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WORDSWORTH'S    PuEMS 


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Engraved  by  O.Pelto: 


WII.I.ILAM  WO]R]IDg\W^OIRTH< 


THE 


POETICAl  WORKS 


WILLIAM   WOEDSWORTH. 


▲    NEW    EDITION. 


BOSTON: 

PTTTTT.TPS,    SAMPSON    AND  'COMPANY, 

110  Washington   Street. 

1853. 


?^ltr 


CONTENTS 


PA6B. 

The  ExcTmsioN, 9 

Book  the  First, 17 

Book  the  Second, 47 

Book  the  Third, 75 

Book  the  Foiirth, 105 

Book  the  Fifth 145 

Book  the  Sixth, 177 

Book  the  Seventh, 213 

Book  the  Eighth, 245 

Book  the  Ninth, 264 

Peteb  Beu,  :  A  Tale,    .    .    .    ^ 291 

The  Idiot  Boy 333 

Michael  :  a  Pastoral  Poem, 351 

The  Brothebs, 369 

The  Russian  Fugitive 385 

Goody  Blake  and  Harry  Gill  :  a  True  Story,   .    .  403 

Miscellaneous  Poems,  Sonnets,  &c., 411 

The  Somnambulist, 411 

The  Pet  Lamb;  a  Pastoral 417 

1* 


CONTENTS. 

PASK. 

Hart-Leap  Well,    ,    .    .    . 421 

Evening  Ode, 428 

Lines,  on  revisiting  the  Banks  of  Wye,      ....  431 

Stanzas  on  the  Power  of  Sound, 436 

She  was  a  Phantom  of  Delight 444 

Ruth 445 

Laodamia, 454 

Rob  Roy's  Grave,  .    .' 460 

Yarrow  Ilnvisited, 465 

Yarrow  Visited, 467 

Yarrow  Revisited, 470 

The  Wishing-Gate 474 

To  the  Daisy 477 

We  are  Seven, 480 

Ode.  —  Intimations  of  Lnmortality  from  R«col- 

lections  of  early  Childhood 483 

Alice  Fell ;  or,  Poverty, 490 

Written  after  the  Death  of  Charles  Lamb,      .     .     .  493 

Ode  to  Duty 497 

To  a  Sky-Lark 499 

Sonnet.  —  Scorn  not  the   Soimet ;    Critic,   you 

have  frowned, 500 

Lucy, 500 

Lines,  on  the  Departure  of  Sir  Walter  Scott  firom 

Abbotsford,  for  Naples 501 

To  Joanna, 502 


CONTENTS.  f 

PAGE. 

Elegiac  Stanzas,      .....«••••••  605 

A  Poet's  Epitapli, 608 

The  Reverie  of  Poor  Susam 611 

To  the  Cuckoo, 612 

Sonnet,  composed  by  the  Sea-side,  near  Calais,  .    .513 
To  the  Sons  of  Bums,  after  visiting  the  Grave  of 

their  Father, 614 

Sonnet.  —  Oh  what  a  -wreck  !    how  changed  in 

mien  and  speech ! 616 

The  Farmer  of  Tilsbtoy  Vale,  ........  616 

Incident  at  Bruges, 62C 

Sonnet.  —  Great  men  have  been  among  lis ;  hands 

that  penned, 522 

Grace  Darling, 522 

Sonnet,  from  the  Italian  of  Michael  Angelo,  .     .     .  526 

Glad  sight !  wherever  new  with  old, 526 

Sonnet.  —  Her  only  pilot  the  soft  breeze,   the 

boat, 527 

Sonnet,  to  Sleep, 527 

Presentiments, 528 

Memory 531 

Sonnet.  —  It  is  a  beauteous  evening,  calm  and 

free, 532 

To  a  Sexton, 533 

Ode,  composed  on  May  Morning, .......  634 

Life 636 


CONTENTS. 

FAGK. 

Sonnet.  —  Alas!  what  boots  the  long  laborious 

quest, 537 

The  Rainbow, 637 

Sonnet.  —  With  ships  the  sea  was  sprinkled  far 

and  nigL, 538 

Written  in  March,  while  resting  on  the  Bridge  at 

the  Foot  of  Brother's  Water, 638 


THE     EXCURSION: 


BEING   A  POETION   OF 


THE     RECLUSE. 


THE    RIGHT    HONORABLE 

WILLIAM,  EAEL  OF  LONSDALE,  K.  G,  &C., 


Oft,  through,  thy  fair  domains,  illustrious  Peer  1 
In  youth  I  roamed,  on  youthful  pleasures  bent ; 
And  mused  in  rocky  cell  or  sylvan  tent, 
Beside  swift-flowing  Lowther's  current  clear. 
—  Now,  by  thy  care  befriended,  I  appear 
Before  thee,  Lonsdale,  and  this  Work  present, 
A  token,  (may  it  prove  a  monument !) 
Of  high  respect  and  gratitude  sincere. 
Gladly  would  I  have  waited  till  my  task 
Had  reached  its  close  ;  but  Life  is  insecure, 
And  Hope,  full  oft  fallacious  as  a  dream ; 
Therefore,  for  what  is  here  produced  I  ask 
Thy  favor  ;  trusting  that  thou  wilt  not  deem 
The  Offering,  though  imperfect,  premature. 

"William  Wordswokth. 

Rydal  Mount,  Westmoreland, 
July  29,  1814. 


THE   EXCURSION. 


PREFACE. 


The  Title-page  announces  that  this  is  only  a  Portion  of 
a  Poem ;  and  the  Reader  must  be  here  apprised  that  it 
belongs  to  the  second  part  of  a  long  and  laborious  "Work, 
which  is  to  consist  of  three  parts.  —  The  Author  will  can- 
didly acknowledge  that,  if  the  first  of  these  had  been  com- 
pleted, and  in  such  a  manner  as  to  satisfy  his  own  mind, 
he  should  have  preferred  the  natural  order  of  publication, 
and  have  given  that  to  the  world  first ;  but,  as  the  second 
division  of  the  Work  was  designed  to  refer  more  to  passing 
events,  and  to  an  existing  state  of  things,  than  the  others 
were  meant  to  do,  more  continuous  exertion  was  naturally 
bestowed  upon  it,  and  greater  progress  made  here  than  in 
the  rest  of  the  Poem ;  and  as  this  part  does  not  depend 
upon  the  preceding,  to  a  degree  which  will  materially  in- 
jure its  own  peculiar  interest,  the  Author,  complying  with 
the  earnest  entreaties  of  some  valued  Friends,  presents  the 
foUawing  pages  to  the  Public. 

It  may  be  proper  to  state  whence  the  Poem,  of  which 
The  Excursion  is  a  part,  derives  its  Title  of  The  Recluse. 
Several  years  ago,  when  the  Author  retired  to  his  native 
Mountains,  with  the  hope  of  being  enabled  to  construct  a 
literary  Work  that  might  live,  it  was  a  reasonable  thing 
that  he  should  take  a  review  of  his  own  Mind,  and  exam- 


12  PREFACE. 

ine  how  far  Nature  and  Education  had  qualified  him  for 
Buch  emplojinent.  As  subsidiary  to  this  preparation,  he 
undertook  to  record,  in  Verse,  the  origin  and  progress  of 
his  own  powers,  as  far  as  he  was  acquainted  with  them. 
That  Work,  addressed  to  a  dear  Friend,  most  distinguished 
for  his  knowledge  and  genius,  and.to  whom  the  Author's 
Intellect  is  deeply  indebted,  has  been  long  finished ;  and 
the  result  of  the  investigation  which  gave  rise  to  it  was  a 
determination  to  compose  a  philosophical  Poem,  contain- 
ing views  of  Man,  Nature,  and  Society  ;  and  to  be  entitled. 
The  Recluse ;  as  having  for  its  principal  subject  the  sen- 
sations and  opinions  of  a  Poet  living  in  retirement.  —  The 
preparatory  Poem  is  biographical,  and  conducts  the  history 
of  the  Author's  mind  to  the  point  when  he  was  embold- 
ened to  hope  that  his  faculties  were  sufiiciently  matured 
for  entering  upon  the  arduous  labor  which  he  had  pro- 
posed to  himself ;  and  the  two  Works  have  the  same  kind 
of  relation  to  each  other,  if  he  may  so  express  himself,  as 
the  Ante-chapel  has  to  the  body  of  a  Gothic  Chiirch. 
Continuing  this  allusion,  he  may  be  permitted  to  add,  that 
his  minor  Pieces,  which  have  been  long  before  the  Public, 
when  they  shall  be  properly  arranged,  will  be  fo'jid  by  the 
attentive  Reader  to  have  such  connection  with  the  main 
Work  as  may  give  them  claim  to  be  likened  to  the  little 
cells,  Oratories,  and  sepulchral  Recesses,  ordinarily  in- 
cluded in  those  Edifices. 

The  Author  would  not  have  deemed  himself  justified  in 
saying,  upon  this  occasion,  so  much  of  performances  either 
unfinished,  or  unpublished,  if  he  had  not  thought  that  the 
labor  bestowed  by  him  upon  what  he  has  heretofore  and 
now  laid  before  the  PubKc,  entitled  him  to  candid  atten- 
tion for  such  a  statement  as  he  thinks  necessary  to  throw 
light  upon  his  endeavors  to  please,  and  he  would  hope,  to 

benefit  his  countrymen Nothing  further  need  be  added, 

than  that  the  first  and  third  parts  of  The  Recluse  wUl  con- 
sist chiefly  of  meditations  in  the  Author's  own  Person ;  and 
that  in  the  intermediate  part  (The  Excm-sion)  the  inter- 


PREFACE.  13 

vention  of  Characters  speaking  is  employed,  and  something 
of  a  dramatic  form  adopted. 

It  is  not  the  Author's  intention  formally  to  annoxuice  a 
system ;  it  was  more  animating  to  him  to  proceed  in  a  dif- 
ferent course  ;  and  if  he  shall  succeed  in  conveying  to  the 
miad  clear  thoughts,  lively  images,  and  strong  feelings, 
the  Reader  will  have  no  difficulty  in  extracting  the  system 
for  himself.  And  in  the  meantime  the  following  passage, 
taken  from  the  conclusion  of  the  first  book  of  The  Recluse, 
may  be  acceptable  as  a  kind  of  Prospectus  of  the  design 
and  scope  of  the  whole  Poem  : 

"  On  Man,  on  Nature,  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  mixed ; 
And  I  am  conscious  of  affecting  thoughts 
And  dear  remembrances,  whose  presence  soothes 
Or  elevates  the  Mind,  intent  to  weigh 
The  good  and  evil  of  our  mortal  state. 
—  To  these  emotions,  whencesoe'er  they  come, 
Whether  from  breath  of  outward  circumstance, 
Or  from  the  Soul  —  an  impulse  to  herself, 
I  would  give  utterance  in  numerous  Verse. 
Of  Truth,  of  Grandeur,  Beauty,  Love,  and  Hope  — 
And  melancholy  Pear  subdued  by  Faith ; 
Of  blessed  consolations  in  distress  ; 
Of  moral  strength,  and  intellectual  Power ; 
Of  joy  in  widest  commonalty  spread  ; 
Of  the  individual  Mind  that  keeps  her  own 
Inviolate  retirement,  subject  there 
To  Conscience  onlj'',  and  the  law  supreme 
Of  that  Intelligence  which  governs  all ; 
I  sing  —  '  fit  audience  let  me  find,  though  few  1  * 

"  So  prayed,  more  gaining  than  he  asked,  the  Bard* 
Holiest  of  Men,  —  Urania,  I  shall  need 
2 


14  PREFACE. 

Thy  guidance,  or  a  greater  Muse,  if  such. 
Descend  to  earth  or  dwell  in  highest  heaven  ! 
For  I  must  tread  on  shado^^  ground,  must  sink 
Deep  —  and,  aloft  ascending,  breathe  in  worlds 
To  which  the  heaven  of  heavens  is  but  a  veU. 
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  the  empyreal  thrones  — 
I  pass  them  unalarmed.     Not  Chaos,  not 
The  darkest  pit  of  lowest  Erebus, 
Nor  aught  of  blinder  vacancy  —  scooped  out 
By  help  of  dreams,  can  breed  such  fear  and  awe 
As  fall  upon  us  often  when  we  look 
Into  our  Miads,  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  neighbor.     Paradise,  and  groves 
Elysian,  Fortunate  Fields  —  Kke  those  of  old 
Sought  in  the  Atlantic  Main,  why  should  they  be 
A  history  only  of  departed  things, 
Or  a  mere  fiction  of  what  never  was  ? 
For  the  discerning  intellect  of  Man, 
When  wedded  to  this  goodly  universe 
In  love  and  holy  passion,  shall  find  these 
A  simple  produce  of  the  common  day. 

—  I,  long  before  the  blissful  hour  arrives. 
Would  chant  in  lonely  peace,  the  spousal  verse 
Of  this  great  consummation ;  —  and,  by  words 
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 


15 


How  exqiiisitely  the  individual  Mind 

(And  th.e  progressive  powers  perhaps  no  less 

Of  the  whole  species)  to  the  external  World 

Is  fitted  :  —  and  how  exquisitely,  too, 

Theme  this  but  little  heard  of  among  Men, 

The  external  World  is  fitted  to  the  Mind  ; 

And  the  creation  (by  no  lower  name 

Can  it  be  called)  which  they  with  blended  might 

Accomplish :  —  this  is  our  high  argument. 

—  Such  grateful  haunts  foregoing,  if  I  oft 

Must  turn  elsewhere  —  to  travel  near  the  tribes 

And  fellowships  of  men,  and  see  ill  sights 

Madding  passions  mutually  inflamed; 

Must  he  a  humanity  in  fields  and  groves 

Pipe  solitary  anguish ;  or  must  hang 

Brooding  above  the  fierce  confederate  storm 

Of  sorrow,  barricadoed  evermore 

Within  the  v/alls  of  Cities  ;  may  these  sounds 

Have  their  authentic  comment  —  that  even  these 

Hearing,  I  be  not  downcast  or  forlorn ! 

Descend,  prophetic  Spirit !  that  inspirest 

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  Song 

With  star-lil5.e  virtue  in  its  place  may  shine ; 

Shedding  benignant  infliience,  —  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  tiling 

Contemplated,  describe  the  Mind  and  Man 


*  Not  mine  own  fears,  nor  the  prophetic  Sou! 
Of  the  wide  world  dreaming;  on  things  to  come. 

SuAKspKiSE's  Sonnets 


16  PREFACE. 

Contemplating,  and  who,  and  what  he  was, 

The  transitory  Being  that  beheld 

This  Vision, — when,  and  where,  and  how  he  lived ;  - 

Be  not  this  labor  useless.     If  such  theme 

May  sort  with,  highest  objects,  then,  dread  Power, 

Whose  gracious  favor  is  the  primal  source 

Of  all  illumination,  may  my  Life 

Express  the  image  of  a  better  time, 

More  wise  desires,  and  simpler  manners  ;  —  nxirse 

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 !  '* 


THE   EXCURSION. 


BOOK      THE      FIRST. 

THE  WANDERER. 

ARGUMENT. 

A  summer  forenoon — The  Author  reaches  a  ruined  Cottage,  upon  a 
Common,  and  there  meets  with  a  revered  Friend,  the  Wanderer, 
of  whom  lie  gives  an  account  —  The  Wanderer,  while  resting  under 
the  shade  of  the  trees  that  surround  the  Collage,  relates  the  History 
of  its  last  Inhabitant. 

'TwAS  summer,  and  the  sun  had  mounted  high: 
Southward  the  landscape  indistinctly  glared 
Through  a  pale  steam ;   but  all  the  northern  downs, 
In  clearest  air  ascending,  showed  far  off 
A  surface  dappled  o'er  with  shadows  flung 
From  brooding  clouds  ;   shadows  that  lay  in  spots 
Determined  and  unmoved,  with  steady  beams 
Of  bright  and  pleasant  sunshine  interposed; 
Pleasant  to  him  who  on  the  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, 
2* 


18  Wordsworth's  poems. 

Half  conscious  of  the  soothing  melody, 
With  side-long  eye  looks  out  upon  the  scene, 
By  power  of  that  impending  covert  thrown 
To  finer  distance.     Other  lot  was  mine ; 
Yet  with  good  hope  that  soon  I  should  obtain 
As  grateful  resting-place,  and  livelier  joy. 
Across  a  bare  wide  Common  I  was  toiling 
With  languid  steps  that  by  the  slippery  ground 
Were  baffled ;  nor  could  my  weak  arm  disperse 
The  hosts  of  insects  gathering  round  my  face, 
And  ever  with  me  as  I  paced  along. 

Upon  that  open  level  stood  a  Grove, 

The  wished-for  port  to  which  my  course  was  bound. 

Thither  I  came,  and  there,  amid  the  gloom 

Spread  by  a  brotherhood  of  lofty  elms. 

Appeared  a  roofless  Hut;  four  naked  walls 

That  stared  upon  each  other!  I  looked  round, 

And  to  my  wish  and  to  my  hope  espied 

Him  whom  I  sought ;  a  Man  of  reverend  age, 

But  stout  and  hale,  for  travel  unimpaired. 

There  was  he  seen  upon  the  Cottage  bench, 

Recumbent  in  the  shade  as  if  asleep ; 

An  iron-pointed  staff  lay  at  his  side. 

Him  had  I  marked  the  day  before  —  alone 

And  stationed  in  the  public  way,  with  face 

Turned  toward  the  sun  then  setting,  while  that  staff 

Afforded  to  the  Figure  of  the  Man 

Detained  for  contemplation  or  repose. 

Graceful  support;  his  countenance  meanwhile 

Was  hidden  from  my  view,  and  he  remained 

Unrecognised ;  but,  stricken  by  the  sight, 

With  slackened  footsteps  I  advanced,  and  soon 

A  glad  congratulation  we  exchanged 


Wordsworth's  poems.  19 

At  such  unthought-of  meeting.  —  For  the  night 
We  parted,  nothing  willingly ;  and  now 
He  by  appointment  waited  for  me  here 
Beneath  the  shelter  of  these  clustering  elms. 

We  were  tried  Friends :  amid  a  pleasant  vale, 

In  the  antique  market  village  where  were  passed 

My  school-days,  an  apartment  he  had  owned, 

To  which  at  intervals  the  Wanderer  drew, 

And  found  a  kind  of  home  or  harbor  there. 

He  loved  me ;  from  a  swarm  of  rosy  Boys 

Singled  out  me,  as  he  in  sport  would  say, 

For  my  grave  looks  —  too  thoughtful  for  my  years. 

As  I  grew  up,  it  was  my  best  delight 

To  be  his  chosen  Comrade.     Many  a  time. 

On  holidays,  we  rambled  through  the  Avoods : 

We  sate  —  Ave  walked ;  he  pleased  me  with  report 

Of  things  which  he  had  seen ;   and  often  touched 

Abstrusest  matter,  reasonings  of  the  mind, 

Turned  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  parched  meadow-ground,  in  time  of  drought 

Still  deeper  welcome  found  his  pure  discourse: 

How  precious  when  in  riper  days  I  learned 

To  weigh  with  care  his  words,  and  to  rejoice 

In  the  plain  presence  of  his  dignity ! 

Oh !   many  are  the  Poets  that  are  sown 

By  Nature ;  Men  endowed  with  highest  gifts, 

The  vision  and  the  faculty  divine ; 

Yet  wanting  the  accomplishment  of  Verse, 


20  Wordsworth's  poems. 

(Which,  in  the  docile  season  of  their  youth, 

It  was  denied  them  to  acquire,  through  lack 

Of  culture  and  the  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  favored  Beings, 

All  but  a  scattered  few,  live  out  their  time, 

Husbanding  that  which  they  possess  within. 

And  go  to  the  grave,  unthought  of.     Strongest  minda 

Are  often  those  of  whom  the  noisy  world 

Hears  least ;  else  surely  this  Man  had  not  left 

His  graces  unrevealed  and  unproclaimed. 

But,  as  the  mind  was  filled  with  inward  light, 

So  not  without  distinction  had  he  lived. 

Beloved  and  honored  —  far  as  he  was  known. 

And  some  small  portion  of  his  eloquent  speech. 

And  something  that  may  serve  to  set  in  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  veHerable  Nature  leads. 

The  high  and  tender  Muses  shall  accept 

With  gracious  smile,  deliberately  pleased. 

And  listening  Time  reward  with  sacred  praise. 

Among  the  hills  of  Athol  he  was  born; 

Where,  on  a  small  hereditary  Farm, 

An  unproductive  sHp  of  rugged  ground, 

His  Parents,  with  tlieir  numerous  Offspring,  dwelt ; 

A  virtuous  Household,  though  exceeding  poor  ! 

Pure  Livers  were  they  all,  austere  and  grave, 

And  fearing  God ;  the  ivery  Children  taught 


Wordsworth's  poems.  21 

Stern  self-respect,  a  reverence  for  God's  word, 

And  an  habitual  piety,  maintained 

With  strictness  scarcely  known  on  English  ground. 

From  his  sixth  year,  the  Boy  of  whom  I  speak, 

In  summer  tended  cattle  on  the  Hills ; 

But,  through  the  inclement  and  the  perilous  days 

Of  long-continuing  winter,  he  repaired. 

Equipped  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  travelled  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, 

He  had  perceived  the  presence  and  the  power 

Of  greatness  ;  and  deep  feelings  had  impressed 

Great  objects  on  his  mind,  with  portraitare 

And  color  so  distinct,  that  on  his  mind 

They  lay  like  substances,  and  almost  seemed 

To  haunt  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  with  aught 

Of  dimmer  character,  he  thence  attained 

An  active  power  to  fasten  images 

Upon  his  brain;  and  on  their  pictured  lines 

Intensely  brooded,  even  till  they  acquired 


22  Wordsworth's  poems. 

The  liveliness  of  dreams.     Nor  did  he  fail, 
While  yet  a  Child,  with  a  Child's  eagerness, 
Incessantly  to  turn  his  ear  and  eye 
On  all  things  which  the  moving  seasons  brough> 
To  feed  such  appetite  :   nor  this  alone 
Appeased  his  yearning :  —  in  the  after  day 
Of  Boyhood,  many  an  hour  in  caves  forlorn, 
And  'mid  the  hollow  depths  of  naked  crags, 
He  sate,  and  even  in  their  fixed  lineaments, 
Or  from  the  power  of  a  peculiar  eye, 
Or  by  creative  feeling  overborne, 
Or  by  predominance  of  thought  oppressed. 
Even  in  their  fixed  and  steady  lineaments 
He  traced  an  ebbing  and  a  flowing  mind, 
Expression  ever  varying ! 

Thus  informed. 
He  had  small  need  of  books  ;  for  many  a  Tale 
Traditionary,  round  the  mountains  hung. 
And  many  a  Legend,  peopling  the  dark  woods, 
Nourished  Imagination  in  her  growth, 
And  gave  the  Mind  that  apprehensive  power 
By  which  she  is  made  quick  to  recognize 
The  moral  properties  and  scope  of  things. 
But  eagerly  he  read,  and  read  again, 
Whate'er  the  Minister's  old  Shelf  supplied ; 
The  life  and  death  of  Martyrs,  who  sustained, 
With  will  inflexible,  those  fearful  pangs 
Triumphantly  displayed  in  records  left 
Of  Persecution,  and  the  Covenant  —  times 
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, 


WORDSWORTH'S  POEMS. 


23 


Profuse  in  garniture  of  wooden  cuts 
Strange  and  uncouth ;  dire  faces,  figures  dire, 
Sharp-knee'd,  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  cherished  visitant, 
Was  wanting  yet  the  pure  delight  of  love 
By  sound  dilTused,  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  Avhich  he 
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 

Rise  up,  and  bathe  the  world  in  light !    He  looked  — 

Ocean  and  earth,  the  solid  frame  of  earth 

And  ocean's  liquid  mass,  beneath  him  lay 

In  gladness  and  deep  joy.     The  clouds  were ■  touched, 

And  in  their  silent  faces  did  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  swallowed  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, 


24  Wordsworth's  poems. 

Thought  was  not;  in  enjoyment  it  expired. 
No  thanks  he  breathed,  he  proffered  no  request; 
Rapt  into  still  communion  that  transcends 
The  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. 

O  then  how  beautiful,  how  bright  appeared 

The  written  Promise !     Early  had  he  learned 

To  reverence  the  volume  that  displays 

The  mystery,  the  life  which  cannot  die ; 

But  in  the  mountains  did  he  feet  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 

Seemed  infinite ;  and  there  his  spirit  shaped 

Her  prospects ;  nor  did  he  believe  —  he  saw. 

What  wonder  if  his  being  thus  became 

Sublime  and  comprehensive !    Low  desires. 

Low  thoughts  had  there  no  place ;    yet  was  his  heart 

Lowly ;   for  he  was  meek  in  gratitude. 

Oft  as  he  called  those  ecstacies  to  mind. 

And  whence  they  flowed ;  and  from  them  he  acquired 

Wisdom,  which  works  thro'  patience ;  thence  he  loam'd, 

In  oft-recurring  hours  of  sober  thought. 

To  look  on  Nature  with  a  humble  heart 

Self-questioned  where  it  did  not  understand, 

And  with  a  superstitious  eye  of  love. 

So  passed  the  time ;  yet  to  the  nearest  Town 
He  duly  went  with  what  small  overplus 


Wordsworth's  poems.  25 

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  Schoolmaster  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  endeavors  ?    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 
Might  tend  to  wean  him.     Therefore,  with  her  hues, 
Her  forms,  and  with  the  spirit  of  her  forms, 
He  clothed  the  nakedness  of  austere  truth. 
While  yet  he  lingered  in  the  rudiments 
Of  science,  and  among  her  simplest  laws. 
His  triangles — they  were  the  stars  of  heaven. 
The  silent  stars !     Oft  did  he  take  delight 
To  measure  the  altitude  of  some  tall  crag 
That  is  the  eagle's  birth-place,  or  some  peak 
Familiar  with  forgotten  years,  that  shows 
Inscribed,  as  with  the  silence  of  the  thought, 
Upon  its  bleak  and  visionary  sides. 
The  history  of  many  a  winter  storm. 
Or  obscure  records  of  the  path  of  fire. 
3 


26  Wordsworth's  poems. 

And  thus,  before  his  eighteenth  year  was  told, 

Accumulated  feelings  pressed  his  heart 

With  still  increasing  Aveight;  he  was  o'erpowered 

By  Nature,  by  the  turbulence  subdued 

Of  his  own  mind ;  by  mystery  and  hope, 

And  the  first  virgin  passion  of  a  soul 

Communing  with  the  glorious  Universe. 

Full  often  wished  he  that  the  winds  might  rage 

When  they  were  silent ;  far  more  fondly  now 

Than  in  his  earlier  season  did  he  love 

Tempestuous  nights  —  the  conflict  and  the  sounds 

That  live  in  darkness  —  from  his  intellect 

And  from  the  stillness  of  abstracted  thought 

He  asked  i-epose ;   and,  failing  ofl  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  thougiit. 

Thus  was  he  reared,  much  wanting  to  assist 

The  growth  of  intellect,  yet  gaining  more, 

And  every  moral  feeling  of  his  sou] 

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  unworthy  maintenance. 

Urged  by  his  Mother,  he  essayed  to  teach 

A  Village  school  —  but  wande'-ing  thoughts  were  then 


Wordsworth's  poems.  27 

A  misery  to  him ;  and  the  Youth  resigned 
A  task  he  was  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  bent  beneath  his  load! 

Yet  do  such  Travellers  find  their  own  delight ; 

And  their  hard  service,  deemed  debasing  now, 

Gained  merited  respect  in  simpler  times; 

When  Squire,  and  Priest,  and  they  who  round   them 

dwelt, 
In  rustic  sequestration  —  all  dependent 
Upon  the  Pedlar's  toil  —  supplied  their  wants, 
Or  pleased  their  fancies  with  the  wares  he  brought. 
Not  ignorant  was  the  Youth  that  still  no  few 
Of  his  adventurous  Countrymen  were  led 
By  perseverance  in  this  track  of  life 
To  competence  and  ease ;  —  for  him  it  bore 
Attractions  manifold ;  —  and  this  he  chose. 
His  Parents  on  the  enterprise  bestowed 
Their  farewell  benediction,  but  with  hearts 
Foreboding  evil.     From  his  native  hills 
He  wandered  far ;  much  did  he  see  of  Men, 
Their  manners,  their  enjoyments,  and  pursuits, 
Their  passions  and  their  feelings  ;   chiefly  those 
Essential  and  eternal  in  the  heart, 
That,  'raid  the  simpler  forms  of  rural  life. 
Exist  more  simple  in  their  elements. 
And  speak  a  plainer  language.     In  the  woods, 


28  Wordsworth's  poems 

A  lone  Enthusiast,  and  among  the  fields, 

Itinerant  in  this  labor,  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 ;  unvexed,  unwarped 

By  partial  bondage.     In  his  steady  course. 

No  piteous  revolutions  had  he  felt, 

No  wild  varieties  of  joy  and  grief. 

Unoccupied  by  sorrow  of  its  own. 

His  heart  lay  open;  and,  by  Nature  tuned, 

And  constant  disposition  of  his  thoughts, 

To  sympathy  with  Man,  he  was  alive 

To  all  that  was  enjoyed,  where'er  he  went. 

And  all  that  was  endured ;  for  in  himself 

Happy,  and  quiet  in  his  cheerfulness, 

He  had  no  painful  pressure  from  without 

That  made  him  turn  aside  from  wretchedness 

With  coward  fears.     He  could  afford  to  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  prospered;  how  they  were  o'erthrown 

By  passion  or  mischance ;  or  such  misrule 

Among  the  unthinking  masters  of  the  earth 

As  makes  the  nations  groan.     This  active  course 

He  followed  till  provision  for  his  wants 


Wordsworth's  poems.  .  29 

Had  been  obtained;  —  the  Wanderer  then  resolved 
To  pass  the  remnant  of  his  days  —  untasked 
With  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  paths ;   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  endeared. 
Vigorous  in  health,  of  hopeful  spirits,  undamped 
By  worldly-mindedness  or  anxious  care ; 
Observant,  studious,  thoughtful,  and  refreshed 
By  knowledge  gathered  up  from  day  to  day;  — 
Thus  had  he  lived  a  long  and  innocent  life. 

The  Scottish  Church,  both  on  himself  and  those 
With  whom  from  childhood  he  grew  up,  had  held 
The  strong  hand  of  her  purity ;   and  still 
Had  watched  him  Avith  an  unrelenting  eye. 
This  he  remembered  in  his  riper  age 
With  gratitude  and  reverential  thoughts. 
But  by  the  native  vigor  of  his  mind. 
By  his  habitual  wanderings  out  of  doors, 
By  loneliness,  and  goodness,  and  kind  works, 
Whate'er,  in  docile  childhood  or  in  youth, 
He  had  imbibed  of  fear  or  darker  thought, 
Was  melted  all  away :   so  true  was  this, 
That  sometimes  his  religion  seemed  to  me 
Self-taught,  as  of  a  dreamer  in  the  woods; 
Who  to  the  model  of  his  own  pure  heart 
Shaped  his  belief  as  grace  divine  inspired, 
Or  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  vexed  not  him ; 
3* 


30  Wordsworth's  poems. 

[ndulgent  listener  was  he  to  the  tongue 
Of  garrulous  age;  nor  did  the  sick  man's- tale, 
To  his  fraternal  sympathy  addressed, 
Obtain  reluctant  hearing. 

Plain  his  garb ; 
Such  as  might  suit  a  rustic  Sire,  prepared 
For  Sabbath  duties ;  yet  he  was  a  Man 
Whom  no  one  could  have  passed  without  remark. 
Active  and  nervous  was  his  gait ;   his  limbs 
And  his  whole  figure  breathed  intelligence. 
Time  had  compressed  the  freshness  of  his  cheek 
Into  a  narrower  circle  of  deep  red, 
But  had  not  tamed  his  eye  ;   that,  under  brows 
Shaggy  and  gray,  had  meanings  which  it  brought 
From  years  of  youth ;   which,  like  a  Being  made 
Of  many  Beings,  he  had  Avondrous  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, 
T'he  prized  memorial  of  relinquished  toils, 
Upon  that  Cottage  bench  reposed  his  limbs. 
Screened  from  the  sun.     Supine  the  Wanderer  lay, 
His  eyes  as  if  in  drowsiness  half  shut, 
The  shadows  of  the  breezy  elms  above 
Dappling  his  face.     He  had  not  heard  the  sound 
Of  my  approachinT  steps,  and  m  the  shade 
Unnoticed  did  I  istand,  some  minutes'  space. 
At  length  I  hailed  him,  seeing  that  his  hat 
Was  moist  with  water-drops,  as  if  the  brim 
Had  newly  scooped  a  running  stream.     He  rose, 


Wordsworth's  poems.  31 

And  ere  our  lively  greeting  into  peace 

Had  settled,  "  'Tis,"  said  I,  "  a  burning  day ; 

My  lips  are  parched  with  thirst,  but  you,  it  seems, 

Have  somewhere  found  relief."    He,  at  the  word, 

Pointing  towards  a  sweet-briar,  bade  me  climb 

The  fence  where  that  aspiring  shrub  looked  out 

Upon  the  public  way.     It  was  a  plot 

Of  garden  ground  run  wild,  its  matted  weeds 

Marked  with  the  steps  of  those,  whom,  as  they  passed, 

The  gooseberry  trees  that  shot  in  long  lank  slips. 

Or  currants,  hanging  from  their  leafless  stems 

In  scanty  strings,  had  tempted  to  o'erleap 

The  broken  wall.     I  looked  around,  and  there, 

Where  two  tall  hedge-rows  of  thick  alder  boughs 

Joined  in  a  cool,  damp  nook,  espied  a  Well 

Shrouded  with  willow-flowers  and  plumy  fern. 

My  thirst  I  slaked,  and  from  the  cheerless  spot 

Withdrawing,  straightway  to  the  shade  returned 

Where  sate  the  Old  Man  on  the  Cottage  bench; 

And,  while  beside  him,  with  uncovered  head, 

I  yet  was  standing,  freely  to  respire. 

And  cool  my  temples  in  the  fanning  air. 

Thus  did  he  speak :     "  I  see  around  me  here 

Things  which  you  cannot  see:   we  die,  my  Friend, 

Nor  we  alone,  but  that  which  each  man  loved 

And  prized  in  his  peculiar  nook  of  earth 

Dies  with  him,  or  is  changed ;   and  very  soon 

Even  of  the  good  is  no  memorial  left. 

—  The  Poets,  in  their  elegies  and  songs 

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 


32  Wordsworth's  poems. 

More  tranquil,  yet  perhaps  of  kindred  birth, 

That  steal  upon  the  meditative  mind, 

And  grow  with  thought.     Beside  yon  Spring  I  stood, 

And  eyed  its  waters  till  we  seemed  to  feel 

One  sadness,  they  and  I.     For  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  ministered 

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  the  relic  lie  —  fond  thought  —  vain  words 

Forgive  them  ;  —  never  —  never  did  my  steps 

Approach  this  door,  but  she  who  dwelt  within 

A  daughter's  welcome  gave  me,  and  I  loved  her 

As  my  own  child.     Oh,  sir !   the  good  die  first. 

And  they  whose  hearts  are  dry  as  summer  dust 

Burn  to  the  socket.     Many  a  Passenger 

Hath  blessed  poor  Margaret  for  her  gentle  looks, 

When  she  upheld  the  cool  refreshment  drawn 

From  that  forsaken  Spring;   and  no  one  came 

But  he  was  welcome ;   no  one  went  away 

But  that  it  seemed  she  loved  him.     She  is  dead. 

The  light  extinguished  of  her  lonely  Hut, 

The  Hut  itself  abandoned  to  decay, 

And  She  forgotten  in  the  quiet  grave ! 

"  I  speak,"  continued  he,  "  of  One  whose  stock 
Of  virtues  bloomed  beneath  this  lowly  roof. 
She  was  a  Woman  of  a  steady  mind. 
Tender  and  deep  in  her  excess  of  love. 
Not  speaking  much,  pleased  rather  with  the  joy 


■Wordsworth's  poems.  33 

Of  her  own  thoughts :  by  some  especial  care 

Her  temper  had  been  framed,  as  if  to  make 

A  Being  —  who,  by  adding  love  to  peace, 

Might  live  on  earth  a  life  of  happiness. 

Her  wedded  Partner  lacked  not  on  his  side 

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  vanished.     They  who  passed 

At  evening,  from  behind  the  garden  fence 

Might  hear  his  busy  spade,  which  he  would  ply. 

After  his  daily  work,  until  the  light 

Had  failed,  and  every  leaf  and  flower  were  lost 

In  the  dark  hedges.     So  their  days  were  spent 

In  peace  and  comfort ;   and  a  pretty  Boy 

Was  their  best  hope  —  next  to  the  God  in  Heaven. 

"  Not  twenty  years  ago,  —  but  you  I  think 

Can  scarcely  bear  it  now  in  mind,  —  there  came 

Two  blighting  seasons,  when  the  fields  were  left 

With  half  a  harvest.     It  pleased  Heaven  to  add 

A  worse  affliction  in  the  plague  of  war ; 

This  happy  land  was  stricken  to  the  heart! 

A  Wanderer  then  among  the  Cottages 

I,  wiin  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 


34  WORDS  worth's  poems. 

With  cheerful  hope,  until  tlie  second  autumn, 

When  her  life's  Helpmate  on  a  sick-bed  lav 

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  Artisans 

From  ill-requited  labor  turned  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  filled  with  plenty,  and  possessed  in  peace, 
This  lonely  Cottage.     At  his  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 ; 
Tlien,  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  blended,  where  he  might,  the  various  tasks 
Of  summer,  autumn,  winter,  and  of  spring. 
But  this  endured  not ;   his  good  humor  soon 
Became  a  weight  in  which  no  pleasure  was:     • 
And  poverty  brought  on  a  petted  mood 
And  a  sore  temper;   day  by  day  he  drooped, 
And  he  would  leave  his  work,  and  to  the  Town, 
Without  an  errand,  would  direct  his  steps, 


Wordsworth's  poems.  35 

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  tossed  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  tliis  multitude  of  flies 
Is  filling  all  the  air  with  melody; 
Why  should  a  tear  be  in  an  Old  Man's  eye? 
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 
Passed  from  my  mind  like  a  forgotten  sound. 
A  while  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  known  and  loved.     He  had  rehearsed 
Her  homely  Tale  with  such  familiar  power, 
With  such  an  active  countenance,  an  eye 


86  Wordsworth's  poems. 

So  busy,  that  the  things  of  which  he  spake 
Seemed  present;  and,  attention  now  relaxed, 
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  cheered  me  long,  ere,  looking  round 
Upon  that  tranquil  Ruin,  I  returned, 
And  begged  of  the  Old  Man  that,  for  my  sake, 
He  would  resume  his  story. 

He  replied, 
"  It  were  a  wantonness,  and  would  demand 
Severe  reproof,  if  we  were  Men  whose  hearts 
Could  hold  vain  dalliance  with  the  misery 
Even  of  the  dead ;  contented  thence  to  draw 
A  momentary  pleasure,  never  marked 
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  reached 
The  threshold,  lifted  with  light  hand  the  latch ; 


wor.dsworth's  poems.  37 

But,  when  I  entered  Margaret  looked  at  me 
A  little  while ;  then  turned  her  head  away 
Speechless,  —  and,  sitting  down  upon  a  chair, 
Wept  bitterly.    I  wist  not  what  to  do, 
Nor  how  to  speak  to  her.     Poor  Wretch !   at  last 
She  rose  from  off  her  seat,  and  then,  —  O  Sir ! 
I  cannot  tell  how  she  pronounced  my  name : 
With  fervent  love,  and  with  a  face  of  grief 
Unutterably  helpless,  and  a  look 
That  seemed  to  cling  upon  me,  she  inquired 
If  I  had  seen  her  Husband.     As  she  spake 
A  strange  surprise  and  fear  came  to  my  heart; 
Nor  had  I  power  to  answer  ere  she  told 
That  he  had  disappeared  —  not  two  months  gone. 
He  left  his  House :   two  wretched  days  had  past, 
And  on  the  third,  as  wistfully  she  raised 
Her  head  from  off  her  pillow,  to  look  forth, 
Like  one  in  trouble,  for  returning  light, 
Within  her  chamber-casement  she  espied 
A  folded  paper,  lying  as  if  placed 
To  meet  her  waking  eyes.     This  tremblingly 
She  opened  —  found  no  writing,  but  beheld 
Pieces  of  money  carefully  enclosed. 
Silver  and  gold.     '  I  shuddered  at  the  sight,' 
Said  Margaret,  'for  I  knew  it  was  his  hand 
Which  placed  it  there :   and  ere  that  day  was  ended, 
That  long  and  anxious  day!   I  learned  from  One 
Sent  hither  by  my  Husband  to  impart 
The  heavy  news,  —  that  he  had  joined  a  Troop 
Of  Soldiers,  going  to  a  distant  Land. 
—  He  left  me  thus  —  he  could  not  gather  heart 
To  take  a  farewell  of  me ;  for  he  feared 
That  I  should  follow  with  my  Babes,  and  sink 
Beneath  the  misery  of  that  wandermg  Life.' 
4 


38  Wordsworth's  poems. 

•'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  talked 

Ere  we  built  up  a  pile  of  better  thoughts. 

And  with  a  brighter  eye  she  looked  around, 

As  if  she  had  been  shedding  tears  of  joy. 

We  parted.  —  'Twas  the  time  of  early  spring; 

I  left  her  busy  with  her  garden  tools; 

And  well  remember,  o'er  that  fence  she  looked, 

And,  while  I  paced  along  the  foot-way  path, 

Called  out,  and  sent  a  blessing  after  me, 

With  tender  cheerfulness ;   and  with  a  voice 

That  seemed  the  very  sound  of  happy  thoughts. 

"I  roved  o'er  many  a  hill  and  many  a  dale. 

With  my  accustomed  load ;  -  in  heat  and  cold, 

Through  many  a  wood,  and  many  an  open  ground. 

In  sunshine  and  in  shade,  in  wet  and  fair, 

Drooping  or  blithe  of  heart,  as  might  befal ; 

My  best  companions  now  the  driving  winds. 

And  now  the  '  trotting  brooks '  and  whispering  trees, 

And  now  the  music  of  my  own  sad  steps, 

With  many  a  short-lived  thought  that  passed  between, 

And  disappeared.     I  journeyed  back  this  way, 

When,  in  the  warmth  of  Midsummer,  the  wheat 

Was  yellow;  and  the  soft  and  bladed  grass. 

Springing  afresh,  had  o'er  the  hay-field  spread 

Its  tender  verdure.     At  the  door  arrived, 

I  found  that  she  was  absent.     In  the  shade. 

Where  now  we  sit,  I  waited  her  return. 

Her  Cottage,  then  a  cheerful  Object,  wore 

Its  customary  look,  —  only,  it  seemed. 

The  honeysuckle,  crowding  round  the  porch, 


worpswok-th's  poems,  39 

Hung-  down  in  heavier  tufts ;  and  that  bright  weed, 

The  yellow  stone-crop,  suffered  to  take  root 

Along  the  window's  edge,  profusely  grew, 

Blinding  the  lower  panes.     I  turned  aside, 

And  strolled  into  her  garden.     It  appeared 

To  lag  behind  the  season,  and  had  lost 

Its  pride  of  neatness.     Daisy-flowers  and  thrift 

Had  broken  their  trim  lines^  and  straggled  o'er 

The  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  and  bella, 

Had  twined  about  her  two  small  rows  of  pease, 

And  dragged  them  to  the  earth.     Ere  this  an  hour 

Was  wasted.     Back  I  turned  my  restless  steps; 

A  Stranger  passed ;  and,  guessing  whom  I  sought, 

He  said  that  she  was  used  to  ramble  far. 

The  sun  was  sinking  in  the  west;   and  now 

I  sate  with  sad  impatience.     From  within 

Her  solitary  Infant  cried  aloud; 

Then,  like  a  blast  that  dies  away  self-stilled, 

The  voice  was  silent.     From  the  bench  I  rose; 

But  neither  could  divert  nor  soothe  my  thoughts. 

The  spot,  though  fair,  was  very  desolate  — 

The  longer  I  remained,  more  desolate; 

And,  looking  round  me,  now  I  first  observed 

The  corner  stones,  on  either  side  the  porch, 

With  dull  red  stains  discolored,  and  stuck  o'er 

With  tufts  and  hairs  of  wool,  as  if  the  Sheep, 

That  fed  upon  the  Common,  thither  came 

Familiarly ;   and  found  a  couching-place 

Even  at  her  threshold.     Deeper  shadows  fell 

From  these  tall  elms ;  the  Cottage  clock  struck  eight  — 

I  turned,  and  saw  her  distant  a  few  steps. 


40  Wordsworth's  poems. 

Her  face  was  pale  and  thin;  her  figure,  too, 

Was  changed.     As  she  unlocked  the  door,  she  said, 

'It  grieves  me  you  have  waited  here  so  long; 

But,  in  good  truth,  I've  wandered  much  of  late, 

And,  sometimes — to  my  shame  I  speak — have  need 

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 

V/hich  gave  employment  to  her  listless  hands  — 

That  she  had  parted  with  her  elder  Child; 

To  a  kind  master  on  a  distant  farm. 

Now  happily -apprenticed.     'I  perceive 

You  look  at  me,  and  you  have  cause ;  to-day 

I  have  been  travelling  far ;   and  many  days 

About  the  fields  I  wander,  knowing  this 

Only,  —  that  what  I  seek  I  cannot  find  ; 

Ajid  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  flowed  as  if  my  body  were  not  such 

As  others  are ;   and  I  could  never  die. 

But  I  am  nov/  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 


Wordsworth's  poems.  41 

By  sorrow  laid  asleep  —  or  borne  away, 

A  human  being  destined  to  awake 

To  human  life,  or  something  very  near 

To  human  life,  when  he  shall  come  again 

For  whom  she  suffered.     Yes,  it  would  have  grieved 

Your  very  soul  to  see  her;   evermore 

Her  eyelids  drooped,  her  eyes  were  downward  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,  appeared 

The  careless  stillness  of  a  thinking  mind 

Self-occupied  ;   to  which  all  outward  things 

Are  like  an  idle  matter.     Still  she  sighed, 

But  yet  no  motion  of  the  breast  was  seen. 

No  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. 
For  her  son's  use,  some  tokens  of  regard. 
Which  with  a  look  of  welcome  she  received; 
And  I  exhorted  her  to  place  her  trust 
In  God's  good  love,  and  seek  his  help  by  prayer. 
I  took  my  staff",  and  when  I  kissed  her  babe 
The  tears  stood  in  her  eyes.    I  left  her  then. 
With  the  best  hope  and  comfort  I  could  give ; 
She  thanked  me  for  my  wish  —  but  for  my  hope 
Methought  she  did  not  thank  me. 

"I  returned, 
And  took  my  rounds  along  this  road  again 
Ere  on  its  sunny  bank  the  primrose  flower 
Peeped  forth,  to  give  an  earnest  of  the  spring. 
I  found  her  sad  and  drooping ;  she  hc|,d  learned 
4* 


42  wokdsworth's  poems. 

No  tidings  of  her  Husband ;  if  he  lived, 

She  knew  not  that  he  lived ;   if  he  were  dead, 

She  knew  not  he  was  dead.     She  seemed  the  same 

In  person  and  appearance ;   but  her  House 

Bespake  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  scattered  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  sighed  among  its  playthings.     Once  again 

I  turned  towards  the  garden  gate,  and  saw 

More  plainly  still,  that  poverty  and  grief 

Were  now  come  nearer  to  her :   weeds  defaced 

The  hardened  soil,  and  knots  of  withered  grass : 

No  ridges  there  appeared  of  clear  black  mould, 

No  winter  greenness ;   of  her  herbs  and  floAvers, 

It  seemed  the  better  part  were  gnawed  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  Robert  come  again.'     Towards  the  House 

Together  we  returned ;   and  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 

Of  sorrow !     Yet  I  saw  the  idle  loom 

Still  in  its  place ;  his  Sunday  garments  hung 


Wordsworth's  poems.  43 

Upon  the  self-same  nail ;  his  very  staff 

Stood  undisturbed  behind  the  door.     And  when, 

In  bleak  December,  I  retraced  this  way, 

She  told  me  that  her  little  Babe  was  dead, 

AnJ  she  was  left  alone.     She  now,  released 

From  her  maternal  cares,  had  taken  up 

The  employment   common   through   these   Wilds,  and 

gained. 
By  spinning  hemp,  a  pittance  for  herself; 
And  for  this  end  had  hired  a  neighbor's  Boy 
To  give  her  needful  help.     That  very  time 
Most  willingly  she  put  her  work  aside, 
And  walked  with  me  along  the  miry  road, 
Heedless  how  far;   and  in  such  piteous  sort 
That  any  heart  had  ached  to  hear  her,  begged 
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  returned 
Into  tliis  tract  again. 

"Nine  tedious  years; 
From  their  first  separation,  nine  long  years ; 
She  lingered  in  unquiet  widowhood  ; 
A  Wife  and  Widow.     Needs  must  it  have  been 
A  sore  heart-wasting!     I  have  heard,  my  Friend, 
That  in  yon  arbor  oftentimes  she  sate 
Alone,  through  half  the  vacant  Sabbath  day; 
And,  if  a  dog  passed  by,  she  still  would  quit 
The  shade,  and  look  abroad.     On  this  old  Bench 
For  hours  she  sate ;  and  evermore  her  eye 
Was  busy  in  the  distance,  shaping  things 
That  made  her  heart  beat  quick.    You  see  that  path, 
Now  faint  —  the  grass  has  crept  o'er  its  gray  line; 
There,  to  and  fro,  she  paced  through  many  a  day 


44  Wordsworth's  poems 

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  passed 

A  man  v/hose  garments  showed  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  with  faltering  voice 

Made  many  a  fond  inquiry ;   and  when  they. 

Whose  presence  gave  no  comfort,  were  gone  by, 

Her  heart  was  still  more  sad.     And  by  yon  gate, 

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  discovered  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 

Chequered  the  green-grown  thatch.     And  so  she  lived 

Through  the  long  winter,  reckless  and  alone ; 

Until  her  House  by  frost,  and  tliaw,  and  rain. 

Was  sapped ;  and  while  she  slept,  the  nightly  damps 

Did  chill  her  breast;   and  in  the  stormy  day 

Her  tattered  clothes  were  ruffled  by  the  wind. 

Even  at  the  side  of  her  own  fire.     Yet  still 

She  loved  this  wretched  spot,  nor  would  for  worlds 

Have  parted  hence :   and  still  that  length  of  road, 

And  this  rude  bench,  one  torturing  hope  endeared, 

Fast  rooted  at  her  heart :   and  here,  my  Friend, 

In  sickness  she  remained  ;   and  here  she  died. 

Last  human  tenant  of  these  ruined  Walls." 

The  Old  Man  ceased:   he  saw  that  I  was  moved. 
From  that  low  Bench,  rising  instinctively, 


wordsavorth's  poems  45, 

I  turned  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. 

Reviewed  that  Woman's  sufferings ;  and  it  seemed 

To  Comfort  me  while  with  a  Brother's  love 

I  blessed  her  —  in  the  impotence  of  grief. 

At  length  toivards  the  Cottage  I  returned 

Fondly,  —  and  traced,  with  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 : 

Be  wise  and  cheerful ;   and  no  longer  read 

The  forms  of  things  with  an  unworthy  eye. 

She  sleeps  in  the  calm  earth,  and  peace  is  here. 

I  well  remember  that  those  very  plumes, 

Those  weeds,  and  the  high  spear-grass  on  that  wall, 

By  mist  and  silent  rain-drops  silvered  o'er. 

As  once  I  passed,  did  to  my  heart  convey 

So  still  an  image  of  tranquillity. 

So  calm  and  still,  and  looked  so  beautiful 

Amid  the  uneasy  thoughts  which  filled  my  mind, 

That  what  Ave  feel  of  sorrow  and  despair. 

From  ruin  and  from  change,  and  all  the  grief 

The  passing  shows  of  Being  leave  behind. 

Appeared  an  idle  dream,  that  could  not  live 

Where  meditation  vv'-as.     I  turned  away. 

And  walked  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 


46  Wordsworth's  poems. 

We  sate  on  that  low  Bench;  an(i  now  we  felt, 
Admonished  thus,  the  sweet  hour  coming  on. 
A  linnet  warbled  from  those  lofty  elms, 
A  thrush  sang  loud,  and  other  melodies, 
At  distance  heard,  peopled  the  milder  air. 
The  Old  Man  rose,  and,  with  a  sprightly  mien 
Of  hopeful  preparation,  grasped  his  Staff: 
Together  casting  then  a  farewell  look 
Upon  those  silent  walls,  we  left  the  Shade; 
And,  ere  the  stars  were  visible,  had  reached 
A  Village  Inn  —  our  Evening  resting-place. 


THE   EXCURSION. 


BOOK      THE      S  ECOND. 

THE  SOLITAEY. 

AUGUMENT. 

The  Author  describes  his  travels  with  the  Wanderer,  whose  character 
is  further  illustrated  —  Morning  scene,  and  view  of  a  Village  Wake 

—  Wanderer's  account  of  a  Friend  whom  he  purposes  to  visit  — 
View,  from  an  eminence,  of  the  Valley  which  his  Friend  had  chosen 
for  his  retreat  —  Feeling's  of  the  Author  at  the  sight  of  it  —  Sound  of 
singing  from  below  —  A  funeral  procession  — Descent  mto  the  Valley 

—  Observations  drawn  from  the  Wanderer  at  sight  of  a  Book  acci- 
dentally discovered  in  a  recess  in  the  Valley  —  Meeting  with  the 
Wanderer's  friend,  the  Solitary  —  Wanderer's  description  of  the 
mode  of  burial  in  this  mountainous  district  —  Solitary  contrasts  with 
this,  that  of  the  Individual  carried  a  few  minutes  before  from  the 
Cottage  —  Brief  conversation  —  The  Cottage  entered  —  Description 
of  the  Solitary's  apartment  —  Repast  there  —  View^  from  the  window 
of  two  mountain  summits  —  and  the  Solitary's  description  of  ttie 
Companionship  they  afford  him  —  Account  of  the  departed  Inmate  of 
the  Cottage  —  Description  of  a  grand  spectacle  upon  the  mountains, 
with  its  effect  upon  the  Solitary's  mind  —  Quit  the  House. 

In  days  of  yore  how  fortunately  fared 
The  Minstrel!   wandering  on  from  Hall  to  Hall, 
Baronial  Court  or  Royal ;  cheered  with  gifts 
Munificent,  and  love,  and  Ladies'  praise; 


48  wordswokth's  poems. 

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 

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  walked  —  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  honored  Race 

Prew  happier,  loftier,  more  impassioned  thought'a 

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,  Avhen  free  to  move  with  lighter  pace. 

What  wonder,  then,  if  I,  whose  favorite  School 
Hath  been  the  fields,  the  roads,  and  rural  lanes, 
Looked  on  this  Guide  with  reverential  love  ? 
Each  with  the  other  pleased,  we  now  pursued 
Our  journey  —  beneath  favorable  skies. 
Turn  wheresoe'er  we  would,  he  was  a  light 
Unfailing ;  not  a  Hamlet  could  we  pass. 
Rarely  a  House,  that  did  not  yield  to  him 
Remembrances  ;   or  from  his  tongue  call  forth 
Some  way-beguiling  tale.     Nor  less  regard 
Accompanied  those  strains  of  apt  discourse 


■Wordsworth's  poems.  49 

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, 
The  fowl  domestic,  and  the  household  dog, 
In  his  capacious  mind  —  he  loved  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  Brute's  condition,  forced  to  run 
Its  course  of  suffering  in  the  public  road,  — 
Sad  contrast !   all  too  often  smote  his  heart 
With  unavailing  pity.     Rich  in  love 
And  sweet  humanity,  he  was,  himself. 
To  the  degree  that  he  desired,  beloved. 

—  Greetings  and  smiles  we  met  with  all  day  long, 
From  faces  that  he  knew  ;   we  took  our  seats 

By  many  a  cottage  hearth,  where  he  received 
The  welcome  of  an  Inmate  come  from  far. 

—  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  perplexed, 
And  finding  in  himself  no  steady  power 
To  draw  the  line  of  comfort  that  divides 
Calamity,  the  chastisement  of  Heaven, 
From  the  injustice  of  our  brother  men ; 


50  Wordsworth's  poems. 

To  Him  appeal  was  made,  as  to  a  judge, 

Who,  with  an  understanding  heart,  allayed 

The  perturbation ;  listened  to  the  plea ; 

Resolved  the  dubious  point ;   and  sentence  gave 

So  grounded,  so  applied,  that  it  was  heard 

With  softened  spirit  —  even  when  it  condemned. 

Such  intercourse  I  witnessed,  while  we  roved, 

Now  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  called  us  to  renew  our  walk, 

My  Fellow-traveller,  with  earnest  voice, 

As  if  the  thought  were  but  a  moment  old, 

Claimed  absolute  dominion  for  the  day. 

We  started  —  and  he  led  towards  the  hills, 

Up  through  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  purple  beams. 

The  Wealthy,  the  Luxurious,  oy  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  health  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 


Wordsworth's  poems.  51 

Pleasant  as  roses  in  the  thickets  blown, 

And  pure  as  dew  bathing  their  crimson  leaves. 

Mount  slowl}',  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  thrilled  ear,  and  flags  uprising,  yield 
Prompt  answer:  they  proclaim  the  annual  Wake, 
Which  the  bright  season  favors.     Tabor  and  Pipe 
In  purpose  join  to  hasten  and  reprove 
The  laggard  Rustic ;  and  repay  with  boons 
Of  merriment  a  parti  colored  Knot, 
Already  formed  upon  the  Village  green. 
—  Beyond  the  limits  of  the  shadow  cast 
By  the  broad  hill,  glistened  upon  our  sight 
That  gay  assemblage.     Round  them  and  above, 
Glitter,  with  dark  recesses  interposed. 
Casement,  and  cottage-roof,  and  stems  of  trees 
Half-veiled  in  vapory  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  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 
Here  would  I  linger,  and  with  you  partake, 


52  Wordsworth's  poems. 

Not  one  hour  merely,  but  till  evening's  close, 

The  simple  pastimes  of  the  day  and  place. 

By  the  fleet  Racers,  ere  the  Sun  be  set, 

The  turf  of  yon  large  pasture  will  be  skimmed; 

There,  too,  the  lusty  Wrestlers  shall  contend; 

But  know  we  not  that  he,  who  intermits 

The  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  ? 

We  must  proceed  —  a  length  of  journey  yet 

Remains  untraced."     Then,  pointing  with  his  staff 

Raised  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  sheltered  and  well-tended  plant 
Bears,  on  the  humblest  ground  of  social  life, 
Blossoms  of  piety  and  innocence. 
Such  grateful  promises  his  youth  displayed, 
And,  having  shown  in  study  forward  zeal, 
He  to  the  Ministry  was  duly  called ; 
And  straight,  incited  by  a  curious  mind 


Wordsworth's  poems.  53 

Filled  with  vague  hopes,  he  undertook  the  charge 

Of  Chaplain  to  a  Military  Troop, 

Cheered  by  the  Highland  Bagpipe,  as  they  marched 

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  walked  the  World, 

Gay,  and  affecting  graceful  gayety : 

Lax,  buoyant  —  less  a  Pastor  with  his  Flock 

Than  a  Soldier  among  Soldiers  —  lived  and  roamed 

Where  fortune  led :  —  and  Fortune,  who  oft  proves 

The  careless  Wanderer's  Friend,  to  him  made  known 

A  blooming  Lady  —  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  endowed  with  worldly  wealth. 
His  Office  he  relinquished ;  and  retired 
From  the  world's  notice  to  a  rural  Home. 
Youth's  season  yet  with  him  was  scarcely  past, 
And  she  was  in  youth's  prime.     How  full  their  joy. 
How  free  their  love !    nor  did  that  love  decay, 
Nor  joy  abate,  till  —  pitiable  doom ! 
In  the  short  course  of  one  undreaded  year, 
Death  blasted  all.     Death  suddenly  o'erthrew 
Two  lovely  Children  —  all  that  they  possessed! 
The  Mother  followed:  —  miserably  bare 
The  one  Survivor  stood  —  he  wept,  he  prayed 
For  his  dismissal;   day  and  night,  compelled 
By  pain  to  turn  his  thoughts  towards  the  grave, 
And  face  the  regions  of  Eternity. 
An  uncomplaining  apathy  displaced 
5* 


5)4  Wordsworth's  poems. 

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,  appeared 
A  glorious  opening,  the  unlooked-for  dawn. 
That  promised  everlasting  joy  to  France  ! 
Her  voice  of  social  transport  reached  even  him ! 
He  broke  from  his  contracted  bounds,  repaired 
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  transferred  ; 
And,  from  the  Pulpit,  zealously  -maintained 
The  cause  of  Christ  and  civil  liberty. 
As  one,  and  moving  to  one  glorious  end. 
Intoxicating  service!    I  might  say 
A  happy  service;   for  he  was  sincere 
As  vanity  and  fondness  for  applause. 
And  new  and  shapeless  wishes,  Avould  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  seemed  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. 


wordswoPvTh's  poems.  55 

And  in  the  origin  and  bounds  of  power 

Social  and  temporal;   but  in  laws  divine, 

Deduced  by  reason,  or  to  faith  revealed, 

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  withthem  whom  he  had  laid 

In  earth's  dark  chambers,  with  a  Christian's  hope! 

An  infidel  contempt  of  holy  writ 

Stole  by  degrees  upon  his  mind  ;   and  hence 

Life,  like  that  Roman  Janus,  doubled-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  stooped  the  least 

To  known  restraints  :   and  who  most  boldly  drew 

Hopeful  prognostications  froai  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  enjoyed 

The  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  displayed 

Unhallowed  actions  —  planted  like  a  crown 

Upon  the  insolent  aspiring  brow 

Of  spurious  notions  —  worn  as  open  signs 


56  "Wordsworth's  poems. 

Of  prejudice  subdued  —  he  still  retained 

'Mid  such  abasement,  what  he  had  received 

From  nature  —  an  intense  and  glowing  mind. 

Wherefore,  when  humbled  Liberty  grew  weak, 

And  mortal  sickness  on  her  face  appeared, 

He  colored  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  showed  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  splendor  which  had  given  a  festal  air 
To  self-importance,  hallowed  it,  and  veiled 
From  his  own  sight,  —  this  gone,  he  forfeited 
All  joy  in  human  nature ;   was  consumed. 
And  vexed,  and  chafed,  by  levity  and  scorn, 
And  fruitless  indignation;  galled  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 


Wordsworth's  poems.  S? 

With  malady  —  in  part,  I  fear,  provoked 
By  weariness  of  life,  he  fixed  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 
In  self-indulging  spleen,  that  doth  not  want 
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  boastful  Eminence, 
Renowned  for  splendid  prospect  far  and  wide) 
We  scaled,  without  a  track  to  ease  our  steps, 
A  steep  ascent ;  and  reached  a  dreary  plain, 
With  a  tumultous  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  encompassed,  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  glittered  in  the  sun, 


58  Wordsworth's  poems. 

And  one  bare  Dwelling;  one  Abode,  no  more! 

It  seemed  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  neighboring  Valea 
The  Cuckoo,  straggling  up  to  the  hiU  tops, 
Shouteth  faint  tidings  of  some  gladder  place. 

Ah !  what  a  sweet  Recess,  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,  furnished  in  itself 
With  the  few  needful  things  that  life  requires. 

—  In  rugged  arms  how  soft  it  seems  to  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  nowhere ;  days  unruffled  by  the  gale 

Of  public  news  or  private ;  years  that  pass 
Forgetfully  ;   uncalled  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, 


Wordsworth's  poems.  59 

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  listened,  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  be  knoxvn, 

In  Death  thy  faithfulness  ?  " — "  God  rest  his  soul ! " 

The  Wanderer  cried,  abruptly  breaking  silence, — 

"  He  is  departed,  and  finds  peace  at  last ! " 

This  scarcely  spoken,  and  those  holy  strains 

Not  ceasing,  forth  appeared  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 

Recovering,  to  my  Friend  I  said,  "  You  spake, 

Methought,  with  apprehension  that  these  rites 

Are  paid  to  Him  upon  whose  sly  retreat 

This  day  we  purposed  to  intrude."     "I  did  so, 

But  let  us  hence,  that  Ave  may  learn  the  truth's 

Perhaps  it  is  not  he,  but  some  One  else. 

For  whom  this  pious  service  is  performed; 

Some  other  Tenant  of  the  Solitude." 

So,  to  a  steep  and  difficult  descent 

Trusting  ourselves,  we  wound  from  crag  to  crag, 


60  Wordsworth's  poems. 

Where  passage  could  be  won  ;  and,  as  the  last 

Of  the  mute  train,  upon  the  heathy  top 

Of  that  off-sloping  Outlet,  disappeared, 

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  opened  out 

Into  a  platform  —  that  lay,  sheep-foldwise, 

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  wrought -by  Children's  hands! 

Whose  skill  had  thronged  the  floor  with  a  proud  show 

Of  baby-houses,  curiously  arranged  ; 

Nor  wanting  ornaments  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  exclaimed, 

"Lo!   what  is  here?"  and,  stooping  down,  drew  forth 

A  Book,  that,  in  the  midst  of  stones  and  moss, 

And  wreck  of  parti-colored  earthen  ware 

Aptly  disposed,  had  lent  its  help  to  raise 

One  of  those  petty  structures.     "  Gracious  Heaven ! " 

The  Wanderer  cried,  "it  cannot  but  be  his. 

And  he  is  gone!"     The  Book,  which  in  my  hand 

Had  opened  of  itself,  (for  it  was  swoln 


Wordsworth's  poems.  61 

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  Novel  of  Voltaire, 
His  famous  Optimist.     "  Unhappy  Man !  " 
Exclaimed  my  Friend :   "  here,  then,  has  been  to  him 
Retreat  within  retreat,  a  sheltering  place 
Within  how  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  Book, 
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  turned 
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  answered,  "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  owned  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  ray  sake  than  yours ; 
And  least  of  all  for  Him  Avho  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  failed  him  —  whom  no  depth 
Of  privacy  is  deep  enough  to  hide, 
6 


62  Wordsworth's  poems. 

Hath  yet  his  bracelet  or  his  lock  of  hair, 

And  that  is  joy  to  him.     When  change  of  times 

Hath  summoned  Kings  to  scaffolds,  do  but  giv^ 

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  relic,  and  no  better  stay, 

Than  this  dull  product  of  a  Scoffer's  pen, 

[mpure  conceits  discharging  from  a  heart 

Hardened  by  impious  pride !     I  did  not  fear 

To  tax  you  with  this  journey ; "  mildly  said 

My  venerable  Friend,  as  forth  we  stepped 

Into  the  presence  of  tlie  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  opened  from  the  enclosure  of  green  fields 
Into  the  rough,  uncultivated  ground, 
Behold  the  Man  whom  he  had  fancied  dead ! 
I  knew,  from  his  deportment,  mien,  and  dress, 
That  it  could  be  no  other;  a  pale  face, 
A  tall  and  meagre  person,  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,  choisest  strings 
Of  red  ripe  currants  ;   gift  by  which  he  strove, 
With  intermixture  of  endearing  words, 


woudsworth's  poems.  63 

To  soothe  a  Child  who  walked  beside  him,  weeping 
As  if  disconsolate.     "  They  to  the  Grave 
Are  bearing  him,  my  little  One,"  he  said, 
"  To  the  dark  pit ;  J)ut  he  will  feel  no  pain ; 
His  body  is  at  rest,  his  soul  in  Heaven." 

