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Delphi Complete Works of William Wordsworth

Page 213

by William Wordsworth


  What boots the inquiry?—Neither friend nor foe

  She cares for; let her travel where she may,

  She finds familiar names, a beaten way

  Ever before her, and a wind to blow.

  Yet still I ask, what haven is her mark?

  And, almost as it was when ships were rare, 10

  (From time to time, like Pilgrims, here and there

  Crossing the waters) doubt, and something dark,

  Of the old Sea some reverential fear,

  Is with me at thy farewell, joyous Bark!

  1806.

  TO SLEEP (I)

  O GENTLE SLEEP! do they belong to thee,

  These twinklings of oblivion? Thou dost love

  To sit in meekness, like the brooding Dove,

  A captive never wishing to be free.

  This tiresome night, O Sleep! thou art to me

  A Fly, that up and down himself doth shove

  Upon a fretful rivulet, now above

  Now on the water vexed with mockery.

  I have no pain that calls for patience, no;

  Hence am I cross and peevish as a child: 10

  Am pleased by fits to have thee for my foe,

  Yet ever willing to be reconciled:

  O gentle Creature! do not use me so,

  But once and deeply let me be beguiled.

  1806.

  TO SLEEP (II)

  A FLOCK of sheep that leisurely pass by,

  One after one; the sound of rain, and bees

  Murmuring; the fall of rivers, winds and seas,

  Smooth fields, white sheets of water, and pure sky;

  I have thought of all by turns, and yet do lie

  Sleepless! and soon the small birds’ melodies

  Must hear, first uttered from my orchard trees;

  And the first cuckoo’s melancholy cry.

  Even thus last night, and two nights more, I lay,

  And could not win thee, Sleep! by any stealth: 10

  So do not let me wear to-night away:

  Without Thee what is all the morning’s wealth?

  Come, blessed barrier between day and day,

  Dear mother of fresh thoughts and joyous health!

  1806.

  TO SLEEP (III)

  FOND words have oft been spoken to thee, Sleep!

  And thou hast had thy store of tenderest names;

  The very sweetest, Fancy culls or frames,

  When thankfulness of heart is strong and deep!

  Dear Bosom-child we call thee, that dost steep

  In rich reward all suffering; Balm that tames

  All anguish; Saint that evil thoughts and aims

  Takest away, and into souls dost creep,

  Like to a breeze from heaven. Shall I alone,

  I surely not a man ungently made, 10

  Call thee worst Tyrant by which Flesh is crost?

  Perverse, self-willed to own and to disown,

  Mere slave of them who never for thee prayed,

  Still last to come where thou art wanted most!

  1806.

  MICHAEL ANGELO IN REPLY TO THE PASSAGE UPON HIS STATUE OF NIGHT SLEEPING

  ‘Night Speaks’

  GRATEFUL is Sleep, my life in stone bound fast;

  More grateful still: while wrong and shame shall last,

  On me can Time no happier state bestow

  Than to be left unconscious of the woe.

  Ah then, lest you awaken me, speak low.

  Grateful is Sleep, more grateful still to be

  Of marble; for while shameless wrong and woe

  Prevail, ‘tis best to neither hear nor see.

  Then wake me not, I pray you. Hush, speak low.

  Come, gentle Sleep, Death’s image tho’ thou art, 10

  Come share my couch, nor speedily depart;

  How sweet thus living without life to lie,

  Thus without death how sweet it is to die.

  1806.

  FROM THE ITALIAN OF MICHAEL ANGELO I

  YES! hope may with my strong desire keep pace,

  And I be undeluded, unbetrayed;

  For if of our affections none finds grace

  In sight of Heaven, then, wherefore hath God made

  The world which we inhabit? Better plea

  Love cannot have, than that in loving thee

  Glory to that eternal Peace is paid,

  Who such divinity to thee imparts

  As hallows and makes pure all gentle hearts.

  His hope is treacherous only whose love dies 10

  With beauty, which is varying every hour;

  But, in chaste hearts uninfluenced by the power

  Of outward change, there blooms a deathless flower,

  That breathes on earth the air of paradise.

  1806.

  FROM THE SAME II

  NO mortal object did these eyes behold

  When first they met the placid light of thine,

  And my Soul felt her destiny divine,

  And hope of endless peace in me grew bold:

  Heaven-born, the Soul a heaven-ward course must hold;

  Beyond the visible world she soars to seek

  (For what delights the sense is false and weak)

  Ideal Form, the universal mould.

  The wise man, I affirm, can find no rest

  In that which perishes: nor will he lend 10

  His heart to aught which doth on time depend.

  ‘Tis sense, unbridled will, and not true love,

  That kills the soul: love betters what is best,

  Even here below, but more in heaven above.

  1806.

  TO THE MEMORY OF RAISLEY CALVERT

  CALVERT! it must not be unheard by them

  Who may respect my name, that I to thee

  Owed many years of early liberty.

  This care was thine when sickness did condemn

  Thy youth to hopeless wasting, root and stem—

  That I, if frugal and severe, might stray

  Where’er I liked; and finally array

  My temples with the Muse’s diadem.

  Hence, if in freedom I have loved the truth;

  If there be aught of pure, or good, or great, 10

  In my past verse; or shall be, in the lays

  Of higher mood, which now I meditate;—

  It gladdens me, O worthy, short-lived, Youth!

  To think how much of this will be thy praise.

  1806.

