Delphi Complete Works of William Wordsworth

by William Wordsworth

  Continual waters welling cheered the waste, 390

  And plants were wholesome, now of deadly taste:

  Nor Winter yet his frozen stores had piled,

  Usurping where the fairest herbage smiled:

  Nor Hunger driven the herds from pastures bare,

  To climb the treacherous cliffs for scanty fare.

  Then the milk-thistle flourished through the land,

  And forced the full-swoln udder to demand,

  Thrice every day, the pail and welcome hand.

  Thus does the father to his children tell

  Of banished bliss, by fancy loved too well. 400

  Alas! that human guilt provoked the rod

  Of angry Nature to avenge her God.

  Still, Nature, ever just, to him imparts

  Joys only given to uncorrupted hearts.

  ‘Tis morn: with gold the verdant mountain glows

  More high, the snowy peaks with hues of rose.

  Far-stretched beneath the many-tinted hills,

  A mighty waste of mist the valley fills,

  A solemn sea! whose billows wide around

  Stand motionless, to awful silence bound: 410

  Pines, on the coast, through mist their tops uprear,

  That like to leaning masts of stranded ships appear.

  A single chasm, a gulf of gloomy blue,

  Gapes in the centre of the sea—and, through

  That dark mysterious gulf ascending, sound

  Innumerable streams with roar profound.

  Mount through the nearer vapours notes of birds,

  And merry flageolet; the low of herds,

  The bark of dogs, the heifer’s tinkling bell,

  Talk, laughter, and perchance a churchtower knell: 420

  Think not, the peasant from aloft has gazed

  And heard with heart unmoved, with soul unraised:

  Nor is his spirit less enrapt, nor less

  Alive to independent happiness,

  Then, when he lies, out-stretched, at eventide

  Upon the fragrant mountain’s purple side:

  For as the pleasures of his simple day

  Beyond his native valley seldom stray,

  Nought round its darling precincts can he find

  But brings some past enjoyment to his mind; 430

  While Hope, reclining upon Pleasure’s urn,

  Binds her wild wreaths, and whispers his return.

  Once, Man entirely free, alone and wild,

  Was blest as free—for he was Nature’s child.

  He, all superior but his God disdained,

  Walked none restraining, and by none restrained

  Confessed no law but what his reason taught,

  Did all he wished, and wished but what he ought.

  As man in his primeval dower arrayed

  The image of his glorious Sire displayed, 440

  Even so, by faithful Nature guarded, here

  The traces of primeval Man appear;

  The simple dignity no forms debase;

  The eye sublime, and surly lion-grace:

  The slave of none, of beasts alone the lord,

  His book he prizes, nor neglects his sword;

  Well taught by that to feel his rights, prepared

  With this “the blessings he enjoys to guard.”

  And, as his native hills encircle ground

  For many a marvellous victory renowned, 450

  The work of Freedom daring to oppose,

  With few in arms, innumerable foes,

  When to those famous fields his steps are led,

  An unknown power connects him with the dead:

  For images of other worlds are there;

  Awful the light, and holy is the air.

  Fitfully, and in flashes, through his soul,

  Like sun-lit tempests, troubled transports roll;

  His bosom heaves, his Spirit towers amain,

  Beyond the senses and their little reign. 460

  And oft, when that dread vision hath past by,

  He holds with God himself communion high,

  There where the peal of swelling torrents fills

  The sky-roofed temple of the eternal hills;

  Or when, upon the mountain’s silent brow

  Reclined, he sees, above him and below,

  Bright stars of ice and azure fields of snow;

  While needle peaks of granite shooting bare

  Tremble in ever-varying tints of air.

  And when a gathering weight of shadows brown 470

  Falls on the valleys as the sun goes down;

  And Pikes, of darkness named and fear and storms,

  Uplift in quiet their illumined forms,

  In sea-like reach of prospect round him spread,

  Tinged like an angel’s smile all rosy red—

  Awe in his breast with holiest love unites,

  And the near heavens impart their own delights.

  When downward to his winter hut he goes,

  Dear and more dear the lessening circle grows;

  That hut which on the hills so oft employs 480

  His thoughts, the central point of all his joys.

  And as a swallow, at the hour of rest,

  Peeps often ere she darts into her nest,

  So to the homestead, where the grandsire tends

  A little prattling child, he oft descends,

  To glance a look upon the well-matched pair;

  Till storm and driving ice blockade him there.

  There, safely guarded by the woods behind,

  He hears the chiding of the baffled wind,

  Hears Winter calling all his terrors round, 490

  And, blest within himself, he shrinks not from the sound.

  Through Nature’s vale his homely pleasures glide,

  Unstained by envy, discontent, and pride;

  The bound of all his vanity, to deck,

  With one bright bell, a favourite heifer’s neck;

  Well pleased upon some simple annual feast,

  Remembered half the year and hoped the rest,

  If dairy-produce, from his inner hoard,

  Of thrice ten summers dignify the board.

