WHAT HEAVENLY SMILES! O LADY MINE
WHAT IF OUR NUMBERS BARELY COULD DEFY
WHEN I HAVE BORNE IN MEMORY
WHEN PHILOCTETES IN THE LEMNIAN ISLE
WHEN SEVERN’S SWEEPING FLOOD HAD OVERTHROWN
WHEN TO THE ATTRACTIONS OF THE BUSY WORLD.
WHERE LIES THE LAND TO WHICH YON SHIP MUST GO?
WHERE LIES THE TRUTH? HAS MAN, IN WISDOM’S CREED
WHERE LONG AND DEEPLY HATH BEEN FIXED THE ROOT
WHILE ANNA’S PEERS AND EARLY PLAYMATES TREAD
WHILE BEAMS OF ORIENT LIGHT SHOOT WIDE AND HIGH
WHO BUT IS PLEASED TO WATCH THE MOON ON HIGH
WHO FANCIED WHAT A PRETTY SIGHT
WHO PONDERS NATIONAL EVENTS SHALL FIND
WHY ART THOU SILENT! IS THY LOVE A PLANT
WHY SHOULD THE ENTHUSIAST, JOURNEYING THROUGH THIS ISLE
WHY SHOULD THE ENTHUSIAST, JOURNEYING THROUGH THIS ISLE
WHY SHOULD WE WEEP OR MOURN, ANGELIC BOY
WHY, MINSTREL, THESE UNTUNEFUL MURMURINGS
WICLIFFE
WILLIAM THE THIRD
WITH HOW SAD STEPS, O MOON, THOU CLIMB’ST THE SKY
WITH SHIPS THE SEA WAS SPRINKLED FAR AND NIGH
WRITTEN AFTER THE DEATH OF CHARLES LAMB
WRITTEN IN A BLANK LEAF OF MACPHERSON’S OSSIAN
WRITTEN IN GERMANY ON ONE OF THE COLDEST DAYS OF THE CENTURY
WRITTEN IN LONDON, SEPTEMBER 1802
WRITTEN IN MARCH WHILE RESTING ON THE BRIDGE AT THE FOOT OF BROTHER’S WATER.
WRITTEN IN VERY EARLY YOUTH
WRITTEN UPON A BLANK LEAF IN THE COMPLETE ANGLER.
WRITTEN WITH A SLATE PENCIL ON A STONE, ON THE SIDE OF THE MOUNTAIN OF BLACK COMB
YARROW REVISITED, AND OTHER POEMS
YES! THOU ART FAIR, YET BE NOT MOVED
YES, IT WAS THE MOUNTAIN ECHO
YEW-TREES
YOUNG ENGLAND—WHAT IS THEN BECOME OF OLD
THE COMPLETE WORKS OF WILLIAM WORDSWORTH
LINES WRITTEN AS A SCHOOL EXERCISE AT HAWKSHEAD, ANNO AETATIS 14
“AND has the Sun his flaming chariot driven
Two hundred times around the ring of heaven,
Since Science first, with all her sacred train,
Beneath yon roof began her heavenly reign?
While thus I mused, methought, before mine eyes,
The Power of EDUCATION seemed to rise;
Not she whose rigid precepts trained the boy
Dead to the sense of every finer joy;
Nor that vile wretch who bade the tender age
Spurn Reason’s law and humour Passion’s rage; 10
But she who trains the generous British youth
In the bright paths of fair majestic Truth:
Emerging slow from Academus’ grove
In heavenly majesty she seemed to move.
Stern was her forehead, but a smile serene
‘Softened the terrors of her awful mien.’
Close at her side were all the powers, designed
To curb, exalt, reform the tender mind:
With panting breast, now pale as winter snows,
Now flushed as Hebe, Emulation rose; 20
Shame followed after with reverted eye,
And hue far deeper than the Tyrian dye;
Last Industry appeared with steady pace,
A smile sat beaming on her pensive face.
I gazed upon the visionary train,
Threw back my eyes, returned, and gazed again.
When lo! the heavenly goddess thus began,
Through all my frame the pleasing accents ran.
“‘When Superstition left the golden light
And fled indignant to the shades of night; 30
When pure Religion reared the peaceful breast
And lulled the warring passions into rest,
Drove far away the savage thoughts that roll
In the dark mansions of the bigot’s soul,
Enlivening Hope displayed her cheerful ray,
And beamed on Britain’s sons a brighter day;
So when on Ocean’s face the storm subsides,
Hushed are the winds and silent are the tides;
The God of day, in all the pomp of light,
Moves through the vault of heaven, and dissipates the
night; 40
Wide o’er the main a trembling lustre plays,
The glittering waves reflect the dazzling blaze
Science with joy saw Superstition fly
Before the lustre of Religion’s eye;
With rapture she beheld Britannia smile,
Clapped her strong wings, and sought the cheerful isle,
The shades of night no more the soul involve,
She sheds her beam, and, lo! the shades dissolve;
No jarring monks, to gloomy cell confined,
With mazy rules perplex the weary mind; 50
No shadowy forms entice the soul aside,
Secure she walks, Philosophy her guide.
