Delphi Complete Works of William Wordsworth

Home > Other > Delphi Complete Works of William Wordsworth > Page 167
Delphi Complete Works of William Wordsworth Page 167

by William Wordsworth

Them and their object: but, meanwhile, prevailed

  Such an entire contentment in the air

  That every naked ash, and tardy tree

  Yet leafless, showed as if the countenance

  With which it looked on this delightful day

  Were native to the summer.—Up the brook

  I roamed in the confusion of my heart,

  Alive to all things and forgetting all.

  At length I to a sudden turning came 20

  In this continuous glen, where down a rock

  The Stream, so ardent in its course before,

  Sent forth such sallies of glad sound, that all

  Which I till then had heard, appeared the voice

  Of common pleasure: beast and bird, the lamb,

  The shepherd’s dog, the linnet and the thrush

  Vied with this waterfall, and made a song,

  Which, while I listened, seemed like the wild growth

  Or like some natural produce of the air,

  That could not cease to be. Green leaves were here; 30

  But ‘twas the foliage of the rocks—the birch,

  The yew, the holly, and the bright green thorn,

  With hanging islands of resplendent furze:

  And, on a summit, distant a short space,

  By any who should look beyond the dell,

  A single mountain-cottage might be seen.

  I gazed and gazed, and to myself I said,

  “Our thoughts at least are ours; and this wild nook,

  My EMMA, I will dedicate to thee.”

  —Soon did the spot become my other home, 40

  My dwelling, and my out-of-doors abode.

  And, of the Shepherds who have seen me there,

  To whom I sometimes in our idle talk

  Have told this fancy, two or three, perhaps,

  Years after we are gone and in our graves,

  When they have cause to speak of this wild place,

  May call it by the name of EMMA’S DELL.

  1800.

  POEMS ON THE NAMING OF PLACES II

  TO JOANNA

  AMID the smoke of cities did you pass

  The time of early youth; and there you learned,

  From years of quiet industry, to love

  The living Beings by your own fireside,

  With such a strong devotion, that your heart

  Is slow to meet the sympathies of them

  Who look upon the hills with tenderness,

  And make dear friendships with the streams and groves.

  Yet we, who are transgressors in this kind,

  Dwelling retired in our simplicity 10

  Among the woods and fields, we love you well,

  Joanna! and I guess, since you have been

  So distant from us now for two long years,

  That you will gladly listen to discourse,

  However trivial, if you thence be taught

  That they, with whom you once were happy, talk

  Familiarly of you and of old times.

  While I was seated, now some ten days past,

  Beneath those lofty firs, that overtop

  Their ancient neighbour, the old steeple-tower, 20

  The Vicar from his gloomy house hard by

  Came forth to greet me; and when he had asked,

  “How fares Joanna, that wild-hearted Maid!

  And when will she return to us?” he paused;

  And, after short exchange of village news,

  He with grave looks demanded, for what cause,

  Reviving obsolete idolatry,

  I, like a Runic Priest, in characters

  Of formidable size had chiselled out

  Some uncouth name upon the native rock, 30

  Above the Rotha, by the forest-side.

  —Now, by those dear immunities of heart

  Engendered between malice and true love,

  I was not loth to be so catechised,

  And this was my reply:—”As it befell,

  One summer morning we had walked abroad

  At break of day, Joanna and myself.

  —’Twas that delightful season when the broom,

  Full-flowered, and visible on every steep,

  Along the copses runs in veins of gold. 40

  Our pathway led us on to Rotha’s banks;

  And when we came in front of that tall rock

  That eastward looks, I there stopped short—and stood

  Tracing the lofty barrier with my eye

  From base to summit; such delight I found

  To note in shrub and tree, in stone and flower

  That intermixture of delicious hues,

  Along so vast a surface, all at once,

  In one impression, by connecting force

  Of their own beauty, imaged in the heart. 50

  —When I had gazed perhaps two minutes’ space,

  Joanna, looking in my eyes, beheld

  That ravishment of mine, and laughed aloud.

  The Rock, like something starting from a sleep,

  Took up the Lady’s voice, and laughed again;

  That ancient Woman seated on Helm-crag

  Was ready with her cavern; Hammar-scar,

  And the tall Steep of Silver-how, sent forth

  A noise of laughter; southern Loughrigg heard,

  And Fairfield answered with a mountain tone; 60

  Helvellyn far into the clear blue sky

  Carried the Lady’s voice,—old Skiddaw blew

  His speaking-trumpet;—back out of the clouds

  Of Glaramara southward came the voice;

  And Kirkstone tossed it from his misty head.

  —Now whether (said I to our cordial Friend,

  Who in the hey-day of astonishment

  Smiled in my face) this were in simple truth

  A work accomplished by the brotherhood

  Of ancient mountains, or my ear was touched 70

  With dreams and visionary impulses

  To me alone imparted, sure I am

  That there was a loud uproar in the hills.