More  might  have  followed  —  but  my  honored  Friend 

Broke  in  upon  the  Speaker  with  a  frank 

And  cordial  greeting.     Vivid  was  the  light 

That  flashed  and  sparkled  from  the  Other's  eyes  ; 

He  was  all  fire:   the  sickness  from  his  face 

Passed  like  a  fancy  that  is  swept  away ; 

Hands  joined  he  with  his  Visitant  —  a  grasp, 

An  eager  grasp ;   and  many  moments'  space, 

When  the  first  glow  of  pleasure  was  no  more, 

And  much  of  what  had  vanished  was  returned, 

An  amicable  smile  retained  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 

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  overpowered  with  awe. 

He  knows  not  why  ;  —  but  he,  perchance,  this  day 

la  shedding  Orphan's  tears ;   and  you  yourself 


64  Wordsworth's  poems. 

Must  have  sustained  a  loss."     "  The  hand  of  Death," 
He  answered,  "  has  been  here ;  but  could  not  well 
Have  fallen  more  lightly,  if  it  had  not  fallen 
Upon  myself."     The  Other  left  these  words 
Unnoticed,  thus  continuing :  — 

"  From  yon  Crag, 
Down  whose  steep  sides  we  dropped  into  the  vale, 
We  heard  the  hymn  they  sang  —  a  solemn  sound 
Heard  any  where,  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.     Often  have  I  stopped 
When  on  my  way,  I  could  not  choose  but  stop, 
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,  to  its  home, 
Its  final  home  in  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  clustered  dwellings,  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  bequeathed  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  Coffin,  resting  on  its  lid 


Wordsworth's  poems.  65 

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  the  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 ! 

Oh !   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  deemed,  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 
Without  a  hand  to  gather  it."     At  this 
I  interposed,  though  loth  to  speak,  and  said. 
"Can  it  be  thus,  among  so  small  a  band 
6* 


66  Wordsworth's  poems. 

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," 
Answered  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  iirst  resolve." 
Then,  speaking  in  like  careless  sort,  he  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  hollowed  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  ;   undeterred 
By  the  example  of  his  own  pure  course, 
And  that  respect  and  "deference  which  a  Soul 
May  fairly  claim,  by  niggard  age  enriched 
In  what  she  values  most  —  the  love  of  God 
And  his  frail  creature  man;  —  but  ye  shall  hear- 
I  talk,  and  ye  are  standing  in  the  sun. 
Without  refreshment !  "  . 

Saying  this,  he  led 
Towards  the  Co'tv-e;  —  homely  was  the  spot; 
And,  to  my  feeling,  eie  we  reached  the  door, 
Had  almost  a  forbidding  nakedness  ; 
Less  fair,  I  grant,  even  painfully  less  fair 
Than  it. appeared  v/hen  from  the  beetling  rock 


Wordsworth's  poems.  67 

We  had  looked  down  upon  it.     All  within, 

As  left  by  the  departed  company, 

Was  silent ;   and  the  solitary  clock 

Ticked,  as  I  thought,  witli  melancholy  sound. 

Following  our  Guide,  we  clomb  the  cottage  stairs, 

And  reached  a  small  apartment  dark  and  low, 

Which  was  no  sooner  entered  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  ardor  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  thoughts  no  less, 

And  pleased  I  looked  upon  my  gray-haii-ed  Friend 

As  if  to  thank  him  ;  he  returned  that  look. 

Cheered,  plainly,  and  yet  serious.     What  a  wreck 

Had  we  around  us  !   scattered  was  the  floor. 

And,  in  like  sort,  chair,  window-seat,  and  shelf, 

With  books,  maps,  fossils,  withered  plants  and  flowers. 

And  tufts  of  mountain  moss  :   mechanic  tools 

Lay  intermixed  with  scraps  of  paper  —  some 

Scribbled  with  verse :   a  broken  angling-rod 

And  shattered  telescope,  together  linked 

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  bleached,  o'erspread  the  board, 

And  was  itself  half  covered  with  a  load 

Of  dainties  —  oaten  bread,  curd,  cheese,  and  cream 


68  Wordsworth's  poems. 

And  cakes  of  butter  curiously  embossed  — 

Butter  that  had  imbibed  from  meadow  flowers 

A  golden  hue,  delicate  as  their  own, 

Faintly  reflected  in  a  lingering  stream  ; 

Nor  lacked,  for  more  delight  on  that  warm  day, 

Our  Table,  small  parade  of  garden  fruits, 

And  whortle-berries  from  the  mountain-side. 

The  Child,  who  long  ere  this  had  stilled  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  two  huge  Peaks, 
That  from  some  other  vale  peered  into  this. 
"  Those  lusty  Twins,"  exclaimed  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 
Rides  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 
Of  stream  and  headlong  flood  that  seldom  fails ; 
And,  in  the  grim  and  breathless  hour  of  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, 


Wordsworth's  poems.  69 

So  do  I  cpII  it,  though  it  be  the  hand 

Of  silenco,  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  lan<5U8ge  not  unwelcome  to  sick  hearts 

Apd  irtle  spirits: — there  the  sun  himself, 

At  the  calm  close  of  summer's  longest  day, 

Hests  his  substantial  Orb;  —  between  those  heights 

A.nd  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  Rhapsody, 
Ere  with  inviting  smile  the  Wanderer  said, 
"Now  for  the  Tale  with  which  you  threatened  us!" 
"In  truth,  the  threat  escaped  me  unawares: 
Should  the  tale  tire  you,  let  this  challenge  stand 
For  my  excuse.     Dissevered  from  mankind, 
As  to  your  eyes  and  thoughts  we  must  have  seemed, 
When  ye  looked  down  upon  us  from  the  crag; 
Islanders  of  a  stormy  mountain  sea  — 
We  are  not  so ;  —  perpetually  we  touch 
Upon  the  vulgar  ordinance  of  the  world, 
And  he,  Avhom  this  our  Cottage  hath  to-day 
Relinquished,  lived  dependent  for  his  bread 
Upon  the  laws  of  public  charity. 
The  Housewife,  tempted  by  such  slender  gains 
As  might  from  that  occasion  be  distilled 
Opened,  as  she  before  had  done  for  me. 


70  Wordsworth's  poems. 

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  still  contentedness  of  seventy  years. 

Calm  did  he  sit  beneath  the  wide-spread  tree 

Of  his  old  age  ;   and  yet  less  calm  and  meek, 

Willingly  meek  or  venerably  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 

He  was  her  Vassal  of  all  labor,  tilled 

Her  garden,  from  the  pasture  fetched  her  Kine ; 

And,  one  among  the  orderly  array 

Of  Haymakers,  beneath  the  burning  sun 

Maintained  his  place ;   or  heedfally  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  perfornaed 

Substantial  service.     Mark  me  now,  and  learn 

For  wliat  reward !     The  Moon  her  monthly  round 

Hath  not  completed  since  our  Dame,  the  Q,ueen 

Of  this  one  cottage  and  this  lonely  dale, 

Into  my  little  sanctuary  rushed  — 

Voice  to  a  rueful  treble  humanized. 


woRPS worth's  poems.  71 

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  vapors  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 
Returned  not,  and  now  haply  on  the  Heights 
Lay  at  the  mercy  of  this  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 
Which  the  neglected  Veteran  had  dropped. 
But  through  all  quarters  looked  for  him  in  vam. 
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, 
Honor  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  neighboring  Vale, 
With  morning  we  renewed  our  quest:   the  wind 
Was  fallen,  the  rain  abated,  but  the  hills 
Lay  shrouded  in  impenetrable  mist ; 
And  long  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  bleached  remains 


72  wordsavoiwh's  poems. 

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-planfc^  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,  but  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  the  Shepherds  homeward  moved 

Through  the  dull  mist,  I  following  —  when  a  step, 

A  single  step,  that  freed  me  from  the  skirts 

Of  the  blind  vapor,  opened  to  my  view 

Glory  beyond  all  glory  ever  seen 

By  waking  sense,  or  by  the  dreaming  soul ! 

The  appearance,  instantaneously  disclosed. 

Was  of  a  mighty  City  —  boldly  say 

A  wilderness  of  building,  sinking  far 

And  self-withdrawn  into  a  wondrous  depth, 

Far  sinking  into  splendor  —  without  end  ! 

Fabric  it  seemed  of  diamond  and  of  gold,- 

With  alabaster  domes,  and  silver  spires. 

And  blazing  terrace  upon  terrace,  high 

Uplifted;  here,  serene  pavilions  bright, 

fn  avenues  disposed ;  there,  towers  begirt 

With  battlements  that  on  their  restless  fronts 

Bore  stars  —  illumination  of  all  gems  ! 

By  earthly  nature  had  the  effect  been  wrought 

Upon  the  dark  materials  of  the  storm 

Now  pacified ;  on  them,  and  on  the  coves 


Wordsworth's  poems.  73 

And  mountain-steeps  and  summits,  whereunto 
The  vapors  had  receded,  taking  there 
Their  station  under  a  cerulean-  sky. 
Oh,  'twas  an  unimaginable  sight  I 
Clouds,  mists,  streams,  watery  rocks  and  emerald  tui^ 
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,  enwrapped. 
Right  in  the  midst,  where  interspace  appeared 
Of  open  court,  an  object  like  a  throne 
Beneath  a  shining  canopy  of  state 
Stood  fixed ;  and  fixed  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. 
Below  me  was  the  earth ;   this  little  Vale 
Lay  low  beneath  my  feet;  'twas  visible  — 
I  saw  not,  but  I  felt  that  it  was  there. 
That  which  I  saw  was  the  revealed  abode 
Of  spirits  in  beatitude :   my  heart 
Swelled  in  my  breast.     '  I  have  been  dead,'  I  cried, 
'  And  now  I  live !  Oh !  wherefore  do  I  live  ? ' 
And  with  that  pang  I  prayed  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, 
And  I  descended.    Having  reached  the  House, 
I  found  its  rescued  Inmate  safely  lodged. 
And  in  serene  possession  of  himself, 
7 


74  Wordsworth's  poems. 

Beside  a  genial  fire,  that  seemed  to  spread 

A  gleam  of  comfort  o'er  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  seemed  at  first  to  have  received 

No  harm,  and  uncomplaining  as  before 

Went  through  his  usual  tasks,  a  silent  change 

Soon  showed  itself;  he  lingered  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  turned. 

And,  with  blithe  air  of  open  fellowship, 

Brought  from  the  Cupboard  wine  and  stouter  chefir, 

Like  one  who  would  be  merry.     Seeing  this. 

My  gray-haired  Friend  said  courteously  —  "Nay,  nay 

You  have  regaled  us  as  a  Hermit  ought ; 

Now  let  us  forth  into  the  sun!"    Our  Host 

Rose,  though  reluctantly,  and  forth  we  went 


THE   EXCURSION. 


BOOK      THE      THIRD. 

DESPONDENCY.^ 

ARGUMENT. 

Images  in  the  Valley  —  Another  Recess  m  it  entered  and  described  .— 
Wanderer's  sensations  —  Solitary's,  excited  by  the  same  objecu— 
Contrast  between  these  —  Despondency  of  the  Solitary  gently  re- 
proved—  Conversation  exhibiting;  the  Solitary's  past  and  present 
opinions  and  feelings,  till  he  enters  upon  his  o'wn  History  at  length — 
His  domestic  felicity  —  afflictions  —  dejection  —  Roused  by  the  French 
Revolution  —  Disappohitment  and  disgust  —  Voyage  to  America  — 
Disappointment  and  disgust  pursue  him  —  His  return  —  His  languor 
and  depression  of  mind,  from  want  of  faith  in  the  great  truths  of 
Religion,  and  want  of  confidence  in  the  virtue  of  Mankind. 

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  tlirough  the  Cottage  threshold  we  had  passed. 

And,  deep  within  that  lonesome  Valley,  stood 

Once  more,  beneath  the  concave  of  a  blue 

And  cloudless  sky.     Anon,  exclaimed  our  Host, 


76  Wordsworth's  poems. 

Triumphantly  dispersing  with  the  taunt 

The  shade  of  discontent  which  on  his  brow 

Had  gathered,  —  "  Ye  have  left  my  cell  —  but  see 

How  Nature  hems  you  in  with  friendly  arras  I 

And  by  her  help  ye  are  my  Prisoners  still. 

But  which  way  shall  I  lead  you?  —  how  contrive, 

In  Spot  so  parsimoniously  endowed, 

That  .the  brief  hours,  which  yet  remain,  may  reap 

Some  recompense  of  knowledge  or  delight  ?  " 

So  saying,  round  he  looked,  as  if  perplexed ; 

And,  to  remove  those  doubts,  my  gray-haired  Friend 

Said  —  "  Shall  we  take  this  pathway  for  our  guide  ?  — 

Upward  it  winds,  as  if,  in  summer  heats, 

Its  line  had  first  been  fashioned  by  the  flock, 

A  place  of  refuge  seeking  at  the  root 

Of  yon  black  Yew-tree ;   whose  protruded  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  his  source ; 

Feebly  it  tinkles  with  an  earthly  sound, 

And  a  few  steps  may  bring  us  to  the  spot 

Where,  haply,  crowned  with  floAverets  and  green  herbs, 

The  mountain  Infant  to  the  sun  comes  forth. 

Like  human  life  from  darkness."     A  quick  turn 

Through  a  strait  passage  of  encumbered  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  barred;  —  and  who, 

Thought  I,  if  master  of  a  vacant  hour. 

Here  would  not  linger,  willingly  detained  ? 


Wordsworth's  poems.  77 

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. 

Upon  a  semicirque  of  turf-clad  ground, 

The  hidden  nook  discovered  to  our  view 

A  mass  of  rock,  resembling,  as  it  lay 

Right  at  the  foot  of  that  moist  precipice, 

A  stranded  Ship,  with  keel  upturned,  —  that  rests 

Fearless  of  winds  and  waves.     Three  several  Stones 

Stood  near,  of  smaller  size,  and  not  unlike 

To  monumental  pillars  :   and  from  these 

Some  little  space  disjoined,  a  pair  were  seen, 

That  with  united  shoulders  bore  aloft 

A  Fragment,  like  an  Altar,  flat  and  smooth: 

Barren  the  tablet,  yet  thereon  appeared 

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  entered.     But  no  breeze  did  now 

Find  entrance ;  —  high  or  low  appeared  no  trace 

Of  motion,  save  the  Water  that  descended, 

Diffiised  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  turned,  and  said, 
"In  sooth,  with  love's  familiar  privilege, 
7* 


78  -woB-dsworth's  poems. 

Vou  have  decried  the  wealth  which  is  your  own, 
Among  these  Rocks  and  Stones,  methinks,  1  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. 
Reared  by  the  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 
Been  planted,  hither  come  and  find  a  Lodge 
To  which  thou  mayest  resort  for  holier  peace, — 
From  whose  calm  centre.  Thou,  through  height  or  depth, 
Mayest  penetrate,  wherever  Truth  shall  lead ; 
Measuring  through  all  degrees,  until  the  scale 
Of  Time  and  conscious  Nature  disappear, 
Lost  in  unsearchable  Eternity!" 


Wordsworth's  poems.  79 

A.  pause  ensued ;  and  with  minuter  care 
We  scanned  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 ;  but,  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  ?  —  disdained,  the  game  that  lurks 
At  my  own  door.     The  shapes  before  our  eyes 
And  their  arrangement,  doubtless  must  be  deemed 
The  sport  of  Nature,  aided  by  blind  Chance 
Rudely  to  mock  the  works  of  toiling  Man, 
And  hence,  this  upright  Shaft  of  unhewn  stone, 
From  Fancy,  Avilling  to  set  off  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  humor,  and  am  pleased 
To  skim  along  the  surfaces  of  things. 
Beguiling  harmlessly  the  listless  hours. 
But  if  the  spirit  be  oppressed  by  sense 
Of  instability,  revolt,  decay. 

And  change,  and  emptiness,  these  freaks  of  Nature 
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  abyaa 
Of  mortal  power  unquestionably  sprung) 
Whose  hoary  Diadem  of  pendent  rocks 


80  Wordsworth's  poems. 

Confines  the  shrill-voiced  whirlwind,  round  and  round 

Eddying  within  its  vast  circumference, 

On  Sarum's  naked  plain; — than  pyramid 

Of  Egypt,  unsubverted,  undissolved  ; 

Or  Syria's  marble  Ruins  towering  high 

Above  the  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  wandering  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-engrossing  instinct  driven  along 

Through  wood  or  open  field,  the  harmless  Man 

Departs,  intent  upon  his  onward  quest ! 

Nor  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  r.nl  pathways,  though,  thank  Heaven 

This  covert  nook  reports  not  of  his  hand,) 

He  who  with  pocket  liammer  smites  the  edge 

Of  luckless  rock  or  prominent  stone  disguised, 

In  weather-stains  or  crusted  o'er  by  Nature 


Wordsworth's  poems.  8j" 

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 

His  specimen,  if  haply  interveined 

With  .sparkling  mineral,  or  should  crystal  cube 

Lurk  in  its  cells  —  and  thinks  himself  enriched, 

Wealthier,  and  doubtless  wiser,  than  before! 

Intrusted  safely  each  to  his  pursuit. 

Earnest  alike,  let  both  from  hill  to  hill 

Range ;  if  it  please  them,  speed  from  clime  to  clime 

The  mind  is  full  —  no  pain  is  in  their  sport." 

"  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  entered  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, 
Raised  for  enabling  this  penurious  stream 
To  turn  a  slender  mill  (that  new-made  plaything) 
For  his  delight  —  the  happiest  he  of  all ! " 

'Far  happiest,"  answered  the  desponding  Man, 

"  If,  such  as  now  he  is,  he  might  remain ! 

Ah !    what  avails  Imagination  high, 

Or  Question  deep  ?  —  What  profits  all  that  Earth, 

Or  Heaven's  blue  Vault,  is  suffered  to  put  forth 

Of  impulse  or  allurement,  for  the  Soul 

To  quit  the  beaten  track  of  life,  and  soar 


82  Wordsworth's  poems. 

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, 

Nor  in  the  other  region,  nor  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, 

Nor  for  progressive  virtue,  by  the  search 

Can  be  attained  —  a  better  sanctuary 

From  doubt  and  sorrow,  than  the  senseless  grave?" 

"  Is  this,"  the  gray-haired  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,  his  soul  in  heaven.'' 
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  becomes 
Here  are  we,  in  a  bright  and  breathing  World  — 
Our  Origin,  ■what  matters  it?    In  lack 
Of  worthier  ejJplanation,  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  recalled 
By  the  warm  sunshine,  and  the  jocund  voice 


Wordsworth's  poems.  83 

Of  insects,  chirping  out  their  careless  lives 

On  these  soft  beds  of  thyme-besprinkled  turf, 

Choose,  with  the  gay  itthenian,  a  conceit 

As  sound  —  blithe  race !  whose  mantles  were  bedecked 

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  Ganges,  to  make  part 

Of  a  living  Ocean ;  or,  to  sink  engulfed, 

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. 

Reviewing  my  past  way,  much  to  condemn, 

Little  to  praise,  and  nothing  to  regret 

(Save  some  remembrances  of  dream-like  joys 

That  scarcely  seem  to  have  belonged  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 . 


84  Wordsworth's  poems. 

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  appeared, 

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  and  glorious  faculties, 

And  with  the  imagination  be  content, 

Not  wishing  more;  repining  not  to  tread 

The  little  sinuous  path  of  earthly  care. 

By  flowers  embellished,  and  by  springs  refreshed. 

— '  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,' 

Thus  I  exclaimed,  '  no  sadness  sheds  on  me. 

A.nd  no  disorder  in  your  rage  I  find. 


Wordsworth's  poejis.  85 

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. 

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  hushed  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  diverted  from  our  present  theme, 

I  said,  "My  thoughts  agreeing,  Sir,  with  yours, 

Would  push  this  censure  farther ;  —  for,  if  smilea 

Of  scornful  pity  be  the  just  reward 

Of  Poesy,  thus  courteously  employed 

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  suifering,  and  for  hope  too  tame)> 

Placed  among  flowery  gardens,  curtained  round 

The  world-excluding  groves,  the  Brotherhood 


86  Wordsworth's  poems. 

Of  soft  Epicureans,  taught  —  if  they 

The  ends  of  being  would  secure,  and  win 

The  crown  of  Avisdom  —  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  means  ;   but  spare  to  slight 

The  end  of  those,  who  did,  by  system,  rank, 

As  the  prime  object  of  a  wise  Man's  aim, — 

Security  from  shock  of  accident, 

Release  from  fear ;   and  cherished  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  detained  him,  till  his  closing  eyes 

Took  their  last  farewell  of  the  sun  and  stars, 

Fast  anchored  in  the  desert  ?     Not  alone 

Dread  of  the  persecuting  sword  —  remorse, 

Wrongs  unredressed,  or  insults  unavenged 

And  unavengeable,  defeated  pride. 

Prosperity  subverted,  maddening  want, 

Friendship  betrayed,  affection  unreturned, 

Love  with  despair,  or  grief  in  agony ; 

Not  always  from  intolerable  pangs 

He  fled ;   but,  compassed  round  by  pleasure,  sighed 

For  independent  happiness ;  craving  peace, 


Wordsworth's  poems.  87 

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  few  external  things  his  heart 

Was  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  confirmed  tranquillity. 

Inward  and  outward ;  humble,  yet  sublime . 

The  life  where  hope  and  memory  are  as  one , 

Earth  quiet  and  unchanged ;   the  human  Soul 

Consistent  in  self-rule;   and  heaven  revealed 

To  meditation  in  that  quietness ! 

Such  was  their  scheme  :  — thrice  happy  he  who  gained 

The   end  proposed !     And,  —  though   the   same   were 

missed 
By  multitudes,  perhaps  obtained  by  none,  — 
They,  for  the  attempt,  and  for  the  pains  employed. 
Do,  in  my  present  censure,  stand  redeemed 
From  the  unqualified  disdain  that  once 
Would  have  been  cast  upon  them,  by  my  Voice 
Delivering  her  decisions  from  the  seat 
Of  forward  Youth  —  that  scruples  not  to  solve 
Doubts,  and  determine  questions,  by  the  rules 
Of  inexperienced  judgment,  ever  prone 


88  Wordsworth's  poems. 

To  overweening  faith;   and  is  inflamed, 
By  courage,  to  demand  from  real  life 
The  test  of  act  and  suffering  —  to  provoke 
Hostility,  how  dreadful  Avhen  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.  ray  view  elsewhere, 

I  might  have  even  been  tempted  to  despise. 

But  that  which  was  serene  was  also  bright; 

Enlivened  happiness  with  joy  o'erflowing, 

With  joy,  and  —  oh  !   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  addressed 

From  each  to  all,  for  wisdom's  sake  —  this  truth 

The  Priest  announces  from  his  holy  seat ; 

And,  crowned  with  garlands  in  the  summer  grove, 

The  Poet  fits  it  to  his  pensive  lyre. 

Yet,  ere  that  final  resting  place  be  gained, 

Sharp  contradictions  may  arise  by  doom 

Of  this  same  life,  compelling  us  to  grieve 

That  the  prosperities  of  love  and  joy 


Wordsworth's  poems. 

Should  be  permitted  oft-times,  to  endure 
So  long,  and  be  at  once  cast  down  for  ever. 
Oh !   tremble.  Ye,  to  whom  hath  been  assigned 
A  course  of  days  composing  happy  months, 
And  they  as  happy  years ;   the  present  still 
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  tvill  be  avenged;   and,  when 
Ye  need  her  favors,  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 

Oi  stem  the  current  of  the  Speaker's  thoughts, 

We  signified  a  wish  to  leave  that  Place 

Ot  stillness  and  close  privacy,  a  nook 

That  seemed  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  turned 

A  serious  eye,  and  thus  his  speech  renewed :  — 

"  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, 


90  Wordsworth's  poems. 

A  sound  unknown  to  you ;   else,  honored  Friend ! 

Your  heart  had  borne  a  pitiable  share 

Of  what  I  suffered,  when  I  wept  that  loss, — 

And  suffer  now,  not  seldom,  from  the  thought 

That  I  remember,  and  can  weep  no  more 

Stripped  as  I  am  of  all  the  golden  fruit 

Of  self-esteem ;   and  by  the  cutting  blasts 

Of  self-reproach  familiarly  assailed  ; 

I  would  not  yet  be  of  such  wintry  barrenness 

But  that  some  leaf  of  your  regard  should  hang 

Upon  my  naked  branches  :  —  lively  thoughts 

Give  birth,  full  often,  to  ungup^rded  words ; 

I  grieve  that,  in  your  presence,  from  my  tongue 

Too  much  of  frailty  hath  already  dropped  ; 

But  that  too  much  demands  still  more. 

"  You  know, 
Revered  Compatriot ;  —  and  to  you,  kind  Sir, 
(Not  to  be  deemed  a  Stranger,  as  you  come 
Following  the  guidance  of  these  welcome  feet 
To  our  secluded  Vale,)  it  may  be  told, 
Tha-t  my  demerits  did  not  sue  in  vain 
To  One  on  whose  mild  radiance  many  gazed 
With  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, 
(Resigned,  with  sadness  gently  weighing  down 
Her  trembling  expectations,  but  no  more 
Than  did  to  her  due  honor,  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, 


Wordsworth's  poems.  91 

And  the  sea  breeze  as  innocently  breathes 

On  Devon's  leafy  shores  —  a  sheltered  Hold, 

In  a  soft  clime  encouraging  the  soil 

To  a  luxuriant  bounty !     As  our  steps 

Approach  the  embowered  Abode  —  our  chosen  Seat  — 

See,  rooted  in  the  earth,  her  kindly  bed, 

The  unendangered  Myrtle,  decked  with  flowers, 

Before  the  threshold  stands  to  welcome  us ! 

While,  in  the  flowering  Myrtle's  neighborhood, 

Not  overlooked  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  those  lonely  Downs, 

Track  leading  into  Ti'ack,  how  marked,  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. 

Where  youth's  ambitious  feet  might  move  at  large ; 

Whence,  unmolested  Wanderer's,  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 

We  dropped,  at  pleasure,  into  sylvan  Combs  ; 

Where  arbors  of  impenetrable  shade, 

And  mossy  seats,  detained  us  side  by  side. 

With  hearts  at  ease,  and  knowledge  in  our  hearts 

'That  all  the  grove  and  all  the  day  was  ours.' 

"But  Nature  called  my  Partner  to  resign 


92  Wordsworth's  poems. 

Her  share  in  the  pure  freedom  of  that  life, 

Enjoyed  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  pursaed. 

There,  undisturbed,  could  think  of,  and  could  thank 

Her  —  whose  submissive  spirit  was  to  me 

Rule  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  followed  of  acknowledgment  addressed 

To  an  Authority  eixthroned  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,  and  Judge,  adored  and  feared! 

These  acts  of  mind,  and  memory,  and  heart, 

And  spirit  —  interrupted  and  relieved 

By  observations  transient  as  the  glance 

Of  flying  sunbeams,  or  to  the  outward  form 

Cleaving  with  power  inherent  and  intense, 

As  the  mute  insect  fixed  upon  the  plant 

On  whose  soft  leaves  it  hangs,  and  from  whose  cup 

Draws  imperceptibly  its  nourishment  — 

Endeared  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 ; 


Wordsworth's  poems  J3 

Not  placed  by  fortune  within  easy  reach 

Of  various  intercourse,  nor  wishing  aught 

Beyond  the  allowance  of  our  own  fire-side, 

The  Twain  withiti  our  happy  cottage  born, 

Inmates,  and  heirs  of  our  united  love ; 

Gtaced  mutually  by  difference  of  sex, 

By  the  endearing  names  of  nature  bound, 

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  joined  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,  oh !    gentle  Frien-^s, 
As  times  of  quiet  and  unbroken  peace 
Though,  for  a  Nation,  times  of  blessedness. 
Give  back  faint  echoes  from  the  Historian's  page; 
So,  in  the  imperfect  sounds  of  this  discourse. 
Depressed  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,  not  swerving  from  the  path  prescribed ; 
Her  annual,  her  diurnal  round  alike 
Maintained  with  faithful  care.     And  you  divine 
The  worst  effects  that  our  condition  saw, 
If  you  imagine  changes  slowly  wrought. 
And  in  their  progress  imperceptible ; 


94  Wordsworth's  poems. 

Not  wished  for,  sometimes  noticed  with  a  sigh, 
(Whate'er  of  good  or  lovely  they  might  bring) 
Sighs  of  regret,  for  the  familiar  good, 
And  loveliness  endeared  —  Avhich  thSy  removed. 

"  Seven  years  of  occupation  undisturbed 

Established  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 

By  theories  with  suitable  support) 

Most  grateful,  if  in  such  wise  to  enjoy 

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  color,  was  conveyed 

From  us  to  regions  inaccessible, 

Where  height,  or  depth,  admits  not  the  approach 

Of  living  Man,  though  longing  to  pursue. 

—  With  even  as  brief  a  warning  —  and  how  soon, 

With  what  short  interval  of  time  between, 

I  tremble  yet  to  think  of —  our  last  prop, 

Our  happy  life's  only  remaining  stay  — 

The  Brother  followed ;   and  was  seen  no  more ! 

"  Calm  as  a  frozen  Lake  when  ruthless  Winds 


wokdsworth's  poems.  95 

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  of  heart 

In  Heaven's  determinations,  ever  just. 

The  eminence  on  which  her  spirit  stood. 

Mine  was  unable  to  attain.     Immense 

The  space  that  severed  us  I     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  looked 

On  her  —  at  once  superior  to  my  woes. 

And  Partner  of  my  loss.     O,  heavy  change ! 

Dimness  o'er  this  clear  Luminary  crept 

Insensibly;  —  the  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. 

And  left  me,  on  this  earth,  disconsolate. 

"  What  followed  cannot  be  reviewed  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  —    . 


yd  Wordsworth's  poems. 

Infirm,  dependent,  and  now  destitute  ? 

I  called  on  dreams  and  visions,  to  disclose 

That  which  is  veiled  from  waking  thought;  conjured 

Eternity,  as  men  constrain  a  Ghost 

To  appear  and  answer ;   to  the  grave  I  spake 

Imploringly ;  —  looked  up,  and  asked  the  Heavens 

If  Angels  traversed  their  cerulean  floors. 

If  fixed  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 

Turned  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  checked  —  and  now  impelled  — 

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  o'erthrown 

Of  indignation;   and  with  shouts  that  drowned 

The  crash  it  made  in  falling !     From  the  wreck 

A  golden  Palace  rose,  or  seemed  to  rise. 

The  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 


Wordsworth's  poems.  97 

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  ? 

Bring  garlands,  bring  forth  choicest  flowers,  to  deck 

The  Tree  of  Liberty  ! '    My  heart  rebounded  ; 

My  melancholy  voice  the  chorus  joined ! 

— '  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, 

Enriched  by  mutual  and  reflected  wealth, 

Shall  with  one  heart  honor  their  common  kind' 

"  Thus  was  I  reconverted  to  the  world ; 
Society  became  my  glittering  Bride, 
And  airy  hopes  my  Children !     From  the  dep-Jna 
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  flowed  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  noiae 
And  acclamation,  crowds  in  open  air 
Expressed  the  tumult  of  their  minds,  my  voice 
There  mingleii,  heard  or  not.     The  powers  of  song 
q 


98  Wordsworth's  poems. 

I  left  not  uninvoked;   and,  m  still  groves, 

Where  mild  enthusiasts  tuned  a  pensive  lay 

Of  thanks  and  expectation,  in  accord 

With  their  belief,  I  sang  Saturnian  Rule 

Returned  —  a  progeny  of  golden  years 

Permitted  to  descend,  and  bless  mankind. 

—  With  promises  the  Hebrew  Scriptures  teem: 

I  felt  the  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 

Disbanded  —  or  in  hostile  ranks  appeared ; 

Some,  tired  of  honest  service ;  these,  outdone, 

Disgusted,  therefore,  or  appalled,  by  aims 

Of  fiercer  Zealots  —  so  Confusion  reigned. 

And  the  more  faithful  were  compelled  to  exclaim, 

As  Brutus  did  to  Virtue,  —  '  Liberty, 

I  worshipped  Thee,  and  find  thee  but  a  Shade ! ' 

"  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  ? 


WORDSWORTHS    POEMS.  I 

Enough  if  notions  seemed  to  be  high-pitched, 

And  qualities  determined.     Among  men 

So  charactered  did  I  maintain  a  strife 

Hopeless,  and  still  more  hopeless  every  hour; 

But,  in  the  process,  I  began  to  feel 

That,  if  the  emancipation  of  the  world 

Were  missed,  I  should  at  least  secure  my  own, 

And  be  in  part  compensated.     For  rights, 

Widely  —  inveterately  usurped  upon, 

I  spake  with  vehemence ;   and  promptly  seized 

Whate'er  Abstraction  furnished  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, 

For  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  distempered  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, 

0  fostering  Nature  !    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  relished 
Strangely  the  exasperation  of  that  Land, 
Which  turned  an  angry  beak  against  the  down 
Of  her  own  breast ;   confounded  into  hope 

Of  disencumbering  thus  her  fretful  winsfs. 


100  Wordsworth's  poems. 

—But  all  was  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  the  Atlantic  Main 

The  Ship  went  gliding  with  her  thoughtless  crew; 

And  who  among  them  but  an  Exile,  freed 

From  discontent,  indiiFerent,  pleased  to  sit 

Among  the  busily-employed,  not  more 

With  obligation  charged,  with  service  taxed, 

Than  the  loose  pendant,  to  the  idle  wind 

Upon  the  tall  mast  streaming;  —  but,  ye  Powers 

Of  soul  and  sense  —  mysteriously  allied, 

O,  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  whips 

The  vengeful  Furies.    Beautiful  regards 

Were  turned  on  me  —  the  face  of  her  I  loved 

The  Wife  and  Mother,  pitifully  fixing 


worpsworth's  poems.  101 

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  — 

Revered  among  the  Nations.     I  implored 

Its  guidance ;   but  the  infallible  support 

Of  faith  was  wanting.     Tell  me,  why  refused 

To  one  by  storms  annoyed  and  adverse  winds ; 

Perplexed  with  currents  ;  of  his  weakness  sick ; 

Of  vain  endeavors  tired ;   and  by  his  own, 

And  by  his  Nature's,  ignorance,  dismayed? 

"  Long-wished-for  sight,  the  Western  World  appeared 
And,  when  the  Ship  was  moored,  I  leaped  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  cleared 
Some  boundary,  which  his  Followers  may  not  cross 
In  prosecution  of  their  deadly  chase. 
Respiring  I  looked  round.     How  bright  the  Sun! 
How  promising  the  Breeze!     Can  aught  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  winds 
And  waves  have  wafted  to  this  distant  shore, 
9* 


102  Wordsworth's  poems. 

In  the  condition  of  a  damaged  seed, 

Whose  fibres  cannot,  if  they  would,  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 

Appeared,  of  high  pretensions  —  unreproved 

But  by  the  obstreperous  voice  of  higher  atill ; 

Big  Passions  strutting  on  a  petty  stage  ; 

Which  a  detached  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, 

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  Republic  to  the  scourge 

Of  her  own  passions ;   and  to  Regions  haste, 

Whose  shades  have  never  felt  the  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; 


Wordsworth's  poems.  103 

Whether  to  act,  judge,  suffer,  or  enjoy. 

True,  the  Intelligence  of  social  Art 

Hath  overpowered  his  Forefathers,  and  soon 

Will  sweep  the  remnant  of  his  line  away ; 

But  contemplations,  worthier,  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  gained  the  top 

Of  some  commanding  Eminence,  which  yet 

Intruder  ne'er  beheld,  he  thence  surveys 

Regions  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  I 

"So,  westward,  toward  the  unviolated  Woods 

I  bent  my  way ;  and,  roaming  far  and  wide, 

Failed  not  to  greet  the  merry  Mocking-bird ; 

And,  while  the  melancholy  Muccawiss 

(The  sportive  Bird's  companion  in  the  Grove) 

Repeated  o'er  and  o'er  his  plaintive  cry, 

I  sympathized  at  leisure  with  the  sound  ; 

But  that  pure  Archetype  of  human  greatness, 

I  found  him  not.     There,  in  his  stead,  appeared 

A  Creature,  squalid,  vengeful,  and  impure; 

Remorseless,  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; 


104  Wordsworth's  poems. 

What  from  my  Fellow-beings  I  require, 

And  cannot  find ;  what  I  myself  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  tenor 

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,  and  rocks,  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  softened  roar,  a  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  passed ;   and  quickly. 

That  respite  o'er,  like  traverses  and  toils 

Must  be  again  encountered.     Such  a  stream 

Is  human  Life ;   and  so  the  Spirit  fares 

In  the  best  quiet  to  its  course  allowed ; 

And  such  is  mine,  —  save  only  for  a  hope 

That  my  particular  current  soon  will  reach 

The  unfathomable  gulf,  where  all  is  still!'* 


THE   EXCURSION. 


BOOK      THE      FOURTH. 

DESPONDENCY  CORRECTED. 

AUGUMENT. 

State  of  feeling  produced  by  the  foregoing;  Narrative  —  A  belief  in  a 
superintending  Providence  the  only  adequate  support  under  afHiction 

—  Wanderer's  ejaculation  —  Account  of  his  own  devotional  feelings 
in  youth  involved  —  Acknowledges  the  difficulty  of  a  lively  faith  — 
Hence  immoderate  sorrow  —  Doubt  or  despondence  not  therefore  to 
be  inferred  —  Consolation  to  the  Solitary  —  Exhortations  —  How  re- 
ceived —  Wanderer  applies  his  discourse  to  that  other  cause  of  dejec- 
tion in  the  Solitary's  mind  —  Disappointmeul  from  the  Frencli  Revo- 
lution —  States  grounds  of  hope  —  Insists  on  the  necessity  of  patience 
and  fortitude  with  respect  to  the  course  of  great  revolutions  —  Know- 
ledge the  source  of  tranquillity —  Rural  Solitude  favorable  to  know- 
ledge of  the  inferior  Creatures  —  Study  of  their  habits  and  ways 
recommended  —  Exhortation  to  bodily  exertion  and  communion  with 
Nature  —  Morbid  Solitude  pitiable  —  Superstition  better  than  apathy 

—  Apathy  and  destitution  unkiiown  in  the  infancy  of  society  —  The 
various  modes  of  Religion  prevented  it  —  Illustrated  in  the  Jewish, 
Persian,  Babylonian,  Chaldean,  and  Grecian  modes  of  belief — Soli- 
tary interposes  —  Wanderer  points  out  the  influence  of  religious  and 
imaginative  feeling  in  the  humble  ranks  of  society  —  Illustrated  from 
present  and  past  times  —  These  principles  tend  to  recall  exploded 
superstitions  and  Popery  —  Wanderer  rebuts  this  charge,  and  con- 
trasts the  dignities  of  the  Imagination  with  the  presumptive  littleness 
of  cenain  modern  Philosophers  —  Recommends  other  lights  and 
guides  —  Asserts  the  power  of  the  Soul  to  regenerate  herself —  Soli- 


106  Wordsworth's  poems. 

tary  asks  how  —  Reply  —  Personal  appeal — Happy  that  the  imagina- 
tion and  the  affections  mitigate  the  evils  of  that  intellectual  slavery 
which  the  calculating;  understanding  is  apt  to  produce  —  Exhortation 
to  activity  of  body  renewed  —  How  to  commune  with  Nature  — 
Wanderer  concludes  with  a  legitimate  union  of  the  imagination, 
affections,  understanding,  and  reason  —  Effect  of  his  discourse- 
Evening —  Return  to  the  Cottage. 

Here  closed  the  Tenant  of  that  lonely  vale 
His  mournful  Narrative  —  commenced  in  pain, 
In  pain  commenced,  and  ended  without  peace ; 
Yet  tempered,  not  unfrequently,  with  strains 
Of  native  feeling,  grateful  to  our  minds ; 
And  doubtless  yielding  some  relief  to  his, 
While  we  sate  listening  with  compassion  due. 
Such  pity  yet  surviving,  with  firm  voice 
That  did  not  falter  though  the  heart  was  moved, 
The  Wanderer  said  — 

"One  adequate  support 
For  the  calamities  of  mortal  life 
Exists  —  one  only  ;  —  an  assured  belief 
That  the  procession  of  our  fate,  howe'er 
Sad  or  disturbed,  is  ordered  by  a  Being 
Of  infinite  benevolence  and  power ; 
Whose  everlasting  purposes  embrace 
All  accidents,  converting  them  to  good. 
—  The  darts  of  anguish  fix  not  where  the  scat 
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  dishonor  of  his  holy  Name 


Wordsworth's  poems.  107 

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  affections  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  fixed 

At  thy  command,  how  awful !     Shall  the  Soul, 

Human  and  rational,  report  of  Thee 

Even  less  than  these  ?     Be  mute  who  will,  who  can, 

YetT  will  praise  thee  with  impassioned  voice: 

My  lips,  that  may  forget  thee  in  the  crowd, 

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 

Reared  for  thy  presence :   therefore,  am  I  bound 

To  worship  here,  and  every  where  —  as  One 

Not  doomed  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  remained  unquenched; 

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 ; 

And,  if  they  wither,  I  am  worse  than  dead ! 

—  Come,  Labor,  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  favor,  to  the  end  of  life, 


lOS  Wordsworth's  foems. 

Inspire  me  with  ability  to  seek 
Repose  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  gray-haired  Wanderer  steadfastly  replied, 
Answering  the  question  which  himself  had  asked, 
"  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  sustained  ;  —  Thou,  who  didst  wrap  the  cloud 
Of  Infancy  around  us,  that  Thyself, 
Therein,  with  our  simplicity  a  while 
Mightest  hold,  on  earth,  communion  undisturbed  — 
Who  from  the  anarchy  of  dreaming  sleep. 
Or  from  its  death-like  void,  with  punctual  care, 
And  touch  as  gentle  as  the  morning  light, 
Restorest  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; 


Wordsworth's  poems.  109 

For  apprehension  those  transcendent  trudis 

Of  the  pure  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 

No  more  shall  stray  where  Meditation  leads, 

By  flowing  stream,  through  Avood,  or  craggy  wild, 

Loved  haunts  like  these,  the  unimprisoned  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  allowed  me  to  remember 

What  visionary  powers  of  eye  and  soul 

In  youth  were  mine  ;   when,  stationed  on  the  top 

Of  some  huge  hill  —  expectant,  I  beheld 

The  Sun  rise  up,  from  distant  climes  returned 

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  filled  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  tiiat  flags, 
Through  sinful  choice ;  or  dread  necessity,  • 
On  human  Nature  from  above  imposed. 
10 


110  Wordsworth's  poems. 

'Tis,  by  comparison,  an  easy  task 

Earth  to  despise;   but,  to  converse  with  Heaven  — 

This  ia  not  easy :  ^—  to  relinquish  all 

We  have,  or  hope,  of  happiness  and  joy, 

And  stand  in  freedom  loosened  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  keep 

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  reached  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  hallowed  and  ordained, 

If,  in  proportion,  it  be  just  and  meet. 

Through  this,  'tis  able  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  perseveringly  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 

Insures  to  all  Believers  ?     Yet  mistrust 

Is  of  such  incapacity,  methinks. 

No  natural  branch ;   despondency  far  less. 

—  And,  if  there  be  whose  tender  frames  have  drooped 


Wordsworth's  poems.  Ill 

Even  to  the  dust;   apparently,  through  weight 

Of  anguish  unrelieved,  and  lack  of  power 

An  agonizing  sorrow  to  transmute, 

Infer  not  hence  a  hope  from  those  withheld 

When  wanted  most;   a  confidence  impaired 

So  pitiably,  that,  having  ceased  to  see 

With  bodil}''  eyes,  they  are  borne  down  by  love 

Of  what  is  lost,  and  perish  through  regret. 

Oh !   no,  full  oft  the  innocent  Sufferer  sees 

Too  clearly ;   feels  too  vividly ;  and  longs 

To  realize  the  Vision,  with  intense 

And  over-constant  yearning  —  there  —  there  lies 

The  excess,  by  Avhich  the  balance  is  destroyed. 

Too,  too  contracted  are  those  walls  of  flesh, 

This  vital  warmth  too  cold,  these  visual  orbs, 

Though  inconceivably  endowed,  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 


112  wortisworth's  poems. 

Acknowledging,  and  grievous  self-reproach. 

That,  though  immovably  convinced,  we  warn 

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 !  the  endowment  of  immortal  Power 

Is  matched  unequally  with  custom,  time, 

And  domineering  faculties  of  sense 

In  all;   in  most  with  superadded  foes. 

Idle  temptations  —  open  vanities, 

Ephemeral  offspring  of  the  unblushing  world ; 

And,  in  the  private  regions  of  the  mind, 

Ill-governed  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,  renewed 

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 

For  Him,  who,  seeking  faith  by  virtue,  strives 

To  yield  entire  submission  to  the  law 

Of  Conscience ;   Conscience  reverenced  and  obeyed, 

As  God's  most  intimate  Presence  in  the  soul, 

And  his  most  perfect  Image  in  the  world. 

—  Endeavor  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  empyreal  air. 

Sons  of  the  morning.    For  your  nobler  Part, 

Ere  disencumbered  of  her  mortal  chains. 

Doubt  shall  be  quelled  and  trouble  chased  away 


WORDSWORTH  S  POEMS.  113 

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 
Poured  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  scattered  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  pastime,  talking  Avith  his  Mates, 
Or  haply  thinking  of  far-distant  Friends, 
While  the  Ship  glides  before  a  steady  breeze, 
Stillness  prevailed  around  us  :   and  the  Voice, 
That  spake,  was  capable  to  lift  the  soul 
Toward  regions  yet  more  tranquil.     But,  methought, 
That  He,  whose  fixed  despondency  had  given 
Impulse  and  motive  to  that  strong  discourse, 
Was  less  upraised  in  spirit  than  abashed ; 
Shrinking  from  admonition,  like  a  man 
Who  feels,  that  to  exhort,  is  to  reproaeh. 
Yet  not  to  be  diverted  from  his  aim. 
The  Sage  continued  —  "  For  that  other  loss, 
The  loss  of  confidence  in  social  Man, 
By  the  unexpected  transports  of  our  Age 
Carried  so  high,  that  every  thought  —  which  looked 
Beyond  the  temporal  destiny  of  the  Kind 
To  many  seemed  superfluous ;   as,  no  cause 
For  such  exalted  confidence  could  e'er 
Exist ;  so,  none  is  now  for  fixed  despair ; 
The  two  extremes  are  equally  disowned    , 
10* 


114  "Wordsworth's  poems. 

By  reason;  if,  with  sharp  recoil,  from  one 

You  have  been  driven  far  as  its  opposite, 

Between  thera  seek  the  point  whereon  to  build 

Sound  expectations.     So  doth  he  advise 

Who  shared  at  first  the  illusion ;  but  was  soon 

Cast  from  the  pedestal  of  pride  by  shocks 

Which  Nature  gently  gave,  in  woods  and  fields ; 

Nor  unreproved  by  Providence,  thus  speaking 

To  the  inattentive  Children  of  the  World, 

'  Vain-glorous  Generation  !   what  new  powers 

On  you  have  been  conferred  ?    what  gifts,  withheld 

From  your  Progenitors,  have  Ye  received. 

Fit  recompense  of  new  desert  ?   what  claim 

Are  ye  prepared  to  urge,  that  ray  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  overweening  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  Tartarian  darkness  overspreads 

The  groaning  nations;   when  the  Impious  rule. 

By  will  or  by  established  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  from  owning,  that  the  law 


Wordsworth's  poems.  115 

By  which  Mankind  now  suffers,  is  most  just      • 

For  by  superior  energies ;   more  strict 

Affiance  in  each  other ;   faith  more  firm 

In  their  unhallowed  principles  ;   the  Bad 

Have  fairly  earned  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 

Will,  to  her  efforts,  tolerate  no  bounds 

That  are  not  lofty  as  her  rights  ;   aspiring 

By  impulse  of  her  own  ethereal  zeal. 

That  Spirit  only  can  redeem  Mankind; 

And  when  that  sacred  Spirit  shall  appear. 

Then  shall  our  triumph  be  complete  as  theirs. 

Yet,  should  this  confidence  prove  vain,  the  Wise 

Have  still  the  keeping  of  their  proper  peace  ; 

Are  guardians  of  their  own  tranquility. 

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  the  aspects  of  misery 

Predominate ;   whose  strong  effects  are  such 

As  he  must  bear,  being  powerless  to  redress  ; 

^nd  that  unless  above  himself  he  can 

Ered  himself,  hoio  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- 


IIG  Wordsworth's  poems. 

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 ; 
If  that  be  not  indeed  the  highest  Love  I " 

"  Yet,"  said  I,  tempted  here  to  intepose, 
"  The  dignity  of  Life  is  not  impaired 
By  aught  that  innocently  satisfies 
The  humbler  cravings  of  the  heart ;   and  Hej, 
Is  a  still  happier  Man,  who,  for  those  heights 
Of  speculation  not  unfit,  descends  ; 
And  such  benign  affections  cultivates 
Among  the  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  favor  most, 
Most  frequently  clI  forth,  and  best  sustain 
These  pure  sensations  ;  that  can  penetrate 
The  obstreperous  City ;   on  the  barren  Seas 
Are  not  unfelt,  —  and  much  might  recommend, 


y/ORDSWOr.TH's    POEMS.  117 

How  much  they  might  mspirit  and  endear, 
The  loneliness  of  this  sublime  Retreat ! " 

"  Yes,"  said  the  Sag-e,  resuming  the  discourse 

Again  directed  to  his  downcast  Friend, 

"If,  with  the  froward  will  and  grovelling  soul 

Of  Man  offended,  liberty  is  here, 

And  invitation  every  hour  renewed, 

To  mark  their  placid  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  feeds  in  winter  from  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 

Towards  her  native  firmament  of  heaven. 

When  the  fresh  Eagle,  in  the  month  of  May, 

Upborne,  at  evening,  on  replenished  wing. 

This  shaded  valley  leaves,  —  and  leaves  the  dark 

Empurpled  hills,  —  conspicuously  renewing 

A  proud  communication  with  the  sun 

Low  sunk  beneath  the  horizon! — List!  —  I  heard, 

From  yon  huge  breast  of  rock,  a  solemn  bleat ; 

Sent  forth  as  if  it  were  the  Mountain's  voice, 

As  if  the  visible  Mountain  made  the  cry. 


il8  Wordsworth's  poems. 

Again!  —  The  effect  upon  the  soul  was  such 

As  he  expressed;  from  out  the  mountain's  heart 

The  solemn  bleat  appeared  to  issue,  startling 

The  blank  air  —  for  the  region  all  around 

Stood  silent,  empty  of  all  shape  of  life  ; 

—  It  was  a  Lamb — left  somewhere  to  itself, 

The  plaintive  Spirit  of  the  Solitude !  — 

He  paused,  as  if  unwilling  to  proceed, 

Through  consciousness  that  silence  in  such  place 

Was  best,  —  the  most  affecting  eloquence. 

But  soon  his  thoughts  returned  upon  themselves, 

And,  in  soft  tone  of  speech,  he  thus  resumed:  — 

"  Ah !   if  the  heart,  too  confidently  raised, 

Perchance  too  lightly  occupied,  or  lulled 

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  labor  —  covered,  as  a  Lake  with  waves; 
Thousands  of  Cities,  in  the  desert  place. 
Built  up  of  life,  and  food,  and  means  of  life ' 


WORDSWORTH  S  POEMS.  119 

Nor  wanting  here,  to  entertain  the  thought, 

Creatures  that  in  communities  exist, 

Less,  as  might  seem,  for  general  guardianship 

Or  through  dependence  upon  mutual  aid, 

Than  by  participation  of  delight 

And  a  strict  love  of  fellowship,  combined. 

What  other  spirit  can  it  be  that  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  selfsame  influence  rules 

The  Feathered  kinds;   the  Fieldfare's  pensive  flock, 

The  cawing  Rooks,  and  Sea-mews  from  afar. 

Hovering  above  these  inland  Solitudes, 

By  the  rough  wind  unscattered,  at  whose  call 

Their  voyage  was  begun :   nor  is  its  power 

Unfelt  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  resounda 

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  Nature !   he  shall  find 

Who  seeks  not ;  and  to  him  who  hath  not  asked 

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  to  your  sight  revealed !    The  Swains  moved  on, 

And  heeded  not ;  you  lingered,  and  perceived. 


120  Wordsworth's  poems. 

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  unthankfully  ;   distempered  nerves 

Infect  the  thoughts :   the  languor  of  the  Frame 

Depresses  the  Soul's  vigor.     Quit  your  Couch  — 

Cleave  not  so  fondly  to  your  moody  Cell ; 

Nor  let  the  hallowed  Powers,  that  shed  from  heaven 

Stillness  and  rest,  with  disapproving  eye 

Look  down  upon  your  paper,  through  a  watch 

Of  midnight  hours,  unseasonably  twinkling 

In  this  deep  Hollow,  like  a  sullen  star 

Dimly  reflected  in  a  lonely  pool. 

Take  courage,  and  withdraw  youfself  from  ways 

That  run  not  parallel  to  Nature's  course. 

Rise  with  the  Lark !   your  Matins  shall  obtain 

Grace,  be  their  composition  what  it  may, 

If  but  with  hers  performed;   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  these  harbors,  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; — poetic  feelings  rushed 

Into  my  bosom,  whence  these  words  broke  forth- 

"  Oh !   what  a  joy  it  were,  in  vigorous  health, 


Wordsworth's  foeivis.  121 

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! — How  divine, 

The  liberty,  for  frail,  for  mortal  man, 

To  roam  at  large  amoug  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 

Flying,  and  rainy  Vapors,  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  hollows  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, 

Amid  the  deafening  tumult,  scarcely  heard 

By  him  that  utters  it,  exclaim  aloud,  — 

'  Be  this  continued  so  from  day  to  day, 

Nor  let  the  fierce  commotion  have  an  end. 

Ruinous  though  it  be,  from  month  to  month ! ' " 

"  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  grasped  at  such  delight, 
11 


122 


WORDSWORTH  S  POEMS. 


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  which  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  expressed 

With  brotherly  resemblance.     Turn  your  steps 

Wherever  fancy  leads,  by  day,  by  night, 

Are  various  engines  working,  not  the  same 

As  those  by  which  your  soul  in  youth  was  moved, 

But  by  the  great  Artificer  endued 

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,  suffered,  travelled  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  within  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  ;  —  furnished  thus, 
How  can  you  droop,  if  willing  to  be  raised  ? 

"  A  piteous  lot  it  were  to  flee  from  Man  — 


Wordsworth's  poems.  123 

Yet  not  rejoice  in  Nature!     He,  whose  hours 

Are  by  domestic  Pleasures  uncaressed 

And  unenlivened ;  who  exists  whole  years 

Apart  from  benefits  received  or  done 

'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 

A  not  unwholesome  food,  and  earth  and  air 

Supply  his  morbid  humor  with  delight. 

—  Truth  has  her  pleasure-grounds,  her  haunts  of  ease 

And  easy  contemplation  —  gay  parterres. 

And  labyrinthine  walks,  her  sunny  glades 

And  shady  groves  for  recreation  framed. 

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. 

Why  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  —  demolished  with  a  touch ! 

If  unreligious,  let  him  be  at  once, 

Among  ten  thousand  Innocents,  enrolled 

A  Pupil  in  the  many-chambered  school, 

Whei:e  Superstition  weaves  her  airy  dreams.  , 

"Life's  Autumn  past,  I  stand  on  Winter's  verge, 


124  Wordsworth's  poems. 

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  crossed  my  way  ;"* 

To  this  would  rather  bend  than  see  and  hear 

The  repititions  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  t«rn  inward,  'tis  perplexed, 

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  revolves. 

Yet  nowhere  finds  the  cheering  light  of  truth. 

"  Upon  the  breast  of  new-created  Earth 

Man  walked;  and  Avhen  and  wlieresoe'er  he  moved, 

Alone  or  mated.  Solitude  was  not. 

He  heard,  upon  the  wind,  the  articulate  Voice 

Of  God;   and  Angels  to  his  sight  appeared, 

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  the  ethereal  deep 

Tidings  of  joy  and  love.     From  these  pure  Heights 

(Whether  of  actual  vision,  sensible 

To  sight  and  feeling,  or  that  in  this  sort 

Have  condescendingly  been  shadowed  forth 

Communications  spiritually  maintained, 

And  Intuitions  moral  and  divine) 


Wordsworth's  poems.  125 

Fell  Human-kind  —  to  banishment  condemned 
That  flowing  years  repealed  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,  localized  in  heaven ; 

On  earth,  enshrined  within  the  wandering  ark ; 

Or,  out  of  Sion,  thundering  from  his  throne 

Between  the  Cherubim  —  on  the  chosen  Race 

Showered  miracles,  and  ceased  not  to  dispense 

Judgments,  that  filled  the  Land,  from  age  to  age, 

With  hope,  and  love,  and  gratitude,  and  fear  ; 

And  with  amazement  smote ;  —  thereby  to  assert 

His  scorned  or  unacknowledged  Sovereignty. 

And  when  the  One,  ineffable  of  name, 

Of  nature  indivisible,  withdrew 

From  mortal  adoration  or  regard, 

Not  then  was  Deity  engulfed,  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  pcftver ; 

—  Whether  the  Persian  —  zealous  to  reject 
Altar  and  Image,  and  the  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 

n* 


126  Wordsworth's  poems. 

Yielding  his  Soul,  the  Babylonian  framed 
For  influence  undefined  a  personal  Shape  ; 
And,  from  the  Plain,  with  toil  immense,  upreared 
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-stretched, 
With  grove,  and  field,  and  garden,  interspersed ; 
Their  Town,  and  foodful  Region  for  support 
Against  the  pressure  of  beleaguring  war. 

"  Chaldean  Shepherds,  ranging  trackless  fields, 

Beneath  the  concave  of  unclouded  skies 

Spread  like  a  sea,  in  boundless  solitude. 

Looked  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 ; 

Watched,  from  the  centre  of  their  sleeping  flocks 

Those  radiant  Mercuries,  that  seemed  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  revealed. 

—  The  Imaginative  Faculty  was  Lord 

Of  observations  natural ;    and,  thus 

Led  on,  those  Shepherds  made  report  of  Stars 

In  set  rotation  passing  to  and  fro. 

Between  the  orbs  of  our  apparent  sphere 

And  its  invisible  counterpart,  adorned 

With  answering  Constellations,  under  earth, 

Removed  from  all  approach  of  living  sight 

But  present  to  the  Dead  ;    who,  so  they  deemed, 


Wordsworth's  poems.  127 

Like  those  celestial  Messengers  beheld 
All  accidents,  and  Judges  were  of  all, 

"  The  lively  Grecian,  in  a  Land  of  hills, 

Rivers,  and  fertile  plains,  and  sounding  shores, 

Under  a  cope  of  variegated  sky, 

Could  find  commodious  place  for  every  God, 

Promptly  received,  as  prodigally  brought. 

From  the  surrounding  Countries  —  at  the  choice 

Of  all  adventurers.     With  unrivalled  skill, 

As  nicest  observation  furnished  hints 

For  studious  fancy,  did  his  hand  bestow 

On  fluent  Operations  a  fixed  shape; 

Metal  or  Stone,  idolatrously  served. 

And  yet  —  triumphant  o'er  this  pompous  show 

Of  Art,  this  palpable  array  of  Sense, 

On  every  side  encountered ;   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  Nature'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  prevailed. 

When  piety  more  awful  had  relaxed. 

—  'Take,  running  River,  take  these  Locks  of  mine!" 

Thus  would  the  Votary  say  —  'this  severed  hair. 

My  vow  fulfilling,  do  I  here  present. 

Thankful  for  my  beloved  Child's  return. 

Thy  banks,  Cephisus,  he  again  hath  trod. 


128  Wordsworth's  poems. 

Thy  murmurs  heard;  and  drunk  the  crystal  lymph 
With  which  thou  dost  refresh  the  thirsty  lip, 
And  moisten  all  day  long  these  flowery  fields !  ' 
And  doubtless,  sometimes,  when  the  hair  was  shed 
Upon  the  flowing  stream,  a  thought  arose 
Of  Life  continuous,  Being  unimpaired  ; 
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  fixed, 
In  dignity  of  being  we  ascend. 
But  what  is  error  ?  " —  "  Answer  he  who  can ! " 
The  Sceptic  somewhat  haughtily  exclaimed : 
"Love,  Hope,  and  Admiration  —  are  they  not 
Mad  Fancy's  favorite  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. 
The  unguarded  taper  where  the  guarded  faints  ? 
—  Stoop  from  those  heights,  and  soberly  declare 
What  error  is  ;   and,  of  our  errors,  which 
Does  most  debase  the  mind  ;  the  genuine  seats 
Of  power,  where  are  they  ?     Who  shall  regulate, 
With  truth,  the  scale  of  intellectual  rank  ? " 

"  Methinks,"  persuasively  the  Sage  replied, 
"That  for  this  arduous  office  you  possess 
Some  rare  advantages.     Your  early  days 
A  grateful  recollection  must  supply 


Wordsworth's  poems.  129 

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  learned 

In  smoky  Cabins,  from  a  Mother's  tongue  — 

Heard  while  the  Dwelling  vibrates  to  the  din 

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  Laborer,  whistles  at  his  work  — 

Fearful,  but  resignation  tempers  fear. 

And  piety  is  sweet  to  infant  minds. 

—  The  Shepherd  Lad,  who  in  the  sunshine  caries, 

On  the  green  turf,  a  dial  —  to  divide 

The  silent  hours ;   and  who  to  that  report 

Can  portion  out  his  pleasures,  and  adapt 

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  answered  and  appeased. 

This  knowledge  ample  recompense  affords 

For  manifold  privations ;   he  refers 

His  notions  to  this  standard;  on  this  rock 

Rests  his  desires ;  and  hence,  in  after  life, 

Soul-strengthening  patience,  and  sublime  content 


130  Wordsworth's  poems. 

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  allusion)  lives  and  breathes 

For  noble  purposes  of  mind  :    his  heart 

Beats  to  the  heroic  song  of  ancient  days ; 

His  eye  distinguishes,  his  soul  creates. 

And  those  Illusions  which  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, 

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, 

Among  wild  mountains  and  unpeopled  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  the  unenlightened  Swains  of  pagan  Greece. 

—  In  that  fair  Clime,  the  lonely  Herdsman,  stretched 

On  the  soft  grass  through  half  a  summer's  day 


•Wordsworth's  poems.  131 

With  music  lulled  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  fetched, 

Even  from  the  blazing  Chariot  of  the  Sun, 

A  beardless  Youth  who  touched  a  golden  lute, 

And  filled  the  illumined  groves  with  ravishment. 

The  nightly  Hunter,  lifting  up  his  eyes 

Towards  the  crescent  Moon,  with  grateful  heart 

Called  on  the  lovely  wanderer  who  bestowed 

That  timely  light,  to  share  his  joyous  sport: 

And  hence,  a  beaming  Goddess  with  her  Nymphs, 

Across  the  lawn  and  through  the. darksome  grove 

(Not  unaccompanied  with  tuneful  notes 

By  echo  multiplied  from  rock  or  cave) 

^wept  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  thanked 

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  passed,  their  wings, 

Lacked  not,  for  love,  fair  Objects,  whom  they  wooed 

With  gentle  whisper.     Withered  Boughs  grotesque, 

Stripped  of  their  leaves  and  twigs  by  hoary  age, 

From  depth  of  shaggy  covert  peeping  forth 

In  the  low  vale,  or  on  steep  mountain  side ; 

And,  sometimes,  intermixed  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  ! " 


132  Wordsworth's  poems. 

As  this  apt  strain  proceeded,  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  exclaimed  — 

'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  harbored  them,  —  the  Souls  retaining  yet 
The  churlish  features  of  that  after  Hace 
Who  fled  to  caves,  and  woods,  and  naked  rocks, 
In  deadly  scorn  of  superstitious  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  Romish  Phantasy,  in  vain 
Uprooted  ;    would  re-consecrate  our  Wells 
To  good  Saint  Fillan  and  to  Fair  Saint  Anne  ; 
And  from  long  banishment  recall  St.  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  Philosophy,  and  Sense!"   - 

This  answer  followed  :    "  You  have  turned  my  thoughts 


Wordsworth's  poems.  133 

Upon  our  brave  Progenitors,  who  rose 

Against  Idolatry  with  warlike  mind, 

And  shrunk  from  vain  observances,  to  lurk 

In  caves,  and  woods,  and  under  dismal  rocks, 

Deprived  of  shelter,  covering,  fire,  and  food ; 

Why  ?  —  for  this  very  reason  that  they  felt, 

And  did  acknowledge,  wheresoe'er  they  moved, 

A  Spiritual  Presence,  oft-times  misconceived ; 

But  still  a  high  dependence,  a  divine 

Bounty  and  government,  that  filled  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  favored  less, 

Far  less,  than  these,  yet  such,  in  their  degree, 

Were  those  bewildered  Pagans  of  old  time. 

Beyond  their  own  poor  Natures  and  above 

They  looked ;   were  humbly  thankful  for  the  good 

Which  the  warm  Sun  solicited  —  and  Earth 

Bestowed  ;   were  gladsome,  —  and  their  moral  sense 

They  fortified  with  reverence  for  the  Gods  ; 

And  they  had  hopes  that  overstepped  the  Grave. 

"  Now,  shall  our  great  Discoverers,"  he  exclaimed, 
Raising  his  voice  triumphantly,  "  obtain 
From  Sense  and  Reason  less  than  These  obtained, 
Though  far  misled  ?     Shall  Men  for  whom  our  Age 
Unbafiled  powers  of  vision  hath  prepared, 
To  explore  the  world  without  and  woi-ld  within, 
Be  joyless  as  the  blind  ?     Ambitious  Souls  — 
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  analyzed 
The  thinking  principle  —  shall  They  in  fact 
12 


134  Wordsworth's  poems. 

Prove  a  degraded  Race?   and  what  avails 

Renown,  if  their  presumption  make  them  such  ? 

Oh !   there  is  laughter  at  their  work  in  Heaven ! 

Inquire  of  ancient  Wisdom ;   go,  demand 

Of  mighty  Nature,  if  'twas  ever  meant 

That  we  should  pry  far  off  yet  be  unraised ; 

That  Ave  should  pore,  and  dwindle  as  we  pore, 

Viewing  all  objects  unremittingly 

In  disconnexion  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 

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,  pondered,  searched, 

Probed,  vexed,  and  criticised? — Accuse  me  not 

Of  arrogance,  unknown  Wanderer  as  I  am. 

If,  having  walked  with  Nature  threescore  years. 

And  offered,  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 

Revolts,  offended  at  the  ways  of  Men 

Swayed  by  such  motives,  to  such  end  employed; 

Philosophers,  who,  though  the  human  Soul 

Be  of  a  thousand  faculties  composed. 


wordsavorth's  poems.  135 

And  twice  ten  thousand  interests,  do  yet  prize 
This  Soul,  and  the  transcedent  Universe, 
No  more  than  as  a  Mirror  that  reflects 
To  proud  Self-love  her  own  intelligence ; 
That  One,  poor,  infinite  Object,  in  the  Abyss 
Of  infinite  Being,  twinkling  restlessly! 

"Nor  higher  place  can  be  assigned  to  Him 

And  his  Compeers  —  the  laughing  Sage  of  France, 

Crowned  was  He,  if  my  Memors  do  not  err, 

With  laurel  planted  upon  hoary  hairs. 

In  sign  of  conquest  by  his  Wit  achieved, 

And  benefits  his  wisdom  had  conferred, 

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 

Who  penned,  to  ridicule  confiding  Faith, 

This  sorry  Legend ;  which  by  chance  we  found 

Piled  in  a  nook,  through  malice,  as  might  seem, 

Among  more  innocent  rubbish."  —  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  grasped  the  Solitary's  hand, 

"  You  have  known  better  Lights  and  Guides  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  he  felt  or  feared. 

