Delphi Complete Works of William Wordsworth

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by William Wordsworth

To a poor neighbouring Cottage; as I found,

  For sake of a young Child whose home was there.

  Once did I see her clasp the Child about,

  And take it to herself; and I, next day, 10

  Wish’d in my native tongue to fashion out

  Such things as she unto this Child might say:

  And thus, from what I knew, had heard, and guess’d,

  My song the workings of her heart express’d.

  ”Dear Babe, thou Daughter of another,

  One moment let me be thy Mother!

  An Infant’s face and looks are thine;

  And sure a Mother’s heart is mine:

  Thy own dear Mother’s far away,

  At labour in the harvest-field: 20

  Thy little Sister is at play; —

  What warmth, what comfort would it yield

  To my poor heart, if Thou wouldst be

  One little hour a child to me!”

  ”Across the waters I am come,

  And I have left a Babe at home:

  A long, long way of land and sea!

  Come to me — I’m no enemy:

  I am the same who at thy side

  Sate yesterday, and made a nest 30

  For thee, sweet Baby! — thou hast tried.

  Thou know’st, the pillow of my breast:

  Good, good art thou; alas! to me

  Far more than I can be to thee.”

  ”Here little Darling dost thou lie;

  An Infant Thou, a Mother I!

  Mine wilt thou be, thou hast no fears;

  Mine art thou — spite of these my tears.

  Alas! before I left the spot,

  My Baby and its dwelling-place; 40

  The Nurse said to me, ‘Tears should not

  Be shed upon an Infant’s face,

  It was unlucky’ — no, no, no;

  No truth is in them who say so!”

  ”My own dear Little-one will sigh,

  Sweet Babe! and they will let him die.

  ’He pines,’ they’ll say, ‘it is his doom,

  And you may see his hour is come.’

  Oh! had he but thy chearful smiles,

  Limbs stout as thine, and lips as gay, 50

  Thy looks, thy cunning, and thy wiles,

  And countenance like a summer’s day,

  They would have hopes of him — and then

  I should behold his face again!”

  ”‘Tis gone — forgotten — let me do

  My best — there was a smile or two,

  I can remember them, I see

  The smiles, worth all the world to me.

  Dear Baby! I must lay thee down;

  Thou troublest me with strange alarms; 60

  Smiles hast Thou, sweet ones of thy own;

  I cannot keep thee in my arms,

  For they confound me: as it is,

  I have forgot those smiles of his.”

  ”Oh! how I love thee! we will stay

  Together here this one half day.

  My Sister’s Child, who bears my name,

  From France across the Ocean came;

  She with her Mother cross’d the sea;

  The Babe and Mother near me dwell: 70

  My Darling, she is not to me

  What thou art! though I love her well:

  Rest, little Stranger, rest thee here;

  Never was any Child more dear!”

  ” — I cannot help it — ill intent

  I’ve none, my pretty Innocent!

  I weep — I know they do thee wrong,

  These tears — and my poor idle tongue.

  Oh what a kiss was that! my cheek

  How cold it is! but thou art good; 80

  Thine eyes are on me — they would speak,

  I think, to help me if they could.

  Blessings upon that quiet face,

  My heart again is in its place!”

  ”While thou art mine, my little Love,

  This cannot be a sorrowful grove;

  Contentment, hope, and Mother’s glee.

  I seem to find them all in thee:

  Here’s grass to play with, here are flowers;

  I’ll call thee by my Darling’s name; 90

  Thou hast, I think, a look of ours,

  Thy features seem to me the same;

  His little Sister thou shalt be;

  And, when once more my home I see,

  I’ll tell him many tales of Thee.”

  FORESIGHT

  Or the Charge of a Child to his younger Companion.

  That is work which I am rueing —

  Do as Charles and I are doing!

  Strawberry-blossoms, one and all,

  We must spare them — here are many:

  Look at it — the Flower is small,

  Small and low, though fair as any:

  Do not touch it! summers two

  I am older, Anne, than you.

  Pull the Primrose, Sister Anne!

  Pull as many as you can. 10

  — Here are Daisies, take your fill;

  Pansies, and the Cuckow-flower:

  Of the lofty Daffodil

  Make your bed, and make your bower;

  Fill your lap, and fill your bosom;

  Only spare the Strawberry-blossom!

  Primroses, the Spring may love them —

  Summer knows but little of them:

  Violets, do what they will,

  Wither’d on the ground must lie; 20

  Daisies will be daisies still;

  Daisies they must live and die:

  Fill your lap, and fill your bosom,

  Only spare the Strawberry-blossom!

  A COMPLAINT

  There is a change — and I am poor;

  Your Love hath been, nor long ago,

  A Fountain at my fond Heart’s door,

  Whose only business was to flow;

  And flow it did; not taking heed

  Of its own bounty, or my need.

  What happy moments did I count!

  Bless’d was I then all bliss above!

  Now, for this consecrated Fount

  Of murmuring, sparkling, living love,

  What have I? shall I dare to tell?

  A comfortless, and hidden WELL.

