 Full-handed, fore-hand- 
 
 Eldricli, 
 
 Ghastly, frightful, el- 
 
 FyJce, 
 
 A fuss ; to make a fuss. 
 
 Enetigh, 
 
 Euough. 
 
 Gab, 
 
 The mouth. 
 
 Ettle, 
 
 Effort, attempt. 
 
 Gaed, 
 
 Went. 
 
 Eydent, 
 
 Diligent. 
 
 Gaen, 
 
 Gone. 
 
 Fa', 
 
 A fall, a lot; to fall. 
 
 Gang, 
 
 To go, to walk. 
 
 Faiket, 
 
 Excused, let off. 
 
 Gape, 
 
 To gasp. [force. 
 
 Fain, 
 
 Fond, glad. 
 
 Gar, 
 
 To make, to cause, to 
 
 Fairin\ 
 
 A reward, a present 
 
 Gart, 
 
 Made, caused. 
 
 
 brought from a fair. 
 
 Gate, 
 
 A road, way, manner. 
 
 Fand, 
 
 Found. [to worry. 
 
 Gaun, 
 
 Going. 
 
 Fash, 
 
 To care, to be worried, 
 
 Gash, 
 
 Sagacious, talkative. 
 
 Fasht, 
 
 Troubled, vexed, [day. 
 
 Gat, 
 
 Got. 
 
 Fasten-e'en, 
 
 Kame for Shrove Tues- 
 
 Ganger, 
 
 An exciseman. 
 
 Fa'that, 
 
 To try, to attempt. 
 
 Gaiocie, 
 
 Large, jolly. 
 
 FatVrills, 
 
 Trimmings, 
 
 Gear, 
 
 Goods, property. 
 
 FaugUt, 
 
 A fight. 
 
 Ghaist, 
 
 A ghost. 
 
 Fause, 
 
 False. 
 
 Gie, 
 
 To give. 
 
 Faut, 
 
 A fault. 
 
 Gif, 
 
 If. 
 
 Fawsont, 
 
 Decent, seemly. 
 
 Giftie, 
 
 Diminutive of gift. 
 
 Fear, 
 
 To frighten, to scare. 
 
 Girn, 
 
 To grin. 
 
 Fecht, 
 
 To light. 
 
 Gizz, 
 
 The face, a periwig. 
 
 Fechtin', 
 
 Fighting. 
 
 Glaikit, 
 
 Inattentive, foolish. 
 
 Fell, 
 
 Sharp, biting, pungent. 
 
 Glaizie, 
 
 Smooth .glossy (Shining. 
 
 Fells, 
 
 Hills, mountains. 
 
 Gleg, 
 
 Keen, prompt, ready. 
 
 Ferlie, or ferly, 
 
 A wonder; to wonder; 
 
 Glint, 
 
 To peep. 
 
 
 used in scorn. 
 
 Gloaming, 
 
 The twilight. 
 
 Fidge, 
 
 To fidget. [light. 
 
 Glower, 
 
 To look, to stare. 
 
 Fidgefu'' fain, 
 
 To be in a fidget of dc. 
 
 Gowan, 
 
 The daisy. 
 
 Fidgin'-fain, 
 
 Tickled with pleasure. 
 
 Gowany, 
 
 Full of daisies. 
 
 Fiel, 
 
 Smooth, soft. 
 
 Gowd, 
 
 Gold. 
 
 Fient, 
 
 A fiend, a devjl. 
 
 Goioden, 
 
 Golden. 
 
 Fie?', 
 
 A friend. 
 
 Gowdspink, 
 
 The goldfinch. 
 
 Fissle, 
 
 To bustle, to fuss, 
 
 Graith, 
 
 Tackle, furniture. 
 
 Fit, 
 
 The foot. 
 
 Grane, 
 
 A groan ; to groan. 
 
 Flainen, 
 
 Flannel, 
 
 Grannie, 
 
 Grandmother. 
 
 Flang, 
 
 Threw violently. 
 
 Grat, 
 
 Wept, shed tears. 
 
 Fleesh, 
 
 A fleece. 
 
 Gree, 
 
 To agree; burethegree, 
 
 Fleg, 
 
 A kick. 
 
 
 bore the palm, that is, 
 
 Flichterin', 
 
 Fluttering, 
 
 
 the victory. 
 
OIU 
 
 BURNS. 
 
 Grozet, 
 
 The gooseberry. 
 
 HowJc, 
 
 Grushie, 
 
 Thriving, growing. 
 
 Howlcit, 
 
 Guid, or gude, 
 
 Good, 
 
 Howlet, 
 
 Guidwife, 
 
 Mistress, madam. 
 
 Hoijte, 
 
 Ha\ 
 
 Hall. [the hall. 
 
 Hunders, 
 
 Ha' Bible, 
 
 The large Bible kept in 
 
 Hurcheon, 
 
 Hae, 
 
 To have, to take, to ac- 
 
 Hurdles, 
 
 
 cept, [grey locks. 
 
 Icker, 
 
 Haffets, 
 
 Temples; lyart haffets, 
 
 Ilk, or ilka, 
 
 Hafflins, 
 
 Nearly, half, partly. 
 
 Ingine, 
 
 Hain'd, 
 
 Saved, spared. 
 
 Ingle, 
 
 Hairst, 
 
 Harvest. 
 
 Ingle-cheek, 
 
 Saith, 
 
 A petty oath. 
 
 Ingle-low, 
 
 Haivers, 
 
 Idle talk, gossip. 
 
 Fse, 
 
 Hale, 
 
 Whole, healthy, safe. 
 
 Ither, 
 
 Halesome, 
 
 Wholesome. [clad. 
 
 Jad, 
 
 Half-sarJcit, 
 
 With half a shirt, half- 
 
 Jaiik, 
 
 Hallan, 
 
 A turf seat outside a 
 
 Jauntie, 
 
 
 cottage door. 
 
 Jink, 
 
 Hahj, 
 
 Holy. 
 
 
 Hame, 
 
 Home. 
 
 Jink an' diddle, 
 
 Han', or haun, 
 
 The hand. 
 
 
 Hap, 
 
 Mantle, outer garment. 
 
 Jinker, 
 
 Hap, 
 
 To wrap, to cover. 
 
 Jinkin\ 
 
 Ham, 
 
 Very coarse linen. 
 
 Jirt, 
 
 Hashes, 
 
 Fellows who know not 
 
 Jo, 
 
 
 how to dress or act 
 
 Jouk, 
 
 
 with propriety. 
 
 
 Hastit, 
 
 Hastened. 
 
 Jundie, 
 
 Hand, 
 
 To hold. 
 
 Kail, 
 
 Haugh, 
 
 A valley, low rich land. 
 
 
 Hauld, 
 
 Hold, home. 
 
 Kain, 
 
 Haurl, 
 
 To drag, to haul. 
 
 Kebbuck, 
 
 Havins, 
 
 Good manners. 
 
 Keek, 
 
 Hawkie, 
 
 A Avhite-faced cow. 
 
 
 Heapit, 
 
 Heaped. 
 
 Kelpies, 
 
 Heather, 
 
 Heath. 
 
 
 Hech! 
 
 0! strange! 
 
 
 Heft, 
 
 A handle. 
 
 Ken, 
 
 Heugh, 
 
 A pit, an abyss. 
 
 Kep, 
 
 Heulc, 
 
 A hook. 
 
 Ket, 
 
 Hiltie-sMltie, 
 
 Helter-skelter. 
 
 Kimmer, 
 
 Hingiri', 
 
 Hanging. 
 
 Kirk, 
 
 Hirplin, 
 
 Hobbling. 
 
 Kirn, 
 
 Histie, 
 
 Dry, barren. 
 
 Kirsen, 
 
 Hizzie, 
 
 A hussy, a young girl. 
 
 Kist, 
 
 Hoast, 
 
 A cough. [der. 
 
 Kittle, 
 
 Hog.shouther, 
 
 To jostle with the shoul- 
 
 Knaggie, 
 
 Hoolie! 
 
 Slowly! not too fast! 
 
 Knappin\ 
 
 Hoord, 
 
 A hoard ; to hoard. 
 
 Knowe, 
 
 Hostin\ 
 
 Coughing. 
 
 Knurlin, 
 
 Hotch'd, 
 
 Hitched, turned hither 
 
 Kye, 
 
 
 and thither. 
 
 Kyle Stewart, 
 
 Howe, 
 
 A dell, a hollow. 
 
 Laddie, 
 
 Howe-hacldt, 
 
 Sunk in the back. 
 
 Lade, 
 
 To dig. 
 
 Dug up, disinterred. 
 
 The owl. 
 
 To amble crazily. 
 
 Hundreds. 
 
 A hedgehog. [per. 
 
 Loins, hips, the crup- 
 
 A head of grain. 
 
 Each, every. 
 
 Genius, ingenuity. 
 
 Fire, fireplace. 
 
 Chimney-corner. 
 
 Fire-light. 
 
 I shall, I will. 
 
 Other, each other. 
 
 A jade, a giddy young 
 
 To dally, to trifle, [girl. 
 
 A journey. 
 
 To dodge, to turn a cor- 
 ner ; a quick turn. 
 
 The motion of a fid- 
 dler's elbow. 
 
 That turns quickly. 
 
 Dodging. 
 
 A jerk; to jerk. 
 
 A lover, a sweetheart. 
 
 To stoop, to bow the 
 head, to skulk. 
 
 To push with the elbow. 
 
 Colewoi-t, young cab- 
 bage. 
 
 Fowls, &c., paid as rent. 
 
 Cheese. 
 
 A peep, a glance; to 
 peep, to pry into. 
 
 Mischievous spirits, 
 said to haunt fords 
 and ferries by night. 
 
 To know, to understand. 
 
 To catch. 
 
 A fleece of wool. 
 
 A young girl, a gossip. 
 
 Church. [supper, 
 
 A churn, the harvest 
 
 To christen. 
 
 A shop-counter, a chest- 
 To tickle; ticklish, ski t- 
 
 Shai-p-boned. [tish. 
 
 Breaking, cracking. 
 
 A knoll, a round hillock. 
 
 Knotty, dwarfish. 
 
 Cows. [shire. 
 
 A disti'ict in Aberdeen- 
 Diminutive of lad. 
 
 A load. 
 
GLOSSARY. 
 
 611 
 
 Low. 
 
 Mavis, 
 
 The thrush. 
 
 Loth, unwilling. 
 
 Mawn, 
 
 Mown. 
 
 Bashful, sheepish. 
 
 Meere, 
 
 A mare. 
 
 Lowland. 
 
 MeiJcle, 
 
 Much, large. 
 
 Land, estate. 
 
 Melancholious, 
 
 Mournful, [grist. 
 
 Alone. 
 
 Melder, 
 
 Grain sent to the mill, 
 
 Lonely. 
 
 Men', 
 
 To mend, amend, re- 
 
 Long. 
 
 
 form, [ners. 
 
 Leapt, did leap. 
 
 Mense, 
 
 Decorum, good man- 
 
 Others, the rest. 
 
 Messin, 
 
 A small dog. 
 
 The lark. 
 
 Minnie, 
 
 Mother, dam. 
 
 A lea, a field. 
 
 Miric, 
 
 Dark. 
 
 Loyal, faithful. 
 
 Mither, 
 
 Mother. 
 
 Learning, lore. 
 
 Mony, or monie. 
 
 Many. 
 
 To leave. 
 
 Morn, 
 
 To-morrow. 
 
 Live-long. 
 
 Mottie, 
 
 Full of motes. 
 
 Gladsome, happy. 
 
 Moudiewort, 
 
 A mole. 
 
 I love ; a phrase of en- 
 
 Mou\ 
 
 The mouth. 
 
 dearment. 
 
 Muclcle, 
 
 Much, great, big. 
 
 A look ; to look. 
 
 Muir, 
 
 A moor. 
 
 Lea, field. 
 
 Musie, 
 
 Diminutive of muse. 
 
 Beaten, whipped. 
 
 Muslin-kail, 
 
 Thin poor broth. 
 
 The sky, the firmament. 
 
 Mutchkin, 
 
 An English pint. 
 
 A mistress, a harlot. 
 
 Muve, 
 
 To move. 
 
 Tripped. 
 
 Na, or nae, 
 
 No, nor, not any. 
 
 Tripping along. 
 
 Naig, 
 
 A nag, a horse. 
 
 A waterfall. [flower. 
 
 Nane, 
 
 None. 
 
 Flax; lint i' hell, flax in 
 
 Nappy, 
 
 Ale. 
 
 The linnet. 
 
 Negleckit, 
 
 Neglected. 
 
 Trusted. 
 
 Neehor, or neibor, A neighbour. 
 
 Place of milking. 
 
 Neuk, 
 
 A nook. 
 
 Palm of the hand. 
 
 New-ca'd, 
 
 Newly calved. 
 
 The palms. 
 
 Niest, 
 
 Next. 
 
 A pool, a slough. 
 
 Nieve, 
 
 The fist, the hand. 
 
 To love. 
 
 Nievefu? 
 
 A handful. 
 
 A flame. 
 
 Nine, or nines, 
 
 Exactly, to a nicety. 
 
 Blazing, flaming. 
 
 Nowte, 
 
 Black cattle. 
 
 To leap, to jump. 
 
 o\ 
 
 Of. 
 
 Loosed, let loose. 
 
 Onie, or ony, 
 
 Any. 
 
 The ear, a handle. 
 
 Or, 
 
 Ere, before. 
 
 Smoking. 
 
 0% 
 
 Of it. 
 
 To love; a love. 
 
 Ourie, 
 
 Drooping, shivering. 
 
 A lover. 
 
 Ower, or owre. 
 
 Over, too. 
 
 Grey. 
 
 Pack, 
 
 Familiar, intimate. 
 
 More. 
 
 Painch, 
 
 The paunch, the stom- 
 
 A farm. 
 
 Paitrick, 
 
 A partridge. [ach. 
 
 More. 
 
 Parritch, 
 
 Oatmeal pudding. 
 
 Almost. 
 
 Pat, 
 
 Put, made. 
 
 Mostly. 
 
 Pattle, 
 
 A plough-spade. 
 
 To make. 
 
 Paughfy, 
 
 Proud, haughty. 
 
 Among. 
 
 Paukie, 
 
 Cunning, 
 
 Parti-coloured. 
 
 PayH, 
 
 Paid, did beat. 
 
 Tlie hare. 
 
 PecJian, 
 
 The crop, the stomach. 
 
 Must. 
 
 Pint, 
 
 Two English quarts. 
 
 Must not. 
 
 Pit, 
 
 To put. 
 
C12 
 
 BURNS. 
 
 
 PlacTc, 
 
 A small copper coin. 
 
 Bozet, 
 
 Rosin. 
 
 Platie, 
 
 Diminutive of plate. 
 
 Sae, 
 
 So. 
 
 Plenished, 
 
 Stocked, supplied. 
 
 Saft, 
 
 Soft. [serve. 
 
 Pleugh, 
 
 A plough. [or debt. 
 
 Sair, 
 
 Sore, hard, grievous ; to 
 
 Poind, 
 
 To seize goods for rent 
 
 Sark, 
 
 A shirt, a chemise. 
 
 Poortitn, 
 
 Poverty. 
 
 Saugh, 
 
 The willow. 
 
 Pouchie, 
 
 A purse. 
 
 Saul, 
 
 Soul. 
 
 Poussie, 
 
 A hare, a cat. 
 
 Saumont, 
 
 A salmon. 
 
 Poio, 
 
 The head, the skull. 
 
 Saut, 
 
 Salt. 
 
 Pownie, 
 
 A pony. 
 
 Sax, 
 
 Six. 
 
 Prent, 
 
 Printing; to print. 
 
 Scaud, 
 
 To scald. 
 
 Prief^ 
 
 Proof. 
 
 Scaur, 
 
 Fearful, scared. 
 
 Pu\ 
 
 To pull. 
 
 Scawl, 
 
 A scold, a scolding wife. 
 
 Puir, 
 
 Poor. 
 
 Scanner, 
 
 To loathe. 
 
 Pundy 
 
 Pound. 
 
 Scraichin', 
 
 Screaming. 
 
 Quaik, 
 
 The cry of a duck. 
 
 Screed, 
 
 A rent, a rending. 
 
 Quat, 
 
 Quitted, did quit. 
 
 Scrievin', 
 
 Swiftly, merrily. 
 
 Quean, 
 
 A lass, a wench. 
 
 Scrimpit, 
 
 Scanty. 
 
 liagweed. 
 
 The herb-ragwort. 
 
 Scrimply, 
 
 Scantly, scarcely. 
 
 Pair, 
 
 A roar; to roar. 
 
 Shavie, 
 
 An ill turn, a trick. 
 
 Pair't, 
 
 To be rent or torn. 
 
 Shaw, 
 
 A small wood, a grove. 
 
 Raize, 
 
 To excite, to inflame. 
 
 Shaw, 
 
 To show. 
 
 Pam-stam, 
 
 Hare-brained, thought- 
 
 Sheen, 
 
 Bright, shining. 
 
 Panting, 
 
 Joyous, jovial. [less. 
 
 Sheugh, 
 
 A ditch, a sluice. 
 
 Pape, 
 
 A rope. 
 
 Shiel, 
 
 A shed, a cot. 
 
 Paplock, 
 
 Kude, coarse. 
 
 Shag, 
 
 A push, a shock. 
 
 Rash-hush, 
 
 A rush-bush. 
 
 Shool, 
 
 A shovel. 
 
 Ration, 
 
 A rat. 
 
 Shoon, 
 
 Shoes. 
 
 Raw, 
 
 A row. 
 
 Shored, 
 
 Offered. 
 
 Rax, 
 
 To stretch. 
 
 Sic, 
 
 Such. 
 
 Ream, 
 
 Cream, foam, froth. 
 
 Sidelins, 
 
 Sidelong. 
 
 Ream, 
 
 To froth, to foam. 
 
 Siller, 
 
 Silver.' 
 
 Rede, 
 
 Advice; to advise. 
 
 Silly, 
 
 Weak, fragile. 
 
 Rede, 
 
 Informed, warned. 
 
 Simmer, 
 
 Summer. 
 
 Red-wat-shod, 
 
 Over shoes in blood. 
 
 Sin', 
 
 Since. 
 
 Reek, 
 
 Smoke ; to smoke, [ty- 
 
 Sinsyne, 
 
 Since then. 
 
 ReeJcif, 
 
 Steaming, smokj', smut- 
 
 Skeigh, 
 
 Spirited, mettlesome. 
 
 Reestif, 
 
 Restive, uneasy. 
 
 Skellum, 
 
 A rattling, reckless fel- 
 
 Remead, 
 
 Remedy. 
 
 
 low, [to trip, to skip. 
 
 Requit, 
 
 A requital. 
 
 Skelp, 
 
 To strike, to slap ; also 
 
 Restricked, 
 
 Restricted. 
 
 Skelpit, 
 
 Rode hard, galloped. 
 
 Rief, 
 
 Theft, robbery. 
 
 Skinklin, 
 
 Thin, gauzy, small. 
 
 Rig, 
 
 A rick, a stook. 
 
 Skirl, 
 
 To shriek, to scream. 
 
 Pdg, 
 
 A ridge. 
 
 Sklent, 
 
 To go aslant, to be ob- 
 
 Rigwoodie, 
 
 Gallows-worthy. 
 
 
 lique, to deceive. 
 
 Pin, 
 
 To run, to melt. 
 
 Sklented, 
 
 Acted obliquely. 
 
 Ripp, 
 
 A handful of unthresh- 
 
 Sklentin', 
 
 Slanting, aslant. 
 
 Rive, 
 
 To rival. [ed corn. 
 
 Skreigh, 
 
 To scream. [fence. 
 
 Rock, or rake. 
 
 A distaff. 
 
 Slap, 
 
 A gate, a breach in a 
 
 Roose, 
 
 To praise, to commend. 
 
 Slee, 
 
 Sly. 
 
 Routhie, 
 
 Plentiful, weU-stocked. 
 
 Sleekit, 
 
 Sleek, sly. 
 
 Rotre, 
 
 To roll. 
 
 Sleest, 
 
 Slyest. 
 
 Rowte, 
 
 To low. 
 
 Sliddery, 
 
 Slippery. 
 
 Roicthe, 
 
 A plenty. 
 
 Slypet, 
 
 Turned and fell gently. 
 
 Rowtin', 
 
 liOwing. 
 
 Sma% 
 
 Small. 
 

 GLOSSARY. 
 
 613 
 
 Smeddum, 
 
 A powder. 
 
 Stimpart, 
 
 The eighth of a Win- 
 
 SmeeJc, 
 
 Smoke; to smoke. 
 
 
 chester bushel. 
 
 Smiddie, 
 
 A smithy. 
 
 Stirk, 
 
 A steer, or heifer. 
 
 Smoor, 
 
 To smother. 
 
 StooUd, 
 
 Grain made into shooks. 
 
 Smoutie, 
 
 Smutty. 
 
 Stoor, 
 
 Sounding hollow, loud. 
 
 Smytrie, 
 
 A parcel, a flock. 
 
 
 and hoarse. 
 
 Snash, 
 
 Abuse. 
 
 Stop, 
 
 To manage the stops of 
 
 Snaw, 
 
 Snow. 
 
 
 a musical instrument ; 
 
 Snaojoy, 
 
 Snowy. 
 
 
 that is, play upon it. 
 
 Sued, 
 
 To cut. 
 
 Stoure, 
 
 A smudge, a cloud of 
 
 Snell, 
 
 Bitter, biting. 
 
 Strang, 
 
 Strong. [lust. 
 
 SneesMn, 
 
 Snuff ; sneeshin - mill. 
 
 Straught, 
 
 Straight. 
 
 
 snuff-box. 
 
 Striddle, 
 
 To straddle. 
 
 Snick, 
 
 A door-latch. 
 
 Stroan, 
 
 To spout. [dily. 
 
 Snick-drawing, 
 
 Unlatching, stealing in- 
 
 Strunt, 
 
 To strut, to walk stur- 
 
 
 to a house or place. 
 
 Studdie, 
 
 An anvil. 
 
 Snool, 
 
 To sneak, to crouch. 
 
 Sturt, 
 
 To harass, to molest. 
 
 Snoov't, 
 
 Went smoothly and 
 
 Styme, 
 
 A glimmer, a jot. 
 
 Snore, 
 
 To snort. [steadily. 
 
 Sud, 
 
 Should. 
 
 Snowk, 
 
 To scent, to snuff. 
 
 Sugh, or sough, 
 
 The rushing noise of 
 
 Sodger, 
 
 A soldier. 
 
 
 wind or water. 
 
 Sonsie, 
 
 Good-looking, jolly. 
 
 Sumph, 
 
 A blockhead. 
 
 Souple, 
 
 Supple, nimble. 
 
 Sune, 
 
 Soon. 
 
 Solder, 
 
 A shoemaker. 
 
 Swank, 
 
 Stately, jolly. 
 
 Sowther, 
 
 To solder. [ings. 
 
 Swap, 
 
 An exchange. 
 
 Spates, 
 
 Swollen streams, swell- 
 
 Swat, 
 
 Did sweat. 
 
 Spavie, 
 
 Tlic spavin. 
 
 Swats, 
 
 Drink, good ale. 
 
 Spean, 
 
 To wear. 
 
 Swirl, 
 
 A curve, a curl. 
 
 Speel, 
 
 To climb, to mount. 
 
 Swith! 
 
 Getaway! 
 
 Spence, 
 
 A cutta^e-parlour. 
 
 Swoor, 
 
 Swore. 
 
 Spier, 
 
 To ask, to inquire. 
 
 Syne, 
 
 Since, ago, then. 
 
 Sprattle, 
 
 To scramble. 
 
 Ta'en, 
 
 Taken. 
 
 Spunk, 
 
 Fire, mettle, a spai-k. 
 
 Tak\ , 
 
 To take. 
 
 Spunkie, 
 
 Fiery ; the Devil ; a jack- 
 
 Tap to tae. 
 
 Top to toe. 
 
 
 o'-lantern. 
 
 Tauld, 
 
 Told. [handled. 
 
 Squatter, 
 
 To flutter in water, as 
 
 Tawie, 
 
 Peaceable, easy to be 
 
 
 a wild duck. [ing. 
 
 Tawted, 
 
 Matted, hair or wool. 
 
 Squattle, 
 
 To squat byway of hid- 
 
 Teen, 
 
 Grief, sorrow. 
 
 Stacker, 
 
 To stagger. 
 
 Tent, 
 
 Care,, heed. 
 
 Staggie, 
 
 Diminutive of stag. 
 
 Tentie, 
 
 Heedful, cautious. 
 
 Stalwart, 
 
 Stately, strong. 
 
 Tentless, 
 
 Careless, heedless. 
 
 Stane, 
 
 A stone. [rass. 
 
 Thack, 
 
 Thatch ; thacJc an' rape. 
 
 Stank, 
 
 Standing water, a mo- 
 
 
 clothing and necessa- 
 
 Stan?, or stan't. 
 
 To stand. 
 
 
 ries. 
 
 Stark, 
 
 Stout. 
 
 Thae, 
 
 These, or those. 
 
 Starns, 
 
 Stars. 
 
 Theekit, 
 
 Thatched. 
 
 Stato, 
 
 Stole. [excess. 
 
 Thegither, 
 
 Together. 
 
 StecMn', 
 
 Cramming, eating to 
 
 Thir, 
 
 These. 
 
 Steeks, 
 
 Stitches. 
 
 Thirl, 
 
 To thrill. 
 
 Steer, 
 
 To vex, to molest. 
 
 Thole, 
 
 To bear, to endure. 
 
 Steeve, 
 
 Firm, strong, jolly. 
 
 Thowe, 
 
 A thaw; to thaw. 
 
 Stens, 
 
 Leaps, bounds. 
 
 Thowless, 
 
 Lazy, listless. 
 
 Stents, 
 
 Dues, of any kind. 
 
 Thrang, 
 
 A throng; to be busy 
 
 Steyesf, 
 
 Steepest. 
 
 
 or crowded with busi- 
 
 Stibble, 
 
 Stubble. 
 
 
 ness. 
 
G14 
 
 BURNS. 
 
 
 TJirave, 
 
 Twenty-four sheaves. 
 
 Wat, 
 
 To know, to think. 
 
 Thraw, 
 
 To twist. 
 
 Water-brose, 
 
 Pottage or broth made 
 
 Thretteen, 
 
 Thirteen. 
 
 
 of meal and water 
 
 Thrum, 
 
 To sound, [ing noise. 
 
 
 only. 
 
