Delphi Complete Works of William Wordsworth

by William Wordsworth

  Peter went forth with him straightway;

  And, with due care, ere break of day,

  Together they brought back the Corse.

  And many years did this poor Ass,

  Whom once it was my luck to see

  Cropping the shrubs of Leming-Lane,

  Help by his labour to maintain

  The Widow and her family.

  And Peter Bell, who, till that night,

  Had been the wildest of his clan,

  Forsook his crimes, renounced his folly,

  And, after ten months’ melancholy,

  Became a good and honest man.

  THE SIMPLON PASS

  —BROOK and road

  Were fellow-travellers in this gloomy Pass,

  And with them did we journey several hours

  At a slow step. The immeasurable height

  Of woods decaying, never to be decayed,

  The stationary blasts of waterfalls,

  And in the narrow rent, at every turn,

  Winds thwarting winds bewildered and forlorn,

  The torrents shooting from the clear blue sky,

  The rocks that muttered close upon our ears, 10

  Black drizzling crags that spake by the wayside

  As if a voice were in them, the sick sight

  And giddy prospect of the raving stream,

  The unfettered clouds and region of the heavens,

  Tumult and peace, the darkness and the light—

  Were all like workings of one mind, the features

  Of the same face, blossoms upon one tree,

  Characters of the great Apocalypse,

  The types and symbols of Eternity,

  Of first, and last, and midst, and without end. 20

  1799.

  INFLUENCE OF NATURAL OBJECTS IN CALLING FORTH AND STRENGTHENING THE IMAGINATION IN BOYHOOD AND EARLY YOUTH

  WISDOM and Spirit of the universe!

  Thou Soul, that art the Eternity of thought!

  And giv’st to forms and images a breath

  And everlasting motion! not in vain,

  By day or star-light, thus from my first dawn

  Of childhood didst thou intertwine for me

  The passions that build up our human soul;

  Not with the mean and vulgar works of Man;

  But with high objects, with enduring things,

  With life and nature; purifying thus 10

  The elements of feeling and of thought,

  And sanctifying by such discipline

  Both pain and fear,—until we recognise

  A grandeur in the beatings of the heart.

  Nor was this fellowship vouchsafed to me

  With stinted kindness. In November days,

  When vapours rolling down the valleys made

  A lonely scene more lonesome; among woods

  At noon; and ‘mid the calm of summer nights,

  When, by the margin of the trembling lake, 20

  Beneath the gloomy hills, homeward I went

  In solitude, such intercourse was mine:

  Mine was it in the fields both day and night,

  And by the waters, all the summer long.

  And in the frosty season, when the sun

  Was set, and, visible for many a mile,

  The cottage-windows through the twilight blazed,

  I heeded not the summons: happy time

  It was indeed for all of us; for me

  It was a time of rapture! Clear and loud 30

  The village-clock tolled six—I wheeled about,

  Proud and exulting like an untired horse

  That cares not for his home.—All shod with steel

  We hissed along the polished ice, in games

  Confederate, imitative of the chase

  And woodland pleasures,—the resounding horn,

  The pack loud-chiming, and the hunted hare.

  So through the darkness and the cold we flew,

  And not a voice was idle: with the din

  Smitten, the precipices rang aloud; 40

  The leafless trees and every icy crag

  Tinkled like iron; while far-distant hills

  Into the tumult sent an alien sound

  Of melancholy, not unnoticed while the stars,

  Eastward, were sparkling clear, and in the west

  The orange sky of evening died away.

  Not seldom from the uproar I retired

  Into a silent bay, or sportively

  Glanced sideway, leaving the tumultuous throng,

  To cut across the reflex of a star; 50

  Image, that, flying still before me, gleamed

  Upon the glassy plain: and oftentimes,

  When we had given our bodies to the wind,

  And all the shadowy banks on either side

  Came sweeping through the darkness, spinning still

  The rapid line of motion, then at once

  Have I, reclining back upon my heels,

  Stopped short; yet still the solitary cliffs

  Wheeled by me—even as if the earth had rolled

  With visible motion her diurnal round! 60

  Behind me did they stretch in solemn train,

  Feebler and feebler, and I stood and watched

  Till all was tranquil as a summer sea.

  1799.

  THERE WAS A BOY

  THERE was a Boy; ye knew him well, ye cliffs

  And islands of Winander!—many a time,

  At evening, when the earliest stars began

  To move along the edges of the hills,

  Rising or setting, would he stand alone,

  Beneath the trees, or by the glimmering lake;

  And there, with fingers interwoven, both hands

  Pressed closely palm to palm and to his mouth

  Uplifted, he, as through an instrument,

  Blew mimic hootings to the silent owls, 10

  That they might answer him.—And they would shout

  Across the watery vale, and shout again,

  Responsive to his call,—with quivering peals,

  And long halloos, and screams, and echoes loud

  Redoubled and redoubled; concourse wild

  Of jocund din! And, when there came a pause

  Of silence such as baffled his best skill:

  Then, sometimes, in that silence, while he hung

  Listening, a gentle shock of mild surprise

  Has carried far into his heart the voice 20

  Of mountain-torrents; or the visible scene

  Would enter unawares into his mind

  With all its solemn imagery, its rocks,

  Its woods, and that uncertain heaven received

  Into the bosom of the steady lake.