  A Well of love — it may be deep —

  I trust it is, and never dry:

  What matter? if the Waters sleep

  In silence and obscurity.

  — Such change, and at the very door

  Of my fond Heart, hath made me poor.

  I am not One who much or oft delight

  To season my fireside with personal talk,

  About Friends, who live within an easy walk,

  Or Neighbours, daily, weekly, in my sight:

  And, for my chance-acquaintance, Ladies bright,

  Sons, Mothers, Maidens withering on the stalk,

  These all wear out of me, like Forms, with chalk

  Painted on rich men’s floors, for one feast-night.

  Better than such discourse doth silence long,

  Long, barren silence, square with my desire; 10

  To sit without emotion, hope, or aim,

  By my half-kitchen my half-parlour fire,

  And listen to the flapping of the flame,

  Or kettle, whispering it’s faint undersong.

  ”Yet life,” you say, “is life; we have seen and see,

  And with a living pleasure we describe;

  And fits of sprightly malice do but bribe

  The languid mind into activity.

  Sound sense, and love itself, and mirth and glee,

  Are foster’d by the comment and the gibe.” 20

  Even be it so: yet still among your tribe,

  Our daily world’s true Worldlings, rank not me!

  Children are blest, and powerful; their world lies

  More justly balanced; partly at their feet,

  And part far from them: — sweetest melodies

  Are those that ar
e by distance made more sweet;

  Whose mind is but the mind of his own eyes

  He is a Slave; the meanest we can meet!

  Wings have we, and as far as we can go

  We may find pleasure: wilderness and wood, 30

  Blank ocean and mere sky, support that mood

  Which with the lofty sanctifies the low:

  Dreams, books, are each a world; and books, we know,

  Are a substantial world, both pure and good:

  Round these, with tendrils strong as flesh and blood,

  Our pastime and our happiness will grow.

  There do I find a never-failing store

  Of personal themes, and such as I love best;

  Matter wherein right voluble I am:

  Two will I mention, dearer than the rest; 40

  The gentle Lady, married to the Moor;

  And heavenly Una with her milk-white Lamb.

  Nor can I not believe but that hereby

  Great gains are mine: for thus I live remote

  From evil-speaking; rancour, never sought,

  Comes to me not; malignant truth, or lie.

  Hence have I genial seasons, hence have I

  Smooth passions, smooth discourse, and joyous thought:

  And thus from day to day my little Boat

  Rocks in its harbour, lodging peaceably. 50

  Blessings be with them, and eternal praise,

  Who gave us nobler loves, and nobler cares,

  The Poets, who on earth have made us Heirs

  Of truth and pure delight by heavenly lays!

  Oh! might my name be numbered among theirs,

  Then gladly would I end my mortal days.

  Yes! full surely ‘twas the Echo,

  Solitary, clear, profound,

  Answering to Thee, shouting Cuckoo!

  Giving to thee Sound for Sound.

  Whence the Voice? from air or earth?

  This the Cuckoo cannot tell;

  But a startling sound had birth,

  As the Bird must know full well;

  Like the voice through earth and sky

  By the restless Cuckoo sent; 10

  Like her ordinary cry,

  Like — but oh how different!

  Hears not also mortal Life?

  Hear not we, unthinking Creatures!

  Slaves of Folly, Love, or Strife,

  Voices of two different Natures?

  Have not We too? Yes we have

  Answers, and we know not whence;

  Echoes from beyond the grave,

  Recogniz’d intelligence? 20

  Such within ourselves we hear

  Oft-times, ours though sent from far;

  Listen, ponder, hold them dear;

  For of God, of God they are!

  TO THE SPADE OF A FRIEND, (AN AGRICULTURIST.)

  Composed while we were labouring together in his Pleasure-Ground.

  Spade! with which Wilkinson hath till’d his Lands,

  And shap’d these pleasant walks by Emont’s side,

  Thou art a tool of honour in my hands;

  I press thee through the yielding soil with pride.

  Rare Master has it been thy lot to know;

  Long hast Thou serv’d a Man to reason true;

  Whose life combines the best of high and low,

  The toiling many and the resting few;

  Health, quiet, meekness, ardour, hope secure,

  And industry of body and of mind; 10

  And elegant enjoyments, that are pure

  As Nature is; too pure to be refined.

  Here often hast Thou heard the Poet sing

  In concord with his River murmuring by;

  Or in some silent field, while timid Spring

  Is yet uncheer’d by other minstrelsy.

  Who shall inherit Thee when Death hath laid

  Low in the darksome Cell thine own dear Lord?

  That Man will have a trophy, humble, Spade!

  More noble than the noblest Warrior’s sword. 20

  If he be One that feels, with skill to part

  False praise from true, or greater from the less,

  Thee will he welcome to his hand and heart,

  Thou monument of peaceful happiness!

  With Thee he will not dread a toilsome day,

  His powerful Servant, his inspiring Mate!

  And, when thou art past service, worn away,

  Thee a surviving soul shall consecrate.

  His thrift thy uselessness will never scorn;

  An Heir-loom in his cottage wilt thou be: — 30

  High will he hang thee up, and will adorn

  His rustic chimney with the last of Thee!