 Tlmd, 
 
 To make a loud thump- 
 
 Wattle, 
 
 A twig, a switch. 
 
 Timmer, 
 
 Timber. 
 
 WauUe, 
 
 To reel. 
 
 Tine, 
 
 To lose. 
 
 Waukit, 
 
 Hardened; tough. 
 
 Tinkler, 
 
 A tinker. 
 
 Waukri/e, 
 
 Wakeful. 
 
 Tippennie, 
 
 Twopenny ale. 
 
 WaurH, 
 
 To worst, to surpass. 
 
 Tint, 
 
 Lost. 
 
 Wean, 
 
 A child. 
 
 Tip, 
 
 Aram. 
 
 Weary.widdle, 
 
 Toilsome contest of life. 
 
 TirUn\ 
 
 Unroofing. 
 
 Wee, 
 
 Little; a little, a bit. 
 
 Tither, 
 
 The other. 
 
 Weel, 
 
 Well. 
 
 Tocher, 
 
 A dower, a marriage- 
 
 Weet, 
 
 Wet, wetness. 
 
 
 portion ; tocher clear. 
 
 Wee-tliings, 
 
 Little-ones. 
 
 
 without pay. 
 
 We'se, 
 
 We shall, we will. 
 
 ToddUn% 
 
 Tottering, walking un- 
 
 Wha, whan, 
 
 Who, whom. 
 
 
 steadily ; toddlin hur- 
 
 JVhaizle, 
 
 To wheeze. 
 
 
 nie, trotting stream- 
 
 Whalpit, 
 
 Whelped. 
 
 
 let. 
 
 Whan, 
 
 When. 
 
 Toun, 
 
 The farm, the hamlet. 
 
 Whare, 
 
 Where. 
 
 Tow, 
 
 A rope. 
 
 Whid, 
 
 The motion of a hare in 
 
 Towmond, 
 
 A twelvemonth. 
 
 
 running, when not 
 
 Towzie, 
 
 Rough, shaggy. 
 
 
 frightened. 
 
 Toy, 
 
 An ancient head-dress. 
 
 Whidden, 
 
 Running as a hare. 
 
 Toyte, 
 
 To totter. 
 
 Whins, 
 
 Furze. 
 
 Trashtrie, 
 
 Trash, rubbish. 
 
 Whitter, 
 
 A bumper. 
 
 Trouth, ovtroivtf 
 
 ., Truth. 
 
 Whittle, 
 
 A knife. 
 
 Twa, 
 
 Two. 
 
 Whunstane, 
 
 Whinstone. 
 
 Twal, 
 
 Twelve. 
 
 Whyles, 
 
 Sometimes. 
 
 Twalpennie, 
 
 Twelve pence ; equal to 
 
 Wf, 
 
 With. . 
 
 
 one penny English. 
 
 Wimplin', 
 
 Meandering, winding. 
 
 Tyke, 
 
 A dog. [too. 
 
 Win, 
 
 Won. 
 
 Unco, 
 
 Strange, uncouth, very, 
 
 Winna, 
 
 Will not. 
 
 Uncos, 
 
 News, marvels. 
 
 Win\ 
 
 Wind. 
 
 Unfauld, 
 
 To unfold. 
 
 Win's, 
 
 Winds. 
 
 Upo\ 
 
 Upon. 
 
 Winnock-hunker 
 
 Window-seat. [ning. 
 
 Usqudbae, 
 
 Whiskey. 
 
 Winsome, 
 
 Hearty, pleasant, win- 
 
 Vauntie, 
 
 Proud, overjoyed. 
 
 Wintle, 
 
 To stagger, to reel. 
 
 Vera, 
 
 Very. 
 
 Wonner, 
 
 A wonder; used in con- 
 
 Wa', wa's. 
 
 Wall, walls. 
 
 
 tempt. 
 
 Wad, 
 
 Would. 
 
 Woodie, 
 
 A withe, a halter. 
 
 Wadna, 
 
 Would not. 
 
 Wow! 
 
 An exclamation of won- 
 
 Wae, 
 
 Woe, sorry. 
 
 
 der or pleasure. 
 
 Wale, 
 
 To choose, to select. 
 
 Wrang, 
 
 Wrong. 
 
 Walie, 
 
 Large, jolly, lusty. 
 
 Wyliecoat, 
 
 A flannel vest. 
 
 Wame, 
 
 The belly. 
 
 Yell, 
 
 Barren, milkless. 
 
 Wanclmncie, 
 
 Unlucky. 
 
 Yerkit, 
 
 Jerked, lashed. 
 
 War'ly, 
 
 AYorldly. 
 
 Yestreen, 
 
 Yesternight. 
 
 WarJc, 
 
 Work. 
 
 Yill, 
 
 Ale. 
 
 Ware, 
 
 To spend; worn. 
 
 Yird, 
 
 Earth, ground. 
 
 Warl, 
 
 The world. 
 
 YoJcin', 
 
 A bout, a turn. 
 
 Warlock, 
 
 A wizard. 
 
 ' Yont, 
 
 Beyond. 
 
 Warse, worst, 
 
 Worse, Avorst. 
 
 Yowe, 
 
 An ewe. 
 
 Wastrie, 
 
 Waste, prodigality. 
 
 
 
JAMES BEATTIE 
 
 SKETCH OF HIS LIFE. 
 
 James Beattie was born at Laurencekirk, in Kincardineshire, the 25th of 
 October, 1735. His father, who was a small farmer and shopkeeper, died in 
 1742, James being then seven years old. David, the eldest of the six children, 
 undertook for the education of James. The parish school to which he was sent 
 was' then tauuht by one Milne, whom his pupil describes as a good grammarian 
 and Latinist, but destitute of taste and other qualifications for a teacher. Milne 
 pi-cferred Ovid to Virgil; while his pupil, even at that age, showed a better 
 taste by preferring the severer poet. It is said that, in the interval of school 
 honrs, Paradise Lost and Thomson's Seasons were eagerly devoured by the boy. 
 
 In 1749, at the age of fourteen, Beattie entered Marischal College, Aberdeen ; 
 and such was his proficiency, that he took the first of the allowances which 
 were given to such students as were unable to pay their own way. He was 
 much given to general reading, especially in poetry ; and spent a good deal of 
 his leisure in the study and practice of music : he also applied himself closely 
 to all the branches taught, except mathematics, for which he had no taste or 
 aptitude, and took the regular degree in 1753. 
 
 Being now obliged to look out for liimself, he applied for the situation of 
 parish schoolmaster at Fordoun, which happened to be vacant, and was elected 
 in August, 1753. The salary M-as small, and the place in other respects not 
 very eligible. Near the village, however, resided Lord Gardenstown, who 
 caught Beattie, with pencil and paper in hand, in a romantic glen near his 
 house ; struck up a conversation with him ; and, finding him to be a poet, gave 
 him the invocation to Venus in the opening of Lucretius to translate : this he 
 did on the spot, and so well withal, as to remove the doubts which that gentle- 
 man entertained as to whether his poetry was really his own. The result was, 
 that his lordship became a friend and patron of the young poet, as Lord Mon- 
 boddo also did, the two vying with each other in his behalf. While there, he 
 wrote several poetical pieces, and sent them, with his initials, to the Scots Mag- 
 azine, where they were published. These, however, brought him nothing but 
 fame. 
 
 After teaching some time, he returned to Aberdeen to engage in preparing 
 for the ministry ; but it was not long before he gave up his purpose of under- 
 taking that office ; and in 1758, a vacancy occurring in the Aberdeen Grammar 
 School, he was elected, and entered upon his duties, which allowed him leisure 
 for the cultivation of his poetical gift. Two years later, through the aid of his 
 friends, he was appointed Professor of Philosophy in Marischal College. He 
 was young and scantily qualified for such a post ; but he set manfully to work, 
 read and Avrote hard, and in a few years became able to front such men as 
 Gregory, Campbell, and Eeid, with whom he was associated. In 1761, he 
 published a volume of poems. The book appeared at the same time in Edin- 
 burgh and London, and was hailed with general applause ; the poetry being 
 held supei'ior to any since Gray's. But he himself soon grew to think quite 
 otherwise of it, and indeed was taken w ith a fastidious loathing of the poems. 
 
 In 1767, Beattie was married to Mary, the daughter of Dr. Dunn, then Rec- 
 tor of the Aberdeen Grammar School. She was an amiable and gifted Avomau, 
 
 615 
 
CIO BEATTIE. 
 
 but, unfortunately, inherited from her mother the germs of insanity, which are 
 said to have broke out in capricious Avaywardness, some time before the evil 
 culminated in actual madness. The great era of Beattie's life was in 1770, 
 when he published his Essay on Truth, which soon spread his fame far and 
 near. The first edition Avas bought up so eagerly, that a second was issued the 
 next year ; and in less than four years five large editions were sold. It -■ -as 
 also translated into scA'eral foreign languages, and attracted the notice of m. y 
 eminent persons in various parts of the Continent. The essay was intended as 
 a refutation of Hume's sceptical and atheistical philosophy, and was written 
 with great ardour, and in a rather florid and taking style, well adapted to catch 
 a loud and rapid popularity, but not a solid and enduring one. — The next 
 year, Beattie visited London, and began a personal acquaintance with men of 
 the highest eminence, such as Lords Mansfield and Lyttleton, Dr. Johnson, 
 Burke, and others. He was also honoured with the degree of Doctor of Laws 
 by the University of Oxford; and in 1773, he was admitted to an interview 
 with the King, who received him very graciously, and bestowed on him a pen- 
 sion of £200 a year. 
 
 The Essay on Truth is scarcely heard of in our time ; nor does it deserve to 
 be, for it is altogether lacking in the calmness of thought and austerity of style 
 which should rightly mark a philosophical treatise. I read it many years ago, 
 but have never cared to read it again. The production of Beattie that I am 
 next to speak of is one that I am never weary of reading. — After a while he 
 became so disgusted with his juvenile poems, that he tried his utmost to run 
 them out of print, and induce a public oblivion of them. As a natural conse- 
 quence of this, he seems to have groAvn more chary in his courtship of the 
 Muses. Nevertheless he was not so unconscious or so distrustful of his poeti- 
 cal gift as to relinquish his early and favourite pursuit. A few months after 
 the publication of the essay, the first book of The Minstrel was given to the 
 world, but without the author's name. The professional critics, not knowing 
 whose workmanship it was, were very severe in condemnation of it, but the 
 public chose, in this case, to judge for themselves, and so they fell in love 
 with the beautiful poem. The result was, that it ran through four editions, 
 each later one being revised and improved by the author. In ,1774, he pub- 
 lished the second book ; which, as the authorship was now known, was loudly 
 praised by the critics, as well as by the general reader. It was his purpose to 
 add a third book; but this he never did. 
 
 In 1776, Beattie set forth a new edition of his Essay on Truth, adding withal 
 two other essays, one on Poetry and Music, and one on Laughter and Ludicrous 
 Composition. This was followed, in 1783, by a volume of Dissertations on Mem- 
 ory and Imagination, Dreaming, &c. ; also, in 1786, by a little treatise on the 
 Christian Evidences, which he himself preferred to all his writings for its " close- 
 ness of matter and style; " also, in 1790-93, by two volumes on the Elements 
 of Moral Science, an abridgment of his professorial lectures. Long before this 
 time, his wife had to be separated from him on account of her malady. He 
 had two sons, one named James Hay, from his friend the Earl of Errol ; the 
 other named Montague, from the celebrated Mrs. Montague, who was one of 
 his London friends. The history of both sons is sad enough. James Hay, 
 who gave high literary promise, and was still more distinguished for his amia- 
 ble disposition, was appointed to succeed his father in the chair, but died in 
 1790 at the age of twenty-two. The father suffered dreadfully from this blow. 
 The death of Montague, also a youth of much promise, in 1796, by a rapid 
 fever, totally prostrated the poor man. In his extreme anguish, he Avas some- 
 times driven to seek relief in the cup, and Av^as so far put from himself, that 
 sometimes he Avent about the house asking Avhere his son Avas, and AA'hether he 
 had a son or not. He AAathdrcAV from all society, lost all relish of his former 
 delights, AA^as seized, in 1799, Avith a paralytic affection, and languished on till 
 the 18th of August, 1803, when the gifted', amiable, and most afflicted " Min- 
 strel " breathed his last. 
 
JAMES BEATTIE 
 
 THE MINSTREL; OR. 
 
 THE PROGRESS OE GENIUS.* 
 
 BOOK FIEST. 
 
 1 Ah ! who can tell liow hard it is to climb 
 
 The steep where Fame's proud temple shines afar ? 
 Ah ! who can tell how many a soul sublime 
 Has felt the influence of malignant star, 
 And waged with Fortune an eternal war, — 
 Check'd by the scoff of Pride, by Envy's frown. 
 And Poverty's unconquerable bar ; — 
 In life's low vale remote has pined alone, 
 Then di'opp'd into the grave, unpitied and unknown ? 
 
 2 And yet the languor of inglorious days 
 Not equally oppressive is to all ; 
 
 Him who ne'er listen'd to the voice of praise. 
 The silence of neglect can ne'er appal. 
 There are wlio, deaf to mad Ambition's call. 
 Would shrink to hear th' obstreperous trump of Fame ; 
 Supremely blest, if to their portion fall 
 Health, competence, and peace. Nor higher aim 
 Had he whose simple tale these artless lines proclaim. 
 
 3 The rolls of fame I will not now explore ; 
 Nor need I here describe, in learned lay, 
 How forth tlie Minstrel fared in days of yore. 
 Eight glad of heart, though homely in array ; 
 His waving locks and beard all hoary gray ; 
 "While from his bending shoulder, decent, hung 
 His harp, the sole companion of his way. 
 Which to the whistling wind responsive rung ; 
 
 And ever as he went some merry lay he sung. 
 
 * The design was to trace the progress of a Poetical Genius, horn in a rude age, 
 from the first dawning of ftmcy and reason, till tliat period atw^hich he may be sup- 
 posed capable of appearing in the ^vorld as a Minstrel, that is, an itinerant poet 
 and musician; — a (character which, according to the notions of our forefathers, was 
 not only respectable, but sacred.— The Author. 
 
 617 
 
618 BEATTIE. 
 
 4 Fret not thyself, tliou glittering child of pride, 
 That a poor villager inspires my strain : 
 AVith thee let Pageantry and Power abide : 
 The gentle Muses haunt the sylvan reign ; 
 AYhere through wild groves at eve the lonely swain 
 Enraptured roams, to gaze on Nature's charms: 
 Q'liey hate the sensual and scorn the vain, 
 
 The parasite their influence never warms, 
 Nor him whose sordid soul the love of gold alarms. 
 
 5 Though richest hues the peacock's plumes adorn, 
 Yet horror screams from his discordant throat. 
 Eise, sons of harmony, and hail the morn. 
 While warbling larks on russet pinions float: 
 
 Or seek at noon the w^oodland scene remote, 
 Where the grey linnets carol from the hill. 
 0, let them ne'er, with artificial note. 
 To please a tyrant, strain the little bill. 
 But sing what Heaven inspires, and wander where they will! 
 
 6 Liberal, not lavish, is kind Nature's hand; 
 Nor was perfection made for man below ; 
 
 Yet all her schemes with nicest art are plann'd ; 
 Good counteracting ill, and gladness woe. 
 With gold and gems if Chilian mountains glow ; 
 If bleak and barren Scotia's hills arise ; 
 There plague and poison, lust and rapine grow ; 
 Here, peaceful are the vales, and pure the skies. 
 And Freedom fires the soul, and sparkles in the eyes. 
 
 7 Then grieve not, thou, to whom th' indulgent Muse 
 Vouchsafes a portion of celestial fire ; 
 
 Nor blame the partial Fates, if they refuse 
 Th' iniperial banquet and the rich attire. 
 Know thine own worth, and reverence the lyre. 
 Wilt thou debase the heart which God refined ? 
 No ; let thy heaven-taught soul to Heaven aspire, 
 To fancy, freedom, harmony resign'd ; 
 Ambition's grovelling crew for ever left behind. 
 
 8 Canst thou forego the pure ethereal soul 
 In eacli fine sense so exquisitely keen. 
 On the dull couch of Luxury to loll. 
 
 Stung with disease, and stupefied with spleen ; 
 Fain to implore the aid of Flattery's screen, 
 Even from thyself thy loathsome heart to hide, 
 
THE MIKSTEEL. 619 
 
 (The mansion tlien no more of joy serene,) 
 Where fear, distrust, malevolence abide. 
 And impotent desire, and disappointed pride ? 
 
 9 0, how canst thou renounce the boundless store 
 Of charms which Nature to her votary yields ? 
 The warbling woodland, tlie resounding shore. 
 The pomp of groves, and garniture of fields; 
 All that the genial ray of morning gilds. 
 And all that echoes to the song of even. 
 All that the mountain's sheltering bosom shields, 
 And all the dread magnificence of heaven, 
 
 0, how canst thou renounce, and hope to be forgiven ? 
 
 10 These charms shall work thy soul's eternal health, 
 And love and gentleness and joy impart. 
 
 But these thou must renounce, if lust of wealth 
 E'er win its way to thy corrupted heart : 
 For, ah ! it poisons like a scorpion's dart ; 
 Prompting th' ungenerous wish, the selfish scheme, 
 The stern resolve, unmoved by pity's smart, 
 The troublous day, and long distressful dream. — 
 Return, my roving Muse, resume thy purposed theme. 
 
 11 There lived in Gothic days, as legends tell, 
 A shepherd-swain, a man of low degree ; 
 Whose sires, perchance, in Fairyland might dwell, 
 Sicilian groves, or vales of A ready : 
 
 But he, I ween, was of the north countree; 
 A nation famed for song and beauty's charms ; 
 Zealous, yet modest; innocent, though free; 
 Patient of toil ; serene amidst alarms ; 
 Inflexible in faith ; invincible in arms. 
 
 12 The shepherd-swain of whom I mention made 
 On Scotia's mountains fed his little flock; 
 The sickle, scythe, or plough he never sway'd : 
 An honest heart was almost all his stock ; 
 His drink the living water from the rock : 
 The milky dams supplied his board, and lent 
 Their kindly fleece to baffle Winter's shock ; 
 And he, though oft with dust and sweat besprent. 
 
 Did guide and guard their wanderings, whereso'er they went. 
 
 13 From labour, health, from health, contentment, springs ; 
 Contentment opes the source of every joy. 
 
 He envied not, he never thought of king-^s ; 
 
620 BEATTIE. 
 
 Nor from those appetites sustained annoy 
 That chance may frustrate, or indulgence cloy; 
 Xor Fate his calm and liumhle hopes beguiled ; 
 He mourn'd no recreant friend, nor mistress coy. 
 For on his tows the blameless Phoebe smiled. 
 And her alone he loved, and loved her from a child. 
 
 14 'No jealousy their dawn of love o'ercast, 
 
 !N"or blasted were their wedded days with strife; 
 Each season look'd delightful as it pass'd. 
 To the fond husband and the faithful wife. 
 Beyond the lowly vale of shepherd life 
 They never roam'd : secure beneath the storm 
 Which in Ambition's lofty hand is rife. 
 Where j)eace and love are canker'd by the worm 
 Of pride, each bud of joy industrious to deform. 
 
 15 The wight whose tale these artless lines unfold 
 Was all the offspring of this humble pair : 
 His birth no oracle or seer foretold ; 
 
 No prodigy appeared in earth or air, 
 Nor aught that might a strange event declare. 
 You guess each circumstance of Edwin's birth ; 
 The parent's transport, and the parent's care ; 
 The gossip's prayer for wealth and wit and worth ; 
 And one long summer day of indolence and mirth. 
 
 16 And yet poor Edwin was no vulgar boy : 
 Deep thought oft seem'd to fix his infant eye ; 
 Dainties he heeded not, nor gaud, nor toy, 
 Save one short pipe of rudest minstrelsy : 
 Silent when glad ; affectionate, though shy; 
 And now his look was most demurely sad ; 
 And now he laugh'd aloud, yet none knew why. 
 
 The neighbours sta*'ed and sigh'd, yet bless'd the lad : 
 Some deem'd him wondrous wise, and some believed him mad. 
 
 17 But why should I his childish feats display ? 
 Concourse and noise and toil he ever fled; 
 Nor cared to mingle in the clamorous fray 
 Of squabbling imps; but to the forest sped, 
 Or roam'd at large the lonely mountain's head. 
 Or, where the maze of some bewilder'd stream 
 To deep untrodden groves his footsteps led. 
 There would he wander wild, till Phoebus' beam, 
 
 Shot from the western cliff, released the weary team. 
 
THE MIXSTREL. 621 
 
 18 Til' exploit of strength, dexterity, or speed, 
 To him nor A'anity nor joy could bring. 
 
 His heart, from cruel sport estranged, would bleed 
 To work the woe of any liying thing. 
 By trap or net, by arrow or by sling : 
 These he detested; those he scorn'd to wield; 
 He wish'd to be the guardian, not the king, 
 Tyrant far less, or traitor of the field. 
 And sure the sylvan reign unbloody joy might yield. 
 
 19 Lo! where the stripling, rapt in wonder, roves 
 Beneath the precipice o'erhung with pine ; 
 And sees, on high, amidst tli' encircling groves, 
 
 - From cliff to cliff the foaming torrents shine : 
 While waters, woods, and winds in concert join, 
 And Echo swells the chorus to the skies. 
 Would Edwin this majestic scene resign 
 For aught the huntsman's puny craft supplies ? 
 Ah ! no ; he better knows great Nature's charms to prize. 
 
 20 And oft he traced the uplands, to survey, 
 AVhen o'er the sky advanced the kindling dawn. 
 The crimson cloud, blue main, and mountain gray. 
 And lake, dim-gleaming on the smoky lawn : 
 
 Far to the West the long, long vale withdrawn, 
 Where twilight loves to linger for a while ; 
 And now he faintly kens the bounding faAvn, 
 And villager abroad at early toil. 
 But, lo ! the Sun appears, and heaven, earth, ocean smile ! 
 
 21 And oft the craggy cliff he loved to climb. 
 When all in mist the world below was lost : 
 What dreadful pleasure ! there to stand sublime, 
 Like shipwreck'd mariner on desert coast, 
 
 And view th' enormous waste of vapour, toss'd 
 In billows, lengthening to th' horizon round, 
 Now scoop'd in gulfs, with mountains now emboss'd ! 
 And hear the voice of mirth and song rebound, 
 Flocks, herds, and waterfalls, along the hoar profound ! 
 
 22 In truth he Avas a strange and wayward wight, 
 Fond of each gentle and each dreadful scene : 
 In darkness, and in storm, he found delight ; 
 Nor less than when on ocean-wave serene 
 The southern Sun diffused his dazzling sheen : 
 Even sad vicissitude amused his soul ; 
 
622 BEATTIE. 
 
 And if a sigh would sometimes intervene. 
 And down his cheek a tear of pity roll, 
 A sigh, a tear, so sweet, he wish'd not to control. 
 
 23 " ye wild groves ! 0, where is now your hlooni ? " 
 (The Muse interprets thus his tender" thought,) 
 
 •^ Your flowers, your verdure, and your balmy gloom, 
 Of late so grateful in the hour of drought? 
 Why do the birds, that song and rapture brought 
 To all your bowers, their mansions now forsake ? 
 Ah! why has fickle chance this ruin wrought? 
 For now the storm howls mournful through the brake. 
 And the dead foliage flies in many a shapless flake. 
 
 24 " Where now the rill, melodious, pure, and cool. 
 And meads, with life and mirth and beauty crown'd ? 
 Ah ! see, th' unsightly slime and sluggish pool 
 Have all the solitary vale imbrown'd : 
 
 , Fled each fair form, and mute each melting sound ; 
 The raven croaks forlorn on naked spray ; 
 And, hark! the river, bursting every mound, 
 Down the vale thunders, and with wasteful sway 
 Uproots the grove, and rolls the shatter'd rocks away. 
 
 25 " Yet such the destiny of all on Earth ! 
 So flourishes and fades majestic Man : 
 
 Fair is the bud his vernal morn brings forth, - 
 And fostering gales awhile the nursling fan : 
 0, smile, ye heavens serene ! ye mildews wan, 
 Ye blighting whirlwinds, spare his balmy prime, 
 Nor lessen of his life the little span! 
 Borne on the swift though silent wings of Time, 
 Old age comes on apace to ravage all the clime. 
 
 26 " And be it so. Let those deplore their doom. 
 Whose hope still grovels in this dark sojourn : 
 But lofty souls, who look beyond the tomb, 
 Can smile at Fate, and wonder how they mourn. 
 Shall Spring to these sad scenes no more return ? 
 Is yonder wave the Sun's eternal bed ? 
 
 Soon shall the orient with new lustre burn. 
 And Spring shall soon her vital influence shed. 
 Again attune the grove, again adorn the mead. 
 
 27 " Shall I be left forgotten in the dust, 
 When Fate, relenting, lets the flower revive ? 
 Shall Nature's voice, to man alone unjust. 
 
THE MII^STREL. 623 
 
 Bid him, though doom'd to perish, hope to live ? 
 Is it for this fair Virtue oft must strive 
 With disappointment, penury, and pain ? 
 No ! Heaven's immortal Spring shall yet arrive, 
 And man's majestic beauty bloom again. 
 Bright through th' eternal year of Love's triumphant reign." 
 
 28 This truth sublime his simple sire had taught : 
 In sooth, 'twas almost all the shepherd knew : 
 No subtile nor superfluous lore he sought, 
 Nor ever wish'd his Edwin to pursue. 
 
 " Let man's own sphere," said he, " confine his view ; 
 
 Be man's peculiar work his sole delight." 
 - And much, and oft, he warn'd him to eschew 
 
 Falsehood and guile, and aye maintain the right. 
 By pleasure unseduced, unawed by lawless might. 
 
 29 "And from the prayer of Want, and plaint of Woe, 
 never, never turn away thine ear ! 
 
 Forlorn, in this bleak wilderness below. 
 Ah ! what were man, should Heaven refuse to hear ! 
 To others do (the law is not severe) 
 What to thyself thou wishest to be done : 
 Forgive thy foes ; and love thy parents dear, 
 And friends, and native land ; nor those alone : 
 All human weal and woe learn thou to make thine own." 
 