From  higher  judgment-seats  make  no  appeal 


136  Wordsworth's  POEivrs. 

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  porta 

Of  levity  no  refuge  can  he  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, 

That  her  mild  nature  can  be  terrible  ; 

That  neither  she  nor  Silence  lack  the  power 

To  avenge  their  own  insulted  Majesty. 

—  O  blest  seclusion !   when  the  Mind  admits 

The  law  of  duty ;   and  can  therefore  move 

Through  each  vicissitude  of  loss  and  gain, 

Linked  in  entire  complacence  with  her  choice; 

When  Youth's  presumptuousness  is  mellowed  dowUi 

And  Manhood's  vain  anxiety  dismissed ; 

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 

Of  unreproved  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  foi-lorn. 

O,  calm  contented  days,  and  peaceful  nights ! 

Who,  when  such  good  can  be  obtained,  would  striva 

To  reconcile  his  Manhood  to  a  couch 

Soft,  as  may  seem,  but,  under  that  disguise. 

Stuffed  with  the  thorny  substance  of  the  past, 

For  fixed  annoyance  ;    and  full  oft  beset 

Wi*^\  floating  dreams,  disconsolate  and  black, 

The  vapory  phantoms  of  futurity  ? 


Wordsworth's  poems.  137 

"Within  the  soul  a  Faculty  abides 

That  with  interpositions,  which  would  hide 

And  darken,  so  can  deal,  that  they  become 

Contingencies  of  pomp ;   and  serve  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  touched 
With  manifest  emotion,  and  exclaimed, 
"  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  succor;  but  perhaps  he  sits  alone 
On  stormy  waters,  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 
Who  sees  all  suffering,  comprehends  all  wants. 
12* 


138  Wordsworth's  poems. 

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  parched  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  rushed  all  that  had  been  urged 
To  calm  the  Sufferer  when  his  story  closed; 
I  looked  for  counsel  as  unbending  now ; 
But  a  discriminating  sympathy 
Stooped  to  his  apt  reply,  — 

"  As  Men  from  Men 
Do,  in  the  constitution  of  their  Sonls, 
Differ,  by  mystery  not  to  be  explained ; 
And  as  we  fall  by  various  ways,  and  sink 
One  deeper  than  another,  self-condemned. 
Through  manifold  degrees  of  guilt  and  shame, 
So  manifold  and  various  are  the  ways 
Of  restoration,  fashioned  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  li  v^  heard  from  You  a  voice, 
At  every  moment  soitened  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. 


Wordsworth's  poems.  139 

That,  like  the  fabled  Lethe,  wished  to  flow 

In  creeping  sadness,  through  oblivious  shades 

Of  death  and  night,  has  caught  at  every  turn 

The  colors  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  approached 

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 

Of  inland  ground,  applying  to  his  ear 

The  convolutions  of  her  smooth-lipped  Shell; 

To  which,  in  silence  hushed,  his  very  soul 

Listened  intensely  ;   and  his  countenance  soon 

Brightened  with  joy;  for  murmurings  from  within 

Were  heard,  —  sonorous  cadences  !   whereby 

To  his  belief,  the  Monitor  expressed 

Mysterious  union  with  his  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  the  intention  of  your  thought ; 

Devout  above  the  meaning  of  your  will. 

—  Yes,  you  have  felt,  and  may  not  cease  to  feel. 

The  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, 


140  Wordsworth's  poems. 

Received  a  shock  of  awful  consciousness, 

In  some  calm  season,  when  these  lofty  Rocks 

At  night's  approach  bring  down  the  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  the  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  caverned  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. 

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  seemed 

To  expire,  yet  from  the  Abyss  is  caught  again, 

And  yet  again  recovered  ! 

"  But  descending 
From  these  Imaginative  Heights,  that  yield 
Far-stretching  views  into  Eternity 


Wordsworth's  poems.  141 

Acknowledge  that  to  Nature's  humble  power 

Your  cherished  sullenness  is  forced  to  bend 

Even  here,  where  her  amenities  are  sown 

With  sparing  hand.     Then  trust  yourself  abroad 

To  range  her  blooming-  bowers,  and  spacious  fields, 

Where  on  the  labors  of  the  happy  Tiirong 

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; 

Roaming,  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 
Doth  know  and  love  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  witli  aught 
^ess  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  softened  down ; 
A  holy  tenderness  pervade  his  frame. 
His  sanity  of  reason  not  impaired, 
Say  rather,  all  his  thoughts  now  flowing  clear. 


142  -Wordsworth's  poems. 

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  the  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 

The  ability  to  spread  the  blessing  wide 

Of  true  philanthropy.     The  light  of  love 

Not  failing,  perseverance  from  their  steps 

Departing  not,  for  them  shall  be  confirmed 

The  glorious  habit  by  which  Sense  is  made 

Subservient  still  to  moral  purposes,  • 

Auxiliar  to  divine.     That  change  ^hall  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 

Chained  to  its  object  in  brute  slavery ; 


Wordsworth's  poems.  143 

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, 

Unswerving  shall  we  move,  as  if  impelled 

By  strict  necessity,  along  the  path 

Of  order  and  of  good.     Whate'er  we  see, 

Whate'er  we  feel,  by  agency  direct 

Or  indirect,  shall  tend  to  feed  and  nurse 

Our  faculties,  shall  fix  in  calmer  seats 

Of  moral  strength,  and  raise  to  loftier  heights 

Of  love  divine,  our  intellectual  soul." 

Here  closed  the  Sage  that  eloquent  harangue, 

Poured  forth  with  fervor  in  continuous  stream ; 

Such  as,  remote,  'mid  savage  wilderness. 

An  Indian  Chief  discharges  from  his  breast 

Into  the  hearing  of  assembled  Tribes, 

In  open  circle  seated  round,  and  hushed 

As  the  unbreathing  air,  when  not  a  leaf 

Stirs  in  the  mighty  woods.  —  So  did  he  speak: 

The  words  he  uttered  shall  not  pass  away; 

For  they  sank  into  me  —  the  bounteous  gift 

Of  One  whom  time  and  nature  had  made  wise, 

Gracing  his  language  with  authority 

Which  hostile  spirits  silently  allow ; 

Of  One  accustomed  to  desires  that  feed 

On  fruitage  gathered  from  the  Tree  of  Life ; 


144  Wordsworth's  poems. 

To  hopes  on  knowledge  and  experience  built; 
Of  one  in  whom  persuasion  and  belief 
Had  ripened  into  faith,  and  faith  become 
A  passionate  intuition ;  whence  the  Soul, 
Though  bound  to  Earth  by  ties  of  pity  and  love, 
From  all  injurious  servitude  was  free. 

The  Sun,  before  his  place  of  rest  were  reached, 

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 

Upon  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  aspect  may  be  read 

A  plain  assurance  that  the  words  which  told 

How  that  neglected  Pensioner  was  sent 

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,  Ave  slept, 

Stretched  upon  fragrant  heath,  and  lulled  by  sound 

Of  far-off  torrents  charming  the  still  night, 

And  to  tired  limbs  and  over-busy  thoughts 

Inviting  sleep  and  soft  forgetfulness. 


THE   EXCURSION. 


BOOK      THE      FIFTH. 

THE  PASTOR. 

ARGUMENT. 

Farewell  to  the  Valley  —  Reflections  —  Sight  of  a  large  and  populous 
Vale  —  Solitary  consents  to  go  forward  —  Vale  described  —  The 
Pastor's  dwelling,  and  some  account  of  him  —  The  Churchyard  — 
Church  and  Monuments — The  Solitary  musing,  and  whers  — 
Roused  — In  the  Churchyard  the  Solitary  communicates  the  thoughts 
which  had  recently  passed  through  his  mind  —  Lofly  tone  of  the 
Wanderer's  discourse  of  yesterday  adverted  to  —  Rite  of  Baptism 
and  the  profession  accompanying  it.  contrasted  with  the  real  state  of 
human  life  —  Inconsistency  of  the  best  men  —  Acknowledgment  that 
practice  falls  far  below  the  injuntions  of  duty  as  existing  in  the  mind  — 
General  complaint  of  a  falling-off  in  the  value  of  life  after  the  time  of 
youth  —  Outward  appearances  of  content  and  happiness  in  degree 
illusive  —  Pastor  approaches  —  Appeal  made  to  him  —  His  answer  — 
Wanderer  in  sympathy  with  him  —  Suggestion  that  the  least  ambi- 
tious Inquirers  may  be  most  free  from  error  —  The  Pastor  is  desired 
to  give  some  Portraits  of  the  living  or  dead  from  his  own  observations 
of  life  among  these  Mountains  —  and  for  what  purpose  —  Pastor 
consents  —  Momnain  Cottage  —  Excellent  qualities  of  its  Inhabitants 
—  Solitary  expresses  his  pleasure  ;  bnt  denies  the  praise  of  virtue  to 
worth  of  this  kind  —  Feelings  of  the  Priest  before  he  enters  upon  his 
account  of  Persons  interred  in  the  Churchyard  —  Graves  of  ^r.baptized 
Infants  —  What  sensations  they  excite  —  Funeral  ajivi  sepulchral 
Observances,  whence  —  Ecclesiastical  Establinhmeuts,  whence  de- 
rived —  Profession  of  Belief  in  the  doctrine  of  Immortality. 

13 


146  Wordsworth's  poems. 

Fareweli,  deep  Valley,  with  thy  one  rude  House, 

And  its  small  lot  of  life-supporting  fields, 

And  guardian  rocks  !  —  Farewell,  attractive  Seat ! 

To  the  still  influx  of  the  morning  light 

Open,  and  day's  pure  cheerfulness,  but  veiled 

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  Slope,  the  outlet  of  the  Vale, 
Lingering  behind  my  Comrades,  thus  I  breathed, 
A  parting  tribute  to  a  spot  that  seemed 
Like  the  fixed  centre  of  a  troubled  World. 
And  now,  pursuing  leisurely  my  way. 
How  vain,  thought  I,  it  is  by  change  of  place 
To  seek  that  comfort  which  the  mind  denies ; 
Yet  trial  and  temptation  oft  are  shunned 
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  calm  forgetfulness. 
—  Knowledge,  methinks,  in  these  disordered  times 
Should  be  allowed  a  privilege  to  have 
Her  Anchorites,  like  Piety  of  old ; 
Men,  who,  from  faction  sacred,  and  unstained 
By  war,  might,  if  so  minded,  turn  aside 
Uncensured,  and  subsist,  a  scattered  few 
Living  to  God  and  Nature,  and  content 
With  that  communion.     Consecrated  be 


Wordsworth's  poems.  147 

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 

Discovered  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  fixed  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  ever-welcome  company  of  books. 
By  virtuous  freiendship'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. 

From  which  the  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, 


148  worpswokth's  poems. 

*'  The  fragrant  Air  its  coolness  still  retains ; 

The  Herds  and  Flocks  are  yet  abroad  to  crof- 

The  dewy  grass ;  you  cannot  leave  us  now, 

We  must  not  part  at  this  inviting  hour." 

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  showed  the  Valley  —  stretched 

In  length  before  us  ;   and,  not  distant  far. 

Upon  a  rising  ground  a  gray  Church-tower, 

Whose  battlements  were  screened  by  tufted  trees. 

And,  towards  a  crystal  Mere,  that  lay  beyond. 

Among  steep  hills  and  woods  embosomed,  flowed 

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  every  where,  appeared 

Fair  Dwellings,  single,  or  in  social  knots ; 

Some  scattered  o'er  the  level,  others  perched 

On  the  hill  sides,  a  cheerful  quiet  scene. 

Now  in  its  morning  purity  arrayed. 

"  As,  'mid  some  happy  Valley  of  the  Alps," 

Said  I,  "  once  happy,  ere  tyrannic  Power, 

Wantonly  breaking  in  upon  the  Swiss, 

Destroyed  their  unoffending  Commonwealth, 

A  popular  equality  reigns  here. 

Save  for  one  House  of  State  beneath  whose  roof 

A  rural  Lord  might  dwell."  — "  No  feudal  pomp," 

Replied  our  Friend,  a  Chronicler  who  stood 

Where'er  he  moved  upon  familiar  ground, 

"  Nor  feudal  power  is  there ;   but  there  abides, 

In  his  allotted  Home,  a  genuine  Priest, 


Wordsworth's  poems.  149 

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 
Of  simple  manners,  feelings  unsuppressed 
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  eyes, 
And  one,  a  turreted  manorial  Hall 
Adorns,  in  which  the  good's  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  bestowed,  through  course  of  common  chance- 
On  an  unwealthy  mountain  Benefice." 

This  said,  oft  halting  we  pursued  our  way ; 
Nor  reached  the  Village  Churchyard  till  the  sun, 
Travelling  at  steadier  pace  than  ours,  had  risen 
13* 


150  Wordsworth's  poems. 

Above  the  summit  of  the  highest  hills, 
And  round  our  path  darted  oppressive  beams. 

As  chanced,  the  Portals  of  the  Sacred  Pile 

Stood  open,  and  we  entered.     On  my  frame, 

At  such  transition  from  the  fervid  air, 

A  grateful  coolness  fell,  that  seemed  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  crossed, 

Like  leafless  underboughs,  'mid  some  thick  grove, 

All  withered  by  the  depth  of  shade  above. 

Admonitory  Texts  inscribed  the  walls. 

Each,  in  its  ornamental  scroll,  enclosed, 

Each  also  crowned  with  winged  heads  —  a  pair 

Of  rudely-painted  Cherubim.     The  floor 

Of  naive  and  aisle,  in  unpretending  guise. 

Was  occupied  by  oaken  benches,  ranged 

In  seemly  rows  ;   the  chancel  only  showed 

Some  inoffensive  marks  of  earthly  state 

And  vain  distinction.     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  appeared,  with  emblems  graven, 

And  foot-worn  epitaphs,  and  some  with  small 

And  shining  effigies  of  brass  inlaid. 

—  The  tribute  by  these  various  records  claimed, 

Without  reluctance  did  we  pay;  and  read 

The  ordinary  chronicle  of  birth. 

Office,  alliance,  and  promotion  —  all 

Ending  in  dust-,  of  upright  Magistrates, 


Wordsworth's  poems,  151 

Grave  Doctors,  strenuous  for  the  Mother  Church, 

And  uncorrupted  Senators,  alike 

To  King  and  People  true.     A  brazen  plate, 

Not  easily  deciphered,  told  of  One 

Whose  course  of  earthly  honor  was  begun 

In  quality  of  page  among  the  Train 

Of  the  eighth  Henry,  when  he  crossed  the  seas 

His  royal  state  to  show,  and  prove  his  strength 

In  tournament  upon  the  Fields  of  France. 

Another  Tablet  registered  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  entombed , 

And,  to  the  silent  language  giving  voice, 

I  read, — how,  in  his  manhood's  earlier  day. 

He,  'mid  the  afflictions  of  intestine  War 

And  rightful  Government  subverted,  found 

One  only  solace  —  that  he  had  espoused 

A  virtuous  Lady  tenderly  beloved 

For  her  benign  perfections ;  and  yet  more 

Endeared  to  him,  for  this,  that  in  her  state 

Of  wedlock  richly  crowned  with  Heaven's  regard, 

She  with  a  numerous  Issue  filled  his  House, 

Who  throve,  like  Plants,  uninjured  by  the  Storm 

That  laid  their  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  were  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 

Called  me ;  and,  looking  down  the  darksome  aisle, 

I  saw  the  Tenant  of  the  lonely  Vale 


152  Wordsworth's  poems. 

Standing  apart;   with  curved  arm  reclined 
On  the  baptismal  Font;  his  pallid  face 
Upturned,  as  if  his  mind  were  wrapt,  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  entered,  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  followed  — ,  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  Neighbor's  gravft, 

Or  wraps  an  old  Acquaintance  up  in  clay, 

As  unconcerned  as  %vhen  he  plants  a  tree.' 

I  was  abruptly  summoned  by  his  voice 

From  some  affecting  images  and  thoughts, 

And  from  the  conip-iny  of  serious  words. 

Much,  yesterday,  was  said  in  glowing  phrase 

Of  our  sublime  dependencies,  and  hopes 

For  future  states  of  Being;  and  the  wings 

Of  speculation,  joyfully  outspread. 


Wordsworth's  poems.  153 

Hovered  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  sho'uld  recoil,  stricken  with  sorrow  and  shame 
To  see  disclosed,  by  such  dread  proof,  how  ill 
That  which  is  done  accords  %vith  what  is  known 
To  reason    and  by  conscience  is  enjoined ; 
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  learned  to  shape  a  smile; 
.Though  yet  irrational  of  Soul  to  grasp 
With  tiny  fingers  —  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  that  inheritance  which  millions  rue 
That  they  were  ever  born  to !     In  due  time 
A  day  of  solemn  ceremonial  comes ; 
When  they,  who  for  his  Minor  hold  in  trust 
Rights  that  transcend  the  humblest  heritage 
Of  mere  Humanity,  present  their  Charge, 
For  this  occasion  daintly  adorned, 
At  the  baptismal  Font.     And  when  the  pure 
And  consecrating  element  hath  cleansed 
The  original  stain,  the  Child  is  there  received 


154  "Wordsworth's  poems. 

Into  the  second  Ark,  Christ's  Church,  with  trust 

That  he,  from  wrath  redeemed,  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  professed; 

A  dedication  made,  a  promise  given 

For  due  provision  to  control  and  guide, 

And  unremitting  progress  to  ensure 

In  holiness  and  truth." 

"You  cannot  blame," 
Here  interposing  fervently  I  said, 
"  Rites  which  attest  that  Man  by  nature  lies 
Bedded  for  good  and  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  gained." 

"  I  blame  them  not,"  he  calmly  answered  —  "  no ; 
The  outward  ritual  and  established  forms 
With  which  communities  of  Men  invest 
These  inward  feelings,  and  the  aspiring  vowa 
To  which  the  lips  give  public  utterance, 


"Wordsworth's  poems.  155 

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,  oh ! 

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  the  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  —  doth  a  while  sustain. 

And  then  betrays  ;   accuses  and  inflicts 

Remorseless  punishment ;  and  so  retreads 

The  inevitable  circle :   better  far 

Than  this,  to  graze  the  herb  in  thoughtless  peace, 

By  foresight,  or  remembrance,  undisturbed ! 

"  Philosophy !   and  thou  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  and  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  constrained  to  ask, 

Here  standing,  with  the  unvoyageable  sky 

In  faint  reflection  of  infinitude 

Stretched  overhead,  and  at  my  pensive  feet 

A, subterraneous  magazine  of  bones, 

In  whose  dark  vaults  my  own  shall  soon  be  laid, 

Where  are  your  triumphs  ?  your  dominion  where  ' 


156  Wordsworth's  poems 

And  in  what  age  admitted  and  confirmed  ? 

—  Not  for  a  happy  Land  do  I  enquire, 
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  Avith  the  glare  of  praise. 

Who  shall  be  named  —  in  the  resplendent  line 

Of  Sages,  Martyrs,  Confessors  —  the  Man 

Whom  the  best  might  of  Conscience,  Truth,  and  Hope^ 

For  one  day's  little  compass,  has  preserved 

From  painful  and  discreditable  shocks 

Of  contradiction,  from  some  vague  desire 

Culpably  cherished,  or  corrupt  relapse 

To  some  unsanctioned  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  tenor,  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 

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 


Wordsworth's  foems.  157 

And  social  neighborhood ;  look  we  to  ourselves ; 

A  light  of  duty  shines  on  every  day 

For  all ;  and  yet  how  few  are  warmed  or  cheered ! 

How  few  who  mingle  with  their  fellow-men 

And  still  remain  self-governed,  and  apart, 

Like  this  our  honored  Friend ;  and  thence  acquire 

Right  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  favored  clime 

Her  lavish  pomp,  and  ripe  magnificence  ? 

—  Yet,  while  the  better  part  is  missed,  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  in  internal  warmth  ; 

And,  with  this  change,  sharp  air  and  falling  leaves, 

Foretelling  total  Winter,  blank  and  cold. 

"How  gay  the  Habitations  that  bedeck 
This  fertile  Valley  !   Not  a  House  but  seems 
To  give  assurance  of  content  within ; 
Embosomed  happiness,  and  placid  love 
14 


158  WORDSWORTH'S  POEMS. 

As  if  the  sunshine  of  the  day  were  met 

With  answering  brightness  in  the  hearts  of  all 

Who  walk  this  favored  ground.     But  chance-regards,' 

And  notice  forced  upon  incurious  ears ; 

These,  if  these  only,  acting  in  despite 

Of  the  encomiums  by  Friend  pronounced 

On  humble  life,  forbid  the  judging  mind 

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,  guilt's  heavier  woes ;   and  do  not  feel 

The  tedium  of  fantastic  idleness ; 

Yet  life,  as  with  a  multitude,  with  them, 

Is  fashioned  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  diminished  grace; 

And  all  the  labored  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  Church-yard  gate 
Approached ;   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  prevailed. 
Awhile  they  stood  in  conference,  and  I  guess 
That  He,  who  now  upon  the  mossy  wall 
Sate  by  my  side,  had  vanished,  if  a  wish 


Wordsworth's  poems.  159- 

Could  have  transferred  him  to  his  lonely  House 

Within  the  circuit  of  those  guardian  rocks, 

—  For  me,  I  looked  upon  the  pair,  well  pleased: 

Nature  had  framed  them  both,  and  both  were  marked 

IJy  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  likened :   flourishing  appeared. 

Though  somewhat  past  the  fulness  of  his  prime, 

The  Other  —  like  a  stately  Sycamore, 

That  spreads,  in  gentler  pomp,  its  honeyed  shade. 


A  general  greeting  was  exchanged ;  and  soon 

The  Pastor  learned  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  the  Individual,  ere  his  hairs  be  gray, 

Perforce  ?    Are  we  a  creature  in  Avhom  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  tenor  of  complaint  hath  run,) 

Among  so  many  shadows,  are  the  pains 

And  penalties  of  miserable  life. 

Doomed  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 : 


160  Wordsworth's  poems. 

By  your  persuasive  wisdom  shall  the  Heart 
That  frets,  or  languishes,  be  stilled  and  cheered." 

"Our  Nature,"  said  the  Priest,  in  mild  reply, 

"  Angels  may  weigh  and  fathom :  they  perceive, 

With  undistempered  and  unclouded  spirit. 

The  object  as  it  is ;   but,  for  ourselves. 

That  speculative  height  we  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. 

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  effijrt  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  perturbed, 

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  truth  is  missed,  and  comprehension  fails  • 

And  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  faitli 


WORDSWORTH  S  POEMS.  IGl 

In  Providence,  for  solace  and  support, 
We  may  not  doubt  that  who  can  best  subject 
The  will  to  Reason's  law,  and  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  forbidding  tract  of  cheerless  view  ; 
Even  as  the  same  is  looked  at,  or  approached. 
Thus,  when  in  changeful  April  snow  has  fallen. 
And  fields  are  white,  if  from  the  sullen  north 
Your  walk  conduct  you  hither,  ere  the  Sun 
Hath  gained  his  noontide  height,  this  church-yard,  filled 
With  mounds  transversely  lying  side  by  side 
From  east  to  west,  before  you  will  appear 
An  unillumined,  blank,  and  dreary  plain, 
With  more  than  wintery  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 
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  greet  your  eye. 
All  fresh  and  beautiful,  and  green  and  bright. 
Hopeful  and  cheerful :  —  vanished  is  the  snow, 
Vanished  or  hidden;  and  the  whole  Domain, 
To  some  too  lightly  minded  might  appear 
A  meadow  carpet  for  the  dancing  hours. 
*  14* 


162  Wordsworth's  poems. 

—  This  contrast,  not  unsuitable  to  Life, 

Is  to  that  other  state  more  opposite, 

Death  and  its  two-fold  aspect ;   wintry  —  one, 

Cold  sullen,  blank,  from  hope  and  joy  shut  out; 

The  other,  which  the  ray  divine  hath  touched. 

Replete  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  undisturbed  proportions  ;   but  a  thing 

Subject,  you  deem,  to  vital  accidents  ; 

And,  like  the  water-lily,  lives  and  thrives, 

Whose  root  is  fixed  in  stable  earth,  whose  head 

Floats  on  the  tossing  waves.     With  joy  sincere 

I  re-salute  these  sentiments,  confirmed 

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-forgetting  tenderness  of  heart 

An  earth-despising  dignity  of  soul  ? 

Wise  in  that  union,  and  without  it  blind ! " 

"The  way,"  said  T.  "to  court,  if  not  obtain 
The  ingenuous  Mind,  apt  to  be  set  aright ; 
This,  in  the  lonely  Dell  discoursing,  you 
Declared  at  large  :   and  by  what  exercise 
From  visible  natun?  or  the  inner  s$lf 


Wordsworth's  poems.  1G3 

Power  may  be  trained,  and  renovation  brought 
To  those  who  need  the  gift.     But,  after  all, 
Is  aught  so  certain  as  that  man  is  doomed 
To  breathe  beneath  a  vault  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  unfrequent  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,  who,  unperplexed  by  doubt, 
And  unincited  by  a  wish  to  look 
Into  high  objects  farther  than  they  may. 
Pace  to  and  fro,  from  morn  till  even-tide, 
The  narrow  avenue  of  daily  toil 
For  daily  bread." 

"  Yes,"  buoyantly  exclaimed 
The  pale  Recluse  —  "  praise  to  the  sturdy  plough. 
And  patient  spade,  and  shepherd's  simple  crook, 
And  ponderous  loom  —^  resounding  while  it  holds 
Body  and  mind  in  one  captivity ; 
And  let  the  light  mechanic  tool  be  hailed 
With  honor ;   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  yield 
Her  annual  bounty,  sparingly  dealt  forth 
With  wise  reluctance,  you  would  I  extol. 
Not  for  gross  good  alone  which  ye  produce, 
But  for  the  impertinent  and  ceaseless  strife 
Of  proofs  and  reasons  ye  preclude  —  in  those 


164  Wordsworth's  poems. 

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  Man's  cheek ;  but,  at  this  closing  turn 
Of  self-reproach,  it  passed  away.     Said  he, 
"  That  which  we  feel  we  utter ;  as  we  think 
So  have  we  argued ;  reaping  for  our  pains 
No  visible  recompense.     For  our.  relief 
You,"  tothe  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 
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 
Watched  both  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  which  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  both  best  known, 
And  by  frail  man  most  equitably  judged. 
Epitomise  the  life ;  pronounce,  You  can, 
Authentic  epitaphs  on  some  of  these 


v/oRDS worth's  pokms.  165 

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  ilte  hrecdh  loe  share  ivith  human  kind; 
And  look  upon  the  dust  of  man  unth  awe.^^ 

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,  revealed  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  deemed  —  a  sleeping  sunbeam 
But  'tis  a  plot  of  cultivated  ground, 
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  Hermit  might  have  chosen, 
For  opportunity  presented,  thence 
Far  forth  to  send  his  wandering  eye  o'er  land 


166  Wordsworth's  poems. 

And  ocean,  and  look  down  upon  the  works, 

And  habitations,  and  the  ways  of  men, 

Himself  unseen  !     But  no  tradition  tells 

That  ever  Hermit  dipped  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. 

And  on  the  bosom  of  the  mountain  dwell 

—  A  wedded  Pair  in  childless  solitude. 

—  A  House  of  stones  collected  on  the  spot, 

By  rude  hands  built,  with  rocky  knolls  in  front, 

Backed  also  by  a  ledge  of  rock,  whose  crest 

Of  birch-trees  waves  above  the  chimney  top; 

A  rough  abode  —  in  color,  shape,  and  size, 

Such  as  in  unsafe  times  of  Border  war 

Might  have  been  wished  for  and  contrived,  to  elude 

The  eye  of  roving  Plunderer  —  for  their  need 

Suffices  ;   and  unshaken  bears  the  assault 

Of  their  most  dreaded  foe,  the  strong  South-west, 

In  anger  blowing  from  the  distant  sea. 

—  Alone  within  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  the  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  ranks  than  this  sequestered  Pair; 


Wordsworth's  poems.  167 

But  humbleness  of  heart  descends  from  Heaven; 
And  that  best  gift  of  Heaven  hath  fallen  on  tliei^ ; 
Abundant  recompense  for  every  want. 
—  Stoop  from  your  height,  ye  proud,  and  copy  these 
Who,  in  their  noiseless  dwelling-place,  can  hear 
The  voice  of  wisdom  whispering  Scripture  texts 
For  the  mind's  government,  or  temper's  peace  ; 
And  recommending,  for  their  mutual  need, 
Forgiveness,  patience,  hope,  and  charity!" 

"  Much  was  I  pleased,"  the  gray-haired  Wanderer  said, 

"  When  to  those  shining  fields  our  notice  first 

You  turned ;  and  yet  more  pleased  have  from  your  lips 

Gathered  this  fair  report  of  them  who  dwell 

In  that  retirement;   whither,  by  such  course 

Of  evil  hap  and  good  as  oft  awaits 

A  lone  wayfaring  Man,  I  once  was  brought. 

Dark  on  my  road  the  autumnal  evening  fell 

While  I  was  traversing  yon  mountain-pass, 

And  night  succedeed  with  unusual  gloom 

So  that  my  feet  and  hands  at  length  became 

Guides  better  than  mine  eyes  —  until  a  light 

High  in  the  gloom  appeared,  too  high,  methought, 

For  human  habitation ;  but  I  longed 

To  reach  it,  destitute  of  other  hope. 

I  looked  with  steadiness,  as  Sailors  look 

On  the  north  star,  or  watch-tower's  distant  lamp, 

And  saw  the  light  —  now  fixed  —  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  jeach  at  last,  the  guiding  Light; 

Joy  to  myself  !  but  to  the  heart  of  Her 


168  worbsworth's  poems. 

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  learned  through  what  mishap  I  came, 

And  by  what  help  had  gained  those  distant  fields. 

Drawn  from  her  Cottage,  on  that  open  height. 

Bearing  a  lantern  in  her  hand  she  stood, 

Or  paced  the  ground  —  to  guide  her  Husband  home, 

By  that  unwearied  signal,  kenned  afar; 

An  anxious  duty !   which  the  lofty  Site, 

Traversed  but  by  a  few  irregular  paths. 

Imposes,  whensoe'er  untoward  chance  * 

Detains  him  after  his  accustomed  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 

A  blazing  fire  —  beside  a  cleanly  hearth 

Sate  down;   and  to  her  office,  with  leave  asked. 

The  Dame  returned.  —  Or  ere  that  glowing  pile 

Of  mountain  turf  required  the  Builder's  hand 

Its  wasted  splendor  to  repair,  the  door 

Opened,  and  she  re-entered  with  glad  looks. 

Her  helpmate  following.     Hospitable  fare, 

Frank  conversation,  made  the  evening's  treat : 

Need  a  bewildered  Traveller  wish  for  more  ? 

But  more  was  given;   I  studied,  as  we  sate 

By  the  bright  fire,  the  good  Man's  face  —  composed 

Of  features  elegant ;   an  open  brow 

Of  undisturbed  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  apprehension.     From  a  fount 

Lost,  thought  I,  in  the  obscurities  of  time 


Wordsworth's  poems.  169 

But  honored  once,  these  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  (cherished  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. 

"Roused  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,  througli   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, 
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 
13 


170  "Wordsworth's  poebis. 

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." 

The  Matron  ended — nor  could  I  forbear 

To  exclaim — 'O  happy!   yielding  to  the  law 

Of  these  privations,  richer  in  the  main! 

While  thankless  thousands  are  opprest  and  clogged 

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  labor  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  seemed  to  break  from  an  expanding  heart, 

"  The  untutored  Bird  may  found,  and  so  construct, 

And  with  such  soft  materials  line  her  nest, 

Fixed  in  the  centre  of  a  prickly  brake. 

That  the  thorns  wound  her  not ;   they  only  guard. 

Powers  not  unjustly  linked  to  those  gifts, 

Of  happy  instinct  which  the  woodland  Bird 

Shares  with  her  species.  Nature's  grace  sometimes 

Upon  the  Individual  doth  confer, 

Among  her  higher  creatures  born  and  trained 

To  use  of  reason.     And,  I  own,  that  tired 

Of  the  ostentatious  world  —  a  swelling  stage 

With  empty  actions  and  vain  passions  stuffed, 

And  from  the  private  struggles  of  mankind 

Hoping  for  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  summoned  to  contend  for  Virtue's  prize, 

Miss  not  the  humbler  good  at  whicli-  they  aim; 


Wordsworth's  poems.  171 

Blest  with  a  kindly  faculty  to  blunt 

The  edge  of  adverse  circumstance,  and  turn 

Into  their  contraries  the  petty  plagues 

And  hindrances  with  which  they  stand  beset 

—  In  early  youth,  among  my  native  hills, 
I  knew  a  Scottish  Peasant  who  possessed 

A  few  small  Crofts  of  stone-encumbered  ground; 

Masses  of  every  shape,  and  size,  that  lay 

Scattered  about  under  the  mouldering  walls 

Of  a  rough  precipice ;   and  some,  apart. 

In  quarters  unobnoxious  to  such  chance, 

As  if  the  Moon  had  showered  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  feeling  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  sequestered  dell 

Here  to  lie  down  in  lasting  quiet  —  he. 

If  living  now,  could  otherwise  report 

Of  rustic  loneliness :   that  ^'ray-haired  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  hindered." 


172  Wordsworth's  poems. 

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 
Gathered  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-consorted  Pair 
This  place  is  consecrate ;   to  Death  and  Life, 
And  to  the  best  Affections  that  proceed 
From  their  conjunction;  —  consecrate  to  faith 
In  Him  who  bled  for  man  upon  the  Cross ; 
Hallowed  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, 
Whether  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  covered 
Of  motherly  Humanity,  outspread 


Wordsworth's  poems.  173 

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,  is  a  strange  spectacle  — 
A  rueful  sight  the  wild  shore  strewn  with  wrecks. 
And  trod  by  people  in  afflicted  quest 
Of  friends  and  kindred,  whom  the  angry  Sea 
Restores  not  to  their  prayer!     Ah!   who  would  think 
That  all  the  scattered  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,  the  Oppressor  and  the  Opprest ; 
Tyrants  who  utter  the  destroying  word, 
And  slaves  who  will  consent  to  be  destroyed  — 
Were  of  one  species  with  the  sheltered  few, 
Who,  with  a  dutiful  and  tender  hand, 
Did  lodge,  in  an  appropriate  spot. 
This  file  of  Infants ;  some  that  never  breathed 
The  vital  air ;  and  others,  who,  allowed 
That  privilege,  did  yet  expire  too  soon. 
Or  with  too  brief  a  warning,  to  admit 
Administration  of  the  holy  rite 
That  lovingly  consigns  the  Babe  to  the  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  when  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 
15* 


J74  WOUDS WORTH  S  POEMS. 

Are  opening  round  her ;  those  of  middle  age, 

Cast  down  while  confident  in  strength  they  stand, 

Like  pillars  fixed  more  firmly,  as  might  seem, 

And  more  si3cure,  by  very  weight  of  all 

That,  for  support,  rests  on  them ;   the  decayed 

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  summoned  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  touched  with  kind  concern ; 

And  gentle  "  Nature  grieved,  that  One  should  die ; " 

Or,  if  the  change  demanded  no  regret. 

Observed  the  liberating  stroke  —  and  blessed. 

—  And  whence  that  tribute  ?  wherefore  these  regards  ? 

Not  from  the  naked  HeaH  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,  v/hom  his  sins 

Have  rendered  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  World, 

To  the  four  quarters  of  the  winds,  proclaims. 

Not  without  such  assistance  could  •  the  use 

Of  these  benign  observances  prevail. 

Thus  are  they  born,  thus  fostered,  and  maintained; 


Wordsworth's  poems.  175 

And  by  the  care  prospective  of  our  wise  ^ 

Forefathers,  who,  to  guard  against  the  shocks, 

The  fluctuation  and  decay  of  things, 

Embodied  and  established  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,  hollowed  out  and  scooped 

For  Man's  Affections  —  else  betrayed  and  lost, 

And  swallowed  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  ordained, 

If  so  approved  and  sanctified,  to  pass, 

Through  shades  and  silent  rest,  to  endless  joy." 


THE   EXCURSION. 


BOOK      THE      SIXTH. 

THE  PASTOR. 

AEGUMENT. 

Poet's  Address  lo  the  State  and  Church  of  England  —  The  Pastor  not 
inferior  to  the  ancient  Worthies  of  tlie  Church  —  He  begins  hia 
Narratives  with  an  Instance  of  unrequited  Love  —  Anguish  of  IVIind 
subdued  —  and  how^  —  The  lonely  Miner,  an  instance  of  Persever- 
ance, which  leads  by  contrast  to  an  Example  of  aljused  talents, 
irresolution,  and  weakness  —  Solitary,  applying  this  covertly  to  his 
own  case,  asks  for  an  Instance  of  some  Stranger,  whose  disposition 
may  have  led  him  to  end  his  days  here  —  Pastor,  iu  answer,  gives  an 
account  of  the  hamionising  influence  of  Solitude  upon  two  Men  of 
opposite  principles,  who  had  encountered  agitations  in  public  life  — 
—  The  Rule  by  which  Peace  may  be  obtained  expressed  —  and 
where  Solitary  hints  at  an  overpowering  Fatality  —  Answer  of  the 
Pastor — What  subjects  he  will  exclude  from  his  Narratives  — 
Conversation  upon  this  —  Instance  of  an  unamiable  character,  a  Fe- 
male,—  and  why  given  —  Contrasted  with  this,  a  meek  Sufferer  from 
unguarded  and  betrayed  love  —  Instance  of  heavier  guilt,  and  it?  con- 
sequences to  the  Offender  —  With  this  Instance  of  a  Marriage  Con- 
tract broken  is  contrasted  one  of  a  Widower,  evidencnig  his  failhful 
affection  towards  his  deceased  wife  by  his  care  of  their  female  Children. 

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 ; 


178  Wordsworth's  poems. 

Whose  steps  are  equity,  whose  seat  is  law. 

—  Hail  to  the  State  of  England !     And  conjoin 
With  this  a  salutation  as  dfivout, 

Made  to  the  spiritual  Fabric  of  her  Church ; 
Founded  in  truth;  by  blood  of  Martyrdom 
Cemented;  by  the  hands  of  Wisdom  reared 
In  beauty  of  Holiness,  with  ordered  pomp, 
Decent,  and  unreproved.     The  voice,  that  greets 
The  majesty  of  both,  shall  pray  for  both ; 
That,  mutually  protected  and  sustained, 
They  may  endure,  long  as  the  sea  surrounds 
This  favored  Land,  or  sunshine  warms  her  soil. 

—  And  O,  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  the  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  thronged  abodes  of  busy  Men 
(Depraved,  and  ever  prone  to  fill  their  minds 
Exclusively  with  transitory  things) 


Wordsworth's  p'okms.  179 

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 
Detached  from  pleasure,  to  the  love  of  gain 
Superior,  insusceptible  of  pride, 

And  by  ambitious  longings  undisturbed  ; 
Men,  whose  delight  is  where  their  duty  leads 
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  attacked  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)  from  their  spiritual  Sires 

Degenerate;  who,  constrained  to  wield  the  sword 

Of  disputation,  shrunk  not,  though  assailed 

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  earned, 

Or,  through  illuminating  grace,  received, 

For  their  dear  Countrymen,  and  all  mankind. 

O  high  example,  constancy  divine ! 


180  wordsttokth's  poems. 

Even  such  a  man  (inheriting  the  zeal 
And  fi'om  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,  conquered  and  secured. 

That  basis  laid,  those  principles  of  faith 
Announced,  as  a  preparatory  act 
Of  reverence  to  the  spirit  of  the  place  ; 
The  Pastor  cast  his  eyes  upon  the  ground, 
Not,  as  before,  like  one  oppressed  with  awe, 
But  with  a  mild  and  social  cheerfulness ; 
Then  to  the  Solitary  turned,  and  spake. 

"  At  morn  or  eve,  in  your  retired  Domain, 
Perchance  you  not  unfrequently  have  marked 
A  Visitor  —  in  quest  of  herbs  and  flowers  ; 
Too  delicate  employ,  as  would  appear, 
For  One,  who,  though  of  drooping  mien,  had  yet 
From  Nature's  kindliness  received  a  frame 
Robust  as  ever  rural  labor  bred." 

The  Solitary  answered  :   "  Such  a  Form 
Full  well  I  recollect.     We  often  crossed 
Each  other's  path  ;   but,  as  the  Intruder  seemed 
Fondly  to  prize  the  silence  which  he  kept, 
And  I  as  willingly  did  cherish  mine, 


Wordsworth's  poems.  181 

We  met,  and  passed,  like  shadows.    I  have  heard, 
From  my  good  Host,  that  he  was  crazed  in  brain 
By  unrequited  love :   and  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  asked, 
"  Believe  it  not  —  oh !   never  could  that  be  !  " 

"  He  loved,"  the  Vicar  answered,  "  deeply  loved. 
Loved  fondly,  truly,  fervently ;  and  dared 
At  length  to  tell  his  love,  but  sued  in  vain ; 
—  Rejected — yea  repelled  —  and,  if  with  scorn 
Upon  the  haughty  maiden's  brow,  '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. 
Tliat  he  could  brook,  and  glory  in ;  —  but  when 
The  tidings  came  that  she  whom  he  had  wooed 
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  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! 
16 


182  Wordsworth's  poems. 

Had  vanished  from  his  prospects  and  desires ; 
Not  by  translation  to  the  heavenly  Choir     • 
Who  had  put  off  their  mortal  spoils  —  ah  no ! 
She  lives  another's  wishes  to  complete,  — 
'  Joy  be  their  lot,  and  happiness,'  he  cried, 
His  lot  and  hers,  as  misery  is  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,  enchained  by  science,  he  had  loved 

To  bend,  he  stoutly  re-addressed  himself. 

Resolved  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  sign  appeared. 

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 

Discolored,  then  divested.     'Tis  affirmed 

By  Poets,  skilled  in  Nature's  secret  ways. 

That  Love  will  not  submit  to  be  controlled 

By  mastery :  —  and  the  good  Man  lacked  not  Friends 

Who  strove  to  instil  this  truth  into  his  mind,  — 

A  mind  in  all  heart-mysteries  unversed. 

'Go  to  the  hills,'  said  one,  'remit  a  while 

This  baneful  diligence  :  —  at  early  morn 

Court  the  fresh  air,  explore  the  heaths  and  woods  ; 

And,  leaving  it  to  others  to  foretell. 


wordswouth's  poems.  183 

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,  plucked  as  they  blow 

Where  health  abides,  and  cheerfulness,  and  peace.' 

The  attentipt  was  made  :  —  'tis  needless  to  report 

How  hopelessly:  —  but  Innocence  is  strong, 

And  an  entire  simplicity  of  mind, 

A  thing  more  sacred  in  the  eye  of  Heaven, 

That  opens,  for  such  Sufierers,  relief 

Within  their  souls,  a  fount  of  grace  divine ; 

And  doth  commend  their  weakness  and  disease 

To  Nature's  care,  assisted  in  her  office 

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,"  exclaimed 
The  Wanderer,"  I  infer  that  he  was  healed 
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  established ;   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 


184  Wordsworth's  poems. 

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 
Conquered,  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 :    who  tried,  were  foiled  — 

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 

Passed  on,  Avhile  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  destroyed. 

—  But  when  the  Lord  of  seasons  had  matured 

The  fruits  of  earth  through  space  of  twice  ten  years, 

The  mountain's  entrails  offered  to  his  view 

And  trembling  grasp  the  long-deferred  reward. 

Not  with  more  transport  did  Columbus  greet 

A  world,  his  rich  discovery  !     But  our  Swain, 

A  very  Hero  till  his  point  was  gained, 

Proved  all  unable  to  support  the  weight 


woRDSwt  rth's  poems.  185 

Of  prosperous  fortune.     On  the  fields  he  looked 

With  an  unsettled  liberty  of  thought, 

Of  schemes  and  wishes ;   in  the  daylight  walked 

Giddy  and  restless ;   ever  and  anon 

Quaffed  in  his  gratitude  immoderate  cups ; 

And  truly  might  be  said  to  die  of  joy ! 

He  vanished ;   but  conspicuous  to  this  day 

The  Path  remains  that  linked  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  the  event, 

The  Path  OF  Perseverance." 

"Thou  from  whom 
Man  has  his  strength,"  exclaimed  the  Wanderer,  "  oh '. 
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  Laborer,  such  may  dig  their  way, 
'  Unshaken,  unseduced,  unterrified  ; ' 
Grant  to  the  Wise  Ms  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  sign, 
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 
3lf5* 


186  Wordsworth's  poems. 

If  to  the  opposite  extreme  they  sank. 

How  would  you  pity  Her  who  yonder  rests ; 

Him,  farther  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 

Recalls !  —  He  lived  not  till  his  locks  were  nipped 

By  seasonable  frost  of  age ;   nor  died 

Before  his  temples,  prematurely  forced 

To  mix  the  manly  brown  with  silver  gray. 

Gave  obvious  instance  of  the  sad  effect 

Produced,  when  thoughtless  Folly  hath  usurped 

The  natural  crown  that  sage  experience  wears. 

—  Gay,  volatile,  ingenious,  quick  to  learn, 

And  prompt  to  exhibit  all  that  he  possessed 

Or  could  perform  ;  a  zealous  actor  —  hired 

Into  the  troop  of  mirth,  a  soldier  —  sworn 

Into  the  lists  of  giddy  enterprise  — 

Such  was  he ;  yet,  as  if  within  his  frame 

Two  several  Souls  alternately  had  lodged. 

Two  sets  of  manners  could  the  Youth  put  on; 

And,  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  the  mute  Swan  that  floats  adown  the  stream, 

Or,  on  the  waters  of  the  unruffled  lake, 

Anchors  her  placid  beauty.     Not  a  Leaf 

That  flutters  on  the  bough,  more  light  than  He ; 

And  not  a  flowei-,  that  droops  in  the  green  shade, 

More  willingly  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  Favorite,  lavishly  endowed 


•wordswoeth's  poems.  187 

With  personal  gifts,  and  bright  instinctive  wit, 

While  both,  embellishing  each  other,  stood 

Yet  farther  recommended  by  the  charm 

Of  fine  demeanor,  and  by  dance  and  song, 

And  skill  in  letters,  every  fancy  sliaped 

Fair  Expectations  ;   nor,  when  to  the  World's 

Capacious  field  forth  went  the  Adventurer,  there 

Were  he  and  his  attainments  overlooked, 

Or  scantily  rewarded;   but  all  hopes, 

Cherished  for  him,  he  suffered  to  depart. 

Like  blighted  buds ;  or  clouds  that  mimicked  Land 

Before  the  Sailor's  eye ;   or  diamond  drops 

That  sparkling  decked  the  morning  grass ;    or  aught 

That  was  attractive  —  and  hath  ceased  to  be ! 

—  Yet,  when  this  Prodigal  i-eturned,  the  rites 

Of  joyful  greeting  were  on  him  bestowed, 

Who,  by  humiliation  undeteiTed, 

Sought  for  his  weariness  a  place  of  rest 

Within     his     Father's     gates.  —  Whence    came    He  7 

clothed 
In  tattered  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  renewed 
His  suit  to  Fortune ;   and  she  smiled  again 
Upon  a  fickle  Ingrate.     Thrice  he  rose, 
Thrice  sank  as  willingly.     For  He,  whose  nerves 
Were  used  to  thrill  with  pleasure,  while  his  voice 
Softly  accompanied  the  tuneful  harp. 
By  the  nice  finger  of  fair  Ladies,  touched 


188  Wordsworth's  poems. 

In  glittering  Halls,  was  able  to  derive 

No  less  enjoyment  from  an  abject  choice. 

Who  happier  for  the  moment  —  who  more  blithe 

Than  this  fallen  Spirit  I   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  enchained 

With  mute  astonishment,  themselves  to  see 

In  their  own  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, 

(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  he  would,  be  wrought  upon  who  might, 

Sincerely  wretched  Hearts,  or  falsely  gay. 

—  Such  the  too  frequent  tenor  of  his  boast 

In  ears  that  relished  the  report;  —  but  all 

Was  from  his  Parents  happily  concealed ; 

Who  saw  enough  for  blame  and  pitying  love. 

They  also  were  permitted  to  receive 

His  last,  repentant  breatli ;   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  hatched. 

Though  from  another  sprung  —  of  different  kind  ; 

Where  he  had  ]\v'^'\    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. 


Wordsworth's  poems.  189 

Till  his  deliverance,  when  Mercy  made  him 

One  with  Himself,  and  one  with  them  who  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  shame 

To  tire  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  apeech, 

In  his  dividual  Being,  self-reviewed. 

Self-catechised,  self-punished.  —  Some  there  are 

Who,  drawing  near  their  final  Home,  and  much 

And  daily  longing  that  the  same  were  reached, 

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 

Round  his  Domain,  desirous  not  alone 

To  keep  his  own,  but  also  to  exclude 

All  other  progeny,  doth  sometimes  lure, 

Even  by  this  studied  depth  of  privacy. 

The  unhappy  Alien  hoping  to  obtain 

Concealment,  or  seduced  by  wish  to  find, 

In  place  from  outward  molestation  free. 

Helps  to  internal  ease.     Of  many  such 

Could  I  discourse  ;   but  as  their  stay  was  briet, 

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, 


190  Wordsworth's  poems. 

Meeting  as  Strangers,  in  a  petty  Town 

Whose  blue  roofs  ornament  a  distant  reach 

Of  this  far-winding  Vale,  remained  as  Friends 

True  to  their  choice ;   and  gave  their  bones  in  trust 

To  this  loved  Cemetery,  here  to  lodge, 

With  unescutcheoned  privacy  interred 

Far  from  the  Family-vault.     A  Chieftain  One 

By  right  of  birth ;  within  whose  spotless  breast 

The  fire  of  ancient  Caledonia  burned. 

He,  with  the  foremost  whose  impatience  hailed 

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  endeavored  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  gained, 

For  his  obscured  condition,  an  obscure 

Retreat,  within  this  nook  of  English  ground. 

—  The  Other,  born  in  Britain's  southern  tract, 

Had  fixed  his  milder  loyalty,  and  placed 

His  gentler  sentiments  of  love  and  hate. 

There,  where  fhey  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  distempered  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,  eoon 

Or  late,  a  perilous  Master.     He,  who  oft. 

Under  the  battlements  and  stately  trees 

That  round  his  Mansion  cast  a  sober  gloom, 


Wordsworth's  poems.  191 

Had  moralized  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  the  attempt; 

And,  while  the  uproar  of  that  desperate  strife 

Continued  yet  to  vibrate  on  his  ear, 

The  vanquished  Whig,  beneath  a  borroived  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  these  untravelled  Wilds ; 

In  which  the  Scottish  Laird  had  long  possessed 

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  filled, 

Daily,  its  Bowling-green  with  harmless  strife; 

Plagued  with  uncharitable  thoughts  the  Church; 

And  vexed  the  Market-place.     But  in  the  breasts 

Of  these  Opponents  gradually  was  wrought. 

With  little  change  of  general  sentiment, 

Such  change  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  favorite  boundary  to  their  lengthened  walks 


192  Wordsworth's  poems. 

This  Church-yard  was.     And,  whether  they  had  come 

Treading  their  path  in  sympathy^  and  linked 

In  social  converse,  or  by  some  short  space 

Discreetly  parted,  to  preserve  the  peace, 

One  Spirit  seldom  failed  to  extend  its  sway 

Over  both  minds,  when  they  awhile  had  marked 

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, 

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  debarred. 

Which  else  the  Christian  Virtue  might  have  claimed. 

—  There  live  who  yet  remember  here  to  have  seen 

Their  courtly  Figures,  —  seated  on  the  stump 

Of  an  old  Yew,  their  favorite  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  th«s  survive 

As  their  own  private  monument ;   for  this 

Was  the  particular  spot,  in  which  they  wished 

(And  heaven  was  pleased  to  accomplish  the  desire) 

That,  undivided,  their  remains  should  lie. 

So,  where  the  mouldered  Tree  had  stood,  was  raised 

Yon  Structure,  framing,  with  the  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  aimed 

To  ensure  for  it  respectful  guardianship. 

Around  the  margin  of  the  Plate,  whereon 


Wordsworth's  poems.  193 

The  Shadow  falls  to  note  the  stealthy  hours, 

Winds  an  inscriptive  Legend."     At  these  words, 

Thither  we  turned ;  and,  gathered,  as  we  read, 

The  appropriate  sense,  in  Latin  numbers  couched.- 

"  Time  flies ;  it  is  Ms  melanckoly  task 

To  bring  and  bear  away  delusive  hopes, 

And  reproduce  the  troubles  he  destroys. 

But,  while  his  blindness  thus  is  occupied, 

'Discerning  Mortal !   do  thou  serve  the  urill 

Of  Timers  eternal  Master,  and  that  peace, 

Which  the  World  ivants,  shall  be  for  thee  confirmed.^ 

"  Smooth  verse,  inspired  by  no  unlettered  Muse," 
Exclaimed  the  Sceptic,  "  and  the  strain  of  thought 
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  chained  ? 
The  Vulture  —  the  inexhaustible  repast 
Drawn  from  his  vitals  ?     Say,  what,  meant  the  woes 
By  Tantalus  entailed  upon  his  race. 
And  the  dark  soitows  of  the  line  of  Thebes  ? 
Fictions  in  form,  but  in  their  substance  truths, 
17 


194  Wordsworth's  poems. 

Tremendous  truths !   familiar  to  the  men 

Of  long-past  times,  nor  obsolete  in  ours. 

■ —  Exchange  the  Shepherd's  frock  of  native  gray 

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,  beneath  the  shadowy  hills, 
The  generations  are  prepared  ;   the  pangs, 
The  internal  pangs  are  ready ;   the  dread  strife 
Of  poor  humanity's  afHicted  will 

Streggling  in  vain  with  ruthless  destiny." 

"  Though,"  said  the  Priest,  in  answer,  "  these  be  terms 

Which  a  divine  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  virtue  —  proved  ? 

Our  system  is  not  fashioned  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  hushed  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  Porti;^its,  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," 


Wordsworth's  poems.  195 

The  Wanderer  somewhat  eagerly  exclaimed, 
"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  human-heartedness  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 
Colors .  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 
Within  this  ground,  were  covetous  of  praise. 
Or  of  remembrance  even,  —  deserved  or  not. 
Green  is  the  Churcli-yard,  beautiful  and  green, 
Ridge  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  trust 


196  Wordsworth's  poems. 

The  lingering  gleam  of  their  departed  Lives 

To  oral  records  and  the  silent  heart ; 

Depository  faithful,  and  more  kind 

Than  fondest  Epitaph ;  for,  if  that  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  things 

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; 

Reading,  where'er  we  turn,  of  innocent  lives, 

Of  each  domestic  charity  fulfilled. 

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,  compassed  round 

With  such  Memorials,  I  have  sometimes  felt, 

Tt  was  no  momentary  happiness 

To  have  one  Enclosure  where  the  voice  that 

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." 


Wordsworth's  poems.  197 

"  Thus  sanctioned," 
The  Pastor  said,  "I  willingly  confine 
My  narratives  to  subjects  that  excite 
Feelings  with  these  accordant ;  love,  esteem, 
And  admiration ;   lifting  up  a  veil, 
A  sunbeam  introducing  among  hearts 
Retired  and  covert ;   so  that  ye  shall  have 
Clear  images  before  your  gladdened  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  will  I  single  out 
Upon  whose  lapse,  or  error,  something  more 
Than  brotherly  forgiveness  may  attend ; 
To  such  will  we  restrict  our  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 
The  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  gray  cottage  by  the  murmuring  stream, 
Than  in  fantastic  Conqueror's  roving  camp, 
Or  'mid  the  factious  Senate,  unappalled 
While  merciless  proscription  ebbs  and  flows. 
—  There,"  said  the  Vicar,  pointing  as  he  spake, 
"  A  Woman  rests  in  peace ;   surpassed  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  tow'rds  earth, 
17* 


198  -WORDSWORTH'S  POEMS. 

But  in  projection  carried,  as  she  walked, 
For  ever  musing.     Sunken  were  her  eyes ; 
Wrinkled  and  furrowed  with  habitual  thought 
Was  her  broad  forehead ;   like  the  brow  of  One 
Whose  visual  nerve  shrinks  from  a  painful  glare 
Of  overpowering  light.     While  yet  a  Child, 
She,  'mid  the  humble  Flowerets  of  the  vale, 
Towered  like  the  imperial  Thistle,  not  unfurnished 
With  its  appropriate  grace,  yet  rather  seeking 
To  be  admired,  than  coveted  or  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  crossed  her,  only  to  be  shunned  with  scorn. 
—  Oh  !    pang  of  sorrowful  regret  for  those 
Whom,  in  their  youth,  sweet  study  has  enthralled, 
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  occupy  their  places,  —  and,  though  oft 
Hidden  by  clouds,  and  oft  bedimmed  by  haze, 
Are  not  to  be  extinguished,  nor  impaired. 

"Two  passions,  both  degenerate,  for  they  both 

Began  in  honor,  —  gradually  obtained 

Rule  over  her,  and  vexed  her  daily  life:  — 

An  unrelenting,  avaricious  thrift ; 

And  a  strange  thraldom  of  maternal  love, 

That  held  her  spirit,  in  its  own  despite. 

Bound  —  by  vexation,  and  regret,  and  scorn, 

Constrained  forgiveness,  and  relenting  vows, 

And  tears",  in  pride  suppressed,  in  shame  concealed- 


WORDS v/gkth'3  poems.  199 

To  a  poor  dissolute  Son,  her  only  Child. 

—  Her  wedded  days  had  opened  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  parsimonious  care. 

Which  got,  and  sternly  hoarded,  each  day's  gain. 

"  Thus  all  vi^as  re-established,  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 ; 

A  Mind  intolerant  of  lasting  peace. 

And  cherishing  the  pang  which  it  deplored. 

Dread  life  of  conflict!    which  I  oft  compared 

To  the  agitation  of  a  brook  that  runs 

Down  rocky  mountains  —  buried  now  and  lost 

In  silent  pools,  now  in  strong  eddies  chained,— 

But  never  to  be  charmed  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,  vexed,  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  ? 


200  Wordsworth's  poems. 

She  prayed,  she  moaned  —  her  hushand's  Sister  watched 

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  dying  Woman  heard  to  say 

In  bitterness,  '  and  must  she  rule  and  reign, 

Sole  Mistress  of  this  house,  when  I  am  gone? 

Sit  by  my  fire  —  possess  what  I  possessed  — 

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  passed  her  door. 

Musing  with  loitering  step,  and  upward  eye 

Turned  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.' — She  is  safe, 

And  her  uncharitable  acts,  I  trust, 

And  harsh  unkindness,  are  all  forgiven  ; 

Though,  in  this  Vale,  remembered  v/ith  deep  awe!" 


The  Vicar  paused ;  and  tow'rd  a  seat  advanced, 
A  long  stone-seat,  fixed  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  BeDa 
Yet  ring  with  all  their  voices,  or  before 
The  last  hath  ceased  its  solitary  knoll. 
Under  the  shade  we  all  sat  down ;  and  there 
His  office,  uninvited,  he  resumed. 


wordsv70rth's  poems.  201 

"  As  on  a  sunny  bank,  a  tender  Lamb 

Lurks  in  safe  shelter  from  the  winds  of  March, 

Screened  by  its  Parent,  so  that  little  mound 

Lies  guarded  by  its  neighbor ;  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  conferred    • 

A  natural  dignity  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  distained 

The  spotless  ether  of  a  maiden  life ; 

If  these  may  make  a  hallowed  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  witnessed  ;    render  back  an  echo 
Of  the  sad  steps  by  which  it  hath  been  trod ! 
There,  by  her  innocent  Baby's  precious  grave, 
Yea,  doubtless,  on  the  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. 
Who,  at  her  heart's  light  bidding,  once  had  moved 
In  virgin  fearlessness,  with  step  that  seemed 


203  VrOUCSWORTH's  POEMS. 

Caught  from  the  pressure  of  elastic  turf 

Upon  the  mountains  gemmed  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  quickened  and  inspired 

A  Titian's  nana  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  welcome  to  the  first  of  May 

By  dances  round  its  trunk.  —  And  if  the  sky 

Permit,  like  honors,  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.  —  No  one  touched  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  deemed  herself  beloved, 

—  The  road  is  dim,  the  current  unperceived, 
The  weakness  painful  and  most  pitiful, 

By  which  a  virtuous  Woman,  in  pure  youth, 
May  be  delivered  to  distress  and  shame. 
Such  fate  was  hers.  —  the  last  time  Ellen  danced, 
Among  her  Equals,  round  The  Joyful  Tree, 
She  bore  a  secret  burthen ;   and  full  soon 
Was  left  .to  tremble  for  a  breaking  vow, — 
Then,  to  bewail  a  sternly-broken  vow. 
Alone,  v/ithin  her  widowed  Mother's  house. 


Wordsworth's  poems.  203 

It  was  the  season  sweet,  of  budding  leaves, 
Of  days  advancing  toward  their  utmost  length, 
And  small  birds  singing  to  their  happy  mates. 
Wild  is  the  music  of  the  autumnal  wind 
Among  the  faded  woods  ;  but  these  blithe  notes 
Strike  the  deserted  to  the  heart ;  —  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 
A  Thrush  resorts,  and  annually  chants, 

At  morn  and  evening  from  that  naked  perch, 

While  all  the  undergrove  is  thick  with  leaves, 

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  wished  the  firmanent  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 


204  Wordsworth's  poems. 

Repeated  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, 

Bedropped  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  open  sky. 

Till  the  dark  night  dismissed  her  to  her  bed! 

Thus  did  a  waking  Fancy  sometimes  lose 

The  unconquerable  pang  of  despised  love. 

"  A  kindlier  passion  opened  on  her  soul 

When  that  poor  Child  was  born.     Upon  its  face 

She  looked  as  on  a  pure  and  spotless  gift 

Of  unexpected  promise,  where  a  grief 

Or  dread  was  all  that  had  been  thought  of — joy 

Far  livelier  than  bewildered  Traveller  feels 

Amid  a  perilous  waste,  that  all  night  long 

Hath  harassed  him  —  toiling  through  fearful  storm, 

When  he  beholds  the  first  pale  speck  serene 

Of  day-spring,  in  the  gloomy  east  revealed, 

x\nd  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  poured  forth  a  quenching  stream 

Hath  softened  that  obduracy,  and  made 

Unlooked-for  gladness  in  tlie  desert  place, 


Wordsworth's  poems.  205 

To  save  the  perishing ;   and,  henceforth,  I  look 

Upon  the  light  with  cheerfulness,  for  thee, 

My  Infant !  and  that  good  Mother  dear, 

Who  bore  me,  —  and  hath  prayed  for  me  in  vain;  — 

Yet  not  in  vain,  it  shall  not  be  in  vain.' 

She  spake,  nor  was  the  assurance  unfulfilled. 

And  if  heart-rending  thoughts  would  oft  return. 

They  stayed   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    aai 

crossed 
The  sweet  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  with  contented  spirit  undertook 
A  Foster-Mother's  office. 

"  'Tis,  perchance. 
Unknown  to  you  that  in  these  simple  Vales 
The  natural  feeling  of  equality 
Is  by  domestic  service  unimpaired ; 
Yet,  though  such  service  be,  Avith  us,  removed 
From  sense  of  degradation,  not  the  less 
The  ungentle  mind  can  easily  find  means 
18 


206  worpsworth's  poems 

To  impose  severe  restraints  and  laws  unjust, 
Which  hapless  Ellen  now  was  doomed  to  feel. 

—  For  (blinded  by  an  over-anxious  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  allowed,  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  exclaimed, 

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  reached  the  house  —  last  of  the  funeral  train; 

And  some  One,  as  she  entered,  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. 
And  whatsoe'er  the  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  bewailed 


Wordsworth's  toems.  207 

A  Mother's  loss,  but  mourned  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  renewed  and  could  not  but  renew 
Those  visitations,  ceased  to  send  her  forth; 
Or,  to  the  garden's  narrow  bounds,  confined. 
I  failed  not  to  remind  them  that  they  erred ; 
For  holy  nature  might  not  thus  be  crossed, 

Thiis  wronged  in  woman's  breast:  in  vain  I  pleaded—* 
But  the  green  stalk  of  Ellen's  life  was  snapped, 
And  the  flower  drooped :  as  every  eye  could  see, 
It  hung  its  head  in  mortal  languishment. 

—  Aided  by  this  appearence,  I  at  length 
Prevailed ;  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  availed ; 

For,  like  a  shadow,  he  was  passed  away 

From  Ellen's  thoughts ;  had  perished  to  her  mind 

For  all  concerns  of  fear,  or  hope,  or  love, 

Save  only  those  which  to  their  common  shame. 

And  to  his  moral  being,  appertained : 

Hope  from  that  quarter  would,  I  know,  have  brought 

A  heavenly  comfort ;  there  she  recognized 

An  unrelaxing  bond,  a  mutual  need  ; 

There,  and,  as  seemed,  there  only,  —  she  had  built, 

Her  fond  maternal  Heart  had  built,  a  Nest 

In  blindness  all  too  near  the  river's  edge; 

That  Work  a  summer  flood  with  hasty  swell 

Had  swept  away ;  and  now  her  Spirit  longed 

For  its  last  flight  to  Heaven's  security. 


208  Wordsworth's  poems. 

—  The  bodily  frame  was  wasted  day  by  day; 
Meanwhile,  relinquishing  all  other  cares, 

Her  mind  she  strictly  tutored  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  opened ;   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  appeared  divine! 

May  I  not  mention  —  that,  within  those  walls, 

In  due  observance  of  her  pious  wish, 

The  Congregation  joined  with  me  in  prayer 

For  her  Soul's  good  ?     Nor  was  that  ofiice  vain. 

—  Much  did  she  suffer :   but,  if  any  Friend, 
Beholding  her  condition,  at  the  sight 
Gave  way  to  words  of  pity  or  complaint, 

She  stilled  them  with  a  prompt  reproof,  and  sai'd, 
'He  who  afflicts  me  knows  what  I  can  bear; 
And,  when  I  fail,  and  can  endure  no  more. 
Will  mercifully  take  me  to  himself 
So    through  the  cloud  of  death,  her  Spirit  passed 
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  listened  vidth  his  inmost  heart. 
For  me,  the  emotion  scarcely  was  less  strong 
Or  less  benign  than  that  which  I  had  felt 
When,  seated  near  my  venerable  Friend, 


Wordsworth's  poems.  209 

Beneath  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 
Confessed  the  Power  of  nature.  —  Pleased  though  sad 
More  pleased  than  sad,  the  gray-haired  Wanderer  sate 
Thanks  to  his  pure  imaginative  soul 
Capacious  and  serene,  his  blaixieless  life. 
His  knowledge,  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  v/rong,  although  themselves  have  erred. 
This  Tale  gives  proof  that  Heaven  most  gently  deala 
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  Armathwaite?"  —  The  Vicar  answered, 
"  In  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  offence. 
There  doth  he  rest.  —  No  theme  his  fate  supplies 
For  the  smooth  glozings  of  the  indulgent  world; 
Nor  need  the  windings  of  his  devious  course 
Be  here  retraced  ;  —  enough  that,  by  mishap 
And  venial  error,  robbed  of  competence, 
And  her  obsequious  shadow,  peace  of  mind, 
He  craved  a  substitute  in  troubled  joy ; 
Against  his  conscience  rose  in  arms,  and,  braving 
18* 


210  wordswokth's  poems. 

Divine  displeasure,  broke  the  marriage-vow. 

That  which  he  had  been  weak  enough  to  do 

Was  misery  in  remembrance ;  he  was  stung, 

Stung  by  his  inward  thoughts,  and  by  the  smiles 

Of  Wife  and  Children  stung  to  agony. 

