Delphi Complete Works of William Wordsworth
Page 51
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