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Delphi Complete Works of William Wordsworth

Page 176

by William Wordsworth


  IT IS NO SPIRIT WHO FROM HEAVEN HATH FLOWN

  IT is no Spirit who from heaven hath flown,

  And is descending on his embassy;

  Nor Traveller gone from earth the heavens to espy!

  ‘Tis Hesperus—there he stands with glittering crown,

  First admonition that the sun is down!

  For yet it is broad day-light: clouds pass by;

  A few are near him still—and now the sky,

  He hath it to himself—’tis all his own.

  O most ambitious Star! an inquest wrought

  Within me when I recognised thy light; 10

  A moment I was startled at the sight:

  And, while I gazed, there came to me a thought

  That I might step beyond my natural race

  As thou seem’st now to do; might one day trace

  Some ground not mine; and, strong her strength above,

  My Soul, an Apparition in the place,

  Tread there with steps that no one shall reprove!

  1803.

  MEMORIALS OF A TOUR IN SCOTLAND, 1803 I.

  DEPARTURE FROM THE VALE OF GRASMERE, AUGUST 1803

  THE gentlest Shade that walked Elysian plains

  Might sometimes covet dissoluble chains;

  Even for the tenants of the zone that lies

  Beyond the stars, celestial Paradise,

  Methinks ‘twould heighten joy, to overleap

  At will the crystal battlements, and peep

  Into some other region, though less fair,

  To see how things are made and managed there.

  Change for the worse might please, incursion bold

  Into the tracts of darkness and of cold; 10

  O’er Limbo lake with aery flight to steer,

  And on the verge of Chaos hang in fear.

  Such animation often do I find,

  Power in my breast, wings growing in my mind,

  Then, when some rock or hill is overpast,

  Perhance without one look behind me cast.

  Some barrier with which Nature, from the birth

  Of things, has fenced this fairest spot on earth.

  O pleasant transit, Grasmere! to resign

  Such happy fields, abodes so calm as thine; 20

  Not like an outcast with himself at strife;

  The slave of business, time, or care for life,

  But moved by choice; or, if constrained in part,

  Yet still with Nature’s freedom at the heart;—

  To cull contentment upon wildest shores,

  And luxuries extract from bleakest moors;

  With prompt embrace all beauty to enfold,

  And having rights in all that we behold.

  —Then why these lingering steps?—A bright adieu,

  For a brief absence, proves that love is true; 30

  Ne’er can the way be irksome or forlorn

  That winds into itself for sweet return.

  MEMORIALS OF A TOUR IN SCOTLAND, 1803 II.

  AT THE GRAVE OF BURNS, 1803

  SEVEN YEARS AFTER HIS DEATH

  I SHIVER, Spirit fierce and bold,

  At thought of what I now behold:

  As vapours breathed from dungeons cold,

  Strike pleasure dead,

  So sadness comes from out the mould

  Where Burns is laid.

  And have I then thy bones so near,

  And thou forbidden to appear?

  As if it were thyself that’s here

  I shrink with pain; 10

  And both my wishes and my fear

  Alike are vain.

  Off weight—nor press on weight!—away

  Dark thoughts!—they came, but not to stay;

  With chastened feelings would I pay

  The tribute due

  To him, and aught that hides his clay

  From mortal view.

  Fresh as the flower, whose modest worth

  He sang, his genius “glinted” forth, 20

  Rose like a star that touching earth,

  For so it seems,

  Doth glorify its humble birth

  With matchless beams.

  The piercing eye, the thoughtful brow,

  The struggling heart, where be they now?—

  Full soon the Aspirant of the plough,

  The prompt, the brave,

  Slept, with the obscurest, in the low

  And silent grave. 30

  I mourned with thousands, but as one

  More deeply grieved, for He was gone

  Whose light I hailed when first it shone,

  And showed my youth

  How Verse may build a princely throne

  On humble truth.

  Alas! where’er the current tends,

  Regret pursues and with it blends,—

  Huge Criffel’s hoary top ascends

  By Skiddaw seen,— 40

  Neighbours we were, and loving friends

  We might have been;

  True friends though diversely inclined;

  But heart with heart and mind with mind,

  Where the main fibres are entwined,

  Through Nature’s skill,

  May even by contraries be joined

  More closely still.

  The tear will start, and let it flow;

  Thou “poor Inhabitant below,”50

  At this dread moment—even so—

  Might we together

  Have sate and talked where gowans blow,

  Or on wild heather.

  What treasures would have then been placed

  Within my reach; of knowledge graced

  By fancy what a rich repast!

  But why go on?—

  Oh! spare to sweep, thou mournful blast,

  His grave grass-grown. 60

  There, too, a Son, his joy and pride,

  (Not three weeks past the Stripling died,)

  Lies gathered to his Father’s side,

  Soul-moving sight!

  Yet one to which is not denied

  Some sad delight:

  For ‘he’ is safe, a quiet bed

  Hath early found among the dead,

  Harboured where none can be misled,

  Wronged, or distrest; 70

  And surely here it may be said

  That such are blest.