Wretched  at  home,  he  gained  no  peace  abroad; 

Ranged  through  the  mountains,  slept  upon  the  earth, 

Asked  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  wished 

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, 

Bluch  to  the  last  remained  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  yet  where  dwells  her  faithful  Partner,  left, 

(Full  eight  years  past)  the  solitary  prop. 

Of  many  helples.^  Children.     I  begin 

With  words  that  might  be  prelude  to  a  Tale 

Of  sorrow  and  dejection ;   but  I  feel 

No  sadness,  v/hen  I  think  of  what  mine  eyes 

See  daily  in  that  happy  Family. 


Wordsworth's  poems.  211 

—  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  filled  with  anxious  fear, 

Now,  by  experience  taught,  he  stands  assured, 

That  God,  who  takes  away,  yet  takes  not  half 

Of  what  he  seems  to  take  ;   or  gives  it  back, 

Not  to  our  prayer  but  far  beyond  our  prayer^ 

He  gives  it  —  the  boon  produce  of  a  soil 

Which  our  endeavors  have  refused  to  till, 

And  Hope  hath  never  watered.     The  Abode, 

Whose  grateful  Owner  can  attest  these  truths, 

Even  were  the  object  nearer  to  our  sight, 

Would  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  adorned 

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 
Roof-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  the  year, 
A  hardy  Girl  continues  to  provide; 
Who,  mounting  fearlessly  the  rocky  heights, 
Her  Father's  prompt  Attendant,  does  for  him 
.AH  that  a  Boy  could  do,  but  with  delight 
More  keen  and  prouder  daring;  yet  hath  she, 


212  Wordsworth's  poems. 

Within  the  garden,  like  the  rest,  a  bed 

For  her  own  flowers  and  favorite  herbs  —  a  space, 

By  sacred  charter,  holden  for  her  use. 

These,  and  whatever  else  the  garden  bears 

Of  fruit  or  flower,  permission  asked  or  not, 

I  freely  gather ;   and  my  leisure  draws 

A  not  unfrequent  pastime  from  the  sigh 

Of  the  Bees  murmuring  round  their  sheltered  hives 

In  that  Enclosure ;   while  the  mountain  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 

The  never  halting  Time  ;   or,  in  her  turn. 

Teaching  some  Novice  of  the  Sisterhood 

That  skill  in  this  or  other  household  work, 

Which,  from  her  Father's  honored  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  filled  with  gaiety. 

—  Thrice  happy,  then,  the  Mother  may  be  deemed. 
The  Wife,  from  whose  consolatory  grave 

I  turned,  that  ye  in  mind  might  witness  where, 
And  how,  her  Spirit  yet  survives  on  Earth." 


THE   EXCURSION. 


BOOK     THE     SEVENTH. 

THE    CHURCH-YARD    AMONG    THE    MOUNTAINS, 

CONTINUED. 

AUGUMENT. 

Impression  of  these  Narratives  upon  the  Author's  mind  —  Pastor 
invited  to  give  account  of  certain  graves  that  lie  apart  — Clergyman 
and  his  Family^  Fortunate  mfluence  of  change  of  situation  — 
Activity  in  extreme  old  age  —  Another  Clergyman,  a  character  of 
resolute  Virtue  —  Lamentations  over  misdirected  applause  —  Instance 
of  less  exalted  excellence  in  a  deaf  man  —  Elevated  character  of  a 
blind  man '—  Reflection  upon  blindness  —  Interrupted  by  a  Peasant 
who  passes  —  His  animal  cheerfulness  and  careless  vivacity  —  He 
occasions  a  digression  on  the  fall  of  beautiful  and  interesting  Trees  — 
A  female  Infant's  Grave  —  Joy  at  her  Birth  —  Sorrow  at  her  Depart- 
ure —  A  youthful  Peasant  —  His  patriotic  enthusiasm  —  distingushed 
qualities  —  and  untimely  death  —  Exultation  of  the  Wanderer,  as  a 
patriot,  in  this  Picture  —  Solitary,  how  affected  —  Monument  of  a 
Knight  —  Traditions  concerning  him —  Peroration  of  the  AVanderer 
on  the  transitoriness  of  things  and  the  revolutions  of  society  —  Hints 
at  his  own  past  Calling —  Thanks  the  Pastor. 

While  thus  from  theme  to  theme  the  Historian  passed, 
The  words  he  uttered,  and  the  scene  that  lay- 
Before  our  eyes,  awakened  in  my  mind 
Vivid  remembrance  of  those  long-past  hours ; 
When,  in  the  hollow  of  some  shadowy  Vale, 


214  Wordsworth's  poeks. 

(What  time  the  splendor  of  the  setting  sun 

Lay  beautiful  on  Snowdon's  sovereign  brow, 

On  Cader  Idris,  or  huge  Penmanmaur) 

A  wandering  Youth,  I  listened  with  delight 

To  pastoral  melody  or  warlike  air, 

Drawn  from  the  chords  of  the  ancient  British  harp 

By  some  accomplished  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  honored  Chief 

Of  his  compatriot  villagers  (that  hung 

Around  him,  drinking  in  the  impassioned  notes 

Of  the  time-hallowed  minstrelsy)  required 

For  their  heart's  ease  or  pleasure.     Strains  of  power 

Were  they  to  seize  and  occupy  the  sense; 

But  to  a  higher  mark  than  song  can  reach 

Rose  this  pure  eloquence.     And,  when  the  stream 

Which  overflowed  the  soul  was  passed  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  be  destroyed. 

"  These  grassy  heaps  lie  amicably  close," 

Said  I,  "  like  surges  heaving  in  the  wind 

Upon  the  surface  of  a  mountain  pool ; 

—  Whence  comes  it  then,  that  yonder  we  behold 

Five  graves,  and  only  five,  that  rise  together 

Unsociably  sequestered,  and  encroaching 

On  the  smooth  play- ground  of  the  Village-school.'" 

The  Vicar  answered.     "No  disdainful  pride 


Wordsworth's  poems.  215 

In  them  who  rest  beneath,  nor  any  course 
Of  strange  or  tragic  accident,  hath  helped 
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, 

Towards  an  easy  outlet  of  the  Vale. 

—  That  little  shady  spot,  that  sylvan  tufl,    . 
By  whifeh  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  unembowered 
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  v/ere  the  choicest  roads 
By  which  our  Northern  wilds  could  then  be  crossed 
And  into  most  of  these  secluded  Vales 
Was  no  access  for  wain,  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 
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  passed 
In  order,  drawing  tow'rd  their  wished-for  home. 

—  Rocked  by  the  motion  of  a  trusty  Ass, 


216  Wordsworth's  foems. 

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  —  cheered 

By  music,  prank,  and  laughter-stirring  jest ; 

And  freak  put  on,  and  arch  word  dropped  —  to  swell 

The  cloud  of  fancy  and  uncouth  surmise 

That  gathered  round  the  slowly-moving  train. " 

— '  Whence    do    they   come  ?    and   with    what   errand 

charged  ? 
Belong  they  to  the  fortune-telling  Tribe 
Who  pitch  their  tents  beneath  the  green-wood  Tree  ? 
Or  are  they  Strollers,  furnished  to  enact 
Fair  Rosamond,  and  the  Children  of  the  Wood, 
And  by  that  whiskered  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  portrayed 
Of  Boor  or  Burgher,  as  they  marched  along. 
And  more  than  once  their  steadiness  of  face 
Was  put  to  proof,  and  exercise  supplied 
To  their  inventive  humor,  by  stern  looks, 
And  questions  in  authoritative  tone. 
From  some  staid  Guardian  of  the  public  peace, 
Checking  the  sober  steed  on  which  he  rode, 
In  his  suspicious  wisdom ;  oftener  still, 
By  notice  indirect,  or  blunt  demand. 
From  Traveller  halting  in  his  own  despite, 


Wordsworth's  foeivis.  217 

A  simple  curiosity  to  ease : 
Of  which  adventures,  that  beguiled  and  cheered 
Their  grave  migration,  the  good  pair  would  tell, 
With  undiminished  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  was  brought) 
Had  been  irregular,  I  might  say,  wild ; 
By  books  unsteadied,  by  his  pastoral  care 
Too  little  checked.     An  active,  ardent  mind; 
A  fancy  pregnant  with  resource  and  scheme 
To  cheat  the  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  earned  for  him  sm*e  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  revelled  long, 
Frolicked  industriously,  a  simple  Clerk 
By  hopes  of  coming  patronage  beguiled 
Till  the  heart  sickened.     So  each  loftier  aim 
Abandoning,  and  all  his  showy  Friends, 
For  a  life's  stay,  though  slender  yet  assured. 
He  turned  to  this  secluded  Chapelry ; 
That  had  been  offered  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  scantily  provided  Cure 
19 


218  Wordsworth's  poems. 

Not  long  had  been  endowed;  and  far  remote 
The  Chapel  stood,  divided  from  that  House 
By  an  unpeopled  tract  of  mountain  waste. 
' — Yet  cause  was  none,  whate'er  regret  might  hang 
On  his  own  mind,  to  quarrel  with  the  choice 
Or  the  necessity  that  fixed  him  here ; 
Apart  from  old  temptations,  and  constrained 
To  punctual  labor  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,  compelled 
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  returned 
Contented  to  partake  the  quiet  meal 
Of  his  own  board,  where  sate  his  gentle  Mate 
And  three  fair  Children,  plentifully  fed 
Though  simply,  from  their  little  household  farm ; 
With  acceptable  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 
Passed  on;  —  the  inside  of  that  rugged  House 
Was  trimmed  and  brightened  by  the  Matron's  care, 
And  gradually  enriched  with  things  of  price, 
Which  might  be  lacked  for  use  or  ornament. 
What,  though  no  soft  and  costly  sofa  there 
Insidiously  stretched  out  its  lazy  length. 
And  no  vain  mirror  glittered  on  the  walls, 


Wordsworth's  poems.  219 

Yet  were  tne  windows  of  the  low  Abode 

By  shutters  weather-fended,  which  at  once 

Repelled  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. 

Covered  the  smooth  blue  slabs  of  mountain  stone 

With  which  the  parlor-floor,  in  simplest  guise 

Of  pastoral  homesteads,  had  been  long  inlaid. 

— These  pleasing  works  the  Housewife's  skill  produced: 

Meanwhile  the  unsedentary  Master's  hand 

Was  busier  with  his  task — to  rid,  to  plant, 

To  rear  for  food,  for  shelter,  and  delight, 

A  thriving  covert !     And  when  wishes,  formed 

In  youth,  and  sanctioned  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. 

Screened  from  assault  of  every  bitter  blast;  * 

While  the  dark  shadows  of  the  summer  leaves 

Danced  in  the  breeze,  upon  its  mossy  roof. 

Time,  which  had  thus  afforded  willing  help 

To  beautify  with  Nature's  fairest  growth 

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 

Retained  a  flashing  eye,  a  burning  palm, 

A  stirring  foot,  a  head  which  beat  at  nights 


'^0  Wordsworth's  poe]w= 

Upon  it3  pillow  with  a  thousand  schemes. 

Few  likings  had  he  dropped,  few  pleasures  lost; 

Generous  and  charitable,  prompt  to  serve ; 

And  still  his  harsher  passions  kept  their  hold, 

Anger  and  indignation  ;   still  he  loved 

The  sound  of  titled  names,  and  talked  in  glee 

Of  long-past  banquetings  with  high-born  Friends: 

Then,  from  those  lulling  fits  of  vain  delight 

Uproused  by  recollected  injury,  railed 

At  their  false  ways  disdainfully,  —  and  oft 

In  bitterness,  and  with  a  threatening  eye 

Of  fire,  incensed  beneath  its  hoary  brow. 

—  These  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, 
Strugghng  and  bold,  and  shining  from  the  west 
With  an  inconstant  and  unmellowed  light ; 
She  was  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,  praises,  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 


Wordsworth's  poems.  221 

Sparing  both  old  and  young  in  that  Abode. 

Suddenly  then  they  disappeared :   not  twice 

Had  summer  scorched  the  fields ;  not  twice  had  fallen 

On  those  high  Peaks,  the  first  autumnal  snow, 

Before  the  greedy  visiting  was  closed, 

And  the  long-privileged  House  left  empty  —  swept 

As  by  a  plague  j:   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  wished  for!   save  that  here 

Was  something  which  to  mortal  sense  might  sound 

Like  harshness,  —  that  the  old  gray-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-prized  gift, 

His  little  smiling  Grandchild,  were  no  more.    . 

" '  All  gone,  all  vanished !   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 
With  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 
19* 


222  Wordsworth's  poems. 

Of  open  schemes,  and  all  his  inward  hoard 
Of  unsunned  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  lenient  term  of  separation  past, 
That  family  (whose  graves  you  there  behold) 
By  yet  a  higher  privilege  once  more 
Were  gathered  to  each  other." 

Calm  of  mind 
And  silence  waited  on  these  closing  words ; 
Until  the  Wanderer  (whether  moved  by  fear 
Lest  in  those  passages  of  life  were  some 
That  might  have  touched  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 
In  the  untrodden  desert,  tells  his  beads, 
With  each  repeating  its  allotted  prayer, 
And  thus  divides  and  thus  relieves  the  time ; 
Smooth  task,  with  his  compared,  whose  mind  could  string 
Not  scantily,  bright  minutes  on  the  thread 
Of  keen  domestic  anguish,  —  and  beguile 
A  solitude,  unchosen,  unprofessed ; 
Till  gentlest  death  released  him.     Far  from  us 
Be  the  desire  —  too  curiously  to  ask 
How  much  of  this  is  but  the  blind  result 


Wordsworth's  poems.  223 

Of  cordial  spirits  and  vital  temperament, 

And  what  to  higher  powers  is  justly  due. 

But  you,  Sir,  know  that  in  a  neighboring  Vale 

A  Priest  abides  before  whose  life  such  doubts 

Fall  to  the  ground ;  whose  gifts  of  Nature  lie 

Retired  from  notice,  lost  in  attributes 

Of  Reason  —  honorably  effaced  by  debts 

Which  her  poor  treasure-house  is  content  to  owe 

And  conquests  over  her  dominion  gained, 

To  which  her  forwardness  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  deemed  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. 

—  Preaching,  administering,  in  every  work 

Of  his  sublime  vocation,  in  the  walks 

Of  worldly  intercourse  'twixt  man  and  man, 

And  in  his  humble  dwelling,  he  appears 

A  Laborer,  with  moral  virtue  girt, 

With  spiritual  graces,  like  a  glory,  crowned." 

"Doubt  can  be  none,"  the  Pastor  said,  "for  whom 
This  Portraiture  is  sketched.     The  Great,  the  Good, 
The  Well-beloved,  the  Fortunate,  the  Wise, 
These  Titles  Emperors  and  Chiefs  have  borne, 
Honor  assumed  or  given :  and  Him,  the  Wonderful 
Our  simple  Shepherds,  speaking  from  the  heart, 
Deservedly  have  styled.     From  his  Abode 


224  Wordsworth's  poems. 

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; 

Hither,  ere  long,  that  lowly,  great,  good  Man 

Will  be  conveyed.     An  unelaborate  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. 

—  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 

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  hallowed  theme)  will  rise  and  celebrate 
The  good  Man's  deeds  and  purposes;   retrace 
His  struggles,  his  discomfiture  deplore, 

His  triumphs  hail,  and  glorify  his  end  ? 

That  Virtue,  like  the  fumes  and  vapory  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 


Wordsworth's  poems.  225 

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  this  ground  receive 

That  venerable  clay.     Meanwhile  the  best 

Of  what  it  holds  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  tow'rds  me,  like  a  long  straight  path 
Traced  faintly  in  the  green-sward ;   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 
Murmured  the  laboring  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 
Were  all  things  silent,  wheresoe'er  he  moved. 


226  Wordsworth's  poems. 

Yet,  by  the  solace  of  his  own  pure  thoughts 

Upheld,  he  duteously  pursued  the  round 

Of  rural  labors ;  the  steep  mountain-side 

Ascended  with  his  staff  and  faithful  dog ; 

The  plough  he  guided,  and  the  scythe  he  swayed; 

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  owned : 

No  wish  for  wealth  had  place  within  his  mind ; 

Nor  husband's  love,  nor  farther's  hope  or  care. 

Though  born  a  younger  Brother,  need  was  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  remained  well  pleased, 

By  the  pure  bond  of  independent  love 

An  inmate  of  a  second  family, 

The  fellow-laborer  and  friend  of  him 

To  whom  the  small  inheritance  had  fallen. 

—  Nor  deem  that  his  mild  presence  was  a  weight 

That  pressed  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,  refreshed  his  thoughts 

Beyond  its  natural  elevation  raised 

His  introverted  spirit ;   and  bestowed 

Upon  his  life  an  outward  dignity 

Which  all  acknowledged.     The  dark  winter  night, 

The  stormy  day,  had  each  its  own  resource ; 

Song  of  the  muses,  sage  historic  tale, 

Science  severe,  or  word  of  Holy  Writ 


Wordsworth's  poems.  227 

Announcing  immortality  ana  joy 

To  the  assembled  spirits  of  the  just, 

From  imperfection  and  decay  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. 
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  few  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  unambitiously  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 ! 
Guide  of  our  way,  mysterious  Comforter 


^^  Wordsworth's  poems. 

Whose  sacred  influence,  spread    through    earth    and 

heaven, 
We  all  too  thanklessly  participate,    ^ 
Thy  gifts  were  utterly  withheld  from  Hina 
Whose  place  of  rest  is  near  yon  ivied  Porch. 
Yet,  of  the  wild  brooks  ask  if  he  complained; 
Ask  of  the  channelled  rivers  if  they  held 
A  safer,  easier,  more  determined  course. 
What  terror  doth  it  strike  into  the  mind 
To  think  of  One,  who  cannot  see,  advancing 
Toward  some  precipice's  airy  brink ! 
But,  timely  warned,  He  would  have  stayed  his  steps ; 
Protected,  say  enlightened,  by  his  ear. 
And  on  the  very  edge  of  vacancy 
Not  more  endangered  than  a  Man  whose  eye 
Beholds  the  gulf  beneath.     No  floweret  blooms 
Throughout  the  lofty  range  of  these  rough  hills, 
Or  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 
Enriched  with  knowledge  his  industrious  mind; 
The  ocean  paid  him  tribute  from  the  stores 
Lodged  in  her  bosom ;   and,  by  science  led. 
His  genius  mounted  to  the  plains  of  Heaven. 
—  Methinks  I  see  him  —  how  his  eye-balls  rolled 
Beneath  his  ample  brow,  in  darkness  paired,  — 
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     * 
Abashed,  and  tender  pity  overawed." 

A  noble,  and,  to  unreflecting  minds. 


Wordsworth's  poems.  229 

A  marvellous  spectacle,"  the  Wanderer  said, 

"  Beings  like  these  present !     But  proof  abounds 

Upon  the  earth,  that  faculties,  which  seem 

Extinguished,  do  not,  therefore,  cease  to  be. 

And  to  the  mind  among  her  powers  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  the  imagination  may  be  given 

A  type  and  shadow  of  an  awful  truth  ; 

How,  likewise,  under  sufferance  divine, 

Darkness  is  banished  from  tlie  realms  of  Death, 

By  man's  imperishable  spirit,  quelled. 

Unto  the  men  who  see  not  as  we  see 

Futurity  was  thought,  in  ancient  times, 

To  be  laid  op'en,  and  they  prophesied. 

And  know  we  not  that  from  the  blind  have  flowed 

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,  —  whose  lineaments  would  next 
Have  been  portrayed,  I  guess  not !   but  it  chanced 
That,  near  the  quiet  church-yard  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 
Stretched  on  his  bier  —  that  massy  timber  wain; 
Nor  fail  to  note  the  Man  who  guides  the  team." 
20 


230  Wordsworth's  poems. 

He  was  a  Peasant  of  the  lowest  class: 
Gray  locks  profusely  round  his  temples  hung 
In  clustering  curls,  like  ivy,  which  the  bite 
Of  Winter  cannot  thin ;   the  fresh  air  lodged 
Within  his  cheek,  as  light  within  a  cloud ; 
And  he  returned  our  greeting  with  a  smile. 
When  he  had  passed,  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,  gayety  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  answered  :  —  "  You  have  read  him  welL 

Year  after  year  is  added  to  his  store 

With  silent  increase  :   summers,  winters  —  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  vigor  cannot  fix 

The  obligation  of  an  anxious  mind, 

A  pride  in  having,  or  a  fear  to  lose  ; 

Possessed  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  —  endowed 
With  foresight ;  hears,  too,  every  Sabbath  day. 
The  Christian  promise  with  attentive  ear 

Nor  will,  I  trust,  the  Majesty  of  Heaven 

Reject  the  incense  ofl^ered  up  by  him, 

Though  of  the  kind  which  beasts  and  birds  present 

In  grove  or  pasture  ;   cheerfulness  of  soul. 

From  trepidation  and  repinmg  free. 


Wordsworth's  poems.  231 

How  many  scrupulous  worshippers  fall  down 
Upon  their  knees,  and  daily  homage  pay 
Less  worthy,  less  religions  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 

Towrd's  One,  whose  bold  contrivances  and  skill, 

As  you  have  seen,  bear  such  conspicuous  part 

In  works  of  havoc  ;  taking  from  these  vales, 

One  after  one,  their  prondest  ornaments. 

Full  oft  his  doings  leave  me  to  deplore 

Tall  ash-tree  sown  by  winds,  by  vapors  nursed, 

In  the  dry  crannies  of  the  pendent  rocks ; 

Light  birch  aloft  upon  the  horizon's  edge, 

A  veil  of  glory  for  the  ascending  moon ; 

And  oak  whose  roots  by  noontide  dew  were  damped, 

And  on  whose  forehead  inaccessible 

The  raven  lodged  in  safety.     Many  a  Ship 

Launched  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,  fetched  the  enormous  axle-tree 

That  whirls  (how  slow  itself!)  ten  thousand  spindles 

And  the  vast  engine  laboring  in  the  mine, 

Content  with  meaner  prowess,  must  have  lacked 

The  trunk  and  body  of  its  marvellous  strength. 

If  his  undaunted  enterprise  had  failed 

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; 


232  Wordsworth's  poems. 

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-encumbered  flock;  —  the  Jotful  Elm, 

Around  whose  trunk  the  Maidens  dance  m  May;  — 

And    the    Lord's    Oak;  —  would  plead   their  sevend 

rights 
In  vain,  if  He  were  master  of  their  fate ; 
His  sentence  to  the  axe  would  doom  them  ah. 
—  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  word. 
This  keen  Destroyer,  in  his  turn,  must  fall. 


"Now  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-rill  side ;   and,  when  the  hope  had  ceased  • 

Of  other  progeny,  a  Daughter  then 

Was  given,  the  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  weathered  by  them  both. 


Wordsworth's  poems.  233 

"  The  Father  —  Him  at  this  unlooked-for  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,  and  almost  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  replenished  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  enriched ; 
A  happiness  that  ebbed  not,  but  remained 
To  fill  the  total  measure  of  the  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  repaired 
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  Green,' 
Oft  did  he  say,  '  was  come  to  Gold-rill  side.' 

—  Oh !  pang  unthought  of,  as  the  precious  boon 
Itself  had  been  unlocked  for;  —  oh!  dire  stroke 
Of  desolating  anguish  for  them  all ! 

—  Just  as  the  Child  could  totter  on  the  floor, 
And,  by  some  friendly  finger's  help  upstayed. 
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 

20* 


234  Wordsworth's  poems. 

The  winds  of  March,  smiting  insidiously, 
Raised  in  the  tender  passage  of  the  throat 
Viewless  obstruction  ;   whence  —  all  unforewarned, 
The  Household  lost  their  pride  and  soul's  delight. 
—  But  Time  hath  power  to  soften  all  regrets, 
And  prayer  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  called  a  peaceful  grave. 

"On  a  bright  day,  the  brightest  of  the  year, 
These  mountains  echoed  with  an  unknown  sound, 
A  volley,  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  precious  as  my  own !  —  Green  herbs 
May  creep  (I  wish  that  they  would  softly  creep) 
Over  thy  last  abode,  and  we  may  pass 
Reminded  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 
No  eye  can  overlook,  when  'mid  a  grove 


•Wordsworth's  poems.  235 

Of  yet  unfaded  trees  she  lifts  her  head 

Decked  with  autumnal  berries,  that  outshine 

Spring's  richest  blossoms  ;  and  ye  may  have  marked, 

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  brightened  round  her.     In  his  native  Vale 

Such  and  so  glorious  did  this  Youth  appear ; 

A  sight  that  kindled  pleasure  in  all  hearts 

By  his  ingenious  beauty,  by  the  gleam 

Of  his  fair  eyes,  by  his  capacious  brow, 

By  all  the  graces  with  which  Nature's  hand 

Had  lavishly  arrayed  him.     As  old  Bards 

Tell  in  their  idle  songs  of  wandering  Gods, 

Pan  or  Apollo,  veiled  in  human  form ; 

Yet,  like  the  sweet-breathed  violet  of  the  shade, 

Discovered  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  the  impediment  of  rural  cares. 

In  him  revealed  a  Scholar's  genius  shone ; 

And  so,  not  wholly  hidden  from  men's  sight, 

In  him  the  spirit  of  a  Hero  walked 

Our  unpretending  valley.  —  How  the  coit 

Whizzed  from  the  Stripling's  arm !  If  touched  by  him, 

The  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  learned 

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  fastnessess  proved  weak 


236  Wordsworth's  poems. 

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, 
Fixed  at  their  seat,  the  centre  of  the  Mere, 
Were  subject  to  young  Oswald's  steady  aim. 

"From  Gallia's  coast  a  Tyrant  hurled  his  threats; 

Our  Country  marked  the  preparation  vast 

Of  hostile  Forces  ;  and  she  called  —  with  voice 

That  filled  her  plains,  that  reached  her  utmost  shores, 

And  in  remotest  vales  was  heard  —  to  Arms ! 

—  Then,  for  the  first  time,  here  you  might  have  seen 

The  Shepherd's  gray  to  martial  scarlet  changed, 

That  flashed  uncouthly  through  the  woods  and  fields. 

Ten  hardy  Striplings,  all  in  bright  attire, 

And  graced  with  shining  weapons,  weekly  marched, 

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. 

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  labor,  and  yet  bound 

To  most  laborious  service,  though  to  them 

A  festival  of  unencumbered  ease ; 

The  inner  spirit  keeping  holiday. 

Like  vernal  ground  to  sabbath  sunshine  left. 

"  Oft  have  I  marked  him,  at  some  leisure  hour, 
Stretched  on  the  grass  or  seated  in  the  shade 
Among  his  Fellows,  while  an  ample  Map 


Wordsworth's  poems.  237 

Before  their  eyes  lay  carefully  outspread, 

From  which  the  gallant  Teacher  would  discourse, 

Now  pointing  this  way,  and  now  that.  — '  Here  flows,' 

Thus  would  he  say,  'the  Rhine,  that  famous  Stream! 

Eastward,  the  Danube  tow'rd  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  Russian,  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  perished  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 ;   or  appeared  in  arms 

When  grove  was  felled,  and  altar  was  cast  down, 

And  Gideon  blew  the  trumpet,  soul-inflamed. 

And  strong  in  hatred  of  idolatry." 

This  spoken,  from  his  seat  the  Pastor  rose, 
And  moved  towards  the  grave ;   instinctively 


238  Wordsworth's  poems. 

His  steps  we  followed ;  and  my  voice  exclaimed, 
"Power  to  the  Oppressors  of  the  world  is  given, 
A  might  of  which  they  dream  not.     Oh !   the  curse, 
To  be  the  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  mixed,  astonishment  with  scorn ! " 

When  these  involuntary  words  had  ceased,     • 

The  Pastor  said,  "  So  Providence  is  served ; 

The  forked  weapon  of  the  skies  can  send 

Illumination  into  deep,  dark  Holds, 

Which  the  mild  sunbeam  hath  not  power  to  pierce. 

Why  do  ye  quake,  intimidated  Thrones? 

For,  not  unconscious  of  the  mighty  debt 

Which  to  outrageous  Wrong  the  Sufferer  owes, 

Europe,  through  all  her  habitable  seats. 

Is  thirsting  for  their  overthrow,  who  still 

Exist,  as  pagan  Temples  stood  of  old, 

By  very  horror  of  their  impious  rites 

Preserved ;  are  suffered  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  hallowed  Grave  demands,  where  rests  in  peace 

A  humble  Champion  of  the  better  Cause; 

A  Peasant'youth,  so  call  him,  for  he  asked 

No  higher  name ;   in  whom  our  Country  showed, 

As  in  a  favorite  Son,  most  beautiful. 

In  spite  of  vice,  and  misery,  and  disease 


■Wordsworth's  poems.  939 

Spread  with  the  spreading  of  her  wealthy  arts, 
England,  the  ancient  and  the  free,  appeared, 
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  summer's  day  —  a  day  of  annual  pomp 
And  solemn  chase  —  from  morn  to  sultry  noon 
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 
Returned  with  sinews  weakened  and  relaxed. 
This  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  wrenched, 
Till  nature  rested  from  her  work  in  death. 
—  To  him,  thus  snatched  away,  his  Comrades  paid 
A  soldier's  honors.     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  looked 
Down  on  this  spot,  well  pleased  would  he  have  seen 
A  glittering  Spectacle ;   but  every  face 
Was  pallid,  —  seldom  htfth  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  disturbed  than  we. 
They  started  at  the  tributary  peal 


S^'  Wordsworth's  poems. 

Of  instantaneous  thunder,  which  announced 
Through  the  still  air  the  closing  of  the  Grave; 
And  distant  mountains  echoed  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  these  memorial  words, 
The  pining  Solitary  turned  aside, 
Whether  through  manly  instinct  to  conceal 
Tender  emotions  spreading  from  the  heart 
To  his  worn  cheek ;   or  with  uneasy  shame 
For  those  cold  humors  of  habitual  spleen. 
That  fondly  seeking  in  dispraise  of  Man 
Solace  and  self-excuse,  had  somtimes  urged 
To  self-abuse  a  not  ineloquent  tongue. 
—  Right  tow'rd  the  sacred  Edifice  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  seemed  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, 


WORDS^iVORTH's  POEMS.  241 

Exclaimed,  "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  fixed  his  home  in  this  sequestered  Vale. 
'Tis  left  untold  if  here  he  first  drew  breath, 
Or  as  a  Stranger  reached  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 
Languished  beneath  accumulated  years, 
Had  power  to  draw  him  from  the  world  —  resolved 
To  make  that  paradise  his  chosen  home 
To  which  his  peaceful  Fancy  oft  had  turned. 
—  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,  with  pomp  of  spear  and  shield, 
And  borne  upon  a  Charger  covered  o'er 
With  gilded  housings.     And  the  lofty  Steed  — 
His  sole  companion,  and  his  faithful  friend, 
Whom  he,  in  gratitude,  let  loose  to  range 
In  fertile  pasture  —  was  beheld  with  eyes 
Of  admiration  and  delightful  awe. 
By  those  untravelled  Dalesmen.     With  less  pride, 
Yet  free  from  touch  of  envious  discontent,* 
They  saw  a  Mansion  at  his  bid-ding  rise, 
Like  a  bright  star,  amid  the  lowly  band 
Of  their  rude  Homesteads.     Here  the  Warrior  dwelt ; 
21 


942  Wordsworth's  poems. 

And,  in  that  Mansion,  Children  of  his  own, 

Or  Kindred,  gathered  round  him.     As  a  Tree 

That  falls  and  dissappears,  the  House  is  gone ; 

And,  through  improvidence  or  want  of  love 

For  ancient  worth  and  honorable  things, 

The  spear  and  shield  are  vanished,  which  the  Kmght 

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  Irthincj,  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  gray-haired  Wanderer  pensively  exclaimed, 

"  All  that  this  World  is  proud  of.   From  their  spheiea 

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,  Avithered  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 


Wordsworth's  poems.  243 

New  wealth  upon  the  burthen  of  the  old, 

And  placing  trust  in  privilege  confirmed 

And  reconfirmed  —  are  scoffed  at  with  a  smile 

Of  greedy  foretaste,  from  the  secret  stand 

Of  Desolation,  aimed :   to  slow  decline 

These  yield,  and  these  to  sudden  overthrow ; 

Their  virtue,  service,  happiness,  and  state. 

Expire ;  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,  oh!   how  disproportioned  to  the  hopes 

And  expectations  of  self-flattering  minds ! 

—  The  courteous  Knight,  whose  bones  are  here  interred. 

Lived  in  an  age  conspicuous  as  our  own 

For  strife  and  ferment  in  the  minds  of  men ; 

Whence  altercation,  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  honor,  sailed 

In  long  procession  calm  and  beautiful. 

He  who  had  seen  his  own  bright  Order  fade. 

And  its  devotion  gradually  decline, 

(While  War,  relinquishing  the  lance  and  shield. 

Her  temper  changed,  and  bowed  to  other  laws) 

Had  also  witnessed,  in  his  morn  of  life. 

That  violent  Commotion,  which  o'erthrew, 

In  town,  and  city,  and  sequestered  glen. 

Altar,  and  Cross,  and  Church  of  solemn  rooJJ 


244  Wordsworth's  poems. 

And  old  religious  House  —  Pile  after  Pile ; 

And  shook  the  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 

Those  meditations  of  the  soul  that  feed 

The  retrospective  Virtues.     Festive  songs 

Break  from  the  maddened  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  labor  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  doomed 

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    'twere    seemlier 

now 
To  stop,  and  yield  our  gracious  Teacher  thanks 
For  the  pathetic  Records  which  his  voice 
Hath  here  delivered ;   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." 


THE   EXCURSION. 


BOOK      THE      EIGHTH. 

THE  PARSONAGE. 

ARGUMENT. 

Pastor's  apprehensions  that  he  might  have  detained  his  Auditors  too 
long — Invitation  to  his  House  —  Solitary  disinclined  to  comply  — 
Rallies  the  Wanderer ;  and  somewhat  playfully  draws  a  comparison 
between  his  itinerant  profession  and  that  of  the  Knight-errant,  which 
leads  to  Wanderer's  giving  an  accoimt  of  changes  in  the  Country 
from  the  manufacturing  spirit  —  Favorable  effects  —  The  other  side 
of  the  picture,  and  chiefly  as  it  has  affected  the  humbler  classes  — 
Wanderer  asserts  the  hollowness  of  all  national  grandeur  if  unsup- 
ported by  moral  worth  —  Gives  Instances  —  Physical  science  unable 
to  support  itself — Lamentations  over  an  excess  of  manufacturing 
industry  among  the  humbler  Classes  of  Society  —  Picture  of  a  Child 
employed  in  a  Cotton-mill  —  Ignorance  and  degradation  of  Children 
among  the  agricultural  Population  reviewed  —  Conversation  broken 
off  by  a  renewed  Invitation  from  the  Pastor — Path  leading  to  his 
House  —  Its  appearance  described  —  His  Daughter — His  Wife  — 
His  Son  (a  Boy)  enters  with  his  Companion  —  Their  happy  appear- 
ance —  The  Wanderer,  how  affected  by  the  sight  of  them. 

The  pensive  Sceptic  of  tiie  lonely  Vale 
To  those  acknowledgments  subscribed  his  own, 
With  a  sedate  compliance,  which  the  Priest 
Failed  not  to  notice,  inly  pleased,  and  said, 
"If  Ye,  by  whom  invited  I  commenced 
21* 


246  woudsworth's  poems. 

These  narratives  of  calm  and  humble  lif?, 
Be  satisfied,  'tis  well,  —  the  end  is  gained; 
And,  in  return  for  sympathy  bestowed 
And  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  therefore  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  wished  for  act  and  circumstance,  that  make 
The  Individual  known  and  understood  ; 
And  such  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  be  linked,  who  unlocks 
A  Cabinet  with  gems  or  pictures  stored, 
And  draws  them  forth  —  soliciting  regard 
To  this,  and  this,  as  worthier  than  the  last, 
Till  the  Spectator,  who  awhile  was  pleased 
More  than  the  Exhibitor  himself,  becomes 
Weary  and  faint,  and  longs  to  be  released. 

—  But  let  us  hence !   my  Dwelling  is  in  sight, 
And  there  —  " 

At  this  the  Solitary  shrunk 
With  backward  will ;   but  wanting  not  address 
That  inward  motion  to  disguise,  he  said 
To  his  Compatriot,  smiling  as  he  spake ; 

—  "The  peaceful  Remains  of  this  good  Knight 
Would  be  disturliea.  I  fear,  with  wrathful  scorn, 
If  consciousness  could  reach  him  v/here  he  lies 
That  One,  albeit  of  these  degenerate  times. 
Deploring  changes  past,  or  dreading  change 


Wordsworth's  poems.  247 

Foreseen,  had  dared  to  couple,  even  m  thought, 
The  fine  Vocation  of  the  sword  and  lance 
With  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  Avith  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  they  seek 
Than  honest  maintenance,  by  irksome  toil 

Full  oft  procured,  yet  Such  may  claim  respect. 
Among  the  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 
(As  I  have  heard  you  boast  with  honest  pride) 
Nature  is  bountiful,  where'er  they  go ; 
Kind  Nature's  various  wealth  is  all  their  own. 
Versed  in  the  characters  of  men ;  and  bound. 
By  ties  of  daily  interest,  to  maintain 
Conciliatory  manners  and  smooth  speech; 
Such  have  been,  and  still  are  in  their  degree. 
Examples  efficacious  to  refine 
Rude  intercourse ;   apt  Agents  to  expel. 
By  importation  of  unlooked-for  Arts, 
Barbarian  torpor,  and  blind  prejudice ; 
Raising,  through  just  gradation,  savage  life 
To  rustic,  and  the  rustic  to  urbane. 

—  Within  their  moving  magazines  is  lodged 
Power  that  comes  forth  to  quicken  and  exalt 


248  ■Wordsworth's  poems. 

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,"  rejoined  the  Wanderer,  "  they  who  gain 

A  panegyric  from  your  generous  tongue ! 

But,  if  to  these  Wayfarers  once  pertained 

Aught  of  romantic  interest,  'tis  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  labors  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  now  visit  many  a  tract 

Which,  in  his  youth,  he  trod,  and  trod  again, 

A  lone  Pedestrian  with  a  scanty  freight, 

Wished  for,  or  welcome,  wheresoe'er  he  came, 

Among  the  Tenantry  of  Thorpe  and  Vill ; 

Or  straggling  Burgh,  of  ancient  charter  proud, 

And  dignified  by  battlements  and  towers 

Of  some  stern  Castle,  mouldering  on  the  brow 

Of  a  green  hill  or  bank  of  rugged  stream. 

The  foot-path  faintly  marked,  the  horse-track  wila 

And  formidable  length  of  plashy  lane, 

(Prized  avenues  ere  others  had  been  shaped 


Wordsworth's  poems.  249 

Or  easier  links  connecting'  place  with  place) 

Have  vanished,  —  swallowed  up  by  stately  roada 

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  interchange, 

Glistening  along  the  low  and  woody  dale, 

Or  on  the  naked  mountain's  lofty  side. 

Meanwhile,  at  social  Industry's  command. 

How  quick,  how  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  massed 

Like  trees  in  forests,  spread  through  spacious  tracts, 

O'er  which  the  smoke  of  unremitting  fires 

Hangs  permanent  and  plentiful  as  wreaths 

Of  vapor  glittering  in  the  morning  sun. 

And,  wheresoe'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 

With  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 

Which,  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 


250  wordsavorth's  poems. 

Of  Thunder,  daunting  those  who  would  approach 
With  hostile  purposes  the  blessed  Isle, 
Truth's  consecrated  residence,  the  seat 
Impregnable  of  Liberty  and  Peace. 

"  And  yet,  O  happy  Pastor  of  a  Flock 

Faithfully  watched,  and,  by  that  loving  care 

And  Heaven's  good  providence,  preserved  from  taint! 

With  You  I  grieve,  when  on  the  darker  side 

Of  this  great  change  I  look  ;   and  there  behold 

Such  outrage  done  to  Nature  as  compels 

The  indignant  Power  to  justify  herself; 

Yea,  to  avenge  her  violated  rights, 

For  England's  bane.     When  soothing  iiarkness  spreads 

O'er  hill  and  vale,"  the  Wanderer  thus  expressed 

His  recollections,  "  and  the  punctual  stars, 

While  all  things  else  are  gathering  to  their  homes. 

Advance,  and  in  the  firmament  of  heaven 

Glitter  —  but  undisturbing,  undisturbed; 

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 

The  assured  domain  of  calm  simplicity 

And  pensive  quiet,  an  unnatural  light 

Prepared  for  never-resting  Labor's  eyes. 

Breaks  from  a  many-windowed  Fabric  huge , 

And  at  the  appointed  hour  a  bell  is  heard, 

Of  harsher  ijnport  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  the  illumined  Pile, 

A  fresh  Band  meets  them,  at  the  crowded  door  — 

And  in  the  courts  —  and  where  the  rumbling  Stream, 


Wordsworth's  poems.  251 

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 
Within  this  Temple,  where  is  offered  up 
To  Gain — the  master  Idol  of  the  Realm  — 
Perpetual  sacrifice.     Even  thus  of  old 
Our  Ancestors,  within  the  still  domain 
Of  vast  Cathedral  or  Conventual  Church, 
Their  vigils  kept;   where  tapers  day  and  night 
On  the  dim  altar  burned  continually. 
In  token  that  the  House  was  evermore 
Watching  to  God.     Religious  Men  were  they; 
Nor  would  their  Reason,  tutored  to  aspire 
Above  this  transitory  world,  allow 
That  there  should  pass  a  moment  of  the  year. 
When  in  their  land  the  Almighty  Service  ceased. 

"Triumph  who  will  in  these  profaner  rites 

Which  We,  a  generation  self-extolled. 

As  zealously  perform !    I  cannot  share 

His  proud  complacency ;  yet  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  compelled 

To  serve  the  will  of  feeble-bodied  Man. 

For  with  the  sense  of  admiration  blends 

The  animating  hope  that  time  may  come 

When,  strengthened,  yet  not  dazzled,  by  the  might 

Of  this  dominion  over  Nature  gained. 


252  Wordsworth's  poems. 

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  plain  of  vanished  Syracuse, 

And  feelingly  the  Sage  shall  make  report 

How  insecure,  how  baseless  in  itself. 

Is  the  Philosophy,  whose  sway  depends 

On  mere  material  instruments  ;  —  how  weak 

Those  Arts,  and  high  Inventions,  if  unpropped 

By  Virtue.     He  with  sighs  of  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  lips  these  words  had  fallen, 

I  said,  "  And,  did  in  truth  these  vaunted  Arts 

Possess  such  privilege,  how  could  we  escape 

Regret  and  painful  sadness,  who  revere. 

And  would  preserve  as  things  above  all  price. 

The  old  domestic  morals  of  the  land, 

Her  simple  manners,  and  the  stable  worth 

That  dignified  and  cheered  a  low  estate? 

Oh !   where  is  now  the  character  of  peace. 

Sobriety,  and  order,  and  chaste  love. 

And  honest  dealing,  and  untainted  speech. 

And  pure  good-will,  and  hospitable  cheer ; 

That  made  the  very  thought  of  Country-life 

A  thought  of  refuge,  for  a  Mind  detained 

Reluctantly  amid  the  bustling  crowd  ? 


Wordsworth's  poems.  253 

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  attached 

To  time  and  season,  as  the  year  rolled  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  neighborhood,  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  dispatch  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  followed  by  the  Sons ; 
Idlers  perchance  they  were,  —  but  in  Ms  sight; 
22 


254  Wordsworth's  poems. 

Breathing  fresh  air,  and  treading  the  green  earth; 

Till  their  short  holiday  of  childhood  ceased, 

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 

Bloclis  out  the  forms  of  Nature,  preconsumes 

The  reason,  famishes  the  heart,  shuts  up 

The  Infant  Being  in  itself,  and  makes 

Its  very  spring  a  season  of  decay ! 

The  lot  is  wretched,  the  condition  sad, 

Whether  a  pining  discontent  survive, 

And  thirst  for  change  ;   or  habit  hath  subdued 

The  soul  deprest,  dejected  —  even  to  love 

Of  her  dull  tasks,  and  close  captivity. 

—  Oh,  banish  far  such  wisdom  as  condemns 

A  native  Briton  to  these  inward  chains, 

Fixed  in  his  soul,  so  early  and  so  deep. 

Without  his  own  consent,  or  knowledge,  fixed! 

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  the  clouds  and  in  the  ancient  woods ; 

Or  when  the  sun  is  shining  in  the  east. 

Quiet  and  calm.     Behold  him  —  in  the  schooi 

Of  his  attainments  ?  no ;  but  with  the  air 

Fanning  his  temples  under  heaven's  blue  arch. 

His  raiment,  whitened  o'er  with  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 

From  out  those  languid  eyes  could  break,  or  blush 


Wordsworth's  poems.  255 

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 ;   this  organic  Frame, 

So  joyful  in  her  motions,  is  become 

Dull,  to  the  joy  of  her  own  motions  dead ; 

And  even  the  Touch,  so  exquisitely  poured 

Through  the  whole  body,  with  a  languid  Will 

Performs  her  functions  ;   rarely  competent 

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  Recluse  indignantly  exclaimed, 
"And  tens  of  thousands  suffer  wrong  as  deep. 
Yet  be  it  asked,  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 ; 
Then,  if  there  were  not,  in  our  far-famed  Isle, 
Multitudes,  who  from  infancy  had  breathed 
Air  unimprisoned,  and  had  lived  at  large; 
Yet  walked  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,  with  their  own  blanched  hair 


256  Wordsworth's  poems. 

Crowned  like  the  image  of  fantastic  Fear; 

Or  wearing,  we  might  say,  in  that  white  growth 

An  ill-adjusted  turban,  for  defence 

Or  fierceness,  wreathed   around  their  sun-burnt  browft 

By  savage  Nature's  unassisted  care. 

Naked,  and  coloured  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  dwell  upon  the  skirts 

Of  furze-clad  commons ;  such  are  born  and  reared 

At  the  mine's  mouth,  beneath  impending  rocks, 

Or  in  the  chambers  of  some  natural  cave ; 

And  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, 

Purloined,  in  times  less  jealous  than  our  own, 

From  the  green  margin  of  the  public  way, 

A  residence  afford  them,  'mid  the  bloom 

And  gayety  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.     Upon  the  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  Conner  coin, 
And,  on  the  freight  of  merry  Passengers 


Wordsworth's  poems.  257 

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  Gipsey  tribe, 
These,  bred  to  little  pleasure  in  themselves, 
Are  profitless  to  others.     Turn  we  then 

To  Britons  born  and  bred  within  the  pale 

Of  civil  polity,  and  early  trained 

To  earn,  by  wholesome  labor  in  the  field, 

The  bread  they  eat.     A  sample  should  I  give  « 

Of  what  this  stock  produces  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  sofl  verse, 

Are  of  no  finer  frame:  —  his  joints  are  stiff; 

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. 

Whereon  our  Fathers  sate.     And  mark  his  brow ! 

Under  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. 

Shall  e'ei  dissolve  the  crust  wherein  his  soul 
22* 


258  WORCSWORTIi's  POEM3, 

Sleeps,  like  a  caterpillar  sheathed  in  ice  ? 

This  torpor  is  no  pitiable  work 

Of  modern  ingenuity  ;   no  Town 

Nor  crowded  City  may  be  taxed  with  aught 

Of  sottish  vice  or  desperate  breach  of  law, 

To  which  in  after  years  he  may  be  roused. 

—  This  Boy  the  Fields  produce :   his  spade  and  hoe  —• 
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. 
For  tens  of  thousands  uninformed  as  he? 
In  brief,  what  liberty  of  mind  is  here  ? " 

This  ardent  sally  pleased  the  mild  good  Man, 
To  whom  the  appeal  couched  in  its  closing  words 
Was  pointedly  addressed ;   and  to  the  thoughts 
That,  in  assent  or  opposition,  rose 
Within  his  mind,  he  seemed  prepared  to  give 
Prompt  utterance ;  but,  rising  from  our  seat, 
The  hospitable  Vicar  interposed 
With  invitation  urgently  renewed. 

—  We  followed,  taking  as  he  led,  a  Path 
Along  a  hedge  of  hollies,  dark  and  tall. 
Whose  flexile  boughs,  descending  with  a  weight 
Of  leafy  spray,  concealed  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! 

Not  shaped  by  simple  wearing  of  the  foot 

On  rural  business  passing  to  and  fro, 

Was  the  commodious  Walk ;  a  careful  hand 

Had  marked  the  line,  and  strewn  the  surface  o'er 

With  pure  cerulean  gravel,  from  the  heights 


WORDSWORTH  S  POEMS.  259 

Fetched  by  the  neighboring  brook.    Across  the  Vale 

The  stately  Fence  accompanied  our  steps; 

And  thus  the  Pathway,  by  perennial  green 

Guarded  and  graced,  seemed  fashioned  to  unite, 

As  by  a  beautiful  yet  solemn  chain, 

The  Pastor's  Mansion  with  the  House  of  Prayer. 

Like  Image  of  solemnity,  conjoined 

With  feminine  allurement  soft  and  fair. 

The  Mansion's  self  displayed  ;  —  a  reverend  Pile 

With  bold  projections  and  recesses  deep ; 

Shadowy,  yet  gay  and  lightsome  as  it  stood 

Fronting  the  noontide  Sun.     We  paused  to  admirp 

The  pillared  Porch,  elaborately  embossed ; 

The  low  wide  windows  with  their  mullions  old ; 

The  cornice  richly  fretted,  of  gray  stone ; 

And  that  smooth  slope  from  which  the  Dwelling  rose 

By  beds  and  banks  Arcadian  of  gay  flowers 

And  flowering  shrubs,  protected  and  adorned; 

Profusion  bright !   and  every  flower  assuming 

A  mere  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  clasped 

The  huge  round  chimneys,  harbor  of  delight 

For  wren  and  i-edbreast,  —  where  they  sit  and  sing 

Their  slender  ditties  when  the  trees  are  bare. 

Nor  must  I  leave  untouched  (the  picture  else 

Were  incomplete)  a  relique  of  old  times 

Happily  spared,  a  little  Gothic  niche 


260  WOUDSWORTIl's  POEMS. 

Of  nicest  workmanship ;   that  once  had  held 

The  sculptured  Image  of  some  Pation  Saint, 

Or  of  the  Blessed  Virgin,  looking  down 

On  all  who  entered  those  religious  doors. 

But  lo !    where  from  the  rocky  garden  Mount 

Crowned  by  its  antique  summer-house  —  descends, 

Light  as  the  silver  fawn,  a  radiant  Girl ; 

For  she  hath  recognized  her  honored  Friend, 

The  Wanderer  ever  welcome !     A  prompt  kiss 

The  gladsome  Child  bestows  at  his  request; 

And,  up  the  flowery  lawn  as  we  advanced, 

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  weather  by  the  placid  coast 

On  homeward  voyage,  what  —  if  wind  and  wave 

And  hardship  undergone  in  various  climes, 

Have  caused  her  to  abate  the  virgin  pride. 

And  'that  full  trim  of  inexperienced  hope 

With  v/hich  she  left  her  haven  —  not  for  this, 

Should  the  sun  strike  her,  and  the  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,  appeared 

This  goodly  Matmn,  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 


Wordsworth's  poems.  261 

The  mid-day  hours  with  desultory  talk; 
From  trivial  themes  to  general  argument 
Passing,  as  accident  or  fancy  led, 
Or  courtesy  prescribed.     While  question  rose 
And  answer  flowed,  the  fetters  of  reserve 
Dropping  from  every  mind,  the  Solitary 
Resumed  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  learned  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  unsuppressed 
Upon  the  landscape  of  the  sun-bright  vale, 
Seen,  from  the  shady  room  in  which  we  sate, 
In  softened  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 ! " 
The  words  escaped  his  lip  with  a  tender  sigh 
Breathed  over  them ;  but  suddenly  the  door 
Flew  open,  and  a  pair  of  lusty  Boys 
Appeared  —  confusion  checking  their  delight. 
—  Not  Brothers  they  in  feature  or  attire, 
But  fond  Companions,  so  I  guessed,  in  field, 
And  by  the  river's  margin  —  whence  they  come, 
Anglers  elated  with  unusual  spoil. 
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! 


262  Wordsworth's  poems. 

Between  his  hands  he  holds  a  smooth  blue  stone, 

On  whose  capacious  surface  see  outspread 

Large  store  of  gleaming  crimson-spotted  trouts ; 

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 ;  —  thair  number  he  proclaims ; 

Tells  from  what  pool  the  noblest  had  been  dragged ; 

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  splendid  sight,  together  thus  exposed; 

Dead  —  but  not  sullied  or  deformed  by  Death, 

That  seemed  to  pity  what  he  could  not  spare. 

But  O,  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 !     Him  might  I  compare. 

His  look,  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  reunited :  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  likened  ?     She  whose  countenance  and  air 

Unite  the  graceful  qualities  of  both. 

Even  as  she  shares  the  pride  and  joy  of  both. 

My  gray-haired  Friend  was  moved ;  his  vivid  eye 


Wordsworth's  poems.  263 

Glistened  with  tenderness ;  his  Mind,  I  knew, 
Was  full ;  and  had,  I  doubted  not,  returned, 
Upon  this  impulse,  to  the  theme  erewhile 
Abruptly  broken  off.     The  ruddy  Boys 
Withdrew,  on  summons  to  their  well-earned  meal; 
And  He  —  (to  whom  all  tongues  resigned  their  rights 
With  willingness,  to  whom  the  general  ear 
Listened  with  readier  patience  than  to  strain 
Of  music,  lute  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. 


THE   EXCURSION. 


BOOK       THE      NINTH. 

DISCOURSE  OF  THE  WANDERER,  AND  AN  EVENING 
VISIT  TO  THE  LAKE. 

AUGUMENT. 

Wanderer  asserts  that  an  active  principle  pervades  the  Universe — Its 
noblest  seat,  the  human  soul  —  How  lively  this  principle  is  in  Child- 
hood—Hence  the  delight  in  Old  Age  of  looking  back  upon  Childhood 

—  The  dignity,  powers,  and  privileges  of  Age  asserted — These  not 
to  be  looked  for  generally  but  under  a  just  government —  Right  of  a 
human  Creature  to  be  exempt  from  being  considered  as  a  mere  In- 
strument—  "Vicious  inclinations  are  best  kept  under  by  giving  good 
ones  an  opportunity  to  show  themselves— The  condition  of  multitudes 
deplored,  from  want  of  due  respect  to  this  truth  on  the  pan  of  their 
superiors  in  society.  —  Former  conversation  recurred  to,  and  the 
Wanderer's  opinion  set  in  a  clearer  light — Genuine  principles  of 
equality  —  Truth  placed  within  reach  of  the  humblest — Happy  state 
of  the  two  Boys  again  adverted  to  —  Earnest  wish  expressed  for  a 
System  of  National  Education  established  universally  by  Government 

—  Glorious  effects  of  this  foretold  —  Wanderer  breaks  off — Walk  to 
the  Lake  —  Embark  —  Description  of  scenery  and  amusements  — 
Grand  spectacle  from  the  side  of  a  hill  —  Address  of  Priest  to  the 
Supreme  Being  —  In  the  course  of  which  he  contrasts  with  ancient 
Barbarism  the  present  appearance  of  the  scene  before  him  —  The 
change  ascribed  to  Christianity  —  Apostrophe  to  his  Flock,  living 
and  dead — Gratitude  to  the  Almighty  —  Return  over  the  Lake  — 
Parting  with  the  Solitary  —  Under  what  circumstances. 


Wordsworth's  poems.  265 

"  To-  every  Form  of  being  is  assigned," 
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  the  invisible  air. 
Whate'er  exists  hath  properties  that  spread 
Beyond  itself,  communicating  good, 
A  simple  blessing,  or  with  evil  mixed; 
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;  robbed  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,  perchance  this  very  hour,  — 
(For  every  moment  hath  its  own  to-morrow !) 
Those  blooming  Boys,  whose  hearts  are  almost  sick 
With  present  triumph,  will  be  sure  to  find 
A  field  before  them  freshened  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, — 
23 


266  tvordsworth's  poems. 

Or  so  he  ought  to  move.     Ah !    why  in  age 

Do  we  revert  so  fondly  to  the  walks 

Of  Childhood  —  but  that  there  the  Soul  discerns 

The  dear  memorial  footsteps  unimpaired 

Of  her  own  native  vigor  —  thence  can  hear 

Reverberations  ;   and  a  choral  song, 

Commingling  with  the  incense  that  ascends 

Undaunted,  tow'rd  the  imperishable  heavens, 

From  her  own  lonely  altar  ?     Do  not  think 

That  Good  and  Wise  ever  will  be  allowed. 

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  Eminence,  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  likened  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  diminished  to  the  gazing  eye, 

Forest  and  field,  and  hill  and  dale  appear. 

With  all  the  shapes  upon  their  surface  spread : 

But,  while  the  gross  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 !     For  on  that  superior  height 

Who  sits,  is  disencumbered  from  the  press 


Wordsworth's  poems.  267 

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 

Not  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  favor,  suited  to  our  need  ? 

What  more  than  that  the  severing  should  confer 

Fresh  power  to  commune  with  the  invisible  world, 

And  hear  the  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  delight, 

Or  fret  and  labor  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  bodi^  crushed  by  unremitting  toil ; 
To  whom  kind  Nature,  therefore,  may  afford 
Proof  of  the  sacred  love  she  bears  for  all ; 
Whose  birthright  Reason,  therefore,  may  ensure. 
For  me,  consultmg  what  I  feel  within, 


968  Wordsworth's  poems. 

In  times  when  most  existence  with  herself 

Is  satisfied,  I  cannot  but  believe, 

That,  far  as  kindly  Nature  hath  free  scope 

And  Reason'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  the  Almighty  Ruler'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  employed 

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, 

Unelbowed  by  such  objects  as  oppress 

Our  active  powers,  those  powers  themselves  become 

Strong  to  subvert  our  noxious  qualities : 

They  sweep  distemper  from  the  busy  day, 

And  make  the  Chalice  of  the  big  round  Year 

Run  o'er  with  gladness ;   whence  the  Being  moves 

In  beauty  through  the  world  ;  and  all  who  see 

Bless  him,  rejoicing  in  his  neighborhood." 


Wordsworth's  poems.  869 

•'*  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  bi.it  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  deatii. 

With  the  least  taint  and  injury  to  the  air 

The  Oppressor  breathes,  their  human  Form  divine, 

And  their  immortal  Soul,  may  waste  away." 


The  Sage  rejoined,  "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  your  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  witnessed,  lot  which  I  myself 
Shared,  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  enthralled 
23* 


270  Wordsworth's  poems. 

'Mid  thorns  and  brambles ;   or  a  Bird  that  breaks 

Through  a  strong  net,  and  mounts  upon  the  wind, 

Though  with  her  plumes  impaired.   If  they,  whose  soula 

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 

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  turned  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  ;   turned  to  wrongs 

By  Women,  who  have  Children  of  their  own, 

Beheld  without  compassion — yea,  with  praise! 

I  spake  of  mischief  by  the  wise  diffiised 

With  gladness,  thinking  that  the  more  it  spreads. 

The  healthier,  the  securer,  we  become ; 

l)elusion  which  a  moment  may  destroy! 

Lastly,  I  mourned  for  those  whom  I  had  seen 

Corrupted  and  cast  down,  on  favored  ground, 

Where  circumstanno  and  nature  had  combined 

To  shelter  innocence,  and  cherish  love  ; 

Who,  but  for  this  intrusion,  would  have  lived, 

Possessed  of  health,  and  strength,  and  peace  of  mind 

Thus  would  have  lived,  or  never  have  been  born. 


Wordsworth's  poems.  271 

Alas !   what  differs  more  than  man  from  man  ? 
And  whence  that  difference  ?  whence  but  from  himself? 
For  see  the  the  universal  Racie  endowed 
With  the  same  upright  form !     The  sun  is  fixed, 
And  th*e  infinite  magnificence  of  heaven, 
Fixed  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 ; 
Reason,  —  and,  with  that  reason,  smiles  and  tears ; 
Imagination,  freedom  in  the  will. 
Conscience  to  guide  and  check ;   and  death  to  be 
Foretasted,  immortality  presumed. 
Strange,  then,  nor  less  than  monstrous  might  be  deemed 
The  failure,  if  the  Almighty,  to  this  point 
Liberal  and  undestinguishing,  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  scattered  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 ;  no  special  boon 


273  Wordsworth's  poems. 

For  high  and  not  for  low,  for  proudly  graced 

And  not  for  meek  of  heart.     The  smoke  ascends 

To  heaven  as  lightly  from  the  Cottage  hearth 

As  from  the  haughty  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  haye  found,  — 

Lamenting  ancient  virtues  overthrown. 

And  for  the  injustice  grieving,  that  hath  made 

So  wide  a  difference  betwixt  Man  and  Man. 

"But  let  us  rather  turn  our  gladdened  thoughts 

Upon  the  .brighter  scene.     How  blest  that  Pair 

Of  blooming  Boys  (whom  we  behold  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  labor  for  them ;  bringing  each  in  tuj^n 

The  tribute  of  enjoyment,  knowledge,  health. 

Beauty,  or  strength !     Such  privilege  is  theirs. 

Granted  alike  in  the  outset  of  their  course 

To  both ;   and,  if  that  partnership  must  cease, 

1  grieve  not,"  to  the  Pastor  here  he  turned, 

"Much  as  I  glory  in  that  Child  of  yours, 

Repine  not,  for  his  Cottage-comrade,  whom 

Belike  no  higher  destiny  awaits 

Than  the  old  hereditary  wish  fulfilled, 


Wordsworth's  poems.  273 

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,  this  is  sure,  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  impassioned  majesty,  exclaimed, 

"O  for  the  coming  of  that  glorious  time 

When,  prizing  knowledge  as  her  noblest  wealth 

And  best  protection,  this  Imperial  Realra^ 

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,  he  left  to  droop 

By  timely  culture  unsustained  ;   or  run 

Into  a  wild  disorder ;   or  be  forced 

To  drudge  through  weary  life  without  the  aid 

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 


274  Wordsworth's  poems. 

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  enrolled, 

Yet  mutinously  knits  his  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  universal  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 

The  unquestionable  good;   which  England,  safe 

From  interference  of  external  force. 

May  grant  at  leisure ;   without  risk  incurred 

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  overturned  ;  —  and  Territory  split, 
Like  fields  of  ice  rent  by  the  polar  wind. 
And  forced  to  join  is  less  obnoxious  shapes, 
Which,  ere  they  gain  consistence,  by  a  gust 
Of  the  same  breath  are  shattered  and  destroyed. 
Meantime  the  Sovereignty  of  these  fair  Isles 
Remains  entire  and  indivisible ; 


Wordsworth's  poems.  275 

And,  if  that  ignorance  were  removed,  which  breeds 

Within  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 

Amongst  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  possessed, 

And  prudent  caution  needful  to  avert 

Impending  evil,  equally  require 

That  the  whole  people  should  be  taught  and  trained. 

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 !     Rather  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  the  industrious  bees 

Fraught  with  their  burthens  ;  and  a  way  as  smootn 

For  those  ordained  to  take  their  sounding  flight 

From  the  thronged  hive,  and  settle  where  they  list 

In  fresh  abodes,  their  labor  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  thenj  forth ; 


276  Wordsworth's  poems. 

Bound  to  establish  new  communities 

On  every  shore  whose  aspect  favors  hope 

Or  bold  adventure ;   promising  to  skill 

And  perseverance  their  deserved  reward. 

—  Yes,"  he  continued,  kindling  as  he  spake, 

"Change  wide,  and  deep,  and  silentl3^erformed, 

This  Land  shall  witness ;   and  as  days',  roll  on, 

Earth's  universal  Frame  shall  feel  theNeffect 

Even  till  the  smallest  habitable  Rock, 

Beaten  by  lonely  billows,  hear  the  songs 

Of  humanized  Society ;   and  bloom 

With  civil  arts,  that  send  their  fragrance  forth, 

A  grateful  tribute  to  all-ruling  Heaven. 

From  Culture,  unexclusively  bestowed 

On  Albion's  noble  Race  in  freedom  born, 

Expect  these  mighty  issues ;   from  the  pains 

And  faithful  care  of  unambitious  Schools 

Instructing  s^plg  Childhood's  ready  ear: 

Thence  look  for  these  magnificent  results ! 

Vast  the  circumference  of  hope  —  and  Ye 

Are  at  its  centre,  British  Lawgivers ; 

Ah!   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  ? 

Trust  not  to. partial  care  a  general  good; 

Transfer  not  to  futurity  a  work 

Of  urgent  need.  —  Your  Country  rnust  complete 

Her  glorious  destiny.  —  Begin  even  now. 

Now,  when  Oppression,  like  the  Egyptian  plague 

Of  darkness,  stretched  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, 


Wordsworth's  poems.  277 

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^orth,  the  gentle  Lady  said, 
"Behold  the  shades  of  afternoon  have  fallen 
Upon  this  flowery  slope  ;  and  see  —  beyond  — 
The  Lake,  though  bright,  is  of  a  placid  blue ; 
As  if  preparing  for  the  peace  of  evening. 
How  temptingly  the  Landscape  shines !  —  The  air 
Breathes  invitation;   easy  is  the  walk 
To  tlie  Lake's  margin,  where  a  boat  lies  moored 
Beneath  her  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  vanished  —  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  reached  a  bridge,  that  overarched 
The  hasty  rivulet  where  it  lay  becalmed 
In  a  deep  pool,  by  happy  chance  we  saw 
A  two-fold  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,  showed  his  shadowy  counterpart. 
Each  had  his  glowing  mountains,  each  his  sky, 
24 


278  Wordsworth's  poems. 

And  each  seemed  centre  of  his  own  fair  world ; 
Antipodes  unconscious  of  each  other, 
Yet,  in  partition,  with  their  several  spheres, 
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  whispered,  while  we  stood  and  gazed 
Gathered  together,  all  in  still  delight. 
Not  without  awe.     Thence  passing  on,  she  said 
In  like  low  voice  to  my  particular  ear, 
"  I  love  to  liear  that  eloquent  Old  Man 
Pour  forth  his  meditations,  and  descant 
On  human  life  from  infancy  to  age. 
How  pure  his  spirit !   in  what  vivid  hues 
His  mind  gives  back  the  various  forms  of  things, 
Caught  in  their  fairest,  happiest  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, 
Like  those  reflected  in  yon  quiet  Pool, 
Cannot  be  lasting  in  a  world  like  ours, 
To  great  and  small  disturbances  exposed." 
More  had  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. 
—  When  we  had  cautiously  embarked,  the  Pair 
Now  for  a  prouder  service  were  addrest ; 
But  an  inexorable  law  forbade, 
And  each  resigned  the  oar  which  he  had  seized. 
Whereat,  with  willing  hand  I  undertook 


WORDSV/OR'xil's  POS3JS,  279 

The  needful  labor ;   grateful  task  !   to  me 
Pregnant  with  recollections  of  the  time 
When,  on  thy  bosom,  spacious  Windermere . 
A  Youth,  I  practised  this  delightful  art ; 
Tossed  on  the  waves  alone,  or  'mid  a  crew 
Of  joyous  comrades.     Now,  the  reedy  marge 
Cleared,  with  a  strenuous  arm  I  dipped  the  oar, 
Free  from  obstruction ;   and  the  Boat  advanced 
Through  crystal  water,  smoothly  as  a  Hawk, 
That,  disentangled  from  the  sliady  boughs 
Of  some  thick  wood,  her  place  of  covert,  cleaves 
With  correspondent  wings  the  abyss  of  air. 

