Delphi Complete Works of William Wordsworth

by William Wordsworth

  It plays not for them,—what matter? ‘tis theirs;

  And if they had care, it has scattered their cares,

  While they dance, crying, “Long as ye please!”

  They dance not for me,

  Yet mine is their glee!

  Thus pleasure is spread through the earth

  In stray gifts to be claimed by whoever shall find;

  Thus a rich loving-kindness, redundantly kind,

  Moves all nature to gladness and mirth. 30

  The showers of the spring

  Rouse the birds, and they sing;

  If the wind do but stir for his proper delight,

  Each leaf, that and this, his neighbour will kiss;

  Each wave, one and t’ other, speeds after his brother:

  They are happy, for that is their right!

  1806.

  POWER OF MUSIC

  AN Orpheus! an Orpheus! yes, Faith may grow bold,

  And take to herself all the wonders of old;—

  Near the stately Pantheon you’ll meet with the same

  In the street that from Oxford hath borrowed its name.

  His station is there; and he works on the crowd,

  He sways them with harmony merry and loud;

  He fills with his power all their hearts to the brim—

  Was aught ever heard like his fiddle and him?

  What an eager assembly! what an empire is this!

  The weary have life, and the hungry have bliss; 10

  The mourner is cheered, and the anxious have rest;

  And the guilt-burthened soul is no longer opprest.

  As the Moon brightens round her the clouds of the night,

  So He, where he stands, is a centre of light;

  It gleams on the face, there, of dusky-browed Jack,

  And the pale-visaged Baker’s, with basket on back.

  That errand-bound ‘Prentice was passing in haste—

  What matter! he’s caught—and his time runs to waste;

  The Newsman is stopped, though he stops on the fret;

  And the half-breathless Lamplighter—he’s in the net! 20

  The Porter sits down on the weight which he bore;

  The Lass with her barrow wheels hither her store;—

  If a thief could be here he might pilfer at ease;

  She sees the Musician, ‘tis all that she sees!

  He stands, backed by the wall;—he abates not his din

  His hat gives him vigour, with boons dropping in,

  From the old and the young, from the poorest; and there!

  The one-pennied Boy has his penny to spare.

  O blest are the hearers, and proud be the hand

  Of the pleasure it spreads through so thankful a band; 30

  I am glad for him, blind as he is!—all the while

  If they speak ‘tis to praise, and they praise with a smile.

  That tall Man, a giant in bulk and in height,

  Not an inch of his body is free from delight;

  Can he keep himself still, if he would? oh, not he!

  The music stirs in him like wind through a tree.

  Mark that Cripple who leans on his crutch; like a tower

  That long has leaned forward, leans hour after hour!—

  That Mother, whose spirit in fetters is bound,

  While she dandles the Babe in her arms to the sound. 40

  Now, coaches and chariots! roar on like a stream;

  Here are twenty souls happy as souls in a dream:

  They are deaf to your murmurs—they care not for you,

  Nor what ye are flying, nor what ye pursue!

  1806.

  STAR-GAZERS

  WHAT crowd is this? what have we here! we must not pass it by;

  A Telescope upon its frame, and pointed to the sky:

  Long is it as a barber’s pole, or mast of little boat,

  Some little pleasure-skiff, that doth on Thames’s waters float.

  The Showman chooses well his place, ‘tis Leicester’s busy Square;

  And is as happy in his night, for the heavens are blue and fair;

  Calm, though impatient, is the crowd; each stands ready with the

  fee,

  And envies him that’s looking;—what an insight must it be!

  Yet, Showman, where can lie the cause? Shall thy Implement have

  blame,

  A boaster, that when he is tried, fails, and is put to shame? 10

  Or is it good as others are, and be their eyes in fault?

  Their eyes, or minds? or, finally, is yon resplendent vault?

  Is nothing of that radiant pomp so good as we have here?

  Or gives a thing but small delight that never can be dear?

  The silver moon with all her vales, and hills of mightiest fame,

  Doth she betray us when they’re seen? or are they but a name?

  Or is it rather that Conceit rapacious is and strong,

  And bounty never yields so much but it seems to do her wrong?

  Or is it, that when human Souls a journey long have had

  And are returned into themselves, they cannot but be sad? 20

  Or must we be constrained to think that these Spectators rude,

  Poor in estate, of manners base, men of the multitude,

  Have souls which never yet have risen, and therefore prostrate

  lie?

  No, no, this cannot be;—men thirst for power and majesty!

  Does, then, a deep and earnest thought the blissful mind employ

  Of him who gazes, or has gazed? a grave and steady joy,

  That doth reject all show of pride, admits no outward sign,

  Because not of this noisy world, but silent and divine!

  Whatever be the cause, ‘tis sure that they who pry and pore

  Seem to meet with little gain, seem less happy than before: 30

  One after One they take their turn, nor have I one espied

  That doth not slackly go away, as if dissatisfied.

  1806.

