Delphi Complete Works of William Wordsworth

by William Wordsworth

The loveliest spot that man hath ever found,

  Farewell!—we leave thee to Heaven’s peaceful care,

  Thee, and the Cottage which thou dost surround.

  Our boat is safely anchored by the shore,

  And there will safely ride when we are gone; 10

  The flowering shrubs that deck our humble door

  Will prosper, though untended and alone:

  Fields, goods, and far-off chattels we have none:

  These narrow bounds contain our private store

  Of things earth makes, and sun doth shine upon;

  Here are they in our sight—we have no more.

  Sunshine and shower be with you, bud and bell!

  For two months now in vain we shall be sought:

  We leave you here in solitude to dwell

  With these our latest gifts of tender thought; 20

  Thou, like the morning, in thy saffron coat,

  Bright gowan, and marsh-marigold, farewell!

  Whom from the borders of the Lake we brought,

  And placed together near our rocky Well.

  We go for One to whom ye will be dear;

  And she will prize this Bower, this Indian shed,

  Our own contrivance, Building without peer!

  —A gentle Maid, whose heart is lowly bred,

  Whose pleasures are in wild fields gathered,

  With joyousness, and with a thoughtful cheer, 30

  Will come to you; to you herself will wed;

  And love the blessed life that we lead here.

  Dear Spot! which we have watched with tender heed,

  Bringing thee chosen plants and blossoms blown

  Among the distant mountains, flower and weed,

  Which thou hast taken to thee as thy own,

  Making all kindness registered and known;

  Thou for our sakes, though Nature’s child indeed,

  Fair in thyself and beautiful alone,

  Hast taken gifts which thou dost little need. 40

  And O most constant, yet most fickle Place,

  Thou hast thy wayward moods, as thou dost show

  To them who look not daily on thy face;

  Who, being loved, in love no bounds dost know,

  And say’st, when we forsake thee, “Let them go!”

  Thou easy-hearted Thing, with thy wild race

  Of weeds and flowers, till we return be slow,

  And travel with the year at a soft pace.

  Help us to tell Her tales of years gone by,

  And this sweet spring, the best beloved and best; 50

  Joy will be flown in its mortality;

  Something must stay to tell us of the rest.

  Here, thronged with primroses, the steep rock’s breast

  Glittered at evening like a starry sky;

  And in this bush our sparrow built her nest,

  Of which I sang one song that will not die.

  O happy Garden! whose seclusion deep

  Hath been so friendly to industrious hours;

  And to soft slumbers, that did gently steep

  Our spirits, carrying with them dreams of flowers, 60

  And wild notes warbled among leafy bowers;

  Two burning months let summer overleap,

  And, coming back with Her who will be ours,

  Into thy bosom we again shall creep.

  1802.

  THE SUN HAS LONG BEEN SET

  THE sun has long been set,

  The stars are out by twos and threes,

  The little birds are piping yet

  Among the bushes and trees;

  There’s a cuckoo, and one or two thrushes,

  And a far-off wind that rushes,

  And a sound of water that gushes,

  And the cuckoo’s sovereign cry

  Fills all the hollow of the sky.

  Who would “go parading”10

  In London, “and masquerading,”

  On such a night of June

  With that beautiful soft half-moon,

  And all these innocent blisses?

  On such a night as this is!

  1804.

  COMPOSED UPON WESTMINSTER BRIDGE, SEPT. 3, 1802

  EARTH has not anything to show more fair:

  Dull would he be of soul who could pass by

  A sight so touching in its majesty:

  This City now doth, like a garment, wear

  The beauty of the morning; silent, bare,

  Ships, towers, domes, theatres, and temples lie

  Open unto the fields, and to the sky;

  All bright and glittering in the smokeless air.

  Never did sun more beautifully steep

  In his first splendour, valley, rock, or hill; 10

  Ne’er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep!

  The river glideth at his own sweet will:

  Dear God! the very houses seem asleep;

  And all that mighty heart is lying still!

  COMPOSED BY THE SEA-SIDE, NEAR CALAIS, AUGUST 1802

  FAIR Star of evening, Splendour of the west,

  Star of my Country!—on the horizon’s brink

  Thou hangest, stooping, as might seem, to sink

  On England’s bosom; yet well pleased to rest,

  Meanwhile, and be to her a glorious crest

  Conspicuous to the Nations. Thou, I think,

  Should’st be my Country’s emblem; and should’st wink,

  Bright Star! with laughter on her banners, drest

  In thy fresh beauty. There! that dusky spot

  Beneath thee, that is England; there she lies.

  Blessings be on you both! one hope, one lot, 10

  One life, one glory!—I, with many a fear

  For my dear Country, many heartfelt sighs,

  Among men who do not love her, linger here.

  CALAIS, AUGUST 1802

  IS it a reed that’s shaken by the wind,

  Or what is it that ye go forth to see?

  Lords, lawyers, statesmen, squires of low degree,

  Men known, and men unknown, sick, lame, and blind,

  Post forward all, like creatures of one kind,

  With first-fruit offerings crowd to bend the knee

  In France, before the new-born Majesty.

