Delphi Complete Works of William Wordsworth

by William Wordsworth

  WILLIAM WORDSWORTH

  (1770-1850)

  Contents

  The Poetry Collections and Major Works

  POEMS WRITTEN IN YOUTH

  LYRICAL BALLADS, WITH A FEW OTHER POEMS

  LYRICAL BALLADS, WITH OTHER POEMS

  POEMS, IN TWO VOLUMES

  THE EXCURSION

  LAODAMIA

  THE PRELUDE

  The Poems

  LIST OF POEMS IN CHRONOLOGICAL ORDER

  LIST OF POEMS IN ALPHABETICAL ORDER

  The Prose Works

  LIST OF PROSE WORKS

  Dorothy Wordsworth’s Works

  RECOLLECTIONS OF A TOUR MADE IN SCOTLAND A.D. 1803

  THE ALFOXDEN JOURNAL, 1798

  THE GRASMERE JOURNAL, 1800-1803

  The Biography

  WORDSWORTH by F. W. H. Myers

  The Delphi Classics Catalogue

  © Delphi Classics 2013

  Version 3

  WILLIAM WORDSWORTH

  By Delphi Classics, 2013

  COPYRIGHT

  William Wordsworth - Delphi Poets Series

  First published in the United Kingdom in 2013 by Delphi Classics.

  © Delphi Classics, 2013.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form other than that in which it is published.

  Delphi Classics

  is an imprint of

  Delphi Publishing Ltd

  Hastings, East Sussex

  United Kingdom

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  www.delphiclassics.com

  Explore Romantic poetry with Delphi Classics

  For the first time in digital publishing history, Delphi Classics is proud to present the complete works of these Romantic poets.

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  NOTE

  When reading poetry on an eReader, it is advisable to use a small font size and landscape mode, which will allow the lines of poetry to display correctly.

  The Poetry Collections and Major Works

  Wordsworth House, Cockermouth — the poet’s birthplace

  View of the garden at Wordsworth House

  The earliest known portrait of Wordsworth, aged 28, c.1798

  POEMS WRITTEN IN YOUTH

  William Wordsworth is regarded as one of England’s most celebrated poets, who, with Samuel Taylor Coleridge, helped to launch the Romantic Age in English literature, following the 1798 publication of Lyrical Ballads.

  The poems collected in the following section record some of Wordsworth’s earliest memories, which would be used again in the poet’s magnum opus The Prelude. Though unembellished and simplistic at times, these early works hint at the themes and genius that would predominate Wordsworth’s greatest works.

  When Wordsworth was sent to Cambridge, he was already determined to be a poet, and after graduating he traveled around Europe, returning home when he ran out of funds. He published two poems that appear in this section, Descriptive Sketches and An Evening Walk, which were not well received. However, a wealthy friend bequeathed the young poet the money needed to allow him to pursue a career in writing.

  At this time Wordsworth met fellow poet Samuel Taylor Coleridge and they became firm friends. Together, the two poets would collaborate on one of the most famous poetry collections ever to be published…

  Hawkshead Grammar School, which was attended by Wordsworth in 1778

  CONTENTS

  EXTRACT FROM THE CONCLUSION OF A POEM, COMPOSED IN ANTICIPATION OF LEAVING SCHOOL

  WRITTEN IN VERY EARLY YOUTH

  AN EVENING WALK

  LINES WRITTEN WHILE SAILING IN A BOAT AT EVENING

  REMEMBRANCE OF COLLINS

  DESCRIPTIVE SKETCHES TAKEN DURING A PEDESTRIAN TOUR AMONG THE ALPS

  GUILT AND SORROW; OR, INCIDENTS UPON SALISBURY PLAIN

  LINES LEFT UPON A SEAT IN A YEW-TREE

  THE BORDERERS

  EXTRACT FROM THE CONCLUSION OF A POEM, COMPOSED IN ANTICIPATION OF LEAVING SCHOOL

  Dear native regions, I foretell,

  From what I feel at this farewell,

  That, wheresoe’er my steps may tend,

  And whensoe’er my course shall end,

  If in that hour a single tie

  Survive of local sympathy,

  My soul will cast the backward view,

  The longing look alone on you.

  Thus, while the Sun sinks down to rest

  Far in the regions of the west,

  Though to the vale no parting beam

  Be given, not one memorial gleam,

  A lingering light he fondly throws

  On the dear hills where first he rose.

  WRITTEN IN VERY EARLY YOUTH

  Calm is all nature as a resting wheel.

  The kine are couched upon the dewy grass;

  The horse alone, seen dimly as I pass,

  Is cropping audibly his later meal:

  Dark is the ground; a slumber seems to steal

  O’er vale, and mountain, and the starless sky.

  Now, in this blank of things, a harmony,

  Home-felt, and home-created, comes to heal

  That grief for which the senses still supply

  Fresh food; for only then, when memory

  Is hushed, am I at rest. My Friends! restrain

  Those busy cares that would allay my pain;

  Oh! leave me to myself, nor let me feel

  The officious touch that makes me droop again.

