Delphi Complete Works of William Wordsworth

by William Wordsworth

  For I’d take my last leave both of verse and of prose.

  What feats would I work with my magical hand!

  Book-learning and books should be banish’d the land

  And for hunger and thirst and such troublesome calls

  Every ale-house should then have a feast on its walls.

  The Traveller would hang his wet clothes on a chair

  Let them smoke, let them burn, not a straw would he care.

  For the Prodigal Son, Joseph’s Dream and his Sheaves,

  Oh what would they be to my tale of two Thieves!

  Little Dan is unbreech’d, he is three birth-days old,

  His Grandsire that age more than thirty times told,

  There’s ninety good seasons of fair and foul weather

  Between them, and both go a stealing together.

  With chips is the Carpenter strewing his floor?

  It a cart-load of peats at an old Woman’s door?

  Old Daniel his hand to the treasure will slide,

  And his Grandson’s as busy at work by his side.

  Old Daniel begins, he stops short and his eye

  Through the lost look of dotage is cunning and sly.

  ’Tis a look which at this time is hardly his own,

  But tells a plain tale of the days that are flown.

  Dan once had a heart which was mov’d by the wires

  Of manifold pleasures and many desires:

  And what if he cherish’d his purse? ‘Twas no more

  Than treading a path trod by thousands before.

  ’Twas a path trod by thousands, but Daniel is one

  Who went something farther than others have gone;

  And now with old Daniel you see how it fares

  You see to what end he has brought his grey hairs.

  The pair sally forth hand in hand; ere the sun

  Has peer’d o’er the beeches their work is begun:

  And yet into whatever sin they may fall,

  This Child but half knows it and that not at all.

  They hunt through the street with deliberate tread,

  And each in his turn is both leader and led;

  And wherever they carry their plots and their wiles,

  Every face in the village is dimpled with smiles.

  Neither check’d by the rich nor the needy they roam,

  For grey-headed Dan has a daughter at home;

  Who will gladly repair all the damage that’s done,

  And three, were it ask’d, would be render’d for one.

  Old Man! whom so oft I with pity have ey’d,

  I love thee and love the sweet boy at thy side:

  Long yet may’st thou live, for a teacher we see

  That lifts up the veil of our nature in thee.

  A whirl-blast from behind the hill

  Rush’d o’er the wood with startling sound:

  Then all at once the air was still,

  And showers of hail-stones patter’d round.

  Where leafless Oaks tower’d high above,

  I sate within an undergrove

  Of tallest hollies, tall and green,

  A fairer bower was never seen.

  From year to year the spacious floor

  With wither’d leaves is cover’d o’er,

  You could not lay a hair between:

  And all the year the bower is green.

  But see! where’er the hailstones drop

  The wither’d leaves all skip and hop,

  There’s not a breeze — no breath of air —

  Yet here, and there, and every where

  Along the floor, beneath the shade

  By those embowering hollies made,

  The leaves in myriads jump and spring,

  As if with pipes and music rare

  Some Robin Good-fellow were there,

  And all those leaves, that jump and spring,

  Were each a joyous, living thing.

  Oh! grant me Heaven a heart at ease

  That I may never cease to find,

  Even in appearances like these

  Enough to nourish and to stir my mind!

  SONG FOR THE WANDERING JEW.

  Though the torrents from their fountains

  Roar down many a craggy steep,

  Yet they find among the mountains

  Resting-places calm and deep.

  Though almost with eagle pinion

  O’er the rocks the Chamois roam.

  Yet he has some small dominion

  Which no doubt he calls his home.

  If on windy days the Raven

  Gambol like a dancing skiff,

  Not the less he loves his haven

  On the bosom of the cliff.

  Though the Sea-horse in the ocean

  Own no dear domestic cave;

  Yet he slumbers without motion

  On the calm and silent wave.

  Day and night my toils redouble!

  Never nearer to the goal,

  Night and day, I feel the trouble,

  Of the Wanderer in my soul.

  RUTH.

  When Ruth was left half desolate,

  Her Father took another Mate;

  And so, not seven years old,

  The 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.

  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 bare a Soldier’s name;

  And when America was free

  From battle and from jeopardy

  He cross the ocean came.

  With hues of genius on his cheek

  In finest tones the Youth could speak.

  — While he was yet a Boy

  The moon, the glory of the sun,

  And streams that 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.

  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 day-light is gone down.

  He spake of plants divine and strange

  That ev’ry day 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.”

  ”What days and what sweet years! Ah me!

  Our life were life indeed, with thee

  So pass’d 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

  Dear thoughts about a Father’s love,

  ”For there,” said he, “are spun

  Around the heart such tender ties

  That our own children to our eyes

  Are dearer than the sun.”

  Sweet Ruth! and could you go with me

  My helpmate in the woods to be,

  Our shed at night to rear;

  Or run, my own adopted bride,

  A sylvan huntress at my side

  And drive the flying deer.

  ”Beloved Ruth!” No more he said

  Sweet Ruth alone 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.

  Through dream and vision did she sink,

  Delighted all the while to think

  That on those lonesome floods

  And green Savannahs she should share

  His board with lawful joy, and bear

  His name in the wild woods.

  But, as you have before been told,

  This Stripling, sportive gay and bold,

  And, with his dancing crest,

  So beautiful, through savage lands

  Had roam’d about with vagrant bands

  Of Indians in the West.

  The wind, the tempest roaring high,

  The tumult of a tropic sky

  Might 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, seem’d 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 magic bowers.