  ‘Tis ever thus. Ye men of prostrate mind,

  A seemly reverence may be paid to power;

  But that’s a loyal virtue, never sown 10

  In haste, nor springing with a transient shower:

  When truth, when sense, when liberty were flown,

  What hardship had it been to wait an hour?

  Shame on you, feeble Heads, to slavery prone!

  COMPOSED NEAR CALAIS, ON THE ROAD LEADING TO ARDRES, AUGUST 7, 1802

  JONES! as from Calais southward you and I

  Went pacing side by side, this public Way

  Streamed with the pomp of a too-credulous day,

  When faith was pledged to new-born Liberty:

  A homeless sound of joy was in the sky:

  From hour to hour the antiquated Earth

  Beat like the heart of Man: songs, garlands, mirth,

  Banners, and happy faces, far and nigh!

  And now, sole register that these things were,

  Two solitary greetings have I heard, 10

  “Good-morrow, Citizen!” a hollow word,

  As if a dead man spake it! Yet despair

  Touches me not, though pensive as a bird

  Whose vernal coverts winter hath laid bare.

  CALAIS, AUGUST 15, 1802

  FESTIVALS have I seen that were not names:

  This is young Buonaparte’s natal day,

  And his is henceforth an established sway—

  Consul for life. With worship France proclaims

  Her approbation, and with pomps and games.

  Heaven grant that other Cities may be gay!

  Calais is not: and I have bent my way

  To the sea-coast, noting that each man frames

  His
business as he likes. Far other show

  My youth here witnessed, in a prouder time; 10

  The senselessness of joy was then sublime!

  Happy is he, who, caring not for Pope,

  Consul, or King, can sound himself to know

  The destiny of Man, and live in hope.

  IT IS A BEAUTEOUS EVENING, CALM AND FREE

  IT is a beauteous evening, calm and free,

  The holy time is quiet as a Nun

  Breathless with adoration; the broad sun

  Is sinking down in its tranquillity;

  The gentleness of heaven broods o’er the Sea:

  Listen! the mighty Being is awake,

  And doth with his eternal motion make

  A sound like thunder—everlastingly.

  Dear Child! dear Girl! that walkest with me here,

  If thou appear untouched by solemn thought,

  Thy nature is not therefore less divine:

  Thou liest in Abraham’s bosom all the year;

  And worship’st at the Temple’s inner shrine,

  God being with thee when we know it not.

  ON THE EXTINCTION OF THE VENETIAN REPUBLIC

  ONCE did She hold the gorgeous east in fee;

  And was the safeguard of the west: the worth

  Of Venice did not fall below her birth,

  Venice, the eldest Child of Liberty.

  She was a maiden City, bright and free;

  No guile seduced, no force could violate;

  And, when she took unto herself a Mate,

  She must espouse the everlasting Sea.

  And what if she had seen those glories fade,

  Those titles vanish, and that strength decay; 10

  Yet shall some tribute of regret be paid

  When her long life hath reached its final day:

  Men are we, and must grieve when even the Shade

  Of that which once was great, is passed away.

  THE KING OF SWEDEN

  THE Voice of song from distant lands shall call

  To that great King; shall hail the crowned Youth

  Who, taking counsel of unbending Truth,

  By one example hath set forth to all

  How they with dignity may stand; or fall,

  If fall they must. Now, whither doth it tend?

  And what to him and his shall be the end?

  That thought is one which neither can appal

  Nor cheer him; for the illustrious Swede hath done

  The thing which ought to be; is raised ‘above’

  All consequences: work he hath begun 10

  Of fortitude, and piety, and love,

  Which all his glorious ancestors approve:

  The heroes bless him, him their rightful son.

  TO TOUSSAINT L’OUVERTURE

  TOUSSAINT, the most unhappy man of men!

  Whether the whistling Rustic tend his plough

  Within thy hearing, or thy head be now

  Pillowed in some deep dungeon’s earless den;—

  O miserable Chieftain! where and when

  Wilt thou find patience? Yet die not; do thou

  Wear rather in thy bonds a cheerful brow:

  Though fallen thyself, never to rise again,

  Live, and take comfort. Thou hast left behind

  Powers that will work for thee; air, earth, and skies; 10

  There’s not a breathing of the common wind

  That will forget thee; thou hast great allies;

  Thy friends are exultations, agonies,

  And love, and man’s unconquerable mind.

  COMPOSED IN THE VALLEY NEAR DOVER, ON THE DAY OF LANDING

  HERE, on our native soil, we breathe once more.

  The cock that crows, the smoke that curls, that sound

  Of bells; those boys who in yon meadow-ground

  In white-sleeved shirts are playing; and the roar

  Of the waves breaking on the chalky shore;—

  All, all are English. Oft have I looked round

  With joy in Kent’s green vales; but never found

  Myself so satisfied in heart before.