  YES, IT WAS THE MOUNTAIN ECHO

  YES, it was the mountain Echo,

  Solitary, clear, profound,

  Answering to the shouting Cuckoo,

  Giving to her sound for sound!

  Unsolicited reply

  To a babbling wanderer sent;

  Like her ordinary cry,

  Like—but oh, how different!

  Hears not also mortal Life?

  Hear not we, unthinking Creatures! 10

  Slaves of folly, love, or strife—

  Voices of two different natures?

  Have not ‘we’ too?—yes, we have

  Answers, and we know not whence;

  Echoes from beyond the grave,

  Recognised intelligence!

  Such rebounds our inward ear

  Catches sometimes from afar—

  Listen, ponder, hold them dear;

  For of God,—of God they are. 20

  1806.

  NUNS FRET NOT AT THEIR CONVENT’S NARROW ROOM

  NUNS fret not at their convent’s narrow room;

  And hermits are contented with their cells;

  And students with their pensive citadels;

  Maids at the wheel, the weaver at his loom,

  Sit blithe and happy; bees that soar for bloom,

  High as the highest Peak of Furness-fells,

  Will murmur by the hour in foxglove bells:

  In truth the prison, unto which we doom

  Ourselves, no prison is: and hence for me,

  In sundry moods, ‘twas pastime to be bound 10

  Within the Sonnet’s scanty plot of ground;

  Pleased if some Souls (for such there needs must be)

  Who have felt the weight of too much liberty,

  Should find brief solace there, as I have found.

  1806.

  PERSONAL TALK

  I

  I AM not One who much or oft delight

  To season my fireside with
personal talk.—

  Of friends, who live within an easy walk,

  Or neighbours, daily, weekly, in my sight:

  And, for my chance-acquaintance, ladies bright,

  Sons, mothers, maidens withering on the stalk,

  These all wear out of me, like Forms, with chalk

  Painted on rich men’s floors, for one feast-night.

  Better than such discourse doth silence long,

  Long, barren silence, square with my desire;

  To sit without emotion, hope, or aim,

  In the loved presence of my cottage-fire,

  And listen to the flapping of the flame,

  Or kettle whispering its faint undersong.

  II

  “Yet life,” you say, “is life; we have seen and see,

  And with a living pleasure we describe;

  And fits of sprightly malice do but bribe

  The languid mind into activity.

  Sound sense, and love itself, and mirth and glee

  Are fostered by the comment and the gibe.”

  Even be it so; yet still among your tribe,

  Our daily world’s true Worldlings, rank not me!

  Children are blest, and powerful; their world lies

  More justly balanced; partly at their feet,

  And part far from them: sweetest melodies

  Are those that are by distance made more sweet;

  Whose mind is but the mind of his own eyes,

  He is a Slave; the meanest we can meet!

  III

  Wings have we,—and as far as we can go,

  We may find pleasure: wilderness and wood,

  Blank ocean and mere sky, support that mood

  Which with the lofty sanctifies the low.

  Dreams, books, are each a world; and books, we know,

  Are a substantial world, both pure and good:

  Round these, with tendrils strong as flesh and blood,

  Our pastime and our happiness will grow.

  There find I personal themes, a plenteous store,

  Matter wherein right voluble I am,

  To which I listen with a ready ear;

  Two shall be named, pre-eminently dear,—

  The gentle Lady married to the Moor;

  And heavenly Una with her milk-white Lamb,

  IV

  Nor can I not believe but that hereby

  Great gains are mine; for thus I live remote

  From evil-speaking; rancour, never sought,

  Comes to me not; malignant truth, or lie.

  Hence have I genial seasons, hence have I

  Smooth passions, smooth discourse, and joyous thought:

  And thus from day to day my little boat

  Rocks in its harbour, lodging peaceably.

  Blessings be with them—and eternal praise,

  Who gave us nobler loves, and nobler cares—

  The Poets, who on earth have made us heirs

  Of truth and pure delight by heavenly lays!

  Oh! might my name be numbered among theirs,

  Then gladly would I end my mortal days.

  1806.

  ADMONITION

  WELL may’st thou halt—and gaze with brightening eye!

  The lovely Cottage in the guardian nook

  Hath stirred thee deeply; with its own dear brook,

  Its own small pasture, almost its own sky!

  But covet not the Abode;—forbear to sigh,

  As many do, repining while they look;

  Intruders—who would tear from Nature’s book

  This precious leaf, with harsh impiety.

  Think what the home must be if it were thine,

  Even thine, though few thy wants!—Roof, window, door, 10

  The very flowers are sacred to the Poor,

  The roses to the porch which they entwine:

  Yea, all, that now enchants thee, from the day

  On which it should be touched, would melt away.

  1806.

  BELOVED VALE! I SAID, WHEN I SHALL CON

  “BELOVED Vale!” I said, “when I shall con

  Those many records of my childish years,

  Remembrance of myself and of my peers

  Will press me down: to think of what is gone

  Will be an awful thought, if life have one.”