—  "  Observe,"  the  Vicar  said,  "  yon  rocky  Isle 
With  birch-trees  fringed  ;  my  hand  shall  guide  the  helm, 
While  thitherward  we  bend  our  course ;  or  while 
We  seek  that  other,  on  the  western  shore, — 
Where  the  bare  columns  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  scattered  groves, 
And  mountains  bare  —  or  clothed  with  ancient  woods, 
Surrounded  us ;   and,  as  we  held  our  way 
Along  the  level  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  portrayed 

By  words,  nor  by  the  pencil's  silent  skill ; 
But  is  the  property  of  him  alone 
Who  hath  beheld  it,  noted  it  with  care, 


280  Wordsworth's  poems. 

And  in  his  mind  recorded  it  with  love ! 

Suffice  it,  therefore,  if  the  rural  Muse 

Vouchsafe  sweet  influence,  while  her  Poet  spealcs 

Of  trivial  occupations  well  devised, 

And  unsought  pleasures  springing  up  by  chance, 

As  if  some  friendly  Genius  had  ordained 

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  gipsey  fire  we  kindled  on  the  shore 

Of  the  fair  Isle  with  birch-trees  fringed  —  and  there, 

Merrily  seated  in  a  ring,  partook 

The  beverage  drawn  from  China's  fragrant  herb. 

—  Launched  from  our  hands,  the  smooth  stone  skimmed 

the  lake ; 
With  shouts  we  roused  the  echoes ;  —  stiller  sounds 
The  lovely  Girl  supplied  —  a  simple  song, 
Whose  low  tones  reached  not  to  the  distant  rocks 
To  be  repeated  thence,  but  gently  sank 
Into  our  hearts ;   and  charmed  the  peaceful  flood. 
Rapaciously  we  gathered  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  sly  Plant, 
(Her  flowers  were  shed)  the  Lily  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  reembarked. 
Leaving,  in  quest  of  other  scenes,  the  shore 
Of  that  wild  Spot,  the  Solitary  said 
In  a  low  voice,  yet  careless  who  might  hear, 


Wordsworth's  poems.  281 

"The  fire,  that  burned  so  brightly  to  our  wish, 

Where  is  it  now?    Deserted  on  the  beach 

It  seems  extinct ;   nor  shall  the  fanning  breeze 

Revive  its  ashes.     What  care  we  for  this, 

Whose  ends  are  gained  ?     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. 

Thus  did  the  Bark,  meandering  with  the  shore, 

Pursue  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. 

Of  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  the  intrusion  of  a  restless  world 

By  rocks  impassable  and  mountains  huge. 

Soft  heath  this  elevated  spot  supplied, 
And  choice  of  moss-clad  stones,  whereon  we  couched 
Or  sate  reclining  —  admiring  quietly 
24* 


282  Wordsworth's  poems. 

The  genera]  aspect  of  the  scene ;   but  each 

Not  seldom  over-anxious  to  make  known 

His  own  discoveries  ;  or  to  favorite  points 

Directing  notice,  merely  from  a  wish 

To  impart  a  joy,  imperfect  while  unshared. 

That  rapturous  moment  ne'er  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 

Retired  behind  the  mountain-tops  or  veiled 

By  the  dense  air  —  shot  upwards  to  the  crown 

Of  the  blue  firmament  —  aloft  —  and  wide: 

And  multitudes  of  little  floating  clouds, 

Ere  we,  who  saw,  of  change  were  conscious,  pierced 

Through  their  ethereal  texture,  had  become 

Vivid  as  fire  —  clouds  separately  poised, 

Innumerable  multitude  of  Forms 

Scattered  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  displayed,  the  liquid  deep 

Repeated ;   but  with  unity  sublime ! 

While  from  the  grassy  mountain's  open  side 
We  gazed,  in  silence  hushed,  with  eyes  intent 
On  the  refulgent  spectacle  —  diffused 
Through  earth,  sky,  water,  and  all  visible  space, 
The  Priest  in  holy  transport  thus  exclaimed:  — 

"  Eternal  Spirit !   Universal  God  ! 
Power  inaccessible  to  human  thought, 


Wordsworth's  poems.  283 

Save  by  degrees  and  steps  which  Thou  hast  deigned 

To  furnish;  for  this  effluence  of  Thyself, 

To  the  infirmity  of  mortal  sense 

Vouchsafed ;  this  local  transitory  type 

Of  thy  paternal  splendors,  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  offer ;  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  streamed  forth 

From  thy  empyreal  Throne,  the  elect  of  Earth 

Shall  be  —  divested  at  the  appointed  hour 

Of  all  dishonor  —  cleansed  from  mortal  stain. 

—  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, 
Oh !  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  affords,  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  Goodl   this  prayer  in  bounty  grant. 
In  mercy  grant  it  to  thy  wretched  Sons. 

Then,  not  till  then,  shall  persecution  cease, 
And  cruel  Wars  expire.     The  way  is  marked. 


284  wordsv/orth's  poems. 

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 
Proffered  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  guije,  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  morning  wakes,  among  sweet  dews  and  flowera 

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 

Fulfilled,  the  hope  accomplished ;  and  thy  praise" 

Be  sung  with  transport  and  unceasing  joy. 

"  Once,"  and  with  mild  demeanor,  as  he  spake, 
On  us  the  Venerable  Pastor  turned 
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 


woedsworth's  poems.  285 

Unheard,  the  savage  nations  bowed  the  head 

To  Gods  delighting  in  remorseless  deeds; 

Gods  which  themselves  had  fashioned,  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  solemnized ;  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  Avinds,  the  groans  and  shrieks 

Of  human  Victims,  offered  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 

Bedimmed  with  smoke,  in  wreaths  voluminous, 

Flung  from  the  body  of  devouring  fires. 

To  Taranis  erected  on  the  heights 

By  priestly  hands,  for  sacrifice  performed 

Exultingly,  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 

The  appearances  of  things !   From  such,  how  changed 

The  existing  worship ;  and  with  those  compared, 

The  Worshippers  how  innocent  and  blest ! 

So  wide  the  difference,  a  willing  mind, 

At  this  affecting  hour,  might  almost  think 

That  Paradise,  the  lost  abode  of  man, 

Was  raised  again ;  and  to  a  happy  Few, 


286  Wordsworth's  poems. 

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  gained  ?     O  Ye,  who  come 

To  kneel  devoutly  in  yon  reverend  Pile, 

Called  to  such  office  by  the  peaceful  sound 

Of  Sabbath  bells ;   and  Ye,  who  sleep  in  earth, 

All  cares  forgotten,  round  its  hallowed  walls ! 

For  You,  in  presence  of  this  little  Band 

Gathered  together  on  the  green  hill-side, 

Your  Pastor  is  emboldened  to  prefer 

Vocal  thanksgivings  to  the  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  endowed 
With  scantiest  knowledge,  Master  of  all  truth 
Which  the  salvation  of  his  soul  requires. 
Conscious  of  that  abundant  favor  showered 
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  hushed ;   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  Hira, 


woudsworth's  poems.  287 

Audible  praise,  to  Thee,  Omniscient  Mind, 

From  Wiiom  all  gifts  descend,  all  blessings  flow!" 

This  Vesper  service  closed,  without  delay, 

From  that  exalted  station  to  the  plain 

Descending,  we  pursued  our  homeward  course, 

In  mute  composure,  o'er  the  shadowy  lake, 

Beneath  a  faded  sky.     No  trace  remained 

Of  those  celestial  splendors  ;   gray  the  vault, 

Pure,  cloudless  ether ;   and  the  Star  of  Eve 

Was  wanting  ;  —  but  inferior  Lights  appeared 

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  ;  —  where  to  the  sheltering  tree, 

Our  youthful  Voyagers  bound  fast  her  prow, 

Witlr  prompt  yet  careful  hands.     This  done,  we  paced 

The  dewy  fields  ;   but  ere  the  Vicar's  door 

Was  reached,  the  Solitary  checked  his  steps  ; 

Then,  intermingling  thanks,* on  each  bestowed 

A  farewell  salutation,  —  and,  the  like 

Receiving,  took  the  slender  path  that  leads 

To  the  one  Cottage,  in  the  lonely  dell ; 

But  turned  not  without  welcome  promise  given, 

That  he  would  share  the  pleasures  and  pursuits 

Of  yet  another  summer's  day,  consumed 

In  wandering  with  us  through  the  Valleys  fair, 

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,  is  yours  to  give, — 

And  season  favors." 

To  enfeebled  Power, 
From  this  communion  with  uninjured  Minds, 


888  WORDSWORTH'S  POEMS. 

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  Labors  may  not  leave  untold. 


PETER     BELL 

A   TALE. 


PETER    BELL 

A    TALE. 


What's  in  a  Name  7 
Bnitii«  will  start  a  Spirit  as  soon  as  Csesar! 


ROBERT  SOUTHEY,  Esq.  P.  L, 

Sic,  Sic. 

Mt  Dbas  Friend:  — 

The  Tale  of  Peter  Bell,  which  I  now  introduce  to  your  notice,  and  to 
that  of  the  Public,  has,  in  its  IVIanuscrlpt  state,  nearly  survived  its 
MINORITY ;  —  for  it  first  saw  the  light  in  the  summer  of  1798  During 
this  long  interval,  pains  have  been  taken  at  different  times  to  make  the 
production  less  unworthy  of  a  favorable  reception ;  or,  rather,  to  fit  it 
for  filling  PERMANENTLY  a  station,  however  humble,  in  the  Literature 
of  my  Country.  This  has,  indeed,  been  the  aim  of  all  my  endeavors  in 
Poetry,  which,  you  know,  have  been  sufficiently  laborious  lo  prove  that 
I  deem  the  Art  not  lightly  to  be  approached ;  and  that  the  attainment  of 
excellence  in  it,  may  laudably  be  made  the  principal  object  of  intel- 
lectual pursuit  by  any  man,  who,  with  reasonable  consideration  of  cir- 
cumstances, has  faith  in  his  own  impulses. 

The  Poem  of  Peter  Bell,  as  the  Prologue  will  show,  was  composed 
under  a  belief  that  the  Imagination  not  only  does  not  require  for  its 
exercise  the  intervention  of  supernatural  agency,  but  that,  though  such 
agency  be  excluded,  the  faculty  may  be  called  forth  as  imperiously,  and 
for  kindred  results  of  pleasure,  by  incidents,  within  the  compass  of 
poetic  probability,  in  the  humblest  departments  of  daily  life.    Since 


292  Wordsworth's  poems. 

that  Prologue  was  written,  rotr  have  exhibited  most  splendid  efiects  oi 
judicious  daring-,  in  the  opposite  and  usual  course.  Let  this  acknoW" 
ledgment  make  my  peace  with  the  lovers  of  the  supernatural ;  and  I  am 
persuaded  it  will  be  admitted,  that  to  you,  as  a  Master  in  that  province 
of  the  art,  the  following  Tale,  whellier  from  contrast  or  congruity,  is  no* 
an  unappropriale  offering.  Accept  it,  then,  as  a  public  testimony  o. 
affectionate  admiration  from  one  wth  whose  name  yours  has  been  often, 
coupled  (to  use  your  own  words)  for  evil  and  for  good ;  and  believe  mo 
to  be,  with  earnest  wishes  that  life  and  health  may  be  granted  you  to 
complete  the  many  important  works  in  which  you  are  engaged,  and 
with  high  respect, 

Most  faithfully  yours, 

William  Wordswohth. 
Rydal  Mount,  April  7, 1819. 


PROLOGUE. 

There's  something  in  a  flying  horse, 
There's  something'  in  a  huge  balloon ; 
But  through  the  clouds  I'll  never  float 
Until  I  have  a  little  Boat, 
Whose  shape  is  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  roaring, 

Rocking  and  roaring  like  a  sea ; 

The  noise  of  danger  fills  your  ears, 

And  ye  have  all  a  thousand  fears  >^ 

Both  for  my  little  Boat  and  me ' 


Wordsworth's  poems.  293 

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! 

Away  we  go,  my  Boat  and  I  — 
Frail  man  ne'er  sate  in  such  anotner; 
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  scattered  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-haired  race  of  Mars, 
Covered  from  top  to  toe  with  scars; 
Such  company  I  like  it  not! 

The  towns  in  Saturn  are  decayed. 
And  melancholy  Spectres  throng  them ; 
The  Pleiads,  that  appear  to  kiss 
Each  other  in  the  vast  abyss. 
With  joy  I  sail  among  them! 
'25* 


294  Wordsworth's  poems. 

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  ours  ? 

Then  back  to  Earth,  the  dear  green  Earth; 
Whole  ages  if  T  here  should  roam. 
The  world  for  my  remarks  and  me 
Would  not  a  whit  the  better  be ; 
I've  left  my  heart  at  home. 

And  there  it  is,  the  matchless  Earth! 
There  spreads  the  famed  Pacific  Ocean! 
Old  Andes  thrusts  yon  craggy  spear 
Through  the  gray  clouds  —  the  Alps  are  h^e, 
Like  waters  in  commotion ! 

Yon  tawny  slip  is  Libya's  sands  — 
That  silver  thread  the  river  Dnieper  — 
And  look,  where  clothed  in  brightest  green 
Is  a  sweet  Isle,  of  isles  the  Queen ; 
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! 


w^ordsworth's  poems.  295 

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 
Fluttered  so  faint  a  heart  before;  — 
Was  it  the  music  of  the  spheres 
That  overpowered  your  mortal  ears  ? 
—  Such  din  shall  trouble  them  no  more. 

These  nether  precintcs  do  not  lack 

Charms  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  shall  not  see. 

Haste!   and  above  Siberian  snows 
We'll  sport  amid  the  boreal  morning, 
Will  mingle  with  her  lustres,  gliding 
Among  the  stars,  the  stars  now  hiding, 
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 ! 


296  Wordsworth's  poems. 

Or,  if  you  thirst  with  hardy  zeal 
Less  quiet  regions  to  explore, 
Prompt  voyage  shall  to  you  reveal 
How  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  played  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  pursuing 
Without  impediment  or  let. 
My  radiant  Pinnace,  you  forget 
What  on  the  earth  is  doing. 

There  was  a  time  when  all  mankind 
Did  listen  with  a  faith  sincere 
To  tuneful  tongues  in  mystery  versed ; 
Then  Poets  fearlessly  rehearsed 
The  Avonders  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 
Suffices  me  —  her  tears,  her  mirth. 
Her  humblest  mirth  and  tears. 


Wordsworth's  poems.  297 

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,  M^hat  more  need  I  desire 
To  stir  —  to  soothe  —  to  elevate  ? 
What  nobler  marvels  than  the  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. 

But  grant  my  wishes,  —  let  us  now 
Descend  from  this  ethereal  height ; 
Then  take  thy  way,  adventurous  Skiff, 
More  daring  far  than  Hippogriflf, 
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  know  not  I  have  been  so  far ;  — 
I  see  them  there,  in  number  nine. 
Beneath  the  spreading  Weymouth  pine  — 
I  see  them  ■ —  there  they  are  ! 


298  WORDSWORTH  S  POEMS. 

There  sits  the  Vicar  and  his  Dame ; 
And  there  my  good  friend,  Stephen  Otte. 
And,  ere  the  light,  of  evening  fail, 
To  them  I  must  relate  the  Tale 
Of  Peter  Bell  the  Potter." 

Off  flew  my  sparkling  Boat  in  scorn, 
Spurning  her  freight  with  indignation! 
And  I,  as  well  as  I  was  able, 
On  two  poor  legs,  tow'rd  my  stone-table 
Limped  on  with  some  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 ! 

"  Reproach  rae  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-remembered  debt" 

I  spake  with  faltering  voice,  like  one 
Not  wholly  rescued  from  the  Pale 
Of  a  wild  dream,  or  worse  illusion ; 
But,  straight,  to  cover  my  confusion, 
Began  the  promised  Tale. 


PART     FIRST. 


All  by  the  moonlight  river  side 
Groaned  the  poor  Beast  —  alas!  in  vain; 


Wordsworth's  poems.  299 

The  staff  was  raised  to  loftier  height, 
And  the  blows  fell  with  heavier  weight 
As  Peter  struck  —  and  struck  again. 

Like  winds  that  lash  the  waves,  or  smite 
The  woods,  autumnal  foliage  thinning  — 
"Hold!"  said  the  Squire,  "I  pray  you  hold. 
Who  Peter  was  let  that  be  told. 
And  start  from  the  beginning." 

"A  Potter,  Sir,  he  was  by  trade," 

Said  I,  becoming  quite  collected ; 
"  And  wheresoever  he  appeared. 
Full  twenty  times  was  Peter  feared 
For  once  that  Peter  was  respected. 

He,  two-and-thirty  years  or  more, 
Had  been  a  wild  and  woodland  rover, 
Had  heard  the  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  its  ponderous  knell, 
Its  far-renowned  alarum ! 

At  Doncaster,  at  York,  and  Leeds, 
And  merry  Carlisle  had  he  been ; 
And  all  along  the  Lowlands  fair. 
All  through  the  bonny  shire  of  Ayr  — 
And  far  as  Aberdeen. 


300  Wordsworth's  poems. 

And  he  had  been  at  Inverness ; 

And  Peter,  by  the  mountain  rills, 

Had  danced  his  round  with  Highland  lasses; 

And  he  had  lain  beside  his  asses 

On  lofty  Cheviot  Hills: 

And  he  had  trudged  through  Yorkshire  dales, 
Amo':.g'  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  the  indented  coast, 
Bespattered  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. 

As  well  might  Peter,  in  the  Fleet, 

Have  been  fast  bound,  a  begging  Debtor;  — 

He  travelled  here,  he  travelled  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. 


Wordsworth's  poems.                     301 

Small  change  it  made  in  Peter's  heart 

To  see  his  gentle  panniered  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  did  never  melt 

Into  his  heart,  —  he  never  felt 

The  witchery  of  the  soft  blue  sky! 

On  a  fair  prospect  some  have  looked 

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-cry  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. 

26 

302  Wordsworth's  poems. 

Nay,  start  not !  —  wedded  wives  —  and  twelve 
But  how  one  wife  could  e'er  come  near  him, 
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  mountains  and  of  dreary  moors. 

To  all  the  unshaped  half-human  thoughts 

Which  solitary  Nature  feeds 

'Mid  summer  storms  or  winter's  ice. 

Had  Peter  joined  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  and  bold, 
You  might  perceive,  his  spirit  cold 
Was  playing  with  some  inward  bait 


Wordsworth's  poems.  303 

His  forehead  wrinkled  was  and  furred 
A  work,  one  half  of  which  was  done 
By  thinking  of  his  whens  and  hows; 
And  half,  by  knitting  of  his  brows 
Beneath  the  glaring  sun. 

There  was  a  hardness  in  his  cheek, 
There  was  a  hardness  in  his  eye, 
As  if  the  man  had  fixed  his  face, 
In  many  a  solitary  place. 
Against  the  wind  and  open  sky! 

One  wight,  (and  now  my  little  Bess! 
We've  reached  at  last  the  promised  Tale;) 
One  beautiful  November  night, 
When  the  full  moon  was  shining  bright 
Upon  the  rapid  river  Swale, 

Along  the  river's  winding  banks 
Peter  was  travelling  all  alone  ;  — : 
Whether  to  buy  or  sell,  or  led 
By  pleasure  running  in  his  head, 
To  me  was  never  known. 

He  trudged  along  through  copse  and  brake, 
He  trudged  along  o'er  hill  and  dale ! 
Nor  for  the  moon  cared  he  a  tittle, 
And  for  the  stars  he  cared  as  little. 
And  for  the  murmuring  river  Swale. 

But,  chancing  to  espy  a  path 
That  promised  to  cut  short  the  way, 
As  many  a  wiser  man  hath  done, 
He  left  a  trusty  guide  for  one 
That  might  his  steps  betray. 


304  Wordsworth's  poems. 

To  a  thick  wood  he  soon  is  brought, 
Where  cheerfully  his  course  he  weaves, 
And  whistling  loud  may  yet  be  heard, 
Though  often  buried  like  a  bird 
Darkling  among  the  boughs  and  leaves. 

But  quickly  Peter's  mood  is  changed, 
And  on  he  drives  with  cheeks  that  burn 
In  downright  fury,  and  in  wrath  — 
There's  little  sign  the  treacherous  path 
Will  to  the  I'oad  return ! 

The  path  grows  dim  and  dimmer  still; 
Now  up  —  now  down  —  the  Rover  wends 
With  all  the  sail  that  he  can  carry. 
Till  brought  to  a  deserted  quarry  — 
And  there  the  pathway  ends. 

He  paused  —  for  shadows  of  strange  shape. 
Massy  and  black,  before  him  lay ; 
But  through  the  dark,  and  through  the  cold, 
And  through  the  yawning  fissures  old. 
Did  Peter  boldly  press  his  way, 

Right  through  the  quarry;  —  and  behold 
A  scene  of  soft  and  lovely  hue ! 
Where  blue,  and  gray,  and  tender  green. 
Together  make  as  sweet  a  scene 
As  ever  human  eye  did  view. 

Beneath  the  clear  blue  sky  he  saw 
A  little  field  of  meadow  ground ; 
But  field  or  meadow  name  it  not; 
Call  it  of  earth  a  small  green  plot, 
With  rocks  encompassed  round. 


Wordsworth's  poems.  305 

The  Swale  flowed  under  the  gray  rocks, 
But  he  flowed  quiet  and  unseen ;  — 
You  need  a  strong  and  stormy  gale 
To  bring  the  noises  of  the  Swale 
To  that  green  spot,  so  calm  and  green! 

And  is  there  no  one  dwelling  here, 

No  hermit  with  his  beads  and  glass? 

And  does  no  little  cottage  look 

Upon  this  soft  and  fertile  nook  ? 

Does  no  one  live  near  this  green  grass  ?  — 

Across  the  deep  and  quiet  spot 
Is  Peter  driving  through  the  grass  — 
And  now  he  is  among  the  trees ; 
When,  turning  round  his  head,  he  sees 
A  solitary  Ass. 

"  A  prize,"  cried  Peter,  stepping  back 
To  spy  about  him  far  and  near ; 
There's  not  a  single  house  in  sight, 
No  woodman's  hut,  no  cottage  light  — 
Peter,  you  need  not  fear! 

There's  nothing  to  be  seen  but  woods. 
And  rocks  that  spread  a  hoary  gleam. 
And  this  one  beast  that  from  the  bed 
Of  the  green  meadow  hangs  his  head 
Over  the  silent  stream. 

His  head  is  with  a  halter  bound; 
The  halter  seizing,  Peter  leapt 
Upon  the  Creature's  back,  and  plied 
With  ready  heel  his  shaggy  side ; 
But  still  the  Ass  his  station  kept 
26* 


306  Wordsworth's  poems. 

"  What's  this  ? "  cried  Peter,  brandishing 
A  new-peeled  sapling  ;  —  though  I  deem 
This  threat  was  understood  full  well, 
Firm,  as  before,  the  Sentinel 
Stood  by  the  silent  stream. 

Then  Peter  gave  a  sudden  jerk, 
A  jerk  that  from  a  dungeon  floor 
Would  have  pulled  up  an  iron  ring; 
But  still  the  heavy-headed  Thing 
Stood  just  as  he  had  stood  before ! 

Quoth  Peter,  leaping  from  his  seat,  ~ 
"There  is  some  plot  against  me  laid;" 
Once  more  the  little  meadow  ground 
And  all  the  hoary  cliffs  around 
He  cautiously  surveyed. 

All,  all  is  silent  —  rocks  and  woods, 
All  still  and  silent  —  far  and  near ! 
Only  the  Ass,  with  motion  dull 
Upon  the  pivot  of  his  skull 
Turns  round  his  long  left  ear. 

Thought  Peter,  What  can  mean  all  this? 
Some  ugly  witchcraft  must  be  here! 
Once  more  the  Ass  with  motion  dull, 
Upon  the  pivot  of  his  skull 
Turned  round  his  long  left  ear. 

Suspicion  ripened  into  dread ; 
Yet  with  deliberate  action  slow, 
His  stafi^  high-raising,  in  the  pride 
Of  skill,  upon  the  sounding  hide. 
He  dealt  a  sturdy  blow. 


Wordsworth's  poems.  307 

What  followed  ?  —  yielding  to  the  shock, 
The  Ass,  as  if  to  take  his  ease. 
In  quiet  uncomplaining  mood. 
Upon  the  spot  where  he  had  stood, 
Dropped  gently  down  upon  his  knees. 

And  then  upon  his  side  he  fell, 
And  by  the  river's  brink  did  lie ; 
And,  as  he  lay  like  one  that  mourned, 
The  Beast  on  his  tormentor  turned 
His  shining  hazel  eye. 

'Twas  but  one  mild  reproachful  look, 
A  look  more  tender  than  severe ; 
And  straight  in  sorrow,  not  in  dread, 
He  turned  the  eye-ball  in  his  head 
Towards  the  river  deep  and  clear. 

Upon  the  beast  the  sapling  rings,  — 

His  lank  sides  heaved,  his  limbs  they  stirred; 

He  gave  a  groan  —  and  then  another. 

Of  that  which  went  before  the  brother. 

And  then  he  gave  a  third. 

And  Peter  halts  to  gather  breath. 
And,  while  he  halts,  was  clearly  shown 
(What  he  before  in  part  had  seen) 
How  gaunt  the  Creature  was,  and  lean. 
Yea,  wasted  to  a  skeleton. 

With  legs  stretched  out  and  stiff  he  lay: 
No  word  of  kind  commiseration 
Fell  at  the  sight  from  Peter's  tongue ; 
With  hard  contempt  his  heart  was  wrung, 
\'i^ith  hatred  and  vexation. 


308  Wordsworth's  poems. 

The  meagre  beast  lay  still  as  deaths 
And  Peter's  lips  with  fury  quiver  — 
Quoth  he,  "You  little  mulish  dog, 
I'll  fling  your  carcass  like  a  log 
Head-foremost  down  the  river ! " 

An  impious  oath  confirmed  the  threat: 
That  instant,  while  outstretched  he  lay 
To  all  the  echoes,  south  and  north, 
And  east  and  west,  the  Ass  sent  forth 
A  loud  and  piteous  bray ! 

This  outcry,  on  the  heart  of  Peter, 
Seems  like  a  note  of  joy  to  strike, — 
Joy  at  the  heart  of  Peter  knocks; 
But  in  the  echo  of  the  rocks 
Was  something  Peter  did  not  like. 

Whether  to  cheer  his  coward  breast, 
Or  that  he  could  not  break  the  chain. 
In  this  serene  and  solemn  hour. 
Twined  round  him  by  demoniac  power, 
To  the  blind  work  he  turned  again. 

Among  the  rocks  and  winding  crags  — 

Among  the  mountains  far  away  — 

Once  more  the  Ass  did  lengthen  out 

More  ruefully  an  endless  shout, 

The  long  dry  see-saw  of  this  horrible  bray. 

What  is  therf?  now  in  Peter's  heart  ? 

Or  whence  the  might  of  this  strange  sound? 

The  moon  uneasy  looked  and  dimmer. 

The  broad  blue  heavens  appeared  to  glimmer 

And  the  rocks  staggered  all  around. 


Wordsworth's  poems.  309 

From  Peter's  hand  the  sapling  dropped 
Threat  has  he  none  to  execute  — 
"If  any  one  should  come  and  see 
That  I  am  here,  they'll  think,"  quoth  he, 
"I'm  helping  this  poor  dying  brute." 

He  scans  the  Ass  from  limb  to  limb ; 
And  Peter  now  uplifts  his  eyes ; 
Steady  the  moon  doth  look,  and  clear, 
And  like  themselves  the  rocks  appear, 
And  quiet  are  the  skie*s. 

Whereat,  in  resolute  mood,  once  more, 
He  stoops  the  Ass's  neck  to  seize  — 
Foul  purpose,  quickly  put  to  flight! 
For  in  the  pool  a  startling  sight 
Meets  him,  beneath  the  shadowy  trees. 

Is  it  the  moon's  distorted  face  ? 
The  ghost-like  image  of  a  cloud  ? 
Is  it  the  gallows  there  portrayed  ? 
Is  Peter  of  himself  afraid  ? 
Is  it  a  coffin,  —  or  a  shroud  ? 

A  grisly  idol  hewn  in  stone  ? 
Or  imp  from  witch's  lap  let  fall  ? 
Or  a  gay  ring  of  shining  fairies, 
Such  as  pursue  their  brisk  vagaries 
In  sylvan  bower,  or  haunted  hall  ? 

Is  it  a  fiend  that  to  a  stake 

Of  fire  his  desperate  self  is  tethering  ? 

Or  stubborn  spirit  doomed  to  yell 

In  solitary  ward  or  cell. 

Ten  thousand  miles  from  all  his  brethren? 


310  Wordsworth's  poems. 

Never  did  pulse  so  quickly  throb, 
And  never  heart  so  loudly  panted ; 
He  looks,  he  cannot  choose  but  look; 
Like  one  intent  upon  a  book  — 
A  book  that  is  enchanted. 

Ah,  well-a-day  for  Peter  Bell !  — 
He  will  be  turned  to  iron  soon, 
Meet  Statue  for  the  court  of  Fear! 
His  hat  is  up  —  and  every  hair 
Bristles  —  and  whitens  4n  the  moon ! 

He  looks  —  he  ponders  —  looks  again ; 
He  sees  a  motion  —  hears  a  groan  ;  — 
His  eyes  will  burst  —  his  heart  will  break  — 
He  gives  a  loud  and  frightful  shriek, 
And  drops,  a  senseless  weight,  as  if  his  life  were 
flown. 


PART   SECOND. 

We  left  our  Hero  in  a  trance, 
Beneath  the  alders,  near  the  river; 
The  Ass  is  by  the  river  side, 
And,  where  the  feeble  breezes  glide. 
Upon  the  stream  the  moonbeams  quiver 

A  happy  respite  !  —  but  at  length 
He  feels  the  glimmering  of  the  moon; 
Wakes  with  glazed  eye,  and  feebly  sighing- 
To  sink,  perhaps,  where  he  is  lying, 
Into  a  second  swoon! 


Wordsworth's  poems.  311 

He  lifts  his  head  —  he  sees  his  staff; 
He  touches  —  'tis  to  him  a  treasure . 
Faint  recollection  seems  to  tell 
That  he  is  yet  where  mortals  dwell  — 
A  thought  received  with  languid  pleasure 

His  head  upon  his  elbow  propped, 
Becoming  less  and  less  perplexed, 
Skyward  he  looks  —  to  rock  and  wood  — 
And  then  —  upon  the  glassy  flood 
His  wandering  eye  is  fixed. 

Thought  he,  That  is  the  face  of  one 
In  his  last  sleep  securely  bound! 
So  toward  the  stream  his  head  he  bent, 
And  downward  thrust  his  staff,  intent 
The  river's  depth  to  sound. 

JVow  —  like  a  tempest-shattered  bark, 
That  overwhelmed  and  prostrate  lies, 
And  in  a  moment  to  the  verge 
Is  lifted  of  a  foaming  surge  — 
Full  suddenly  the  Ass  doth  rise ! 

His  staring  bones  all  shake  with  joy  — 
And  close  by  Peter's  side  he  stands : 
While  Peter  o'er  the  river  bends, 
The  little  Ass  his  neck  extends, 
And  fondly  licks  his  hands. 

Such  life  is  in  the  Ass's  eyes  — 
Such  life  is  in  his  limbs  and  ears  — 
That  Peter  Bell,  if  he  had  been 
The  veriest  coward  ever  seen. 
Must  now  have  thrown  aside  his  fears. 


3J3  Wordsworth's  poems. 

The  Ass  looks  on  —  and  to  his  work 
Is  Peter  quietly  resigned; 
He  touches  here  —  he  touches  there  — 
And  now  among  the  dead  man's  hair 
His  sapling  Peter  has  entwined. 

He  pulls  —  and  looks  —  and  pulls  again; 
And  he  whom  the  poor  Ass  had  lost, 
The  Man  who  had  been  four  days  dead, 
Head-foremost  from  the  river's  bed 
Uprises  —  like  a  ghost ! 

And  Peter  draws  him  to  dry  land ; 
And  through  the  brain  of  Peter  pass 
Some  poignant  twitches,  fast  and  faster, 
"No  doubt,"  quoth  he,  "he  is  the  Master 
Of  this  poor  miserable  Ass  ! " 

The  meagre  Shadow  all  this  while  — 
What  aim  is  his  ?   what  is  he  doing  ? 
His  sudden  fit  of  joy  is  flown,  — 
He  on  his  knees  hath  laid  him  down, 
As  if  he  were  his  grief  renewing. 

But  no  —  his  purpose  and  his  wish 
The  Suppliant  shows,  well  as  he  can; 
Thought  Peter,  Whatsoe'er  betide, 
ril  go,  and  he  my  way  will  guide 
To  the  cottage  of  the  drowned  man. 

This  hoping,  Peter  boldly  mounts 
Upon  the  pleased  and  thankful  Ass ; 
And  then,  without  a  moment's  stay, 
That  earnest  Creature  turned  away 
Leaving  the  body  on  the  grass. 


Wordsworth's  poems.  313 

Intent  upon  his  faithful  watch, 
The  Beast  four  days  and  nights  had  past; 
A  sweeter  meadow  ne'er  was  seen, 
And  there  the  Ass  four  days  had  been. 
Nor  ever  once  did  break  his  fast. 

Yet  firm  his  step,  and  stout  his  heart; 
The  mead  is  crossed  —  the  quarry's  mouth 
Is  reached — but  there  the  trusty  guide 
Into  a  thicket  turns  aside, 
And  takes  his  way  towards  the  south. 

When  hark  a  burst  of  doleful  sound ! 
And  Peter  honestly  might  say, 
The  like  came  never  to  his  ears, 
Though  he  has  been,  full  thirty  years, 
A  Rover  —  night  and  day  ! 

'Tis  not  a  plover  of  the  moors, 

'Tis  not  a  bittern  of  the  fen ; 

Nor  can  it  be  a  barking  fox, 

Nor  night-bird  chambered  in  the  rocks, 

Nor  wild-cat  in  a  woody  glen! 

The  Ass  is  startled,  and  stops  short 
Right  in  the  middle  of  the  thicket; 
And  Peter,  wont  to  whistle  loud. 
Whether  alone  or  in  a  crowd. 
Is  silent  as  a  silent  cricket. 

What  ails  you  now,  my  little  Bess  ? 
Well  may  you  tremble  and  look  grave ! 
This  cry,  that  rings  along  the  wood  — 
This  cry,  that  floats  adown  the  flood, 
Comes  from  the  entrance  of  a  cave! 
27 


314  Wordsworth's  poems. 

I  see  a  blooming  Wood-boy  there, 
And,  if  I  had  the  power  to  say 
How  sorrowful  the  wanderer  is, 
Your  heart  would  be  as  sad  as  his, 
Till  you  had  kissed  his  tears  away . 

Holding  a  hawthorn  branch  in  hand, 
All  bright  with  berries  ripe  and  red, 
Into  the  cavern's  mouth  he  peeps  — 
Thence  back  into  the  moonlight  creeps: 
What  seeks  the  boy  ?  —  the  silent  dead  — 

His  father !  —  Him  doth  he  require, 
Whom  he  hath  sought  with  fruitless  pains, 
Among  the  rocks,  behind  the  trees. 
Now  creeping  on  his  hands  and  knees, 
Now  running  o'er  the  open  plains. 

And  hither  is  he  come  at  last, 
When  he  through  such  a  day  has  gone, 
By  this  dark  cave  to  be  distrest 
Like  a  poor  bird  —  her  plundered  nest 
Hovering  around  with  dolorous  moan ! 

Of  that  intense  and  piercing  cry 
The  listening  Ass  conjectures  well; 
Wild  as  it  is,  he  there  can  read 
Some  intermingled  notes  that  plead 
With  touches  irresistible; 

But  Peter,  when  he  saw  the  Ass 
Not"  only  stop  but  turn,  and  change 
The  cherished  tenor  of  his  pace. 
That  lamentable  noise  to  chase. 
It  wrought  in  him  conviction  strange 


Wordsworth's  poems.  315 

A  faith  that,  for  the  dead  man's  aake 
And  this  poor  slave  who  loved  him  well, 
Vengeance  upon  his  head  will  fall, 
Some  visitation  worse  than  all 
Which  ever  till  this  night  befel. 

Meanwhile  the  Ass  to  reach  his  home 
Is  striving  stoutly  as  he  may ; 
But,  while  he  climbs  the  woody  hill, 
The  cry  grov/s  weak,  and  weaker  still, 
And  now  at  last  it  dies  away. 

So  with  his  freight  the  Creature  turns 
Into  a  gloomy  grove  of  beech. 
Along  the  shade  with  footstep  true 
Descending  slowly,  till  the  two 
The  open  moonlight  reach. 

And  there,  along  a  narrow  dell, 
A  fair  smooth  pathway  you  discern, 
A  length  of  green  and  open  road  — 
As  if  it  from  a  fountain  flowed  — 
Winding  away  between  the  fern. 

The  rocks  that  tower  on  either  side 
Build  up  a  wild  fantastic  scene ; 
Temples  like  those  among  the  Hindoos. 
And  mosques,  and  spires,  and  abbey-windows, 
And  castles  all  with  ivy  green! 

And,  while  the  Ass  pursues  his  way 

Along  this  solitary  dell. 

As  pensively  his  steps  advance. 

The  mosques  and  spires  change  countenance, 

And  look  at  Peter  Bell ! 


316  Wordsworth's  poems. 

That  unintelligible  cry 
Hath  left  him  high  in  preparation, 
Convinced  that  he,  or  soon  or  late, 
This  very  night  will  meet  his  fate  — 
And  so  he  sits  in  expectation ! 

The  strenuous  Animal  hath  clomb 

With  the  green  path, —  and  now  he  wends 

Where,  shining  like  the  smoothest  sea, 

In  undisturbed  immensity 

A  level  plain  extends. 

But  whence  that  faintly-rustling  sound 
Which,  all  too  long,  the  pair  hath  chased? 
—  A  dancing  leaf  is  close  behind. 
Like  plaything  for  the  sportive  wind 
Upon  that  solitary  waste. 

When  Peter  spies  the  withered  leaf, 
It  yields  no  cure  to  his  distress ; 
"  Where  there  is  not  a  bush  or  tree, 
The  very  leaves  they  follow  me  — 
So  huge  hath  been  my  wickedness ! " 

To  a  close  lane  they  now  are  come, 
Where,  as  before,  the  enduring  Ass 
Moves  on  without  a  moment's  stop. 
Nor  once  turns  round  his  head  to  crop 
A  bramble  leaf  or  blade  of  grass. 

Between  the  hedges  as  they  go. 
The  white  dust  sleeps  upon  the  lane; 
And,  Peter,  ever  and  anon 
Back  looking,  sees,  upon  a  stone 
Or  in  the  dust,  a  crimson  stain. 


Wordsworth's  poems.  317 

A  stain  —  as  of  a  drop  of  blood, 

By  moonlight  made  more  faint  and  wan  — 

Ha!   why  this  comfortless  despair? 

He  knows  not  how  the  blood  comes  there, 

And  Peter  is  a  wicked  man. 

At  length  he  spies  a  bleeding  wound, 
Where  he  had  struck  the  Creature's  head ; 
He  sees  the  blood,  knows  what  it  is, — 
A  glimpse  of  sudden  joy  was  his, 
But  then  it  quickly  fled: 

Of  him  whom  sudden  death  had  seized 

He  thought,  —  of  thee,  O  faithful  Ass ! 

And  once  again  those  darting  pains. 

As  meteors  shoot  through  heaven's  wide  plains, 

Pass  through  his  bosom,  and  repass  ! 


PART   THIRD. 

I'VE  heard  of  one,  a  gentle  Soul, 
Though  given  to  sadness  and  to  gloom, 
And  for  the  fact  will  vouch,  —  one  night 
It  chanced  that  by  a  taper's  light 
This  man  was  reading  in  his  room; 

Bending,  as  you  or  I  might  bend 
At  night  o'er  any  pious  book, 
When  sudden  blackness  overspread 
The  snow-white  page  on  which  he  read, 
And  made  the  good  man  round  him  looL 
27* 


318  Wordsworth's  poems. 

The  chamber  walls  were  dark  all  round, — 
And  to  his  book  he  turned  again; 

—  The  light  had  left  the  good  man's  taper 
And  formed  itself  upon  the  paper 

Into  large  letters,  bright  and  plain ! 

The  godly  book  was  in  his  hand  — 
And,  on  the  page,  more  black  than  coal, 
Appeared,  set  forth  in  strange  array, 
A  ivord  —  which  to  his  dying  day 
Perplexed  the  good  man's  gentle -soul. 

The  ghostly  word,  full  plainly  seen. 
Did  never  from  his  lips  depart ; 
But  he  hath  said,  poor  gentle  wight! 
It  brought  full  many  a  sin  to  light 
Out  of  the  bottom  of  his  heart 

Dread  Spirits !   to  torments  the  good 
Why  wander  from  your  course  so  far, 
Disordering  color,  form,  and  stature ! 

—  Let  good  men  feel  the  soul  of  Nature 
And  see  things  as  they  are. 

I  know  you,  potent  Spirits !   well. 
How,  with  the  feeling  and  the  sense 
Playing,  ye  govern  foes  or  friends, 
Yoked  to  your  will,  for  fearful  ends  — 
And  this  I  speak  in  reverence ! 

But  might  I  give  advice  to  you. 
Whom  in  my  fear  I  love  so  well, 
From  men  of  pensive  virtue  go, 
Dread  Beings !   and  your  empire  show 
On  hearts  like  that  of  Peter  Bell. 


WORUSWOETH's  P0EM3.  319 

Your  presence  I  have  often  felt 

In  darkness  and  the  stormy  night ; 

And  well  I  know,  if  need  there  be, 

Ye  can  put  forth  your  agency 

When  earth  is  calm,  and  heaven  is  bright 

Then,  coming  from  the  wayward  world, 
That  powerful  world  in  which  ye  dwell, 
Come,  spirits  of  the  Mind !   and  try 
To-night,  beneath  the  moonlight  sky, 
What  may  be  done  with  Peter  Bell! 

—  O  would  that  some  more  skilful  voice 
My  further  labor  might  prevent! 
Kind  Listeners,  that  around  me  sit, 
I  fell  that  I  am  all  unfit 
For  such  high  argument. 

I've  played  and  danced  with  my  narration  — 

I  loitered  long  ere  I  began: 

Ye  waited  then  on  my  good  pleasure, — 

Pour  out  indulgence,  still,  in  measure 

As  liberal  as  you  can! 

Our  travellers,  ye  remember  well, 
Are  thridding  a  sequestered  lane; 
And  Peter  many  tricks  is  trying, 
And  many  anodynes  applying. 
To  ease  his  conscience  of  its  pain. 

By  this  his  heart  is  lighter  far; 
And,  finding  that  he  can  account 
So  clearly  for  that  crimson  stain, 
His  evil  spirit  up  again 
Does  like  an  empty  bucket  mount 


Wordsworth's  poems. 

And  Peter  is  a  deep  logician 

Who  hath  no  lack  of  wit  mercurial ; 

"  Blood  drops  —  leaves  rustle  —  yet,"  quoth  he, 

"  This  poor  man  never,  but  for  me, 

Could  have  had  Christian  burial. 

And,  say  the  best  you  can,  'tis  plain. 
That  here  hath  been  some  wicked  dealing; 
No  doubt  the  devil  in  me  wrought ; 
I'm  not  the  man  who  could  have  thought 
An  Ass  like  this  was  worth  the  stealing!" 

So  from  his  pocket  Peter  takes 
His  shining  horn  tobacco-box ; 
And,  in  a  light  and  earless  way, 
As  men  who  with  their  purpose  play, 
Upon  the  lid  he  knocks. 

Let  them  whose  voice  can  stop  the  clouds 

Whose  cunning  eye  can  see  the  wind  — 

Tell  to  a  curious  world  the  cause 

Why,  making  here  a  sudden  pause, 

The  Ass  turned  round  his  head  —  and  grinned. 

Appalling  process !  —  I  have  marked 
The  like  on  heath  —  in  lonely  wood, 
And,  verily,  have  seldom  met 
A  spectacle  more  hideous  —  yet 
It  suited  Peter's  present  mood ; 

And,  grinning  in  his  turn,  his  teeth 
He  in  jocose  defiance  showed  — 
When,  to  confound  his  spiteful  mirth, 
A  murmur,  pent  within  the  earth. 
In  the  dead  earth  beneath  the  road, 


Wordsworth's  poems.  331 

Relied  audibly!  —  it  swept  along  — 
A  muffled  noise  —  a  rumbling'  sound ! 
'Twas  by  a  troop  of  miners  made, 
Plying  with  gunpowder  their  trade, 
Some  twenty  fathoms  under  ground. 

Small  cause  of  dire  effect !  —  for,  surely, 
If  ever  mortal,  King  or  Cotter, 
Believed  that  earth  was  charged  to  quake 
And  yawn  for  his  unworthy  sake, 
■'Twas  Peter  Bell  the  Potter. 

But,  as  an  oak  in  breathless  air 

Will  stand  though  to  the  centre  hewn; 

Or  as  the  weakest  things,  if  frost 

Have  stiffened  them,  maintain  their  post; 

So  he,  beneath  the  gazing  moon !  — 

Meanwhile  the  pair  have  reached  a  spot 
Where,  sheltered  by  a  rocky  cove, 
A  little  chapel  stands  alone. 
With  greenest  ivy  overgrown, 
And  tufted  with  an  ivy  grove. 

Dying  insensibly  away 

From  human  thoughts  and  purposes. 

The  building  seems,  wall,  roof,  and  tower, 

To  bow  to  some  transforming  power, 

And  blend  with  the  surrounding  trees. 

Deep-sighing  as  he  passed  along. 
Quoth  Peter,  "In  the  shire  of  Fife, 
'Mid  such  a  ruin,  following  still 
From  land  to  land  a  lawless  will, 
I  married  my  sixth  wife ! " 


322  Wordsworth's  poems. 

The  unheeding  Ass  moves  slowly  on. 
And  now  is  passing  by  an  inn 
Brim-full  of  a  carousing  crew, 
That  make,  with  curses  not  a  few. 
An  uproar  and  a  drunken  din. 

I  cannot  well  express  the  thoughts 
Which  Peter  in  those  noises  found;  — 
A  stifling  power  compressed  his  frame, 
And  a  confusing  darkness  came 
Over  that  dull  and  dreary  sound. 

For  well  did  Peter  know  the  sound; 
The  language  of  those  drunken  joys 
To  him,  a  jovial  soul,  I  ween, 
But  a  few  hours  ago,  had  been, 
A  gladsome  and  a  welcome  noise. 

J^ow,  turned  adrift  into  the  past. 
He  finds  no  solace  in  his  course.; 
Like  planet-stricken  men  of  yore, 
He  trembles,  smitten  to  the  core 
By  strong  compunction  and  remorse. 

But,  more  than  all,  his  heart  is  stung 
To  think  of  one,  almost  a  child; 
A  sweet  and  playful  Highland  girl. 
As  light  and  beauteous  as  a  squirrel, 
As  beauteous  and  as  wild ! 

A  lonely  house  her  dwelling  was, 
A  cottage  in  a  heathy  dell ; 
And  she  put  on  her  gown  of  green, 
And  left  her  mother  at  sixteen, 
And  followed  Peter  Bell. 


Wordsworth's  poems.  333 

But  many  good  and  pious  thoughts 

Had  she ;  and,  in  the  kirk  to  pray, 

Two  long  Scotch  miles,  through  rain  or  snow, 

To  kirk  she  had  been  used  to  go, 

Twice  every  Sabbath-day. 

And,  when  she  followed  Peter  Bell, 
It  was  to  lead  an  honest  life ; 
For  he,  with  tongue  not  used  to  falter, 
Had  pledged  his  troth  before  the  altar 
To  love  her  as  his  wedded  wife. 

A  mother's  hope  is  hers  ;  —  but  soon 
She  drooped  and  pined  like  one  forlorn ; 
From  Scripture  she  a  name  did  borrow ; 
Benoni,  or  the  child  of  sorrow. 
She  called  her  babe  unborn. 

For  she  had  learned  how  Peter  lived, 
And  took  it  in  most  grievous  part; 
She  to  the  very  bone  was  worn. 
And,  ere  that  little  child  was  born. 
Died  of  a  broken  heart. 

And  now  the  Spirits  of  the  Mind 
Are  busy  with  poor  Peter  Bell ; 
Upon  the  rights  of  visual  sense 
Usurping,  with  a  prevalence 
More  terrible  than  magic  spell. 

Close  by  a  brake  of  flowering  furze 
(Above  it  shivering  aspens  play) 
He  sees  an  unsubstantial  creature, 
His  very  self  in  form  and  feature, 
Not  four  yards  from  the  broad  highway: 


334         '  Wordsworth's  poems. 

And  stretched  beneath  the  furze  he  sees 
The  Highland  girl  —  it  is  no  other ; 
And  hears  her  crying  as  she  cried 
The  very  moment  that  she  died, 
"  My  mother !   oh,  my  mother !  " 

The  sweat  pours  down  from  Peter's  face, 
So  grievous  is  his  heart's  contrition ; 
With  agony  his  eye-balls  ache, 
While  he  beholds  by  the  furze-brake 
This  miserable  vision ! 

Calm  is  the  well-deserving  brute, 
His  peace,  hath  no  offence  betrayed ; 
But  now,  while  down  that  slope  he  wenda, 
A  voice  to  Peter's  ear  ascends, 
Resounding  from  the  woody  glade : 

The  voice,  though  clamorous  as  a  horn 

Reechoed  by  a  naked  rock. 

Is  from  that  tabernacle  —  List ! 

Within,  a  fervent  Methodist 

Is  preaching  to  no  heedless  flock. 

"  Repent !   repent '  "  he  cries  aloud, 
"  While  yet  ye  may  find  mercy  ;  —  strive 
To  love  the  Lord  with  all  your  might ; 
Turn  to  him,  seek  him  day  and  night. 
And  save  your  souls  alive  I 

Repent!   repent!   though  ye  have  gone, 
Through  paths  of  wickedness  and  woe, 
After  the  Babylonian  harlot. 
And,  though  your  sins  be  red  as  scarlet, 
They  shall  be  white  as  snow ! " 


Wordsworth's  poems. 

Even  as  he  passed  the  door,  these  words 
Did  plainly  come  to  Peter's  ears ; 
And  they  such  joyful  tidings  were, 
The  joy  was  more  than  he  could  bear !  — 
He  melted  into  tears. 

Sweet  tears  of  hope  and  tenderness! 
And  fast  they  fell,  a  plenteous  shower! 
His  nerves,  his  sinews  seemed  to  melt; 
Through  all  his  iron  frame  was  felt 
A  gentle,  a  relaxing  power! 

Each  fibre  of  his  frame  was  weak; 
Weak  all  the  animal  within ; 
But,  in  its  helplessness,  grew  mild 
And  gentle  as  an  infant  child, 
An  infant  that  has  known  no  sin. 

'Tis  said  that,  through  prevailing  grace, 
He,  not  unmoved,  did  notice  now 
The  cross  upori  thy  shoulders  scored, 
Meek  Beast!   in  memory  of  the  Lord 
To  whom  all  human-kind  shall  bow ; 

In  memory  of  that  solemn  day 
When  Jesus  humbly  deigned  to  ride, 
Entering  the  proud  Jerusalem, 
By  an  immeasurable  stream 
Of  shouting  people  deified  ! 

Meanwhile  the  persevering  Ass, 
Towards  a  gate  in  open  view, 
Turns  up  a  narrow  lane ;  his  chest 
Against  the  yielding  gate  he  presaed, 
And  quietly  passed  through. 
28 


326  Wordsworth's  poems. 

And  up  the  stony  lane  he  goes; 
No  ghost  more  softly  ever  trod ; 
Among  the  stones  and  pebbles,  he 
Sets  down  his  hoofs  inaudibly, 
As  if  with  felt  his  hoofs  were  shod. 

Along  the  lane  the  trusty  Ass 
Had  gone  two  hundred  yards,  not  more ; 
When  to  a  lonely  house  he  came; 
He  turned  aside  towards  the  same, 
And  stopped  before  the  door. 

Thought  Peter,  'Tis  the  poor  man's  home ! 
He  listens  —  not  a  sound  is  heard 
Save  from  the  trickling  household  rill ; 
But,  stepping  o'er  the  cottage-sill. 
Forthwith  a  little  Girl  appeared. 

She  to  the  Meeting-house  was  bound. 
In  hope  some  tidings  there  to  gather;  — 
No  glimpse  it  is  —  no  doubtful  gleam  — 
She  saw  —  and  uttered  with  a  scream, 
"  My  father !   here's  my  father  !  " 

The  very  word  was  plainly  heard. 
Heard  plainly  by  the  wretched  Mother; 
Her  joy  was  like  a  deep  affright ; 
And  forth  she  rushed  into  the  light, 
And  saw  it  was  another! 

And  instantly,  upon  the  earth. 
Beneath  the  full  moon  shining  bright, 
Close  to  the  Ass  feet  she  fell ; 
At  the  same  moment  Peter  Bell 
Dismounts  in  most  unhappy  plight. 


Wordsworth's  poems.  387 

As  he  beheld  the  Woman  lie 
Breathless  and  motionless,  the  mind 
Of  Peter  sadly  was  confused; 
But,  though  to  such  demands  unused, 
And  helpless  almost  as  the  blind, 

He  raised  her  up;   and,  while  he  held 
Her  body  propped  against  his  knee. 
The  Woman  waked  —  and  when  she  spied 
The  poor  Ass  standing  by  her  side. 
She  moaned  most  bitterly. 

"  Oh  i   God  be  praised  —  my  heart's  at  ease 
For  he  is  dead  —  I  know  it  well ! " 
—  At  this  she  wept  a  bitter  flood ; 
And,  in  the  best  way  that  he  could, 
His  tale  did  Peter  tell. 

He  trembles  —  he  is  pale  as  death  — 
His  voice  is  weak  with  perturbation  — 
He  turns  aside  his  head  —  he  pauses  ; 
Poor  Peter,  from  a  thousand  causes, 
Is  crippled  sore  in  his  narration. 

At  length  she  learned  how  he  espied 
The  Ass  in  that  small  meadow  ground 
And  that  her  husband  now  lay  dead, 
Beside  that  luckless  river's  bed 
In  which  he  had  been  drowned. 

A  piercing  look  the  Sufferer  cast 
Upon  the  Beast  that  near  her  stands; 
She  sees  'tis  he,  that  'tis  the  same ; 
She  calls'  the  poor  Ass  by  his  name, 
And  wrings,  and  wrings  her  hands. 


328  Wordsworth's  poems. 

"  O  wretched  loss  —  untimely  stroke ' 
If  he  had  died  upon  his  bed ! 
—  He  knew  not  one  forewarning  pain 
He  never  will  come  home  again  — 
Is  dead  —  for  ever  dead !  " 

Beside  the  Woman  Peter  stands ; 
His  heart  is  opening  more  and  more ; 
A  holy  sense  pervades  his  mind; 
He  feels  what  he  for  human  kind 
Had  never  felt  before. 

At  length,  by  Peter's  arm  sustained, 
The  Woman  rises  from  the  ground  — 
"Oh,  mercy!   something  must  be  done  — 
My  little  Rachael,  you  must  run,  — 
Some  willing  neighbor  must  be  found. 

"Make  haste,  my  little  Rachael,  da, — 
The  first  you  meet  with,  bid  him  come; 
Ask  him  to  lend  his  horse  to-night; 
And  this  good  Man,  whom  Heaven  requite. 
Will  help  to  bring  the  body  home." 

Away  goes  Rachael  weeping  loud; 
An  Infant  waked  by  her  distress, 
Makes  in  the  house  a  piteous  cry ; 
And  Peter  hears  the  Mother  sigh, 
"  Seven  are  they,  and  all  fatherless ! " 

And  now  is  Peter  taught  to  feel 

That  man's  heart  is  a  holy  thing ; 

And  Nature,  through  a  world  of  death. 

Breathes  into  him  a  second  breath, 

More  searching  than  the  breath  of  spring. 


Wordsworth's  poems.  329 

Upon  a  stone  the  Woman  sits 

In  agony  of  silent  grief — 

From  his  own  thoughts  did  Peter  start; 

He  longs  to  press  her  to  his  heart, 

From  love  that  cannot  find  relief. 

But  roused,  as  if  through  every  limb 
Had  passed  a  sudden  shock  of  dread, 
The  Mother  o'er  the  threshold  flies. 
And  up  the  cottage  stairs  she  hies, 
And  to  the  pillow  gives  her  burning  head. 

And  Peter  turns  his  steps  aside 
Into  a  shade  of  darksome  trees. 
Where  he  sits  down,  he  knows  not  how, 
With  his  hands  pressed  against  his  brow, 
His  elbows  on  his  tremulous  knees. 

There,  self-involved,  does  Peter  sit 
Until  no  sign  of  life  he  makes, 
As  if  his  mind  were  sinking  deep 
Through  years  that  have  been  long  asleep! 
The  trance  is  past  away  —  he  wakes,  — 

He  lifts  his  head  —  and  sees  the  Ass 
Yet  standing  in  the  clear  moonshine ; 
"  When  shall  I  be  as  good  as  thou  ? 
Oh !  would,  poor  beast,  that  I  had  now 
A  heart  but  half  as  good  as  thine ! " 

—  But  He  —  who  deviously  hath  sought 
His  Father  through  the  lonesome  woods. 
Hath  sought,  proclaiming  to  the  ear 
Of  night  his  inward  grief  and  fear  — 
He  comes  —  escaped  from  fields  and  floods;  — 
28* 


330  Wordsworth's  poems. 

With  weary  pace  is  drawing  nigh  — 
He  sees  the  Ass,  —  and  nothing  living 
Had  ever  such  a  fit  of  joy 
As  hath  this  little  orphan  Boy, 
For  he  has  no  misgiving! 

Towards  the  gentle  Ass  iie  springs, 
And  up  about  his  neck  he  climbs ; 
In  loving  words  he  talks  to  him. 
He  kisses,  kisses  face  and  limb, — 
He  kisses  him  a  thousand  times ! 

This  Peter  sees,  while  in  the  shade 
He  stood  beside  the  cottage-door ; 
And  Peter  Bell,  the  ruffian  wild, 
Sobs  loud,  he  sobs  even  like  a  child,— 
"  Oh !  God,  I  can  endure  no  more  ! " 

—  Here  ends  my  Tale  :  —  for  in  a  trice 
Arrived  a  neighbor  with  his  horse ; 
Peter  went  forth  with  him  straightway ; 
And,  with  due  care,  ere  break  of  day, 
Together  they  brought  back  the  Corse. 

And  many  years  did  this  poor  Ass, 
Whom  once  it  was  my  luck  to  see 
Cropping  the  shrubs  of  Leming-Lane, 
Help  by  his  labor  to  maintain 
The  Widow  and  her  family. 

And  Peter  Bell,  who,  till  that  night. 
Had  been  the  wildest  of  his  clan. 
Forsook  his  crimes,  renounced  his  folly, 
And,  after  ten  months'  melancholy, 
Became  a  good  and  honest  man. 


THE     IDIOT     BOY 


THE    IDIOT    BOY. 


'Tis  eight  o'clock,  —  a  clear  March  night, 
The  Moon  is  up,  —  the  Sky  is  blue, 
The  Owlet,  in  the  moonlight  air, 
Shouts,  from  nobody  knows  where ; 
He  lengthens  out  his  lonely  shout, 
Halloo  !  halloo  !   a  long  halloo  ! 

—  Why  bustle  thus  about  your  door^ 
What  means  this  bustle,  Betty  Foy  ? 
Why  are  you  in  this  mighty  fret? 
And  why  on  horseback  have  you  set 
Him  whom  you  love,  your  Idiot  Boy  ? 

There's  scarce  a  soul  that's  out  of  bed. 
Good  Betty,  put  him  down  again ; 
His  lips  with  joy  they  burr  at  you ; 
But,  Betty!   what  has  he  to  do 
With  stirrup,  saddle,  or  with  rein? 

But  Betty's  bent  on  her  intent ; 
For  her  good  neighbor,  Susan  Gale, 
Old  Susan,  she  who  dwells  alone, 
Is  sick  and  makes  a  piteous  moan, 
As  if  her  very  life  would  fail. 


334  Wordsworth's  poems. 

There's  not  a  house  within  a  mile, 
No  hand  to  help  them  in  distress ; 
Old  Susan  lies  abed  in  pain, 
And  sorely  puzzled  are  the  twain, 
For  what  she  ails  they  cannot  guess. 

And  Betty's  Husband's  at  the  wood. 
Where  by  the  week  he  doth  abide, 
A  woodman  in  the  distant  vale ; 
There's  none  to  help  poor  Susan  Gale; 
What  must  be  done  ?   what  will  betide  ? 

And  Betty  from  the  lane  has  fetched 
Her  Pony,  that  is  mild  and  good, 
Whether  he  be  in  joy  or  pain. 
Feeding  at  will  along  the  lane, 
Or  bringing  fagots  from  the  wood. 

And  he  is  all  in  travelling  trim, — 
And,  by  the  moonlight,  Betty  Foy 
Has  up  upon  the  saddle  set 
(The  like  was  never  heard  of  yet) 
Him  whom  she  loves,  her  Idiot  Boy. 

And  he  must  post  without  delay 
Across  the  bridge  and  through  the  dale, 
And  by  the  church,  and  o'er  the  down. 
To  bring  a  Doctor  from  the  town, 
Or  she  will  die,  old  Susan  Gale. 

There  is  no  need  of  boot  or  spur. 

There  is  no  need  of  whip  or  wand; 

For  Johnny  has  his  holly-bough, 

And  with  a  hurly-burly  now 

He  shakes  the  green  bough  in  his  hand. 


Wordsworth's  foehs.  335 

And  Betty  o'er  and  o'er  has  told 
The  Boy,  who  is  her  best  delight, 
Both  what  to  follow,  what  to  shun, 
What  do,  and  what  to  leave  undone, 
How  turn  to  left,  and  how  to  right 

And  Betty's  most  especial  charge, 
Was,  "  Johnny !   Johnny  !   mind  that  you 
Come  home  again,  nor  stop  at  all,  — 
Come  home  again,  whate'er  befal. 
My  Johnny,  do,  I  pray  you  do." 

To  this  did  Johnny  answer  make, 
Both  with  his  head  and  with  his  hand, 
And  proudly  shook  the  bridle  too; 
And  then!    his  words  were  not  a  few, 
Which  Betty  well  could  understand. 

And  now  that  Johnny  is  just  going, 

Though  Betty's  in  a  mighty  flurry. 

She  gently  pats  the  Pony's  side,  • 

On  which  her  Idiot  Boy  must  ride. 

And  seems  no  longer  in  a  hurry. 

But  when  the  Pony  moved  his  legs, 
Oh !  then  for  the  poor  Idiot  Boy  ! 
For  joy  he  cannot  hold  the  bridle. 
For  joy  his  head  and  heels  are  idle, 
He's  idle  all  for  very  joy. 

And  while  the  Pony  moves  his  legs. 
In  Johnny's  left  hand  you  may  see 
The  green  bough  motionless  and  dead: 
The  Moon  that  shines  above  his  head 
Is  not  more  still  and  mute  than  he. 


Wordsworth's  poems. 

His  heart  it  was  so  full  of  glee, 
That  till  full  fifty  yards  were  gone, 
He  quite  forgot  his  holly  whip, 
And  all  his  skill  in  horsemanship  — 
Oh!   happy,  happy,  happy  John. 

And  while  the  Mother,  at  the  door. 
Stands  fixed,  her  face  with  joy  o'erflows ; 
Proud  of  herself,  and  proud  of  him, 
She  sees  him  in  his  travelling  trim, 
How  quietly  her  Johnny  goes. 

The  silence  of  her  Idiot  Boy, 
What  hope  it  sends  to  Betty's  heart! 
He's  at  the  Guide-post  —  he  turns  right. 
She  watches  till  he's  out  of  sight, 
And  Betty  will  not  then  depart 

Burr,  burr  —  now  Johnny's  lips  they  burr 
As  loud  as  any  mill,  or  near  it ; 
Meek  as  a  lamb  the  Pony  moves, 
And  Johnny  makes  the  noise  he  loves, 
And  Betty  listens,  glad  to  hear  it 

Away  she  hies  to  Susan  Gale: 
Her  messenger's  in  merry  tune; 
The  Owlets  hoot,  the  Owlets  curr. 
And  Johnny's  lips  they  burr,  burr,  burr 
As  on  he  goes  beneath  the  Moon. 

His  Steed  and  He  right  well  agree ; 
For  of  this  Pony  there's  a  rumor, 
That,  should  he  lose  his  eyes  and  ears, 
And  should  he  live  a  thousand  years> 
He  never  will  be  out  of  humor. 


Wordsworth's  poems.  337 

But  then  he  is  a  horse  that  thmks ! 
And  when  he  thinks  his  pace  is  slack; 
Now,  though  he  knows  poor  Johnny  well, 
Yet,  for  his  life,  he  cannot  tell 
What  he  has  got  upon  his  back. 

So  through  the  moonlight  lanes  they  go, 
And  far  into  the  moonlight  dale, 
And  by  the  church,  and  o'er  the  down, 
To  bring  a  Doctor  from  the  town, 
To  comfort  poor  old  Susan  Gale. 

And  Betty,  now  at  Susan's  side, 
Is  in  the  middle  of  her  story, 
What  comfort  soon  her  Boy  will  bring, 
With  many  a  most  diverting  thing. 
Of  Johnny's  wit,  and  Johnny's  glory. 

And  Betty,  still  at  Susan's  side. 
By  this  time  is  not  quite  so  flurried : 
Demure  with  porringer  and  plate 
She  sits,  as  if  in  Susan's  fate 
Her  life  and  soul  were  buried. 

But  Betty,  poor  good  Woman !  she. 
You  plainly  in  her  face  may  read  it, 
Could  lend  out  of  that  moment's  store 
Five  years  of  happiness  or  more 
To  any  that  might  need  it. 

But  yet  I  guess  that  now  and  then 
With  Betty  all  was  not  so  well ; 
And  to  the  road  she  turns  her  ears. 
And  thence  full  many  a  sound  she  hears. 
Which  she  to  Susan  will  not  tell. 
2-9 


^8  Wordsworth's  poems. 

Poor  Susan  moans,  poor  Susan  groans ; 
"As  sure  as  there's  a  moon  in  heaven," 
Cries  Betty,  "  he'll  be  back  again ; 
They'll  both  be  here  —  'tis  almost  ten  — 
Both  will  be  here  before  eleven," 

Poor  Susan  moans,  poor  Susan  groans ; 
The  clock  gives  warning  for  eleven ; 
'Tis  on  the  stroke  —  "  He  must  be  near," 
Quoth  Betty,  "  and  will  soon  be  here, 
As  sure  as  there's  a  moon  in  heaven." 

The  clock  is  on  the  stroke  of  twelve, 

And  Johnny  is  not  yet  in  sight, 

—  The  Moon's  in  heaven,  as  Betty  sees, 

But  Betty  is  not  quite  at  ease ; 

And  Susan  has  a  dreadful  night. 

And  Betty,  half  an  hour  ago, 
On  Johnny  vile  reflections  cast: 
"A  little  idle  sauntering  Thing!" 
With  other  names,  an  endless  string; 
But  now  that  time  is  gone  and  past. 

And  Betty's  drooping  at  the  heart, 
That  happy  time  all  past  and  gone, 
"How  can  it  be  he  is  so  late? 
The  Doctor  he  has  tnade  him  wait, 
Susan !  they'll  both  be  here  anon." 

And  Susan's  growing  worse  and  worse, 
And  Betty's  in  a  sad  quandary; 
And  then  there's  nobody  to  say 
If  she  must  go,  or  she  must  stay! 
She's  in  a  sad  quandary. 