  —Alas! in every clime a flying ray 500

  Is all we have to cheer our wintry way;

  And here the unwilling mind may more than trace

  The general sorrows of the human race;

  The churlish gales of penury, that blow

  Cold as the north-wind o’er a waste of snow,

  To them the gentle groups of bliss deny

  That on the noon-day bank of leisure lie.

  Yet more;—compelled by Powers which only deign

  That ‘solitary’ man disturb their reign,

  Powers that support an unremitting strife 510

  With all the tender charities of life,

  Full oft the father, when his sons have grown

  To manhood, seems their title to disown;

  And from his nest amid the storms of heaven

  Drives, eagle-like, those sons as he was driven;

  With stern composure watches to the plain—

  And never, eagle-like, beholds again!

  When long-familiar joys are all resigned,

  Why does their sad remembrance haunt the mind?

  Lo! where through flat Batavia’s willowy groves, 520

  Or by the lazy Seine, the exile roves;

  O’er the curled waters Alpine measures swell,

  And search the affections to their inmost cell;

  Sweet poison spreads along the listener’s veins,

  Turning past pleasures into mortal pains;

  Poison, which not a frame of steel can brave,

  Bows his young head with sorrow to the grave.

  Gay lark of hope, thy silent song resume!

  Ye flattering eastern lights, once more the hills illume!

  Fresh gales and dews of life’s delicious morn, 530

  And thou, lost fragrance of the
heart, return!

  Alas! the little joy to man allowed

  Fades like the lustre of an evening cloud;

  Or like the beauty in a flower installed,

  Whose season was, and cannot be recalled.

  Yet, when opprest by sickness, grief, or care,

  And taught that pain is pleasure’s natural heir,

  We still confide in more than we can know;

  Death would be else the favourite friend of woe.

  ‘Mid savage rocks, and seas of snow that shine, 540

  Between interminable tracts of pine,

  Within a temple stands an awful shrine,

  By an uncertain light revealed, that falls

  On the mute Image and the troubled walls.

  Oh! give not me that eye of hard disdain

  That views, undimmed, Einsiedlen’s wretched fane.

  While ghastly faces through the gloom appear,

  Abortive joy, and hope that works in fear;

  While prayer contends with silenced agony,

  Surely in other thoughts contempt may die. 550

  If the sad grave of human ignorance bear

  One flower of hope—oh, pass and leave it there!

  The tall sun, pausing on an Alpine spire,

  Flings o’er the wilderness a stream of fire:

  Now meet we other pilgrims ere the day

  Close on the remnant of their weary way;

  While they are drawing toward the sacred floor

  Where, so they fondly think, the worm shall gnaw no more.

  How gaily murmur and how sweetly taste

  The fountains reared for them amid the waste! 560

  Their thirst they slake:—they wash their toil-worn feet

  And some with tears of joy each other greet.

  Yes, I must see you when ye first behold

  Those holy turrets tipped with evening gold,

  In that glad moment will for you a sigh

  Be heaved, of charitable sympathy;

  In that glad moment when your hands are prest

  In mute devotion on the thankful breast!

  Last, let us turn to Chamouny that shields

  With rocks and gloomy woods her fertile fields: 570

  Five streams of ice amid her cots descend,

  And with wild flowers and blooming orchards blend;—

  A scene more fair than what the Grecian feigns

  Of purple lights and ever-vernal plains;

  Here all the seasons revel hand in hand:

  ‘Mid lawns and shades by breezy rivulets fanned,

  They sport beneath that mountain’s matchless height

  That holds no commerce with the summer night.

  From age to age, throughout his lonely bounds

  The crash of ruin fitfully resounds; 580

  Appalling havoc! but serene his brow,

  Where daylight lingers on perpetual snow;

  Glitter the stars above, and all is black below.

  What marvel then if many a Wanderer sigh,

  While roars the sullen Arve in anger by,

  That not for thy reward, unrivalled Vale!

  Waves the ripe harvest in the autumnal gale;

  That thou, the slaves of slaves, art doomed to pine

  And droop, while no Italian arts are thine,

  To soothe or cheer, to soften or refine. 590

  Hail Freedom! whether it was mine to stray,

  With shrill winds whistling round my lonely way,

  On the bleak sides of Cumbria’s heath-clad moors,

  Or where dank sea-weed lashes Scotland’s shores;

  To scent the sweets of Piedmont’s breathing rose,

  And orange gale that o’er Lugano blows;

  Still have I found, where Tyranny prevails,

  That virtue languishes and pleasure fails,

  While the remotest hamlets blessings share

  In thy loved presence known, and only there; 600

  ‘Heart’-blessings—outward treasures too which the eye

  Of the sun peeping through the clouds can spy,

  And every passing breeze will testify.

  There, to the porch, belike with jasmine bound

  Or woodbine wreaths, a smoother path is wound;

  The housewife there a brighter garden sees,

  Where hum on busier wing her happy bees;

  On infant cheeks there fresher roses blow;

  And grey-haired men look up with livelier brow,—

  To greet the traveller needing food and rest; 610

  Housed for the night, or but a half-hour’s guest.