  And, while we both were listening, to my side

  The fair Joanna drew, as if she wished

  To shelter from some object of her fear.

  —And hence, long afterwards, when eighteen moons

  Were wasted, as I chanced to walk alone

  Beneath this rock, at sunrise, on a calm

  And silent morning, I sat down, and there, 80

  In memory of affections old and true,

  I chiselled out in those rude characters

  Joanna’s name deep in the living stone:—

  And I, and all who dwell by my fireside,

  Have called the lovely rock, JOANNA’S ROCK.”

  1800.

  POEMS ON THE NAMING OF PLACES III

  THERE is an Eminence,—of these our hills

  The last that parleys with the setting sun;

  We can behold it from our orchard-seat;

  And, when at evening we pursue out walk

  Along the public way, this Peak, so high

  Above us, and so distant in its height,

  Is visible; and often seems to send

  Its own deep quiet to restore our hearts.

  The meteors make of it a favourite haunt:

  The star of Jove, so beautiful and large 10

  In the mid heavens, is never half so fair

  As when he shines above it. ‘Tis in truth

  The loneliest place we have among the clouds.

  And She who dwells with me, whom I have loved

  With such communion, that no place on earth

  Can ever be a solitude to me,

  Hath to this lonely Summit given my Name.

  1800.

  POEMS ON THE NAMING OF PLACES IV

  A NARROW girdle of rough stones and crags,

  A rude and natural causeway, interposed

  Between the water and a winding slope

  Of copse and thicket, leaves the eastern s
hore

  Of Grasmere safe in its own privacy:

  And there myself and two beloved Friends,

  One calm September morning, ere the mist

  Had altogether yielded to the sun,

  Sauntered on this retired and difficult way.

  —Ill suits the road with one in haste; but we 10

  Played with our time; and, as we strolled along,

  It was our occupation to observe

  Such objects as the waves had tossed ashore—

  Feather, or leaf, or weed, or withered bough,

  Each on the other heaped, along the line

  Of the dry wreck. And, in our vacant mood,

  Not seldom did we stop to watch some tuft

  Of dandelion seed or thistle’s beard,

  That skimmed the surface of the dead calm lake,

  Suddenly halting now—a lifeless stand! 20

  And starting off again with freak as sudden;

  In all its sportive wanderings, all the while,

  Making report of an invisible breeze

  That was its wings, its chariot, and its horse,

  Its playmate, rather say, its moving soul.

  —And often, trifling with a privilege

  Alike indulged to all, we paused, one now,

  And now the other, to point out, perchance

  To pluck, some flower or water-weed, too fair

  Either to be divided from the place 30

  On which it grew, or to be left alone

  To its own beauty. Many such there are,

  Fair ferns and flowers, and chiefly that tall fern,

  So stately, of the queen Osmunda named;

  Plant lovelier, in its own retired abode

  On Grasmere’s beach, than Naiad by the side

  Of Grecian brook, or Lady of the Mere,

  Sole-sitting by the shores of old romance.

  —So fared we that bright morning: from the fields

  Meanwhile, a noise was heard, the busy mirth 40

  Of reapers, men and women, boys and girls.

  Delighted much to listen to those sounds,

  And feeding thus our fancies, we advanced

  Along the indented shore; when suddenly,

  Through a thin veil of glittering haze was seen

  Before us, on a point of jutting land,

  The tall and upright figure of a Man

  Attired in peasant’s garb, who stood alone,

  Angling beside the margin of the lake.

  “Improvident and reckless,” we exclaimed, 50

  “The Man must be, who thus can lose a day

  Of the mid harvest, when the labourer’s hire

  Is ample, and some little might be stored

  Wherewith to cheer him in the winter time.”

  Thus talking of that Peasant, we approached

  Close to the spot where with his rod and line

  He stood alone; whereat he turned his head

  To greet us—and we saw a Mam worn down

  By sickness, gaunt and lean, with sunken cheeks

  And wasted limbs, his legs so long and lean 60

  That for my single self I looked at them,

  Forgetful of the body they sustained.—

  Too weak to labour in the harvest field,

  The Man was using his best skill to gain

  A pittance from the dead unfeeling lake

  That knew not of his wants. I will not say

  What thoughts immediately were ours, nor how

  The happy idleness of that sweet morn,

  With all its lovely images, was changed

  To serious musing and to self-reproach. 70

  Nor did we fail to see within ourselves

  What need there is to be reserved in speech,

  And temper all our thoughts with charity.

  —Therefore, unwilling to forget that day,

  My Friend, Myself, and She who then received

  The same admonishment, have called the place

  By a memorial name, uncouth indeed

  As e’er by mariner was given to bay

  Or foreland, on a new-discovered coast;

  And POINT RASH-JUDGMENT is the name it bears. 80

  1800.

  POEMS ON THE NAMING OF PLACES V

  TO M. H.