  Yet, in his worst pursuits, I ween,

  That sometimes there did intervene

  Pure hopes of high intent:

  For passions link’d to forms so fair

  And stately, needs must have their share

  Of noble sentiment.

  But ill he liv’d, much evil saw

  With men to whom no better law

  Nor better life was known;

  Deliberately and undeceiv’d

  Those wild men’s vices he receiv’d,

  And gave them back his own.

  His genius and his moral frame

  Were thus impair’d, and he became

  The slave of low desires;

  A man who without self-controul

  Would seek what the degraded soul

  Unworthily admires.

  And yet he with no feign’d delight

  Had woo’d the Maiden, day and night

  Had luv’d her, night and morn;

  What could he less than love a Maid

  Whose heart with so much nature play’d

  So kind and so forlorn?

  But now the pleasant dream was gone,

  No hope, no wish remain’d, not one,

  They stirr’d him now no more,

  New objects did new pleasure give,

  And once again he wish’d to live

  As lawless as before.

  Meanwhile as thus with him it fared.

  They for the voyage were prepared

  And went to the sea-shore,

  But, when they thither came, the Youth

  Deserted his poor Bride, and Ruth

  Could never find him more.

  ”God help thee Ruth!” — Such pains she had

  That she in half a year was mad

  And in a prison hous’d,

  And there, exulting in her wrongs,

  Among the music of her songs

  She fearfully carouz’d.

  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 chearful knell

  Did o’er the pebbles play.

  When Ruth three seasons thus had lain

  There came a respite to her pain,

  She from her prison fled;

  But of the Vagrant none took thought,

  And where it liked her best she sought

  Her shelter and her bread.

  Among the fields she breath’d again:

  The master-current of her brain

  Ran permanent and free,

  And to the pleasant Banks of Tone

  She took her way, to dwell alone

  Under the greenwood tree.

  The engines of her grief, the tools

  That shap’d her sorrow, rocks and pools,

  And airs that gently stir

  The vernal leaves, she loved them still,

  Nor ever tax’d them with the ill

  Which had been done to her.

  A Barn her winter bed supplies,

  But till the warmth of summer skies

  And summer days is gone,

  (And in this tale we all agree)

  She sleeps beneath the greenwood tree,

  And other home hath none.

  If she is press’d 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 pass’d her on the hills

  Setting her little water-mills

  By spouts and fountains wild,

  Such small machinery as she turn’d

  Ere she had wept, ere she had mourn’d

  A young and happy Child!

  Farewel! and when thy days are told

  Ill-fated Ruth! in hallow’d mold

  Thy corpse shall buried be,

  For thee a funeral bell shall ring,

  And all the congregation sing

  A Christian psalm for thee.

  LINES WRITTEN WITH A SLATE-PENCIL UPON A STONE, THE LARGEST OF A HEAP LYING NEAR A DESERTED QUARRY, UPON ONE OF THE ISLANDS AT RYDALE.

  Stranger! this hillock of mishapen stones

  Is not a ruin of the ancient time,

  Nor, as perchance thou rashly deem’st, the Cairn

  Of some old British Chief: ‘tis nothing more

  Than the rude embryo of a little dome

  Or pleasure-house, which was to have been built

  Among the birch-trees of this rocky isle.


  But, as it chanc’d, Sir William having learn’d

  That from the shore a full-grown man might wade,

  And make himself a freeman of this spot

  At any hour he chose, the Knight forthwith

  Desisted, and the quarry and the mound

  Are monuments of his unfinish’d task. —

  The block on which these lines are trac’d, perhaps,

  Was once selected as the corner-stone

  Of the intended pile, which would have been

  Some quaint odd play-thing of elaborate skill,

  So that, I guess, the linnet and the thrush,

  And other little builders who dwell here,

  Had wonder’d at the work. But blame him not,

  For old Sir William was a gentle Knight

  Bred in this vale to which he appertain’d

  With all his ancestry. Then peace to him

  And for the outrage which he had devis’d

  Entire forgiveness. — But if thou art one

  On fire with thy impatience to become

  An Inmate of these mountains, if disturb’d

  By beautiful conceptions, thou hast hewn

  Out of the quiet rock the elements

  Of thy trim mansion destin’d soon to blaze

  In snow-white splendour, think again, and taught

  By old Sir William and his quarry, leave

  Thy fragments to the bramble and the rose,

  There let the vernal slow-worm sun himself,

  And let the red-breast hop from stone to stone.

  In the School of — — is a tablet on which are inscribed, in gilt letters, the names of the federal persons who have been Schoolmasters there since the foundation of the School, with the time at which they entered upon and quitted their office. Opposite one of those names the Author wrote the following lines.

  If Nature, for a favorite Child

  In thee hath temper’d so her clay,

  That every hour thy heart runs wild

  Yet never once doth go astray,

  Read o’er these lines; and then review

  This tablet, that thus humbly rears

  In such diversity of hue

  Its history of two hundred years.

  — When through this little wreck of fame,

  Cypher and syllable, thine eye

  Has travell’d down to Matthew’s name,

  Pause with no common sympathy.

  And if a sleeping tear should wake

  Then be it neither check’d nor stay’d:

  For Matthew a request I make

  Which for himself he had not made.

  Poor Matthew, all his frolics o’er,

  Is silent as a standing pool,

  Far from the chimney’s merry roar,

  And murmur of the village school.

  The sighs which Matthew heav’d were sighs

  Of one tir’d out with fun and madness;

  The tears which came to Matthew’s eyes

  Were tears of light, the oil of gladness.