  Europe is yet in bonds; but let that pass,

  Thought for another moment. Thou art free, 10

  My Country! and ‘tis joy enough and pride

  For one hour’s perfect bliss, to tread the grass

  Of England once again, and hear and see,

  With such a dear Companion at my side.

  SEPTEMBER 1, 1802

  WE had a female Passenger who came

  From Calais with us, spotless in array,—

  A white-robed Negro, like a lady gay,

  Yet downcast as a woman fearing blame;

  Meek, destitute, as seemed, of hope or aim

  She sate, from notice turning not away,

  But on all proffered intercourse did lay

  A weight of languid speech, or to the same

  No sign of answer made by word or face:

  Yet still her eyes retained their tropic fire, 10

  That, burning independent of the mind,

  Joined with the lustre of her rich attire

  To mock the Outcast.—O ye Heavens, be kind!

  And feel, thou Earth, for this afflicted Race!

  NEAR DOVER, SEPTEMBER 1802

  INLAND, within a hollow vale, I stood;

  And saw, while sea was calm and air was clear,

  The coast of France—the coast of France how near!

  Drawn almost into frightful neighbourhood.

  I shrunk; for verily the barrier flood

  Was like a lake, or river bright and fair,

  A span of waters; yet what power is there!

  What mightiness for evil and for good!

  Even so doth God protect us if we be

  Virtuous and wise. Winds blow, and waters roll, 10

  Strength to the brave, and Power, and Deity;

  Yet in themselves are nothing! One decree

  Spake laws to ‘them’, and said that by the soul

  Only, the Nations shall be great and free.

  WRITTEN IN LONDON, SEPTEMBER 1802

  O FRIEND! I know not which way I must look

  For comfort, being, as I am, opprest,

  To think that now our life is only drest

  For show; mean handy-work of craftsman, cook,

  Or groom!—We must run glittering like a brook

  In the open sunshine, or we are unblest:

  The wealthiest man among us is the best:

  No grandeur now in nature or in book

  Delights us. Rapine, avarice, expense,

  This is idolatry; and these we adore: 10

  Plain living and high thinking are no more:

  The homely beauty of the good old cause

  Is gone; our peace, our fearful innocence,

  And pure religion breathing household laws.

  LONDON, 1802

  MILTON! thou should’st be living at this hour:

  England hath need of thee: she is a fen

  Of stagnant waters: altar, sword, and pen,

  Fireside, the heroic wealth of hall and bower,

  Have forfeited their ancient English dower

  Of inward happiness. We are selfish men;

  Oh! raise us up, return to us again;

  And give us manners, virtue, freedom, power.

  Thy soul was like a Star, and dwelt apart:

  Thou hadst a voice whose sound was like the sea: 10

  Pure as the naked heavens, majestic, free,

  So didst thou travel on life’s common way,

  In cheerful godliness; and yet thy heart

  The lowliest duties on herself did lay.

  GREAT MEN HAVE BEEN AMONG US

  GREAT men have been among us; hands that penned

  And tongues that uttered wisdom—better none:

  The later Sidney, Marvel, Harrington,

  Young Vane, and others who called Milton friend.

  These moralists could act and comp
rehend:

  They knew how genuine glory was put on;

  Taught us how rightfully nation shone

  In splendour: what strength was, that would not bend

  But in magnanimous meekness. France, ‘tis strange,

  Hath brought forth no such souls as we had then. 10

  Perpetual emptiness! unceasing change!

  No single volume paramount, no code,

  No master spirit, no determined road;

  But equally a want of books and men!

  IT IS NOT TO BE THOUGHT OF

  IT is not to be thought of that the Flood

  Of British freedom, which, to the open sea

  Of the world’s praise, from dark antiquity

  Hath flowed, “with pomp of waters, unwithstood,”

  Roused though it be full often to a mood

  Which spurns the check of salutary bands,

  That this most famous Stream in bogs and sands

  Should perish; and to evil and to good

  Be lost for ever. In our halls is hung

  Armoury of the invincible Knights of old: 10

  We must be free or die, who speak the tongue

  That Shakspeare spake; the faith and morals hold

  Which Milton held.—In everything we are sprung

  Of Earth’s first blood, have titles manifold.

  WHEN I HAVE BORNE IN MEMORY

  WHEN I have borne in memory what has tamed

  Great Nations, how ennobling thoughts depart

  When men change swords for ledgers, and desert

  The student’s bower for gold, some fears unnamed

  I had, my Country!—am I to be blamed?

  Now, when I think of thee, and what thou art,

  Verily, in the bottom of my heart,

  Of those unfilial fears I am ashamed.

  For dearly must we prize thee; we who find

  In thee a bulwark for the cause of men: 10

  And I by my affection was beguiled:

  What wonder if a Poet now and then,

  Among the many movements of his mind,

  Felt for thee as a lover or a child!

  COMPOSED AFTER A JOURNEY ACROSS THE HAMBLETON HILLS, YORKSHIRE

  DARK and more dark the shades of evening fell;

  The wished-for point was reached—but at an hour