  OUR walk was far among the ancient trees:

  There was no road, nor any woodman’s path;

  But a thick umbrage—checking the wild growth

  Of weed and sapling, along soft green turf

  Beneath the branches—of itself had made

  A track, that brought us to a slip of lawn,

  And a small bed of water in the woods.

  All round this pool both flocks and herds might drink

  On its firm margin, even as from a well,

  Or some stone-basin which the herdsman’s hand 10

  Had shaped for their refreshment; nor did sun,

  Or wind from any quarter, ever come,

  But as a blessing to this calm recess,

  This glade of water and this one green field.

  The spot was made by Nature for herself;

  The travellers know it not, and ‘twill remain

  Unknown to them; but it is beautiful;

  And if a man should plant his cottage near,

  Should sleep beneath the shelter of its trees,

  And blend its waters with his daily meal, 20

  He would so love it, that in his death-hour

  Its image would survive among his thoughts:

  And therefore, my sweet MARY, this still Nook,

  With all its beeches, we have named from You!

  1800.

  THE WATERFALL AND THE EGLANTINE

  I

  “BEGONE, thou fond presumptuous Elf,”

  Exclaimed an angry Voice,

  “Nor dare to thrust thy foolish self

  Between me and my choice!”

  A small Cascade fresh swoln with snows

  Thus threatened a poor Briar-rose,

  That, all bespattered with his foam,

  And dancing high and dancing low,

  Was living, as a child might know,

  In an unhappy home.

  II

  “Dost thou presume my course to block?

  Off, off! or, puny Thing!

  I’ll hurl thee headlong with the rock

  To which thy fibres cling.”

  The Flood was tyrannous and strong;

  The patient Briar suffered long,

  Nor did he utter groan or sigh,

  Hoping the danger would be past;

  But, seeing no relief, at last,

  He ventured to reply.

  III

  “Ah!” said the Briar, “blame me not;

  Why should we dwell in strife?

  We who in this sequestered spot

  Once lived a happy life!

  You stirred me on my rocky bed—

  What pleasure through my veins you spread

  The summer long, from day to day,

  My leaves you freshened and bedewed;

  Nor was it common gratitude

  That did your cares repay.

  IV

  “When spring came on with bud and bell,

  Among these rocks did I

  Before you hang my wreaths to tell

  That gentle days were nigh!

  And in the sultry summer hours,

  I sheltered you with leaves and flowers;

  And in my leaves—now shed and gone,

  The linnet lodged, and for us two

  Chanted his pretty songs, when you

  Had little voice or none.

  V

  “But now proud thoughts are in your breast—

  What grief is mine you see,

  Ah! would you think, even yet how blest

  Together we might be!

  Though of both leaf and flower bereft,

  Some ornaments to me are left—

  Rich store of scarlet hips is mine,


  With which I, in my humble way,

  Would deck you many a winter day,

  A happy Eglantine!”

  VI

  What more he said I cannot tell,

  The Torrent down the rocky dell

  Came thundering loud and fast;

  I listened, nor aught else could hear;

  The Briar quaked—and much I fear

  Those accents were his last.

  1800.

  THE OAK AND THE BROOM

  A PASTORAL

  I

  HIS simple truths did Andrew glean

  Beside the babbling rills;

  A careful student he had been

  Among the woods and hills.

  One winter’s night, when through the trees

  The wind was roaring, on his knees

  His youngest born did Andrew hold:

  And while the rest, a ruddy quire,

  Were seated round their blazing fire,

  This Tale the Shepherd told.

  II

  “I saw a crag, a lofty stone

  As ever tempest beat!

  Out of its head an Oak had grown,

  A Broom out of its feet.

  The time was March, a cheerful noon—

  The thaw-wind, with the breath of June,

  Breathed gently from the warm south-west:

  When, in a voice sedate with age,

  This Oak, a giant and a sage,

  His neighbour thus addressed:—

  III

  “‘Eight weary weeks, through rock and clay,

  Along this mountain’s edge,

  The Frost hath wrought both night and day,

  Wedge driving after wedge.

  Look up! and think, above your head

  What trouble, surely, will be bred;

  Last night I heard a crash—’tis true,

  The splinters took another road—

  I see them yonder—what a load

  For such a Thing as you!

  IV

  “‘You are preparing as before,

  To deck your slender shape;

  And yet, just three years back—no more—

  You had a strange escape:

  Down from yon cliff a fragment broke;

  It thundered down, with fire and smoke,

  And hitherward pursued its way;

  This ponderous block was caught by me,

  And o’er your head, as you may see,

  ‘Tis hanging to this day!

  V

  “‘If breeze or bird to this rough steep

  Your kind’s first seed did bear;

  The breeze had better been asleep,

  The bird caught in a snare:

  For you and your green twigs decoy

  The little witless shepherd-boy

  To come and slumber in your bower;

  And, trust me, on some sultry noon,

 

‹ Prev