  AN EVENING WALK

  The young Lady to whom this was addressed was my Sister. It was composed at School, and during my first two College vacations. There is not an image in it which I have not observed; and, now in my seventy-third year, I recollect the time and place, when most of them were noticed. I will confine myself to one instance:

  Waving his hat, the shepherd, from the vale,

  Directs his winding dog the cliffs to scale, —

  The dog, loud barking, ‘mid the glittering rocks,

  Hunts, where his master points, the intercepted flocks.

  I was an eye-witness of this for the first time while crossing the Pass of Dunmail Raise. Upon second thought, I will mention another image:

  And, fronting the bright west, yon oak entwines

  Its darkening boughs and leaves, in stronger lines.

  This is feebly and imperfectly expressed, but I recollect distinctly the very spot where this first struck me. It was on the way between Hawkshead and Ambleside, and gave me extreme pleasure. The moment was important in my poetical history; for I date from it my consciousness of the infinite variety of natural appearances which had been unnoticed by the poets of any age or country, so far as I was acquainted with them; and I made a resolution to supply in some degree the deficiency. I could not have been at that time above fourteen years of age. The description of the swans, that follows, was taken from the daily opportunities I had of observing their habits, not as confined to the gentleman’s park, but in a state of nature. There were two pairs of them that divided the lake of Esthwaite, and its in-and-out flowing streams, between them, never trespassing a single yard upon each other’s separate domain. They were of the old magnificent species, bearing in beauty and majesty about the same relation to the Thames swan which that does to the goose. It was from the remembrance of those noble creatures, I took, thirty years after, the picture of the swan which I have discarded from the poem of ‘Dion’. While I was a schoolboy, the late Mr. Curwen introduced a little fleet
of these birds, but of the inferior species, to the lake of Windermere. Their principal home was about his own island; but they sailed about into remote parts of the lake, and either from real or imagined injury done to the adjoining fields, they were got rid of at the request of the farmers and proprietors, but to the great regret of all who had become attached to them from noticing their beauty and quiet habits. I will conclude my notice of this poem by observing that the plan of it has not been confined to a particular walk, or an individual place; a proof (of which I was unconscious at the time) of my unwillingness to submit the poetic spirit to the chains of fact and real circumstance. The country is idealised rather than described in any one of its local aspects. — I. F.

  LINES WRITTEN WHILE SAILING IN A BOAT AT EVENING

  How richly glows the water’s breast

  Before us, tinged with evening hues,

  While, facing thus the crimson west,

  The boat her silent course pursues!

  And see how dark the backward stream!

  A little moment past so smiling!

  And still, perhaps, with faithless gleam,

  Some other loiterers beguiling.

  Such views the youthful Bard allure;

  But, heedless of the following gloom,

  He deems their colours shall endure

  Till peace go with him to the tomb.

  — And let him nurse his fond deceit,

  And what if he must die in sorrow!

  Who would not cherish dreams so sweet,

  Though grief and pain may come to-morrow?

  REMEMBRANCE OF COLLINS

  Glide gently, thus for ever glide,

  O Thames! that other bards may see

  As lovely visions by thy side

  As now, fair river! come to me.

  O glide, fair stream! for ever so,

  Thy quiet soul on all bestowing,

  Till all our minds for ever flow

  As thy deep waters now are flowing.

  Vain thought! — Yet be as now thou art,

  That in thy waters may be seen

  The image of a poet’s heart,

  How bright, how solemn, how serene!

  Such as did once the Poet bless,

  Who murmuring here a later ditty,

  Could find no refuge from distress

  But in the milder grief of pity.

  Now let us, as we float along,

  For him suspend the dashing oar;

  And pray that never child of song

  May know that Poet’s sorrows more.

  How calm! how still! the only sound,

  The dripping of the oar suspended!

  — The evening darkness gathers round

  By virtue’s holiest Powers attended.

  DESCRIPTIVE SKETCHES TAKEN DURING A PEDESTRIAN TOUR AMONG THE ALPS

  To the Rev. Robert Jones, Fellow of St. John’s College, Cambridge

  Dear Sir, — However desirous I might have been of giving you proofs of the high place you hold in my esteem, I should have been cautious of wounding your delicacy by thus publicly addressing you, had not the circumstance of our having been companions among the Alps, seemed to give this dedication a propriety sufficient to do away any scruples which your modesty might otherwise have suggested.

  In inscribing this little work to you, I consult my heart. You know well how great is the difference between two companions lolling in a post-chaise, and two travellers plodding slowly along the road, side by side, each with his little knapsack of necessaries upon his shoulders. How much more of heart between the two latter!

  I am happy in being conscious that I shall have one reader who will approach the conclusion of these few pages with regret. You they must certainly interest, in reminding you of moments to which you can hardly look back without a pleasure not the less dear from a shade of melancholy. You will meet with few images without recollecting the spot where we observed them together; consequently, whatever is feeble in my design, or spiritless in my colouring, will be amply supplied by your own memory.