 30 See, in the rear of the warm sunny shower 
 The visionary boy from shelter fly ; 
 
 For now the storm of summer rain is o'er, 
 And cool and fresh and fragrant is the sky : 
 And, lo ! in the dark East, expanded high. 
 The rainbow brightens to the setting Sun ! 
 Fond fool, that deem'st the streaming glory nigh. 
 How vain the chase thine ardour has begun ! 
 'Tis fled afar, ere half thy purposed race be run. 
 
 31 Yet couldst thou learn that thus it fares with age, 
 When pleasure, wealth, or power the bosom warm ; 
 This baffled hope might tame thy manhood's rage. 
 And disappointment of her sting disarm. 
 
 But why should foresight thy fond heart alarm ? 
 Perish the lore that deadens young desire ! 
 Pursue, poor imp, th' imaginary charm. 
 Indulge gay hope, and fancy's pleasing fire : 
 Fancy and hope too soon shall of themselves expire. 
 
624 BEATTIE. 
 
 32 When tlie long-sounding cnrfew from afar 
 Loaded with loud lament the lonely gale, 
 Young Edwin, hghted by the evening star, 
 Lingering and listening, wander'd down the Yale. 
 There would he dream of graves, and corses pale, 
 And ghosts that to the charnel-dungeon throng. 
 And drag a length of clanking chain, and wail, 
 Till silenced by the owl's terrific song, 
 
 Or blast that shrieks by fits the shuddering aisles along. 
 
 33 Or, when the setting Moon, in crimson dyed, 
 Hung o'er the dark and melancholy deep. 
 
 To haunted stream, remote from man, he hied, 
 Where fays of yore their revels wont to keep ; 
 And there let Fancy rove at large, till sleep 
 A vision brought to his entranced sight : 
 And, first, a wildly murmuring wind 'gan creep 
 Shrill to his ringing ear ; then tapers bright. 
 With instantaneous gleam, illumed the vault of night. 
 
 34 Anon in view a portal's blazon'd arch 
 Arose ; the trumpet bids the valves unfold ; 
 And forth a host of little Avarriors march. 
 Grasping the diamond lance, and targe of gold. 
 Their look was gentle, their demeanour bold. 
 And green their helms, and green their silk attire; 
 
 . And here and there, right venerably old, 
 
 The long-robed minstrels wake the warbling wire. 
 And some with mellow breath the martial pipe inspire. 
 
 35 With merriment, and song, and timbrels clear, 
 A troop of dames from myrtle bowers advance ; 
 The little warriors doff the targe and spear. 
 And loud enlivening strains provoke the dance : 
 They meet, they dart away, they wheel askance ; 
 To right, to left, they thread the flying maze ; 
 Now bound aloft with vigorous spring, then glance 
 Rapid along : with many-colour'd rays 
 
 Of tapers, gems, and gold, the echoing forests blaze. 
 
 36 The dream is fled. Proud harbinger of day. 
 Who scar'dst the vision with thy clarion shrill, 
 Fell chanticleer ; who oft hath reft away 
 
 My fancied good, and brought substantial ill! 
 0, to thy cursed scream, discordant still, 
 Let harmony aye shut her gentle ear : 
 
THE MINSTKEL. 625 
 
 Thy boastful mirth let jealous rivals spill, 
 lusult thy crest, and glossy pinions tear, 
 And ever in tliy dreams the ruthless fox appear! 
 
 37 Forbear, my Muse. Let Love attune tliy line: 
 Eevoke the spoil : thine Edwin frets not so. 
 For how should he at wicked chance repine, 
 Who feels from every change amusement ilow ? 
 Even now his eyes with smiles of rapture glow, 
 As on he wanders through the scenes of morn, 
 Where the fresh flowers in living lustre blow. 
 Where thousand pearls the dewy lawns adorn, 
 
 A thousand notes of joy in every breeze are borne. 
 
 38 But who the melodies of morn can tell? 
 
 The wild brook babbling down the mountain side; 
 The lowing herd ; the sheepf old's simple bell ; 
 The pipe of early shepherd dim descried 
 Li the lonely valley ; echoing far and wide 
 The clamorous horn along the cliffs above; 
 The hollow murmur of the ocean-tide; 
 The hum of bees, the linnet's ]ay of love. 
 And the full choir that wakes the universal grove. 
 
 39 The cottage curs at early pilgrim bark ; 
 
 Crown'd witli her pail the tripping milkmaid sings; 
 The whistling ploughman stalks a-field; and, hark! 
 Down the rough slope the ponderous waggon rings ; 
 Through rustling corn the hare astonish'd springs; 
 Slow" tolls tlie village clock the drowsy hour ; 
 The partridge bursts away on whirring wings ; 
 Deep mourns the turtle in sequester'd bower, 
 And shrill lark carols clear from her aerial tower. 
 
 40 Nature, how in every charm supreme ! 
 Whose votaries feast on raptures ever new! 
 0, for the voice and fire of seraphim. 
 
 To sing thy glories with devotion due ! 
 Blest be the day I 'scaped the wrangling crew. 
 From Pyrrho's maze,^ and Epicurus' sty ; 
 And held high converse with the godlike few. 
 Who to th' enraptured heart, and ear, and eye. 
 Teach beauty, virtue, truth, and love, and melody. 
 
 1 PyiTho, a native of Elis in Peloponnesus, was the founder of the Sceptical Phi- 
 losophy, -vvhich took from him the name of Pvrrhonism. The system is here called 
 a maze, because its method was to intricate and sophisticate all oxu' knowledge into 
 doubtfulness. 
 
626 BEATTIE. 
 
 41 Hence ! ye, who snare and stupefy the mind, 
 Sophists ! of beauty, virtue, joy, the bane ! 
 Greedy and fell, though impotent and blind, 
 Who spread your filthy nets in Truth's fair fane. 
 And ever ply your venom'd fangs amain ! 
 Hence to dark Error's den, whose rankling slime 
 
 First gave you form ! Hence ! lest the Muse should deign 
 (Though loth, on theme so mean to waste a rhyme) 
 With vengeance to pursue your sacrilegious crime. 
 
 42 But hail, ye mighty masters of the lay, 
 Nature's true sons, the friends of man and truth ! 
 Whose song, sublimely sweet, serenely gay. 
 Amused my childhood, and inform'd my youth. 
 0, let your spirit still my bosom soothe. 
 
 Inspire my dreams, and my wild wanderings guide; 
 Your voice each rugged path of life can smooth. 
 For well I know, wherever ye reside. 
 There harmony and peace and innocence abide. 
 
 43 Ah me ! neglected on the lonesome plain, 
 As yet poor Edwin never knew your lore, 
 Save when against the Winter's drenching rain. 
 And driving snow, the cottage shut the door. 
 Then, as instructed by tradition hoar. 
 
 Her legend when the beldame 'gan impart. 
 Or chant the old heroic ditty o'er. 
 Wonder and joy ran thrilling to his heart ; 
 Much he the tale admired, but more the tuneful art. 
 
 44 Various and strange was the long-winded tale ; 
 And halls and knights and feats of arms display'd ; 
 Or merry swains, who quaff the nut-brown ale, 
 And sing enamour'd of the Nut-brown Maid ; ^ 
 The moonlight revel of the fairy glade ; 
 
 Or hags that suckle an infernal brood. 
 And ply in caves th' unutterable trade,** 
 'Midst fiends and spectres quench the Moon in blood. 
 Yell in the midnight storm, or ride th' infuriate flood. 
 
 45 But when to horror his amazement rose, 
 
 A gentler strain the beldame would rehearse, 
 A tale of rural life, a tale of woes, 
 
 •2 The Nut-Brown Maid is the title of a famous old love-ballad given in Percy's 
 Rdiques of Ancient Poetry. 
 3 Referring to the doings of the Weird Sisters in Macbethy iv. 1. 
 
THE MINSTREL. 627 
 
 The orphan Inibes, and guardian uncle fierce.* 
 cruel! will no pang of pity pierce 
 That heart, by lust of lucre sear'd to stone ? 
 For sure, if aught of yirtue last, or verse, 
 To latest times shall tender souls bemoan 
 Those hopeless orphan babes by thy fell arts undone. 
 
 46 Behold, with berries smear'd, with brambles torn, 
 The babes, now famish'd, lay them down to die : 
 Amidst the howl of darksome woods forlorn, 
 Folded in one another's arms they lie ; 
 
 Nor friend, nor stranger, hears their dying cry : 
 " For from the town the man returns no more." 
 - But thou, who Heaven's just vengeance dar'st defy, 
 
 This deed with fruitless tears shalt soon deplore. 
 When Death lays waste thy house, and flames consume thy 
 store. 
 
 47 A stifled smile of stern vindictive joy 
 Brighten'd one moment Edwin's starting tear, — 
 "But wh}^ should gold man's feeble mind decoy, 
 And innocence thus die by doom severe ? " 
 
 Edwin ! while thy heart is yet sincere, 
 Th' assaults of discontent and doubt repel : 
 Dark even at noontide is our mortal sphere; 
 But let us hope ; to doubt is to rebel : 
 Let us exult in hope, that all shall yet be well. 
 
 48 Nor be thy generous indignation check'd. 
 Nor check'd the tender tear to Misery given; 
 From Guilt's contagious power shall that protect. 
 This soften and refine the soul for Heaven. 
 
 But dreadful is their doom whom doubt has driven 
 To censure Fate, and pious Hope forego : 
 Like yonder blasted boughs by lightning riven. 
 Perfection, beauty, life, they never know, 
 But frown on all that pass, a monument of woe. 
 
 49 Shall he whose birth, maturity, and age 
 Scarce fill the circle of one summer day, 
 Shall the poor gnat, with discontent and rage. 
 Exclaim that Nature hastens to decay. 
 
 If but a cloud obstruct the solar ray. 
 If but a momentary shower descend ? 
 
 4 Alluding to the choice old ballad of The Children in the Wood; also given in Per- 
 cy's Beliques. 
 
628 BEATTIE. 
 
 Or shall frail man Heaven's dread decree gainsay, 
 Which bade the series of events extend 
 Wide through unniimber'd worlds, and ages without end ? 
 
 50 One part, one little part, we dimly scan 
 Through the dark medium of life's feverish dream; 
 Yet dare arraign the whole stupendous plan. 
 
 If but that little part incongruous seem. 
 Nor is that part perhaps what mortals deem : 
 Oft from apparent ill our blessings rise : 
 0, then, renounce that impious self-esteem 
 That aims to trace the secrets of the skies: 
 For thou art but of dust; be humble, and be wise. 
 
 51 Thus Heaven enlarged his soul in riper years : 
 For Nature gave him strength and tire, to soar 
 On Fancy's Aving above this vale of tears ; 
 Where dark cold-hearted sceptics, creeping, pore 
 Through microscope of metaphysic lore ; 
 
 And much they grope for Truth, but never hit : 
 For why their powers,*^ inadequate before. 
 This idle art makes more and more unfit ; 
 Yet deem they darkness light, and their vain blunders wit. 
 
 52 Nor was this ancient dame a foe to mirth : 
 Her ballad, jest, and riddle's quaint device 
 
 Oft cheer'd the shepherds round their social heurth ; 
 Whom levity or spleen could ne'er entice 
 To purchase chat or laughter, at the price 
 Of decency. Nor let it faith exceed. 
 That Nature forms a rustic taste so nice. 
 Ah ! had they been of court or city breed. 
 Such delicacy were right marvellous indeed. 
 
 53 Oft, when the winter storm had ceased to rave, 
 He roam'd the snowy waste at even, to view 
 The cloud stupendous, from th' Atlantic wave 
 High-towering, sail along th' horizon blue ; 
 Where, 'midst the changeful scenery, ever new. 
 Fancy a thousand wondrous forms descries, 
 More wildly great than ever pencil drew, 
 
 5 For why is here equivalent to because or inasmuch as. The usage is frequent in 
 the old writers, and occurs repeatedlj^ both in the Psalter and in Shakespeare, hut is 
 seldom met with in later writers. It is appropriate here, because the aiithor aimed 
 avowedly to give something of an antique Ilavour to his style. So in The Two Gentle- 
 men of Verona, iii. 1. 
 
 "If she do chide, 'tis not to have you gone; 
 For why the fools are mad if left alone." 
 
THE MINSTREL. 629 
 
 Rocks, torrents, gulfs, and shapes of giant size, 
 And glittering cliffs on cliffs, and fiery ramparts rise. 
 
 54 Thence musing onward to the sounding shore 
 The lone enthusiast oft would take his way. 
 Listening, wdth pleasing dread, to the deep roar 
 Of the wide-weltering waves. In black array. 
 When sulphurous clouds roll'd on th' autumnal day. 
 Even then he hasten'd from the haunt of man, 
 Along the trembling wilderness to stray, 
 
 "What time the lightning's fierce career began, 
 And o'er heaven's rending arch the rattling thunder ran. 
 
 55 Responsive to the lively pipe, when all 
 
 In sprightly dance the village youth were join'd, 
 Edwin, of melody aye held in thrall. 
 From the rude gambol far remote reclined. 
 Soothed with the soft notes warbling in the wind : 
 Ah ! then all jollity seem'd noise and folly. 
 To the pure soul by Fancy's fire refined ; 
 Ah ! what is mirth but turbulence unholy. 
 When with the charm compared of heavenly melancholy ? 
 
 56 Is there a heart that music cannot melt ? 
 Alas ! how is that rugged heart forlorn ! 
 
 Is there who ne'er those mystic transports felt 
 Of solitude and melancholy born ? 
 He needs not woo the Muse; he is her scorn: 
 The sophist's rope of cobweb he shall twine ; 
 Mope o'er the schoohnan's peevish page; or mourn, 
 And delve for life in Mammon's dirty mine ; 
 Sneak with the scoundrel fox, or grunt with glutton swine. 
 
 57 For Edwin, Fate a nobler doom had plann'd; 
 Song was his favourite and first pursuit : 
 The wild harp rang to his adventurous hand. 
 And languish'd to his breath the plaintive flute. 
 His infant Muse, though artless, was not mute : 
 Of elegance as yet he took no care ; 
 
 For this of time and culture is the fruit; 
 And Edwin gain'd at last this fruit so rare : 
 As in some future verse I purpose to declare. 
 
 58 Meanwhile, whate'er of beautiful or new. 
 Sublime or dreadful, in earth, sea, or sky. 
 By chance or search, was offer'd to his view, 
 He scann'd with curious and romantic eye. 
 
630 BEATTIE. 
 
 Whate'er of lore tradition could supply 
 From Gothic tale, or song, or fable old, 
 Eoused liim, still keen to listen and to pry : 
 At last, though long by penury controll'd 
 And solitude, his soul her graces 'gan unfold. 
 
 59 Thus on the chill Lapponian's dreary land, 
 For many a long month lost in snow profound, 
 When Sol from Cancer sends the season bland, 
 And in their northern caA'es the storms are bound ; 
 From silent mountains, straight, with startling sound, 
 Torrents are hurl'd ; green hills emerge ; and, lo ! 
 The trees with foliage, cliffs with flowers are crown'd ; * 
 Pure rills through vales of verdure warbling go ; 
 
 And wonder, love, and joy, the peasant's heart o'erflow. 
 
 60 Here pause, my Gothic lyre, a little while ; 
 The leisure hour is all that thou canst claim: 
 But on this verse if Montagn should smile, 
 New strains ere long shall animate thy frame : 
 And her applause to me is more than fame ; 
 For still with truth accords her taste refined. 
 At lucre or renown let others aim, 
 
 I only wish to please the gentle mind, 
 Whom Nature's charms inspire, and love of humankind. 
 
 BOOK SECOND. 
 
 1 Of chance or change, 0, let not man complain, 
 Else shall he never, never cease to wail ; 
 
 For, from th' imperial dome to where the swain 
 Eears the lone cottage in the silent dale, 
 All feel th' assault of Fortune's fickle gale ; 
 Art, empire. Earth itself, to change are doomed : 
 Earthquakes have raised to Heaven the humble vale, 
 And gulfs the mountain's mighty mass entomb'd ; 
 And where th' Atlantic rolls wide continents have bloom'd. 
 
 2 But sure to foreign climes we need not range, 
 Nor search the ancient records of our race. 
 To learn the dire effects of time and change. 
 Which in ourselves, alas ! we daily trace. 
 Yet at the darken'd eye, the wither'd face, 
 
 6 Spring and Autumn are hardly known to the Laplanders. About the time the 
 Sun enters Cancer, the fields, which a wx'ck before were covered with snow, appear 
 »n a sudden full of grass and flowers. — SCHEFFEK'S History of Lapland. 
 
THE MINSTKEL. 631 
 
 Or hoary hair, I never will repine : 
 But spare, Time, wliate'er of mental grace, 
 Of candour, love, or sympathy divine, 
 Whate'er of fancy's ray, or friendship's flame is mine. 
 
 3 So I, obsequious to Truth's dread command. 
 Shall here without reluctance change my lay, 
 And smite the Gothic lyre with harsher hand ; 
 Now when I leave that flowery path, for aye. 
 Of childhood, where I sported many a day. 
 Warbling and sauntering carelessly along ; 
 Where every face was innocent and gay. 
 Each vale romantic, tuneful every tongue. 
 
 Sweet, wild, and artless all, as Edwin's infant song. 
 
 4 " Perish the lore that deadens young desire," 
 Is the soft ten our of my song no more : 
 Edwin, though loved of Heaven, must not aspire 
 To bliss which mortals never knew before. 
 
 On trembling wings let youthful fancy soar, 
 Nor always haunt the sunny realms of joy: 
 But now and then the shades of life explore ; 
 Though many a sound and sight of woe annoy. 
 And many a qualm of care his rising hopes destroy. 
 
 5 Vigour from toil, from trouble patience grows : 
 The weakly blossom, warm in summer bower, 
 Some tints of transient beauty may disclose; 
 But soon it withers in the chilling hour. 
 Mark yonder oaks ! Superior to the power 
 Of all the warring winds of heaven they rise, 
 And from the stormy promontory tower. 
 And toss their giant arms amid the skies. 
 
 While each assailing blast increase of strengtn supplies. 
 
 6 And now the downy cheek and deepen'd voice 
 Gave dignity to Edwin's blooming prime ; 
 And walks of wider circuit were his choice, 
 
 And vales more wild, and mountains more sublime. 
 One evening, as he framed the careless rhyme. 
 It was his chance to wander far abroad. 
 And o'er a lonely eminence to climb. 
 Which heretofore his foot had never trod; 
 A vale appear'd below, a deep retired abode. 
 
 7 Thither he hied, enamour'd of the scene ; 
 For rocks on rocks piled, as by magic spell, 
 
632 BEATTIE. 
 
 Here scorcli'd with lightning, there with ivy green, 
 Fenced from the North and East this savage dell : 
 Southward a mountain rose Avith easy swell, 
 Whose long, long groves eternal murmur made ; 
 And toward the western Sun a streamlet fell, 
 Where, through the cliffs, the eye remote survey'd 
 Blue hills, and glittering waves, and skies in gold array'd. 
 
 8 Along this narrow valley you might see 
 
 The w^ld deer sporting on the meadow ground. 
 And, here and there, a solitary tree. 
 Or mossy stone, or rock with woodbine erown'd : 
 Oft did the cliffs reverberate the sound 
 Of parted fragments tumbling from on high ; 
 And from the summit of that craggy mound 
 The perching eagle oft was heard to cry. 
 Or on resounding wings to shoot athwart the sky. 
 
 9 One cultivated spot there was, that spread 
 Its flowery bosom to the noonday beam. 
 Where many a rosebud rears its blushing head. 
 And herbs for food with future plenty teem. 
 Soothed by the lulling sound of grove and stream, 
 Eomantic visions swarm on Edwin's soul : 
 
 He minded not the Sun's last trembling gleam, 
 Nor heard from far the twilight curfew toll ; 
 When slowly on his ear these moving accents stole : 
 
 10 " Hail, awful scenes, that calm the troubled breast. 
 And woo the weary to profound repose ! 
 
 Can passion's wildest uproar lay to rest. 
 And whisper comfort to the man of woes ? 
 Here Innocence may wander, safe from foes, 
 And Contemplation soar on seraph wings. 
 Solitude ! the man Avho thee foregoes. 
 When lucre lures him, or ambition stings. 
 Shall never know the source whence real grandeur springs. 
 
 11 " Vain man ! is grandeur given to gay attire ? 
 Then let the butterfly thy pride upbraid : 
 
 To friends, attendants, armies bought with hire ? 
 It is thy weakness that requires their aid: 
 To palaces, with gold and gems inlaid ? 
 They fear the thief, and tremble in the storm : 
 To hosts, through carnage who to conquest wade? 
 Behold the victor vanquish'd by the worm ! 
 Behold what deeds of woe the locust can perform ! 
 
THE MIN^STEEL. 633 
 
 12 " True dignity is his, whose tranquil mind 
 Virtue lias raised above the things below; 
 Who, every hope and fear to Heaven resign'd, 
 Shrinks not, though Fortune aim her deadliest blow." 
 This strain from ^midst the rocks was heard to flow 
 In solemn sounds. ISTow beam'd the evening star ; 
 And, from embattled clouds emerging slow, 
 Cynthia came riding on her silver car ; 
 
 And hoary mountain-cliffs shone faintly from afar. 
 
 13 Soon did the solemn voice its theme renew. 
 While Edwin, rapt in wonder, listening stood : 
 " Ye tools and toys of tyranny, adieu, 
 
 - Scorn'd by the wise, and hated by the good ! 
 
 Ye only can engage the servile brood 
 
 Of Levity and Lust, who all their days. 
 
 Ashamed of truth and liberty, have woo'd 
 
 jind hugg'd the chain that, glittering on their gaze. 
 Seems to outshine the pomp of Heaven's empyreal blaze. 
 
 14 " Like them, abandon'd to Ambition's sway, 
 I sought for glory in the paths of guile ; 
 
 And fawn'd and smiled, to plunder and betray, 
 Myself betray'd and plunder'd all the while ; 
 So gnaw'd the viper the corroding file ; 
 But now with pangs of keen remorse I rue 
 Those years of trouble and debasement vile. 
 Yet why should I this cruel theme pursue ? 
 Fly, fly, detested thoughts, for ever from my view ! 
 
 15 " The gusts of appetite, the clouds of care, 
 And storms of disappointment, all o'erpast, 
 Henceforth no earthly hope with Heaven shall share 
 This heart, where peace serenely shines at last. 
 And if for me no treasure be amass'd. 
 
 And if no future age shall hear my name, 
 I lurk the more secure from fortune's blast, 
 And with more leisure feed this pious flame. 
 Whose rapture far transcends the fairest hopes of fame. 
 
 16 " The end and the reward of toil is rest: 
 Be all my prayer for virtue and for peace. 
 
 Of wealth and fame, of pomp and power possess'd. 
 Who ever felt his weight of woe decrease ? 
 Ah ! what avails the lore of Eome and Greece, 
 The lay heaven-prompted, and harmonious string, 
 
634 BEATTIE. 
 
 The dnst of Opliir, or the Tyrian fleece, 
 All that art, fortune, enteriorise can bring, 
 If envy, scorn, remorse, or pride the bosom wring ? 
 
 17 " Let Vanity adorn the marble tomb 
 
 With trophies, rhymes, and 'scutcheons of renown. 
 In the deep dungeon of some Gothic dome. 
 Where night and desolation ever frown. 
 Mine be the breezy hill that skirts the down, 
 Where a green, grassy turf is all I crave, 
 With here and there a yiolet bestrewn, 
 Fast by a brook, or fountain's murmuring wave ; 
 And many an evening Sun shine sweetly on my grave. 
 
 18 " And thither let the village swain repair ; 
 And, light of heart, the village maiden gay. 
 To deck with flowers her half -dish evell'd hair, 
 And celebrate the merry morn of May : 
 There let the shepherd's pipe the livelong day 
 Fill all the grove with love's bewitching woe ; 
 And when mild Evening comes in mantle gray, 
 Let not the blooming band make haste to go ; 
 
 No ghost, nor spell, my long and last abode shall know. 
 
 19 " For though I fly to 'scape from Fortune's rage. 
 And bear the scars of envy, spite, and scorn, 
 Yet with mankind no horrid war I wage. 
 
 Yet with no impious spleen my breast is torn : 
 For virtue lost, and ruin'd man I mourn. 
 man ! creation's pride. Heaven's darling child, 
 Whom Nature's best, divinest gifts adorn. 
 Why from thy home are truth and joy exiled, 
 And all thy favourite haunts with blood and tears defiled ? 
 
 20 ^' Along yon glittering sky what glory streams ! 
 What majesty attends Night's lovely queen ! 
 Fair laugh our valleys in the vernal beams ; 
 And mountains rise, and oceans roll between, 
 And all conspire to beautify the scene : 
 
 But, in the mental world, what chaos drear! 
 What forms of mournful, loathsome, furious mien ! 
 0, when shall that Eternal Morn appear. 
 These dreadful forms to chase, this chaos dark to clear ? 
 
 .21 "0 Thou, at whose creative smile, yon Heaven, 
 In all the pomp of beauty, life, and light. 
 Rose from th' abyss; when dark Confusion, driven 
 
THE MINSTREL. 635 
 
 Down, down tlie bottomless profound of night, 
 Fled, where he ever flies thy piercing vsight ! 
 0, glance on these sad shades one pitying ray, 
 To blast the fury of oppressive might^ 
 Melt the hard heart to love and mercy's sway. 
 And cheer the wandering soul, and light him on the way! " 
 
 22 Silence ensued ; and Edwin raised his eyes 
 In tears, for grief lay heavy at his heart. 
 
 " And is it thus in courtly life," he cries, 
 ^' That man to man acts a betrayer's part ? 
 And dares he thus the gifts of Heaven pervert. 
 Each social instinct, and sublime desire ? 
 Hail, Poverty! if honour, wealth, and art. 
 If what the great pursue and learn'd admire. 
 Thus dissipate and quench the soul's ethereal fire ! " 
 
 23 He said, and turn'd away ; nor did the Sage 
 O'erhear, in silent orisons employ'd. 
 
 The Youth, his rising sorrow to assuage. 
 Home, as he hied, the evening scene enjoy'd: 
 For now no cloud obscures the starry void; 
 The yellow moonlight sleeps on all the hills; 
 Kor is the mind with startling sounds annoy'd; 
 A soothing murmur the lone region fills 
 Of groves, and dying gales, and melancholy rills. 
 
 24 But he from day to day more anxious grew. 
 The voice still seem'd to vibrate on his ear : 
 Xor durst he hope the hermit's tale untrue ; 
 For man he seem'd to love, and Heaven to fear; 
 And none speaks false, where there is none to hear. 
 " Yet, can man's gentle heart become so fell ? 
 