  And oh for Thee, by pitying grace

  Checked oft-times in a devious race,

  May He who halloweth the place

  Where Man is laid

  Receive thy Spirit in the embrace

  For which it prayed!

  Sighing I turned away; but ere

  Night fell I heard, or seemed to hear, 80

  Music that sorrow comes not near,

  A ritual hymn,

  Chaunted in love that casts out fear

  By Seraphim.

  MEMORIALS OF A TOUR IN SCOTLAND, 1803 III.

  THOUGHTS SUGGESTED THE DAY FOLLOWING, ON THE BANKS OF NITH, NEAR THE POET’S RESIDENCE

  TOO frail to keep the lofty vow

  That must have followed when his brow

  Was wreathed—”The Vision” tells us how—

  With holly spray,

  He faltered, drifted to and fro,

  And passed away.

  Well might such thoughts, dear Sister, throng

  Our minds when, lingering all too long,

  Over the grave of Burns we hung

  In social grief— 10

  Indulged as if it were a wrong

  To seek relief.

  But, leaving each unquiet theme

  Where gentlest judgments may misdeem,

  And prompt to welcome every gleam

  Of good and fair,

  Let us beside this limpid Stream

  Breathe hopeful air.

  Enough of sorrow, wreck, and blight;

  Think rather of those moments bright 20

  When to the consciousness of right

  His course was true,

  When Wisdom prospered in h
is sight

  And virtue grew.

  Yes, freely let our hearts expand,

  Freely as in youth’s season bland,

  When side by side, his Book in hand,

  We wont to stray,

  Our pleasure varying at command

  Of each sweet Lay. 30

  How oft inspired must he have trod

  These pathways, yon far-stretching road!

  There lurks his home; in that Abode,

  With mirth elate,

  Or in his nobly-pensive mood,

  The Rustic sate.

  Proud thoughts that Image overawes,

  Before it humbly let us pause,

  And ask of Nature, from what cause

  And by what rules 40

  She trained her Burns to win applause

  That shames the Schools.

  Through busiest street and loneliest glen

  Are felt the flashes of his pen;

  He rules ‘mid winter snows, and when

  Bees fill their hives;

  Deep in the general heart of men

  His power survives.

  What need of fields in some far clime

  Where Heroes, Sages, Bards sublime, 50

  And all that fetched the flowing rhyme

  From genuine springs,

  Shall dwell together till old Time

  Folds up his wings?

  Sweet Mercy! to the gates of Heaven

  This Minstrel lead, his sins forgiven;

  The rueful conflict, the heart riven

  With vain endeavour,

  And memory of Earth’s bitter leaven,

  Effaced for ever. 60

  But why to Him confine the prayer,

  When kindred thoughts and yearnings bear

  On the frail heart the purest share

  With all that live?—

  The best of what we do and are,

  Just God, forgive!

  MEMORIALS OF A TOUR IN SCOTLAND, 1803 IV.

  TO THE SONS OF BURNS AFTER VISITING THE GRAVE OF THEIR FATHER

  ‘MID crowded obelisks and urns

  I sought the untimely grave of Burns;

  Sons of the Bard, my heart still mourns

  With sorrow true;

  And more would grieve, but that it turns

  Trembling to you!

  Through twilight shades of good and ill

  Ye now are panting up life’s hill,

  And more than common strength and skill

  Must ye display; 10

  If ye would give the better will

  Its lawful sway.

  Hath Nature strung your nerves to bear

  Intemperance with less harm, beware!

  But if the Poet’s wit ye share,

  Like him can speed

  The social hour—of tenfold care

  There will be need;

  For honest men delight will take

  To spare your failings for his sake, 20

  Will flatter you,—and fool and rake

  Your steps pursue;

  And of your Father’s name will make

  A snare for you.

  Far from their noisy haunts retire,

  And add your voices to the quire

  That sanctify the cottage fire

  With service meet;

  There seek the genius of your Sire,

  His spirit greet; 30

  Or where, ‘mid “lonely heights and hows,”

  He paid to Nature tuneful vows;

  Or wiped his honourable brows

  Bedewed with toil,

  While reapers strove, or busy ploughs

  Upturned the soil;

  His judgment with benignant ray

  Shall guide, his fancy cheer, your way;

  But ne’er to a seductive lay

  Let faith be given; 40

  Nor deem that “light which leads astray,

  Is light from Heaven.”

  Let no mean hope your souls enslave;

  Be independent, generous, brave;

  Your Father such example gave,

  And such revere;

  But be admonished by his grave,

  And think, and fear!

  MEMORIALS OF A TOUR IN SCOTLAND, 1803 V.

  TO A HIGHLAND GIRL AT INVERSNEYDE, UPON LOCH LOMOND

  SWEET Highland Girl, a very shower

  Of beauty is thy earthly dower!