  With still greater propriety I might have inscribed to you a description of some of the features of your native mountains, through which we have wandered together, in the same manner, with so much pleasure. But the sea-sunsets, which give such splendour to the vale of Clwyd, Snowdon, the chair of Idris, the quiet village of Bethgelert, Menai and her Druids, the Alpine steeps of the Conway, and the still more interesting windings of the wizard stream of the Dee, remain yet untouched. Apprehensive that my pencil may never be exercised on these subjects, I cannot let slip this opportunity of thus publicly assuring you with how much affection and esteem

  I am, dear Sir,

  Most sincerely yours,

  W. Wordsworth.

  London, 1793.

  Were there, below, a spot of holy ground

  Where from distress a refuge might be found,

  And solitude prepare the soul for heaven;

  Sure, nature’s God that spot to man had given

  Where falls the purple morning far and wide

  In flakes of light upon the mountain-side;

  Where with loud voice the power of water shakes

  The leafy wood, or sleeps in quiet lakes.

  Yet not unrecompensed the man shall roam,

  Who at the call of summer quits his home,

  And plods through some wide realm o’er vale and height,

  Though seeking only holiday delight;

  At least, not owning to himself an aim

  To which the sage would give a prouder name.

  No gains too cheaply earned his fancy cloy,

  Though every passing zephyr whispers joy;

  Brisk toil, alternating with ready ease,

  Feeds the clear current of his sympathies.

  For him sod-seats the cottage-door adorn;

  And peeps the far-off spire, his evening bourn!

  Dear is the forest frowning o’er his head,

  And dear the velvet green-sward to his tread:

  Moves there a cloud o’er mid-day’s flaming eye?

  Upward he looks — ”and calls it luxury:”

  Kind Nature’s charities his steps attend;

  In every babbling brook he finds a friend;

  While chastening thoughts of sweetest use, bestowed

  By wisdom, moralise his pensive road.

  Host of his welcome inn, the noon-tide bower,

  To his spare meal he calls the passing poor;

  He views the sun uplift his golden fire,

  Or sink, with heart alive like Memnon’s lyre;

  Blesses the moon that comes with kindly ray,

  To light him shaken by his rugged way.

  Back from his sight no bashful children steal;

  He sits a brother at the cottage-meal;

  His humble looks no shy restraint impart;

  Around him plays at will the virgin heart.

  While unsuspended wheels the village dance,

  The maidens eye him with enquiring glance,

  Much wondering by what fit of crazing care,

  Or desperate love, bewildered, he came there.

  A hope, that prudence could not then approve,

  That clung to Nature with a truant’s love,

  O’er Gallia’s wastes of corn my footsteps led;

  Her files of road-elms, high above my head

  In long-drawn vista, rustling in the breeze;

  Or where her pathways straggle as they please

  By lonely farms and secret villages.

  But lo! the Alps ascending white in air,

  Toy with the sun and glitter from afar.

  And now, emerging from the forest’s gloom,

  I greet thee, Chartreuse, while I mourn thy doom.

  Whither is fled that Power whose frown severe

  Awed sober Reason till she crouched in fear?

  That Silence, once in deathlike fetters bound,

  Chains that were loosened only by the sound

  Of holy rites
chanted in measured round?

  — The voice of blasphemy the fane alarms,

  The cloister startles at the gleam of arms.

  The thundering tube the aged angler hears,

  Bent o’er the groaning flood that sweeps away his tears.

  Cloud-piercing pine-trees nod their troubled heads,

  Spires, rocks, and lawns a browner night o’erspreads;

  Strong terror checks the female peasant’s sighs,

  And start the astonished shades at female eyes.

  From Bruno’s forest screams the affrighted jay,

  And slow the insulted eagle wheels away.

  A viewless flight of laughing Demons mock

  The Cross, by angels planted on the aërial rock.

  The “parting Genius” sighs with hollow breath

  Along the mystic streams of Life and Death.

  Swelling the outcry dull, that long resounds

  Portentous through her old woods’ trackless bounds,

  Vallombre, ‘mid her falling fanes deplores

  For ever broke, the sabbath of her bowers.

  More pleased, my foot the hidden margin roves

  Of Como, bosomed deep in chestnut groves.

  No meadows thrown between, the giddy steeps

  Tower, bare or sylvan, from the narrow deeps.

  — To towns, whose shades of no rude noise complain,

  From ringing team apart and grating wain —

  To flat-roofed towns, that touch the water’s bound,

  Or lurk in woody sunless glens profound,

  Or, from the bending rocks, obtrusive cling,

  And o’er the whitened wave their shadows fling —

  The pathway leads, as round the steeps it twines;

  And Silence loves its purple roof of vines.

  The loitering traveller hence, at evening, sees

  From rock-hewn steps the sail between the trees;