  This boy was taken from his mates, and died

  In childhood, ere he was full twelve years old.

  Pre-eminent in beauty is the vale

  Where he was born and bred: the churchyard hangs

  Upon a slope above the village-school; 30

  And, through that church-yard when my way has led

  On summer-evenings, I believe, that there

  A long half-hour together I have stood

  Mute—looking at the grave in which he lies!

  1799.

  NUTTING

  —IT seems a day

  (I speak of one from many singled out)

  One of those heavenly days that cannot die;

  When, in the eagerness of boyish hope,

  I left our cottage-threshold, sallying forth

  With a huge wallet o’er my shoulders slung,

  A nutting-crook in hand; and turned my steps

  Tow’rd some far-distant wood, a Figure quaint,

  Tricked out in proud disguise of cast-off weeds

  Which for that service had been husbanded, 10

  By exhortation of my frugal Dame—

  Motley accoutrement, of power to smile

  At thorns, and brakes, and brambles,—and, in truth,

  More
ragged than need was! O’er pathless rocks,

  Through beds of matted fern, and tangled thickets,

  Forcing my way, I came to one dear nook

  Unvisited, where not a broken bough

  Drooped with its withered leaves, ungracious sign

  Of devastation; but the hazels rose

  Tall and erect, with tempting clusters hung, 20

  A virgin scene!—A little while I stood,

  Breathing with such suppression of the heart

  As joy delights in; and, with wise restraint

  Voluptuous, fearless of a rival, eyed

  The banquet;—or beneath the trees I sate

  Among the flowers, and with the flowers I played;

  A temper known to those, who, after long

  And weary expectation, have been blest

  With sudden happiness beyond all hope.

  Perhaps it was a bower beneath whose leaves 30

  The violets of five seasons re-appear

  And fade, unseen by any human eye;

  Where fairy water-breaks do murmur on

  For ever; and I saw the sparkling foam,

  And—with my cheek on one of those green stones

  That, fleeced with moss, under the shady trees,

  Lay round me, scattered like a flock of sheep—

  I heard the murmur and the murmuring sound,

  In that sweet mood when pleasure loves to pay

  Tribute to ease; and, of its joy secure, 40

  The heart luxuriates with indifferent things,

  Wasting its kindliness on stocks and stones,

  And on the vacant air. Then up I rose,

  And dragged to earth both branch and bough, with crash

  And merciless ravage: and the shady nook

  Of hazels, and the green and mossy bower,

  Deformed and sullied, patiently gave up

  Their quiet being: and, unless I now

  Confound my present feelings with the past;

  Ere from the mutilated bower I turned 50

  Exulting, rich beyond the wealth of kings,

  I felt a sense of pain when I beheld

  The silent trees, and saw the intruding sky—

  Then, dearest Maiden, move along these shades

  In gentleness of heart; with gentle hand

  Touch—for there is a spirit in the woods.

  1799.

  STRANGE FITS OF PASSION HAVE I KNOWN

  STRANGE fits of passion have I known:

  And I will dare to tell,

  But in the Lover’s ear alone,

  What once to me befell.

  When she I loved looked every day

  Fresh as a rose in June,

  I to her cottage bent my way,

  Beneath an evening-moon.

  Upon the moon I fixed my eye,

  All over the wide lea; 10

  With quickening pace my horse drew nigh

  Those paths so dear to me.

  And now we reached the orchard-plot;

  And, as we climbed the hill,

  The sinking moon to Lucy’s cot

  Came near, and nearer still.

  In one of those sweet dreams I slept,

  Kind Nature’s gentlest boon!

  And all the while my eyes I kept

  On the descending moon. 20

  My horse moved on; hoof after hoof

  He raised, and never stopped:

  When down behind the cottage roof,

  At once, the bright moon dropped.

  What fond and wayward thoughts will slide

  Into a Lover’s head!

  “O mercy!” to myself I cried,

  “If Lucy should be dead!”

  1799.

  SHE DWELT AMONG THE UNTRODDEN WAYS

  SHE dwelt among the untrodden ways

  Beside the springs of Dove,

  A Maid whom there were none to praise

  And very few to love:

  A violet by a mossy stone

  Half hidden from the eye!

  —Fair as a star, when only one

  Is shining in the sky.

  She lived unknown, and few could know

  When Lucy ceased to be; 10

  But she is in her grave, and, oh,

  The difference to me!

  1799.