 "No more in vain conjecture let me wear 
 My hours away, but seek the hermit's cell ; 
 'Tis he my doubt can clear, perhaps my care dispel." 
 
 25 At early dawn the Youth his journey took. 
 And many a mountain pass'd and valley wide, 
 Then reach'd the wild ; where, in a flowery nook. 
 And seated on a mossy stone, he spied 
 
 An ancient man : his harp lay him beside. 
 A stag sprang from the pasture at his call, 
 And, kneeling, lick'd the wither'd hand that tied 
 A wreath of woodbine round his antlers tall. 
 And hung his lofty neck with many a flow^eret small. 
 
636 BEATTIE. 
 
 26 And now the hoary Sage arose, a.nd saw 
 The wanderer approaching : innocence 
 Smiled on his glowing cheek, but modest awe 
 Depress'd his eye, that fear'd to give offence. 
 
 " Who art thon, courteous stranger ? and from whence ? 
 Why roam thy steps to this sequester'd dale ? " 
 " A shepherd boy," the Youth replied, " far hence 
 My habitation ; hear my artless tale ; 
 Nor levity nor falsehood shall thine ear assail. 
 
 27 " Late as I roam'd, intent on Nature's charms, 
 I reach'd at eve this wilderness profound ; 
 And, leaning where yon oak expands her arms, 
 Heard these rude cliffs thine awful voice rebound ; 
 For in thy speech I recognise the sound. 
 
 You mourn'd for ruin'd man, and virtue lost. 
 And seem'd to feel of keen remorse the wound, 
 Pondering on former days, by guilt engross'd, 
 Or in the giddy storm of dissipation toss'd. 
 
 28 " But say, in courtly life can craft be learn'd. 
 Where knowledge opens and exalts the soul? 
 Where Fortune lavishes her gifts unearn'd. 
 Can selfishness the liberal heart control ? 
 
 Is glory there achieved by arts as foul 
 As those that felons, fiends, and furies plan ? 
 Spiders ensnare, snakes poison, tigers prowl : ^ 
 Love is the godlike attribute of man. 
 O, teach a simple youth this mystery to scan. 
 
 29 " Or else the lamentable strain disclaim. 
 And give me back the calm, contented mind. 
 Which, late exulting, view'd in Nature's frame 
 Goodness untainted, wisdom unconfined, 
 Grace, grandeur, and utility combined : 
 Eestore those tranquil days that saw me still 
 Well pleased with all, but most with humankind ; 
 When Fancy roam'd through Nature's works at will, 
 
 Uncheck'd by cold distrust, and uniformed by ill." 
 
 30 " Wouldst thou," the Sage replied, " in peace return 
 To the gay dreams of fond romantic youtli. 
 
 Leave me to hide, in this remote sojourn, 
 From every gentle ear the dreadful truth : 
 For if my desultory strain with ruth 
 And indignation make thine eyes o'erflow, 
 
THE MINSTREL. 637 
 
 Alas! what comfort could tliy anguish soothe, 
 Shouldst thou th' extent of human folly know ? 
 Be ignorance thy choice, where knowledge leads to woe. 
 
 31 ''But let untender thoughts afar be driven; 
 Nor venture to arraign the dread decree : 
 For know, to man, as candidate for Heaven, 
 The voice of the Eternal said. Be free : 
 And this divine prerogative to thee 
 
 Does virtue, happiness, and Heaven convey ; 
 For virtue is the child of liberty. 
 And happiness of virtue ; nor can they 
 Be free to keep the path, who are not free to stray. 
 
 32 " Yet leave me not. I would allay that grief. 
 Which else might thy young virtue overpower ; 
 And in thy converse I shall find relief, 
 
 When the dark shades of melancholy lour ; 
 For solitude has many a dreary hour, 
 Even when exempt from grief, remorse, and pain : 
 Come often then ; for haply, in my bower. 
 Amusement, knowledge, wisdom thou mayst gain : 
 If I one soul improve, I have not lived in vain." 
 
 33 And now, at length, to Edwin's ardent gaze 
 The Muse of history unrolls her page : 
 But few, alas ! the scenes her art displays. 
 To charm his fancy, or his heart engage. 
 
 Here chiefs their thirst of power in blood assuage. 
 And straight their flames with tenfold fierceness burn : 
 Here smiling Virtue prompts the patriot's rage. 
 But, lo ! ere long, is left alone to mourn. 
 And languish in the dust, and clasp th' abandoned urn. 
 
 34 " Ambition's slippery verge shall mortals tread, 
 Where ruin's gulf, unfathom'd, yawns beneath ? 
 Shall life, shall liberty be lost," he said, 
 
 "For the vain toys that Pomp and Power bequeath? 
 The car of victory, the plume, the wreath 
 Defend not from the bolt of fate the brave : 
 No note the clarion of Eenown can breathe. 
 To alarm the long night of the lonely grave. 
 Or check the headlong haste of time's o'erwhelming wave. 
 
 36 " Ah, what avails it to have traced the springs 
 That whirl of empire the stupendous wheel? 
 Ah, what have I to do with conquering kings. 
 
638 BEATTIB. 
 
 Hands drencli'd in blood, and breasts begirt with steel ? 
 To those whom Nature taught to think and feel 
 Heroes, ahis ! are things of small concern ; 
 Could History man's secret heart reveal. 
 And what imports a heaven-born mind to learn, 
 Her transcripts to explore what bosom would not yearn ? 
 
 36 " This praise, Cheronean sage,^ is thine ! 
 (Why should this praise to thee alone belong?) 
 All else from Nature's moral path decline, 
 Lured by the toys that captivate the throng ; 
 To herd in cabinets and camps, among 
 
 Spoil, carnage, and the cruel pomp of pride ; 
 Or chant of heraldry the drowsy song. 
 How tyrant blood o'er many a region wide 
 Eolls to a thousand thrones its execrable tide. 
 
 37 "0, who of man the story will unfold. 
 Ere victory and empire wrought annoy. 
 In that Elysian age, (misnamed of gold,) 
 The age of love and innocence and joy, 
 
 When all were great and free ! man's sole employ, 
 To deck the bosom of his parent Earth ; 
 Or toward his bower the murmuring stream decoy, 
 To aid the floweret's long-expected birth. 
 And lull the bed of peace, and crown the board of mirth? 
 
 38 " Sweet were your shades, ye primeval groves ! 
 Whose boughs to man his food and shelter lent, 
 Pure in his pleasures, happy in his loves. 
 
 His eye still smiling, and his heart content : 
 Then, hand in hand. Health, Sport, and Labour went ; 
 Nature supplied the wish she taught to crave ; 
 None prowl'd for prey, none watch'd to circumvent; 
 To all an equal lot Heaven's bounty gave : 
 No vassal fear'd his lord, no tyrant fear'd his slave. 
 
 39 "But, ah! th' Historic Muse has never dared 
 
 To pierce those hallow'd bowers : 'tis Fancy's beam 
 Pour'd on the vision of th' enraptur'd bard, 
 That paints the charms of that delicious theme. 
 Then hail, sweet Fancy's ray! and bail, the dream 
 That weans the weary soul from guilt and woe ! 
 Careless wliat others of my choice may deem, 
 
 7 Plutarch is called " Cheronean sage," from Cheronea, a town in Boeotia, where 
 he was born and lived. 
 
THE MIN^STREL. 639 
 
 I long, where Love and Fancy lead, to go 
 And meditate on Heaven ; enough of Earth I know." 
 
 40 " I cannot blame thy choice," the Sage replied, 
 '• For soft and smooth are Fancy's flowery ways : 
 And yet even there, if left without a guide, 
 The young adventurer unsafely plays. 
 Eyes dazzled long by fiction's gaudy rays 
 In modest truth no light nor beauty find : 
 And who, my child, would trust the meteor blaze, 
 That soon must fail, and leave the wanderer blind. 
 More dark and helpless far than if it ne'er had shined ? 
 
 41- "Fancy enervates, while it soothes the heart; 
 And, while it dazzles, wounds the mental sight : 
 To joy each heightening charm it can impart. 
 But wraps the hour of woe in tenfold night : 
 And often, where no real ills affright, 
 Its visionary fiends, an endless train. 
 Assail with equal or superior might. 
 And through the throbbing heart, and dizzy brain. 
 And shivering nerves, shoot stings of more than mortal pain. 
 
 42 " And yet, alas ! the real ills of life 
 
 Claim the full vigour of a mind prepared. 
 Prepared for patient, long, laborious strife, 
 Its guide experience, and truth its guard. 
 We fare on Earth as other men have fared. 
 Were they successful ? Let us not despair. 
 Was disappointment oft their sole reward ? 
 Yet shall their tale instruct, if it declare 
 How they have borne the load ourselves are doom'd to bear. 
 
 4-3 " What charms th' Historic Muse adorn, from spoils 
 And blood and tyrants when she wings her flight, 
 To hail the patriot prince whose pious toils. 
 Sacred to science, liberty, and right. 
 And peace, through every age divinely bright 
 Shall shine the boast and wonder of mankind! 
 Sees yonder Sun, from his meridian height, 
 A lovelier scene than virtue thus enshrined 
 In power, and man with man for mutual aid combined ? 
 
 44 " Hail, sacred Polity, by Freedom rear'd ! 
 
 Hail, sacred Freedom, when by law restrain'd ! 
 Without you, what were man ? A grovelling herd, 
 
640 BEATTIE. 
 
 In darkness, wretchedness, and want enchain'd. 
 Sublimed by you, the Greek and Roman reign'd 
 In arts unrivall'd ! 0, to latest days, 
 In Albion may your influence unprofaned 
 To godlike w^orth the generous bosom raise, 
 And prompt the sage's lore, and fire the poet's lays ! 
 
 45 " But now let other themes our care engage. 
 For, lo, with modest yet majestic grace, 
 
 To curb Imagination's lawless rage. 
 And from within the cherish'd heart to brace, 
 Philosophy appears ! The gloomy race 
 By Indolence and moping Fancy bred. 
 Fear, Discontent, Solicitude, give place ; 
 And Hope and Courage brighten in their stead, 
 While on the kindling soul her vital beams are shed ! 
 
 46 " Then waken from long lethargy to life 
 
 The seeds of happiness and powers of thought; 
 Then jarring appetites forego their strife, 
 A strife by ignorance to madness WTought. 
 Pleasure by savage man is dearly bought 
 With fell revenge ; lust that defies control, 
 With gluttony and death. The mind untaught 
 Is a dark waste, where fiends and tempests howl: 
 As Phoebus to the world, is science to the soul. 
 
 47 " And Reason now through number, time, and space. 
 Darts the keen lustre of her serious eye. 
 
 And learns, from facts compared, the laws to trace. 
 Whose long progression leads to Deity. 
 Can mortal strength presume to soar so high ? 
 Can mortal sight, so oft bedimm'd with tears, 
 Such glory bear ? — for, lo ! the shadows fly 
 From Nature's face ; confusion disappears. 
 And order charms the eye, and harmony the ears ! 
 
 48 " In the deep windings of the grove, no more 
 The hag obscene and grisly phantom dwell ; 
 Nor in the fall of mountain-stream, or roar 
 Of winds, is heard the angry spirit's yell ; 
 'No wizard mutters the tremendous spell, 
 Nor sinks convulsive in prophetic swoon ; 
 
 Nor bids the noise of drums and trumpets swell, 
 To ease of fancied pangs the labouring Moon, 
 Or chase the shade that blots the blazing orb of noon. 
 
THE MINSTREL. 641 
 
 49 **Many a long lingering year, in lonely isle, 
 Stnnn'd with th' eternal turbulence of waves, 
 Lo ! with dim eyes, that never learn'd to smile. 
 And trembling hands, the famisli'd native craves 
 Of Heaven his wretched fare ; shivering in caves, 
 Or scorch'd on rocks, he pines from day to day : 
 But Science gives the word ; and, lo ! he braves 
 The surge and tempest, lighted by her ray. 
 
 And to a happier land wafts merrily away ! 
 
 50 " And even where ISTature loads the teeming plain 
 With the full pomp of vegetable store. 
 
 Her bounty, unimproved, is deadly bane: 
 Dark woods and rankling wilds, from shore to shore, 
 Stretch their enormous gloom ; which to explore 
 Even Fancy trembles, in her sprightliest mood : 
 For there each eyeball gleams with lust of gore, 
 Nestles each murderous and each monstrous brood, 
 Plague lurks in every shade, and steams from every flood. 
 
 51 " 'Twas from Philosophy man learn'd to tame 
 The soil, by plenty to intemperance fed : 
 
 Lo ! from the echoing axe and thundering flame. 
 Poison and plague and yelling rage are fled : 
 The waters, bursting from their slimy bed. 
 Bring health and melody to every vale ; 
 And, from the breezy main, and mountain's head, 
 Ceres and Flora, to the sunny dale, 
 To fan their glowing charms, invite the fluttering gale. 
 
 52 " What dire necessities on every hand 
 
 Our art, our strength, our fortitude require ! 
 Of foes intestine what a numerous band 
 Against this little throb of life conspire ! 
 Yet Science can elude their fatal ire 
 Awhile, and turn aside Death's levell'd dart, 
 Soothe the sharp pang, allay the fever's fire, 
 And brace the nerves once more, and cheer the heart, 
 And yet a few soft nights and balmy days impart. 
 
 53 " Nor less, to regulate man's moral frame. 
 Science exerts her all-composing sway: 
 Flutters thy breast with fear, or pants for fame. 
 Or pines, to indolence and spleen a prey, 
 
 Or avarice, a fiend more fierce than they ? 
 Flee to the shade of Academus' grove ; 
 
643 BEATTIE. 
 
 Where cares molest not, discord melts away 
 In harmony, and the pure passions prove 
 How sweet the words of Truth, breathed from the lips of Love. 
 
 54 "What cannot Art and Industry perform, 
 When Science plans the progress of their toil ? 
 They smile at penury, disease, and storm; 
 And oceans from their mighty mounds recoil. 
 When tyrants scourge, or demagogues embroil 
 A land, or when the rabble's headlong rage 
 Order transforms to anarchy and spoil. 
 Deep-versed in man the philosophic sage 
 
 Prepares with lenient hand their frenzy to assuage. 
 
 55 " 'Tis he alone, whose comprehensive mind. 
 From situation, temper, soil, and clime 
 Explored, a nation's various powers can bind. 
 And various orders in one Form sublime 
 
 Of policy, that 'midst the wrecks of time 
 Secure shall lift its head on high, nor fear 
 Th' assault of foreign or domestic crime, 
 While public faith, and public love sincere, 
 And industry and law, maintain their sway severe." 
 
 56 Enraptured by the hermit's strain, the youth 
 Proceeds the path of Science to explore. 
 And now, expanded to the beams of truth, 
 New energies, and charms unknown before, 
 His mind discloses : Fancy now no more 
 Wantons on fickle pinion through the skies ; 
 But, fix'd in aim, and conscious of her power, 
 Aloft from cause to cause exults to rise, 
 Creation's blended stores arranging as she flies. 
 
 57 Nor love of novelty alone inspires 
 
 Their laws and nice dependencies to scan ; 
 For, mindful of the aids that life requires, 
 And of the services man owes to man. 
 He meditates new arts on Nature's plan ; 
 The cold desponding breast of sloth to warm, 
 The flame of industry and genius fan. 
 And emulation's noble rage alarm. 
 And the long hours of toil and solitude to charm. 
 
 58 But she, who set on fire his infant heart. 
 
 And all his dreams, and all his wanderings shared 
 And bless'd, the Muse, and her celestial art. 
 
THE MII^STREL. 643 
 
 Still claim th' eufchusiast's fond and first regard. 
 From Xature's beauties, variously compared 
 And variously combined, he learns to frame 
 Those forms of bright perfection which the bard, 
 While boundless hopes and boundless views inflame, 
 Enamour'd, consecrates to never-dying fame. 
 
 59 Of late, with cumbersome though pompous show, 
 Edwin would oft his flowery rhyme deface, 
 Through ardour to adorn ; but Nature now 
 
 To his experienced eye a modest grace 
 Presents, where ornament the second place 
 Holds, to intrinsic worth and just design 
 . Subservient still. Simplicity apace 
 Tempers his rage : he owns her charm divine, 
 And clears tli' ambiguous phrase, and lops th' unwieldy line. 
 
 60 Fain would I sing (much yet unsung remains) 
 What sweet delirium o'er his bosom stole, 
 When the great shepherd of the Mantuan plains • 
 His deep majestic melody 'gan roll : 
 
 Fain would I sing what transport storm'd his soul, 
 How the red current throbb'd his veins along, 
 When, like Pelides, bold beyond control, 
 Without art graceful, without effort strong. 
 Homer raised high to heaven the loud, th' impetuous song : 
 
 61 And how his lyre, though rude her first essays, 
 Now skilled to soothe, to triumph, to complain, 
 Warbling at will through each harmonious maze. 
 Was taught to modulate the artful strain, 
 
 I fain would sing : — But, ah ! I strive in vain : 
 Sighs from a breaking heart my voice confound. 
 With trembling step, to join yon weeping train, 
 I haste, Avhere gleams funereal glare around, 
 And, mix'd with shrieks of woe, the knells of death resound. 
 
 62 Adieu, ye lays that Fancy's fiowers adorn. 
 The soft amusement of the vacant mind ! 
 He sleeps in dust, and all the Muses mourn. 
 He, whom each virtue fired, each grace refined. 
 Friend, teacher, pattern, darling of mankind ! 
 He sleeps in dust.^ Ah, how shall I pursue 
 
 8 The "shepherd of the Mantuan plains" is Virgil; so called because he wrote 
 pastoral Eclogues, and because his birth-place was near Mantua, in Northern Italy; 
 now Modena. 
 
 9 Professor Gregory, one of the author's colleagues in Marischal College, is the 
 person here referred to. He died suddenly on the 10th of February, 1773, and the 
 conclusion of the poem was written a few days after. 
 
644 BEATTIE. 
 
 My theme ? To heart-consuming grief resigu'd. 
 Here on his recent grave I fix my view, 
 And pour my bitter tears. Ye flowery lays adieu ! 
 
 63 Art thou, my Gregory, for ever fled? . 
 And am I left to unavailing woe? 
 When fortune's storms assail this weary head. 
 Where cares long since have shed untimely snow, 
 Ah, now for comfort whither shall I go ? 
 No more thy soothing voice my anguish cheers : 
 Thy placid eyes with smiles no longer glow. 
 My hopes to cherish, and allay my fears. 
 'Tis meet that I should mourn : flow forth afresh, my tears. 
 
OLIVER GOLDSMITH: 
 
 SKETCH OF HIS LIFE. 
 
 Oliver Goldsmith was born November 29, 1728, at Pallas, Longford 
 county, Ireland ; the second in a family of seven children. His father, the 
 Rev. Charles Goldsmith, was a clercrymen of the Established Church, and had 
 been educated at Trinity College, Dublin. Oliver was from infancy very dif- 
 ferent from other children ; subject to strange humours ; generally serious and 
 reserved, but when in gay spirits exceedingly agreeable ; and he began at an 
 early period to show such signs of genius, that he quickly engaged the notice 
 of all the friends of the family. At the age of eight he discovered a natural 
 turn for rhyming, and often amused his father and others Avith his poetical at- 
 tempts. His father had determined to educate the elder son, Henry, for the 
 ministry ; and, his income being rather small, thought he could not give a lib- 
 eral education to Oliver ; but his mother pleaded so hard, that she finally pre- 
 vailed ; the Rev. Thomas Contarine, who had married Oliver's aunt, engaging 
 to bear part of the expense. So Oliver was fitted for the University, and in 
 1744 was sent to Trinity College, where he was entered under the Rev. Mr. 
 Wilder, one of the fellows, but a man of harsh and violent temper, insomuch 
 that the pupil, who Avas wild and wayward in his disposition, could not get 
 along Avith him at all. Various difficulties and adventures grcAV out of this 
 circumstance, which must here be passed over. 
 
 While young Goldsmith was in college his father died ; but the loss was 
 now supplied by his uncle Contarine, who was a man of learning and good 
 position, and whose penetration enabled him to see Oliver's genius througTi all 
 the dark shades that obscured it. Goldsmith took the usual degree in Febru- 
 ary, 1749, two years after the regular time. His uncle wished him to prepare 
 for holy orders ; but this he could not bring his mind to undertake : so it Avas 
 resolved to send him to the Temple, that he might make the LaAV his profes- 
 sion. But, on his way to London, he met Avith a sharper in Dublin, Avho 
 tempted him to play, and emptied his pockets of the £50 Avith which he had 
 been furnished for the journey. This thrcAV him back upon his uncle again ; 
 and it Avas noAv decided to put him to the study of medicine ; and with this 
 view he Avas sent to Edinburgh. After attending the lectures and usual 
 courses there, he Avent to Leyden to complete his medical studies. He re- 
 mained at Leyden about a year ; but it there appeared that he had not yet 
 subdued his propensity for getting into sci*apes. One morning he came to a 
 felloAV-student Avith his pockets full of cash, exulting that he had aa^ou it the 
 evening before. His friend earnestly pressed him to play no more, but hus- 
 band his funds for the completion of his studies. He declared his firm resolu- 
 tion of doing so ; but the seductions of play Avere stronger than his purpose, 
 and he Avas soon stripped of every shilling. 
 
 By this time. Goldsmith AA'as seized Avith a passion for travelling, and he set 
 out to make a long tour in Europe on foot, Avorking his Avay as he might. He 
 stayed at Padua six months ; and if he ever took any degree in medicine, it 
 must haA^e been there. While he Avas in Italy his uncle died, and he Avas 
 obliged to foot it home, lodging in convents, AvliercA'er he found any of his 
 OAvn nation. Arriving at London in the extremity of distress, he engaged 
 awhile in teaching under a feigned name. This Avas in 175G. MeanAvhiie he 
 
 645 
 
646 GOLDSMITH. 
 
 went to practisinf^ medicine, — with what success is not known; but he used 
 to confess that though he luid plenty of patients, he got no fees. It appears 
 also that at this time he was gaining something by his pen; and in 1758 he 
 got an appointment as physician to one of the factories in India. But his ar- 
 dour for the voyage to Asia soon abated somewhat, and he engaged to write 
 for the Monthlij Bcview, at a handsome salary. He stuck to this for some eight 
 months, when the engagement was dissolved by mutual consent. He then 
 removed to decent lodgings in Fleet-street, where he wrote The Vicar of Wcike- 
 Jield, being meanwhile under arrest for debt. This was told to Dr. Johnson, 
 who took the manuscript, and disposed of it for £60 to Mr. Newbury, a book- 
 seller. The money was paid at that time, but the work did not appear till 
 some two years later, when Goldsmith's poem The Traveller, published in 1765, 
 had established his fame. His delightful ballad of The Hermit also made its 
 appearance the same year, inscribed to the Conntess of Northumberland. 
 
 Goldsmith's acquaintance with Johnson began in May, 1761, Avhen the latter 
 went with other literary men to a su])per at Goldsmith's lodgings. One of the 
 com])any was so much struck with the studied neatness of Johnson's dress, 
 that he could not help asking the reason of it. " Why, sir," said Johnson, " I 
 hear that Goldsmith, who is a very great sloven, justifies his disregard of clean- 
 liness and decency by quoting my practice ; and I am desirous this night to show 
 him a better example." 
 
 For several years, while writing his best works, those in which all his powers 
 of mind are displayed, Goldsmith was at the same time engaged in various 
 inferior labours for his present support. In this way he WTOte the two series 
 of essays that appeared under the general titles of The Bee and The Citizen of 
 the World; in the latter of which every paper is marked by a display of judg- 
 ment, wit, or humour. So, at a later period, while he had his comedy, The 
 Good-Natured Man, in hand, and The Deserted Village, he wrote his Roman 
 History and his History of England. 
 
 When, in 1764, Sir Joshua Reynolds, Burke, and Johnson established the 
 famous Club, Goldsmith was among the first members, the number being then 
 limited to twelve. They met and had a supper every Friday evening at the 
 Turk's Head tavern. But Goldsmith, with all his genius and,felicity of style, 
 had no tact in conversation, and generally made a botch of it whenever he at- 
 tempted to talk. This drew^ from Johnson the snug saying, that " no man was 
 more I'oolish Avhen he had not a pen in his hand, or more Avise Avhen he had." 
 
 The Good-Natured Man Avas brought out in January, 17()8, at Covent-garden 
 theatre, and had fair success, the performance being repeated nine successive 
 nights. This was folloAved by She Stoops to Conquer, acted at the same place 
 in March, 1773, Avhere it Avon immense applause, and passed into a stock play, 
 and still holds its place on the stage. 
 
 The Deserted Village, published in 1769, is said to have atoned in the public 
 mind for all the author's mistakes and defects. It is, on the Avhole, the most 
 finished and elegant of all Goldsmith's productions. Though it has nothing 
 that greatly kindles or rouses the mind, it is replete A\4th a certain soothing 
 and SAveetening grace, and is marked throughout by consummate propriety 
 both of thought and language. 
 
 Goldsmith died on the 4th of April, 1774, the immediate cause of his death 
 being an oA'crdose of medicine taken on his own judgment, and against the ad- 
 vice of his attending physician. — His character Avas one of singular simplicity, 
 innocence, and benevolence. Full as he Avas of Avit and humour, there Avas not 
 an atom of guile or virulence in his composition. All this led to his being 
 often victimized by adA-enturers, especially by needy scribblers from his own 
 country, Avho found easy access to him, and emptied his pockets. He Avas in- 
 deed generous in the extreme, and so strongly atlectcd hy compassion, that he 
 would quit his rest at midnight, to procure relief and an asylum for a poor dy- 
 ing object left destitute in the streets. 
 
OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 
 
 THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 
 
 Sweet Auburk ! loveliest village of the plain, 
 Where health and plenty cheer'd the labouring swain, 
 "Where smiling Spring its earliest visit paid, 
 And parting Summers lingering blooms delay'd ; 
 Dear lovely bowers of innocence and ease, 
 Seats of my youth, when every sport could please. 
 How often have I loiter'd o'er thy green. 
 Where bumble happiness endeared each scene I 
 How often have I paused on every charm, 
 The shelter'd cot, the cultivated farm, 
 The never-failing brook, the busy mill, 
 The decent church that topp'd the neighbouring hill. 
 The hawthorn bush, with seats beneath the shade. 
 For talking age and whispering lovers made ! 
 How often have I bless'd the coming day, 
 W'hen toil remitting lent its turn to play. 
 And all the village train, from labour free, 
 Led up their sports beneath the spreading tree, 
 AVhile many a pastime circled in the shade, 
 The young contending as the old survey'd; 
 And many a gambol frolicked o'er the ground. 
 And sleights of art and feats of strength went round ; 
 And still as each repeated pleasure tired. 
 Succeeding sports the mirthful band inspired : 
 The dancing pair that simply sought renown. 
 By holding out, to tire each other down ; 
 The swain mistrustless of his smutted face, 
 While secret laughter titter'd round the place ; 
 The bashful virgin's side-long looks of love, 
 The matron's glance that would those looks reprove. 
 These were thy charms, sweet village ! sports like these, 
 With sweet succession, taught e'en toil to please ; 
 These round thy bowers their cheerful influence shed, 
 These were thy charms, — but all those charms are fled! 
 Sweet smiling village, loveliest of the lawn, 
 647 
 
648 GOLDSMITH. 
 
 Thy sports are fled, and all tliy charms withdrawn ; 
 
 Amidst thy bowers the tyrant's hand is seen, 
 
 And desolation saddens all thy green : 
 
 One only master grasps the whole domain, 
 
 And half a tillage stints thy smihng plain ; 
 
 No more thy glassy brook reflects the day, 
 
 But, choked with sedges, works its weedy way ; 
 
 Along thy glades, a solitary guest. 
 
 The hollow-sounding bittern guards its nest; 
 
 Amidst thy desert walks the lapwing flies, 
 
 And tires their echoes with unvaried cries. 
 
 Sunk are thy bowers in shapeless ruin all, 
 
 And the long grass o'ertops the mouldering wall. 
 
 And, trembling, shrinking from the spoiler's hand, 
 
 Far, far away thy children leave the land. 
 
 Ill fares the land, to hastening ills a prey. 
 Where wealth accumulates, and men decay : 
 Princes and lords may flourish, or may fade ; 
 A breath can make them, as a breath has made : 
 But a bold peasantry, their country's pride. 
 When once destroyed, can never be supplied. 
 
 A time there was, ere England's griefs began, 
 When every rood of ground maintain'd its man ; 
 For him light labour spread her wholesome store. 
 Just gave what life required, but gave no more : 
 His best companions, innocence and health ; , 
 And his best riches, ignorance of wealth. 
 
 But times are alter'd ; trade's unfeeling train 
 Usurp the land, and dispossess the swain ; 
 Along the lawn, where scatter'd hamlets rose. 
 Unwieldy wealth and cumbrous pomp repose ; 
 And every want to luxury allied. 
 And every pang that folly pays to pride. 
 Those gentle hours that plenty bade to bloom, 
 Those calm desires that ask'd but little room. 
 Those healthful sports that graced the peaceful scene. 
 Lived in each look, and brighten'd all the green; 
 These, far departing, seek a kinder shore. 
 And rural mirth and manners are no more. 
 
 Sweet AuBUKi^l parent of the blissful hour. 
 Thy glades forlorn confess the tyrant's power. 
 Here, as I take my solitary rounds, 
 Amidst thy tangling walks and ruin'd grounds. 
 And, many a year clasped, return to ^dew 
 Where once the cottage stood, the hawthorn grew, 
 Remembrance wakes with all her busy train. 
 
THE DESERTED TILLAGE. 649 
 
 Swells at my breast, and turns tlie past to pain. 
 
 In all my wanderings round this world of care, 
 In all my griefs, — and God has given my share, — 
 I still had hopes, my latest hours to crown, 
 Amidst these humble bowers to lay me down ; 
 To husband out life's taper at the close, 
 And keep the flame from wasting by repose ; 
 I still had hopes, for pride attends as still, 
 Amidst the swains to shew my book-learn*d skill, 
 Around my fire an evening group to draw. 
 And tell of all I felt, and all I saw ; 
 And, as a hare whom hounds and horns pursue, 
 Pants to the place from whence at first he flew, 
 I still had hopes, my long vexations past, 
 Here to returu, — and die at home at last. 
 
 blest retirement, friend to life's decline, 
 Retreats from care, that never must be mine. 
 How blest is he who crowns, in shades like these, 
 A youth of labour with an age of ease ; 
 Who quits a world where strong temptations try, 
 And, since 'tis hard to combat, learns to fly ! 
 For him no wretches, born to work and weep. 
 Explore the mine, or tempt the dangerous deep; 
 Nor surly porter stands in guilty state. 
 To spurn imploring famine from the gate : 
 But on he moves to meet his latter end. 
 Angels around befriending Virtue's friend ; 
 Sinks to the grave with unperceived decay, 
 While resignation gently slopes the way ; 
 And, all his prospects brightening to the last, 
 His Heaven commences ere the world be past. 
 
 Sweet was the sound, when oft, at evening's close. 
 Up yonder hill the village murmur rose ; 
 There, as I pass'd with careless steps and slow, 
 The mingling notes came sof ten'd from below ; 
 The swain responsive as the milk-maid sung. 
 The sober herd that low'd to meet their young; 
 The noisy geese that gabbled o'er the pool, 
 The pla}4'ul children just let loose from school; 
 The watch-dog's voice that bay'd the whispering wind, 
 And the loud laugh that spoke the vacant mind ; 
 These all in sweet confusion sought the shade. 
 And filFd each pause the nightingale had made. 
 But now the sounds of population fail, 
 Ko cheerful murmurs fluctuate in the gale. 
 No busy steps the grass-grown foot-way tread. 
 
650 GOLDSMITH. 
 
 But all the bloomy flush of life is fled, — 
 
 All but yon Avidow'd, solitary thing, 
 
 That feebly bends beside the plashy spring : 
 
 She, wretched matron, forced in age, for bread, 
 
 To strip the brook with mantling cresses spread, ^ 
 
 To pick her wintry faggot from the thorn. 
 
 To seek her nightly shed, and weep till morn; 
 
 She only left of all the harmless train. 
 
 The sad historian of the pensive plain. 
 
 Near yonder copse, where once the garden smiled, 
 And still where many a garden-flower grows wild ; 
 There, where a few torn shrubs the place disclose. 
 The village preacher's modest mansion rose. 
 A man he was to all the country dear. 
 And passing rich with forty pounds a year ; 
 Eemote from towns he ran his godly race, 
 Nor e'er had changed, nor wish'd to change his place; 
 Unskilful he to fawn, or seek for power 
 By doctrines fashion'd to the varying hour ; 
 Far other aims his lieart had learn'd to prize. 
 More bent to raise the wretched than to rise. 
 His house was known to all the vagrant train, 
 He chid their wanderings, but relieved their pain ; 
 The long remember'd beggar was his guest, 
 Whose beard descending swept his aged breast. 
 The ruin'd spendthrift, now no longer proud^ 
 Claim'd kindred there, and had his claims allow'd; 
 The broken soldier, kindly bade to stay. 
 Sate by his fire, and talk'd the night away; 
 Wept o'er his wounds, or tales of sorrow done, 
 Shoulder'd his crutch, and shew'd how fields were won. 
 Pleased with his guests, the good man learn 'd to glow, 
 And quite forgot their vices in their woe ; 
 Careless their merits or their faults to scan. 
 His pity gave ere charity began. 
 
 Thus to relieve the wretched was his pride. 
 And e'en his feelings lean'd to Virtue's side : 
 But in his duty prompt at every call, 
 He watch'd and wept, he pray'd and felt for all ; 
 And, as a bird each fond endearment tries, 
 To tempt its new-fledged offspring to the skies. 
 He tried each art, rej^roved each dull delay. 
 Allured to brighter worlds, and led tlie way. 
 
 Beside the bed where parting life was laid. 
 And sorrow, guilt, and pain, by turns dismay'd, 
 The reverend champion stood. At his control. 
 
THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 651 
 
 Despair and anguish fled the strugghng soul ; 
 Comfort came down the trembling wretch to raise, 
 And his last faltering accents whisper'd praise. 
 
 At church., with meek and unaffected grace, 
 His looks adorn'd the venerable place ; 
 Truth from his lips preyail'd with double sw^ay. 
 And fools, who came to scoff, remained to pray. 
 The service past, around the pious man, 
 With steady zeal, each honest rustic ran ; 
 E'en children follow'd with endearing wile, 
 And pluck'd his gown, to share the good man's smile. 
 His ready smile a parent's warmth express'd, 
 Their welfare pleased him, and their cares distressed ; 
 To them his heart, his love, his griefs were given, 
 But all his serious thoughts had rest in Heaven. 
 As some tall cliff that lifts its awful form. 
 Swells from the vale, and midway leaves the storm, 
 Though round its breast the rolling clouds are spread, 
 Eternal sunshine settles on its head. 
 
 Beside yon straggling fence that skirts the way. 
 With blossom'd furze unprofitably gay, 
 There, in his noisy mansion, skill'd to rule. 
 The village master taught his little school: 
 A man severe he was, and stern to view, 
 I knew him well, and every truant knew ; 
 Well had the boding tremblers learn'd to trace 
 The day's disasters in his morning face ; 
 Full well they laugh'd with counterfeited glee 
 At all his jokes, for many a joke had he ; 
 Full well the busy whisper circling round 
 Convey'd the dismal tidings when he frown'd: 
 Yet he was kind, or, if severe in aught. 
 The love he bore to learning was in fault; 
 The village all declared how much he knew, 
 ^Twas certain he could w^rite, and cypher too ; 
 Lands he could measure, terms and tides presage, 
 And e'en the story ran that he could gauge : 
 In arguing, too, the parson own'd his skill. 
 For, e'en though vanquish'd, he could argue still ; 
 While words of learned length and thundering sound 
 Amaz'd the gazing rustics ranged around. 
 And still they gazed, and still the wonder grew. 
 That one small head could carry all he knew. 
 
 But i^ast is all his fame. The very spot 
 Where many a time he triumj)h'd is forgot. 
 Near yonder thorn, that lifts its head on high, 
 
652 GOLDSMITH. 
 
 Where once the sign-post caught the passing eye, 
 Low lies that house where nut-brown draughts inspir'd, 
 Where grey-beard mirth and smiling toil retired, 
 Where village statesmen talk'd with looks profound, 
 And news much older than their ale went round. 
 Imagination fondly stoops to trace 
 The parlour splendours of that festive place; 
 The white-wash'd wall, the nicely-sanded floor, 
 The varnish'd clock that click'd behind the door ; 
 The chest contrived a double debt to pay, 
 A bed by night, a chest of drawers by day ; 
 The pictures placed for ornament and use. 
 The twelve good rules, the royal game of goose ; 
 The hearth, except v/hen Winter chill'd the day, 
 With aspen boughs and flowers and fennel gay. 
 While broken tea-cups, wisely kept for show. 
 Ranged o'er the chimney, glisten'd in a row. 
 
 Vain transitory splendours! could not all 
 Reprieve the tottering mansion from its fall! 
 Obscure it sinks, nor shall it more impart 
 An hour's importance to the poor man's heart ; 
 Thither no more the peasant shall repair, 
 To sweet oblivion of his daily care ; 
 'No more the farmer's news, the barber's tale, 
 No more the woodman's ballad shall prevail ; 
 No more the smith his dusky brow shall clear,. 
 Relax his ponderous strength, and lean to hear; 
 The host himself no longer shall be found 
 Careful to see the mantling bliss go round; 
 Nor the coy maid, half willing to be prest, 
 Shall kiss the cup to pass it to the rest. 
 
 Yes! let the rich deride, the proud disdain 
 These simple blessings of the lowly train ; 
 To me more dear, congenial to my heart. 
 One native charm, than all the gloss of art; 
 Spontaneous joys, where Nature has its play. 
 The soul adoj)ts, and owns their first-born sway; 
 Lightly they frolic o'er the vacant mind, 
 Unenvied, unmolested, unconfined. 
 But the long pomp, the midnight masquerade, 
 With all the freaks of wanton wealth array'd. 
 In these, ere triflers half their wish obtain, 
 The toiling pleasure sickens into pain ; 
 And, e'en while fashion's brightest arts decoy. 
 The heart distrusting asks if this be joy. 
 
 Ye friends to truth, ye statesmen who survey 
 
THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 653 
 
 The ricli man's joys increase, the poor's decay, 
 
 'Tis yours to judge, how wide the limits stand 
 
 Between a splendid and an happy land. 
 
 Proud swells the tide with loads of freighted ore, 
 
 And shouting Folly hails them from her shore ; 
 
 Hoards, e'en beyond the miser's wish, abound, 
 
 And rich men flock from all the world around. 
 
 Yet count our gains. This wealth is but a name 
 
 That leaves our useful products still the same. 
 
 Not so the loss. The man of wealth and pride 
 
 Takes up a space that many poor supplied : 
 
 Space for his lake, his park's extended bounds, 
 
 Space for his horses, equipage, and hounds : 
 
 The robe that wraps his limbs in silken sloth 
 
 Has robb'd the neighbouring fields of half their growth; 
 
 His seat, where solitary sports are seen. 
 
 Indignant spurns the cottage from the green: 
 
 Around the world each needful product flies, 
 
 For all the luxuries the world supplies. 
 
 While thus the land's adorn'd for pleasure, all 
 
 In barren splendour feebly waits the fall. 
 
 As some fair female unadorn'd and plain. 
 Secure to please while youth confirms her reign. 
 Slights every borrow'd charm that dress supplies, 
 Nor shares with art the triumph of her eyes ; 
 But when those charms are past, for charms are frail, 
 When time advances, and when lovers fail, 
 She then shines forth, solicitous to bless. 
 In all the glaring impotence of dress. 
 Thus fares the land by luxury betray'd ; 
 In nature's simplest charms at first array'd, 
 But verging to decline, its splendours rise. 
 Its vistas strike, its palaces surprise ; 
 While, scourged by famine from the smiling land, 
 The mournful peasant leads his humble band ; 
 And while he sinks, without one arm to save. 
 The country blooms, — a garden and a grave. 
 
 Where, then, ah ! where shall poverty reside, 
 To 'scape the pressure of contiguous pride ? 
 If to some common's fenceless limits stray'd 
 He drives his flock to pick the scanty blade, 
 Those fenceless fields the sons of wealth divide, 
 And e'en the bare-worn common is denied. 
 
 If to the city sped, what waits him there ? 
 To see profusion that he must not share; 
 To see ten thousand baneful arts combined 
 
654 GOLDSMITH. 
 
 To pamper luxury, and thin mankind; 
 
 To see each joy the sons of pleasure know 
 
 Extorted from his fellow-creature's woe. 
 
 Here, while the courtier glitters in brocade. 
 
 There the pale artist plies the sickly trade ; 
 
 Here, while the proud their long-drawn pomps display, 
 
 There the black gibbet glooms beside the way. 
 
 The dome where Pleasure holds her midnight reign. 
 
 Here, richly deck'd admits the gorgeous train : 
 
 Tumultuous grandeur crowds the blazing square, 
 
 The rattling chariots clash, the torches glare. 
 
 Sure scenes like these no troubles e'er annoy ! 
 
 Sure these denote one universal joy! 
 
 Are these thy serious thoughts ? — Ah ! turn thine eyes 
 
 Where the poor houseless shivering female lies. 
 
 She once, perhaps, in village plenty blest, 
 
 Has wept at tales of innocence distrest ; 
 
 Her modest looks the cottage might adorn. 
 
 Sweet as the primrose peeps beneath the thorn : 
 
 Now, lost to all, her friends, her virtue fled, 
 
 Near her betrayer's door she lays her head, 
 
 And, pinch'd with cold, and shrinking from the shower. 
 
 With heavy heart deplores that luckess hour, 
 
 When idly first, ambitious of the town. 
 
 She left her wheel, and robes of country brown. 
 
 Do thine, sweet Auburk, thine, the loveliest train. 
 Do thy fair tribes participate her pain ? 
 E'en now, perhaps, by cold and hunger led, 
 At proud men's doors they ask a little bread ! 
 
 Ah, no ! To distant climes, a dreary scene. 
 Where half the convex Avorld mtrudes between. 
 Through torrid tracts with fainting steps they go, 
 Where wild Altama murmurs to their w^oe. 
 Far different there from all that charm'd before, 
 The various terrors of that horrid shore : 
 Those blazing suns that dart a downward ray, 
 And fiercely shed intolerable day ; 
 Those matted woods where birds forget to sing. 
 But silent bats in drowsy clusters cling ; 
 Those poisonous fields with rank luxuriance crown'd, 
 Where the dark scorpion gathers death around; 
 Where at each step the stranger fears to wake 
 The rattling terrors of the vengeful snake; 
 Where crouching tigers wait their hapless prey, 
 And savage men more murderous still than they; 
 While oft in whirls the mad tornado flies. 
 
THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 655 
 
 Mingling the ravaged landscape with the skies ; — 
 Far different these from every former scene, 
 The cooling brook, the grassy- vested green. 
 The breezy covert of the warbling grove, 
 That only shelter'd thefts of harmless love. 
 
 Good Heaven! Avhat sorrows gloom'd that parting day 
 That call'd them from their native walks away ; 
 When the poor exiles, every pleasure past, 
 Hung round the bowers, and fondly look'd their last, 
 And took a long farewell, and wish'd in vain 
 For seats like these beyond the western main ; 
 And, shuddering still to face the distant deep. 
 Returned and wept, and still return'd to weep. 
 -The good old sire was first prepared to go 
 To new-found worlds, and w^ept for others' woe ; 
 But, for himself, in conscious virtue brave. 
 He only wish'd for worlds beyond the grave. 
 His lovely daughter, lovelier in her tears. 
 The fond companion of his helpless years, 
 Silent went next, neglectful of her charms. 
 And left a lover's for her father's arms. 
 With louder plaints the mother spoke her woes, 
 And bless'd the cot where every pleasure rose ; 
 And kiss'd her thoughtless babes with many a tear, 
 And clasp'd them close, in sorrow doubly dear ; 
 Whilst her fond husband strove to lend relief 
 In all the silent manliness of grief. 
 
 luxury! thou curst by Heaven's decree. 
 How ill exchanged are things like these for thee ! 
 How do thy potions, with insidious joy. 
 Diffuse their pleasures only to destroy ! 
 Kingdoms by thee, to sickly greatness grown, 
 Boast of a florid vigour not their own. 
 At every draught more large and large they grow, 
 A bloated mass of rank unwieldy woe ; 
 Till, sapp'd their strength, and every part unsound, 
 Down, down they sink, and spread a ruin round. 
 
 E'en now the devastation is begun. 
 And half the business of destruction done; 
 E'en now, methinks, as pondering here I stand, 
 I see the rural virtues leave the land. 
 Down where yon anchoring vessel spreads the sail. 
 That idly waiting flaps with every gale. 
 Downward they move, a melancholy band. 
 Pass from the shore, and darken all the strand. 
 Contented toil, and hospitable care, 
 
656 GOLDSMITH. 
 
 And kind connubial tenderness are there ; 
 And piety with wishes placed above. 
 And steady loyalty, and faithful love. 
 And thou, sweet Poetry, thou loveliest maid. 
 Still first to fly where sensual joj^s invade ; 
 Unfit, in these degenerate times of shame. 
 To catch the heart or strike for honest fame ; 
 Dear charming nymph, neglected and decried. 
 My shame in crowds, my solitary pride ; 
 Thou source of all my bliss and all my woe, 
 That f ound'st me poor at first, and keep'st me so ; 
 Thou guide, by which the nobler arts excel. 
 Thou nurse of every virtue, fare thee well, 
 Farewell; and, I where'er thy voice be tried. 
 On Torno's cliffs or Pambamarca's side, 
 AVhether where equinoctial fervours glow. 
 Or Winter wraps the polar world in snow. 
 Still let thy voice, prevailing over time, 
 Eedress the rigours of th' inclement clime ; 
 Aid slighted truth with thy persuasive strain. 
 Teach erring man to spurn the rage of gain ; 
 Teach him, that States of native strength possesst, 
 Though very poor, may still be very blest ; 
 That trade's proud empire hastes to swift decay. 
 As ocean sweeps the labour'd mole away ; 
 While self-dependent power can time defy. 
 As rocks resist the billows and the sky. 
 
JAMES THOMSON 
 
 SKETCH OF HIS LIFE. 
 
 Ednam, a small village on the Tweed, near Kelso, in Scotland, was the 
 birth-place of James Thomson; the time, September 11, 1700. He was the 
 third son and the fourth child in a family of nine children. At the time of his 
 birth, his father was minister of Ednam parish, but soon after removed to 
 Southdean, a larger parish, near Jedburgh, where he continued till his death, 
 in 1718. 
 
 About the age of twelve, young Thomson was sent to the Jedburgh Gram- 
 mar School, where he attracted the notice of a minister of the neighbourhood, 
 and also of several of the gentry, by his early essays at poetry. After three 
 years at the School, he was sent to the University of Edinburgh, with a view 
 of preparing for the ministry. At Edinburgh, the poetical reputation he had 
 already won soon gained him the friendship of David Mallet and of Patrick 
 Murdoch, who afterwards wrote a life of him. On the death of his father, the 
 family became somewhat straitened for means ; nevertheless his mother re- 
 moved with her children to Edinburgh, resolved to complete the education of 
 James by strict economy. 
 
 In due time Thomson set about his sacred studies, and stuck to them, more 
 or less, till 1724, when, for some cause or other, he seems to have got so dis- 
 gusted with divinity, that he threw it up, and turned his mind to more con- 
 genial pursuits. Having among his associates in the University some young 
 men who aspired to literary eminence, he took the advice of a lad}', a friend of 
 his mother, and resolved to try his fortune in London. His old friend Mallet 
 had already gone to London, and was living there ; and there Thomson ar- 
 rived some" time in the year 1725, with little money in his pocket, but well 
 recommended by letters of introduction to persons of influence, both social and 
 literary. Before leaving Edinburgh, he had written much, if not most, of his 
 Winter; and he took the manuscript with him. After some weeks in London, 
 the same lady Avho had advised him to go thither was instrumental in getting 
 Lim the place of tutor to a sou of Lord Binning, then residing at East Barnet, 
 ten miles from the city. 
 
 While thus employed, Thomson finished his Winter, and, this done, lost no 
 time in seeking a publisher. He did not easily find one ; but at last a pub- 
 lisher named Millan was induced to purchase the poem at the low price of three 
 guineas. Even at this it was likely for some time to prove a bad bargain for 
 the publisher, as the poem found no readers. The poem was dedicated to Sir 
 Spencer Compton, then Speaker of the House of Commons, but even he took 
 no notice of it. At length, the Rev. Mr. Whatley, afterwards prebendary of 
 York, being one day in Millan's shop, happened to take up the poem, and was 
 so much pleased with what he read, that he forthwith went to sounding the 
 author's praises. The Speaker's attention Avas now drawn to the poem, and 
 he invited Thomson to visit him ; and, on his doing so, made him a present of 
 twenty guineas. The result was, that Winter soon became a general favourite; 
 its growth in popularity being so rapid that two editions were called for before 
 the year was out. The next year, 1727, Summer was given to the public, and 
 was followed, in 1728, by Spring; the latter being dedicated to the Countess of 
 Hertford, at whose residence it was written. 
 
 657 
 
658 THOMSON". 
 
 By this time Thomson was a recognised member of the literary circle of 
 London. Still the poems were not putting much money in his purse, though 
 he received fifty guineas for Spring. In 1730, a new edition of The Seasons was 
 published by subscription ; the fourth of the series, Autumn, being then added 
 to the others, which was dedicated to Speaker Onslow. The same edition 
 included the author's poem To the Memory of Sir Isaac Newton. Among the 
 subscribers were many persons of high social rank, and also some of the fore- 
 most men of letters ; Pope himself taking three copies. In five years Thomson 
 had climbed the steep hill of fame, and now stood at the top, numbering among 
 his friends and patrons the first wits of the day, the most famous poets, and 
 the most distinguished members of society. 
 
 The year before the publication of the collected Seasons, Thomson undertook 
 to work the mine of dramatic poetry, thinking that the stage would bring him 
 larger returns of money than he had yet gained. Accordingly his tragedy of 
 Sophonisba was acted in February, 1730, and was dedicated to the Queen. 
 Public expectation was raised very high, but the piece was from the first little 
 better than a failure. 
 
 The next year, the influence of Dr. Rundle, afterwards Bishop of Derry, 
 procured Thomson the situation of travelling companion to Charles, son of Sir 
 Charles Talbot. The continental tour with young Talbot lasted about a year, 
 the travellers returning to England at the close of 1731. Young Talbot died 
 the September following; and the poet lamented his death in some verses 
 which speak well for his warmth of heart, though not for the felicity of hi- 
 Muse. Two months afterwards. Sir Charles was made Lord Chancellor ; ana 
 one of his first official acts was to appoint Thomson to the sinecure office of 
 Secretary of Briefs in the Court of Chancery. This placed the poet in a com- 
 fortable position, and relieved him from dependence on his pen. As he had a 
 natural love of country life, in May, 1736, he removed to Richmond, where he 
 took a cottage bordering on the Thames, with a small garden attached, so that 
 he could indulge his favourite taste for gardening. Here he revised and en- 
 larged The Seasons, and carried them through three new editions, in 1738, 1744, 
 and 1746. 
 
 The death of the Lord Chancellor, in 1737, cost the poet his office, and this 
 because, either from indolence or pride, he did not apply for it to the new 
 Chancellor, who kept it open for some time on purpose that he might do so. 
 Thomson noAV became straitened again for means, and so went to trying his 
 hand anew at the drama. He wrote several pieces, but none of them have any 
 real merit. At this period, a note-worthy incident occurred. Thomson had 
 been arrested for a debt of £70. While in confinement, he was visited by 
 Quin, the actor, who had a supper ordered from a neighbouring tavern. When 
 it was over, Quin said it was time they should square accounts. At this the 
 poet was much alarmed. The great actor then said, " When^ I read 2Vie Sea- 
 sons, I was so delighted, that I put the poet down in my will for £100 ; and 
 you must allow me to pay it with my own hand." He thereupon laid the sum 
 on the table, and immediately withdrew. 
 
 At length, in 1744, Lord Lyttleton came into power, a.nd he at once gave 
 Thomson the office of Surveyor-General of the Leeward Islands, also a sine- 
 cure, with a salary of £300 a-year, which he held till his death, Lyttleton's seat 
 at Hagley-Park being one of his favourite resorts. 
 