Britain, who long her warriors had adored,
And deemed all merit centred in the sword;
Britain, who thought to stain the field was fame,
Now honoured Edward’s less than Bacon’s name.
Her sons no more in listed fields advance
To ride the ring, or toss the beamy lance;
No longer steel their indurated hearts
To the mild influence of the finer arts; 60
Quick to the secret grotto they retire
To court majestic truth, or wake the golden lyre;
By generous Emulation taught to rise,
The seats of learning brave the distant skies.
Then noble Sandys, inspired with great design,
Reared Hawkshead’s happy roof, and called it mine.
There have I loved to show the tender age
The golden precepts of the classic page;
To lead the mind to those Elysian plains
Where, throned in gold, immortal Science reigns; 70
Fair to the view is sacred Truth displayed,
In all the majesty of light arrayed,
To teach, on rapid wings, the curious soul
To roam from heaven to heaven, from pole to pole,
From thence to search the mystic cause of things
And follow Nature to her secret springs;
Nor less to guide the fluctuating youth
Firm in the sacred paths of moral truth,
To regulate the mind’s disordered frame,
And quench the passions kindling into flame; 80
The glimmering fires of Virtue to enlarge,
And purge from Vice’s dross my tender charge.
Oft have I said, the paths of Fame pursue,
And all that Virtue dictates, dare to do;
Go to the world, peruse the book of man,
And learn from thence thy own defects to scan;
Severely honest, break no plighted trust,
But coldly rest not here—be more than just;
Join to the rigours of the sires of Rome
The gentler manners of the private dome; 90
When Virtue weeps in agony of woe,
Teach from the heart the tender tear to flow;
If Pleasure’s soothing song thy soul entice,
Or all the gaudy pomp of splendid Vice,
Arise superior to the Siren’s power,
The wretch, the short-lived vision of an hour;
Soon fades her cheek, her blushing beauties fly,
As fades the chequered bow that paints the sky,
So shall thy sire, whilst hope his breast inspires,
And wakes anew life’s glimmering trembling fires, 100
Hear Britain’s sons rehearse thy praise with joy,
Look up to heaven, and bless his darling boy.
If e’er these precepts quelled the passions’ strife,
If e’er they smoothed the rugged walks of life,
> If e’er they pointed forth the blissful way
That guides the spirit to eternal day,
Do thou, if gratitude inspire thy breast,
Spurn the soft fetters of lethargic rest.
Awake, awake! and snatch the slumbering lyre,
Let this bright morn and Sandys the song inspire.’ 110
“I looked obedience: the celestial Fair
Smiled like the morn, and vanished into air.”
1785.
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, 10
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.
1786.
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 10
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; ADDRESSED TO A YOUNG LADY
FAR from my dearest Friend, ‘tis mine to rove
Through bare grey dell, high wood, and pastoral cove;
Where Derwent rests, and listens to the roar
That stuns the tremulous cliffs of high Lodore;
Where peace to Grasmere’s lonely island leads,
To willowy hedge-rows, and to emerald meads;
Leads to her bridge, rude church, and cottaged grounds,
Her rocky sheepwalks, and her woodland bounds;
Where, undisturbed by winds, Winander sleeps
‘Mid clustering isles, and holly-sprinkled steeps; 10
Where twilight glens endear my Esthwaite’s shore,
And memory of departed pleasures, more.
Fair scenes, erewhile, I taught, a happy child,
The echoes of your rocks my carols wild:
The spirit sought not then, in cherished sadness,
A cloudy substitute for failing gladness,
In youth’s keen eye the livelong day was bright,
The sun at morning, and the stars at night,
Alike, when first the bittern’s hollow bill
Was heard, or woodcocks roamed the moonlight hill. 20
In thoughtless gaiety I coursed the plain,
And hope itself was all I knew of pain;
For then, the inexperienced heart would beat
At times, while young Content forsook her seat,
And wild Impatience, pointing upward, showed,
Through passes yet unreached, a brighter road.
Alas! the idle tale of man is found
Depicted in the dial’s moral round;
Hope with reflection blends her social rays
To gild the total tablet of his days; 30
Yet still, the sport of some malignant power,
He knows but from its shade the present hour.
But why, ungrateful, dwell on idle pain?
To show what pleasures yet to me remain,
Say, will my Friend, with unreluctant ear,
The history of a poet’s evening hear?