  I TRAVELLED AMONG UNKNOWN MEN

  I TRAVELLED among unknown men,

  In lands beyond the sea;

  Nor, England! did I know till then

  What love I bore to thee.

  ‘Tis past, that melancholy dream!

  Nor will I quit thy shore

  A second time; for still I seem

  To love thee more and more.

  Among thy mountains did I feel

  The joy of my desire; 10

  And she I cherished turned her wheel

  Beside an English fire.

  Thy mornings showed, thy nights concealed

  The bowers where Lucy played;

  And thine too is the last green field

  That Lucy’s eyes surveyed.

  1799.

  THREE YEARS SHE GREW IN SUN AND SHOWER

  THREE years she grew in sun and shower,

  Then Nature said, “A lovelier flower

  On earth was never sown;

  This Child I to myself will take;

  She shall be mine, and I will make

  A Lady of my own.

  “Myself will to my darling be

  Both law and impulse: and with me

  The Girl, in rock and plain,

  In earth and heaven, in glade and bower, 10

  Shall feel an overseeing power

  To kindle or restrain.

  “She shall be sportive as the fawn

  That wild with glee across the lawn,

  Or up the mountain springs;

  And her’s shall be the breathing balm,

  And her’s the silence and the calm

  Of mute insensate things.

  “The floating clouds their state shall lend

  To her; for her the willow bend; 20

  Nor shall she fail to see

  Even in the motions of the Storm

  Grace that shall mould the Maiden’s form

  By silent sympathy.

  “The stars of midnight shall be dear

  To her; and she shall lean her ear

  In many a secret place

  Where rivulets dance their wayward round,

  And beauty born of murmuring sound

  Shall pass into her face. 30

  “And vital feelings of delight

  Shall rear her form to stately height,

  Her virgin bosom swell;

  Such thoughts to Lucy I will give

  While she and I together live

  Here in this happy dell.”

  Thus Nature spake—The work was done—

  How soon my Lucy’s race was run!

  She died, and left to me

  This heath, this calm, and quiet scene; 40

  The memory of what has been,

  And never more will be.

  1799.

  A SLUMBER DID MY SPIRIT SEAL

  A SLUMBER did my spirit seal;

  I had no human fears:

  She seemed a thing that could not feel

  The touch of earthly years.

  No motion has she now, no force;

  She neither hears nor sees;

  Rolled round in earth’s diurnal course,

  With rocks, and stones, and trees.

  1799.

  A POET’S EPITAPH

  ART thou a Statist in the van

  Of public conflicts trained and bred?

  —First learn to love one living man;

  ‘Then’ may’st thou think upon the dead.

  A Lawyer art thou?—draw not nigh!

  Go, carry to some fitter place

  The keenness of that practised eye,

  The hardness of that sallow face.

  Art thou a Man of purple cheer?

  A rosy
Man, right plump to see? 10

  Approach; yet, Doctor, not too near,

  This grave no cushion is for thee.

  Or art thou one of gallant pride,

  A Soldier and no man of chaff?

  Welcome!—but lay thy sword aside,

  And lean upon a peasant’s staff.

  Physician art thou? one, all eyes,

  Philosopher! a fingering slave,

  One that would peep and botanise

  Upon his mother’s grave? 20

  Wrapt closely in thy sensual fleece,

  O turn aside,—and take, I pray,

  That he below may rest in peace,

  Thy ever-dwindling soul, away!

  A Moralist perchance appears;

  Led, Heaven knows how! to this poor sod:

  And he has neither eyes nor ears;

  Himself his world, and his own God;

  One to whose smooth-rubbed soul can cling

  Nor form, nor feeling, great or small; 30

  A reasoning, self-sufficing thing,

  An intellectual All-in-all!

  Shut close the door; press down the latch;

  Sleep in thy intellectual crust;

  Nor lose ten tickings of thy watch

  Near this unprofitable dust.

  But who is He, with modest looks,

  And clad in homely russet brown?

  He murmurs near the running brooks

  A music sweeter than their own. 40

  He is retired as noontide dew,

  Or fountain in a noon-day grove;

  And you must love him, ere to you

  He will seem worthy of your love.

  The outward shows of sky and earth,

  Of hill and valley, he has viewed;

  And impulses of deeper birth

  Have come to him in solitude.

  In common things that round us lie

  Some random truths he can impart,—50

  The harvest of a quiet eye

  That broods and sleeps on his own heart.

  But he is weak; both Man and Boy,

  Hath been an idler in the land;

  Contented if he might enjoy

  The things which others understand.

  —Come hither in thy hour of strength;

  Come, weak as is a breaking wave!

  Here stretch thy body at full length;

  Or build thy house upon this grave. 60

  1799.

  ADDRESS TO THE SCHOLARS OF THE VILLAGE SCHOOL OF —

  I COME, ye little noisy Crew,

  Not long your pastime to prevent;

  I heard the blessing which to you

  Our common Friend and Father sent.

  I kissed his cheek before he died;