 The last of Thomson's works published during his life was The Castle of In- 
 dolence, which he had been working at for fifteen years. Its origin, in his fancy, 
 dates back to his youth; and from a few disconnected stanzas,_ intended to 
 ridicule the indolence of himself and some of his friends, it grew into its pres- 
 ent shape. It is, I think, far the best of his works, and he took the most pains 
 with it. ' 
 
 The poet died in August, 1748, in consequence of a cold caught through 
 careless exposure on the river. He was an exceedingly amiable man, a de- 
 lightful companion, and was sincerely mourned by a large circle of friends. 
 
JAMES THOMSON. 
 
 THE CASTLE OF INDOLENCE. 
 
 CANTO I. 
 
 The castle hight of Indolence, 
 
 And its false luxury ; 
 Where for a little time, alas ! 
 
 We lived right jollily. 
 
 1 MORTAL man, who livest here by toil, 
 Do not complain of this thy hard estate : 
 That like aii emmet thou must ever moil, 
 Is a sad sentence of an ancient date ; 
 And, certes, there is for it reason great ; 
 
 For, though sometimes it makes thee weep and wail. 
 And curse thy star, and early drudge and late, 
 Withouten^ that would come a heavier bale, 
 Loose life, unruly passions, and diseases pale. 
 
 2 In lowly dale, fast by a river's side. 
 
 With woody hill o'er hill encompass'd round, 
 A most enchanting wizard did abide. 
 Than whom a fiend more fell is nowhere found. 
 It was, I ween, a lovely spot of ground ; 
 And tliere a season atween June and May, 
 Half prankt with Spring, with Summer half imbrown'd, 
 A listless climate made, where, sooth to say, 
 No living wight could work, ne cared even for play. 
 
 3 Was nought around but images of rest: 
 Sleep-soothing groves, and quiet lawns between ; 
 And flowery beds that slumbrous influence kest. 
 From poppies breathed ; and beds of pleasant green. 
 Where never yet was creeping creature seen. 
 Meantime unnumber'd glittering streamlets played, 
 
 1 Such archaic forms are sometimes used by Thomson in this poem, where the 
 verse wants the extra syllable, in order to give a more Spenserian smack to the 
 stjle. So we have casten for cast. For the same reasons, the letter?/ is sometimes 
 prefixed to a word, as yborn, ydad, &c. — For the meaning of archaic and obsolete 
 words, see Glossary at the end of the poem. 
 
 659 
 
660 THOMSOif. 
 
 And hurled everywhere their waters sheen ; 
 That, as they bicker'd through the sunny glade, 
 Though restless still themselves, a lulling murmur made. 
 
 4 Join'd to the prattle of the purling rills,. 
 Were heard the lowing herds along the vale, 
 And flocks loud-bleating from the distant hills. 
 And vacant shepherds piping in the dale ; 
 And, now and then, sweet Philomel would wail. 
 Or stockdoves plain amid the forest deep, 
 That drowsy rustled to the sighing gale ; 
 
 And still a coil the grasshopper did keep ; 
 Yet all these sounds yblent inclined all to sleep. 
 
 5 Full in the passage of the vale, above, 
 A sable, silent, solemn forest stood. 
 
 Where nought but shadowy forms was seen to move, 
 As Idless ^ fancied in her dreaming mood ; 
 And up the hills, on either side, a wood 
 Of blackening pines, aye waving to and fro. 
 Sent forth a sleepy horror through the blood ; 
 And where this valley winded out, below. 
 The murmuring main was heard, and scarcely heard, to flow. 
 
 6 A pleasing land of drowsyhead it was. 
 
 Of dreams that wave before the half-shut eye ; 
 And of gay castles in the clouds that ;^ass. 
 For ever flushing round a summer sky : 
 There eke the soft delights that witchingly 
 Instil a wanton sweetness through the breast; 
 And the calm pleasures always hover'd nigh ; 
 But whate'er smack'd of noyance or unrest, 
 Was far, far off expell'd from this delicious nest. 
 
 7 The landscape such, inspiring perfect ease. 
 Where Indolence (for so the wizard hight) 
 Close-hid his castle 'mid embowering trees. 
 That half shut out the beams of Phoebus bright. 
 And made a kind of chequer'd day and night : 
 Meanwhile, unceasing at the massy gate. 
 Beneath a spacious palm, the wicked wight 
 Was placed ; and, to his lute, of cruel fate 
 
 And labour harsh complain'd, lamenting man's estate. 
 
 8 Thither continual pilgrims crowded still, 
 From all the roads of earth that pass there by : 
 
 2 Idless for idleness, which is here personified. 
 
THE CASTLE OF IlfDOLEKCE. 661 
 
 For, as they chanced to breathe on neighbouring hill. 
 The freshness of this valley smote their eye, 
 And drew them ever and anon more nigh ; 
 Till clustering round th' enchanter false they hung, 
 Ymolten with his siren melody; 
 While o'er th' enfeebling lute his hand he flung, 
 And to the trembling chords these tempting verses sung: 
 
 9 "Behold! ye pilgrims of this Earth, behold! 
 See all but man with unearn'd pleasure gay; 
 See her bright robes the butterfly unfold. 
 Broke from her wintry tomb in prime of May ! 
 What youthful bride can equal her array ? 
 
 . Who can with her for easy pleasure vie ? 
 From mead to mead with gentle wing to stray, 
 From flower to flower on balmy gales to fly, 
 
 Is all she has to do beneath the radiant sky. 
 
 10 "Behold the merry minstrels of the morn. 
 The swarming songsters of the careless grove. 
 
 Ten thousand throats ! that, from the flowering thorn. 
 Hymn their good God, and carol sweet of love, 
 Such grateful kindly raptures them emove : 
 They neither plough nor sow ; ne, fit for flail,^ 
 E'er to the barn the nodden sheaves they drove ; 
 Yet theirs each harvest dancing in the gale. 
 Whatever crowns the hill, or smiles along the vale. 
 
 11 " Outcast of Nature, man ! the wretched thrall 
 Of bitter dropping sweat, of sweltry pain. 
 
 Of cares that eat away the heart with gall, 
 And of the vices, an inhuman train. 
 That all proceed from savage thirst of gain : 
 For when hard-hearted interest first began 
 To poison Earth, Ast'rsea left the plain ; 
 Guile, violence, and murder seized on man. 
 And, for soft milky streams, with blood the rivers ran. 
 
 12 " Come, ye, who still the cumbrous load of life 
 Push hard up hill ; but, as the farthest steep 
 You trust to gain, and put an end to strife, 
 Down thunders back the stone with mighty sweep, 
 And hurls your labours to the valley deep. 
 
 For ever A' ain ; — come, and, withouten fee, 
 I in oblivion will your sorrows steep, 
 
 3 Fit for flail is ready to be tlireshed. 
 
662 THOMSON. 
 
 Your cares, your toils ; will steep you iu a sea 
 Of full delight; 0, come, ye weary wights, to me! 
 
 13 "With me, you need not rise at early dawn, 
 To pass the J03^1ess day in various stounds; 
 Or, louting low, on upstart fortune fawn. 
 And sell fair honour for some paltry pounds ; 
 Or through the city take your dirty rounds, 
 To cheat, and dun, and lie, and visit pay, 
 Now flattering base, now giving secret wounds ; 
 Or prowl in courts of law for human prey. 
 
 In venal senate thieve, or rob on broad highway. 
 
 14 "No cocks, with me, to rustic labour call, 
 From village on to village sounding clear ; 
 
 To tardy swain no shrill-voiced matrons squall ; 
 No dogs, no babes, no wives, to stun your ear ; 
 No hammers thump; no horrid blacksmith sere, 
 Ne noisy tradesman your sweet slumbers start, 
 With sounds that are a misery to hear ; 
 But all is calm, as would delight the heart 
 Of Sybarite of old, all Nature, and all Art. 
 
 15 " Here nought but candour reigns, indulgent ease. 
 Good-natured lounging, sauntering up and down : 
 They who are pleased themselves must always please ; 
 On others' ways they never squint a frown. 
 
 Nor heed what haps in hamlet or in town. 
 Thus, from the source of tender Indolence, 
 With milky blood the heart is overflown. 
 Is soothed and sweeten'd by the social sense ; 
 For interest, envy, pride, and strife are banish'd hence. 
 
 16 " What, what is virtue but repose of mind, 
 A pure ethereal calm, that knows no storm ; 
 Above the reach of wild ambition's wind, 
 Above those passions that this world deform. 
 And torture man, a proud malignant worm ? 
 But here, instead, soft gales of passion play. 
 And gently stir the heart, thereby to form 
 
 A quicker sense of joy; as breezes stray 
 Across th' enliven'd skies, and make them still more gay. 
 
 17 " The best of men have ever loved repose ; 
 They hate to mingle in tlie filthy fray, 
 
 .Where the soul sours, and gradual rancour grows, 
 Embitter'd more from peevish day to day. 
 
THE CASTLE OF IJfDOLEXCE. 663 
 
 E'en those whom fame has lent her fairest ray. 
 The most renown'd of worthy wights of yore, 
 From a base world at last have stolen away: 
 So Scipio, to the soft Cumaean shore 
 Eetiring, tasted joy he never knew before. 
 
 18 " But if a little exercise 3^ou clioose, 
 Some zest for ease, 'tis not forbidden here : 
 Amid the groves you may indulge the Muse, 
 Or tend the blooms, and deck the vernal year; 
 Or softly stealing, with your watery gear, 
 Along the brooks, the crimson-spotted fry 
 You may delude; the whilst, amused, you hear 
 
 . Now the hoarse stream, and now the zephyr's sigh, 
 Attuned to the birds, and woodland melody. 
 
 19 " grievous folly ! to heap up estate. 
 Losing the days you see beneath the Sun ; 
 When, sudden, comes blind unrelenting fate. 
 And gives tli' untasted portion you have won 
 With ruthless toil, and many a wretch undone. 
 To those Avho mock you, gone to Pluto's reign. 
 There with sad ghosts to pine, and shadows dun: 
 But sure it is of vanities most vain. 
 
 To toil for what you here untoiling may obtain." 
 
 20 He ceased. But still their trembling ears retain'd 
 The deep vibrations of his witching song ; 
 
 That, by a kind of magic power, constrain'd 
 To enter in, pell-mell, the listening throng. 
 Heaps pour'd on heaps, and yet they slipp'd along, 
 In silent ease : as when beneath the beam 
 Of summer Moons, the distant woods among, 
 Or by some flood all silver'd with the gleam. 
 The soft-embodied fays through airy portal stream. 
 
 21 By the smooth demon so it order'd was. 
 And here his baneful bounty first began ; 
 
 Though some there were who would not further pass, 
 And his alluring baits suspected han. 
 The wise distrust the too fair-spoken man ; 
 Yet through the gate they cast a wishful eye : 
 ]N'ot to move on, perdie, is all they can ; 
 For do their very best they cannot fly, 
 But often each way look, ani often sorely sigh. 
 
 22 When this the watchful wicked wizard saw. 
 With sudden spring he leap'd upon them straight ; 
 
664 THOMSON?-. 
 
 And, soon as touched by his nnhallow'd paw, 
 They found themselves within the cursed gate ; 
 Full hard to be repass'd, hke that of fate. 
 Not stronger were of old the giant crew 
 Who sought to pull high Jove from regal state : 
 Though feeble wretch he seem'd, of sallow hue, 
 Certes, who bides his grasp, will that encounter rue. 
 
 23 For whomsoe'er the villain takes in hand, 
 Their joints unknit, their sinews melt apace; 
 As lithe they grow as any willow-wand, 
 And of their vanish'd force remains no trace : 
 So when a maiden fair, of modest grace. 
 
 In all her buxom blooming May of charms. 
 Is seized in some losel's hot embrace. 
 She waxeth very weakly as she warms. 
 Then sighing yields her up to love's delicious harms. 
 
 24 Waked by the crowd, slow from his bench arose 
 A comely, full-spread porter, swoln with sleep : 
 
 His calm, broad, thoughtless aspect breathed repose ; 
 And in sweet torpor he was plunged deep, 
 Ne could himself from ceaseless yawning keep; 
 While o'er his eyes the drowsy liquor ran, 
 Through which his half- waked soul would faintly peep; 
 Then, taking his black staff, he call'd his man. 
 And roused himself as much as rouse himself he can. 
 
 25 The lad leap'd lightly at his master's call : 
 He was, to weet, a little roguish page, 
 
 Save sleep and play who minded nought at all. 
 Like most the untaught striplings of his age. 
 This boy he kept each band to disengage, , 
 Garters and buckles, task for him unfit, 
 And ill becoming his grave personage, 
 And which his portly paunch would not permit; 
 So this same limber page to all performed it. 
 
 26 Meantime the master-porter wide display'd 
 Great store of caps, of slippers, and of gowns ; 
 Wherewith he those who enter'd in array'd 
 Loose as the breeze that plays along the downs. 
 And waves the summer woods when evening frowns: 
 fair undress, best dress! it checks no vein, 
 
 But every flowing Umb in pleasure drowns. 
 And heightens each with grace. This done, right fain 
 Sir porter sat him down, and turn'd to sleep again. 
 
THE CASTLE OF IN^D0LE1?"CE. 665 
 
 27 Thus easy robed, they to the fountain sped 
 That in the middle of the court up-threw 
 
 A stream, high spouting from its liquid bed. 
 And falling back again in drizzly dew : 
 There each deep draughts, as deep he thirsted, drew; 
 It was a fountain of nepenthe rare ; 
 Whence, as Dan Homer sings, huge pleasance grew. 
 And sweet oblivion of yile earthly care ; 
 Fair gladsome waking thoughts, and joyous dreams more fair. 
 
 28 This rite performed, all inly pleased and still, 
 Withouten tromp, was proclamation made : 
 "Ye sons of Indolence, do what you will; 
 
 And wander where you list, through hall or glade ; 
 Be no man's pleasure for another stay'd; 
 Let each as likes him best his hours employ, 
 And cursed be he who minds his neighbour's trade ! 
 Here dAvells kind ease and unreproving joy; 
 He little merits bliss who others can annoy." 
 
 29 Straight of these endless numbers, swarming round 
 As thick as idle motes in sunny ray, 
 
 Not one eftsoons in view was to be found. 
 But every man stroU'd off his own glad way ; 
 Wide o'er this ample court's blank area, 
 With all the lodges that thereto pertain'd, 
 No living creature could be seen to stray ; 
 While solitude and perfect silence reign'd; 
 So that to think you dreamt you almost Avere constrain'd. 
 
 30 As when a shepherd of the Hebrid-Isles, 
 Placed far amid the melancholy main, 
 (Whether it be lone fancy him beguiles. 
 Or that aerial beings sometimes deign 
 To stand embodied to our senses plain,) 
 Sees on the naked hill, or valley low. 
 
 The whilst in ocean Phoebus dips his wain, 
 A vast assembly moving to and fro ; 
 Then all at once in air dissolves the wondrous show. 
 
 31 Ye gods of quiet, and of sleep profound ! 
 Whose soft dominion o'er this castle SAvays, 
 And all the widely silent places round, 
 Forgive me, if my trembling pen displays 
 What never yet was sung in mortal lays. 
 
 But how shall I attempt such arduous string ? 
 I who have spent my nights, and nightly days, 
 
Q66 THOMSON. 
 
 In this soul-deadening place loose-loitering : 
 Ah ! how shall I for this uprear my moulted wing ? 
 
 32 Come on, my Muse, nor stoop to low despair, 
 Thou imp of Jove, touch'd by celestial fire ! 
 Thou yet shalt sing of war, and actions fair. 
 Which the bold sons of Britain will inspire ; 
 Of ancient bards thou yet shalt sweep the lyre; 
 Thou yet shalt tread in tragic pall the stage. 
 Paint love's enchanting woes, the hero's ire, 
 The sage's calm, the patriot's noble rage, 
 
 Dashing corruption down through every worthless age. 
 
 33 The doors, that knew no shrill alarming-bell, 
 Ne cursed knocker plied by villain's hand, 
 Self-open'd into halls, where who can tell 
 What elegance and grandeur wide expand, 
 The pride of Turkey and of Persia land ? 
 Soft quilts on quilts, on carpets carpets spread. 
 And couches stretch'd around in seemly band ; 
 And endless pillows rise to prop the head ; 
 
 So that each spacious room was one full-swelling bed : 
 
 34 And everywhere huge cover'd tables stood. 
 
 With wines high-flavour'd and rich viands crown'd ; 
 Whatever sprightly juice or tasteful food 
 On the green bosom of this Earth are found, 
 And all old ocean 'genders in his round, ' 
 Some hand unseen these silently display' d, 
 Even undemanded by a sign or sound; 
 You need but wish, and, instantly obey'd. 
 Pair ranged the dishes rose, and thick the glasses play'd. 
 
 35 Here freedom reign'd, without the least alloy ; 
 Nor gossip's tale, nor ancient maiden's gall, 
 Nor saintly spleen durst murmur at our joy. 
 And with envenom'd tongue our pleasures pall : 
 Por wliy * there was but one great rule for all, — 
 To wit, that each should work his own desire, 
 And eat, drink, study, sleep, as it may fall. 
 
 Or melt the time in love, or wake the lyre. 
 And carol wliat, unhid, the Muses might inspire. 
 
 4 For why is because, or for the reason that. See page 628, note 5. To the instance 
 there quoted I here add another, from the fine old ballad, 31y Mlitd to me a Kingdom is: 
 
 "This is my choyce, /or- ?<;/?.?/ 1 finde 
 No wealth is like a quiet iniude." 
 
THE CASTLE OF IlJfDOLEKCE. G67 
 
 36 The rooms with costly tapestry were hung, 
 Where was inwoven many a gentle tale, 
 Such as of old the rural poets sung, 
 
 Or of Arcadian or Sicilian vale : 
 Reclining lovers, in the lonely dale, 
 Pour'd forth at large the sweetly-tortured heart ; 
 Or, sighing tender passion, swell'd the gale, 
 And taught charm'd echo to resound their smart ; 
 While flocks, woods, streams around, repose and peace impart. 
 
 37 Those pleased the most, where, by a cunning hand, 
 Depainted was the patriarchal age ; 
 
 What time Dan Abraham left the Chaldee land. 
 And pastured on from verdant stage to stage. 
 Where fields and fountains fresh could best engage. 
 Toil was not then ; of nothing took they heed. 
 But with wild beasts the silvan war to wage. 
 And o'er vast plains their herds and flocks to feed : 
 Bless'd sons of Nature they ! true golden age indeed 1 
 
 38 Sometimes the pencil, in cool airy halls. 
 
 Bade the gay bloom of vernal landscapes rise, , 
 Or Autumn's varied shades imbrown the walls : 
 Now the black tempest strikes th' astonish'd eyes ; 
 Now down the steep the flashing torrent flies ; 
 The trembling sun now plays o'er ocean blue, 
 And now rude mountains frown amid the skies ; 
 Wliate'er Lorraine light-touch'd with softening hue, 
 Or savage Eosa dash'd, or learned Poussin drew. 
 
 39 Each sound too here to languishment inclined, 
 Lull'd the weak bosom, and induced ease ; 
 Aerial music in the warbling wind. 
 
 At distance rising oft, by small degrees. 
 Nearer and nearer came, till o'er the trees 
 It hung, and breathed such soul-dissolving airs 
 As did, alas ! with soft perdition please : 
 Entangled deep in its enchanting snares. 
 The listening heart forgot all duties and all cares. 
 
 40 A certain music, never known before. 
 Here lull'd the pensive, melancholy mind ; 
 Eull easily obtain'd. Behoves no more. 
 But sidelong, to the gently waving wind, 
 To lay the w^ell-tunecl instrument reclined ; 
 Erom which, with airy flying fingers light, 
 Beyond each mortal touch the most refined. 
 
668 THOMSOK. 
 
 The god of winds drew sounds of deep deliglit : 
 Whence, with just cause, the harp of iEokis it hight. 
 
 41 Ah me ! what hand can touch the string so fine ? 
 Who up the lofty diapason roll 
 
 Such sAveet, such sad, such solemn airs divine. 
 Then let them down again into the soul ? 
 Now rising love they f ann'd ; now pleasing dole 
 They breathed, in tender musings through the heart ; 
 And now a graver sacred strain they stole. 
 As when seraphic hands a hymn impart ; 
 Wild warbling nature all, above the reach of art ! 
 
 42 Such the gay splendour, the luxurious state, 
 Of Caliphs old, who on the Tygris' shore. 
 In mighty Bagdat, populous and great. 
 
 Held their bright court, where was of ladies store ; 
 And verse, love, music, still the garland wore : 
 When sleep was coy, the bard, in waiting there, 
 Cheer'd the lone midnight with the Muse's lore ; 
 Composing music bade his dreams be fair, 
 And music lent new gladness to the morning air. 
 
 43 Near the pavilions where we slept, still ran 
 Soft tinkling streams, and dashing waters fell. 
 And sobbing breezes sigh'd, and oft began 
 (So work'd the wizard) wintry storms to swell, 
 As heaven and earth they would together mell ; 
 At doors and windows, tlireatening, seem'd to call 
 The demons of the tempest, growling fell, 
 
 Yet the least entrance found they none at all ; 
 Whence sweeter grew our sleep, secure in massy hall. 
 
 44 And hither Morpheus sent his kindest dreams. 
 Raising a world of gayer tinct and grace ; 
 O'er which were shadowy cast Elysian gleams, 
 That play'd in waving lights from place to place, 
 And shed a roseate smile on Nature's face. 
 
 Not Titian's pencil e'er could so array. 
 So fleece with clouds the pure ethereal space ; 
 Ne could it e'er such melting forms display. 
 As loose on flowery beds all languishingly lay. 
 
 45 No, fair illusions ! artful phantoms, no ! 
 My Muse will not attempt your fairy land ; 
 She has no colours that like you can glow : 
 To catch your vivid scenes too gross her hand. 
 
THE CASTLE OF IKDOLEKCE. 669 
 
 But sure it is, was ne'er a subtler band 
 Than these same guileful angel-seeming* sprights, 
 Who thus in dreams voluptuous, soft, and bland, 
 Pour'd all th' Arabian heaven upon our nights. 
 And bless'd them oft besides with more refined delights. 
 
 46 They were, in sooth, a most enchanting train, 
 Even feigning virtue ; skilful to unite 
 
 With evil good, and strew with pleasure pain. 
 But for those fiends whom blood and broils delight; 
 Who hurl the wretch, as if to Hell outright, 
 Down, down black gulfs, where sullen waters sleep ; 
 Or hold him clambering all the fearful night 
 ■ On beetling cliffs, or pent in ruins deep ; 
 They, till due time should serve, were bid far hence to keep. 
 
 47 Ye guardian spirits to whom man is dear, 
 
 From these foul demons shield the midnight gloom : 
 Angels of fancy and of love, be near. 
 And o'er. the blank of sleep diffuse a bloom: 
 Evoke the sacred shades of Greece and Eome, 
 And let them virtue with a look impart : 
 But chief, awhile, 0, lend us from the tomb 
 Those long-lost friends for whom in love we smart, 
 And fill with pious awe and joy-mix'd woe the heart ! ^ 
 
 48 Or are you sportive ? — bid the morn of youth 
 Rise to new light, and beam afresh the days 
 Of innocence, simplicity, and truth. 
 
 To cares estranged, and manhood's thorny ways. 
 
 What transport, to, retrace our boyish plays. 
 
 Our easy bliss, when each thing joy supplied ; 
 • The woods, the mountains, and the warbling maze 
 
 Of the wild brooks ! — But, fondly wandering wide, 
 My Muse, resume the task that yet doth thee abide. 
 
 49 One great amusement of our household was, 
 In a huge crystal magic globe to spy,. 
 
 Still as you turn'd it, all things that do pass 
 Upon this ant-hill Earth ; where constantly 
 Of idly-busy men the restless fry 
 Run bustling to and fro with foolish haste, 
 In search of pleasures vain that from them fly, 
 Or which, obtain'd, the caitiffs dare not taste : — 
 When nothing is enjoy' d, can there be greater waste ? 
 
670 THOMSON. 
 
 50 " Of vanity the mirror/' this was calFd : 
 Here, you a muckworm of the town may see, 
 At his dull desk, amid his ledgers stall'd, 
 Eat up with carking care and penury; 
 Most like to carcass parched on gallow-tree. 
 
 '' A penny saved is a penny got : " 
 Firm to this scoundrel maxim keepeth he, 
 Ne of its rigour will he bate a Jot, 
 Till he has quench'd his fire, and banished his pot. 
 
 51 Straight from the filth of this low grub, behold! 
 Comes fluttering forth a gaudy spendthrift heir, 
 All glossy gay, enamell'd all with gold. 
 
 The silly tenant of the summer air ; 
 In folly lost, of nothing takes he care ; 
 Pimps, lawyers, stewards, harlots, flatterers vile. 
 And thieving tradesmen him among them share ; 
 His father's ghost from limbo lake the while 
 Sees this, which more damnation doth upon him pile. 
 
 52 This globe portray'd the race of learned men, 
 Still at their books, and turning o'er the page. 
 Backwards and forwards : oft they snatch the pen, 
 As if inspired, and in a Thespian rage ; 
 
 Then write, and blot, as would your ruth engage : 
 Why, authors, all this scrawl and scribbling sore ? 
 To lose the present, gain the future age, 
 Praised to be when you can hear no more, 
 And much enrich'd with fame, when useless worldly store. 
 
 53 Then would a splendid city rise to view, 
 With carts and cars and coaches roaring all : 
 Wide-pour'd abroad behold the giddy crew; 
 See how they dash along from wall to wall ; 
 At every door, hark how they thnndering call! 
 Good Lord ! what can this giddy rout excite ? 
 Why, on each other with fell tooth to fall ; 
 
 A neighbour's fortune, fame, or peace, to blight. 
 And make new tiresome parties for the coming night. 
 
 54 The puzzling sons of party next appear'd. 
 In dark cabals and nightly juntos met; 
 
 And now they whisper'd close, now shrugging rear'd 
 
 Th' important shoulder; then, as if to get 
 
 New light, their twinkling eyes were inward set. 
 
 No sooner Lucifer recalls affairs. 
 
 Than forth they various rush in mighty fret. 
 
THE CASTLE OF IN^DOLENCE. 671 
 
 When, lo ! push'd up to power, and crown'd their cares, 
 In comes another set, and kicketh them down stairs. 
 
 55 But what most show'd the vanity of life, 
 Was to behold the nations all on fire, 
 
 In cruel broils engaged, and deadly strife : 
 Most Christian kings, inflamed by black desire, 
 With honourable ruffians in their hire. 
 Cause war to rage, and blood around to pour ; 
 Of this sad work when each begins to tire. 
 Then sit them down just where they were befoxe, 
 Till, for new scenes of woe, peace shall their force restore. 
 
