That keeps till June December’s snow;
A lofty Precipice in front,
A silent Tarn below! 20
Far in the bosom of Helvellyn,
Remote from public Road or Dwelling,
Pathway, or cultivated land;
From trace of human foot or hand.
There, sometimes does a leaping Fish
Send through the Tarn a lonely chear;
The Crags repeat the Raven’s croak,
In symphony austere;
Thither the Rainbow comes, the Cloud;
And Mists that spread the flying shroud; 30
And Sun-beams; and the sounding blast,
That, if it could, would hurry past,
But that enormous Barrier binds it fast.
Not knowing what to think, a while
The Shepherd stood: then makes his way
Towards the Dog, o’er rocks and stones,
As quickly as he may;
Nor far had gone before he found
A human skeleton on the ground,
Sad sight! the Shepherd with a sigh 40
Looks round, to learn the history.
From those abrupt and perilous rocks,
The Man had fallen, that place of fear!
At length upon the Shepherd’s mind
It breaks, and all is clear:
He instantly recall’d the Name,
And who he was, and whence he came;
Remember’d, too, the very day
On which the Traveller pass’d this way.
But hear a wonder now, for sake 50
Of which this mournful Tale I tell!
A lasting monument of words
This wonder merits well.
The Dog, which still was hovering nigh,
Repeating the same timid cry,
This Dog had been through three months’ space
A Dweller in that savage place.
Yes, proof was plain that since the day
On which the Traveller thus had died
The Dog had watch’d about the spot, 60
Or by his Master’s side:
How nourish’d here through such long time
He knows, who gave that love sublime,
And gave that strength of feeling, great
Above all human estimate.
SHE WAS A PHANTOM OF DELIGHT
She was a Phantom of delight
When first she gleam’d 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 chearful Dawn;
A dancing Shape, an Image gay,
To haunt, to startle, and way-lay. 10
I saw her upon nearer view,
A Spirit, yet a Woman too!
Her household motions light and free,
And steps of virgin liberty;
A countenance in which did meet
Sweet records, promises as sweet;
A Creature not too bright or good
For human nature’s daily food;
For transient sorrows, simple wiles,
Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles. 20
And now I see with eye serene
The very pulse of the machine;
A Being breathing thoughtful breath;
A Traveller betwixt life and death;
The reason firm, the temperate will,
Endurance, foresight, strength and skill;
A perfect Woman; nobly plann’d,
To warn, to comfort, and command;
And yet a Spirit still, and bright
With something of an angel light. 30
THE REDBREAST AND THE BUTTERFLY
Art thou the Bird whom Man loves best,
The pious Bird with the scarlet breast,
Our little English Robin;
The Bird that comes about our doors
When Autumn winds are sobbing?
Art thou the Peter of Norway Boors?
Their Thomas in Finland,
And Russia far inland?
The Bird, whom by some name or other
All men who know thee call their Brother, 10
The Darling of Children and men?
Could Father Adam open his eyes,
And see this sight beneath the skies,
He’d wish to close them again.
If the Butterfly knew but his friend
Hither his flight he would bend,
And find his way to me
Under the branches of the tree:
In and out, he darts about;
His little heart is throbbing: 20
Can this be the Bird, to man so good,
Our consecrated Robin!
That, after their bewildering,
Did cover with leaves the little children,
So painfully in the wood?
What ail’d thee Robin that thou could’st pursue
A beautiful Creature,
That is gentle by nature?
Beneath the summer sky
From flower to flower let him fly; 30
’Tis all that he wishes to do.
The Chearer Thou of our in-door sadness,
He is the Friend of our summer gladness:
What hinders, then, that ye should be
Playmates in the sunny weather,
And fly about in the air together?
Like the hues of thy breast
His beautiful wings in crimson are drest,
A brother he seems of thine own:
If thou would’st be happy in thy nest, 40
O pious Bird! whom Man loves best,
Love him, or leave him alone!
THE SAILOR’S MOTHER
One morning (raw it was and wet,
A foggy day in winter time)
A Woman in the road I met,
Not old, though something past her prime:
Majestic in her person, tall and straight;
And like a Roman matron’s was her mien and gait.
The ancient Spirit is not dead;
Old times, thought I, are breathing there;
Proud was I that my country bred
Such strength, a dignity so fair: 10
She begg’d an alms, like one in poor estate;
I look’d at her again, nor did my pride abate.
When from these lofty thoughts I woke,
With the first word I had to spare
I said to her, “Beneath your Cloak
What’s that which on your arm you bear?”