  SONG, AT THE FEAST OF BROUGHAM CASTLE

  Upon the RESTORATION OF LORD CLIFFORD, the SHEPHERD,

  to the Estates and Honours of his Ancestors.

  High in the breathless Hall the Minstrel sate.

  And Emont’s murmur mingled with the Song. —

  The words of ancient time I thus translate,

  A festal Strain that hath been silent long.

  From Town to Town, from Tower to Tower,

  The Red Rose is a gladsome Flower.

  Her thirty years of Winter past;

  The Red Rose is revived at last;

  She lifts her head for endless spring,

  For everlasting blossoming! 10

  Both Roses flourish, Red and White.

  In love and sisterly delight

  The two that were at strife are blended,

  And all old sorrows now are ended. —

  Joy! joy to both! but most to her

  Who is the Flower of Lancaster!

  Behold her how She smiles to day

  On this great throng, this bright array!

  Fair greeting doth she send to all

  From every corner of the Hall; 20

  But, chiefly, from above the Board

  Where sits in state our rightful Lord,

  A Clifford to his own restored.

  They came with banner, spear, and shield;

  And it was proved in Bosworth-field.

  Not long the Avenger was withstood,

  Earth help’d him with the cry of blood:

  St. George was for us, and the might

  Of blessed Angels crown’d the right.

  Loud voice the Land hath utter’d forth, 30

  We loudest in the faithful North:

  Our Fields rejoice, our Mountains ring,

  Our Streams proclaim a welcoming;

  Our Strong-abodes and Castles see

  The glory of their loyalty.

  How glad is Skipton at this hour

  Though she is but a lonely Tower!

  Silent, deserted of her best,

  Without an Inmate or a Guest,

  Knight, Squire, or Yeoman, Page, or Groom; 40

  We have them at the Feast of Brough’m.

  How glad Pendragon though the sleep

  Of years be on her! — She shall reap

  A taste of this great pleasure, viewing

  As in a dream her own renewing.

  Rejoiced is Brough, right glad I deem

  Beside her little humble Stream;

  And she that keepeth watch and ward

  Her statelier Eden’s course to guard;

  They both are happy at this hour, 50

  Though each is but a lonely Tower: —

  But here is perfect joy and pride

  For one fair House by Emont’s side,

  This day distinguished without peer

  To see her Master and to cheer;

  Him, and his Lady Mother dear.

  Oh! it was a time forlorn

  When the Fatherless was born —

  Give her wings that she may fly,

  Or she sees her Infant die! 60

  Swords that are with slaughter wild

  Hunt the Mother and the Child.

  Who will take them from the light?

  — Yonder is a Man in sight —


  Yonder is a House — but where?

  No, they must not enter there.

  To the Caves, and to the Brooks,

  To the Clouds of Heaven she looks;

  She is speechless, but her eyes

  Pray in ghostly agonies. 70

  Blissful Mary, Mother mild,

  Maid and Mother undefiled,

  Save a Mother and her Child!

  Now Who is he that bounds with joy

  On Carrock’s side, a Shepherd Boy?

  No thoughts hath he but thoughts that pass

  Light as the wind along the grass.

  Can this be He who hither came

  In secret, like a smothered flame?

  O’er whom such thankful tears were shed 80

  For shelter, and a poor Man’s bread?

  God loves the Child; and God hath will’d

  That those dear words should be fulfill’d,

  The Lady’s words, when forc’d away,

  The last she to her Babe did say,

  ”My own, my own, thy Fellow-guest

  I may not be; but rest thee, rest,

  For lowly Shepherd’s life is best!”

  Alas! when evil men are strong

  No life is good, no pleasure long. 90

  The Boy must part from Mosedale’s Groves,

  And leave Blencathara’s rugged Coves,

  And quit the Flowers that Summer brings

  To Glenderamakin’s lofty springs;

  Must vanish, and his careless cheer

  Be turned to heaviness and fear.

  — Give Sir Lancelot Threlkeld praise!

  Hear it, good Man, old in days!

  Thou Tree of covert and of rest

  For this young Bird that is distrest, 100

  Among thy branches safe he lay,

  And he was free to sport and play,

  When Falcons were abroad for prey.

  A recreant Harp, that sings of fear

  And heaviness in Clifford’s ear!

  I said, when evil Men are strong,

  No life is good, no pleasure long,

  A weak and cowardly untruth!

  Our Clifford was a happy Youth,

  And thankful through a weary time, 110

  That brought him up to manhood’s prime.

  — Again he wanders forth at will,

  And tends a Flock from hill to hill:

  His garb is humble; ne’er was seen

  Such garb with such a noble mien;

  Among the Shepherd-grooms no Mate

  Hath he, a Child of strength and state!

  Yet lacks not friends for solemn glee,

  And a chearful company,

  That learn’d of him submissive ways; 120

  And comforted his private days.

  To his side the Fallow-deer

  Came, and rested without fear;

  The Eagle, Lord of land and sea,

  Stoop’d down to pay him fealty;

  And both the undying Fish that swim

 

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