Wordsworth's  foems.  339 

The  clock  is  on  the  stroke  of  one ; 
But  neither  Doctor  nor  his  Guide 
Appears  along  the  moonlight  road ; 
There's  neither  horse  nor  man  abroad, 
And  Betty's  still  at  Susan's  side. 

And  Susan  now  begins  to  fear 
Of  sad  mischances  not  a  few, 
That  Johnny  may  perhaps  be  drowned, 
Or  lost,  perhaps,  and  never  found; 
Which  they  must  both  for  ever  rue. 

She  prefaced  half  a  hint  of  this 
With,  "God  forbid  it  should  be  true!" 
At  the  first  word  that  Susan  said. 
Cried  Betty,  lising  from  the  bed, 
"  Susan,  I'd  gladly  stay  with  you. 

I  must  be  gone,  I  must  away, 
Consider,  Johnny's  but  half-wise ; 
Susan,  we  must  take  care  of  him, 
If  he  is  hurt  in  life  or  limb  "  — 
"  Oh  God  forbid ! "   poor  Susan  cries. 

"  What  can  I  do  ?  "  says  Betty,  going, 
"  What  can  I  do  to  ease  your  pain  ? 
Good  Susan,  tell  me,  and  I'll  stay ; 
I  fear  you're  in  a  dreadful  way, 
But  I  shall  soon  be  back  again." 

"  Nay,  Betty,  go !   good  Betty,  go  ! 
There's  nothing  that  can  ease  my  pain." 
Then  off  she  hies ;   but  with  ^  prayer 
That  Go3  poor  Susan's  life  would  spare 
Till  she  comes  back  again. 


340  Wordsworth's  poems. 

So,  through  the  moonlight  lane  she  goes, 
And  far  into  the  moonlight  dale ; 
And  how  she  ran,  and  how  she  walked, 
And  all  that  to  herself  she  talked. 
Would  surely  he  a  tedious  tale. 

In  high  and  low,  above,  below, 
In  great  and  small,  in  round  and  square, 
In  tree  and  tower  was  Johnny  seen. 
In  brush  and  brake,  in  black  and  green, 
'Twas  Johnny,  Johnny,  everywhere. 

The  bridge  is  past  —  far  in  the  dale ; 
And  now  the  thought  torments  her  sore, 
Johnny  perhaps  his  horse  forsook. 
To  hunt  the  moon  within  the  brook. 
And  never  will  be  heard  of  more. 

Now  is  she  high  upon  the  down, 
Alone  amid  a  prospect  wide : 
There's  neither  Johnny  nor  his  Horse 
Among  the  fern  or  in  the  gorse; 
There's  neither  Doctor  nor  his  Guide. 

"  Oh  saints !   what  is  become  of  him  ? 
Perhaps  he's  climbed  into  an  oak, 
Where  he  will  stay  till  he  is  dead; 
Or,  sadly  he  has  been  misled, 
And  joined  the  wandering  gipsey-folk. 

"Or  him  that  wicked  Pony's  carried 
To  the  dark  cave,  the  goblin's  hall ; 
Or  in  the  castle  he's  pursuing 
Among  the  ghosts  his  own  undoing; 
Or  playing  with  the  waterfall." 


.Wordsworth's  poems.  341 

At  poor  old  Susan  then  she  railed, 
While  to  the  town  she  posts  away; 
"If  Susan  had  not  been  so  ill, 
Alas !  I  should  have  had  him  still, 
My  Johnny,  till  my  dying  day." 

Poor  Betty,  in  this  sad  distemper, 
The  Doctor's  self  could  hardly  spare ; 
Unworthy  things  she  talked,  and  wild : 
Even  he,  of  cattle  the  most  mild, 
The  Pony  had  his  share. 

And  now  she's  got  into  the  town. 
And  to  the  Doctor's  door  she  hies ; 
'Tis  silence  all  on  every  side ; 
The  town  so  long,  the  town  so  wide, 
Is  silent  as  the  skies. 

And  now  she's  at  the  Doctor's  door, 
She  lifts  the  knocker,  —  rap,  rap,  rap ; 
The  Doctor  at  the  casement  shows 
His  glimmering  eyes  that  peep  and  doze! 
And  one  hand  rubs  his  old  night-cap. 

"  Oh,  Doctor !   Doctor  I   where's  my  Johnny  ?  " 
"  I'm  here,  —  what  is't  you  want  with  me  ?  " 
"Oh,  Sir!   you  know  I'm  Betty  Foy, 
And  I  have  lost  my  poor  dear  Boy ; 
You  know  him  —  him  you  often  see ; 

"He's  not  so  wise  as  some  folks  be." 
"  The  devil  take  his  wisdom !  "  said 
The  Doctor,  looking  somewhat  grim, 
"  What,  Woman !   should  I  know  of  him  ? " 
And,  grumbling,  he  went  back  to  bed. 
29* 


342  Wordsworth's  poems. 

"  Oh,  woe  is  me !   Oh,  woe  is  me . 
Here  will  I  die;   here  will  I  die; 
I  thought  to  find  my  lost  one  here, 
But  he  is  neither  far  nor  near, 
Oh !   what  a  wretched  Mother  I ! " 

She  stops,  she  stands,  she  looks  about; 

Which  way  to  turn  she  cannot  tell. 

Poor  Betty !   it  v/ould  ease  her  pain 

If  she  had  heart  to  knock  again ; 

—  The  clock  strikes  three  —  a  dismal  knell ! 

Then  up  along  the  town  she  hies. 

No  wonder  if  her  senses  fail, 

This  piteous  news  so  much  it  shocked  her, 

She  quite  forgot  to  send  the  Doctor, 

To  comfort  poor  old  Susan  Gale. 

And  now  she's  high  upon  the  down. 
And  she  can  see  a  mile  of  road: 
"  Oh,  cruel !   I'm  almost  three-score ; 
■•      Such  night  as  this  was  ne'er  before, 
There's  not  a  single  soul  abroad." 

She  listens,  but  she  cannot  hear 
The  foot  of  horse,  the  voice  of  man ; 
The  streams  with  softest  sound  are  flowing, 
The  grass  you  almost  hear  it  growing, 
You  hear  it  now,  if  e'er  you  can. 

The  Owlets  ilimugh  the  long, blue  night 
Are  shouting  to  each  other  still : 
Fond  lovers !   yet  not  quite  hob  nob, 
They  lengthen  out  the  tremulous  sob 
That  echoes  far  from  hill  to  hill. 


■Wordsworth's  poems.  343 

Poor  Betty  now  has  lost  all  hope, 
Her  thoughts  are  bent  on  deadly  sin; 
A  green-grown  pond  she  just  has  past, 
And  from  the  brink  she  hurries  fast, 
Lest  she  should  drown  herself  therein. 

And  now  she  sits  her  down  and  weeps; 

Such  tears  she  never  shed  before; 

"  Oh,  dear,  dear  Pony !   my  sweet  joy ! 

Oh,  carry  back  my  Idiot  Boy! 

And  we  will  ne'er  o'erload  thee  more." 

A  thought  is  come  into  her  head: 
"  The  Pony  he  is  mild  and  good. 
And  we  have  always  used  him  well: 
Perhaps  he's  gone  along  the  dell. 
And  carried  Johnny  to  the  wood." 

Then  up  she  springs  as  if  on  wings ; 
She  thinks  no  more  of  deadly  sin ; 
If  Betty  fifty  ponds  should  see. 
The  last  of  all  her  thoughts  would  be 
To  drown  herself  therein. 

O  Reader !   now  that  I  might  tell 
What  Johnny  and  his  Horse  are  doing! 
What  they've  been  doing  all  this  time, 
O,  could  I  put  it  into  rhyme, 
A  most  delightful  tale  pursuing! 

Perhaps,  and  no  unlikely  thought, 
He  with  his  Pony  now  doth  roam 
The  cliffs  and  peaks  so  high  that  are, 
To  lay  his  hands  upon  a  star, 
And  in  his  pocket  bring  it  home 


344  Wordsworth's  poems. 

Perhaps  he's  turned  himself  about, 
His  face  unto  his  horse's  tail, 
And,  still  and  mute,  in  wonder  lost, 
All  like  a  silent  Horseman-Ghost, 
He  travels  on  along  the  vale. 

And  now,  perhaps,  is  hunting  sheep, 
A  fierce  and  dreadful  hunter  he ; 
Yon  valley,  now  so  trim  and  green. 
In  five  months'  time,  should  he  be  seen, 
A  desert  wilderness  will  be ! 


» 


Perhaps,  with  head  and  heels  on  fire. 
And  like  the  very  soul  of  evil. 
He's  galloping  away,  away, 
And  so  will  gallop  on  for  aye. 
The  bane  of  all  that  dread  the  devil! 

I  to  the  Muses  have  been  bound 

These  fourteen  years,  by  strong  indentures: 

O,  gentle  Muses!   let  me  tell 

But  half  of  what  to  him  befel ; 

He  surely  met  with  strange  adventures. 

O,  gentle  Muses  !   is  this  kind  ? 
Why  will  ye  thus  my  suit  repel? 
Why  of  your  further  aid  bereave  me  ? 
And  can  ye  thus  unfriended  leave  me. 
Ye  Muses !   whom  I  love  so  well  ? 

Who's  you,  that,  near  the  waterfall. 
Which  thunders  down  with  headlong  force, 
Beneath  the  Moon,  yet  shining  fair. 
As  careless  as  if  nothing  were. 
Sits  upright  on  a  feeding  Horse  ^ 


Wordsworth's  poems.  345 

Unto  his  Horse,  there  feeding  free, 
He  seems,  I  think,  the  rein  to  give  ; 
Of  Moon  or  Stars  he  takes  no  heed; 
Of  such  we  in  romances  read : 
—  'Tis  Johnny  !  Johnny,  as  I  live ! 

And  that's  the  very  Pony,  too! 
Where  is  she  —  where  is  Betty  Foy  ? 
She  hardly  can  sustain  her  fears; 
The  roaring  waterfall  she  hears, 
And  cannot  find  her  Idiot  Boy. 

Your  Pony's  worth  his  weight  in  gold: 
Then  calm  your  terrors,  Betty  Foy ! 
She's  coming  from  among  the  trees. 
And  now  all  full  in  view  she  sees 
Him  whom  she  loves,  her  Idiot  Boy. 

And  Betty  sees  the  Pony,  too : 

Why  stand  you  thus,  good  Betty  Foy  ? 

It  is  no  goblin,  'tis  no  ghost, 

'Tis  he  whom  you  so  long  have  lost, 

He  whom  you  love,  your  Idiot  Boy. 

She  looks  again  —  her  arms  are  up  — 
She  screams  —  she  cannot  move  for  joy ; 
She  darts,  as  with  a  torrent's  force, 
She  almost  has  o'erturned  the  Horse, 
And  fust  *he  holds  her  Idiot  Boy. 

And  Johnny  burrs,  and  laughs  aloud; 
Whether  in  cunning  or  in  joy 
I  cannot  tell ;   but  while  he  laughs, 
Betty  a  drunken  pleasure  quaffs 
To  hear  again  her  Idiot  Boy 


346  Wordsworth's  poems. 

And  now  she's  at  the  Pony's  tail, 
And  now  is  at  the  Pony's  head,  — 
On  that  side  now,  and  now  on  this; 
And    almost  stifled  with  her  bliss, 
A  few  sad  tears  does  Betty  shed.^ 

She  kisses  o'er  and  o'er  again 
Him  whom  she  loves,  her  Idiot  Boy ; 
She's  happy  here,  is  happy  there, 
She  is  uneasy  every  where  ; 
Her  limbs  are  all  alive  with  joy. 


9 


She  pats  the  Pony,  where  or  when 
She  knows  not,  happy  Betty  Foy ! 
The  little  Pony  glad  may  be. 
But  he  is  milder  far  than  she; 
You  hardly  can  perceive  his  joy. 

"  Oh  !  Johnny,  never  mind  the  Doctor ; 
You've  done  your  best,  and  that  is  all." 
She  took  the  reins,  when  this  was  said, 
And  gently  turned  the  Pony's  head 
From  the  loud  waterfall. 

By  this  the  stars  were  almost  gone. 
The  moon  was  setting  on  the  hill. 
So  pale  you  scarcely  looked  at  her; 
The  little  birds  began  to  stir, 
Though  yet  their  tongues  were  gtill. 

The  Pony,  Betty,  and  her  Boy, 
Wind  slowly  through  the  woody  dale ; 
And  who  is  she,  betimes  abroad. 
That  hobbles  up  the  steep  rough  road? 
Who  is  it,  but  old  Susan  Gale.' 


Wordsworth's  poems.  347 

Long  time  lay  Susan  lost  in  thought, 
And  many  dreadful  fears  beset  her, 
Both  for  her  Messenger  and  Nurse; 
And,  as  her  mind  grew  worse  and  worse, 
Her  body  —  it  grew  better. 

She  turned,  she  tossed  herself  in  bed. 
On  all  sides  doubts  and  terrors  met  her ; 
Point  after  point  did  she  discuss ; 
And,  while  her  mind  was  fighting  thus, 
Her  body  still  grew  better. 

"Alas!   what  is  become  of  them? 
These  fears  can  never  be  endured, 
I'll  to  the  Avood."     The  word  scarce  said, 
Did  Susan  rise  up  from  her  bed, 
As  if  by  magic  cured. 

Away  she  posts  up  hill  and  down, 

And  to  the  wood  at  length  is  come  ; 

She  spies  her  Friends,  she  shouts  a  greeting; 

Oh  me !   it  is  a  merry  meeting 

As  ever  was  in  Christendom. 

The  Owls  have  hardly  sung  their  last. 
While  our  four  Travellers  homeward  wend; 
The  Owls  have  hooted  all  night  long. 
And  with  the  Owls  began  my  song. 
And  with  the  Owls  must  end. 

For  while  they  all  were  travelling  home, 
Cried  Betty,  "Tell  us,  Johnny,  do, 
Where  all  this  long  night  you  have  been. 
What  you  have  heard,  what  you  have  seen. 
And,  Johnny,  mind  you  tell  us  true" 


348  Wordsworth's  poems. 

Now  Johnny  all  night  long  had  heard 
The  Owls  in  tuneful  concert  strive: 
No  doubt  too  he  the  Moon  had  seen; 
For  in  the  moonlight  he  had  been 
From  eight  o'clock  till  five. 

And  thus,  to  Betty's  question,  he 

Made  answer,  like  a  Traveller  bold, 

(His  very  words  I  give  to  you,) 

"  The  Cocks  did  crow  to-whoo,  to-whoo, 

And  the  sun  did  shine  so  cold." 

—  Thus  answered  Johnny  in  his  glory, 

And  that  was  all  his  travel's  stoiy. 


M  IC  H  AEL: 
A    PASTOHAL    POEM. 


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 

The  pastoral  Mountains  front  you,  face  to  face. 

But,  courage !   for  around  that  boisterous  Brook 

The  mountains  have  all  opened  out  themselves, 

And  made  a  hidden  valley  of  their  own. 

No  habitation  can  be  seen ;   but  they 

Who  journey  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  place  a  story  appertains, 

Which,  though  it  be  ungarnished  with  events, 

Is  not  unfit,  I  deem,  for  the  fireside, 

Or  for  the  summer  shade.     It  was  the  first 

Of  those  domestic  tales  that  spake  to  me 


352  Wordsworth's  poems. 

Of  Shepherds,  dwellers  in  the  valleys,  men 

Whom  I  already  loved  —  not  verily 

For  their  own  sakes,  but  for  the  fields  and  hills 

Where  was  their  occupation  and  abode. 

And  hence  this  Tale,  while  I  was  yet  a  Boy 

Careless  of  books,  yet  having  felt  the  power 

Of  Nature,  by  the  gentle  agency 

Of  natural  objects  led  me  on  to  feel 

For  passions  that  were  not  my  own,  and  think 

(At  random  and  imperfectly  indeed) 

On  man,  the  heart  of  man,  and  human  life. 

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  Grasmere  Vaie 

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  aflfairs. 

And  in  his  Shepherd's  calling  he  was  prompt 

And  watchful  more  than  ordinary  men. 

Hence  had  he  learned  the  meaning  of  all  windg, 

Of  blasts  of  every  tone ;  and,  oftentimes, 

When  others  heeded  not,  he  heard  the  South 

Make  subterraneous  music,  like  the  noise 

Of  Bagpipers  on  distant  Highland  hills. 

The  Shepherd,  at  such  warning,  of  his  flock 

Bethought  him,  and  he  to  himself  would  say, 

"  The  winds  are  now  devising  work  for  me ! " 

And,  truly,  at  all  times,  the  storm  —  that  drives 


Wordsworth's  poems.  353 

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  Stream  and  Rocks 

Were  things  indifferent  to  the  Shepherd's  thoughts. 

Fields,  where  with  cheerftil  spirits  he  had  breathed 

The  common  air ;  the  hills,  which  he  so  oft 

Had  climbed  with  vigorous  steps  ;  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  sheltered,  linking  to  such  acts, 

The  certainty  of  honorable  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  past  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, 
30* 


354  Wordsworth's  poems. 

With  two  brave  Sheep-dogs  tried  in  many  a  storm, 

The  one  of  an  inestimable  worth, 

Made  all  their  Household.     I  may  truly  say, 

That  they  were  as  a  proverb  in  the  vale 

For  endless  industry.     When  day  was  gone, 

And  from  their  occupations  out  of  doors 

The  Son  and  Father  were  come  home,  even  then. 

Their  labor  did  not  cease  ;   unless  when  all 

Turned  to  their  cleanly  supper-board,  and  there, 

Each  with  a  mess  of  pottage  and  skimmed  milk, 

Sat  round  their  basket  piled  with  oaten  cakes, 

And    their   plain  home-made  cheese.     Yet  when  their 

meal 
Was  ended,  Luke  (for  so  the  Son  was  named) 
And  his  old  Father  both  partook  themselves 
To  such  convenient  work  as  might  employ 
Their  hands  by  the  fire-side ;  perhaps  to  card 
Wool  for  the  Housewife's  spindle,  or  repair 
Some  injury  done  to  sickle,  flail,  or  scythe, 
Or  other  implement  of  house  or  field. 

Down  from  the  ceiling,  by  the  chimney's  edge, 

That  in  our  ancient  uncouth  country  style 

Did  with  a  huge  projection  overbrow 

Large  space  beneath,  as  duly  as  the  light 

Of  day  grew  dim  the  Housewife  hung  a  Lamp ; 

An  aged  utensil,  which  had  performed 

Service  beyond  all  others  of  its  kind. 

Early  at  evening  did  it  burn  and  late. 

Surviving  Comrade  of  uncounted  Hours, 

Which,  going  by  from  year  to  year,  had  found, 

And  left  the  couple  neither  gay  perhaps 

Nor  cheerful,  yet  with  objects"  and  with  hopes, 

Living  a  life  of  eager  industry. 

And  now,  when  Luke  had  reached  his  eighteenth  year, 


Wordsworth's  poems.  355 

There  by  the  light  of  this  old  Lamp  they  sat, 

Father  and  Son,  while  late  into  the  night 

The  Housewife  plied  her  own  peculiar  work. 

Making  the  cottage  through  the  silent  hours 

Murmur  as  with  the  sound  of  summer  flies. 

This  Light  was  famous  in  its  neighborhood. 

And  was  a  public  Symbol  of  the  life 

That  thrifty  Pair  had  lived.     For,  as  it  chanced, 

Their  Cottage  on  a  plot  of  rising  ground 

Stood  single,  with  large  prospect,  North  and  South 

High  into  Easedale,  up  to  Dummail-Raise, 

And  westward  to  the  village  near  the  Lake ; 

And  from  this  constant  light,  so  regular 

And  so  far  seen,  the  House  itself,  by  all 

Who  dwelt  within  the  limits  of  the  vale. 

Both  old  and  young,  was  named  The  Evening  Star, 

Thus  living  on  through  such  a  length  of  years, 
The  Shepherd,  if  he  loved  himself,  must  needs 
Have  loved  his  Helpmate;  but  to  Michael's  heart 
This  Son  of  his  old  age  was  yet  more  dear  — 
Less  from  instinctive  tenderness,  the  same 
Blind  Spirit,  which  is  in  the  blood  of  all  — 
Than  that  a  child,  more  than  all  other  gifts. 
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  rocked 
His  cradle  with  a  woman's  gentle  hand 


356  Wordsworth's  poems. 

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 
Had  work  by  his  own  door,  or  when  he  sat 
With  sheep  before  him  on  his  Shepherd's  stool, 
Beneath  that  large  old  Oak,  which  near  their  door 
Stood,  —  and,  from  its  enormous  breadth  of  shade 
Chosen  for  the  Shearer's  covert  from  the  sun, 
Thence  in  our  rustic  dialect  was  called 
The  Clipping  Tree,  a  name  which  yet  it  bears. 
There,  while  they  two  were  sitting  in  the  shade, 
With  others  round  them,  earnest  all  and  blithe. 
Would  Michael  exercise  his  heart  with  looks 
Of  fond  correction  and  reproof  bestowed 
Upon  the  Child,  if  he  disturbed  the  sheep 
By  catching  at  their  legs,  or  with  his  shouts 
Scared  them,  while  they  lay  still  beneath  the  shears. 


And  when  by  Heaven's  good  grace  the  Boy  grew  up 

A  healthy  Lad,  and  carried  in  his  cheek 

Two  steady  roses  that  were  five  years  old. 

Then  Michael  from  a  winter  coppice  cut 

With  his  own  hand  a  sapling,  which  he  hooped 

With  iron,  making  it  throughout  in  all 

Due  requisites  a  perfect  Shepherd's  Staff, 

And  gave  it  to  the  Boy  ;   wherewith  equipt 

He  as  a  Watchman  oftentimes  was  placed 

At  gate  or  gap,  to  stem  or  turn  the  flock ; 

And,  to  his  office  prematurely  called. 

There  stood  the  Urchin,  as  you  will  divine. 

Something  between  a  hinderance  and  a  help ; 

And  for  this  cause  not  always,  I  believe. 

Receiving  from  his  Father  hire  of  praise ; 


Wordsworth's  poems.  357 

Though  nought  was  left  undone  which  staff,  or  voice, 
Or  looks,  or  threatening  gestures,  could  perform. 

But  soon  as  Luke,  full  ten  years  old,  could  stand 
Against  the  mountain  blasts ;  and  to  the  heights, 
Not  fearing  toil,  nor  length  of  weary  ways, 
He  with  his  father  daily  went,  and  they 
Were  as  companions ;  why  should  I  relate 
That  objects  which  the  Shepherd  loved  before 
Were  dearer  now  ?  that  from  the  Boy  there  came 
Feelings  and  emanations  —  things  which  were 
Light  to  the  sun  and  Music  to  the  wind : 
And  that  the  Old  Man's  heart  seemed  born  again  ? 

Thus  in  his  Father's  sight  the  Boy  grew  up : 

And  now,  when  he  had  reached  his  eighteenth  year, 

He  was  his  comfort  and  his  daily  hope. 

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  upon  him,  —  and  old  Michael  now 

Was  summoned  to  discharge  the  forfeiture, 

A  grievous  penalty,  but  little  less 

Than  half  his  substance.     This  unlooked-for  claim, 

At  the  first  hearing,  for  a  moment  took 

More  hope  out  of  his  life  than  he  supposed 

That  any  old  man  ever  could  have  lost. 

As  soon  as  he  had  gathered  so  much  sti-ength 

That  he  could  look  his  trouble  in  the  face. 

It  seemed  that  his  sole  refuge  was  to  sell 


358  Wordsworth's  poems. 

A  portion  of  his  patrimonial  fields. 

Such  was  his  first  resolve ;  he  thought  again. 

And  his  heart  failed  him.     "Isabel,"  said  he, 

Two  evenings  after  he  had  heard  the  news, 

'  I  have  been  toiling  more  than  seventy  years, 

And  in  the  open  sunshine  of  God's  love 

Have  we  all  lived :   yet  if  these  fields  of  ours 

Should  pass  into  a  Stranger's  hand,  I  think 

That  I  could  not  lie  quiet  in  my  grave. 

Our  lot  is  a  hard  lot;  the  sun  himself 

Has  scarcely  been  more  diligent  than  I ; 

And  I  have  lived  to  be  a  fool  at  last 

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  purpose  was  to  speak 

Of  remedies,  and  of  a  cheerful  hope. 

Our  Luke  shall  leave  us,  Isabel ;   the  land 

Shall  not  go  from  us,  and  it  shall  be  free ; 

He  shall  possess  it,  free  as  is  the  wind 

That  passes  over  it.     We  have,  thou  know'st, 

Another  Kinsman  —  he  will  be  our  Friend 

In  this  distress.     He  is  a  prosperous  man. 

Thriving  in  trade  —  and  Luke  to  him  shall  go, 

And  with  his  Kinsman's  help  and  his  own  thrift 

He  quickly  will  repair  this  loss,  and  then 

May  come  again  to  us.     If  here  he  stay, 

What  can  be  done  ?     Where  every  one  is  poor, 

What  can  be  gained  ? "    At  this  the  old  Man  paused, 

And  Isabel  sat  silent,  for  her  mind 

Was  busy,  looking  back  into  past  times. 

There's  Richard  Bateman,  thought  she  to  herself 


woedsworth's  poems.  359 

He  was  a  Parish-boy  —  at  the  Church-door 
They  made  a  gathering  for  him,  —  shillings,  pence, 
And  halfpennies,  wherewith  the  neighbors  bought 
A  Basket,  which  they  filled  with  Pedlar's  wares ; 
And  with  this  Basket  on  his  arm,  the  Lad 
Went  up  to  London,  found  a  Master  there, 
Who,  out  of  many,  chose  the  trusty  Boy 
To  go  and  overlook  his  merchandise 
Beyond  the  seas  ;  where  he  grew  wondrous  rich, 
And  left  estates  and  moneys  to  the  poor. 
And,  at  his  birth-place,  built  a  Chapel  floored 
With  Marble,  which  he  sent  from  foreign  lands. 
These  thoughts,  and  many  others  of  like  sort, 
Passed  quickly  through  the  mind  of  Isabel, 
And  her  face  brightened.     The  Old  Man  was  glad. 
And  thus  resumed :  —  "  Well,  Isabel,  this  scheme, 
These  two  days,  has  been  meat  and  drink  to  me. 
Far  more  than  we  have  lost  is  left  us  yet. 

—  We  have  enough  —  I  wish  indeed  that  I 
Were  younger,  —  but  this  hope  is  a  good  hope. 

—  Make  ready  Luke's  best  garments,  of  the  best 
Buy  for  him  more,  and  let  us  send  him  forth 
To-moiTOw,  or  the  next  day,  or  to-night: 

—  If  he  could  go,  the  Boy  should  go  to-night." 
Here  Michael  ceased,  and  to  the  fields  went  forth 
With  a  light  heart.     The  Housewife  for  five  days 
Was  restless  morn  and  night,  and  all  day  long 
Wrought  on  with  her  best  fingers  to  prepare 
Things  needful  for  the  journey  of  her  son. 

But  Isabel  was  glad  when  Sunday  came 
To  stop  her  in  her  work :   for,  when  she  lay 
By  Michael's  side,  she  through  the  two  last  nights 
Heard  him,  how  he  was  troubled  in  his  sleep : 
And  when  they  rose  at  morning  she  could  see 
That  all  his  hopes  were  gone.     That  day  at  noon 


360  wordsatorth's  poems. 

She  said  to  Luke,  while  they  two  by  themselves 
Were  sitting  at  the  door,  "Thou  must  not  go: 
We  have  no  other  Child  but  thee  to  lose, 
None  to  remember  —  do  not  go  away, 
For  if  thou  leave  thy  Father  he  will  die." 
The  Youth  made  answer  with  a  jocund  voice; 
And  Isabel,  when  she  had  told  her  fears, 
Recovered  heart.     That  evening  her  best  fare 
Did  she  bring  forth,  and  all  together  sat 
Like  happy  people  round  a  Christmas  fire. 

With  daylight  Isabel  resumed  her  work : 
And  all  the  ensuing  week  the  house  appeared 
As  cheerful  as  a  ^rove  in  Spring :   at  length 
The  expected  letter  from  their  Kinsman  came, 
With  kind  assurances  that  he  would  do 
His  utmost  for  the  welfare  of  the  Boy ; 
To  which  requests  were  added  that  forthwith 
He  might  be  sent  to  him.     Ten  times  or  more 
The  letter  was  read  over ;  Isabel 
Went  forth  to  show  it  to  the  neighbors  round ; 
Nor  was  there  at  that  time  on  English  land 
A  prouder  heart  than  Luke's.     When  Isabel 
Had  to  her  house  returned,  the  Old  Man  said, 
"He  shall  depart  to-morrow."     To  this  word 
The  Housewife  answered,  talking  much  of  things 
Which,  if  at  such  short  notice  he  should  go. 
Would  surely  be  forgotten.     But  at  length 
She  gave  consent,  and  Michael  was  at  ease. 

Near  the  tumultuous  brook  of  Green-head  Ghyll, 
In  that  deep  Valley,  Michael  had  designed 
To  build  a  Sheep-fold ;   and  before  he  heard 
The  tidings  of  his  melancholy  loss. 
For  this  same  purpose  he  had  gathered  up 


Wordsworth's  foems.  361 

A  heap  of  stones,  which  by  the  Streamlet's  edge 
Lay  thrown  together,  ready  for  the  work. 
With  Luke  that  evening  thitherward  he  walked: 
And  soon  as  they  had  reached  the  place  he  stopped, 
And  thug  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  speak 
Of  things  thou  canst  not  know  of  —  After  thou 
First  camest  into  the  world  —  as  oft  befalls 
To  new-born  infants  —  thou  didst  sleep  away 
Two  days,  and  blessings  from  thy  Father's  tongue 
Then  fell  upon  thee.     Day  by  day  passed  on, 
And  still  I  loved  thee  with  increasing  love. 
Never  to  living  ear  came  sweeter  sounds 
Than  when  I  heard  thee  by  our  own  fireside 
First  uttering,  without  words,  a  natural  tune  ; 
When  thou,  a  feeding  babe,  didst  in  thy  joy 
Sing  at  thy  Mother's  breast.     Month  followed  month, 
And  in  the  open  fields  my  life  was  passed 
And  on  the  mountains ;   else  I  think  that  thou 
Hadst  been  brought  up  upon  thy  Father's  knees. 
But  we  were  playmates,  Luke  ;   among  these  hills, 
As  well  thou  knowest,  in  us  the  old  and  young 
Have  played  together,  nor  with  me  didst  thou 
Lack  any  pleasure  which  a  boy  can  know." 
Luke  had  a  manly  heart ;   but  at  these  words 
He  sobbed  aloud.     The  Old  Man  grasped  his  hand. 
And  said,  "  Nay,  do  not  take  it  so  —  I  see 
That  these  are  things  of  which  I  need  not  speak. 
—  Even  to  the  utmost  I  have  been  to  thee 
31 


362  Wordsworth's  poems. 

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 

Remember  them  who  loved  me  in  my  youth. 

Both  of  them  sleep  together;   here  they  lived, 

As  all  their  Forefathers  had  done ;  and  when 

At  length  their  time  was  come,  they  were  not  loth 

To  give  their  bodies  to  the  family  mould. 

I  wished  that  thou  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  burthened  when  they  came  to  me 

Till  I  was  forty  years  of  age,  not  more 

Than  half  of  my  inheritance  was  mine. 

I  toiled  and  toiled;  God  blessed  me  in  my  work, 

And  till  these  three  weeks  past  the  land  was  free. 

—  It  looks  as  if  it  never  could  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  ^  alone, 

Before  I  knew  thy  face.    Heaven  bless  thee,  Boy! 


Wordsworth's  poems.  363 

Thy  heart  these  two  weeks  has  been  heating  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  purpose.    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  this  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  — 

When  thou  returnest,  thou  in  this  place  wilt  see 

A  work  which  is  not  here :   a  covenant 

'Twill  be  between  us.  —  But,  whatever  fate 

Befall  thee,  I  shall  love  thee  to  the  last, 

And  bear  thy  memory  with  me  to  the  grave." 

The  Shepherd  ended  here ;  and  Luke  stooped  down, 

And,  as  his  Father  had  requested,  laid 

The  first  stone  of  the  Sheep-fold.     At  the  sight, 

The  Old  Man's  grief  broke  from  him ;  to  his  heart 

He  pressed  his  Son,  he  kissed  him,  and  wept ; 

And  to  the  house  together  they  returned. 

—  Hushed  was  that  house  in  peace,  or  seeming  peace, 

Ere  the  night  fell:  —  with  morrow's  dawn  the  Boy 

Began  his  journey,  and  when  he  had  reached 

The  public  Way,  he  put  on  a  bold  face ; 

And  all  the  Neighbors,  as  he  passed  their  doors, 

Came  forth  with  wishes  and  with  farewell  prayers, 

That  followed  him  till  he  was  out  of  sight. 


364  Wordsworth's  poems. 

A  good  report  did  from  their  Kinsman  come 

Of  Luke  and  his  well-doing:  and  the  Boy 

Wrote  loving  letters,  full  of  wondrous  news, 

Which,  as  the  Housewife  phrased  it,  were  throughout 

"The  prettiest  letters  that  were  ever  seen." 

Both  parents  read  them  with  rejoicing  hearts. 

—  So,  many  months  passed  on :   and  once  again 

The  Shepherd  went  about  his  daily  work 

With  confident  and  cheerful  thoughts ;   and  now 

Sometimes  when  he  could  find  a  leisure  hour 

He  to  that  Valley  took  his  way,  and  there 

Wrought  at  the  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 

Fell  on  him,  so  that  he  was  driven  at  last 

To  seek  a  hiding-place  beyond  the  seas. 

There  is  a  comfort  in  the  strength  of  Love; 
'Twill  make  a  thing  endurable,  which  else 
Would  overset  the  brain,  or  break  the  heart: 
I  have  conversed  with  more  than  one  who  well 
Remember  the  Old  Man,  and  what  he  was 
Years  after  he  had  heard  this  heavy  news. 
His  bodily  frame  had  been  from  youth  to  age 
Of  an  unusual  strength.     Among  the  rocks 
He  went,  and  still  looked  up  towards  the  sun, 
And  listened  to  the  wind ;  and,  as  before, 
Performed  all  kinds  of  labor  for  his  Sheep, 
And  for  the  land  his  small  inheritance. 
And  to  that  hollow  Dell  from  time  to  time 
Did  he  repair,  to  build  the  Fold  of  which 
His  flock  had  need.     'Tis  not  forgotten  yet, 
The  pity  which  was  then  in  every  heart 
For  the  Old  Man  —  and  'tis  believed  by  all 


Wordsworth's  poems.  365 

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 

Sitting  alone,  with  that  his  faithful  Dog, 

Then  old,  beside  him,  lying  at  his  feet. 

The  length  of  full  seven  years,  from  time  to  time, 

He  at  the  building  of  this  Sheep-fold  wrought, 

And  left  the  work  unfinished  -when  he  died. 

—  Three  years,  or  little  more,  did  Isabel 

Survive  her  Husband:  at  her  death  the  estate 

Was  sold,  and  went  into  a  Stranger's  hand. 

The  Cottage  which  was  named  the  Evening  Star 

Is  gone  —  the  ploughshare  has  been  through  the  ground 

On  which  it  stood ;  great  changes  have  been  wrought 

In  all  the  neighborhood :  —  yet  the  Oak  is  left 

That  grew  beside  their  Door ;  and  the  remains 

Of  the  unfinished  Sheep-fold  may  be  seen 

Beside  the  boisterous  brook  of  Green-head  Ghyll. 


THE      BROTHERS. 


THE    BROTHERS. 


"  These  Tourists,  heaven  preserve  us  !    needs  must 
live 

A  profitable  life ;  some  glance  along, 

Rapid  and  gay,  as  if  the  earth  were  air. 

And  they  were  butterflies  to  wheel  about 

Long  as  the  summer  lasted  ;  some,  as  wise, 

Perched  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  neighbor'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 
Upon  the  long  stone-seat  beneath  the  eaves 
Of  his  old  cottage,  —  as  it  chanced,  that  day, 
Employed  in  winter's  work.     Upon  the  stone 
His  wife  sate  near  him,  teasing  matted  wool, . 


370  Wordsworth's  poems. 

While  from  the  twin  cards  toothed  with  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  Chapel  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. 

Risen  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  locked ;  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  sixteentn  year 

Had  left  that  calling,  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  reared 

Among  the  mountains,  and  he  m  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  filled  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 


Wordsworth's  poems.  371 

Over  the  vessel's  side,  and  gaze  and  gaze ; 

And,  while  the  broad  blue  wave  and  sparkling  foam 

Flashed  round  him  images  and  hues  that  wrought 

In  union  with  the  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. 

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  returned. 
With  a  determined  purpose  to  resume 
The  life  he  had  lived  there ;   both  for  the  sake 
Of  many  darling  pleasures  and  the  love 
Which  to  an  only  brother  he  has  borne 
In  all  his  hardships,  since  that  happy  time 
When,  whether  it  blew  foul  or  fair,  they  two 
Were  brother  shepherds  on  their  native  hills. 
—  They  were  the  last  of  all  their  race :   and  now 
When  Leonard  had  approached  his  home,  his  heart 
Failed  in  him ;   and,  not  venturing  to  inquire 
Tidings  of  one  so  long  and  dearly  loved. 
He  to  the  solitary  church-yard  turned ; 
That,  as  he  knew  in  what  particular  spot 
His  family  were  laid,  he  thence  might  learn 
If  still  his  Brother  lived,  or  to  the  file 
Another  grave  was  added.     He  had  found 
Another  grave,  —  near  which  a  full  half  hour 
He  had  remained ;   but,  as  he  gazed,  there  grew 
Such  a  confusion  in  his  memory. 


372  Wordsworth's  poems. 

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, 

As  up  the  vale,  that  afternoon,  he  walked 

Through  fields  which  once    had    been  well  known  to 

him : 
And  oh,  what  joy  this  recollection  now 
Sent  to  his  heart !   he  lifted  up  his  eyes, 
And,  looking  round,  imagined  that  he  saw 
Strange  alteration  wrought  on  every  side 
Among  the  woods  and  fields,  and  that  the  rocks, 
And  everlasting  hills  themselves  were  changed. 

By  this  the  Priest,  who  down  the  field  had  comej 

Unseen  by  Leonard,  at  the  church-yard  gate 

Stopped  short,  —  and  thence,  at  leisure,  limb  by  limb 

Perused  him  with  a  gay  complacency. 

Ay,  thought  the  Vicar,  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. 

Following  his  fancies  by  the  hour,  to  bring 

Tears  down  his  cheek,  or  solitary  smiles 

Into  his  face,  until  the  setting  sun  ' 

Write  Fool  upon  his  forehead.     Planted  thus 

Beneath  a  shed  that  over-arched  the  gate 

Of  this  rude  church-yard,  till  the  stars  appeared 

The  good  Man  might  have  communed  with  himself, 

But  that  the  Stranger,  who  had  left  the  grave. 

Approached ;  he  recognized  the  Priest  at  once, 

And,  after  greetings  interchanged,  and  given 

By  Leonard  to  the  Vicar,  as  to  one 

Unknown  to  him,  this  dialogue  ensued.  — 


Wordsworth's  poems.  373 

Leonard.    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  remembered  ?     Scarce  a  funeral 
Comes  to  this  church-yard  once  in  eighteen  months ; 
And  yet,  some  changes  must  take  place  among  you 
And  you,  who  dwell  here,  even  among  these  rocks, 
Can  trace  the  finger  of  mortality, 
And  see,  that  with  our  threescore  years  and  ten, 

We  are  not  all  that  perish. 1  remember 

(For  many  years  ago  I  passed  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.  Nay,  Sir,  for  aught  I  know, 

That  chasm  is  much  the  same  — 

Leonard.  But,  surely,  yonder  — 

Priest.     Ay,  there,  indeed,  your  memory  is  a  friend 
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  disappeared; 
The  other,  left  behind,  is  flowing  still. 
For  accidents  and  changes  such  as  these, 
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 
Will  come  with  loads  of  January  snow, 
And  in  one  night  send  twenty  score  of  sheep 
32 


374  -WORDSWORTH  S  POEMS. 

To  feed  the  ravens;  or  a  shepherd  dies 

By  some  untoward  death  among  the  rocks : 

The  ice  breaks  up  and  sweeps  away  a  bridge ; 

A  wood  is  felled ;  —  and  then  for  our  own  homes ! 

A  child  is  born  or  christened,  a  field  ploughed, 

A  daughter  sent  to  service,  a  web  spun, 

The  old  house-clock  is  decked  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 ! 

Leonard.  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. 

Leonard.    Your  Dalesmen,  then,  do  in  each  other's 
thoughts 
Possess  a  kind  of  second  life :   no  doubt 


WORDSWORTH  S  POEMS.  375 

You,  Sir,  could  help  me  to  the  history 
Of  half  these  graves  ? 

Priest.  For  eight-score  winters  past, 

With  what  I've  witnessed,  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. 

Leonard.  ,  '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  generatio/ns  had  the  heart 
Of  Walter's  forefather's  o'erflowed  the  bounds 
Of  their  inheritance,  that  single  cottage  — 
You  see  it  yonder !   and  those  few  green  fields. 
They  toiled  and  wrought,  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  lan^ 
With  other  burdens  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  spurred. him 


376  Wordsworth's  poems. 

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  — 

Leonard.     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  when  he  talked  of  them  where  they  were  not, 
And  hauntings  from  the  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  weep.  Sir, 
To  hear  a  stranger  talking  about  strangers. 
Heaven  bless  you  when  you  are  among  your  kindred 
Ay  —  you  may  turn  that  way  —  it  is  a  grave 
Which  will  bear  looking  at. 

Leonard.  These  boys  —  I  hope 

They  loved  this  good  old  Man?  — 

Piiest.  They  did  — and  truly: 

But  that  was  what  we  almost  overlooked, 
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, 


Wordsworth's  poems.  377 

Was  two  years  taller:   'twas  a  joy  to  see, 

To  hear,  to  meet  them  I  —  From  their  house  the  school 

Is  distant  three  short  miles,  and  in  the  time 

Of  storm  and  thaw,  when  every  water-course 

And  unbridged  stream,  such  as  you  may  have  noticed 

Crossing  our  roads  at  every  hundred  steps. 

Was  swoln  into  a  noisy  rivulet, 

Would  Leonard  then,  when  elder  boys  remained 

At  home,  go  staggering  through  the  slippery  fords, 

Bearing  his  brother  on  his  back.     I  have  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  — 

Leonard.  It  may  be,  then  — 

Priest.   Never  did  worthier  lads  break  English  bread ; 
The  very  brightest  Sunday  Autumn  saw. 
With  all  its  mealy  clusters  of  ripe  nuts. 
Could  never  keep  those  boys  away  from  chufch, 
Or  tempt  them  to  an  hour  of  Sabbath  breach. 
Leonard  and  James  !   I  warrant,  every  corner 
Among  these  rocks,  and  every  hollow  place 
That  venturous  foot  could  reach,  to  one  or  both 
Was  known  as  well  as  to  the  flowers  that  grow  there, 
Like  roe-bucks  they  went  bounding  o'er  the  hills ; 
They  played  like  two  young  ravens  on  the  crags : 
Then  they  could  write,  ay,  and  speak  too,  as  well 
As  many  of  their  betters  —  and  for  Leonard! 
The  very  night  before  he  went  away, 
In  my  own  house  I  put  into  his  hand 
A  biblo,  and  I'd  wager  house  and  field, 
32* 


378  Wordsworth's  poems. 

That,  if  he  be  alive,  he  has  it  yet. 

Leonard.    It   seems   these   brothers   have  not  lived 
to  be 
A  comfort  to  each  other  — 

Priest.  That  they  might 

Live  to  such  end  is  what  both  old  and  young 
In  this  our  valley  all  of  us  have  wished, 
And  what,  for  my  part,  I  have  often  prayed; 
But  Leonard  — 

Leonard.     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  trafficked  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  years,  a  stripling  only, 
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. 
The  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. 
Resolved  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. 
Prom  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,  O  good  Sir, 
This  is  sad  talk  —  they'll  never  sound  for  him 


Wordsworth's  poems.  379 

Living  or  dead.    When  last  we  heard  of  him, 

He  was  in  slavery  among  the  Moors 

Upon  the  Barbary  coast.  —  'Twas  not  a  little 

That  would  bring  down  his  spirit;   and  no  doubt 

Before  it  ended  in  his  death,  the  Youth 

Was  sadly  crossed. —  Poor  Leonard !  when  we  parted, 

He  took  me  by  the  hand,  and  said  to  me. 

If  e'er  he  should  grow  rich,  he  would  return 

To  live  in  peace  upon  his  father's  land, 

And  lay  his  bones  among  us. 

Leonard.  If  that  day 

Should  come,  't\vould  needs  be  a  glad  day  for  him , 
He  would  himself,  no  doubt,  be  happy  then 
As  any  that  should  meet  him  — 

Priest.  Happy  I  Sir  — 

Leonard.    You   said   his    kindred  all  were  in  their 
graves, 
And  that  he  had  one  Brother  — 

Priest.  That  is  but 

A  fellow-tale  of  sorrow.     From  his  youth 
James,  though  not  sickly,  yet  was  delicate ; 
And  Leonard  being  always  by  his  side. 
Had  done  so  many  offices  about  him, 
That  though  he  was  not  of  a  timid  nature, 
Yet  still  the  spirit  of  a  mountain-boy 
In  him  was  somewhat  checked ;   and  when  his  Brother 
Was  gone  to  sea,  and  he  was  left  alone, 
The  little  color  that  he  had  was  soon 
Stolen  from   his   cheek ;    he   drooped,  and   pined,  and 
pined  — 

Leonard.    But  these  are  all  the  graves  of  full-grown 
men! 

Priest.    Ay,    Sir,    that  passed  away;  we  took  him 
to  us ; 
He  was  the  child  of  all  the  dale  —  he  lived 


380  Wordsworth's  poems. 

Three  months  with  one,  and  six  months  with  another 

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,  Ave  found 

(A  practice  till  this  time  unknown  to  him) 

That  often,  rising  from  his  bed  at  night. 

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. 

Leonard.  But  this  Youth, 

How  did  he  die  at  last  ? 

Priest.  One  sweet  May-morning, 

(It  will  be  twelve  years  since  when  Spring  returns,) 
He  had  gone  forth  among  the  new-dropped  lambs, 
With  two  or  three  companions  whom  their  course 
Of  occupation  led  from  height  to  height 
Under  a  cloudless  sun  —  till  he,  at  length. 
Through  weariness,  or  haply,  to  indulge 
The  humor  of  the  moment,  lagged  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  called,  The  Pillar. 
Upon  its  aery  summit  crowned  with  heath, 
The  loiterer,  not  unnoticed  by  his  comrades, 
Lay  stretched  at  ease ;  but,  passing  by  the  place 
On  their  return,  t'lcy  found  that  he  was  gone. 
No  ill  was  feared ;  till  one  of  them  by  chance 
Entering,  when  evenmg  was  far  spent,  the  house 
Which  at  that  time  was  James's  home,  there  learned 
That  nobody  had  seen  him  all  that  day: 


■Wordsworth's  poems.  381 

The  morning  came,  and  still  he  was  unheard  of: 
The  neighbors  were  alarmed,  and  to  the  brook 
Some  hastened ;  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 ! 

Leonard.    And   that,    then,  is  his    grave  !  —  Before 
his  death 
You  say  that  he  saw  many  happy  years  ? 

Priesf.     Aye,  that  he  did  — 

Leonard.  And  all  went  well  with  him.''  — 

Priest.     If  he  had  one,  the  youth  had  twenty  homes. 

Leonard.     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  turned  on  Leonard's  luckless  fortune, 
He  talked  about  him  with  a  cheerful  love. 

Leonard.     He  could  not  come  to  an  unhallowed  end  I 

Pnest.     Nay,  God  forbid !  —  You    recollect   I    men- 
tioned 
A  habit  which  disquietude  and  grief 
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  fallen  asleep ;  that  in  his  sleep 
He  to  the  margin  of  the  precipice 
Had  walked,  and  from  the  summit  had  fallen  headlong 
And  so  no  doubt  he  perished.     When  the  Youth 
Fell,  in  his  hand  he  must  have  grasped,  we  think, 
His  shepherd's  staff;  for  on  that  Pillar  of  rock 
It  had  been  caught  midway ;   and  there  for  years 
It  hung  ;  —  and  mouldered  there. 


382  Wordsworth's  poems. 

The  Priest  here  ended  — 
The  Stranger  would  have  thanked  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  reached  the  church-yard  gate, 
As  the  Priest  lifted  up  the  latch,  turned  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  homf  iy  fare : 
.  The  other  thanked  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  reached  a  grove 

That  overhung  the  road :   he  there  stopped  short, 

And,  sitting  down  beneath  the  trees,  reviewed 

All  that  the  Priest  had  said :   his  early  years 

Were  with  him:  —  his  long  absence,  cherished  hopes, 

And  thoughts  which  had  been  his  an  hour  before, 

All  pressed  on  him  with  such  a  weight,  that  now, 

This  vale,  where  he  had  been  so  happy,  seemed 

A  place  in  which  he  could  not  bear  to  live : 

So  he  relinquished  all  his  purposes. 

He  travelled  back  to  Egremont ;  and  thence, 

That  night  he  wrote  a  letter  to  the  Priest, 

Reminding  him  of  what  had  passed  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   RUSSIAN   FUGITIVE. 


THE    RUSSIAN    FUGITIVE. 


[Peter  Henry  Bruce,  having  given  in  his  entertaining  Memoirs  tha 
substance  of  the  following  Tale,  affirms,  that,  besides  the  concurring 
reports  of  others,  he  had  the  story  from  the  Lady's  own  mouth. 

The  Lady  Catherine,  mentioned  towards  the  close,  was  the  famous 
Catherine,  then  bearing  that  name  as  the  acknowledged  Wife  of  Peter 
the  Great.] 


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  wants  not  beauty  that  may  scorn 

A  likening  to  frail  flowers ; 
Yea,  to  the  stars,  if  they  were  bom 

For  seasons  and  for  hours. 


Through  Moscow's  gates,  with  gold  unbarred, 
Stepped  one  at  dead  of  night, 
33 


386  Wordsworth's  poems. 

Whom  such  high  beauty  could  not  guard 

From  meditated  blight; 
By  stealth  she  passed,  and  fled  as  fast 

As  doth  the  hunted  fawn, 
Nor  stopped,  till  in  the  dappling  east 

Appeared  unwelcome  dawn. 


Seven  days  she  lurked  in  brake  and  field. 

Seven  nights  her  course  renewed. 
Sustained  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; 
She  hung  upon  the  Fugitive, 

Embracing  and  embraced. 


She  lead  her  Lady  to  a  seat 
Beside  the  glimmering  fire, 

Bathed  duteously  her  way-worn  feet. 
Prevented  each  desire : 


Wordsworth's  poems.  387 

The  cricket  chirped,  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  tnorn, 
Had  breathed  a  sigh  of  thanks  to  God, 

Who  comforts  the  forlorn ; 
While  over  her  the  Matron  bent 

Sleep  sealed  her  eyes,  and  stole 
Feeling  from  limbs  with  travel  spent, 

And  trouble  from  the  soul. 


Refreshed,  the  Wanderer  rose  at  mom. 

And  soon  again  was  dight 
In  those  unworthy  vestments  worn 

Through  long  and  perilous  flight; 
And  "  O  beloved  Nurse,"  she  said, 

"My  thanks  with  silent  tears, 
Have  unto  Heaven  and  You  been  paid: 

Now  listen  to  my  fears ! 


Have  you  forgot "  —  and  here  she  smiled  • 

"The  babbling  flatteries 
You  lavised  on  me  when  a  child 

Disporting  round  your  knees  ? 
I  was  your  lambkin,  and  your  bird. 

Your  star,  your  gem,  your  flower; 


WORDSWORTH'S  POEMS. 


Light  words,  that  were  more  lightly  heard 
In  many  a  cloudless  hour! 


The  blossom  you  so  fondly  praised 

Is  come  to  bitter  fruit; 
A  mighty  One  upon  me  gazed; 

I  spurned  his  lawless  suit, 
And  must  be  hidden  from  his  wrath. 

You,  Foster-father  dear, 
Will  guide  me  in  my  forward  path; 

I  may  not  tarry  here ! 


I  cannot  bring  to  utter  woe 

Your  proved  fidelity."  — 
"  Dear  Child,  sweet  Mistress,  say  not  so ! 

For  you  we  both  would  die." 
"Nay,  nay,  I  come  with  semblance  feigned 

And  cheek  embrowned  by  art ; 
Yet,  being  inwardly  unstained, 

With  courage  will  depart." 


"But  whither  would  you,  could  you,  flee? 

A  poor  Man's  counsel  take ; 
The  Holy  Virgin  gives  to  me 

A  thought  for  your  dear  sake ; 
Rest,  shielded  by  our  Lady's  grace; 

And  soon  shall  you  be  led 
Forth  to  a  safe  abiding-place, 

Where  never  foot  doth  tread." 


WORDSWORTH'S  POEMS. 


PART  n. 


The  Dwelling  of  this  faithful  pair 

In  a  straggling  village  stood, — 
For  One  who  breathed  unquiet  air 

A  dangerous  neighborhood ; 
But  wide  around  lay  forest  ground 

With  thickets  rough  and  blind ; 
And  pine-trees  made  a  heavy  shade 

Impervious  to  the  wind. 


And  there,  sequestered  from  the  sight, 

Was  spread  a  treacherous  swamp, 
On  which  the  noonday  sun  shed  light 

As  from  a  lonely  lamp; 
And  midway  in  the  unsafe  morass, 

A  single  Island  rose 
Of  firm  dry  ground,  with  healthful  grass 

Adorned,  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  seemed  the  spot. 

From  all  intrusion  free ; 
And  there  he  planned  an  artful  Cot 

For  perfect  secrecy. 
33* 


390  Wordsworth's  poems. 


With  earnest  pains  unchecked  by  dread 

Of  Power's  far-stretching  hand, 
The  bold  good  Man  his  labor  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  accomplished  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  mile  to  mile,  ■ 
Till  they  have  crossed  the  quaking  marsh, 

And  reached  the  lonely  Isle. 


The  sun  above  the  pine-trees  showed 

A  bright  and  cheerful  face; 
And  Ina  looked  for  her  abode, 

The  promised  hiding-place ; 
She  sought  in  vain,  the  Woodman  smiled; 

No  threshold  could  be  seen. 
Nor  roof,  nor  window ;  all  seemed  wild 

As  it  had  ever  been. 


Advancing,  you  might  guess  an  hour, 
The  front  with  such  nice  care 


Wordsworth's  poems.  391 

Ts  masked,  "if  house  it  be,  or  bower," 

But  in  they  entered  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  prouc 

Entering  her  palace  gate  ; 
Rejoiced  to  bid  the  world  farewell, 

No  saintly  Anchoress 
E'er  took  possession  of  her  cell 

With  deeper  thankfulness 


"Father  of  all,  upon  thy  care 

And  mercy  am  I  thrown ; 
Be  thou  my  safeguard!" — such  her  prayer 

When  she  was  left  alone, 


392  -Wordsworth's  poems. 

Kneeling  amid  the  wilderness 

When  joy  had  passed  away, 
And  smiles,  fond  efforts  of  distress 

To  hide  what  they  betray! 

XI. 

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  III. 


'Tis  sung  in  ancient  minstrelsy 

That  Phcebus  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  prayer  transformed,  took  root, 

A  laurel  in  the  grove 


Then  did  the  Penitent  adorn 
His  brow  with  laurel  green; 


WORDSWORTH'S  POEMS. 

And  'mid  his  bright  locks  never  shorn 

No  meaner  leaf  was  seen; 
And  Poets  sage,  through  every  age, 

About  their  temples  wound 
The  bay ;  and  Conquerors  thanked  the  Gods, 

With  laurel  chaplets  crowned. 


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 
Upon  her  Island  desolate ; 

And  words  not  breathed  in  vain, 
Might  tell  what  intercourse  she  found. 

Her  silence  to  endear; 
What  birds  she  tamed,  what  flowers  the  ground 

Sent  forth  her  peace  to  cheer. 


To  one  mute  Presence,  above  all, 
Her  soothed  aSections  clung, 

A  picture  on  the  Cabin  wall 
By  Russian  usage  hung  — 


394  Wordsworth's  poems. 

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  the  heroic  Daughter  feared 

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 


■Wordsworth's  poems.  395 


From  the  altar  of  this  sacrifice, 
In  vestal  purity. 


Yet,  when  above  the  forest-glooms 

The  white  swans  southward  passed, 
High  as  the  pitch  of  their  swift  plumes 

Her  fancy  rode  the  blast; 
And  bore  her  tow'rd  the  fields  of  France, 

Her  Father's  native  land, 
To  mingle  in  the  rustic  dance, 

The  happiest  of  the  band! 


Of  those  beloved  fields  she  oft 

Had  heard  her  Father  tell 
In  phrase  that  now  with  echoes  soft 

Haunted  her  lonely  Cell ; 
She  saw  the  hereditary  bowers. 

She  heard  the  ancestral  stream; 
The  Kremlin  and  its  haughty  towers 

Forgotten  like  a  dream! 


PART  IV. 


The  ever-changing  Moon  had  traced 
Twelve  times  her  monthly  round. 


396  Wordsworth's  poems. 

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  marahi, 

And  toward  the  Island  fled, 
While  plovers  screamed  with  tumult  harsh 

Above  his  antlered  head ; 
This,  Ina  saw;  and,  pale  with  fear, 

Shrunk  to  her  citadal; 
The  desperate  Deer  rushed  on,  and  near 

The  tangled  covert  fell 


Across  the  marsh,  the  game  in  view, 

The  Hunter  followed  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  word ; 


Wordsworth's  poems.  3P7 

There  is  my  covert,  there,  perchance, 

I  might  have  lain  concealed, 
My  fortunes  hid,  my  countenance 

Nor  even  to  you  revealed. 


Tears  miglit  be  shed,  and  I  might  pray, 

Crouching  and  terrified, 
That  what  has  been  unveiled  to-day, 

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, 
While  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. 


Prom  Moscow  to  the  Wilderness 
It  was  my  choice  to  come, 

Lest  virtue  should  be  harborless, 
And  honor  want  a  home; 

And  happy  were  I,  if  the  Czar 
Retain  his  lawless  will, 
34 


398  Wordsworth's  poems. 

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, 
Whose  vanishing  was  rumored  wide, 

Sad  theme  for  every  tongue ; 
Who  foiled  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  quelled ; 

And  in  her  face  and  mien 
The  soul's  pure  brightness  he  beheld 

Without  a  veil  between: 
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," 

Exclaimed  he  ;   "  righteous  Heaven, 
Preparing  your  deliverance. 

To  me  the  charge  hath  given. 
The  Czar  full  oft  in  words  and  deeds 

Is  stormy  and  self-willed ; 
But,  when  the  Lady  Catherine  pleads, 

His  violence  is  stilled. 


Wordsworth's  poems.  399 


"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  followed  question,  dear 

To  the  Maiden's  filial  heart 


Light  was  his  step,  —  his  hopes,  more  lights 

Kept  pace  with  his  desires ; 
And  the  third  morning  gave  him  sight 

Of  Moscow's  glittering  spires. 
He  sued :  —  heart-smitten  by  the  wrong, 

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  over-joy  produced  a  fear 

Of  something  void  and  vain,  — 
'Twas  when  the  Parents,  who  had  mourned 

So  long  the  lost  as  dead, 
Beheld  their  only  Child  returned, 

The  household  floor  to  tread. 


Soon  gratitude  gave  way  to  love 
Within  the  Maiden's  breast* 


400  Wordsworth's  poems. 

Delivered  and  Deliverer  move 

In  bridal  garments  drest; 
Meek  Catherine  had  her  own  reward; 

The  Czar  bestowed  a  dower* 
And  universal  Moscow  shared 

The  triumph  of  that  hour. 


Flowers  strewed  the  ground ;  tne  nuptial  feast 

Was  held  with  costly  state; 
And  there,  'mid  many  a  noble  Guest, 

The  Foster  Parents  sate ; 
Encouraged  by  the  imperial  eye, 

They  shrank  not  into  shade ; 
Great  was  their  bliss,  the  honor  high 

To  them  and  Nature  paid! 


GOODY      BLAKE 


HARRY     GILL. 


GOODY  BLAKE    AND    HARRY   GILL 

A  TRUE    STORY. 


Oh!  what's  the  matter?   what's  the  matter' 
What  is't  that  ails  young  Harry  Gill  ? 
That  evermore  his  teeth  they  chatter, 
Chatter,  chatter,  chatter  still ! 
Of  waistcoats  Harry  has  no  lack, 
Good  duffle  gray,  and  flannel  fine ; 
He  has  a  blanket  on  his  back. 
And  coats  enough  to  smother  nine. 

In  March,  December,  and  in  July, 
'Tis  all  the  same  with  Harry  Gill; 
The  neighbors  tell,  and  tell  you  truly, 
His  teeth  they  chatter,  chatter  still. 
At  night,  at  morning,  and  at  noon, 
'Tis  all  the  same  with  Harry  Gill ; 
Beneath  the  sun,  beneath  the  moon. 
His  teeth  they  chatter,  chatter  still ! 

Young  Harry  was  a  lusty  drover. 
And  who  so  stout  of  limb  as  he  ? 
His  cheeks  were  red  as  ruddy  clover; 
His  voice  was  like  the  voice  of  three, 


404  Wordsworth's  poems. 

Old  Goody  Blake  was  old  and  poor ; 
111  fed  she  was,  and  thinly  clad ; 
And  any  man  who  passed  her  door 
Might  see  how  poor  a  hut  she  had. 

All  day  she  spun  in  her  poor  dwelling ; 
And  then  her  three  hours'  work  at  night, — 
Alas!   'twas  hardly  worth  the  telling, 
It  would  not  pay  for  candle-light. 
Remote  from  sheltering  village  green, 
On  a  hill's  northern  side  she  dwelt, 
Where  from  sea-blasts  the  hawthorns  lean, 
And  hoary  deivs  are  slow  to  melt. 

By  the  same  fire  to  boil  their  pottage. 
Two  poor  old  Dames,  as  I  have  known, 
Will  often  live  in  one  small  cottage ; 
But  she,  poor  Woman !   housed  alone. 
'Twas  well  enough  ivhen  summer  came, 
The  long,  warm,  lightsome  summer-day ; 
Then  at  her  door  the  canty  Dame 
Would  sit,  as  any  linnet  gay. 

But  when  the  ice  our  streams  did  fetter, 
Oh !   then  how  her  old  bones  would  shake ! 
You  would  have  said,  if  you  had  met  her, 
'Twas  a  hard  time  for  <TOody  Blake. 
Her  evenings  then  were  dull  and  dead ; 
Sad  case  it  was,  as  you  may  think, 
For  very  cold  to  go  to  bed; 
And  then  for  cold  not  sleep  a  wink! 

O  joy  for  her !    whene'er  in  winter 
The  winds  at  night  had  made  a  rout; 
And  scattered  many  a  lusty  splinter 
And  many  a  rotten  bough  about. 


■Wordsworth's  poems.  405 

Yet  never  had  she,  well  or  sick, 
As  every  man  who  knew  her  says, 
A  pile  beforehand,  turf  or  stick, 
Enough  to  warm  her  for  three  days. 

Now,  when  the  frost  was  past  enduring, 
And  made  her  poor  old  bones  to  ache. 
Could  any  thing  be  more  alluring 
Than  an  old  hedge  to  Goody  Blake? 
And,  now  and  then,  it  must  be  said. 
When  her  old  bones  were  cold  and  chill. 
She  left  her  fire,  or  left  her  bed. 
To  seek  the  hedge  of  Harry  Gill, 

Now  Harry  he  had  long  suspected 
This  trespass  of  old  Goody  Blake ; 
And  vowed  that  she  should  be  detected, 
And  he  on  her  would  vengeance  take. 
And  oft  from  his  warm  fire  he'd  go. 
And  to  the  fields  his  road  would  take ; 
And  there,  at  night,  in  frost  and  snow. 
He  watched  to  seize  old  Goody  Blake. 

And  once,  behind  a  rick  of  barley. 
Thus  looking  out  did  Harry  stand: 
The  moon  was  full  and  shining  clearly. 
And  crisp  with  frost  the  stubble  land. 
—  He  hears  a  noise  —  he's  all  awake  — 
Again!  —  on  tip-toe  down  the  hill 
He  softly  creeps  —  'Tis  Goody  Blake, 
She's  at  the  hedge  of  Harry  Gill ! 

Right  glad  was  he  when  he  beheld  her: 
Stick  after  stick  did  Goody  pull: 
He  stood  behind  a  bush  of  elder. 
Till  she  had  filled  her  apron  full 


406  Wordsworth's  poems. 

When  with  her  load  she  turned  about, 
The  by-way  back  again  to  take; 
He  started  forward  with  a  shout, 
And  sprang  upon  poor  Goody  Blake. 

And  fiercely  by  the  arm  he  took  her, 
And  by  the  arm  he  held  her  fast, 
And  fiercely  by  the  arm  he  shook  her, 
And  cried,  "I've,  caught  you  then  at  last!" 
Then  Goody,  who  had  nothing  said, 
Her  bundle  from  her  lap  let  fall ; 
And,  kneeling  on  the  sticks,  she  prayed. 
To  God  that  is  the  judge  of  all. 

She  prayed,  her  withered  hand  uprearing, 
While  Harry  held  her  by  the  arm  — 
"God!   who  art  never  out  of  hearing, 
O  may  he  never  more  be  warm ! " 
The  cold,  cold  moon  above  her  head. 
Thus  on  her  knees  did  Goody  pray ; 
Young  Harry  heard  what  she  had  said, 
And  icy  cold  he  turned  away. 

He  went  complaining  all  the  morrow 

That  he  was  cold  and  very  chill ; 

His  face  was  gloom,  his  heart  was  sorrow  — 

Alas  !   that  day  for  Harry  Gill ! 

That  day  he  wore  a  riding-coat. 

But  not  a  whit  the  warmer  he : 

Another  was  on  Thursday  brought, 

And  ere  the  Sabbath  he  had  three ! 

'Twas  all  in  vain,  a  useless  matter, 
And  blankets  were  about  him  pinned ; 
Yet  still  his  jaws  and  teeth  they  clatter 
Like  a  loose  casement  in  the  wind. 


Wordsworth's  poems.  407 

And  Harry's  flesh  it  fell  away ; 
And  all  who  see  him  say,  'tis  plain, 
That,  live  as  long  as  live  he  may, 
He  never  will  be  warm  again. 

No  word  to  any  man  he  utters. 
Abed  or  up,  to  young  or  old ; 
But  ever  to  himself  he  mutters, 
"Poor  Harry  Gill  is  very  cold." 
Abed  or  up,  by  night  or  day. 
His  teeth  they  chatter,  chatter  still. 
Now  think,  ye  farmers  all,  I  pray, 
Of  Goody  Blake  and  Harry  GUI ! 


MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS, 

SONNETS,    &c. 


MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS, 

SONNETS,    &c. 


THE    SOMNAMBULIST. 


List,  ye  who  pass  by  Lyulph's  Tower 

At  eve ;  how  softly  then 
Doth  Aira-force,  that  torrent  hoarse, 

Speak  from  the  woody  glen ! 
Fit  music  for  a  solemn  vale ! 

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  sight  whereon 
The  Pleasure-house  is  reared. 