She answer’d soon as she the question heard,
”A simple burthen, Sir, a little Singing-bird.”
And, thus continuing, she said,
”I had a Son, who many a day 20
Sail’d on the seas; but he is dead;
In Denmark he was cast away;
And I have been as far as Hull, to see
What clothes he might have left, or other property.”
”The Bird and Cage they both were his;
’Twas my Son’s Bird; and neat and trim
He kept it: many voyages
This Singing-bird hath gone with him;
When last he sail’d he left the Bird behind;
As it might be, perhaps, from bodings of his mind.” 30
”He to a Fellow-lodger’s care
Had left it, to be watch’d and fed,
Till he came back again; and there
I found it when my Son was dead;
And now, God help me for my little wit!
I trail it with me, Sir! he took so much delight in it.”
TO THE SMALL CELANDINE
Pansies, Lilies, Kingcups, Daisies,
Let them live upon their praises;
Long as there’s a sun that sets
Primroses will have their glory;
Long as there are Violets,
&n
bsp; They will have a place in story:
There’s a flower that shall be mine,
’Tis the little Celandine.
Eyes of some men travel far
For the finding of a star; 10
Up and down the heavens they go,
Men that keep a mighty rout!
I’m as great as they, I trow,
Since the day I found thee out,
Little flower! — I’ll make a stir
Like a great Astronomer.
Modest, yet withal an Elf
Bold, and lavish of thyself,
Since we needs must first have met
I have seen thee, high and low, 20
Thirty years or more, and yet
’Twas a face I did not know;
Thou hast now, go where I may,
Fifty greetings in a day.
Ere a leaf is on a bush,
In the time before the Thrush
Has a thought about it’s nest,
Thou wilt come with half a call,
Spreading out thy glossy breast
Like a careless Prodigal; 20
Telling tales about the sun,
When we’ve little warmth, or none.
Poets, vain men in their mood!
Travel with the multitude;
Never heed them; I aver
That they all are wanton Wooers;
But the thrifty Cottager,
Who stirs little out of doors,
Joys to spy thee near her home,
Spring is coming, Thou art come! 40
Comfort have thou of thy merit,
Kindly, unassuming Spirit!
Careless of thy neighbourhood,
Thou dost shew thy pleasant face
On the moor, and in the wood.
In the lane — there’s not a place,
Howsoever mean it be,
But ‘tis good enough for thee.
Ill befal the yellow Flowers,
Children of the flaring hours! 50
Buttercups, that will be seen,
Whether we will see or no;
Others, too, of lofty mien;
They have done as worldlings do,
Taken praise that should be thine,
Little, humble Celandine!
Prophet of delight and mirth,
Scorn’d and slighted upon earth!
Herald of a mighty band,
Of a joyous train ensuing, 60
Singing at my heart’s command,
In the lanes my thoughts pursuing,
I will sing, as doth behove,
Hymns in praise of what I love!
TO THE SAME FLOWER
Pleasures newly found are sweet
When they lie about our feet:
February last my heart
First at sight of thee was glad;
All unheard of as thou art,
Thou must needs, I think, have had,
Celandine! and long ago,
Praise of which I nothing know.
I have not a doubt but he,
Whosoe’er the man might be, 10
Who the first with pointed rays,
(Workman worthy to be sainted)
Set the Sign-board in a blaze,
When the risen sun he painted,
Took the fancy from a glance
At thy glittering countenance.
Soon as gentle breezes bring
News of winter’s vanishing,
And the children build their bowers,
Sticking ‘kerchief-plots of mold 20
All about with full-blown flowers,
Thick as sheep in shepherd’s fold!
With the proudest Thou art there,
Mantling in the tiny square.
Often have I sigh’d to measure
By myself a lonely pleasure;
Sigh’d to think, I read a book
Only read perhaps by me;
Yet I long could overlook
Thy bright coronet and Thee, 30
And thy arch and wily ways,
And thy store of other praise.
Blithe of heart, from week to week
Thou dost play at hide-and-seek;
While the patient Primrose sits
Like a Beggar in the cold,
Thou, a Flower of wiser wits,
Slipp’st into thy shelter’d hold:
Bright as any of the train
When ye all are out again. 40
Thou art not beyond the moon,
But a thing “beneath our shoon;”
Let, as old Magellen did,
Others roam about the sea;
Build who will a pyramid;
Praise it is enough for me,
If there be but three or four
Who will love my little Flower.