 56 To number up the thousands dwelling here, 
 A useless were, and eke an endless task ; 
 
 • From kings, and those who at the helm appear, 
 To gipsies brown in summer glades who bask. 
 Yea, many a man, perdie, I could unmask. 
 Whose desk and table make a solemn show. 
 With tape-tied trash, and suits of fools that ask 
 For place or pension laid in decent row ; 
 But these I passen by, with nameless numbers moe. 
 
 57 Of all the gentle tenants of the place. 
 There was a man of special grave remark: 
 A certain tender gloom o'erspread his face. 
 Pensive, not sad; in thought involved, not dark; 
 As soot this man could sing as morning lark. 
 And teach the noblest morals of the heart : 
 
 But these his talents were yburied stark; 
 Of the fine stores he nothing would impart 
 Which or boon Nature gave, or nature-painting Art. 
 
 58 To noontide shades incontinent he ran. 
 
 Where purls the brook with sleep-inviting sound ; 
 Or when Dan Sol to slope his wheels began. 
 Amid the broom he bask'd him on the ground. 
 Where the wild thyme and camomile are found: ^ 
 There would he linger, till the latest ray 
 Of light sat trembling on the welkin's bound ; 
 Then homeward through the twilight shadows stray, 
 Sauntering and slow. So had he passed many a day. 
 
 59 Yet not in thoughtless slumber were they past : 
 For oft the heavenly fire, that lay conceal'd 
 Beneath the sleeping embers, mounted fast. 
 And all its native light anew reveal'd : 
 
672 THOMSON. 
 
 Oft as lie traversed the cerulean field, 
 And mark'd the clouds that drove before the wind, 
 Ten thousand glorious systems would lie build. 
 Ten thousand great ideas filFd his mind ; 
 But with the clouds they fled, and left no trace behind. 
 
 60 With him was sometimes join'd, in silent walk, 
 (Profoundly silent, for they never spoke,) 
 One shier still, who quite detested talk : 
 
 Oft, stung by spleen, at once away he broke. 
 To groves of pine and broad overshadowing oak ; 
 There, inly thrill'd, he wander'd all alone, 
 And on himself his pensive fury wroke, 
 Ne ever utter'd word, save when first shone 
 The glittering star of eve, — "Thank Heaven! the day is 
 done." * 
 
 61 Here lurk'd a wretch, who had not crept abroad 
 For forty years, ne face of mortal seen ; 
 
 In chamber brooding like a loathly toad ; 
 And sure his linen was not very clean. 
 Through secret loopholes, that had practised been 
 Near to his bed, his dinner vile he took ; 
 Unkempt and rough, of squalid face and mien. 
 Our castle's shame ! whence, from his filth}' nook, 
 We drove the villain out for fitter lair to look. 
 
 62 One day there chanced into these halls to rove 
 A joyous youth, who took you at first sight; 
 Him' the wild wave of pleasure hither drove, 
 Before the sprightly tempest-tossing light ; 
 Certes, he was a most engaging wight. 
 
 Of social glee, and wit humane though keen, 
 Turning the night to day, and day to night : 
 For him the merry bells had rung, I ween, 
 If, in this nook of quiet, bells had ever been. 
 
 63 But not e'en pleasure to excess is good : 
 What most elates, then sinks the soul as low: 
 When spring-tide joy pours in with copious flood. 
 The higher still th' exulting billows flow, 
 
 The further back again they flagging go. 
 And leave us grovelling on VAe dreary shore: 
 Taught by thi's son of Joy, we found it so, 
 
 -5 This stanza refers, it is said, to Thomson's very particular friend. Dr. Arm- 
 strong, the author of a considerable poem entitled 2Vte Art of Preserving Health. 
 
THE CASTLE OF IN^DOLENCE. 673 
 
 Who whilst he stay'd, he kept in gay uproar 
 Our madden'd castle all, th' abode of sleep no more. 
 
 64 As when in prime of June a burnish'd fly, 
 Sprung from the meads, o'er which he sweeps along, 
 Cheer'd by the breathing bloom and vital sky. 
 Tunes up amid these airy halls his song, 
 Soothing at first the gay reposing throng ; 
 
 And oft he sips their bowl; or, nearly drowu'd, 
 . He, thence recovering, drives their beds among, 
 And scares their tender sleep with trump profound ; , 
 Then out again he flies, to wing his mazy round. 
 
 65 Another guest there was, of sense refined, 
 Who felt^ each worth, for every worth he had ; 
 Serene yet warm, humane yet firm his mind. 
 As little touch'd as any man's with bad : 
 
 Him through their inmost walks the Muses lad, 
 To him the sacred love of Nature lent ; 
 And sometimes would he make our valley glad ; 
 When as we found he would not here be pent. 
 To him the better sort this friendly message sent : 
 
 66 " Come, dwell with us, true son of virtue, come ! 
 But if, alas ! we cannot thee persuade 
 
 To lie content beneath our peaceful dome, 
 Ne ever more to quit our quiet glade ; 
 Yet when at last thy toils but ill apaid 
 Shall dead thy fire, and damp its heavenly spark. 
 Thou wilt be glad to seek the rural shade. 
 There to indulge the Muse, and JSTature mark : 
 We then a lodge for thee will rear in Hagley Park." * 
 
 67 Here whilom ligg'd th' Esopus of the age ; 
 But call'd by fame, in soul ypricked deep, 
 A noble pride restored him to the stage. 
 And roused him like a giant from his sleep. 
 Even from his slumbers we advantage reap : 
 With double force th' enliven'd scene he wakes. 
 Yet quits not Nature's bounds. He knows to keep 
 Each due decorum : now the heart he shakes, 
 
 And now with well-urged sense th' enlighten'd judgment 
 takes.^ 
 
 6 The owner and occupant of Hagley Park was LorcILyttleton, one of Thomson's 
 first and warmest friends. 
 
 7 The subject of this stanza was Mr. Quin, a distinguished actor, a generous 
 friend of Thomson, and a right worthy man. 
 
674 THOMSON". 
 
 68 A bard here dwelt, more fat than bard beseems ; 
 Who, void of envy, guile, and lust of gain, 
 
 On virtue still, and Nature's pleasing themes, 
 Pour'd forth his unpremeditated strain : 
 The world forsaking with a calm disdain,. 
 Here laugh'd he careless in his easy seat ; 
 Here quaff' d, encircled with the joyous train, 
 Oft moralizing sage ; his ditty sweet 
 He loathed much to write, ne cared to repeat.® 
 
 69 Full oft by holy feet our ground was trod ; 
 Of clerks good plenty here you mote espy. 
 A little, round, fat, oily man of God 
 
 Was one I chiefly mark'd among the fry : 
 He had a roguish twinkle in his eye. 
 And shone all glittering with ungodly dew, 
 If a tight damsel chanced to trippen by ; 
 Which when observed, he shrunk into his mew, 
 And straight would recollect his piety anew.® 
 
 70 Nor be forgot a tribe, who minded nought 
 (Old inmates of the place) but State affairs: 
 They look'd, perdie, as if they deeply thought. 
 And on th^ir brow sat every nation's cares ; 
 The world by them is parcell'd out in shares. 
 When in the Hall of Smoke they congress hold, 
 And the sage berry, sun-burnt Mocha bears. 
 
 Has clear'd their inward eye : then, smoke-enroll'd, 
 Their oracles break forth mysterious as of old. 
 
 71 Here languid Beauty kept her pale-faced court ; 
 Bevies of dainty dames, of high degree. 
 
 From every quarter hither made resort ; 
 Where, from gross mortal care and business free. 
 They lay, pour'd out in ease and luxury ; 
 Or should they a vain show of work assume, 
 Alas! and well-a-day! what can it be? 
 To knot, to twist, to range the vernal bloom ; 
 But far is cast the distaff, spinning-wheel, and loom. 
 
 72 Their only labour was to kill the time ; 
 (And labour dire it is, and weary woe ;) 
 They sit, they loll, turn o'er some idle rhyme; 
 
 8 This stanza was meant as a portrait of Thomson himself, and was written by- 
 Lord Lyttleton. 
 
 9 The Rev. Di. Murdoch, another of the poet's friends, was the subject of this 
 playful stanza. 
 
THE CASTLE OF HyTDOLENCE. 675 
 
 Then, rising sudden, to the glass they go, 
 Or saunter forth, Avith tottering step and slow : 
 This soon too rude an exercise they find ; 
 Straight on the couch their limbs again they throw, 
 Where hours on hours they sighing lie reclined. 
 And court the vapoury god, soft breathing in the wind. 
 
 73 One nymph there was, me thought, in bloom of May, 
 On whom the idle fiend glanced many a look, 
 
 In hopes to lead her down the slippery way 
 To taste of Pleasure's deep-deceitful brook : 
 No virtues yet her gentle mind forsook ; 
 No idle whims, no vapours fill'd her brain. 
 But prudence for her youthful guide she took. 
 And goodness, which no earthly vice could stain, 
 Dwelt in her mind ; she was ne proud, I ween, or vain. 
 
 74 Now must I mark the villainy we found. 
 But ah ! too late, as shall eftsoons be shown. 
 A place here was, deep, dreary, under ground ; 
 Where still our inmates, when unpleasing grown, 
 Diseased and loathsome, privily were thrown : 
 
 Far from the light of heaven, they languish'd there, 
 Unpitied uttering many a bitter groan ; 
 For of these wretches taken was no care : 
 Fierce fiends, and hags of Hell their only nurses were. 
 
 75 Alas, the change ! from scenes of joy and rest. 
 To this dark den, where sickness toss'd alway. 
 Here Lethargy, with deadly sleep oppress'd, 
 Stretch'd on his back, a miglity lubbard, lay. 
 Heaving his sides, and snored night and day ; 
 To stir him from his trance it was not eath, 
 And his half-open'd eyne he shut straightway : 
 He led, I wot, the softest way to death. 
 
 And taught withouten pain and strife to yield the breath. 
 
 76 Of limbs enormous, but withal unsound, 
 Soft-swoln and pale, here lay the Hydropsy: 
 Unwieldy man ; with belly monstrous round. 
 For ever fed with watery supply ; 
 
 For still he drank, and yet he still was dry. 
 And moping here did Hypochondria sit, 
 Mother of Spleen, in robes of various dye, 
 W^ho vexed was full oft Avith ugly fit ; 
 And some her frantic deem'd and some her deem'd a wit. 
 
676 THOMSOK. 
 
 77 A lady proud she was, of ancient blood, 
 
 Yet oft her fear her pride made crouchen low: 
 She felt, or fancied in her fluttering mood. 
 All the diseases which the spittles know. 
 And sought all physic which the shops bestow. 
 And still new leeches and new drugs would try, 
 Her humour ever wavering to and fro : 
 For sometimes she would laugh, and sometimes cry. 
 Then sudden waxed wroth, and all she knew not why. 
 
 78 Fast by her side a listless maiden pined. 
 
 With aching head, and squeamish heart-burnings ; 
 Pale, bloated, cold, she seem'd to hate mankind. 
 Yet loved in secret all forbidden things. 
 And here the Tertian shakes his chilling wings ; 
 The sleepless Gout here counts the crowing cocks, 
 A wolf now gnaws him, now a serpent stings; 
 Whilst Apoplexy crammM Intemperance knocks 
 Down to the ground at once, as butcher felleth ox.^ 
 
 CANTO II. 
 
 Tbe Kni^t of Arts and Industry, 
 
 And his achievements fair; 
 That, by this castle's overthrow. 
 
 Secured, and crowned were. 
 
 1 Escaped the castle of the sire of sin. 
 
 Ah ! where shall I so sweet a dwelling find? 
 For, all around, without, and all within, 
 Nothing save what delightful was and kind. 
 Of goodness savouring and a tender mind. 
 E'er rose to view. But now another strain. 
 Of doleful note, alas! remains behind: 
 I now must sing of pleasure turn'd to pain, 
 And of the false enchanter Indolence complain. 
 
 2 Is there no patron to protect the Muse, 
 And fence for her Parnassus' barren soil ? 
 To every labour its reward accrues. 
 
 And they are sure of bread who swink and moil ; 
 But a fell tribe th' Aonlan hive despoil. 
 As ruthless wasps oft rob the painful bee : 
 Tiius while the laws not guard that noblest toil, 
 
 1 This and the three preceding stanzas are from the pen of Dr. Armstrong, who 
 is said to have written them at Thomson's request. 
 
THE CASTLE OF II^DOLEN^CE. 677 
 
 Ne for tlie Muses other meed decree, 
 They praised are alone, and starve right merrily. 
 
 3 I care not, Fortune, what you me deny : 
 You cannot rob me of free Nature's grace ; 
 You cannot shut the windows of the sky, 
 Through which Aurora shows her brightening face; 
 You cannot bar my constant feet to trace 
 
 The woods and lawns, by living stream, at eve : 
 Let health my nerves and finer fibres brace, 
 And 1 their toys to the great children leave : 
 Of fancy, reason, virtue, nought can me bereave. 
 
 4 Come, then, my Muse, and raise a bolder song ; 
 Come, lig no more upon the bed of sloth, 
 Dragging the lazy languid line along, 
 
 Fond to begin, but still to finish loth, 
 Thy half -writ scrolls all eaten by the moth : 
 Arise, and sing that generous imp of fame, 
 Who, with the sons of softness nobly wroth, 
 To sweep away this human lumber came. 
 Or in a chosen few to rouse the slumbering flame. 
 
 5 In Fairy Land there lived a knight of old, 
 Of feature stern, Selvaggio well ycleped, 
 A rough unpolish'd man, robust and bold, 
 
 But wondrous poor : he neither sow'd nor reap'd, 
 Ne stores in Summer for cold Winter lieap'd; 
 In hunting all his days away he wore ; 
 Now scorch'd by June, now in November steep'd. 
 Now pinch'd by biting January sore. 
 He still in woods pursued the libbard and the boar. 
 
 6 As he one morning, long before the dawn, 
 Prick'd through the forest to dislodge his prey. 
 Deep in the winding bosom of a lawn, 
 
 With wood wild fringed, he mark'd a taper's ray, 
 That from the beating rain, and wintry fray. 
 Did to a lonely cot his steps decoy ; 
 There, up to earn the needments of the day. 
 He found dame Poverty, nor fair nor coy : 
 He wedded her, and him she bore a lusty boy. 
 
 7 Amid the greenwood shade this boy was bred. 
 And grew at last a knight of muchel fame, 
 Of active mind and vigorous lustyhed, 
 
678 THOMSON. 
 
 The Knight of Arts and Industry by name : 
 Earth was his bed, the boughs his roof did frame ; 
 He knew no beverage but the flowing stream ; 
 His tasteful well-earn'd food the silvan game. 
 Or the brown fruit with which the woodlands teem : 
 The same to him glad Summer, or the Winter breme. 
 
 8 So pass'd his youthly morning, void of care. 
 Wild as the colts that through the commons run : 
 For him no tender parents troubled were. 
 
 He of the forest seem'd to be the son ; 
 And, certes, had been utterly undone, 
 But that Minerva pity of him took. 
 With all the gods that love the rural wonne. 
 That teach to tame the soil and rule the crook ; 
 Ne did the sacred Nine disdain a gentle look. 
 
 9 Of fertile genius him they nurtured well. 
 In every science and in every art 
 
 By which mankind the thoughtless brutes excel. 
 That can or use or joy or grace impart, 
 Disclosing all the powers of head and heart ; 
 Ne were the goodly exercises spared 
 That brace the nerves, or make the limbs alert. 
 And mix elastic force with firmness hard : 
 Was never knight on ground mote be with him compared. 
 
 10 Sometimes, with early mom, he mounted gay 
 The hunter steed, exulting o'er the dale. 
 And drew the roseate breath of orient day ; 
 Sometimes, retiring to the secret vale, 
 
 Yclad in steel, and bright with burnished mail. 
 He strain'd the bow, or toss'd the sounding spear. 
 Or, darting on the goal, outstripped the gale. 
 Or wheerd the chariot in its mid career. 
 Or strenuous wrestled hard with many a tough compeer. 
 
 11 At other times he pried through Nature's store, 
 Whate'er she in th' ethereal round contains. 
 Whatever she hides beneath her verdant floor. 
 The vegetable and the mineral reigns; 
 
 Or else he scann'd the globe, those small domains 
 Where restless mortals such a turmoil keep, 
 Its seas, its floods, its mountains, and it-s plains ; 
 But more he searched the mind, and roused from sleep 
 Those moral seeds whence we heroic actions reap. 
 
THE CASTLE OF INDOLEJS^CE. 679 
 
 12 Nor would he scorn to stoop from high pursuits 
 Of heayenly truth, and practise what she taught : 
 Vain is the tree of knowledge without fruits ! 
 Sometimes in hand the spade or plough he caught, 
 Forth calling all with which boon earth is fraught ; 
 Sometimes he plied the strong meclianic tool, 
 
 Or rear'd the fabric from the finest draught ; 
 And oft he put himself to N^eptune's school. 
 Fighting with winds and waves on the vex'd ocean pool. 
 
 13 To solace then these rougher toils, he tried 
 To touch the kindling canvas into life ; 
 With Nature his creating pencil vied, 
 
 - With Nature joyous at the mimic strife : 
 Or to such shapes as graced Pygmalion's wife 
 He hcAv'd the marble ; or, with varied fire. 
 He roused the trumpet and the martial fife. 
 Or bad the lute sweet tenderness inspire. 
 Or verses framed that well might wake Apollo's lyre. 
 
 14 Accomplish'd thus, he from the woods issued, 
 Full of great aims, and bent on bold emprise ; 
 The work which long he in his breast had brew'd, 
 Now to perform he ardent did devise ; 
 
 To wit, a barbarous world to civilise. 
 Earth was still then a boundless forest wild ; 
 Nought to be seen but savage wood, and skies ; 
 No cities nourish'd arts, no culture smiled. 
 No government, no laws, no gentle manners mild. 
 
 15 A rugged wight, the worst of brutes, was man ; 
 On his OAvn wretched kind he ruthless prey'd ; 
 The strongest still the weakest overran ; 
 
 In every country mighty robbers sway'd. 
 And guile and ruffian force were all their trade : 
 Life was a scene of rapine, want, and woe ; 
 Which this brave knight, in noble anger, made 
 To swear he would the rascal rout o'erthrow, 
 For, by the powers divine, it should no more be so. 
 
 16 It would exceed the purport of my song 
 
 To say how this best Sun, from orient climes. 
 Came beaming life and beauty all along. 
 Before him chasing indolence and crimes. 
 Still as lie pass'd, the nations he sublimes. 
 And calls forth arts and virtues with liis ray : 
 
680 THOMSOiq-. 
 
 Then Egypt, Greece, and Kome their golden times, 
 Successive, had ; but now in ruins grey 
 They lie, to slavish sloth and tyranny a prey. 
 
 17 To crown his toils, Sir Industry then spread 
 The swelling sail, and made for Britain's coast. 
 A silvan life till then the natives led, 
 
 In the brown shades and greenwood forest lost, 
 All careless rambling where it liked them most ; 
 Their wealth the wild deer bouncing through the glade; 
 They lodged at large, and lived at ifature's cost, 
 Save spear and bow, withouten other aid ; 
 Yet not the Roman steel their naked breast dismay'd. 
 
 18 He liked the soil, he liked the clement skies, 
 He liked the verdant hills and flowery plains: 
 " Be this my great, my chosen isle," he cries, 
 " This, whilst my labours Liberty sustains, 
 This queen of ocean all assault disdains." 
 N^or liked he less the genius of the land. 
 
 To freedom apt and persevering pains. 
 Mild to obey, and generous to command. 
 Tempered by forming Heaven with kindest, firmest hand. 
 
 19 Here, by degrees, his master-work arose, 
 Whatever arts and industry can frame ; 
 Whatever finished agriculture knows. 
 
 Fair queen of arts ! from Heaven itself who came. 
 When Eden flourish'd in unspotted fame ; 
 And still with her sweet innocence we find, 
 And tender peace, and joys without a name. 
 That, while they ravish, tranquillise the mind: 
 Nature and art at once, delight and use combined. 
 
 20 Then towns he quicken'd by mechanic arts. 
 And bade the fervent city glow with toil ; 
 Bade social commerce raise renowned marts, 
 Join land to land, and marry soil to soil ; 
 Unite the poles, and without bloody spoil 
 Bring home of either Ind the gorgeous stores ; 
 Or, should despotic rage tlie world embroil. 
 Bade tyrants tremble on remotest shores, 
 
 While o'er th' encircling deep Britannia's thunder roars. 
 
 21 The drooping Muses then he westward call'd 
 From the famed city by Propontic sea. 
 
 What time the Turk th' enfeebled Grecian thrall'd ; 
 
THE CASTLE OF IN"DOLEKCE. 681 
 
 Thence from their oloister'd walks he set them free, 
 And brought them to another Castalie, 
 Where Isis many a famous nursling breeds ; 
 Or where old Cam soft-paces o'er the lea 
 In pensive mood, and tunes his Doric reeds, 
 The whilst his flocks at large the lonely shepherd feeds. 
 
 22 Yet the fine arts were what he finished least ; 
 For why ^ they are the quintessence of all, 
 
 The growth of labouring time, and slow increased ; 
 
 Unless, as seldom chances, it should fall 
 
 That mighty patrons the coy sisters call 
 
 Up to the sunshine of uncumber'd ease, 
 - Where no rade care the mounting thought may thrall, 
 
 And where they nothing have to do but please : 
 Ah, gracious God ! Thou know'st they ask no other fees. 
 
 23 But now, alas ! we live too late in time : 
 
 Our pati-ons now e'en grudge that little claim, 
 Except to such as sleek the soothing rhyme ; 
 And yet, forsooth, they wear Maecenas' name, 
 Poor sons of puft-up vanity, not fame. 
 Unbroken spirits, cheer ! still, still remains 
 Th' eternal patron, Liberty ; whose flame. 
 While she protects, inspires the noblest strains : 
 The best and sweetest far, are toil-created gains. 
 
 24 Whenas the knight had framed, in Britain-land, 
 A matchless form of glorious government. 
 
 In which the sovereign laws alone command. 
 Laws, 'stablish'd by the public free consent. 
 Whose majesty is to the sceptre lent; — 
 When this great plan, with each dependent art. 
 Was settled firm, and to his heart's content. 
 Then sought he from the toilsome scene to part. 
 And let life's vacant eve breathe quiet through the heart. 
 
 25 For this he chose a farm in Deva's vale. 
 Where his long alleys peep'd upon the main: 
 In this calm seat he drew the healthful gale. 
 Here mix'd the chief, the patriot, and the swain. 
 The happy monarch of his silvan train. 
 
 Here, sided by the guardians of the fold, 
 
 He walk'd his rounds, and cheer'd his blest domain : 
 
 2 Because. See page 666, note 4. 
 
682 THOMSON. 
 
 His days, the days of imstain'd nature, rolPd 
 Eeplete with peace and joy, like patriarchs of old. 
 
 26 Witness, ye lowing herds who gave him milk ; 
 Witness, ye flocks Avhose woolly vestments far 
 Exceed soft India's cotton or her silk ; 
 Witness, with Autumn charged the nodding car 
 That homeward came heneath sweet evening's star. 
 Or of September-moons the radiance mild. 
 
 0, hide thy head, abominable war ! 
 Of crimes and ruffian idleness the child ! 
 From Heaven this life ysprung, from Hell thy glories vild ! 
 
 27 Nor from his deep retirement banish'd was 
 Th' amusing care of rural industry. 
 
 Still, as with grateful change the seasons pass, 
 New scenes arise, new landscapes strike the eye, 
 And all th' enliven'd country beautify ; 
 Gay plains extend where marshes slept before ; 
 O'er recent meads th' exulting streamlets fly ; 
 Dark-frowning heaths grow bright with Ceres' store, 
 And woods imbrown the steep, or wave along the shore. 
 
 28 As nearer to his farm you made approach, 
 He polish'd Nature with a finer hand; 
 
 Yet on her beauties durst not Art encroach ; 
 'Tis Art's alone these beauties to expand. 
 In graceful dance immingled, o'er the land 
 Pan, Pales, Flora, and Pomona play'd; 
 Here, too, brisk gales the rude wild common fann'd: 
 A happy place ; where free, and unaffray'd, 
 Amid the flowering brakes each coyer creature stray'd. 
 
 29 But in prime vigour what can last for aye ? 
 That soul-enfeebling wizard Indolence, 
 
 I whilom sung, Avrought in his works decay : 
 Spread far and wide was his cursed influence ; 
 Of public virtue much he dull'd the sense, 
 E'en much of private ; eat our spirit out. 
 And fed our rank luxurious vices : whence 
 The land was overlaid with many a lout ; 
 Not, as old fame reports, wise, generous, bold, and stout. 
 
 30 A rage of pleasure madden'd every breast ; 
 Down to the lowest lees the ferment ran ; 
 To his licentious wish each must be bless'd, 
 With joy be fever'd, snatch it as he can. 
 
THE CASTLE OF Iis"DOLEIsCE. 683 
 
 Thus vice the standard rear'd ; her arrier-ban 
 Corruption call'd, and loud she gave the word, 
 " Mind, mind yourselves ! why should tlie vulgar man, 
 The lacquey, be more virtuous than his lord ? 
 Enjoy this span of life ! 'tis all the gods afford." 
 
 31 The tidings reached to where, in quiet hall, 
 The good old knight enjoy'd well-earn'd repose : 
 
 '• Come, come, sir knight !*^ thy children on thee call ; 
 Come, save us yet, ere ruin round us close ! 
 The demon Indolence thy toils o'erthrows." 
 On this the noble colour stain'd his cheeks, 
 Indignant, glowing through the whitening snows 
 Of venerable eld; his eye fall speaks 
 His ardent soul, and from his couch at once he breaks, 
 
 32 " I will," he cried, " so help me God ! destroy 
 That villain Archimage." — His page then straight 
 He to him call'd ; a fiery-footed boy, 
 
 BenemjDt Dispatch : — ^' My steed be at the gate ; 
 My bard attend ; quick, bring the net of fate." 
 This net was twisted by the Sisters Three ; 
 Which when once cast o'er harden'd wretch, too late 
 Eepentance comes ; replevy cannot be 
 From the strong iron grasp of vengeful destiny. 
 