As  Story  says,  in  antique  days, 
A  stern-brow'd  house  appeared ; 

Foil  to  a  jewel  rich  in  light 
There  set,  and  guarded  well ; 


412  Wordsworth's  poems. 

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  was  known. 
Ye  Dales  and  Hills !  to  you  alone 

Their  mutual  loyalty  — 


Known  chiefly,  Aira !  to  thy  glen, 

Thy  brook,  and  bowers  of  holly; 
Where  Passion  caught  what  Nature  taught, 

That  all  but  Love  is  folly ; 
Where  Fact  with  Fancy  stooped  to  play, 

Doubt  came  not,  nor  regret ; 
To  trouble  hours  that  winged  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  throve  the  fire  of  chaste  desire, 

Fanned  by  the  breath  of  foes. 
"A  conquering  lance  is  beauty's  test. 


wokdsworth's  foems.  413 

And  proves  the  Lover  true ; " 
So  spake  Sir  Eglamore,  and  pressed 
The  drooping  Emma  to  his  breast, 

And  looked  a  blind  adieu. 


They  parted.  —  Well  with  him  it  fared 

Through  wide-spread  regions  errant; 
A  knight  of  proof  in  love's  behoof, 

The  thirst  of  fame  his  warrant : 
And  she  her  happiness  can  build 

On  woman's  quiet  hours ; 
Though  faint,  compared  with  spear  and  shield, 
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  grow  dim 

And  high  her  blushes  mounted; 
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  owns  no  curb, 
Received  the  light  her's  loses. 
35* 


414  Wordsworth's  poems. 

He  comes  not  back ;  an  ampler  space 

Requires  for  nobler  deeds ; 
He  ranges  on  from  place  to  place. 
Till  of  his  doings  is  no  trace 
But  what  her  fancy  breeds. 


His  fame  may  spread,  but  in  the  past 

Her  spirit  finds  its  centre ; 
Clear  sight  she  has  of  what  he  was, 

And  that  would  now  content  her. 
"  Still  is  he  my  devoted  knight  ? " 

The  tear  in  answer  flows ; 
Month  falls  on  month  with  heavier  weight; 
Day  sickens  round  her,  and  the  night 

Is  empty  of  repose. 


In  sleep  she  sometimes  walked  abroad, 

Deep  sighs  with  quick  words  blending, 
Like  that  pale  Queen  whose  hands  are  seen 

With  fancied  spots  contending; 
But  she  is  innocent  of  blood,  — 

The  moon  is  not  more  pure 
That  shines  aloft,  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  arrayed,  glides  on  the  Maid 


Wordsworth's  poems.  415 

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. 
Beneath  the  boughs  that  heard  their  vows, 

Within  whose  shade  they  parted. 
Hush,  hush,  the  busy  Sleeper  see ! 

Perplexed  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 

Unfading  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  valor,  truth,  and  love. 

XIV. 


So  from  the  spot  whereon  he  stood. 
He  moved  with  stealthy  pace  • 


416  words-worth's  poems. 

And,  drawing  nigh,  with  his  living  eye, 

He  recognized  the  face  ; 
And  whispers  caught,  and  speeches  small, 

Some  to  the  green-leaved  tree, 
Some  muttered  to  the  torrent  fall, — 
"Roar  on,  and  bring  him  with  thy  call; 

I  heard,  and  so  may  he ! " 


Soul-shattered  was  the  Knight,  nor  knew 

If  Emma's  Ghost  it  were. 
Or  boding  Shade,  or  if  the  Maid 

Her  very  self  stood  there. 
He  touched,  what  followed  who  shall  tell? 

The  soft  touch  snapped  the  thread 
Of  slumber  —  shrieking,  back  she  fell, 
And  the  Stream  whirled  her  down  the  dell 

Along  its  foaming  bed. 


In  plunged  the  Knight !  —  when  on  firm  ground 

The  rescued  Maiden  lay. 
Her  eyes  grew  bright  with  blissful  light. 

Confusion  passed  away ; 
She  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. 

XVII. 

So  was  he  reconciled  to  life : 
Brief  words  may  speak  the  rest ; 


Wordsworth's  poems.  417 

Within  the  dell  he  built  a  cell, 

And  there  was  Sorrow's  guest; 
In  hermits'  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, 
Where  clouds  that  spread  in  solemn  shade, 

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, 

Shall  take  thy  place  with  Yarrow! 


THE  PET  LAMB. 

A    PASTORAL. 

The  dew  was  falling  fast,  the  stars  began  to  blink; 
I   heard   a   voice ;    it   said,    "  Drink,   pretty  Creature, 

drink!" 
And,  looking  o'er  the  hedge,  before  me  I  espied 
A  snow-white  mountain  Lamb,  with   a  Maiden   at  ita 

side. 


418  -Wordsworth's  poems. 

No  other  sheep  were  near,  the  Lamb  was  all  alone, 
And  by  a  slender  cord  was  tethered  to  a  stone ; 
With  one  knee  on   the   grass    did   the    little    Maiden 

kneel, 
While  to  that  mountain  Lamb    she   gave    its   evening 

meal. 

The  Lamb,  while  from  her  hand   he  thus    his   supper 

took, 
Seemed  to  feast  with  head  and  ears,  and  his  tail  with 

pleasure  shook. 
"Drink,  pretty  Creature,  drink!"  she   said    in  such  a 

tone 
That  I  almost  received  her  heart  into  my  own. 

'Twas   little   Barbara   Lewthwaite,   a  Child  of  beauty 

rare ! 
I  watched  them  with  delight,  they  were  a  lovely  pair. 
Now  with  her  empty  Can  the  Maiden  turned  away: 
But  ere  ten  yards  were   gone   her   footsteps   did    she 
stay. 

Towards  the  Lamb  she  looked ;  and  from   that   shady 

place 
I  unobserved  could  see  the  workings  of  her  face : 
If    Nature    to    her   tongue    could    measured    numbers 

bring. 
Thus,  thought  I,  to  her  Lamb  that    little  Maid    might 

sing:  — 

"  What    ails    thee.  Young    One  ?  —  what  ?     Why  pull 

so  at  thy  cord"? 
Is  it  not   well   with   thee  ?  —  well   both  for  bed   and 

board  ? 


Wordsworth's  poems.  419 

Thy  plot  of  grass  is  soft,  and  green  as  grass  can  be ; 
Rest,  little   Young  One,    rest;    what  is't  that   aileth 
thee  ? 


"  What  is  it  thou  wou  ast  seek  ?  What  is  wanting  to 

thy  heart? 
Thy  limbs  are  they  not  strong?  and  beautiful  thou  art: 
This  grass  is  tender  grass ;  these   flowers   they   have 

no  peers ; 
And  that  green  corn  all  day  is  rustling  in  thy  ears! 

"If  the  Sun  be  shining  hot;  do  but  stretch  thy  wool- 
len chain,  — 

This  beech  is  standing  by,  its  covert  thou  canst  gain; 

For  rain  and  mountain  storms !  the  like  thou  needest 
not  fear  — 

The  rain  and  storm  are  things  that  scarcely  can  come 
here. 

"Rest,  little  Young  One,  rest!  thou   hast  forgot   the 

day 
When  my  Father  found  thee  first  in  places  far  away  • 
Many  flocks  were  on  the  hills,  but  thou   wert  owned 

by  none, 
And  thy  mother  from  thy  side  for  evermore  was  gone. 

"He  took  thee  in  his  arms,  and  in  pity  brought  thee 

home  — 
A  blessed  day  for  thee !  then   whither   wouldst   thou 

roam? 
A  faithful  Nurse   thou   hast;  the  dam  that  did  thee 

yean 
Upon  the  mountain  tops  no  kinder  could  have  been. 


420  Wordsworth's  poems. 

"Thou  knowest  that  twice  a  day   I   brought  thee  in 

this  Can 
Fresh  water  from  the  brook,  as  clear  as  ever  ran; 
And  twice  in  the  day,  when   the  ground   is  wet  with 

dew, 
I  bring  thee  draughts  of  mild  —  warm  milk  it  is  and 

new. 

"Thy  limbs  will  shortly  be   twice   as   stout   as   they 

are  now ; 
Then   I'll  yoke  thee  to  my  cart,  like  a  pony  in  the 

plough : 
My  Playmate    thou   shalt  be;  and  when  the  wind  is 

cold 
Our  hearth  shall  be  thy  bed,  our  house  shall   be   thy 

fold. 

"It  will  not,  will  not  rest!    Poor  Creature,  can  it  be 
That  'tis  thy  mother's  heart  which   is   working   so   in 

thee? 
Things  that  I  know  not  of  belike  to  thee  are  dear, 
And  dreams  of  things  which  thou   canst   neither   see 

nor  hear. 

"  Alas !  the   mountain   tops   that   look   so   green   and 

fair! 
I've  heard  of  fearful  winds    and   darkness   that   come 

there : 
The  little  brooks  that  seem  all  pastime  and  all  play, 
When  they  are  angry,  roar  like  Lions  for  their  prey 

"Here  thou  needest  not  dread  the  raven  in  the  sky; 
Night  and  day  thou  art  safe,  —  our  cottage  is  hard  by 
Why  bleat  so  after  me.-'  Why  pull  so  at  thy  chain? 
Sleep  —  and  at  break  of  day  I  will  come  to  thee 
again ! " 


Wordsworth's  poems.  421 

—  As  homeward  through  the  lane   I   went  with   lazy 

feet, 
This  song  to  myself  did  I  oftentimes  repeat ; 
And  it  seemed,  as  I  retraced  the  ballad  line  by  line, 
That  but  half  of  it  was  hers,  and  one  half  of  it  was 

mine. 

Again,  and  once  again,  did  I  repeat  the  song ; 
"Nay,"  said  I,  "more  than  half  to    the  Damsel   must 

belong,  — 
For  she  looked  with  such  a  look,  and  she  spake  with 

such  a  tone, 
That  I  almost  received  her  heart  into  ray  own." 


HART-LEAP  WELL. 


Hart-Leap  Well  is  a  small  spring:  of  water,  about  five  miles  from 
Richmond  in  Yorkshire,  and  near  the  side  of  the  road  that  leads  from 
Richmond  to  Askrigg.  lis  name  is  derived  from  a  remarkable  Clmse, 
the  memory  of  which  is  preserved  by  the  monuments  spoken  of  in  the 
second  Part  of  the  following-  Poem,  which  monuments  do  now  exist  a* 
I  have  there  described  them. 


The  Knight  had  ridden  down  frorn^  Wensley  Moor 
With  the  slow  motion  of  a  summer's  cloud ; 
He  turned  aside  towards  a  Vassal's  door, 
And  "  Bring  another  horse ! "  he  cried  aloud. 
36 


422  Wordsworth's  poems. 

"  Another  horse !  "  —  That  shout  the  Vassal  heard 
And  saddled  his  hest  Steed,  a  comely  gray ; 
Sir  Walter  mounted  him ;   he  was  the  third 
Which  he  had  mounted  on  that  glorious  day. 

Joy  sparkled  in  the  prancing  Courser's  eyes; 
The  Horse  and  Horseman  are  a  happy  pair; 
But,  though  Sir  Walter  like  a  falcon  flies, 
There  is  a  doleful  silence  in  the  air. 

A  rout  this  morning  left  Sir  Walter's  Hall, 
That  as  they  galloped  made  the  echoes  roar; 
But  Horse  and  Man  are  vanished,  one  and  all; 
Such  race,  I  think,  was  never  seen  before. 

Sir  Walter,  restless  as  a  veering  wind. 
Calls  to  the  few  tired  Dogs  that  yet  remain; 
Blanch,  Swift,  and  Music,  noblest  of  their  kind, 
Follow,  and  up  the  weary  mountain  strain. 

The  Knight  hallooed,  he  cheered  and  chid  them  on 
With  suppliant  gestures  and  upbraiding  stern ; 
But  breath  and  eye-sight  fail ;   and,  one  by  one, 
The  Dogs  are  stretched  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  toijs  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. 


Wordsworth's  poems.  423 

Dismounting,  then,  he  leaned  against  a  thorn ; 
He  had  no  follower.  Dog,  nor  Man,  nor  Boy: 
He  neither  cracked  his  whip,  nor  blew  his  horn, 
But  gazed  upon  the  spoil  with  silent  joy. 

Close  to  the  thorn  on  which  Sir  Walter  leaned, 
Stood  his  dumb  partner  in  this  glorious  feat; 
Weak  as  a  lamb  the  hour  that  it  is  yeaned, 
And  white  with  foam  as  if  with  cleaving  sleet. 

Upon  his  side  the  Hart  was  lying  stretched; 

His  nostril  touched  a  spring  beneath  a  hill ; 

And  with  the  last  deep  groan  his  breath  had  fetched 

The  waters  of  the  spring  were  trembling  still. 

And  now,  too  happy  for  repose  or  rest, 

(Never  had  living  man  such  joyful  lot !) 

Sir  Walter  walked  all  round,  north,  south,  and  west, 

And  gazed  and  gazed  upon  that  darling  spot 

And  climbing  up  the  hill  —  (it  was  at  least 
Nine  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  living  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  Arbor,  made  for  rural  joy; 
'Twill  be  the  Traveller's  shed,  the  Pilgrim's  cot, 
A  place  of  love  for  Damsels  that  are  coy. 


424  Wordsworth's  pokms. 

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  sunimer-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  mountams  fail 
My  Mansion  with  its  Arbor  shall  endure ;  — 
The  joy  of  them  who  till  the  fields  of  Swale, 
And  them  who  dwell  among  the  woods  of  Ure ! " 

Then  home  he  went,  and  left  the  Hart,  stone-dead. 
With  breathless  nostrils  stretched  above  the  spring. 
—  Soon  did  the  Knight  perform  what  he  had  said, 
And  far  and  wide  the  fame  thereof  did  ring. 

Ere  thrice  the  Moon  into  her  port  had  steered, 
A  Cup  of  stone  received  the  living  Well ; 
Three  Pillars  of  rude  stone  Sir  Walter  reared, 
And  built  a  house  of  Pleasure  in  the  dell. 

And  near  the  fountain,  flowers  of  stature  tall 
With  trailing  plants  and  trees  were  intertwined,  — 
Which  soon  composed  a  little  S3'-Iva.n  Hall, 
,  A  leafy  shelter  from  the  sun  and  wind 


Wordsworth's  poems.  425 

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 


PART    SECOND. 

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  Richmond  did  repair, 
It  chanced  that  I  saw  standing  in  a  dell 
Three  Aspens  at  three  corners  of  a  square ; 
And  one,  not  four  yards  distant  near  a  Well. 

What  this  imported  I  could  ill  divine : 
And,  pulling  now  the  rein  my  horse  to  stop, 
I  saw  three  Pillars  standing  in  a  line, 
The  last  Stone  Pillar  on  a  dark  hill-top. 

The  trees  were  gray,  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." 
36* 


426  WORDSWORTH  S  POEMS. 

I  looked  upon  the  hill  both  far  and  near, 
More  doleful  place  did  never  eye  survey; 
It  seemed  as  if  the  spring-time  came  not  here, 
And  Nature  here  were  willing  to  decay. 

1  stood  in  various  thoughts  and  fancies  lost, 
When  one,  who  was  in  Shepherd's  garb  attired, 
Came  up  the  Hollow :  —  Him  did  I  accost, 
And  what  this  place  might  be  I  then  inquired. 

The  Shepherd  stopped,  and  that  same  story  told 
Which  in  my  former  rhyme  I  have  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  Arbor  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  Avet  his  lips  within  that  Cup  of  stone : 
And  oftentimes,  when  all  are  fast  asleep, 
This  water  doth  send  forth  a  dolorous  groan. 

Some  say  that  here  a  murder  has  been  done, 
And  blood  cries  out  for  blood ;  but,  for  my  part, 
I've  guessed,  when  I've  been  sitting  in  the  sun, 
That  it  was  all  for  that  unhappy  Hart. 


Wordsworth's  poems.  427 

What    thoughts    must    through    the    Creature's   brain 

have  passed ! 
Even  from  the  topmost  Stone,  upon  the  Steep, 
Are  but  three  bounds  —  and  look,  Sir,  at  this  last  — 
—  O  Master !   it  has  been  a  cruel  leap. 

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. 

Here  on  the  grass  perhaps  asleep  he  sank, 
Lulled  by  the  Fountain  in  the  summer-tide  ; 
This  water  was  perhaps  the  first  he  drank 
When  he  had  wandered  from  his  mother's  side. 

In  April  here  beneath  the  scented  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." 

"  Gray-headed  Shepherd,  thou  hast  spoken  well ; 
Small  difference  lies  between  thy  creed  and  mine: 
This  Beast  not  unobserved  by  Nature  fell ; 
His  death  was  mourned  by  sympathy  divine. 

The  Being,  that  is  in  the  clouds  and  air, 
That  is  in  the  green  leaves  among  the  groves, 
Maintains  a  deep  and  reverential  care 
For  the  unoffending  creatures  whom  he  loves. 


498  WOTlDSWORTIl's  POEMS. 

The  Pleasure-house  is  dust: — behind,  before, 
This  is  no  common  waste,  no  common  gloora ; 
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." 


EVENING    ODE, 

COMPOSED  UPON  AN  EVENING  OF  EXTRAORDINABT 
SPLENDOR  AND  BEAUTT. 


Had  this  effulgence  disappeared 
With  flying  haste,  I  might  have  sent, 
Among  the  speechless  clouds,  a  look 
Of  blank  astoiiisliment ; 
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! 


Wordsworth's  poems.  429 

Time  was  when  field  and  watery  cove 

With  modulated  echoes  rang, 

While  choirs  of  fervent  Angels  sang 

Their  vespers  in  the  grove  ; 

Or,  crowning,  star-like,  each  some  sovereign  height, 

Warbled,  for  heaven  above  and  earth  below, 

Strains  suitable  to  both.  —  Such  holy  rite, 

Methinks,  if  audibly  repeated  now 

From  hill  or  valley,  could  not  move 

Sublimer  transport,  purer  love. 

Than  doth  this  silent  spectacle  —  the  gleam  — 

The  shadow  —  and  the  peace  supreme  ! 


No  sound  is  uttered,  —  but  a  deep 

And  solemn  harmony  pervades 

The  hollow  vale    from  steep  to  steep, 

And  penetrates  the  glades. 

Far-distant  images  draw  nigh. 

Called  forth  by  wonderous  potency 

Of  beamy  radiance,  that  imbues 

Whate'er  it  strikes,  with  gem-like  hues ! 

In  vision  exquisitely  clear, 

Herds  range  along  the  mountain  side ; 

And  glistening  antlers  are  described  ; 

And  gilded  flocks  appear. 

Thine  is  the  tranquil  hour,  purpureal  Eve ! 

But  long  as  god-like  wish,  or  hope  divine. 

Informs  my  spirit,  ne'er  can  I  believe 

That  this  magnificence  is  wholly  thine ! 

—  From  worlds  not  quickened  by  the  sun 

A  portion  of  the  gift  is  won  ; 

An  intermingling  of  Heaven's  pomp  is  spread 

On  ground  \vhich  British  shepherds  tread ! 


430  Wordsworth's  poems 


And,  if  there  be  whom  broken  ties 

Afflict,  or  injuries  assail, 

Yon  hazy  ridges  to  their  eyes 

Present  a  glorious  scale, 

Climbing  suffused  with  sunny  air, 

To  stop  —  no  record  hath  told  where! 

And  tempting  Fancy  to  ascend, 

And  with  immortal  Spirits  blend ! 

—  Wings  at  my  shoulder  seem  to  play; 

But,  rooted  here,  I  stand  and  and  gaze 

On  those  bright  steps  that  heaven-ward  raise 

Their  practicable  way. 

Come  forth,  ye  drooping  old  men,  look  abroad. 

And  see  to  what  fair  countries  ye  are  bound! 

And  if  some  Traveller,  weary  of  his  road. 

Hath  slept  since  noon-tide  on  the  grassy  ground, 

Ye  Genii !   to  his  covert  speed  ; 

And  wake  him  with  such  gentle  heed 

As  may  attune  his  soul  to  meet  the  dower 

Bestowed  on  this  transcendent  hour! 


Such  hues  from  their  celestial  Urn 

Were  wont  to  stream  before  my  eye, 

Where'er  it  wandered  in  the  morn 

Of  blissful  infancy. 

This  glimpse  of  glory  why  renewed? 

Nay,  rather  speak  with  gratitude; 

For,    f  a  vestige  of  those  gleams 

Survi'. -,J,  'twas  only  in  my.  dreams. 

Dread  Power  I   whom  peace  and  calmness  serve 

No  less  than  Nature's  threatening  voice, 

If  aught  unworthy  be  my  choice, 


■Wordsworth's  foems.^  431 

From  Thee  if  I  would  swerve, 

Oh,  let  thy  grace  remind  me  of  the  light 

Full  early  lost,  and  fruitlessly  deplored ; 

Which,  at  this  moment,  on  my  waking  sight 

Appears  to  shine,  by  miracle  restored ! 

My  soul,  though  yet  confined  to  earth, 

Rejoices  in  a  second  birth; 

—  'Tis  past,  the  visionary  splendor  fades; 

And  night  approaches  with  her  shades. 


LINES, 

COMPOSED  A  FEW  MILES  ABOVE  TINTERN  ABBEY,  ON 
REVISITING  THE  BANKS  OF  THE  WYE  DURING  A  TOUR. 
—  JULY   13,    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  sweet  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 


432  ivordsworth's  poems. 

Among  the  woods  and  copses,  nor  disturb 
The  wild  green  landscape.     Once  again  I  see 
These  hedge-rows,  hardly  hedge-rows,  little  lines 
Of  sportive  wood  run  wild :   these  pastoral  farnas, 
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  ofl,  in  lonely  rooms,  and  'mid  the  din 
Of  towns  and  cities,  I  have  owed  to  them, 
In  hours  of  weariness,  sensations  sweet, 
Felt  in  the  blood,  and  felt  along  the  heart; 
And  passing  even  into  my  purer  mind. 
With  tranquil  restoration  ;  —  feelings  too 
Of  unremembered  pleasure ;  such,  perhaps, 
As  have  no  slight  or  trivial  influence 
On  that  best  portion  of  a  good  man's  life, 
His  little,  nameless,  unremembered  acts 
Of  kindness  and  of  love.     Nor  less,  I  trust, 
To  them  I  may  have  owed  another  gift. 
Of  aspect  more  sublime;   that  blessed  mood, 
In  which  the  burthen  of  the  mystery. 
In  which  the  heavy  and  the  weary  weight 
Of  all  this  unintelligible  world. 
Is  lightened: — that  serene  and  blessed  mood, 
In  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 


Wordsworth's  poems.  ^@3 

In  body,  and  become  a  living  soul : 
While  with  an  eye  made  quiet  by  the  power 
Of  harmony,  and  the  deep  power  of  joy, 
We  see  into  the  life  of  things. 

If  this 
Be  but  a  vain  belief,  yet,  oh !   how  oft, 
In  darkness,  and  amid  the  many  shapes 
Of  joyless  daylight ;  when  the  fretful  stir 
Unprofitable,  and  the  fever  of  the  world. 
Have  hung  upon  the  beatings  of  my  heart, 
How  oft,  in  spirit,  have  I  turned  to  thee, 

0  sylvan  Wye !   Thou  wanderer  through  the  woods, 
How  often  has  my  spirit  turned  to  thee ! 

And  now,  with  gleams  of  half-extinguished  thought, 

With  many  recognitions  dim  and  faint. 

And  somewhat  of  a  sad  perplexity, 

The  picture  of  the  mind  revives  again : 

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  nature  led :   more  like  a  man 
Flying  from  something  that  he  dreads,  than  one 
Who  sought  the  thing  he  loved.     For  nature  then 
(The  coarser  pleasures  of  my  boyish  days. 

And  their  glad  animal  movements  all  gone  by) 
To  me  was  all  in  all.     I  cannot  paint 
What  then  I  was.     The  sounding  cataract 
37 


434  Wordsworth's  poems. 

Haunted  me  like  a  passion:   the  tall  rock, 

The  mountain,  and  the  deep  and  gloomy  wood, 

Their  colors  and  their  forms,  were  then  to  me 

An  appetite  ;   a  feeling  and  a  love, 

That  had  no  need  of  a  remoter  charm. 

By  thought  supplied,  or  any  interest 

Unborrowed  from  the  eye.     That  time  is  past, 

And  all  its  aching  joys  are  now  no  more, 

And  all  its  dizzy  raptures.     Not  for  this 

Faint  I,  nor  mourn  nor  murmur ;   other  gifts 

Have  followed,  for  such  loss,  I  would  believe, 

Abundant  recompense.     For  I  have  learned 

To  look  on  nature,  not  as  in  the  hour 

Of  thoughtless  youth ;  but  hearing  oftentimes 

The  still,  sad  music  of  humanity, 

Nor  harsh  nor  grating,  though  of  ample  power 

To  chasten  and  subdue.     And  I  have  felt 

A  presence  that  disturbs  me  with  the  joy 

Of  elevated  thoughts  ;   a  sense  sublime 

Of  something  far  more  deeply  interfused. 

Whose  dwelling  is  the  light  of  setting  suns, 

And  the  round  ocean  and  the  living  air, 

And  the  blue  sky,  and  in  the  mind  of  man : 

A  motion  and  a  spirit,  that  impels 

All  thinking  things,  all  objects  of  all  thought, 

And  rolls  through  all  things.     Therefore  am  I  still 

A  lover  of  the  meadows  and  the  woods. 

And  mountains ;   and  of  all  that  we  behold 

From  this  green  earth  ;  of  all  the  mighty  world 

Of  eye  and  ear,  both  what  they  half  create. 

And  what  perceive ;   well  pleased  to  recognize 

In  nature  and  the  language  of  the  sense. 

The  anchor  of  my  purest  thoughts,  the  nurse, 

The  guide,  the  guardian  of  my  heart,  and  soul 

Of  all  my  moral  being. 


Wordsworth's  poems.  435 

Nor  perchance, 
[f  I  were  not  thus  taught,  should  I  the  more 
Suffer  my  genial  spirits  to -decay: 
For  thou  art  with  me,  here,  upon  the  banks 
Of  this  fair  river ;  thou,  my  dearest  Friend, 
My  dear,  dear  Friend,  and  in  thy  voice  I  catch 
The  language  of  my  former  heart,  and  read 
My  former  pleasures  in  the  shooting  lights 
Of  thy  wild  eyes.     Oh !  yet  a  little  while 
May  I  behold  in  thee  what  I  was  once, 
My  dear,  dear  Sister!    and  this  prayer  I  make, 
Knowing  that  Nature  never  did  betray 
The  heart  that  loved  her ;   'tis  her  privilege. 
Through  all  the  years  of  this  our  life,  to  lead 
From  joy  to  joy :    for  she  can  so  inform 
The  mind  that  is  within  us,  so  impress 
With  quietness  and  beauty,  and  so  feed 
With  lofty  thoughts,  that  neither  evil  tongues. 
Rash  judgments,  nor  the  sneers  of  selfish  men, 
Nor  greetings  where  no  kindness  is,  nor  all 
The  dreary  intercourse  of  daily  life, 
Shall  e'er  prevail  against  us,  or  disturb 
Our  cheerful  faith,  that  all  which  we  behold 
Is  full  of  blessings.     Therefore  let  the  moon 
Shine  on  thee  in  thy  solitary  walk ; 
And  let  the  misty  mountain  winds  be  free 
To  blow  against  thee:   and,  in  after  years. 
When  these  wild  ecstacies  shall  be  matured 
Into  a  sober  pleasure,  when  thy  mind 
Shall  be  a  mansion  for  all  lovely  forms. 
Thy  memory  be  as  a  dwelling  place 
For  all  sweet  sounds  and  harmonies  ;   oh !   then. 
If  solitude,  or  fear,  or  pain,  or  grief. 
Should  be  thy  portion,  with  what  healing  thoughts 
Of  tender  joy  wilt  thou  remember  me. 


436  Wordsworth's  poems. 

And  these  my  exhortations!     Nor,  perchance 

If  I  should  be  where  I  no  more  can  hear 

Thy  voice,  nor  catch  from  thy  wild  eyes  these  gleams 

Of  past  existence,  wilt  thou  then  forget 

That  on  the  banks  of  this  delightful  stream 

We  stood  together ;  and  that  I,  so  long 

A  worshipper  of  Nature,  hither  came 

Unwearied  in  that  service  :   rather  say 

With  warmer  love,  oh !  with  far  deeper  zeal 

Of  holier  love.     Nor  wilt  thou  then  forget, 

That  after  many  wanderings,  many  years 

Of  absence,  these  steep  woods  and  lofty  cliffs, 

And  this  green  pastoral  landscape,  were  to  me 

More  dear,  both  for  themselves  and  for  thy  sake ! 


STANZAS  ON  THE  POWER  OF  SOUND 


ABGUMENT. 

The  Ear  addressed,  as  occupied  by  a  spiritual  functionary,  in  com- 
mmiion  with  sounds,  individual,  or  combined  in  studied  harmony.  — 
Sources  and  effects  of  those  sounds  (to  the  close  of  6th  Stanza ) — The 
power  of  music,  whence  proceeding,  exemplified  in  the  idiot. —  Origin 
of  music,  and  its  effect  in  early  ages  —  How  produced  (to  the  middle 
of  the  10th  Stanza.) —  The  mind  recalled  to  sounds  acting  casually  and 
severally. — Wish  uttered  (11th  Stanza)  that  these  could  be  united  into 
a  scheme  or  system  for  moral  interests  and  intellectual  contemplation, 
(Stanza  12th.)  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,  (in  11th  Stanza) 
realized,  in  some  degree,  by  the  representation  of  all  sounds  under  the 
form  of  thanksgiving  to  the  Creator.  —  (I^ast  Stanza)  trie  aestruction 
of  earth  and  the  planetary  system — The  survival  of  audible  harmony, 
and  its  support  in  the  Divine  ]>fature,  as  revealed  in  Holy  Writ. 


WORDSWOKTH  S  POEMS.  437 

I. 

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  answered  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  her  side. 

Shout,  Cuckoo!   let  the  vernal  soul 

Go  with  thee  to  the  frozen  zone ; 

Toll  from  thy  loftiest  perch,  lone  Bell-bird,  toll! 

At  the  still  hour  to  Mercy  dear, 

Mercy  from  her  twilight  throne 

Listening  to  Nun's  faint  sob  of  holy  fear. 

To  Sailor's  prayer  breathed  from  a  darkening  sea, 

Or  Widow's  cottage  lullaby. 

37*  « 


438  Wordsworth's  poems. 

III. 

Ye  Voices,  and  ye  Shadows, 

And  Images  of  voice  —  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 

Repeat  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, 
Unscorned  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  the  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. 
• 


■Wordsworth's  poems  439 


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! 

Who,  from  a  martial  pageant,  spreads 

Incitements  of  a  battle-day. 

Thrilling  the  unweaponed  crowd  with  plumeless  heads, 

Even  She  whose  Lydian  airs  inspire 

Peaceful  striving,  gentle  play 

Of  timid  hope  and  innocent  desur 

Shot  from  the  dancing  Graces,  as  they  move 

Fanned  by  the  plausive  wings  of  Love. 


How  oft  along  thy  mazes. 

Regent  of  Sound,  have  dangerous  Passions  trod ! 

O  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  resigned 

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 

The  uplifted  arm  of  Suicide ; 

And  let  some  mood  of  thine  in  firm  array 

Knit  every  thought  the  impending  issue  needs, 

Ere  Martyr  burns,  or  Patriot  bleeds ! 


440  WORDSWOP-TIl's  POEMS 

VII. 

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  hurled  — 

Convulsed  as  by  a  jarring  din; 

And  then  aghast,  as  at  the  world 

Of  reason  partially  let  in 

By  concords  v/inding  with  a  sway 

Terrible  for  sense  and  soul ! 

Or,  awed  he  v/eeps,  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  youth  ? 


Oblivion  may  not  cover 

All  treasures  hoarded  by  the  Miser,  Time. 

Orphean  Insight!    Truth's  undaunted  Lover, 

To  the  first  leagues  of  tutored  passion  climb, 

When  Music  deigned  %vithin  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. 

Stirred  nowhere  but  an  urgent  equipage 

Of  rapt  imagina'iin  sped  her  march 

Through  the  reahns  of  woe  and  weal : 

Hell  to  the  lyre  bowed  low ;   the  upper  arch 

Rejoiced  that  clamorous  spell  and  magic  verse 

Her  wan  disasters  could  disperse. 


Wordsworth's  poems.  441 

IX. 

The  Gift  to  King  Amphion 

That  walled  a  city  with  its  melody 

Was  for  belief  no  dream :  thy  skill,  Arion ! 

Could  humanize  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; 

And  singing,  while  the  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,  thi'ough  silent  night. 


The  pipe  of  Pan,  to  Shepherds 

Couched  in  the  shadow  of  Menalian  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  crowned. 

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  knell. 

"The  vain  distress-gun,"  from  a  leward  shore, 

Repeated  —  heard,  and  heard  no  more  ! 


442  Wordsworth's  poems. 

XI. 

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  moonlight  vale. 

O  for  some  soul-affecting  scheme 

Of  moral  music,  to  unite 

Wanderers  whose  portion  is  the  faintest  dream 

Of  memory !  —  O  that  they  might  stoop  to  bear 

Chains,  such  precious  chains  of  sight 

As  labored  minstrelsies  through  ages  wear ! 

O  for  a  balance  fit  the  truth  to  tell 

Of  the  Unsubstantial,  pondered  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,  crowned  with  mist, 

Their  feet  among  the  billows,  know 

That  Ocean  is  a  mighty  harmonist; 

Tliy  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. 


Wordsworth's  poems.  443 


Bread  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  hjshed  be  service  from  the  loving  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,  poured 

Into  the  ear  of  God,  their  Lord ! 


A  Voice  to  Light  gave  Being ; 

To  Time,  and  Man  his  earth-born  Chronicler; 

A  Voice  shall  finish  doubt  and  dim  foreseeing, 

And  sweep  away  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. 

O  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, 

Tempered  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. 


444  Wordsworth's  poems. 


SHE    WAS    A    PHANTOM    OF    DELIGHT. 

She  was  a  Phantom  of  delight 

When  first  she  gleamed  upon  my  sight; 

A  lovely  Apparition,  sent 

To  be  a  moment's  ornament ; 

Her  eyes  as  stars  of  Twilight  fair ; 

Like  Twilight's,  too,  her  dusky  hair ; 

But  all  things  else  about  her  drawn 

From  May-time  and  the  cheerful  Dawn; 

A  dancing  Shape,  an  Image  gay, 

To  haunt,  to  startle,  and  waylay. 

I  saw  her  upon  nearer  view, 

A  Spirit,  yet  a  Woman  too ! 

Her  household  motions  light  and  free, 

And  steps  of  virgin  liberty  ; 

A  countenance  in  which  did  meet 

Sweet  records,  promises  as  sweet; 

A  Creature,  not  too  bright  or  good 

For  human  nature's  daily  food ; 

For  transient  sorrows,  simple  wiles, 

Praise,  blame,  love,  kisses,  tears,  and  smxles. 

And  now  I  see  with  eye  serene 

The  very  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  skill ; 


Wordsworth's  poems. 

A  perfect  Woman,  nobly  planned, 
To  warn,  to  comfort,  and  command : 
And  yet  a  Spirit  still,  and  bright 
With  something  of  an  angel  light. 


RUTH. 

When  Ruth  was  left  half  desolate, 
Her  Father  took  another  Mate; 
And  Ruth,  not  seven  years  old, 
A  slighted  Child,  at  her  own  will 
Went  wandering  over  dale  and  hill. 
In  thoughtless  freedom  bold. 

And  she  had  made  a  Pipe  of  straw. 
And  from  that  oaten  Pipe  could  draw 
All  sounds  of  winds  and  floods  ; 
Had  built  a  bower  upon  the  green. 
As  if  she  from  her  birth  had  been 
An  infant  of  the  woods. 

Beneath  her  Father's  roof,  alone 
She  seemed  to  live;  her  thoughts  hor  own; 
Herself  her  own  delight ; 
Pleased  with  herself,  nor  sad,  nor  gay ; 
And,  passing  thus  the  live-long  day. 
She  grew  to  Woman's  height 
38 


446  Wordsworth's  poems. 

There  came  a  Youth  from  Georgia's  shore, 

A  military  Casque  he  wore, 

With  splendid  feathers  drest; 

He  brought  them  from  the  Cherokees ; 

The  feathers  nodded  in  the  breeze, 

And  made  a  gallant  crest. 

From  Indian  blood  you  deem  him  sprung: 
Ah  no !   he  spake  the  English  tongue, 
And  bore  a  Soldier's  name  ; 
And,  when  America  was  free 
Prom  battle  and  from  jeopardy, 
He  'cross  the  ocean  came. 

With  hues  of  genius  on  his  cheek 
In  finest  tones  the  Youth  could  speak* 
—  While  he  was  yet  a  Boy, 
The  moon,  the  glory  of  the  sun, 
And  streams  that  murmur  as  they  run, 
Had  been  his  dearest  joy. 

He  was  a  lovely  Youth  !   I  guess 

The  panther  in  the  Wilderness 

Was  not  so  fair  as  he ; 

And,  when  he  chose  to  sport  and  play, 

No  dolphin  ever  was  so  gay 

Upon  the  tropic  sea. 

Among  the  Indians  he  had  fought, 

And  with  him  many  tales  he  brought 

Of  pleasure  and  of  fear ; 

Such  tales  as  told  to  any  Maid 

By  such  a  Youth,  in  the  green  shade, 

Were  perilous  to  hear. 


Wordsworth's  poems.  447 

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  divine  and  strange 
That  every  hour  their  blossoms  change, 
Ten  thousand  lovely  hues ! 
With  budding,  fading,  faded  flowers 
They  stand  the  wonder  of  the  bowers 
From  morn  to  evening  dews. 

He  told  of  the  Magnolia,  spread 

High  as  a  cloud,  high  over  head ! 

The  Cypress  and  her  spire ; 

—  Of  flowers  that  with  one  scarlet  gleam 

Cover  a  hundred  leagues,  and  seem 

To  set  the  hills  on  fire. 

The  Youth  of  green    savannahs  spake, 
And  many  an  endless,  endless  lake, 
With  all  its  fairy  crowds 
Of  islands,  that  together  lie 
As  quietly  as  spots  of  sky 
Among  the  evening  clouds. 

And  then  he  said,  "  How  sweet  it  were 

A  fisher  or  a  hunter  there, 

A  gardener  in  the  shade. 

Still  wandering  with  an  easy  mind, 

To  build  a  household  fire,  and  find 

A  home  in  every  glade! 


448  Wordsworth's  poems. 

What  days  and  what  sweet  years !    Ah  me ; 

Our  life  were  life  indeed,  with  thee 

So  passed  in  quiet  bliss, 

And  all  the  while,"  said  he,  "to  know 

That  we  were  in  a  world  of  woe, 

On  such  an  earth  as  this ! " 

And  then  he  sometimes  interwove 
Fond  thoughts  about  a  Father's  love: 
"  For  there,"  said  he,  "  are  spun 
Around  the  heart  such  tender  ties, 
That  our  own  children  to  our  eyes 
Are  dearer  than  the  sun. 

Sweet  Ruth !  ^nd  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  s.ide, 

And  drive  the  flying  deer ! 

Beloved  Ruth  !  "  —  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  faith  will  plight, 
A  Husband  and  a  Wife." 
Even  so  they  did  ;   and  I  may  say 
That  to  sweet  Ruth  that  happy  day 
Was  more  than  human  life. 


wordswor-th's  poems.  449 

Through  dream  and  vision  did  she  sink, 
Delighted  all  the  while  to  think 
That  on  those  lonesome  floods, 
And  green  savannahs,  she  should  share 
His  board  with  lawful  joy,  and  bear 
His  name  in  the  wild  woods. 

But,  as  you  have  before  been  told. 
This  Stripling,  sportive,  gay,  and  bold, 
And  with  his  dancing  crest 
So  Beautiful,  through  savage  lands 
Had  roamed  about,  with  vagrant  bands 
Of  Indians  in  the  West. 

The  wind,  the  tempest  roaring  high. 

The  tumult  of  a  tropic  sky, 

Might  well  be  dangerous  food 

For  him,  a  Youth  to  whom  was  given 

So  much  of  earth  —  so  much  of  Heaven, 

And  such  impetuous  blood. 

Whatever  in  those  climes  he  found 

Irregular  in  sight  or  sound 

Did  to  his  mind  impart 

A  kindred  impulse,  seemed  allied 

To  his  own  powers,  and  justified 

The  workings  of  his  heart. 

Nor  less,  to  feed  voluptuous  thought. 
The  beauteous  forms  of  nature  wrought, 
Fair  trees  and  lovely  flowers  ; 
The  breezes  their  own  languor  lent ; 
The  stars  had  feelings,  which  they  sent 
Into  those  gorgeous  bowers. 
38* 


450  Wordsworth's  poems. 

Yet,  in  his  worst  pursuits,  I  ween 
That  sometimes  there  did  intervene 
Pure  hopes  of  high  intent : 
For  passions  linked  to  forms  so  fair 
And  stately,  needs  must  have  their  share 
Of  noble  sentiment. 

But  ill  he  lived,  much  evil  saw, 
With  men  to  whom  no  better  law 
Nor  better  life  was  known ; 
Deliberately,  and  undeceived, 
These  wild  men's  vices  he  received 
And  gave  them  back  his  own. 

His  genius  and  his  moral  frame 
Were  thus  impaired,  and  he  became 
The  slave  of  low  desires : 
A  Man  who  without  self-control 
Would  seek  what  the  degraded  soul 
Unworthily  admires. 

And  yet  he  with  no  feigned  delight 
Had  wooed  the  Maiden,  day  and  night 
Had  loved  her,  night  and  morn: 
What  coul3  he  less  than  love  a  Maid 
Whose  heart  with  so  much  nature  played? 
So  kind  and  so  forlorn ! 

.  Sometimes,  most  earnestly,  he  said, 
"  O  Ruth !   I  have  been  worse  than  dead ; 
False  thoughts,  thoughts  bold  and  vain, 
Encompassed  me  on  every  side 
When  first,  in  confidence  and  pride, 
I  crossed  the  Atlantic  Main. 


Wordsworth's  poems.  451 

It  was  a  fresh  and  glorious  world, 

A  banner  bright  that  was  unfurled 

Before  me  suddenly: 

I  looked  upon  those  hills  and  plains, 

And  seemed  as  if  let  loose  from  chains, 

To  live  at  liberty. 

But  wherefore  speak  of  this?  for  now, 
Sweet  Ruth .'  with  thee,  I  know  not  how, 
I  feel  my  spirit  burn- — 
Even  as  the  east  when  day  comes  forth: 
And,  to  the  west,  and  south,  and  north, 
The  morning  doth  return." 

Full  soon  that  purer  mind  was  gone ; 
No  hope,  no  wish  remained,  not  one, — 
They  stirred  him  now  no  more  : 
New  objects  did  new  pleasure  give. 
And  once  again  he  wished  to  live 
As  lawless  as  before. 

Meanwhile,  as  thus  with  him  it  fared, 
They  for  the  voyage  were  prepared, 
And  went  to  the  sea-shore ; 
But,  when  they  thither  came,  the  Youth 
Deserted  his  poor  Bride,  and  Ruth 
Could  never  find  him  more. 

"  God  help  thee,  Ruth  ! "  —  Such  pains  she  had 

That  she  in  half  a  year  was  mad, 

And  in  a  prison  housed ; 

And  there  she  sang  tumultuous  songs, 

By  recollection  of  her  wrongs 

To  fearful  passion  roused. 


452  v/oiidsyi'0)ith'.s  poems. 

Yet  sometimes  milder  hours  she  knew, 
Nor  wanted  sun,  nor  rain,  nor  dew. 
Nor  pastimes  of  the  May. 
—  They  all  were  with  her  in  her  cell , 
And  a  wild  brook  with  cheerful  kneel 
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  ; 
Eut  of  the  Vagrant  none  took  thought; 
And  where  it  liked  her  best  she  sought 
Her  shelter  and  her  bread. 

Among  the  fields  she  breathed  again: 
The  master-current  of  her  brain 
Ran  permanent  and  free  ; 
And,  coming  to  the  banks  of  Tone, 
"  There  did  she  rest ;   and  dwelt  alone 
Under  the  greenwood  tree. 

The  engines  of  her  pain,  the  tools 

That  shaped  her  sorrow,  rocks  and  pools, 

And  airs  that  gently  stir 

The  vernal  leaves,  she  loved  them  still. 

Nor  ever  taxed  them  with  the  ill 

Which  had  been  done  to  her. 

A  Barn  her  winter  bed  supplies ; 

But,  till  the  warmth  of  summer  skies 

And  summer  days  is  gone, 

(And  all  do  in  this  tale  agree,) 

She  sleeps  beneath  the  greenwood  tree, 

And  other  home  hath  none. 


wordsavorth's  poems.  453 

An  innocent  life,  yet  far  astray! 

And  Ruth  will,  long  before  her  day, 

Be  broken  down  and  old : 

Sore  aches  she  needs  must  have !   but  less 

Of  mind,  than  body's  wretchedness, 

From  damp,  and  rain,  and  cold. 

If  she  is  prest  by  want  of  food, 
She  from  her  dwelling  in  the  wood 
Repairs  to  a  road  side  ; 
And  there  she  begs  at  one  steep  place 
Where  up  and  down  with  easy  pace 
The  horsemen-travellers  ride. 

That  oaten  Pipe  of  hers  is  mute. 
Or  thrown  away ;   but  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  passed  her  on  the  hills, 
Setting  her  little  water-mills 
By  spouts  and  fountains  wild  — 
Such  small  machinery  as  she  turned 
Ere  she  had  wept,  ere  she  had  mourned, 
A  young  and  happy  Child  ! 

Farewell !   and  when  thy  days  are  told, 

Ill-fated  Ruth !   in  hallowed  mould 

Thy  corpse  shall  buried  be ; 

For  thee  a  funeral  bell  shall  ring. 

And  all  the  congregation  sing 

A  Christian  psalm  for  thee. 


454  wokdsworth's  poems. 


LAODAMIA. 

"  With  sacrifice  before  the  rising  morn 
Vows  have  I  made  by  fruitless  hope  inspired ; 
And  from  the  infernal  Gods,  'mid  shades  forlorn 
Of  night,  my  slaughtered  Lord  have  I  required : 
Celestial  pity  I  again  implore  ;  — 
Restore  him  to  my  sight  —  great  Jove,  restore ! " 

So  speaking,  and  by  fervent  love  endowed 

With  faith,  the  Suppliant  heavenward  lifts  her  hands; 

While,  like  the  Sun  emerging  from  a  Cloud, 

Her  countenance  brightens  —  and  her  eye  expands, 

Her  bosom  heaves  and  spreads,  her  stature  grows; 

And  she  expects  the  issue  in  repose. 

O  terror !    what  hath  she  perceived  ?  —  O  joy ! 
What  doth  she  look  on  ?  —  whom  doth  she  behold  ? 
Her  hero  slain  upon  the  beach  of  Troy? 
His  vital  presence  —  his  corporeal  mould  ? 
It  is — if  sense  deceive  her  not  —  'tis  He! 
And  a  God  leads  him  —  winged  Mercury ! 

Mild  Hermes  spake  —  and  touched  her  with  his  wand 
That  calms  all  fear,  "  Such   grace   hath   crowned  thy 

prayer, 
Laodamia  i   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  ! " 


Wordsworth's  poems.  455 

Forth  sprang  the  impassioned  Q,ueen  her  Lord  to  clasp ; 

Again  that  consummation  she  essayed  ; 

But  unsubstantial  Form  eludes  her  grasp 

As  often  as  that  eager  grasp  was  made. 

The  Phantom  parts — "but  parts  to  reunite, 

And  reassurae  his  place  before  her  sight. 

"  Protesilaus,  lo !  thy  guide  is  gone ! 
Confirm,  I  pray,  the  Vision  with  thy  voice : 
This  is  our  Palace,  —  yonder  is  thy  throne ; 
Speak,  and  the  floor  thou  treadest  on  will  rejoice. 
Not  to  appall  me  have  the  Gods  bestowed 
This  precious  boon,  —  and  blest  a  sad  Abode." 

"  Great  Jove,  Laodamia !   doth  not  leave 
His  gifts  imperfect:  —  Spectre  though  I  be, 
I  am  not  sent  to  scare  thee  or  deceive ; 
But  in  reward  of  thy  fidelity. 
And  something  also  did  my  worth  obtain ; 
For  fearless  virtue  bringeth  boundless  gain. 

Thou  knowest,  the  Delphic  oracle  foretold 

That  the  first  Greek  who  touched  the  Trojan  strand 

Should  die ;   but  me  the  threat  could  not  withhold ; 

A  generous  cause  a  Victim  did  demand  ; 

And  forth  I  leapt  upon  the  sandy  plain  ; 

A  self-devoted  chief —  by  Hector  slain." 

"Supreme  of  Heroes  —  bravest,  noblest,  best! 

Thy  matchless  courage  1  bewail  no  more, 

Which  then,  when  tens  of  thousands  were  deprest 

By  doubt,  propelled  thee  to  the  fatal  shore ; 

Thou  found'st  —  and  I  forgive  thee  —  here  thou  art  — 

A  nobler  counsellor  than  my  poor  heart. 


456  Wordsworth's  poems. 

But  thou,  though  capable  of  sternest  deed, 

Wert  kind  as  resolute,  and  good  as  brave  ; 

And  he,  whose  power  restores  thee,  hath  decreed 

That  thou  should'st  cheat  the  malice  of  the  grave ; 

Redundant  are  thy  locks,  thy  lips  as  fair 

As  when  their  breath  enriched  Thessalian  air. 

No  Spectre  greets  me,  —  no  vain  Shadow  this ; 
Come,  blooming  Hero,  place  thee  by  my  side! 
Give,  on  this  well  known  couch,  one  nuptial  kiss 
To  me,  this  day,  a  second  time  thy  bride  ! " 
Jove  frowned  in  heaven:   the  conscious  Parcse  threw 
Upon  those  roseate  lips  a  Stygian  hue. 

"This  visage  tells  thee  that  my  doom  is  past: 
Know,  virtue  were  not  virtue  if  the  joys 
Of  sense  were  able  to  return  as  fast 
And  surely  as  they  vanish.  —  Earth  destroys 
Those  raptures  duly  —  Erebus  disdains: 
Calm  pleasures  there  abide  —  majestic  pains. 

Be  taught,  O  faithful  Consort,  to  control 
Rebellious  passion:   for  the  Gods  approve 
The  depth,  and  not  the  tumult,  of  the  soul; 
A  fervent,  not  ungovernable  love. 
Thy  transports  moderate  ;   and  iTieekly  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. 


Wordsworth's  poems.  467 

The  Gods  to  us  are  merciful  —  and  they 

Yet  further  may  relent:  for  mightier  far 

Than  strength  of  nerve  and  sinew,  or  the  sway 

Of  magic  potent  over  sun  and  star, 

Is  love,  though  oft  to  agony  distrest, 

And  though  his  favorite  seat  be  feeble  Woman's  breast 

But  if  thou  goest,  I  follow  — "  "  Peace  ! "  he  said — 

She  looked  upon  him  and  was  calmed  and  cheered. 

The  ghastly  color  from  his  lips  had  fled ; 

In  his  deportment,  shape,  and  mien,  appeared 

Elysian  beauty,  melancholy  grace. 

Brought  from  a  pensive  though  a  happy  place. 

He  spake  of  love,  such  love  as  Spirits  feel 
In  worlds  Vv'hose  course  is  equable  and  pure ; 
No  fears  to  beat  away  —  no  strife  to  heal  — 
The  past  unsighed  for,  and  the  future  sure ; 
Spake  of  heroic  arts  in  graver  mood 
Revived,  with  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  earned 
That  privilege  by  virtue.  —  "  111,"  said  he, 
"The  end  of  man's  existence  I  discerned,. 
Who  from  ignoble  games  and  revelry 
Could  draw,  when  we  had  parted,  vain  delight 
While  tears  were  thy  best  pastime  —  day  and  night  • 
39 


458  Wordsworth's  poems. 

And  while  my  youthful  peers,  before  my  eyes 
(Each  Hero  following  his  peculiar  bent) 
Prepared  themselves  for  glorious  enterprise 
By  martial  sports,  —  or  seated  in  the  tent, 
Chieftains  and  kings  in  council  were  detained ; 
What  time  the  fleet  at  Aulis  lay  enchained. 

The  wished-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  pre'ssing  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  tliee  too  fondly  did  my  memory  hang. 

And  on  the  joys  we  shared  in  mortal  life,  — 

The   paths   which    we    had    trod  —  these  fountains  ■ 

flowers ; 
My  new-planned  Cities,  and  unfinished  Towers. 

But  should  suspense  permit  the  Foe  to  cry, 
*  Behold  they  tremble !  —  haughty  their  array, 
Yet  of  their  number  no  one  dares  to  die ! ' 
In  soul  I  swept  the  indignity  away : 
Old  frailties  then  recurred :  —  but  lofty  thought, 
In  act  embodied,  my  deliverance  wrought. 

And  thou,  though  strong  in  love,  art  all  too  weak 

In  reason,  in  self-government  too  slow; 

I  counsel  thee  by  fortitude  to  seek 

Our  blest  reunion  in  the  shades  below. 

The  invisible  world  with  thee  hath  sympathized; 

Be  thy  affections  raised  and  solemnized. 


woiid3worth''s  poems.  459 

Learn  by  a  mortal  yearning  to  ascend 
Towards  a  higher  object.  —  Love  was  given, 
Encouraged,  sanctioned,  chiefly  for  that  end ; 
For  this  the  passion  to  excess  was  driven  — 
That  self  might  be  annulled;  her  bondage  prove 
The  fetters  of  a  dream,  opposed  to  love." 

Aloud  she  shrieked !   for  Hermes  reappears ! 

Hound   the   dear   shade    she  would  have   clung  —  'tis 

vain : 
The  hours  are  past  —  too  brief  had  they  been  years ; 
And  him  no  mortal  effort  can  detain : 
Swift,  toward  the  realms  that  know  not  earthly  day, 
He  through  the  portal  takes  his  silent  way, 
And  on  the  palace  floor  a  lifeless  corse  she  lay. 

By  no  weak  pity  might  the  Gods  be  moved ; 
She  who  thus  perished,  not  without  the  crime 
Of  Lovers  that  in  Reason's  spite  have  loved, 
Was  doomed  to  wear  out  her  appointed  time. 
Apart  from  happy  Ghosts  —  that  gather  flowers 
Of  blissful  quiet  'mid  unfading  bowers. 

Yet  tears  to  human  suffering  are  due  ; 
And  mortal  hopes  defeated  and  o'erthrown 
Are  mourned  by  man,  and  not  by  man  alone, 
As  fondly  he  believes.  —  Upon  the  side 
Of  Hellespont  (such  faith  was  entertained) 
A  knot  of  spiry  trees  for  ages  grew 
From  out  the  tomb  of  him  for  whom  she  died ; 
And  ever,  when  such  stature  they  hkd  gained 
That  Ilium's  walls  were  subject  to  their  view, 
The  trees'  tall  summits  withered  at  the  sight; 
A  constant  interchange  of  growth  and  blight! 


460  Wordsworth's  poems. 


ROB  ROY'S  GRAVK 


The  history  of  Rob  Roy  is  sufficiently  known;  his  grave  is  near  the 
head  of  Loch  Ketterine,  in  one  of  those  small  pinfold-like  burial-grounds, 
of  neglected  and  desolate  appearance,  which  the  Traveller  meets  with 
in  the  Highlands  of  Scotland. 


A  FAMOUS  Man  is  Robin  Hood, 

The  English  Ballad-singer's  joy ! 

And  Scotland  has  a  Thief  as  good, 

An  Outlaw  of  as  daring  mood ; 

She  has  her  brave  Rob  Roy! 

Then  clear  the  weeds  from  off  his  Grave, 

And  let  us  chant  a  passing  Stave, 

In  honor  of  that  Hero  brave! 


Heaven  gave  Rob  Roy  a  dauntless  heart, 
And  wondrous  length  and  strength  of  arm; 
Nor  craved  he  more  to  quell  his  Foes, 
Or  keep  his  Friends  from  harm. 


Yet  was  Rob  Roy  as  wise  as  brave ; 
Forgive  me  if  the  phrase  be  strong  — 
A  Poet  worthy  of  Rob  Roy 
Must  scorn  a  timid  song. 


Wordsworth's  poems.  461 

Say,  then,  that  he  was  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. 

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 
Sufficeth  them,  the  simple  Plan, 
That  they  should  take,  who  have  the  power, 
And  they  should  keep  who  can. 

A  lesson  that  is  quickly  learned, 
A  signal  this  which  all  can  see ! 
Thxis  nothing  here  provokes  the  Strong 
To  wanton  cruelty. 
39* 


4G2  Wordsworth's  poems 

All  freakishness  of  mind  is  checked; 
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  v/as  then  too  strong ; 
He  came  an  age  too  late,  — 

Or,  shall  we  say,  an  age  too  soon  ? 

For,  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, 
Sheriffs,  and  Lairds  and  their-  domains. 
Would  all  have  seemed  but  paltry  things, 
Not  worth  a  moment's  pains. 


Wordsworth's  poems.  463 

Rob  Roy  had  never  lingered  here, 
To  these  few  meagre  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! 
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  surpassed 
In  fatherly  concern. 

Of  old  things  all  are  over  old, 
Of  good  things  none  are  good  enough ; 
We'll  show  that  we  can  help  to  frame 
A  world  of  other  stufl^ 

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  fulfilled, 
As  might  have  been,  then,  thought  of  joy! 
France  would  have  had  her  present  boast; 
And  we  our  own  Rob  Roy! 

Oh !   say  not  so  ;   compare  them  not ; 
I  would  not  wrong  thee.  Champion  brave! 
Would  wrong  thee  nowhere  —  least  of  all. 
Here  standing  by  thy  Grave. 


464  Wordsworth's  poems. 

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  wouldst  have  nobly  stirred  thyself, 
And  battled  for  the  Right. 

For  thou  wert  still  the  poor  man's  stay, 
The  poor  man's  heart,  the  poor  man's  hand, 
And  all  the  oppressed,  who  wanted  strength, 
Had  thine  at  their  command. 

Bear  witness  many  a  pensive  sigh 
Of  thoughtful  Herdsman,  when  he  strays 
Alone  upon  Loch  Veol's  Heights, 
And  by  Loch  Lomond's  Braes ! 

And,  far  and  near,  through  vale  and  hill, 
Are  faces  that  attest  the  same ; 
The  proud  heart  flashing  through  the  eyes, 
At  sound  of  Rob  Rot's  name. 


Wordsworth's  poems.  465 


YARROW    UNVISITED 


See  the  various  Poems  the  Scene  of  which  is  laid  upon  the  Bnnks  of 
the  YaiTuw ;  in  particular,  the  exquisite  Ballad  of  Hamilton,  beginning 

"  Busk  ye,  busk  ye,  my  bonny,  bonny  Bride, 
Busk  ye,  busk  ye,  my  vinsome  Marrow !  " 


From  Stirling  Castle  we  had  seen 
The  mazy  Forth  unravelled ; 
Had  trod  the  banks  of  Clyde,  and  Tay, 
And  with  the  Tweed  had  travelled  ; 
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, /roe  Selkirk  Town, 

Who  have  been  buying,  selling, 

Go  back  to  Yarrow — 'tis  their  own  — 

Each  Maiden  to  her  Dwelling! 

On  Yarrow's  banks  let  herons  feed, 

Hares  couch,  and  rabbits  burrow ! 

But  we  will  downward  with  the  Tweed, 

Nor  turn  aside  to  Yarrow. 

There's  Galla  Water,  Leader  Haughs, 
Both  lying  right  before  us; 


466  Wordsworth's  poems. 

And  Dryborough,  where  with  the  chiming  Tweed 

The  Lintwhites  sing  in  chorus : 

There's  pleasant  Tiviot-dale,  a  land 

Made  blithe  with  plough  and  harrow: 

Why  throw  away  a  needful  day 

To  go  in  search  of  Yarrow  ? 

What's  Yarrow  but  a  River  bare, 

That  glides  the  dark  hills  under? 

There  are  a  thousand  such  elsewhere 

As  worthy  of  your  wonder." 

—  Strange  words  they  seemed  of  slight  and  scorn, 

My  True-love  sighed  for  sorrow; 

And  looked  me  in  the  face,  to  think 

I  thus  could  speak  of  Yarrow ! 

"Oh!  green,"  said  I,  "are  Yarrow's  Holms, 
And  sweet  is  Yarrow  flowing ! 
Fair  hangs  the  apple  frae  the  rock, 
But  we  will  leave  it  growing. 
O'er  hilly  path,  and  open  Strath, 
We'll  wander  Scotland  thorough ; 
But,  though  so  near,  we  will  not  turn 
Into  the  Dale  of  Yarrow. 

Let  beeves  and  home-bred  kine  partake 
The  sweets  of  Burn-mill  meadow ; 
The  swan  on  still  St.  Mary's  Lake 
Float  double,  swan  and  shadow ! 
We  will  not  see  them  —  will  not  go, 
To-day,  nor  yet  to-morrow; 
Enough  if  in  our  hearts  we  know 
There's  such  a  place  as  Yarrow. 

Be  Yarrow  Stream  unseen,  unknown ' 
It  must,  or  we  shall  rue  it : 


Wordsworth's  poems.  467 

We  have  a  vision  of  our  own; 

Ah !  why  should  we  undo  it  ? 

The  treasured  dreams  of  times  long  past, 

We'll  keep  them,  winsome  Marrow ! 

For  when  we're  there,  although  'tis  fair, 

'Twill  be  another  Yarrow ! 

If  Care  with  freezing  years  should  come, 

And  wanderiDg  seem  but  folly,  — 

Should  we  be  loth  to  stir  from  home, 

And  yet  be  melancholy ; 

Should  life  be  dull,  and  spirits  low, 

'Twill  soothe  us  in  our  sorrow, 

That  earth  has  something  yet  to  show. 

The  bonny  Holms  of  Yarrow ! " 


YARROW    VISITED, 

September,  1814. 

And  is  this  —  Yarrow  ?  —  This  the  Stream 

Of  which  my  fancy  cherished. 

So  faithfully,  a  waking  dream  ? 

An  image  that  hath  perished ! 

O  that  some  Minstrel's  harp  Avere  near, 

To  utter  notes  of  gladness, 

And  chase  this  silence  from  the  air 

That  fills  my  heart  with  sadness! 


Wordsworth's  poems. 

Yet  why  ?  —  a  silvery  current  flows 

With  uncontrolled  meanderings ; 

Nor  have  these  eyes  by  greener  hiils 

Been  soothed,  in  all  my  wanderings. 

And,  through  her  depths,  Saint  Marys  Lake 

Is  visibly  delighted ; 

For  not  a  feature  of  those  hills 

Is  in  the  mirror  slighted. 

A  blue  sky  bends  o'er  Yarrow  vale 

Save  where  that  pearly  whiteness 

Is  round  the  rising  sun  diffused, 

A  tender  hazy  brightness ; 

Mild  dawn  of  promise !   that  excludes 

All  profitless  dejection; 

Though  not  unwilling  here  to  admit 

A  pensive  recollection. 

Where  was  it  that  the  famous  Flower 

Of  Yarrow  Vale  lay  bleeding  ? 

His  bed  perchance  was  yon  smooth  mound 

On  which  the  herd  is  feeding: 

And  haply  from  this  crystal  pool. 

Now  peaceful  as  the  morning, 

The  Water-wraith  ascended  thrice  — 

And  gave  his  doleful  warning. 

Delicious  is  the  Lay  that  sings 
The  haunts  of  happy  Lovers, 
The  path  that  leads  them  to  the  grove, 
The  leafy  grove  that  covers : 
And  Pity  sanctifies  the  verse 
That  paints,  by  strength  of  sorrow, 
The  unconquerable  strength  of  love ; 
Bear  witness,  rueful  Yarrow ! 


Wordsworth's  poems.  469 

But  thou,  that  didst  appear  so  fair 

To  fond  Imagination, 

Dost  rival  in  the  light  of  day 

Her  delicate  creation: 

Meek  loveliness  is  round  thee  spread, 

A  softness  still  and  holy; 

The  grace  of  forest  charms  decayed, 

And  pastoral  melancholy. 

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  shattered  front  of  Newark's  Towers, 

Renowned  in  Border  story. 

Fair  scenes  for  childhood's  opening  bloom, 

For  sportive  youth  to  stray  in; 

For  manhood  to  enjoy  his  strength ; 

And  age  to  wear  away  in  I 

Yon  Cottage  seems  a  bower  of  bliss, 

A  covert  for  protection 

Of  tender  thoughts  that  nestle  there, 

The  brood  of  chaste  affection. 

How  sweet,  on  this  autumnal  day, 
The  wild-wood  fruits  to  gather. 
And  on  my  True-love's  forehead  olant 
A  crest  of  blooming  heather! 
And  what  if  I  enwreathed  my  own. 
'Twere  no  offence  to  reason ; 
The  sober  Hills  thus  deck  their  brovs 
To  meet  the  wintry  season. 
40 


470  Wordsworth's  poems. 

I  see  —  but  not  by  sight  alone 

Loved  Yarrow,  have  I  won  thee ; 

A  ray  of  Fancy  still  survives  — 

Her  sunshine  plays  upon  thee . 

Thy  ever-youthful  waters  keep 

A  course  of  lively  pleasure ; 

And  gladsome  notes  ray  lips  can  breathe, 

Accordant  to  the  measure. 

The  vapors  linger  round  the  Heights, 
•They  melt  —  and  soon  must  vanish ; 
One  hour  is  theirs,  no  more  is  mine  — 
Sad  thought,  which  I  would  banish, 
But  that  I  know,  where'er  I  go, 
Thy  genuine  image,  Yarrow ! 
Will  dwell  with  me  —  to  heighten  joy, 
And  cheer  my  mind  in  sorrow. 


YARROW  REVISITED. 


The  following  Stanzas  are  a  memorial  of  a  day  passed  with  Sir 
Walter  Scott,  and  other  Friends  visiting  the  Banks  of  the  Yarrow  un- 
der his  guidance,  immediately  before  his  departure  from  Abbotsford,  for 
Naples. 

The  title,  "Yarrow  Revisited,"  will  stand  in  need  of  no  explanation 
for  Readers  acquainted  with  the  Author's  previous  poems  suggested  by 
•.hat  celebrated  stream.    See  pp.  465  and  467. 


Wordsworth's  poems.  471 

The  gallant  Youth,  who  may  have  gained, 

Or  seeks  a  "  Winsome  Marrow," 
Was  but  an  Infant  in  the  lap 

When  first  I  looked  on  Yarrow ; 
Once  more,  by  Newark's  Castle-gate 

Long  left  without  a  Warder, 
I  stood,  looked,  listened,  and  with  Thee, 

Great  Minstrel  of  the  Border! 

Grave  thoughts  ruled  wide  on  that  sweet  day, 

Their  dignity  installing 
In  gentle  bosoms,  while  sere  leaves 

Were  on  the  bough,  or  falling  ; 
But  breezes  played,  and  sunshine  gleamed  — 

The  forest  to  embolden; 
Reddened  the  fiery  hues,  and  shot 

Transparence  through  the  golden. 

For  busy  thoughts  the  Stream  flowed  on 

In  foamy  agitation : 
And  slept  in  many  a  crystal  pool 

For  quiet  contemplation : 
No  public  and  no  private  care 

The  freeborn  mind  enthralling, 
We  made  a  day  of  happy  hours, 

Our  happy  days  recalling. 

Brisk  Youth  appeared,  the  morn  of  youth. 

With  freaks  of  graceful  folly, — 
Life's  temperate  Noon,  her  sober  Eve, 

Her  Night  not  melancholy. 
Past,  present,  future,  all  appeared 

In  harmony  united, 
Like  guests  that  meet,  and  some  from  far, 

By  cordial  love  invited. 