CHARACTER OF THE HAPPY WARRIOR
Who is the happy Warrior? Who is he
Whom every Man in arms should wish to be?
— It is the generous Spirit, who, when brought
Among the tasks of real life, hath wrought
Upon the plan that pleased his childish thought:
Whose high endeavours are an inward light
That make the path before him always bright:
Who, with a natural instinct to discern
What knowledge can perform, is diligent to learn;
Abides by this resolve, and stops not there, 10
But makes his moral being his prime care;
Who, doom’d to go in company with Pain,
And Fear, and Bloodshed, miserable train!
Turns his necessity to glorious gain;
In face of these doth exercise a power
Which is our human-nature’s highest dower;
Controls them and subdues, transmutes, bereaves
Of their bad influence, and their good receives;
By objects, which might force the soul to abate
Her feeling, render’d more compassionate; 20
Is placable because occasions rise
So often that demand such sacrifice;
More skilful in self-knowledge, even more pure,
As tempted more; more able to endure,
As more expos’d to suffering and distress;
Thence, also, more alive to tenderness.
Tis he whose law is reason; who depends
Upon that law as on the best of friends;
Whence, in a state where men are tempted still
To evil for a guard against worse ill, 30
And what in quality or act is best
Doth seldom on a right foundation rest,
He fixes good on good alone, and owes
To virtue every triumph that he knows:
— Who, if he rise to station of command,
Rises by open means; and there will stand
On honourable terms, or else retire,
And in himself possess his own desire;
Who comprehends his trust, and to the same
Keeps faithful with a singleness of aim; 40
And therefore does not stoop, nor lie in wait
For wealth, or honors, or for worldly state;
Whom they must follow; on whose head must fall,
Like showers of manna, if they come at all:
Whose powers shed round him in the common strife,
Or mild concerns of ordinary life,
A constant influence, a peculiar grace;
But who, if he be called upon to face
Some awful moment to which heaven has join’d
Great issues, good or bad for human-kind, 50
Is happy as a Lover; and attired
With sudden brightness like a Man inspired;
And through the heat of conflict keeps the law
In calmness made, and sees what he foresaw;
Or if an unexpected call succeed,
Come when it will, is equal to the need:
— He who, though thus endued as with a sense
And faculty for storm and turbulence,
Is yet a So
ul whose master bias leans
To home-felt pleasures and to gentle scenes; 60
Sweet images! which, wheresoe’er he be,
Are at his heart; and such fidelity
It is his darling passion to approve;
More brave for this, that he hath much to love:
’Tis, finally, the Man, who, lifted high,
Conspicuous object in a Nation’s eye,
Or left unthought-of in obscurity,
Who, with a toward or untoward lot,
Prosperous or adverse, to his wish or not,
Plays, in the many games of life, that one 70
Where what he most doth value must be won;
Whom neither shape of danger can dismay,
Nor thought of tender happiness betray;
Who, not content that former worth stand fast,
Looks forward, persevering to the last,
From well to better, daily self-surpast:
Who, whether praise of him must walk the earth
For ever, and to noble deeds give birth,
Or He must go to dust without his fame,
And leave a dead unprofitable name, 80
Finds comfort in himself and in his cause;
And, while the mortal mist is gathering, draws
His breath in confidence of Heaven’s applause;
This is the happy Warrior; this is He
Whom every Man in arms should wish to be.
The above Verses mere written soon after tidings had been received of the Death of Lord Nelson, which event directed the Author’s thoughts to the subject. His respect for the memory of his great fellow-countryman induces him to mention this; though he is well aware that the Verses must suffer from any connection in the Reader’s mind with a Name so illustrious.
THE HORN OF EGREMONT CASTLE
When the Brothers reach’d the gateway,
Eustace pointed with his lance
To the Horn which there was hanging;
Horn of the inheritance.
Horn it was which none could sound,
No one upon living ground,
Save He who came as rightful Heir
To Egremont’s Domains and Castle fair.
Heirs from ages without record
Had the House of Lucie born, 10
Who of right had claim’d the Lordship
By the proof upon the Horn:
Each at the appointed hour
Tried the Horn, it own’d his power;
He was acknowledged: and the blast
Which good Sir Eustace sounded was the last.
With his lance Sir Eustace pointed,
And to Hubert thus said he,
”What I speak this Horn shall witness
For thy better memory. 20
Hear, then, and neglect me not!
At this time, and on this spot,
The words are utter’d from my heart,
Delphi Complete Works of William Wordsworth Page 42