 33 He came, the bard, a little druid wight, 
 Of wither'd aspect ; but his eye was keen. 
 
 With sweetness mix'd. In russet brown bedight. 
 As is liis sister of the copses green,* 
 He crept along, unpromising of mien. 
 Gross he who judges so. His soul was fair, 
 Bright as the children of yon azure sheen ! 
 True comeliness, which nothing can impair. 
 Dwells in the mind : all else is vanity and glare. 
 
 34 " Come," quoth the knight, "a voice has reach'd mine ear: 
 The demon Indolence threats overflow 
 
 To all that to mankind is good and dear : 
 
 Come, Philomelus ; let us instant go, 
 
 O'erturn his bowers, and lay his castle low. 
 
 Those men, those wretched men ! who will be slaves, 
 
 Must drink a bitter wrathful cup of woe : 
 
 3 "His sister of the copses green" is the nightingale. So, in the next stanza, 
 '•the bard" is called Philomelus, the brother of Philomela, that is, lover of sweet- 
 ness or melody. 
 
684 THOMSOI?^. 
 
 But some there be, thy song, as from their graves, 
 Shall raise." Thrice happy he who without rigour saves ! 
 
 35 Issuing forth, the knight bestrode his steed, 
 Of ardent bay, and on whose front a star 
 
 Shone blazing bright ; sprung from the generous breed 
 That whirl of active day the rapid car, 
 He pranced along, disdaining gate or bar. 
 Meantime the bard on milk-white palfrey rode ; 
 An honest, sober beast, that did not mar 
 His meditations, but full softly trode : 
 And much they moralised as thus yfere they yode. 
 
 36 They talk'd of virtue and of human bliss; 
 What else so fit for man to settle well ? 
 And still their long researches met in this. 
 This Truth of Truths, which nothing can refell : 
 "From virtue's fount the purest joys outwell. 
 Sweet rills of thought that cheer the conscious soul ; 
 While vice pours forth the troubled streams of Hell, 
 The which, howe'er disguised, at last with dole 
 
 Will through the tortured breast their fiery torrent roll." 
 
 37 At length it dawn'd, that fatal valley gay. 
 
 O'er which high wood-crown'd hills their summits rear: 
 On the cool height awhile our palmers stay. 
 And spite even of themselves their senses cheer ; 
 Then to the wizard's wonne their steps they steer. 
 Like a green isle, it broad beneath them spread. 
 With gardens round, and wandering currents clear, 
 And tufted groves to shade the meadow-bed. 
 Sweet airs and song ; and without hurry all seem'd glad. 
 
 38 "As God shall judge me, knight ! we must forgive," 
 The half-enraptured Philomelus cried, 
 
 " The frail good man deluded here to live. 
 And in these groves his musing fancy hide. 
 Ah ! nought is pure. It cannot be denied. 
 That virtue still some tincture has of vice. 
 And vice of virtue. What should then betide, 
 But that our charity be not too nice? 
 Come, let us those we can, to real bliss entice." 
 
 39 '-Ay, sicker," quoth the knight, "all flesh is frail, 
 To pleasant sin and jo3'ous dalliance bent; 
 
 But let not brutish vice of this avail, 
 And think to 'scape deserved punishment. 
 
THE CASTLE OF INDOLENCE. 685 
 
 Justice were cruel weakly to relent ; 
 From mercy's self she got her sacred glaive: 
 Grace be to those who can, and will, repent; 
 But penance long and dreary, to the slave. 
 Who must in floods of ire his gross foul spirit lave." 
 
 40 Thus, holding high discourse, they came to where 
 The cursed carl was at his wonted trade; 
 
 Still tempting heedless men into his snare, 
 In witching wise, as I before have said. 
 But when he saw, in goodly gear array'd, 
 The grave majestic knight approaching nigh, 
 And by his side the bard so sage and staid. 
 His countenance fell ; yet oft his anxious eye 
 Mark'd them, like wily fox who roosted cock doth spy. 
 
 41 Nathless, with feign'd respect, he bade give back 
 The rabble ix)ut, and welcomed them full kind ; 
 Struck with the noble twain, they were not slack 
 His orders to obey, and fall behind. 
 
 Then he resumed his song ; and, unconfined, 
 Pour'd all his music, ran through all his strings : 
 With magic dust their eyne he tries to blind, 
 And virtue's tender airs o'er weakness flings. 
 What pity base his song who so divinely sings ! 
 
 42 Elate in thought, he counted them his own, 
 They listen'd so intent with fix'd delight : 
 But they, instead, as if transmcAv'd to stone, 
 Marvell'd he could Avith such SAveet art unite 
 
 The lights and shades of manners, Avrong and right. 
 Meantime the silly croAvd the charm devour. 
 Wide pressing to the gate. Swift, on the knight 
 He darted fierce, to drag him to his bower. 
 Who backening shunn'd his touch, for well he knew its power. 
 
 43 As in throng'd amphitheatre, of old, 
 The wary Retiarius trapp'd his foe ; 
 
 E'en so the knight, returning on him bold. 
 At once involved him in the Net of Woe, 
 Whereof I mention made not long ago. 
 Enraged at first, he scorn'd so Aveak a jail. 
 And leap'd, and flew, and flounced to and fro ; 
 But when he found that nothing could avail. 
 He set him felly doAvn, and gnaAv'd his bitter nail. 
 
 44 Alarm'd, th' inferior demons of the place 
 Raised rueful shrieks and hideous yells around ; 
 
686 THOMSOIf. 
 
 Black stormy clouds deform'd the welkin's face, 
 And from beneath was heard a wailing sound. 
 As of infernal sprights in cavern bound ; 
 A solemn sadness every creature strook, 
 And lightnings flash'd, and horror rock'd the ground ; 
 Huge crowds on crowds outpour'd with blemish'd look, 
 As if on time's last verge this frame of things had shook. 
 
 45 Soon as the short-lived tempest was yspent, 
 Steam'd from the jaws of vex'd Avernus' hole. 
 And hush'd the hubbub of the rabblement, 
 Sir Industry the first calm moment stole : 
 
 *^ There must," he cried, "amid so vast a shoal. 
 Be some who are not tainted at the heart, 
 Not poison'd quite by this same villain's bowl: 
 Come then, my bard, thy heavenly fire impart ; 
 Touch soul with soul, till forth the latent spirit start." 
 
 46 The bard obey'd ; and taking from his side. 
 Where it in seemly sort depending hung, 
 
 His British harp, its speaking strings he tried. 
 The which with skilful touch he deftly strung, 
 Till tinkling in clear symphony they rung. 
 Then, as he felt the Muses come along. 
 Light o'er the cliords his raptured hand he flung, 
 And play'd a prelude to his rising song : [throng. 
 
 The whilst, like midnight mute, ten thousands round him 
 
 47 Thus, ardent, burst his strain : — "Ye hapless race, 
 Dire labouring here to smother reason's ray, 
 
 That lights our Maker's image in our face, 
 And gives us wide o'er Earth unquestion'd sway; 
 What is th' adored Supreme Perfection, say ? 
 What, but eternal never-resting soul, 
 Almighty Power, and all-directing day ? 
 By wlioni each atom stirs, the planets roll ; 
 Who fills, surrounds, informs, and agitates the whole. 
 
 48 " Come, to the beaming god your hearts unfold ! 
 Draw from its fountain life ! 'Tis thence, alone, 
 We can excel. Up from unfeeling mould, 
 
 To seraphs burning round th' Almighty's throne, 
 Life rising still on life, in higher tone. 
 Perfection forms, and with perfection bliss. 
 In universal Nature this clear shown. 
 Not needeth proof : to prove it were, I wis, 
 To prove the beauteous world excels the brute abyss. 
 
THE CASTLE OF liq-DOLEN^CE. 687 
 
 49 " Is not the field, with lively culture green, 
 A sight more joyous than the dead morass ? 
 Do not the skies, with active ether clean, 
 And fann'd by sprightly zephyrs, far surpass 
 The foul November fogs, and slumbrous mass 
 With which sad Nature veils her drooping face ? 
 Does not the mountain stream, as clear as glass, 
 Gay-dancing on, the putrid pool disgrace ? 
 
 The same in all holds true, but chief in human race. 
 
 50 " It was not by vile loitering in ease. 
 
 That Greece obtained, the brighter palm of art ; 
 That soft yet ardent Athens learn'd to please, 
 
 . To keen the wit, and. to sublime the heart. 
 In all supreme ! complete in every part ! 
 It was not thence majestic Rome arose. 
 And o'er the nations shook her conquering dart: 
 For sluggard's brow the laurel never grows; 
 
 Renown is not the child of indolent Repose. 
 
 51 "Had unambitious mortals minded, nought 
 But in loose joy their time to wear away; 
 Had they alone the lap of dalliance sought. 
 Pleased on her pillow their dull heads to lay. 
 Rude nature's state had been our state to-day; 
 No cities e'er their towery fronts had. raised, 
 No arts had made us opulent and gay ; 
 
 With brother-brutes the human race had grazed ; 
 None e'er had soar'd to fame, none honour'd been, none 
 praised. 
 
 52 " Great Homer's song had never fired the breast 
 To thirst of glory and heroic deeds; 
 
 Sweet Maro's Muse,* sunk in inglorious rest. 
 Had silent slept amid the Mincian reeds; 
 The wits of modern time had told their beads, 
 And monkish legends been their only strains; 
 Our Milton's Eden had lain wrapt in weeds ; [swains ; 
 
 Our Shakespeare strolFd and laugh'd with Warwick 
 Ne had my master Spenser charm'd his Mulla's plains.* 
 
 53 " Dumb too had been the sage historic Muse, 
 And perish'd all the sons of ancient fame ; 
 
 4 Mai-o is one of Virgil's names; Publius Virgilius Maro. 
 
 5 Mulla is the name of a river in the county of Cork, Ireland, near which Spenser, 
 as Secretary of the Lord Lieutenant, had his residence, and where he composed The 
 
 Faerie Queene. 
 
688 THOMSON. 
 
 Those starry lights of virtue that diffuse 
 Through the dark depth of time their vivid flame 
 Had all been lost with such as have no name. 
 Who then had scorn'd his ease for others' good ? 
 Who then had toil'd rapacious men to tame ? 
 Who in the public breach devoted stood, 
 And for his country's cause been prodigal of blood ? 
 
 54 " But should to fame your hearts unfeeling be, 
 If right I read, you pleasure all require ; 
 Then hear how best may be obtain'd this fee, 
 How best enjoy'd this Nature's wide desire. 
 Toil, and be glad ! let industry inspire 
 
 Into your quicken'd limbs her buoyant breath ! 
 Who does not act is dead ; absorb'd entire 
 In miry sloth, no pride, no joy he hath : 
 leaden-hearted men, to be in love with death ! 
 
 55 " Ah ! what avail the largest gifts of Heaven, 
 When drooping health and spirits go amiss ? 
 How tasteless then whatever can be given ! 
 Health is the vital principle of bliss, 
 
 And exercise of health. In proof of this. 
 Behold the wretch, who slugs his life away, 
 Soon swallow'd in disease's sad abyss ; 
 While he whom toil has braced, or manly play, 
 Has light as air each limb, each thought as clear as day. 
 
 56 '- 0, who can speak the vigorous joys of health ! 
 Unclogg'd the body, unobscured the mind : 
 The morning rises gay, with pleasing stealth, 
 The temperate evening falls serene and kind. 
 In health the wiser brutes true gladness find : 
 See ! how the younglings frisk along the meads, 
 As May comes on, and wakes the balmy wind; 
 Eampant with life, their joy all joy exceeds: [breeds? 
 
 Yet what but high-strung health this dancing pleasaunce 
 
 57 " But here, instead, is foster'd every ill 
 Which or distemper'd minds or bodies know. 
 Come, then, my kindred spirits ! do not spill 
 Your talents here: this place is but a show. 
 Whose charms delude you to the den of woe. 
 Come, follow me, I will direct you right 
 Where pleasure's roses, void of serpents, grow, 
 
THE CASTLE OF Iiq^DOLE]S"CE. 689 
 
 Sincere as sweet ; come, follow this good kniglit, 
 And you will bless the day that brought him to your sight. 
 
 58 " Some he will lead to courts, and some to camps ; 
 To senates some, and public sage debates. 
 Where, by the solemn gleam of midnight lamps, 
 The world is poised, and managed mighty States; 
 To high discovery some, that now creates 
 
 The face of Earth ; some to the thriving mart ; 
 Some to the rural reign, and softer fates ; 
 To the sweet Muses some, who raise the heart : 
 All glory shall be yours, all Nature, and all Art! 
 
 59 " There are, I see, who listen to my lay. 
 Who wretched sigh for virtue, but despair : 
 
 * All may be done,' methinks I hear them say, 
 ' E'en death despised by generous actions fair ; 
 All, — but, for those w^ho to these bowers repair, 
 Their every power dissolved in luxury. 
 To quit of torpid sluggishness the lair. 
 And from the powerful arms of sloth get free, — 
 'Tis rising from the dead : — alas, it cannot be ! ' 
 
 60 '' AYould you, then, learn to dissipate the band 
 Of the huge threatening difficulties dire 
 That iu the weak man's way like lions stand, 
 His soul appal, and damp his rising fire ? 
 Resolve, resolve, and to be men aspire : 
 Exert that noblest privilege, alone 
 
 Here to mankind indulged ; control desire ; 
 Let godlike reason, from her sovereign throne. 
 Speak the commanding word, I ivill! and it is done. 
 
 61 " Heavens I can you, then, thus waste in shameful wise 
 Your few important days of trial here? 
 
 Heirs of eternity! yborn to rise 
 Through endless states of being, still more near 
 To bliss approaching, and perfection clear, 
 Can you renounce a fortune so sublime. 
 Such glorious hopes, your backward steps to steer. 
 And roll, with vilest brutes, through mud and slime? 
 No! no! your Heaven-touch'd hearts disdain the sordid 
 crime ! " 
 
 62 '' Enough ! enough I " they cried : straight from the crowd 
 The better sort on wings of transport fly : 
 
 As when amid the lifeless summits proud 
 
690 THOMSOJS^ 
 
 Of Alpine cliffs, where to the gelid sky- 
 Snows piled on snows in wintry torpor lie, 
 The rays divine of vernal Phoebus play; 
 Th' awaken'd heaps, in streamlets from on high, 
 Eoused into action, lively leap away, 
 Glad warbling through the vales, in their new being gay. 
 
 63 ]^rot less the life, the vivid Joy serene. 
 That lighted up these new-created men. 
 
 Than that which wings th' exulting spirit clean. 
 When, just delivered from this fleshly den. 
 It soaring seeks its native skies again : 
 How light its essence! how unclogg'd its powers, 
 Beyond the blazon of my mortal pen ! 
 E'en so we glad forsook these sinful bowers. 
 E'en such enraptured life, such energy was ours. 
 
 64 But far the greater part, with rage inflamed, 
 Dire-mutter'd curses, and blasphem'd high Jove : 
 "Ye sons of hate! " they bitterly exclaim'd, 
 
 " What brought you to this seat of peace and love ? 
 While with kind ISTature, here amid the grove. 
 We pass'd the harmless sabbath of our time. 
 What to disturb it could, fell men, emove 
 Your barbarous hearts ? Is happiness a crime ? 
 Then do the fiends of Hell rule in yon Heaven sublime." 
 
 65 " Ye impious wretches," quoth the knight in wrath, 
 "Your happiness behold! " — Then straight a wand 
 He waved, an anti-magic power that hath. 
 
 Truth from illusive falsehood to command. 
 Sudden the landscape sinks on every hand ; 
 The pure quick streams are marshy puddles found ; 
 On baleful heaths the groves all blacken'd stand ; 
 And o'er the weedy, foul, abhorred ground 
 Snakes, adders, toads, each loathsome creature crawls around. 
 
 66 And here and there, on trees by lightning scathed, 
 Unhappy wights who loathed life yhung ; 
 
 Or, in fresh gore and recent murder bathed, 
 They weltering lay ; or else, infuriate flung 
 Into the gloomy flood, while ravens sung 
 The funeral dirge, they down the torrent roll'd : 
 These, by distemper'd blood to madness stung. 
 Had doom'd themselves ; whence oft, when night controll'd 
 The world, returning hither their sad spirits howl'd. 
 
THE CASTLE OF INDOLEKCE. 691 
 
 67 Meantime a moving scene was open laid ; 
 That lazar-hoiise, I whilom in my lay 
 Depainted have, its horrors deep displayed, 
 And gave unnumber'd wretches to the day. 
 Who tossing there in squalid misery lay. 
 Soon as of sacred light th' unwonted smile 
 Pour'd on these living catacombs its ray, 
 Through the drear caverns, stretching many a mile, 
 
 The sick upraised their heads, and dropped their woes awhile. 
 
 68 " Heaven I " they cried, " and do we once more see 
 Yon blessed Sun, and this green earth so fair ? 
 
 Are we from noisome damps of pesthouse free ? 
 And drink our souls the sweet ethereal air ? 
 thou ! or knight, or god, who boldest there 
 That fiend, 0, keep him in eternal chains ! 
 But what for us, the children of despair. 
 Brought to the brink of Hell, what hope remains? 
 Repentance does itself but aggravate our pains." 
 
 69 The gentle knight, who saw tlieir rueful case, 
 Let fall ad own his silver beard some tears. 
 
 " Certes," quoth he, " it is not e'en in grace 
 To undo the past, and eke your broken years : 
 Nathless, to nobler worlds repentance rears, 
 With humble hope, her eye; to her is given 
 A power the truly contrite heart that cheers : 
 She quells the brand by which the rocks are riven ; 
 She more than merely softens, she rejoices Heaven. 
 
 70 " Then patient bear the sufferings you have earn'd. 
 And by these sufferings purify the mind ; 
 
 Let wisdom be by past misconduct learn'd ; 
 
 " Or pious die, with penitence resign'd, 
 And to a life more happy and refined, 
 Doubt not, you shall new creatures yet arise. 
 Till then, you may expect in me to find 
 One who will wipe your sorrow from your eyes, 
 
 One who will soothe your pangs, and wing you to the skies." 
 
 71 They silent heard, and pour'd their thanks in tears. 
 "For you," resumed the knight with sterner tone, 
 
 " Whose hard dry hearts the obdurate demon sears. 
 That villain's gifts will cause you many a groan ; 
 In dolorous mansion long you must bemoan 
 His fatal charms, and weep your stains away ; 
 
692 THOMSON". 
 
 Till, soft and pure as infant goodness grown, 
 You feel a perfect change : then, who can say 
 What grace may yet shine forth in Heaven's eternal day?" 
 
 72 This said, his powerful wand he waved anew : 
 Instant, a glorious angel-train descends, 
 
 The Charities, to wit, of rosy hue; 
 Sweet love their looks a gentle radiance lends, 
 And with seraphic flame compassion blends. 
 At once, delighted, to their charge they fly: 
 When, lo! a goodly hospital ascends; 
 In which they bade each lenient aid be nigh, 
 That could the sick-bed smooth of that sad company. 
 
 73 It was a worthy edifying sight. 
 
 And gives to human kind peculiar grace. 
 To see kind hands attending day and night. 
 With tender ministry, from place to place. 
 Some prop the head ; some, from the pallid face 
 Wipe off the faint cold dews weak nature sheds; 
 Some reach the healing draught ; the whilst, to chase 
 The fear supreme, around their soften 'd beds 
 Some holy man by prayer all opening Heaven dispreads. 
 
 74 Attended by a glad-acclaiming train 
 
 Of those he rescued had from gaping Hell, 
 Then turn'd the knight ; and, to his hall again 
 Soft-pacing, sought of peace the mossy cell : 
 Yet down his cheeks the gems of pity fell, 
 To see the helpless wretches that remain'd. 
 There left through delves and deserts dire to yell; 
 Amazed, their looks with pale dismay were stain'd. 
 And spreading wide their hands they meek repentance feign'd. 
 
 75 But, ah ! their scorned day of grace was past : 
 For, horrible to tell ! a desert wild 
 
 Before them stretch'd, bare, comfortless, and vast ; 
 With gibbets, bones, and carcasses defiled. 
 There nor trim field nor lively culture smiled ; 
 Nor waving shade was seen, nor fountain fair; 
 But sands abrupt on sands lay loosely piled, 
 Through which they floundering toil'd with painful care, 
 Whilst Phoebus smote them sore, and fired the cloudless air. 
 
 76 Then, varying to a joyless land of bogs, 
 The sadden'd country a gray waste appeared ; 
 Where nought but putrid streams and n(?isome fogs 
 
THE CASTLE OF IKDOLENCE. 693 
 
 For ever hung on drizzly Anster's beard ; 
 Or else the ground, by piercing Caurns sered, 
 Was jagg'd with frost, or heap'd with glazed snow: 
 Through these extremes a ceaseless round they steer'd, 
 By cruel fiends still hurried to and fro, 
 Gaunt beggary, and scorn, with many hell-hounds moe. 
 
 77 The first was with base dunghill rags yclad. 
 Tainting the gale, in which they flutter'd light ; 
 Of morbid hue his features, sunk and sad ; 
 
 His hollow eyne shook forth a sickly light ; 
 And o'er his lank jawbone, in piteous plight, 
 His black rough beard was matted rank and vile ; 
 - Direful to see! a heart -appalling sight! 
 Meantime foul scurf and blotches him defile ; 
 And dogs, where'er he went, still barked all the while. 
 
 78 The other was a fell despightf ul fiend ; 
 
 Hell holds none worse in baleful bower below ; 
 By pride and wit and rage and rancour keen'd ; 
 Of man, alike if good or bad, the foe ; 
 With nose upturn'd, he always made a show 
 As if he smelt some nauseous scent ; his eye 
 Was cold and keen, like blast from boreal snow; 
 And taunts he casten forth most bitterly. 
 Such were the twain that off drove this ungodly fry. 
 
 79 E'en so through Brentford town, a town of mud, 
 A herd of bristly swine is prick'd along ; 
 
 The filthy beasts, that never chew the cud. 
 Still grunt, and squeak, and sing their troublous song, 
 And oft they plunge themselves the mire among : 
 But aye the ruthless driver goads them on, 
 And aye of barking dogs the bitter throng 
 Makes them renew their unmelodious moan ; 
 Ne ever find they rest from their unresting fone. 
 
GLOSSARY 
 
 ARCHAIC AND OBSOLETE WORDS USED IN THE PRECEDING POEM. 
 
 Abide, 
 
 To wait for, to await. 
 
 Moult, 
 
 To cast the feathers. 
 
 Apaid, 
 
 Paid. 
 
 Muchel, 
 
 Much, great. 
 
 Abchimagi 
 
 :, The chief of magicians or 
 
 Nathless, 
 
 Nevertheless. 
 
 
 enchanters. 
 
 Ne, 
 
 Nor. Very frequent. 
 
 Aticeen, 
 
 Between. 
 
 Needments, 
 
 Necessaries. 
 
 Bale, 
 
 Sorrow, trouble, affliction. 
 
 Nodden, 
 
 Nodding. 
 
 Benempt, 
 
 Named, 
 
 Noyance, 
 
 Harm, annoyance. 
 
 Bicker, 
 
 To hasten, to hurry. 
 
 Palmers, 
 
 Pilgrims; so called from 
 
 Blazon, 
 
 Painting, display. 
 
 
 their carrying branches 
 
 Breme, 
 
 Cold, raw. 
 
 
 of palm. 
 
 Caurm, 
 
 The north-east wind. 
 
 Plain, 
 
 To complain. 
 
 Certes, 
 
 Certainly. 
 
 Prankt, 
 
 Highly adorned. 
 
 CoU, 
 
 A noise, a stir, a fuss. 
 
 Perdie, 
 
 An oath; from the French 
 
 Dan, 
 
 A title prefixed to names. 
 
 
 Par Dieu. 
 
 Deftly, 
 
 Skilfully, adi-oitly. 
 
 Prick, 
 
 To spur, to goad, to ride 
 
 Depainted, 
 
 Painted. 
 
 
 fast. 
 
 Dole, 
 
 Grief, dolour. 
 
 Sere, 
 
 Dry, withered, burnt. 
 
 Drowsyhed, 
 
 Drowsiness. 
 
 Sered, 
 
 Dried, singed. 
 
 Eath, 
 
 Easy, easily. 
 
 Sicker, 
 
 Sure, surely. 
 
 Eftsoons 
 
 Immediately, forthwith. 
 
 Soot, 
 
 Sweet, or sweetly. 
 
 Gear, 
 
 Furniture, equipage, dress. 
 
 Sooth, 
 
 True, or truth. 
 
 Glaive, 
 
 A sword. 
 
 Stound, 
 
 A pang, a sudden pain. 
 
 Han, 
 
 Have. 
 
 Strook, 
 
 Struck. 
 
 Bight, 
 
 Named, called, or is called. 
 
 Sweltry, 
 
 Sultry, oppressively hot. 
 
 Imp, 
 
 Cliild, offspring. 
 
 Swink, 
 
 To labour, to toil. 
 
 Incontinent, 
 
 Immediately. 
 
 Transmew^d, 
 
 Transformed. 
 
 Kest, 
 
 Cast, did cast. 
 
 Vild, 
 
 Yile. 
 
 Lad, 
 
 lied; old preterite of to 
 
 Unkempt, 
 
 Unadorned. 
 
 
 lead. 
 
 Ween, 
 
 To think, to opine. 
 
 Libbard, 
 
 The leopard. 
 
 Weet, 
 
 To know; to weet, to wit. 
 
 Lig, 
 
 To lie, to couch. 
 
 Whilom, 
 
 Erewhile, formerly. 
 
 Likes, 
 
 Pleases ; it likes me, I like it. 
 
 Wis, 
 
 To think, to understand. 
 
 Lithe, 
 
 Limber, lax. 
 
 Wonne, 
 
 A dwelling, a home. 
 
 Losel, 
 
 A loose, idle fellow. 
 
 Wroke, 
 
 Wreaked. 
 
 Louting, 
 
 Bowing, bending. 
 
 Yblent, 
 
 Blended, mingled. 
 
 Lustyhed, 
 
 Lustihood. 
 
 Ycleped, 
 
 Called, named. 
 
 Mell, 
 
 To mix, to mingle. 
 
 Yfere, 
 
 Together. 
 
 Mae, 
 
 More. 
 
 Ymolten, 
 
 Melted. 
 
 Moil, 
 
 To struggle, to work hard. 
 
 Yode, 
 
 Went; preterite of yede, to 
 
 
 to drudge. 
 
 
 go. 
 
 Mote, 
 
 Might. 
 
 
 
 694 
 
Boston, June, 1875. 
 
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