When, in the south, the wan noon, brooding still,
Breathed a pale steam around the glaring hill,
And shades of deep-embattled clouds were seen,
Spotting the northern cliffs with lights between; 40
When crowding cattle, checked by rails that make
A fence far stretched into the shallow lake,
Lashed the cool water with their restless tails,
Or from high points of rock looked out for fanning gales:
When school-boys stretched their length upon the green;
And round the broad-spread oak, a glimmering scene,
In the rough fern-clad park, the herded deer
Shook the still-twinkling tail and glancing ear;
When horses in the sunburnt intake stood,
And vainly eyed below the tempting flood, 50
Or tracked the passenger, in mute distress,
With forward neck the closing gate to press—
Then, while I wandered where the huddling rill
Brightens with water-breaks the hollow ghyll
As by enchantment, an obscure retreat
Opened at once, and stayed my devious feet.
While thick above the rill the branches close,
In rocky basin its wild waves repose,
Inverted shrubs, and moss of gloomy green,
Cling from the rocks, with pale wood-weeds between; 60
And its own twilight softens the whole scene,
Save where aloft the subtle sunbeams shine
On withered briars that o’er the crags recline;
Save where, with sparkling foam, a small cascade
Illumines, from within, the leafy shade;
Beyond, along the vista of the brook,
Where antique roots its bustling course o’erlook,
The eye reposes on a secret bridge
Half grey, half shagged with ivy to its ridge;
There, bending o’er the stream, the listless swain 70
Lingers behind his disappearing wain.
—Did Sabine grace adorn my living line,
Blandusia’s praise, wild stream, should yield to thine!
Never shall ruthless minister of death
‘Mid thy soft glooms the glittering steel unsheath;
No goblets shall, for thee, be crowned with flowers,
No kid with piteous outcry thrill thy bowers;
The mystic shapes that by thy margin rove
A more benignant sacrifice approve—
A mind, that, in a calm angelic mood 80
Of happy wisdom, meditating good,
Beholds, of all from her high powers required,
Much done, and much designed, and more desired,—
Harmonious thoughts, a soul by truth refined,
Entire affection for all human kind.
Dear Brook, farewell! To-morrow’s noon again
Shall hide me, wooing long thy wildwood strain;
But now the sun has gained his western road,
And eve’s mild hour invites my steps abroad.
While, near the midway cliff, the silvered kite 90
In many a whistling circle wheels her flight;
Slant watery lights, from parting clouds, apace
Travel along the precipice’s base;
Cheering its naked waste of scattered stone,
By lichens grey, and scanty moss, o’ergrown;
Where scarce the foxglove peeps, or thistle’s beard;
And restless stone-chat, all day long, is heard.
How pleasant, as the sun declines, to view
The spacious landscape change in form and hue!
Here, vanish, as in mist, before a flood 100
Of bright obscurity, hill, lawn, and wood;
There, objects, by the searching beam
s betrayed,
Come forth, and here retire in purple shade;
Even the white stems of birch, the cottage white,
Soften their glare before the mellow light;
The skiffs, at anchor where with umbrage wide
Yon chestnuts half the latticed boat-house hide,
Shed from their sides, that face the sun’s slant beam,
Strong flakes of radiance on the tremulous stream:
Raised by yon travelling flock, a dusty cloud 110
Mounts from the road, and spreads its moving shroud;
The shepherd, all involved in wreaths of fire,
Now shows a shadowy speck, and now is lost entire.
Into a gradual calm the breezes sink,
A blue rim borders all the lake’s still brink;
There doth the twinkling aspen’s foliage sleep,
And insects clothe, like dust, the glassy deep:
And now, on every side, the surface breaks
Into blue spots, and slowly lengthening streaks;
Here, plots of sparkling water tremble bright 120
With thousand thousand twinkling points of light;
There, waves that, hardly weltering, die away,
Tip their smooth ridges with a softer ray;
And now the whole wide lake in deep repose
Is hushed, and like a burnished mirror glows,
Save where, along the shady western marge,
Coasts, with industrious oar, the charcoal barge.
Their panniered train a group of potters goad,
Winding from side to side up the steep road;
The peasant, from yon cliff of fearful edge 130
Shot, down the headlong path darts with his sledge;
Bright beams the lonely mountain-horse illume
Feeding ‘mid purple heath, “green rings,” and broom;
While the sharp slope the slackened team confounds,
Downward the ponderous timber-wain resounds;
In foamy breaks the rill, with merry song,
Dashed o’er the rough rock, lightly leaps along;
From lonesome chapel at the mountain’s feet,
Three humble bells their rustic chime repeat;
Sounds from the water-side the hammered boat; 140
And ‘blasted’ quarry thunders, heard remote!
Even here, amid the sweep of endless woods,
Blue pomp of lakes, high cliffs, and falling floods,
Not undelightful are the simplest charms,
Found by the grassy door of mountain-farms.
Sweetly ferocious, round his native walks,
Pride of his sister-wives, the monarch stalks;
Spur-clad his nervous feet, and firm his tread;
A crest of purple tops the warrior’s head.
Delphi Complete Works of William Wordsworth Page 139