  And oh, fair France! though now the traveller sees

  Thy three-striped banner fluctuate on the breeze;

  Though martial songs have banished songs of love,

  And nightingales desert the village grove,

  Scared by the fife and rumbling drum’s alarms,

  And the short thunder, and the flash of arms;

  That cease not till night falls, when far and nigh,

  Sole sound, the Sourd prolongs his mournful cry!

  —Yet, hast thou found that Freedom spreads her power 620

  Beyond the cottage-hearth, the cottage-door:

  All nature smiles, and owns beneath her eyes

  Her fields peculiar, and peculiar skies.

  Yes, as I roamed where Loiret’s waters glide

  Through rustling aspens heard from side to side,

  When from October clouds a milder light

  Fell where the blue flood rippled into white;

  Methought from every cot the watchful bird

  Crowed with ear-piercing power till then unheard;

  Each clacking mill, that broke the murmuring streams, 630

  Rocked the charmed thought in more delightful dreams;

  Chasing those pleasant dreams, the falling leaf

  Awoke a fainter sense of moral grief;

  The measured echo of the distant flail

  Wound in more welcome cadence down the vale;

  With more majestic course the water rolled,

  And ripening foliage shone with richer gold.

  —But foes are gathering—Liberty must raise

  Red on the hills her beacon’s far-seen blaze;

  Must bid the tocsin ring from tower to tower!— 640

  Nearer and nearer comes the trying hour!

  Rejoice, brave Land, though pride’s perverted ire

  Rouse hell’s own aid, and wrap thy fields in fire:

  Lo, from the flames a great and glorious birth;

  As if a new-made heaven were hailing a new earth!

  —All cannot be: the promise is too fair

  For creatures doomed to breathe terrestrial air:

  Yet not for this will sober reason frown

  Upon that promise, nor the hope disown;

  She knows that only from high aims ensue 650

  Rich guerdons, and to them alone are due.

  Great God! by whom the strifes of men are weighed

  In an impartial balance, give thine aid

  To the just cause; and, oh! do thou preside

  Over the mighty stream now spreading wide:

  So shall its waters, from the heavens supplied

  In copious showers, from earth by wholesome springs,

  Brood o’er the long-parched lands with Nile-like wings!

  And grant that every sceptred child of clay

  Who cries presumptuous, “Here the flood shall stay,” 660

  May in its progress see thy guiding hand,

  And cease the acknowledged purpose to withstand;

  Or, swept in anger from the insulted shore,

  Sink with his servile bands, to rise no more!

  To-night, my Friend, within this humble cot

  Be scorn and fear and hope alike forgot

  In timely sleep; and when, at break of day,

  On the tall peaks the glistening sunbeams play,

  With a light heart our course we may renew,

/>   The first whose footsteps print the mountain dew. 670

  1791 & 1792.

  GUILT AND SORROW

  OR

  INCIDENTS UPON SALISBURY PLAIN

  I

  A TRAVELLER on the skirt of Sarum’s Plain

  Pursued his vagrant way, with feet half bare;

  Stooping his gait, but not as if to gain

  Help from the staff he bore; for mien and air

  Were hardy, though his cheek seemed worn with care

  Both of the time to come, and time long fled:

  Down fell in straggling locks his thin grey hair;

  A coat he wore of military red

  But faded, and stuck o’er with many a patch and shred.

  II

  While thus he journeyed, step by step led on,

  He saw and passed a stately inn, full sure

  That welcome in such house for him was none.

  No board inscribed the needy to allure

  Hung there, no bush proclaimed to old and poor

  And desolate, “Here you will find a friend!”

  The pendent grapes glittered above the door;—

  On he must pace, perchance ‘till night descend,

  Where’er the dreary roads their bare white lines extend.

  III

  The gathering clouds grow red with stormy fire,

  In streaks diverging wide and mounting high;

  That inn he long had passed; the distant spire,

  Which oft as he looked back had fixed his eye,

  Was lost, though still he looked, in the blank sky.

  Perplexed and comfortless he gazed around,

  And scarce could any trace of man descry,

  Save cornfields stretched and stretching without bound;

  But where the sower dwelt was nowhere to be found.

  IV

  No tree was there, no meadow’s pleasant green,

  No brook to wet his lip or soothe his ear;

  Long files of corn-stacks here and there were seen,

  But not one dwelling-place his heart to cheer.

  Some labourer, thought he, may perchance be near;

  And so he sent a feeble shout—in vain;

  No voice made answer, he could only hear

  Winds rustling over plots of unripe grain,

  Or whistling thro’ thin grass along the unfurrowed plain.

  V

  Long had he fancied each successive slope

  Concealed some cottage, whither he might turn

  And rest; but now along heaven’s darkening cope

  The crows rushed by in eddies, homeward borne.

  Thus warned he sought some shepherd’s spreading thorn

  Or hovel from the storm to shield his head,

  But sought in vain; for now, all wild, forlorn,

  And vacant, a huge waste around him spread;

  The wet cold ground, he feared, must be his only bed.