472  Wordsworth's  poems. 

And  if,  as  Yarrow,  through  tlie  woods 

And  down  the  meadow  ranging, 
Did  meet  us  with  unaltered  face, 

Though  we  were  changed  and  cnanging; 
If,  then,  some  natura^  shadows  spread 

Our  inward  prospect  over. 
The  soul's  deep  valley  was  not  slow 

Its  brightness  to  recover. 

Eternal  blessings  on  the  Muse, 

And  her  divine  employment ! 
The  blameless  Muse,  who  trains  her  Sons 

For  hope  and  calm  enjoyment; 
Albeit  sickness  lingering  yet 

Has  o'er  their  pillow  brooded, 
And  Care  waylay  their  steps  —  a  sprite 

Not  easily  eluded. 

For  thee,  O  Scott!  compelled  to  change 

Green  Eildon-hill  and  Cheviot 
For  warm  Vesuvio's  vine-clad  slopes ; 

And  leave  thy  Tweed  and  Teviot 
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  Strength,  her  venturous  brother; 
And  Tiber,  and  each  brook  and  rill 

Renowned  in  song  and  story. 
With  unimagined  beauty  shine. 

Nor  lose  one  ray  of  glory! 


Wordsworth's  poems.                      473 

For  Thou,  upon  a  hundred  streams, 

1 

By  tales  of  love  and  sorrow, 

Of  faithful  love,  undaunted  truth, 

Hast  shed  the  power  of  Yarrow; 

And  streams  unknown,  hills  yet  unseen, 

Where'er  thy  path  invite  thee. 

At  parent  Nature's  grateful  call. 

With*  gladness  must  requite  Thee. 

A  gracious  welcome  shall  be  thine, 

Such  looks  of  love  and  honor 

As  thy  own  Yarrow  gave  to  me 

When  first  I  gazed  upon  her; 

Beheld  what  I  had  feared  to  see, 

Unwilling  to  surrender 

Dreams  treasured  up  from  early  days, 

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  us, 

Unhelped  by  the  poetic  voice 

That  hourly  speaks  within  us  ? 

Nor  deem  that  localized  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. 

40* 

474  Wordsworth's  poems. 

Bear  Witness,  Ye,  whose  thoughts  that  day 

In  Yarrow's  groves  were  centered; 
Who  through  the  silent  portal  arch 

Of  mouldering  Newark  entered, 
And  clomb  the  winding  stair  that  once 

Too  timidly  was  mounted 
By  the  "last  Minstrel,"  (not  the  last) 

Ere  he  his  Tale  recounted.  , 

Flow  on  for  ever,  Yarrow  Stream! 

Fulfil  thy  pensive  duty, 
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  moonshinQ! 


THE    WISHING-GATE. 


In  the  vale  of  Grasmere,  by  the  side  of  the  highway,  leading  to  Am* 
bleside,  is  a  gate  which,  time  out  of  mind,  has  been  called  the  Wishing- 
gate,  from  a  belief  that  wishes  formed  or  indulged  there  have  a  favora* 
ble  issue. 


Hope  rules  a  land  for  ever  green: 

All  powers  that  serve  the  bright-eyed  Queen 


Wordsworth's  poeims.  475 

Are  confident  and  gay; 
CJ.ouds  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  thoughts  with  things  at  strife ; 
Yet  how  forlorn  should  ye.  depart, 
Ye  superstitions  of  the  heart, 

How  poor  were  human  life! 

When  magic  lore  abjured  its  might, 
Ye  did  not  forfeit  one  dear  right, 

One  tender  claim  abate ; 
Witness  this  symbol  of  your  sway, 
Surviving  near  the  public  way. 

The  rustic  Wishing-gate ! 

Inquire  not  if  the  faery  race 
Shed  kindly  influence  on  the  place. 

Ere  northward  they  retired ; 
If  here  a  warrior  left  a  spell. 
Panting  for  glory  as  he  fell ; 

Or  hei;e  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, 


476  Wordsworth's  poems. 

Unknowing  and  unknown, 
The  infection  of  the  ground  partakes, 
Longing  for  his  Beloved  —  who  makes 

All  happiness  her  own. 

Then  why  should  conscious  Spirits  fear 
The  mystic  stirrings  that  are  here. 

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  pains  outworn. 

Here  crave  an  easier  lot ; 
If  some  have  thirsted  to  renew 
A  broken  vow,  or  bind  a  true, 

With  firmer,  holier  knot. 

And  not  in  vain,  when  thoughts  are  cast 
Upon  the  irrevocable  past. 

Some  penitent  sincere 
May  for  a  worthier  future  sigh. 
While  trickles  from  his  downcast  eye 

No  unavailing  tear. 

The  Worldling,  pining  to  be  freed 
From  turmoil,  who  would  turn  or  speed 

The  current  of  his  fate. 
Might  stop  before  thi|  favored  scene. 
At  Nature's  call,  nor  blush  to  lean 

Upon  the  Wishing-gate. 

The  Sage,  who  feels  how  blind,  how  weak 
Is  man,  though  loth  such  help  to  seek, 


Wordsworth's  poems.  477 

Yet,  passing,  here  might  pause, 
And  yearn  for  insight  to  allay 
Misgiving,  while  the  crimson  day 

In  quietness  withdraws ; 

Or  when  tlie  church-clock's  knell  profound 
To  Time's  first  step  across  the  bound 

Of  midnight  makes  reply ; 
Time  pressing  on  with  starry  crest, 
To  filial  sleep  upon  the  breast 

Of  dread  eternity ! 


TO    THE    DAISY. 


"Her  divine  skill  taught  me  tliis, 
That  from  every  thing  I  saw 
I  could  some  instruction  draw, 
And  raise  pleasure  to  the  height 
Through  the  meanest  object's  sight- 
By  the  murmur  of  a  spring, 
Or  the  least  bough's  rustleing; 
By  a  Daisy  whose  leaves  spread, 
Shut  when  Titan  goes  to  bed; 
Or  a  shady  bush  or  tree; 
She  could  miore  infuse  in  me 
Than  all  Nature's  beauties  can 
In  some  other  wiser  man." 

G.  WiTHEES. 


478  Wordsworth's  poems. 

In  youth  from  rock  to  rock  I  went, 
From  hill  to  hill  in  discontent 
Of  pleasure  high  and  turbulent, 

Most  pleased  when  most  uneasy ; 
But  now  my  own  delights  I  make, — 
My  thirst  at  every  rill  can  slake, 
And  gladly  Nature's  love  partake 

Of  thee,  sweet  Daisy! 

When  Winter  decks  his  few  gray  hairs, 
Thee  in  the  scanty  wreath  he  wears ; 
Spring  parts  the  clouds  with  softest  airs, 

That  she  may  sun  thee ; 
Whole  summer  fields  are  thine  by  right; 
And  Autumn,  melancholy  Wight! 
Doth  in  thy  crimson  head  delight 

When  rains  are  on  thee. 

In  shoals  and  bands,  a  morrice  train, 
Thou  greetest  the  Traveller  in  the  lane ; 
If  welcome  once  thou  countest  it  gain ; 

Thou  art  not  daunted. 
Nor  carest  if  thou  be  set  at  nought; 
And  oft  alone  in  nooks  remote 
We  meet  thee  like  a  pleasant  thought, 

When  such  are  wanted. 

Be  Violets  in  their  secret  mews 

The  flowers  the  wanton  Zephyrs  choose; 

Proud  be  the  Rose,  with  rains  and  dews 

Her  head  impearling  ; 
Thou  livest  with  less  ambitious  aim. 
Yet  hast  not  gone  without  thy  fame ; 
Thou  art  indeed  by  many  a  claim 

The  Poet's  darling. 


Wordsworth's  poems.  479 

If  to  a  rock  from  rains  he  fly, 
Or,  some  bright  day  of  April  sky, 
Imprisoned  by  hot  sunshine  lie 

Near  the  green  holly, 
And  wearily  at  length  should  fare  , 
He  needs  but  look  about,  and  there 
Thou  art !  —  a  Friend  at  hand,  to  scare 

His  melancholy. 

A  hundred  times,  by  rock  or  bower, 
Ere  thus  I  have  lain  couched  an  hour, 
Have  I  derived  from  thy  sweet  power 

Some  apprehension ; 
Some  steady  love ;   some  brief  delight ; 
Some  memory  that  had  taken  flight; 
Some  chime  of  fancy  wrong  or  right; 

Or  stray  invention. 

If  stately  passions  in  me  burn, 

And  one  chance  look  to  Thee  should  turn, 

I  drink  out  of  an  humbler  urn 

A  lowlier  pleasure  ; 
The  homely  sympathy  that  heeds 
The  common  life,  our  nature  breeds; 
A  wisdom  fitted  to  the  needs 

Of  hearts  at  leisure. 

When,  smitten  by  the  morning  ray, 

I  see  thee  rise,  alert  and  gay, 

Then,  cheerful  Flower!   my  spirits  play 

With  kindred  gladness : 
And  when,  at  dusk,  by  dews  opprest 
Thou  sink'st,  the  image  of  thy  rest 
Hath  often  eased  my  pensive  breast 

Of  careful  sadness. 


480  Wordsworth's  poems. 

And  all  day  long  I  number  yet, 
All  seasons  through,  another  debt, 
Which  I,  wherever  thou  art  met. 

To  thee  am  owing; 
An  instinct  call  it,  a  blind  sense; 
A  happy,  genial  influence, 
Coming  one  knows  not  how,  nor  whence, 

Nor  whither  going. 

Child  of  the  Year !  that  round  dost  run 
Thy  course,  bold  lover  of  the  sun. 
And  cheerful  when  the  day's  begun 

As  morning  Leveret, 
Thy  long-lost  praise  thou  shalt  regain; 
Dear  shalt  thou  be  to  future  men 
As  in  old  time;  —  thou  not  in  vain 

Art  Nature's  favorite. 


WE    ARE    SEVEN. 


A  SIMPLE  Child, 


That  lightly  draws  its  breath. 
And  feels  its  life  in  every  litnb, 
What  should  it  know  of  death  ? 

I  met  a  little  cottage  Girl ; 

She  was  eight  years  old,  she  said; 
Her  hair  was  thick  with  many  a  curl 

That  clustered  round  her  head. 


Wordsworth's  poems.  481 

She  had  a  rustic  woodland  air, 

And  she  was  wildly  clad : 
Her  eyes  were  fair,  and  very  fair; 

Her  beauty  made  me  glad. 

"Sisters  and  brothers,  little  Maid, 

How  many  may  you  be?" 
"How  many!   Seven  in  all,"  she  said, 

And  wondering  looked  at  me. 

"  And  where  are  they  ?   I  pray  you  telL" 

She  answered,  "  Seven  are  we  ; 
And  two  of  us  at  Conway  dwell, 

And  two  are  gone  to  sea. 

Two  of  us  in  the  church-yard  lie, 

My  sister  and  my  brother; 
And,  in  the  church-yard  cottage,  I 

Dwell  near  them  with  my  mother." 

"You  say  that  two  at  Conway  dwell, 

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  church-yard  lie 

Beneath  the  church-yard  tree." 

"You  run  about,  my  little  Maid, 

Your  limbs  they  are  alive  ; 
If  two  are  in  the  church-yard  laid, 

Then  ye  are  only  five." 
41 


482  Wordsworth's  poems. 

"  Their  graves  are  green,  they  may  be  seen," 

The  little  Maid  replied, 
"  Twelve  steps  or  more  from  my  mother's  door, 

And  they  are  side  by  side. 

My  stockings  there  I  often  knit, 

My  kerchief  there  I  hem ; 
And  there  upon  the  ground  I  sit  — 

I  sit  and  sing  to  them. 

And  often  after  sunset,  Sir, 

When  it  is  light  and  fair, 
I  take  ray  little  porringer, 

And  eat  my  supper  there. 

The  first  that  died  was  little  Jane ; 

In  bed  she  moaning  lay, 
Till  God  released  her  of  her  pain; 

And  then  she  went  away. 

So  m  the  church-yard  she  was  laid ; 

And,  when  the  grass  was  dry, 
Together  round  her  grave  we  played. 

My  brother  John  and  I. 

And  when  the  ground  was  white  with  snow, 

And  I  could  run  and  slide, 
My  brother  John  was  forced  to  go, 

And  he  lies  by  her  side." 

"How  many  are  you,  then,"  said  I, 
"If  they  two  are  in  Heaven?" 

The  little  Maiden  did  reply, 
"O  Master!   we  are  seven" 


Wordsworth's  poems.  483 

"But  they  are  dead,  those  two  are  dead  I 

Their  spirits  are  in  Heaven ! " 
'Twas  throwing  words  away ;   for  still 
The  little  Maid  would  have  her  will, 

And  said,  "Nay,  we  are  seven!" 


ODE, 

INTIMATIONS    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  eacli  by  natural  piety. 


There  was  a  time  when  meadow,  grove,  and  stream, 
The  earth,  and  every  common  sight, 
To  me  did  seem 

Apparelled  in  celestial  light, 
The  glory  and  the  freshness  of  a  dream. 
It  is  not  now  as  it  hath  been  of  yore ; 

Turn  wheresoe'er  I  may, 

By  night  or  day. 
The  things  which  I  have  seen  I  now  can  see  no  more. 


484  Wordsworth's  poems. 


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  Ihere  hath  past  away  a  glory  from  the  earth. 


Now,  while  the  Birds  thus  sing  a  joyous  song, 
And  while  the  young  Lambs  bound 
As  to  the  tabor's  sound, 
To  me  alone  there  came  a  thought  of  grief: 
A  timely  utterance  gave  that  thought  relief, 

And  I  again  am  strong : 
The  Cataracts  blow  their  trumpets  from  the  steep; 
No  more  shall  grief  of  mine  the  season  wrong; 
I  hear  the  Echoes  through  the  mountains  throng, 
The  Winds  come  to  me  from  the  fields  of  sleep. 
And  all  the  earth  is  gay  ; 
Land  and  sea 
Give  themselves  up  to  jollity, 

And  with  the  heart  of  May 
Doth  every  Beast  keep  holiday ;  — 
Thou  Child  of  Joy, 
Shout  round  me,  let  me  hear  thy  shouts,  thou  happy 
Shepherd  Boy ! 


Ve  blessed  Creatures,  I  have  heard  the  call 
Ye  to  each  other  make  ;   I  see 


Wordsworth's  poems.  485 

The  heavens  laugh  with  you  in  your  Jubilee ; 

My  heart  is  at  your  festival, 

My  head  hath  its  coronal, 
The  fulness  of  your  bliss  I  feel  —  I  feel  it  all. 

Oh  evil  day !   if  I  were  sullen 

While  the  Earth  herself  is  adorning 
This  sweet  May-morning, 

And  the  Children  are  pulling. 
On  every  side, 

In  a  thousand  valleys  far  and  wide. 

Fresh  flowers ;  while  the  sun  shines  warm, 
And  the  Babe  leaps  up  on  his  mother's  arm :  — 

I  hear,  I  hear,  with  joy  I  hear ! 

—  But  there's  a  Tree,  of  many  one, 
A  single  Field  which  I  have  looked  upon, 
Both  of  them  speak  of  something  that  is  gone: 
The  Pansy  at  my  feet 
Doth  the  same  tale  repeat : 
Whither  is  fled  the  visionary  gleam  ? 
Where  is  it  now,  the  glory  and  the  dream? 


Our  birth  is  but  a  sleep  and  a  forgetting : 
The  Soul  that  rises  with  us,  our  life's  Star, 

Hath  had  elsewhere  its  setting. 
And  Cometh  from  afar, 

Not  in  entire  forgetfulness, 

And  not  in  utter  nakedness, 
But  trailing  clouds  of  glory  do  we  come 

From  God,  who  is  our  home : 
Heaven  lies  about  us  in  our  infancy ! 
Shades  of  the  prison-house  begin  to  close 

Upon  the  growing  Boy, 
But  He  beholds  the  light,  and  whence  it  flows, 
41* 


486  Wordsworth's  poems. 

He  sees  it  in  his  joy ; 
The  Youth,  who  daily  farther  from  the  East 

Must  travel,  still  is  Nature's  Priest 
And  by  the  vision  splendid 
Is  on  his  way  attended  ; 
At  length  the  Man  perceives  it  die  away, 
And  fade  into  the  light  of  common  day. 


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. 


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  be  fit  his  tongue 
To  dialogues  of  business,  love,  or  strife  • 

But  it  will  not  be  long 


Wordsworth's  poems.  487 

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. 


Thou,  whose  exterior  semblance  doth  belie 

Thy  Soul's  immensity; 
Thou  best  Philosopher,  who  yet  dost  keep 
Thy  heritage ;   thou  Eye  among  the  blind, 
That,  deaf  and  silent,  read'st  the  eternal  deep, 
Haunted  for  ever  by  the  eternal  mind, — 

Mighty  Prophet !    Seer  blest ! 

On  whom  those  truths  do  rest. 
Which  we  are  toiling  all  our  lives  to  find. 
In  darkness  lost,  the  darkness  of  the  grave  ; 
Thou,  over  whom  thy  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  night 
Of  heaven-born  freedom  on  thy  being's  height, 
Why  with  such  earnest  pains  dost  thou  provoke 
The  years  to  bring  the  inevitable  yoke. 
Thus  blindly  with  thy  blessedness  at  strife  ? 
Full  soon  thy  Soul  shall  have  her  earthly  freight, 
And  custom  lie  upon  thee  with  a  weight. 
Heavy  as  frost,  and  deep  almost  as  life ! 


O  joy  !   that  in  our  embers 
la  something  that  doth  live. 


488  Wordsworth's  poems. 

That  nature  yet  remembers 

What  was  so  fugitive  ! 
The  thought  of  our  past  years  in  me  doth  breed, 
Perpetual  benediction:   not  indeed 
For  that  which  is  most  worthy  to  be  blest ; 
Delight  and  liberty,  the  simple  creed 
Of  Childhood,  whether  busy  or  at  rest. 
With  new-fledged  hope  still  fluttering  in  his  breast: 
Not  for  thee  I  raise 
The  song  of  thanks  and  praise; 

But  for  those  obstinate  questionings 

Of  sense  and  outward  things, 

Fallings  from  us,  vanishings ; 

Blank  misgivings  of  a  Creature 
Moving  about  in  worlds  not  realized, 
High  instincts  before  which  our  mortal  Nature 
Did  tremble  like  a  guilty  Thing  surprised : 
But  for  those  first  affections, 
Those  shadowy  recollections, 

Which,  be  they  what  they  may. 
Are  yet  the  fountain  light  of  all  our  day. 
Are  yet  a  master  light  of  all  our  seeing; 

Uphold  us,  cherish,  and  have  power  to  make 
Our  noisy  years  seem  moments  in  the  being 
Of  the  eternal  Silence ;   truths  that  wake 

To  perish  never; 
Which  neither  listlessness,  nor  mad  endeavor, 

Nor  Man  nor  Boy, 
Nor  all  that  is  at  enmity  with  joy. 
Can  utterly  abolish  or  destroy  ! 

Hence  in  a  season  of  calm  weather 

Though  inland  far  we  be. 
Our  souls  have  sight  of  that  immortal  sea, 

Which  brought  us  hither. 

Can  in  a  moment  travel  thither, 


wordswormh's  poems.  489 

And  see  the  Children  sport  upon  the  shore, 
And  hear  the  mighty  waters  rolling  evermore. 


Then  sing,  ye  Birds,  smg,  smg  a  joyous  sopg 
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  splendor  in  the  grass,  of  glory  in  the  flower; 
We  will  grieve  not,  rather  find 
Strength  in  what  remains  behind ; 
In  the  primal  sympathy 
Which  having  been  must  ever  be ; 
In  the  soothing  thoughts  that  spring 
Out  of  human  suffering ; 
In  the  faith  that  looks  through  death, 
"In  years  that  bring  the  philosophic  mind. 


And  O,  ye  Fountains,  Meadows,  Hills,  and  Groves, 
Forebode  not  any  severing  of  our  loves  ! 
Yet  in  my  heart  of  hearts  I  feel  your  might; 
I  only  have  relinquished  one  delight, 
To  live  beneath  your  more  habitual  sway. 
I  loved  the  Brooks  which  down  their  channels  fret, 
Even  more  than  when  I  tripped  lightly  as  they; 
The  innocent  brightness  of  a  new-born  Day 
Is  lovely  yet; 


490  Wordsworth's  poems. 

The  Clouds  that  gather  round  the  setting  sun 
Do  take  a  sober  coloring  from  an  eye 
That  hath  kept  watch  o'er  man's  mortality; 
Another  race  hath  been,  and  other  palms  are  won. 
Thanks  to  the  human  heart  by  which  we  live, 
Thanks  tp  its  tenderness,  its  joys,  and  fears, 
To  me  the  meanest  flower  that     blows  can  give 
Thoughts  that  too  often  lie  too  deep  for  tears. 


ALICE    FELL 


OR,    POVERTY. 


The  post-boy  drove  with  fierce  career. 
For  threatening  clouds  the  moon  had  drowned 

When,  as  we  hurried  on,  my  ear 
Was  smitten  with  a  startling  sound. 

As  if  the  wind  blew  many  ways 

I  heard  the  sound,  —  and  more  and  more; 

It  seemed  to  follow  with  the  chaise, 
And  still  I  heard  it  as  before. 

At  length  I  to  the  boy  called  out; 

lie  stopped  his  horses  at  the  word. 
But  neither  cry,  nor  voice,  nor  shout, 

Nor  aught  else  like  it,  could  be  heard. 


Wordsworth's  poems.  491 

The  boy  then  smacked  his  whip,  and  fast 
The  horses  scampei-ed  through  the  rain; 

But,  hearing  soon  upon  the  blast 
The  cry,  I  bade  him  halt  again. 

Forthwith  alighting  on  the  ground, 

"  Whence  comes,"  said  I,  "  this  piteous  moan  ?  " 
And  there  a  little  Girl  I  found 

Sitting  behind  the  chaise,  alone. 

"  My  cloak ! "  no  other  word  she  spake, 

But  loud  and  bitterly  she  wept. 
As  if  her  innocent  heart  would  break ; 

And  down  from  off  her  seat  she  leapt. 

"  What  ails  you,  child  ?  "  —  she  sobbed,  "  Look  here !" 

I  saw  it  in  the  wheel  entangled, 
A  weather-beaten  rag  as  e'er 

From  any  garden  scare-crow  dangled. 

There,  twisted  between  nave  and  spoke, 
It  hung,  nor  could  at  once  be  freed ; 

But  our  joint  pains  unloosed  the  cloak. 
A  miserable  rag  indeed  ! 

"And  whither  are  you  going,  child. 
To-night  along  these  lonesome  ways  ? " 
To  Durham,"  answered  she,  half-wild  — 
"  Then  come  with  me  into  the  chaise." 

Insensible  to  all  relief 

Sat  the  poor  girl,  and  forth  did  send 
Sob  after  sob,  as  if  her  grief 

Could  never,  never  have  an  end. 


492  Wordsworth's  poems, 

"  My  child,  in  Durham  do  you  dwell  ? " 
She  checked  herself  in  her  distress, 

And  said,  "My  name  is  Alice  Fell; 
I'm  fatherless  and  motherless. 

And  I  to  Durham,  Sir,  belong." 

Again,  as  if  the  thought  would  choke 

Her  very  heart,  her  grief  grew  strong; 
And  all  was  for  her  tattered  cloak! 

The  chaise  drove  on ;  our  journey's  end 
Was  nigh ;  and,  sitting  by  my  side, 

As  if  she'd  lost  her  only  friend 
She  wept,  nor  would  be  pacified. 

Up  to  the  tavern-door  we  post ; 

Of  Alice  and  her  grief  I  told ; 
And  I  gave  money  to  the  host. 

To  buy  a  new  cloak  for  the  old. 

"  And  let  it  be  of  duffel  grey, 

As  warm  a  cloak  as  man  can  sell ! " 

Proud  creature  was  she  the  next  day. 
The  little  orphan,  Alice  Fell! 


Wordsworth's  poems.  493 


WRITTEN   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  reared  and  taught ;   and  humbly  earned  his  bread, 
To  the  strict  labors  of  the  merchant's  desk 
By  duty  chained.     Not  seldom  did  those  tasks 
Teaae,  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,  gained  from  converse  sweet 
With  books,  or  while  he  ranged  the  crowded  streets 
With  a  keen  eye,  and  overflowing  heart : 
So  genius  triumphed  over  seeming  wrong. 
And  poured  out  truth  in  works  by  thoughtful  love 
Inspired  —  works  potent  over  smiles  and  tears. 
And  as  round  mountain-tops  the  lightning  plays, 
Thus  innocent  sported,  breaking  forth 
As  from  a  cloud  of  some  grave  sympathy. 
Humor  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. 
Hallowed  to  meekness  and  to  innocence ; 
And  if  in  him  meekness  at  times  gave  way, 
Provoked  out  of  herself  by  troubles  strange, 
42 


494  Wordsworth's  poems. 

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-reproached,  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. 

O,  he  was  good,  if  ever  a  good  man  lived! 

From  a  reflecting  mind  and  sorrowing  heart 

Those  simple  lines  flowed  with  an  earnest  wish, 

Though  but  a  doubting  hope,  that  they  might  serve 

Fitly  to  guard  the  precious  dust  of  him 

Whose  virtues  called  them  forth.    That  aim  is  missed ; 

For  much  that  truth  most  urgently  required 

Had  from  a  faltering  pen  been  asked  in  vain : 

Yet,  haply,  on  the  printed  page  received. 

The  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 

From  infancy,  through  manhood,  to  the  last 

Of  threescore  years,  and  to  thy  latest  hour, 


Wordsworth's  poems.  495 

Burnt  on  with  ever-strengthening  light,  enshrined 
Within  thy  boson). 

"  Wonderful "  hath  been 
The  love  established  between  man  and  man, 
"Passing  the  love  of  women;"  and  between 
Man  and  his  helpmate  in  fast  wedlock  joined 
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  enriched,  not  so  adorned,  to  thee 
Was  given  (say  rather  thou  of  later  birth 
Wert  given  to  her)  a  Sister  —  'tis  a  word 
Timidly  uttered,  for  she  lives,  the  meek. 
The  self-restraining,  and  the  ever-kind ; 
In  whom  thy  reason  and  intelligent  heart 
Found  —  for  all  interests,  hopes,  and  tender  cares, 
All  softening,  humanizing,  hallowing  powers, 
Whether  withheld,  or  for  her  sake  unsought  — 
More  than  sufficient  recompense  1 

Her  love 
(What  weakness  prompts  the  voice  to  tell  it  here?) 
Was  as  the  love  of  mothers  ;   and  when  years, 
Lifting  the  boy  to  man's  estate,  had  called 
The  long-protected  to  assume  the  part 
Of  a  protector,  the  first  filial  tm 


■*96  Wordsworth's  poems. 

Was  undissolved ;  and,  in  or  out  of  sight, 

Remained  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  v/ill  of  the  Most  High; 

Yet,  through  all  visitations  and  all  trials, 

Still  they  were  faithful :  like  two  vessels  launched 

From  the  same  beach  one  ocean  to  explore 

With  mutual  help,  and  sailing  —  to  their  league 

True,  as  inexorable  winds,  or  bars 

Floating  or  fixed  of  polar  ice,  allow. 

But  turn  we  rather,  let  my  spirit  turn 
With  thine,  O  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 
Disarmed  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 

O  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 


Wordsworth's  poems.  49/ 

To  life-long  singleness ;   but  happier  far 

Was  to  your  souls,  and,  to  the  thoughts  of  others, 

A  thousand  times  more  beautiful  appeared 

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. 


ODE    TO    DUTY. 

"  Jam  non  consOio  bonus,  sed  more  eo  perductus,   ut   non   tantum 
recte  facere  possim,  sed  nisi  recie  facere  non  possim." 

Stern  Daughter  of  the  voice  of  God! 

O  Duty !   if  that  name  thou  love 

Who  art  a  light  to  guide,  a  rod 

To  check  the  erring,  and  reprove ; 

Thou,  who  art  victory  and  law 

When  empty  terrors  overawe ; 

From  vain  temptations  dost  set  free ; 

And  calm'st  the  weary  strife  of  frail  humanity ' 

There  are  who  ask  not  if  thine  eye 
Be  on  them;   who,  in  love  and  truth, 
Where  no  misgiving  is,  rely 
Upon  the  genial  sense  of  youth : 
Glad  Hearts !   without  reproach  or  blot ; 
Who  do  thy  work,  and  know  it  not : 
42* 


498  Wordsworth's  poems. 

Oh !   if  through  confidence  misplaced 
TJiey  fail,  thy  saving  arms,  dread  Power !  around  them 
cast. 

Serene  will  be  our  days  and  bright, 

And  happy  will  our  nature  be, 

When  love  is  an  unerring  light, 

And  joy  its  own  security. 

And  they  a  blissful  course  may  hold 

Even  now,  who,  not  unwisely  bold, 

Live  in  the  spirit  of  this  creed; 

Yet  seek  thy  firm  support,  according  to  their  need. 

I,  loving  freedom,  and  untried; 

No  sport  of  every  random  gust. 

Yet  being  to  myself  a  guide, 

Too  blindly  have  reposed  my  trust: 

And  oft,  when  in  my  heart  was  heard 

Thy  timely  mandate,  I  deferred 

The  task,  in  smoother  walks  to  stray. 

But  thee  I  now  would  serve  more  strictly,  if  I  may. 

Through  no  disturbance  of  my  soul, 

Or  strong  cumpunction  in  me  wrought, 

I  supplicate  for  thy  control ; 

But  in  the  quietness  of  thought; 

Me  this  unchartered  freedom  tires ; 

I  feel  the  weight  of  chance-desires : 

My  hopes  no  more  must  change  their  name, 

I  long  for  a  repose  that  ever  is  the  same. 

Stern  Lawgiver !   yet  thou  dost  wear 
The  Godhead's  most  benignant  grace ; 
Nor  know  we  any  thing  so  fair 
As  is  the  smile  upon  thy  face : 


Wordsworth's  poems.  4^ 

Flowers  laugh  before  thee  on  their  beds, 
And  fragrance  in  thy  footing  treads ; 
Thou  dost  preserve  the  stars  from  wrong ; 
And  the   most    ancient    heavens,   through   Thee,   are 
fresh  and  strong. 

To  humbler  functions,  awful  Power! 

I  call  thee:   I  myself  commend 

Unto  thy  guidance  from  this  hour; 

Oh,  let  my  weakness  have  an  end! 

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! 


TO    A    SKY-LARK. 

Ethereal  minstrel !   pilgrim  of  the  sky  I 
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 ! 


500  ■Wordsworth's  poems. 


SONNET. 

Scorn  not  the  Sonnet;  Critic,  you  have  frowned, 

Mindless  of  its  just  honors ;  with  this  key 

Shakspeare  unlocked  his  heart;  the  melody 

Of  this  small  lute  gave  ease  to  Petrarch's  wound; 

A  thousand  times  this  pipe  did  Tasso  sound ; 

With  it  Camoens  soothed  an  exile's  grief; 

The  Sonnet  glittered  a  gay  myrtle  leaf 

Amid  the  cypress  with  which  Dante  crowned 

His  visionary  brow ;   a  glow-worm  lamp, 

It  cheered  mild  Spenser,  called  from  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 ! 


LUCY. 

She  dwelt  among  the  untrodden  ways 

Beside  the  springs  of  Dove, 
A  Maid  whom  there  were  none  to  praise 

And  very  few  to  love. 


Wordsworth's  poems.  501 

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,  anrl  few  could  know 

When  Lucy  ceased  to  be ; 
But  she  is  in  her  grave,  and  oh, 

The  difference  is  to  me! 


LINES 


ON     THE     DEPARTURE     OF     SIR   WALTER     SCOTT     FROiU 
ABBOTSFORD,    FOR   NAPLES. 

A  TROUBLE,  not  of  clouds,  or  weeping  rain, 

Nor  of  the  setting  sun's  pathetic  light 

Engendered,  hangs  o'er  Eildon's  triple  height; 

Spirits  of  Power,  assembled  there,  complain 

For  kindred  Power  departing  from  their  sight ; 

While  Tweed,  best  pleased  in  chanting  a  blithe  strain, 

Saddens  his  voice  again,  and  yet  again. 

Lift  up  your  hearts,  ye  mourners !   for  the  might 

Of  the  whole  world's  good  wishes  with  him  goes ; 

Blessings  and  prayers  in  nobler  retinue 

Than  sceptered  king  or  laurelled  conqueror  knows, 

Follow  this  wondrous  Potentate.     Be  true. 

Ye  winds  of  ocean,  and  the  midland  sea. 

Wafting  your  Charge  to  soft  Parthenope ! 


502  Wordsworth's  poems. 


TO    JOANNA. 

Amid  tlie  smoke  of  cities  did  you  pass* 

The  time  of  early  youth  ;   and  there  you  learned, 

From  years  of  quiet  industry,  to  love 

The  living  Beings  by  your  own  fire-side, 

With  such  a  strong  devotion,  that  your  heart 

Is  slow  to  meet  the  sympathies  of  them 

Who  look  upon  the  hills  with  tenderness, 

And  make  dear  friendship  with  the  streams  and  groves, 

Yet  we,  who  are  transgressors  in  this  kind, 

Dwelling  retii-ed  in  our  simplicity 

Among  the  woods  and  fields,  we  love  you  well, 

Joanna!   and  I  guess,  since  you  have  been 

So  distant  from  us  now  for  two  long  years, 

That  you  will  gladly  listen  to  discourse. 

However  trivial,  if  you  thence  be  taught 

That  they,  with  whom  you  once  were  happy,  talk 

Familiarly  of  you  and  of  old  times. 

While  I  was  seated,  now  some  ten  days  past. 

Beneath  those  lofty  firs,  that  overtop 

Their  ancient  neighbor,  the  old  steeple-tower, 

The  Vicar,  from  his  gloomy  house  hard  by, 

Came  forth  to  greet  me ;   and  when  he  had  asked 

"How  fares  Joanna,  that  wild-hearted  Maid? 

And  when  will  she  return  to  us?"  he  paused; 

And,  after  short  exchange  of  village  news. 

He  with  grave  looks  demanded,  for  what  cause, 

Reviving  obsolete  idolatry,     , 

I,  like  a  Runic  Priest,  in  characters 


Wordsworth's  poems.  503 

Of  formidable  size,  had  chiselled  out 

Some  uncouth  name  upon  the  native  rock, 

Above  the  Rotha,  by  the  forest-side. 

Now,  by  those  dear  immunities  of  heart 

Engendered  between  malice  and  true  love, 

I  was  not  loth  to  be  so  catechized, 

And  this  was  my  reply :  —  "As  it  befel 

One  summer  morning  we  had  walked  abroad 

At  break  of  day,  Joanna  and  myself. 

— 'Twas  that  delightful  season  when  the  broom, 

Full-flowered,  and  visible  on  every  steep, 

Along  tlie  copses  runs  in  veins  of  gold. 

Our  pathway  led  us  on  to  Rotha's  banks ; 

And  when  we  came  in  front  of  that  tall  rock 

That  eastward  looks,  I  there  stopped  short  —  and  stood 

Tracing  the  lofty  barrier  with  my  eye 

From  base  to  summit ;  such  delight  I  found 

To  note  in  shrub  and  tree,  in  stone  and  flower. 

That  intermixture  of  delicious  hues. 

Along  so  vast  a  surface,  all  at  once, 

In  one  impression,  by  connecting  force 

Of  their  own  beauty,  imaged  in  the  heart. 

—  When  I  had  gazed  perhaps  two  minutes'  space, 

Joanna,  looking  in  my  eyes,  beheld 

That  ravishment  of  mine,  and  laughed  aloud. 

The  Rock,  like  something  starting  from  a  sleep. 

Took  up  the  Lady's  voice,  and  laughed  again; 

That  ancient  Woman  seated  on  Helm-crag 

Was  ready  with  her  cavern;  Hammar-scar, 

And  the  tall  steep  of  Silver-how,  sent  forth 

A  noise  of  laughter ;  southern  Louhrigg  heard. 

And  Fairfield  answered  with  a  mountain  tone ; 

Helvellyn  far  into  the  clear  blue  sky 

Carried  the  Lady's  voice,  —  old  Skiddaw  blew 

His  speaking-trumpet ;  —  back  out  of  the  clouds 


504  Wordsworth's  poems. 

Of  Glarmara  southward  came  the  voice ; 

And  Kirkstone  tossed  it  from  his  misty  head. 

—  Now  whether  (said  I  to  our  cordial  Friend, 

Who  in  the  heyday  of  astonishment 

Smiled  in  my  face)  this  were  in  simple  truth 

A  work  accomplished  by  the  brotherhood 

Of  ancient  mountains,  or  my  ear  was  touched 

With  dreams  and  visionary  impulses 

To  me  alone  imparted,  sure  I  am 

That  there  was  a  loud  uproar  in  the  hills. 

And,  while  we  both  were  listening,  to  my  side 

The  fair  Joanna  drew,  as  if  she  wished 

To  shelter  from  some  object  of  her  fear. 

' — And  hence,  long  afterwards,  when  eighteen  moons 

Were  wasted,  as  I  chanced  to  walk  alone 

Beneath  this  rock,  at  sunrise,  on  a  calm 

And  silent  morning,  I  sat  down,  and  there, 

In  memory  of  affections  old  and  true, 

I  chiselled  out  in  those  rude  characters 

Joanna's  name  deep  in  the  living  stone ;  — 

And  I,  and  all  who  dwell  by  my  fireside, 

Have  called  the  lovely  rock,  Joanna's  Rock." 


Wordsworth's  foems.  505 


ELEGIAC    STANZAS. 

The  lamented  Youth  whose  untimely  death  gave  occasion  to  thesa 
elegiac  verses,  was  Frederick  William  Goddard,  from  Boston,  in  North 
America.  He  was  in  his  twentieth  year,  and  had  resided  lor  some  time 
with  a  clergyman  in  the  neighborhood  of  Geneva,  for  the  completion  of 
his  education.  Accompanied  by  a  fellow-pupil,  a  native  of  Scotland,  he 
had  just  set  out  on  a  Swiss  tour,  when  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  ou  the  road  from  Berne  and  at  Soleure, 
took  leave  of  each  other  at  night,  the  young  men  having  intended  to 
proceed  directly  to  Zurich.  But  early  in  the  morning  my  friend  found 
his  new  acquaintances,  who  were  informed  of  the  object  of  his  journey, 
and  the  friends  he  was  in  pursuit  of,  equipped  to  accompany  him.  We 
met  at  Lucerne  the  succeeding  evening,  and  Mr.  G.  and  his  fellow-stu- 
dent became  in  consequence  our  travelling-  companions  for  a  couple  of 
days.  Wo  ascended  the  Righi  together ;  and  after  contemplating  the 
sunrise  from  that  noble  mountain,  we  separated  at  an  hour  and  on  a  spot 
well  suited  to  the  parting  of  those  who  were  to  meet  no  more.  Our 
party  descended  through  the  valley  of  our  Lady  of  the  Snow,  and  our 
late  companions,  to  Art.  We  had  hoped  to  meet  in  a  few  weeks  at 
Geneva;  but  on  the  third  succeeding  day  (on  the  2Ist  of  August)  Mr. 
Goddard  perished,  bemg  overset  in  a  boat  w^hile  crossing  the  lake  of 
Zurich.  His  companion  saved  himself  by  swimming,  sind  was  hospita- 
oly  received  in  the  mansion  of  a  Swiss  gentleman  (M.  Keller)  situated 
on  the  eastern  coast  of  the  lake.  The  corpse  of  poor  Goddard  was  cast 
ashore  on  the  estate  of  the  same  gentleman,  who  generously  performed 
all  the  rites  of  hospitality  which  could  be  rendered  to  the  dead  as  well 
as  to  the  living.  He  caused  a  handsome  mural  monument  to  be  erected 
in  the  church  of  Kusnacht,  which  records  the  premature  fate  of  the 
yoting  American,  and  on  the  shores  too  of  the  lake  the  traveller  may 
read  an  inscription  pointing  out  the  spot  where  the  body  was  deposited 
by  the  waves. 


Lulled  by  the  sound  of  pastoral  bells, 
Rude  Nature's  Pilgrims  did  we  go, 
From  the  dread  summit  of  the  Queen 
Of  mountains,  through  a  deep  ravine, 
43 


506  Wordsworth's  poems. 

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  bowei 

As  if,  to  rough  assaults  unknown. 

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  journeyed ;   all  we  knew  of  care  — 
Our  path  that  struggled  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  cares  are  gone, 
Thou  Victim  of  the  stdrmy  gale; 
Asleep  on  Zurich's  shore! 

Oh  Goddard!  what  art  thou?  —  a  name  — 
A  sunbeam  followed  by  a  shade ! 
Nor  more,  for  aught  that  time  supplies. 
The  great,  the  experienced,  and  the  wise: 
Too  much  from  this  frail  earth  we  claim. 
And  therefore  are  betrayed. 

We  met,  while  festive  mirth  ran  wild, 
Where,  from  a  deep  lake's  mighty  urn. 
Forth  slips,  like  an  enfranchised  slave, 
A  sea-green  river,  proud  to  lave. 


Wordsworth's  poems.  507 

With  current  swift  and  undefiled, 
The  towers  of  old  Lucerne. 

We  parted  upon  solemn  ground, 
Far-lifted  towards  the  unfading  sky; 
But  all  our  l^oughts  were  then  of  Earth, 
That  gives  to  common  pleasures  birth; 
And  nothing  in  our  hearts  we  found 
That  prompted  even  a  sigh. 

Fetch,  sympathizing  Powers  of  air, 
Fetch,  ye  that  post  o'er  seas  and  lands, 
Herbs  moistened  by  Virginia  dew, 
A  most  untimely  grave  to  strew. 
Whose  turf  may  never  know  the  care 
Of  kindred  human  hands  ! 

Beloved  by  every  gentle  Muse 

He  left  his  Transatlantic  home! 

Europe,  a  realized  romance. 

Had  opened  on  his  eager  glance ; 

What  present  bliss !  —  what  golden  views ! 

What  stores  for  years  to  come! 

Though  lodged  within  no  vigorous  frame, 
His  soul  her  daily  tasks  renewed. 
Blithe  as  the  lark  on  sun-gilt  wings 
High  poised  —  or  as  the  wren  that  sings 
In  shady  places,  to  proclaim 
Her  modest  gratitude. 

Not  vain  is  sadly-uttered  praise  > 
The  words  of  truth's  memorial  vow, 
Are  sweet  as  morning  fragrance  shed 
From  flowers  'mid  Goldau's  ruins  bred; 


508  Wordsworth's  poems. 

As  evoning'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  St^pe 
Which  hath  not  left  the  spot  unknown 
Where  the  wild  waves  resign  their  prey- 
And  that  which  marks  thy  bed. 

And,  when  thy  Mother  weeps  for  Thee 
Lost  Youth !   a  solitary  Mother : 
This  tribute  from  a  casual  Friend 
A  not  unwelcome  aid  may  lend, 
To  feed  the  tender  luxury, 
The  rising  pang  to  smother. 


A    POET'S    EPITAPH. 

Art  thou  a  Statist,  in  the  van 

Of  public  conflicts  trained  and  bred  ? 

First  learn  to  love  one  living  man ; 
Then  may'st  thou  think  upon  the  dead. 

A  Lawyeii  art  thou  ?  —  draw  nof,  nigh ! 

Go,  carry  to  some  fitter  place 
The  keenness  of  that  practised  eye. 

The  hardness  of  that  sallow  fat':e. 


Wordsworth's  poems. 

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. 

509 

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  eyea, 

Philosopher !   a  fingering  slave, 
One  that  would  peep  and  botanize 

Upon  his  mother's  grave  ? 

Wrapt  closely  in  thy  sensual  fleece, 
O  turn  aside,  —  and  take,  I  pray, 

That  he  alone  may  rest  in  peace. 
Thy  ever-dwindling  soul  away ! 

A  Moralist  perchance  appears ; 

Led,  Heaven  knows  how !   to  this  poor  sod , 
And  he  has  neither  eyes  nor  ears ; 

Himself  his  world,  and  his  own  God; 

One  to  whose  smooth-rubbed  soul  can  cling 
Nor  form,  nor  feeling,  great  or  small ; 

A  reasoning,  self-sufficing  thing. 
An  intellectual  All-in-all ! 

Shut  close  the  door ;   press  down  the  latch ; 

Sleep  in  thy  intellectual  crust ; 
Nor  lose  ten  tickings  of  thy  watch 

Near  this  unprofitable  dust 
43* 


6J0  WORDSWOKTH'S    ICJiMS. 

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  viewed ; 

And  impulses  of  deeper  birth 
Have  come  to  him  in  solitude. 

In  common  things  that  round  us  lie 
Some  random  truths  he  can  impart, — 

The  harvest  of  a  quiet  eye 
That  broods  and  sleeps  on  his  own  heart. 

But  he  is  weak ;  both  Man  and  Boy, 
Hath  been  an  idler  in  the  land ; 

Contented  if  he  might  enjoy 

The  things  which  others  understand. 

Come  hither  in  thy  hour  of  strength ; 

Come,  weak  as  is  a  breaking  wave! 
Here  stretch  thy  body  at  full  length; 

Or  build  thy  house  upon  this  grave. 


'      VOJRDSTirORTH's  POEMS.  $11 


THE  REVERIE  OP  POOR  SUSAN. 

At  the  corner  of  Wood  Street,  when  daylight  appears, 
Haags  a  Thrush  that   sings    loud  — •  it   has    sung  for 

three  years : 
Poor  Susan  has  passed  by  the  spot,  and.  has  heard 
In  the  silence  of  morning  the  song  of  the  Bird. 

Tis  a  note  of  enchantment ;  what  ails  her  ?   she  sees 
A  mountain  ascending,  a  vision  of  trees ; 
Bright  columns  of  vapor  through  Lothbury  glide, 
And  a  river  flows  on  through  the  vale  of  Cheapside. 

Green  pastures  she  views  in  the  midst  of  the  dale, 
Down  which  she  so  often  has  tripped  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  colors  have  all  passed  away  from  her  eyes ! 


513  Wordsworth's  poems. 


TO    THE   CUCKOO. 

O  BLITHE  New-comer!  I  have  heard, 

I  hear  thee,  and  rejoice. 
O  Cuckoo!  shall  I  call  thee  Bird, 

Or  but  a  wandering  Voice? 

While  I  am  lying  on  the  graas 

Thy  two-fold  shout  I  hear, 
From  hill  to  hill  it  seems  to  pass, 

At  once  far  off,  and  near. 

Though  babbling  only  to  the  Vale, 
Of  sunshine  and  of  flowers. 

Thou  bringest  unto  me  a  tale 
Of  visionary  hours. 

Thrice  welcome !   darling  of  the  Spring' 

Even  yet  thou  art  to  me 
No  bird,  but  an  invisible  thing, 

A  voice,  a  mystery ; 

The  same  whom  in  my  school-boy  daya 

I  listened  to ;   that  Cry 
Which  made  me  look  a  thousand  ways 

In  bush,  and  tree,  and  sky. 

To  seek  thee  did  I  often  rove 

Through  woods  and  on  the  green; 

And  thou  wert  still  a  hope,  a  love 
Still  longed  for,  never  seen. 


Wordsworth's  poems.  513 

And  I  can  listen  to  thee  yet; 

Can  lie  upon  the  plain 
And  listen  till  I  do  beget 

That  golden  time  again. 

O  blessed  Bird !   the  earth  we  pace 

Again  appears  to  be 
An  unsubstantial,  faery  place ; 

That  is  fit  home  for  Thee! 


SONNET, 


COMPOSED     BT     THE     SEA-SIDE     NEAR     CALAIS, 

AUGUST,     1802. 

Fair  Star  of  evening.  Splendor  of  the  west, 
Star  of  my  Country  !  ■ —  on  the  horizon's  brink 
Thou  hangest,  stooping,  as  might  seem,  to  sink 
On  England's  bosom  ;  yet  well  pleased  to  rest, 
Meanwhile,  and  be  to  her  a  glorious  crest 
Conspicuous  to  the  Nations.     Thou,  I  think, 
Should'st  be  my  Country's  emblem :  and  should'st  wink. 
Bright  Star!   with  laughter  on  her  banners,  drest 
In  thy  fresh  beauty.     There !  that  dusky  spot 
Beneath  thee,  that  is  England ;  there  she  lies. 
Blessings  be  on  you  both!   one  hope,  one  lot, 
One  life,  one  glory!  —  I,  Avith  many  a  fear 
For  my  dear  Country,  many  heartfelt  sighs, 
Among  men  avIio  do  not  love  her,  linger  here. 


514  Wordsworth's  poems. 


TO    THE    SOMS    OF    BURNS, 

AI'TER   VISITING   THE    GRAVE    OF    THEIR   FATHER. 

'Mid  crowded  obelisks  and  urns 

I  sought  the  untimely  grave  of  Burns ; 

Sons  of  the  Bard,  my  heart  still  mourns 

With  sorrow  true ; 
And  more  would  grieve,  but  that  it  turns 

Trembling  to  you .' 

Through  twilight  shades  of  good  and  ill 
^Ye  now  are  panting  up  life's  hill, 
And  more  than  common  strength  and  skill 

Must  ye  display  ; 
If  ye  would  give  the  better  will 
Its  lawful  sway. 

Hath  Nature  strung  your  nerves  to  bear 
Intemperance  with  less  harm,  beware 
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. 


WORDSV/ORTU  3    POEMS.  515 

Far  from  their  noisy  haunts  retire 
And  add  your  voices  to  the  quire 
That  sanctify  the  cottage  fire 

With  service  meet ; 
There  seek  the  genius  of  your  Sire, 

His  spirit  greet! 

O  where,  'mid  "  lonely  heights  and  hows," 
He  paid  to  Nature  tuneful  vows ; 
Or  wiped  his  honorable  brows 

Bedewed  with  toil, 
While  reapers  strove,  or  busy  ploughs 

Upturned  the  soil ; 

His  judgment  with  benignant  ray 
Shall  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." 

Let  no  mean  hope  you  souls  enslave; 
Be  independent,  generous,  brave ; 
Your  father  such  example  gave, 

And  such  revere ; 
But  be  admonished  by  his  grave, 

And  think,  and  fear! 


516  Wordsworth's  poems. 


SONNET. 

Oh  what  a  wreck !  how  changed  in  mien  and  speech 
Yet  —  though   dread   Powers,    that   work   in   mystery- 
spin 
Entanglings  of  the  brain;  though  shadows  stretch 
O'er  the  chilled  heart  —  reflect ;   far,  far  within 
Hers  is  a  holy  Being,  freed  from  Sin. 
She  is  not  what  she  seems,  a  forlorn  wretch. 
But  delegated  Spirits  comfort  fetch 
To  Her  from  heights  that  Reason  may  not  win. 
Like  Children,  She  is  privileged  to  hold 
Divine  communion;   both  to  live  and  move, 
Whate'er  to  shallow  Faith  their  ways  unfold, 
Inly  illumined  by  Heaven's  pitying  love ; 
Love  pitying  innocence  not  long  to  last, 
In  them  —  in  Her  our  sins  and  sorrows  past. 


THE    FARMER    OF    TILSBURY   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. 


Wordsworth's  poems.  517 

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   fashioned,  which,  spite  of  a 

stain 
That  his  life  hath  received,  to  the  last  Avill  remain. 

A  Parmer  he  was ;   and  his  house  far  and  near 
Was  the  boast  of  the  country  for  excellent  cheer: 
How  oft  have  I  heard  in  sweet  Tilsbury  Vale 
Of  the  silver-rimmed    horn  whence  he  dealt   his  mild 
ale! 

Yet  Adam  was  far  as  the  farthest  from  ruin, 

His  fields   seemed   to   know   what   their   Master    waa 

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  strayed  through  the  fields  like  an  indolent  wight, 
The  q'liet  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 
44 


518  WORDfiWORTH'S  POEMS. 

Thus  thirty  smooth  years  did  he  thrive  on  his  farm* 
The  Genius  of  plenty  preserved  him  from  harm : 
At  length,  what  to  most  is  a  season  of  sorrow, 
His  means  are  run  out,  —  he  must  beg,  or  must  bor- 
row. 

To  the  neighbors  he  went,  —  all  were  free  with  their 
money ; 

For  his  hive  had  so  long  been  replenished  with  honey 

That  they  dreamt  not  of  dearth ;  —  he  continued  his 
rounds, 

Knocked  here  —  and  knocked  there,  pounds  still  add- 
ing 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. 
Turned  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  did  he  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    wealth,  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 


wordswoe.th's  poems.  519 

He  seems    ten    birth-days   younger,    is    green   and    is 

stout ; 
Twice  as  fast  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  compelled  to  demur, 
And  yoa   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  Nature,  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  made 
Poor  winter  look  fine  in  such  strange  masquerade. 


520  Wordsworth's  poems. 

'Mid  coaches  and  chariots,  a  wagon  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    touched    with    the   sounds    of  a 
dream. 

Up  the  Haymarket  hill  he  oft  whistles  his  way, 
Thrusts  his  hands  in  a  wagon,  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  Smithfield  he  loves  to  repair, — 
If  you  pass  b)'  at  morning,  you'll  meet  with  him  there. 
The  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; 
And  I  hope  that  thy  grave,  wheresoever  it  be. 
Will  hear  the  wind  sigh  through  the  leaves  of  a  tree, 


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. 


Wordsworth's  poems.  521 

The  measure,  simple  truth  to  tell, 

Was  fit  for  some  gay  throng; 
Though  from  the  same  grim  turret  fell 

The  shadow  and  the  song. 
When  silent  were  both  voice  and  chorda^ 

The  strain  seemed  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 
Quivered  and  seemed  almost  to  heave, 

Clothed  Avith  innocuous  fire ; 
But,  where  we  stood,  the  setting  sun 

Showed  little  of  his  state; 
And,  if  the  glory  reached  the  Nun, 

'Twas  through  an  iron  grate. 

Not  always  is  the  heart  unwise, 

Nor  pity  idly  born. 
If  even  a  passing  stranger  sighs 

For  them  who  do  not  mourn. 
Sad  is  thy  doom,  self-solaced  dove, 

Captive,  whoe'er  thou  be! 
Oh!   what  is  beauty,  what  is  love. 

And  opening  life  to  thee? 

Such  feeling  pressed  upon  my  soul, 

A  feeling  sanctified 
By  one  soft  trickling  tear  that  stole 

From  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? 
44* 


522  Wordsworth's  poems. 


SONNET. 

Great  men  have  been  among  us  ;  hands  that  penned 

And  tongues  that  uttered  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  splendor:   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  !   unceasing  change ! 

No  single  volume  paramount,  no  code. 

No  master  spirit,  no  determined  road ; 

But  equally  a  want  of  books  and  men! 


GRACE  DARLING. 

Among  the  dwellers  in  the  silent  field 

The  natural  heart  is  touched,  and  public  way 

And  crowded  street  resound  with  ballad  strains, 

Inspired  by  one  whose  very  name  bespeaks 

Favor  divine,  exalting  human  love ; 

Whom,  since  her  birth  on  bleak  Northumbria's  coast, 


WORDSWURTH  S  POEMS.  biid 

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  now;  but,  verily,  good  deeds 

Do  not  imperishable  record  find 

Save  in  the  rolls  of  heaven,  where  hers  may  live 

A  theme  for  angels,  when  they  celebrate 

The  high-souled  virtues  which  forgetful  earth 

Has  witnessed.    Oh  !  that  winds  and  waves  could  speak 

Of  things  which  their  united  power  called  forth 

From  the  pure  depths  of  her  humanity ! 

A  Maiden  gentle,  yet,  at  duty's  call. 

Firm  and  unflinching,  as  the  Lighthouse  reared 

On  the  Island-rock,  her  lonely  dwelling-place; 

Or  like  the  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,. 
Beating  on  one  of  those  disastrous  isles  — 
Half  of  a  vessel,  half — no  more;  the  rest 
Had  vanished,  swallowed  up  with  all  that  there 
Had  for  the  common  safety  striven  in  vain, 
Or  thither  thronged  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  engfulfed 


524  Wordsworth's  poems. 

Where  every  parting  agony  is  hushed, 

And  hope  and  fear  mix  not  in  open  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  cheered 

And  inwardly  sustained  by  silent  prayer, 

Together  they  put  forth,  Father  and  Child  ! 

Each  grasps  an  oar,  and  struggling  on  they  go  — 

Rivals  iri  effort ;   and,  alike  intent 

Here  to  elude  and  there  surmount,  they  watch 

The  billows  lengthening,  mutually  crossed 

And  shattered,  and  re-gathering  their  might; 

As  if  the  tumult,  by  the  Almighty's  will 

Were,  in  the  conscious  sea,  roused  and  prolonged 

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  neared,  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  perturbed 
Can  scarcely  trust  his  eyes,  when  he  perceives 
That  of  the  pair  —  tossed  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, 


Wordsworth's  poems.  525 

A  guardian  Spirit  sent  from  pitying  Heaven, 

In  Woman's  shape.     But  why  prolong  the  tale, 

Casting  meek  words  amid  a  host  of  thoughts 

Armed  to  repel  them  ?    Every  hazard  faced 

And  difficulty  mastered,  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  lipa 

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  Darling's  name ! 


520  Wordsworth's  poems. 


SONNET, 

FROM    THE    ITALIAN    OF    MICHAEL   ANGELO. 

Yes  !   hope  may  with  my  strong  desire  keep  pace, 

And  I  be  undeluded,  unbetrayed ; 

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. 


GiiAD  sight,  wherever  new  with  old 

Is  joined  through  some  dear  homeborn  tie; 

The  life  of  all  that  we  behold 

Depends  upon  that  mystery. 

Vain  is  the  glory  of  the  sky, 

The  beauty  vain  of  field  and  grove 

Unless,  while  with  admiring  eye 

We  gaze,  we  also  learn  to  love. 


Wordsworth's  poems.  SS? 


SONNET. 

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,  Avhose  brightness  owes  its  hues 

To  flesh  and  blood;  no  Goddess  from  above, 

No  fleeting  Spirit,  but  my  own-  true  Love  ? 


SONNET, 


TO     SLEEP. 


A  FLOCK  of  sheep  that  leisurely  pass  by, 
One  after  one ;  the  sound  of  rain,  and  bees 
Murmuring;   the  fall  of  rivers,  winds  and  seas, 
Smooth  fields,  white  sheets  of  water,  and  pure  sky ; 


528  Wordsworth's  poems. 

I  have  thought  of  all  by  turns,  and  yet  do  lie 
Sleepless!   and  soon  the  small  birds'  melodies 
Must  heard,  first  uttered  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 ' 


PRESENTIMENTS. 

Presentiments  !   they  judge  not  right 
Who  deem  that  ye  from  open  light 

Retire  in  fear  of  shame; 
All  heaven-horn  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  seemed  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  potent  over  nerve  arid  blood. 


Wordsworth's  poems.  529 

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  in  auspicious  hours 

Builds  castles  not  of  air ; 
Bodings  unsanctioned  by  the  will 
Flow  from  your  visionary  skill, 

And  teach  us  to  beware. 

The  bosom-weight,  your  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  gayety  and  ease. 

Star-guided  contemplations  move 

Through  space,  through  calm,  not  raised  abov* 

Prognostics  that  ye  rule ; 
The  naked  Indian  of  the  wild. 
And  haply,  too,  the  cradled  Child, 

Are  pupils  of  your  school. 

But  who  can  fathom  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 
45 


530  Wordsworth's  poems. 

Ye  feelingly  reprove ; 
And  daily  in  the  conscious  breast, 
Your  visitations  are  a  test 

And  exercise  of  love. 

When  some  great  change  gives  boundless  scope 
To  an  exulting  Nation's  hope, 

Oft,  startled  and  made  wise 
By  your  low-breathed  interpretings, 
The  simply  meek  foretaste  the  springs 

Of  bitter  contraries. 

Ye  daunt  the  proud  array  of  war, 
Pervade  the  lonely  ocean  far 

As  sail  hath  been  unfurled  ; 
For  dancers  in  the  festive  hall 
What  ghastly  partners  hath  your  call 

Fetched  from  the  shadowy  world. 

'Tis  said,  that  warnings  ye  dispense, 
Emboldened  by  a  keener  sense ; 

That  men  have  lived  for  whom. 
With  dread  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  that  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. 


Wordsworth's  poems.  531 

Whose  wisdom  fixed  the  scale 
Of  natures,  for  our  wants  provides, 
By  higher,  sometimes  humbler,  guides, 

When  lights  of  reason  fail. 


MEMORY. 


A  PEN  —  to  register ;  a  key  — 
That  winds  through  secret  wards ; 

Are  well  assigned  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-vanished  happiness  refines. 

And  clothes  in  brighter  hues ; 

Y"et,  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  fast, 

In  purity  were  such. 
That  not  an  image  of  the  past 

Should  fear  that  pencil's  touch! 


533  Wordsworth's  poems. 

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  murmurs  listening. 


SONNET. 


It  is  a  beauteous  evening,  calm  and  free, 

The  holy  time  is  quiet  as  a  Nun 

Breathless  with  adoration;  the  broad  sun 

Is  sinking  down  in  its  tranquillity; 

The  gentleness  of  heaven  broods  o'er  the  Sea. 

Listen!   the  mighty  Being  is  awake. 

And  doth  with  his  eternal  motion  make 

A  sound  like  thunder  —  everlastingly. 

Dear  Child!   dear  Girl!   that  walkest  with  me  here, 

If  thou  appear  untouched  by  solemn  thought, 

Thy  nature  is  not  therefore  less  divine: 

Thou  lieat  in  Abraham's  bosom  all  the  year; 

And  worship'st  at  the  Temple's  inner  shrine, 

God  being  with  thee  when  we  know  it  not. 


Wordsworth's  poems.  533 


TO    A    SEXTON. 

Let  thy  wheelbarrow  alone  — 

Wherefore,  Sexton,  piling  still 

In  thy  bone-house  bone  on  bone  ? 

'Tis  already  like  a  hill 

In  a  field  of  battle  made, 

Where  three  thousand  skulls  are  laid; 

These  died  in  peace  each  with  the  other,— 

Father,  sister,  friend,  and  brother. 

Mark  the  spot  to  which  I  point! 
From  this  platform,  eight  feet  square, 
Take  not  even  a  finger-joint: 
Andrew's  whole  fireside  is  there. 
Here,  alone,  before  thine  eyes, 
Simon's  sickly  daughter  lies. 
From  weakness  now,  and  pain  defended. 
Whom  he  twenty  winters  tended. 

Look  but  at  the  gardener's  pride  — 
How  he  glories,  when  he  sees 
Roses,  lilies,  side  by  side, 
Violets  in  families  ! 
By  the  heart  of  Man,  his  tears, 
By  his  hopes  and  by  his  fears, 
Thou,  too  heedless,  art  the  Warden 
Of  a  far  superior  garden. 

Thus  then,  each  to  other  dear, 
Let  them  all  in  quiet  lie, 
45* 


534  words-worth's  poems. 

Andrew  there,  and  Susan  here, 

Neighbors  in  mortality. 

And,  should  I  live  through  sun  and  rain 

Seven  widowed  years  without  my  Jane? 

O  Sexton,  do  not  then  remove  her, 

Let  one  grave  hold  the  Loved  and  Lover ! 


ODE, 

COMPOSED    ON   MAY   MORNING. 

Whijle  from  the  purpling  east  departs 

The  star  that  led  the  dawn, 
Blithe  Flora  from  her  couch  upstarts. 

For  May  is  on  the  lawn. 
A  quickening  hope,  a  freshening  glee, 

Foreran  the  expected  Power, 
Whose  first-drawn  breath,  from  bush  and  tree, 

Shakes  off  that  pearly  shower. 

All  Nature  welcomes  Her  whose  away 

Tempers  the  year's  extremes ; 
Who  scattereth  lustres  o'er  noonday, 

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. 


Wordsworth's  poems.  535 

Time  was,  blest  Power !   when  youths  and  maids 

At  peep  of  dawn  would  rise, 
And  wander  forth  in  forest  glades 

Thy  birth  to  solemnize. 
Though  mute  the  song  —  to  grace  the  rite 

Untouched  the  hawthorn  bough, 
Thy  Spirit  triumphs  o'er  the  slight; 

Man  changes,  but  not  Thou! 

Thy  feathered  Lieges  bill  and  wings 

In  Love's  disport  employ; 
Warmed  by  thy  influence,  creeping  things 

Awake  to  silent  joy: 
Queen  art  thou  still  for  each  gay  plant 

Where  the  slim  wild  deer  roves. 
And  served  in  depths  where  fishes  haunt 

Their  own  mysterious  groves. 

Cloud-piercing  peak,  and  trackless  heath, 

Instinctive  homage  pay; 
Nor  wants  the  dim-lit  cave  a  wreath 

To  honor  thee,  sweet  May! 
Where  cities  fanned  by  thy  brisk  airs 

Behold  a  smokeless  sky, 
Their  puniest  flower-pot  nursling  dares 

To  open  a  bright  eye. 

And  if,  on  this  thy  natal  morn. 

The  pole,  from  Avhich  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. 


536  Wordsworth's  poems. 

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  Avords  refuse 

The  service  to  prolong! 
To  yon  exulting  thrush  the  Muse 

Intrusts  the  imperfect  song ; 
His  voice  shall  chant,  in  accents  clear, 

Throughout  the  live-long  day. 
Till  the  first  silver  star  appear, 

The  sovereignty  of  May. 


LIFE. 

Hast  thou  seen,  with  flash  incessant, 

Bubbles  gliding  under  ice, 
Bodied  forth  and  evanescent, 

No  one  knows  by  what  device  ? 

Such  are  thoughts  !  —  a  wind-swept  meadow 

Mimicking  a  troubled  sea. 
Such  is  life ;   and  death  a  shadow 

From  the  rock  eternity! 


Wordsworth's  poems.  537 


SONNET. 

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  Reason,  seated  on  her  sovereign  hill; 

What  is  it  but  a  vain  and  curious  skill, 

If  sapient  Germany  must  lie  deprest. 

Beneath  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 

More  for  mankind  at  this  unhappy  day 

Than  all  the  pride  of  intellect  and  thought' 


THE    RAINBOW. 

My  heart  leaps  up  when  I  behold 

A  rainbow  in  the  sky : 

So  was  it  Avhen  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. 


538  Wordsworth's  poems. 


SONNET. 

With  Ships  the  sea  was  sprinkled  far  and  nigh, 
Like  stars  in  heaven,  and  joyously  it  showed ; 
•  Some  lying  fast  at  anchor  in  the  road, 
Some  veering  up  and  down,  one  knew  not  why. 
A  goodly  Vessel  did  I  theii  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  Lovers  look; 
This  Ship  to  all  the  rest  did  I  prefer  : 
When  will  she  turn,  and  whitlier?  She  will  brook 
No  tarrying ;  where  She  comes  the  winds  must  stir 
On  went  She,  and  due  north  her  journey  took. 


WRITTEN    IN   MARCH, 

WHILE     RESTING     ON    THE     BRIDGE     AT     THE   FOOT   Of 
brother's    WATER. 

The  cock  is  crowing. 
The  stream  is  flowing. 
The  small  birds  twitter, 
The  lake  doth  glitter, 


Wordsworth's  poems.  539 

The  green  field  sleeps  in  the  sun; 

The  oldest  and  youngest 

Are  at  work  with  the  strongest; 

The  cattle  are  grazing, 

Their  heads  never  raising; 
There  are  forty  feeding  like  one 

Like  an  army  defeated 

The  Snow  hath  retreated, 

And  now  doth  fare  ill 

On  the  top  of  the  bare  hill ; 
The  Ploughboy  is  whooping  —  anon  —  anon. 

There's  joy  in  the  mountains ; 

There's  life  in  the  fountains ; 

Small  clouds  are  sailing, 

Blue  sky  prevailing ; 
The  rain  is  over  and  gone 


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A  WORLD  LEADER  IN  COLLECTIONS  PRESERVATION 

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