  Twice seven consenting years have shed

  Their utmost bounty on thy head:

  And these grey rocks; that household lawn;

  Those trees, a veil just half withdrawn;

  This fall of water that doth make

  A murmur near the silent lake;

  This little bay; a quiet road

  That holds in shelter thy Abode—10

  In truth together do ye seem

  Like something fashioned in a dream;

  Such Forms as from their covert peep

  When earthly cares are laid asleep!

  But, O fair Creature! in the light

  Of common day, so heavenly bright,

  I bless Thee, Vision as thou art,

  I bless thee with a human heart;

  God shield thee to thy latest years!

  Thee, neither know I, nor thy peers; 20

  And yet my eyes are filled with tears.

  With earnest feeling I shall pray

  For thee when I am far away:

  For never saw I mien, or face,

  In which more plainly I could trace

  Benignity and home-bred sense

  Ripening in perfect innocence.

  Here scattered, like a random seed,

  Remote from men, Thou dost not need

  The embarrassed look of shy distress, 30

  And maidenly shamefacedness:

  Thou wear’st upon thy forehead clear

  The freedom of a Mountaineer:

  A face with gladness overspread!

  Soft smiles, by human kindness bred!

  And seemliness complete, that sways

  Thy courtesies, about thee plays;

  With no restraint, but such as springs

  From quick and eager visitings

  Of thoughts that lie beyond the reach 40

  Of thy few words of English speech:

  A bondage sweetly brooked, a strife

  That gives thy gestures grace and life!

  So have I, not unmoved in mind,

  Seen birds of tempest-loving kind—

  Thus beating up against the wind.

  What hand but would a garland cull

  For thee who art so beautiful?

  O happy pleasure! here to dwell

  Beside thee in some heathy dell; 50

  Adopt your homely ways, and dress,

  A Shepherd, thou a Shepherdess!

  But I could frame a wish for thee

  More like a grave reality:

  Thou art to me but as a wave

  Of the wild sea; and I would have

  Some claim upon thee, if I could,

  Though but of common neighbourhood.

  What joy to hear thee, and to see!

  Thy elder Brother I would be, 60

  Thy Father—anything to thee!

  Now thanks to Heaven! that of its grace

  Hath led me to this lonely place.

  Joy have I had; and going hence

  I bear away my recompence.

  In spots like these it is we prize

  Our Memory, feel that she hath eyes:

  Then, why should I be loth to stir?

  I feel this place was made for her;

  To give new pleasure like the past, 70

  Continued long as life shall last.

  Nor am I loth, though pleased at heart,

  Sweet Highland Girl! from thee to part:

  For I, methinks, till I grow old,

  As fair before me shall behold,

  As I do now, the cabin small,

  The lake, the bay, the waterfall;

  And Thee, the Spirit of them all!

/>   MEMORIALS OF A TOUR IN SCOTLAND, 1803 VI.

  GLEN-ALMAIN; OR, THE NARROW GLEN

  IN this still place, remote from men,

  Sleeps Ossian, in the NARROW GLEN;

  In this still place, where murmurs on

  But one meek streamlet, only one:

  He sang of battles, and the breath

  Of stormy war, and violent death;

  And should, methinks, when all was past,

  Have rightfully been laid at last

  Where rocks were rudely heaped, and rent

  As by a spirit turbulent;

  Where sights were rough, and sounds were wild, 10

  And everything unreconciled;

  In some complaining, dim retreat,

  For fear and melancholy meet;

  But this is calm; there cannot be

  A more entire tranquillity.

  Does then the Bard sleep here indeed?

  Or is it but a groundless creed?

  What matters it?—I blame them not

  Whose Fancy in this lonely Spot

  Was moved; and in such way expressed 20

  Their notion of its perfect rest.

  A convent, even a hermit’s cell,

  Would break the silence of this Dell:

  It is not quiet, is not ease;

  But something deeper far than these:

  The separation that is here

  Is of the grave; and of austere

  Yet happy feelings of the dead:

  And, therefore, was it rightly said

  That Ossian, last of all his race! 30

  Lies buried in this lonely place.

  MEMORIALS OF A TOUR IN SCOTLAND, 1803 VII.

  STEPPING WESTWARD

  “What, you are stepping westward?”—”Yea.”

  —’Twould be a ‘wildish’ destiny,

  If we, who thus together roam

  In a strange Land, and far from home,

  Were in this place the guests of Chance:

  Yet who would stop, or fear to advance,

  Though home or shelter he had none,

  With such a sky to lead him on?

  The dewy ground was dark and cold;

  Behind, all gloomy to behold;

  And stepping westward seemed to be 10

  A kind of ‘heavenly’ destiny:

  I liked the greeting; ‘twas a sound

  Of something without place or bound;

  And seemed to give me spiritual right

  To travel through that region bright.

  The voice was soft, and she who spake

  Was walking by her native lake:

  The salutation had to me

  The very sound of courtesy:

  Its power was felt; and while my eye 20

  Was fixed upon the glowing Sky,

  The echo of the voice enwrought

  A human sweetness with the thought

  Of travelling through the world that lay

 

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