  But, when into the Vale I came, no fears

  Distressed me; from mine eyes escaped no tears;

  Deep thought, or dread remembrance, had I none.

  By doubts and thousand petty fancies crost

  I stood, of simple shame the blushing Thrall; 10

  So narrow seemed the brooks, the fields so small!

  A Juggler’s balls old Time about him tossed;

  I looked, I stared, I smiled, I laughed; and all

  The weight of sadness was in wonder lost.

  1806.

  HOW SWEET IT IS, WHEN MOTHER FANCY ROCKS

  HOW sweet it is, when mother Fancy rocks

  The wayward brain, to saunter through a wood!

  An old place, full of many a lovely brood,

  Tall trees, green arbours, and ground-flowers in flocks;

  And wild rose tip-toe upon hawthorn stocks,

  Like a bold Girl, who plays her agile pranks

  At Wakes and Fairs with wandering Mountebanks,—

  When she stands cresting the Clown’s head, and mocks

  The crowd beneath her. Verily I think,

  Such place to me is sometimes like a dream 10

  Or map of the whole world: thoughts, link by link,

  Enter through ears and eyesight, with such gleam

  Of all things, that at last in fear I shrink,

  And leap at once from the delicious stream.

  1806.

  THOSE WORDS WERE UTTERED AS IN PENSIVE MOOD

  “——they are of the sky,

  And from our earthly memory fade away.”

  THOSE words were uttered as in pensive mood

  We turned, departing from that solemn sight:

  A contrast and reproach to gross delight,

  And life’s unspiritual pleasures daily wooed!

  But now upon this thought I cannot brood;

  It is unstable as a dream of night;

  Nor will I praise a cloud, however bright,

  Disparaging Man’s gifts, and proper food.

  Grove, isle, with every shape of sky-built dome,

  Though clad in colours beautiful and pure, 10

  Find in the heart of man no natural home:

  The immortal Mind craves objects that endure:

  These cleave to it; from these it cannot roam,

  Nor they from it: their fellowship is secure.

  1806.

  COMPOSED BY THE SIDE OF GRASMERE LAKE 1806.

  CLOUDS, lingering yet, extend in solid bars

  Through the grey west; and lo! these waters, steeled

  By breezeless air to smoothest polish, yield

  A vivid repetition of the stars;

  Jove, Venus, and the ruddy crest of Mars

  Amid his fellows beauteously revealed

  At happy distance from earth’s groaning field,

  Where ruthless mortals wage incessant wars.

  Is it a mirror?—or the nether Sphere

  Opening to view the abyss in which she feeds 10

  Her own calm fires?—But list! a voice is near;

  Great Pan himself low-whispering through the reeds,

  “Be thankful, thou; for, if unholy deeds

  Ravage the world, tranquillity is here!”

  WITH HOW SAD STEPS, O MOON, THOU CLIMB’ST THE SKY

  WITH how sad steps, O Moon, thou climb’st the sky,

  “How silently, and with how wan a face!”

  Where art thou? Thou so often seen on high

  Running among the clouds a Wood-nymph’s race!

  Unhappy Nuns, whose common breath’s a sigh

  Which they would stifle, move at such a pace!

  The nort
hern Wind, to call thee to the chase,

  Must blow to-night his bugle horn. Had I

  The power of Merlin, Goddess! this should be:

  And all the stars, fast as the clouds were riven, 10

  Should sally forth, to keep thee company,

  Hurrying and sparkling through the clear blue heaven.

  But, Cynthia! should to thee the palm be given,

  Queen both for beauty and for majesty.

  1806.

  THE WORLD IS TOO MUCH WITH US; LATE AND SOON

  THE world is too much with us; late and soon,

  Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers:

  Little we see in Nature that is ours;

  We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon!

  The Sea that bares her bosom to the moon;

  The winds that will be howling at all hours,

  And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers;

  For this, for everything, we are out of tune;

  It moves us not.—Great God! I’d rather be

  A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn; 10

  So might I, standing on this pleasant lea,

  Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn;

  Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea;

  Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn.

  1806.

  WITH SHIPS THE SEA WAS SPRINKLED FAR AND NIGH

  WITH Ships the sea was sprinkled far and nigh,

  Like stars in heaven, and joyously it showed;

  Some lying fast at anchor in the road,

  Some veering up and down, one knew not why.

  A goodly Vessel did I then espy

  Come like a giant from a haven broad;

  And lustily along the bay she strode,

  Her tackling rich, and of apparel high.

  This Ship was nought to me, nor I to her,

  Yet I pursued her with a Lover’s look; 10

  This Ship to all the rest did I prefer:

  When will she turn, and whither? She will brook

  No tarrying; where She comes the winds must stir:

  On went She, and due north her journey took.

  1806.

  WHERE LIES THE LAND TO WHICH YON SHIP MUST GO?

  WHERE lies the Land to which yon Ship must go?

  Fresh as a lark mounting at break of day,

  Festively she puts forth in trim array;

  Is she for tropic suns, or polar snow?