  METHOUGHT I SAW THE FOOTSTEPS OF A THRONE I

  METHOUGHT I saw the footsteps of a throne

  Which mists and vapours from mine eyes did shroud—

  Nor view of who might sit thereon allowed;

  But all the steps and ground about were strown

  With sights the ruefullest that flesh and bone

  Ever put on; a miserable crowd,

  Sick, hale, old, young, who cried before that cloud,

  “Thou art our king, O Death! to thee we groan.”

  Those steps I clomb; the mists before me gave

  Smooth way; and I beheld the face of one 10

  Sleeping alone within a mossy cave,

  With her face up to heaven; that seemed to have

  Pleasing remembrance of a thought foregone;

  A lovely Beauty in a summer grave!

  1806.

  LINES: LOUD IS THE VALE! THE VOICE IS UP

  LOUD is the Vale! the Voice is up

  With which she speaks when storms are gone,

  A mighty unison of streams!

  Of all her Voices, One!

  Loud is the Vale;—this inland Depth

  In peace is roaring like the Sea

  Yon star upon the mountain-top

  Is listening quietly.

  Sad was I, even to pain deprest,

  Importunate and heavy load! 10

  The Comforter hath found me here,

  Upon this lonely road;

  And many thousands now are sad—

 
Wait the fulfilment of their fear;

  For he must die who is their stay,

  Their glory disappear.

  A Power is passing from the earth

  To breathless Nature’s dark abyss;

  But when the great and good depart

  What is it more than this—20

  That Man, who is from God sent forth,

  Doth yet again to God return?—

  Such ebb and flow must ever be,

  Then wherefore should we mourn?

  1806.

  NOVEMBER 1806

  ANOTHER year!—another deadly blow!

  Another mighty Empire overthrown!

  And We are left, or shall be left, alone;

  The last that dare to struggle with the Foe.

  ‘Tis well! from this day forward we shall know

  That in ourselves our safety must be sought;

  That by our own right hands it must be wrought;

  That we must stand unpropped, or be laid low.

  O dastard whom such foretaste doth not cheer!

  We shall exult, if they who rule the land 10

  Be men who hold its many blessings dear,

  Wise, upright, valiant; not a servile band,

  Who are to judge of danger which they fear,

  And honour which they do not understand.

  ADDRESS TO A CHILD DURING A BOISTEROUS WINTER EVENING

  BY MY SISTER

  WHAT way does the wind come? What way does he go?

  He rides over the water, and over the snow,

  Through wood, and through vale; and, o’er rocky height

  Which the goat cannot climb, takes his sounding flight;

  He tosses about in every bare tree,

  As, if you look up, you plainly may see;

  But how he will come, and whither he goes,

  There’s never a scholar in England knows.

  He will suddenly stop in a cunning nook

  And ring a sharp ‘larum;—but, if you should look, 10

  There’s nothing to see but a cushion of snow

  Round as a pillow, and whiter than milk,

  And softer than if it were covered with silk.

  Sometimes he’ll hide in the cave of a rock,

  Then whistle as shrill as the buzzard cock;

  —Yet seek him,—and what shall you find in the place?

  Nothing but silence and empty space;

  Save, in a corner, a heap of dry leaves,

  That he’s left, for a bed, to beggars or thieves!

  As soon as ‘tis daylight to-morrow, with me 20

  You shall go to the orchard, and then you will see

  That he has been there, and made a great rout,

  And cracked the branches, and strewn them about;

  Heaven grant that he spare but that one upright twig

  That looked up at the sky so proud and big

  All last summer, as well you know,

  Studded with apples, a beautiful show!

  Hark! over the roof he makes a pause,

  And growls as if he would fix his claws

  Right in the slates, and with a huge rattle 30

  Drive them down, like men in a battle:

  —But let him range round; he does us no harm,

  We build up the fire, we’re snug and warm;

  Untouched by his breath see the candle shines bright,

  And burns with a clear and steady light;

  Books have we to read,—but that half-stifled knell,

  Alas! ‘tis the sound of the eight o’clock bell.

  —Come now we’ll to bed! and when we are there

  He may work his own will, and what shall we care?

  He may knock at the door,—we’ll not let him in; 40

  May drive at the windows,—we’ll laugh at his din;

  Let him seek his own home wherever it be;

  Here’s a ‘cozie’ warm house for Edward and me.

  1806.

  ODE INTIMATIONS OF IMMORTALITY FROM RECOLLECTIONS OF EARLY CHILDHOOD

  I

  THERE was a time when meadow, grove, and stream,

  The earth, and every common sight,

  To me did seem

  Apparelled in celestial light,

  The glory and the freshness of a dream.

  It is not now as it hath been of yore;—

  Turn wheresoe’er I may,

  By night or day,

  The things which I have seen I now can see no more.

  II

  The Rainbow comes and goes,

  And lovely is the Rose,

  The Moon doth with delight

  Look round her when the heavens are bare,

  Waters on a starry night

  Are beautiful and fair;

  The sunshine is a glorious birth;

  But yet I know, where’er I go,

  That there hath past away a glory from the earth.

  III

  Now, while the birds thus sing a joyous song,

  And while the young lambs bound

  As to the tabor’s sound,

  To me alone there came a thought of grief:

  A timely utterance gave that thought relief,

  And I again am strong:

  The cataracts blow their trumpets from the steep;

  No more shall grief of mine the season wrong;

  I hear the Echoes through the mountains throng,

  The Winds come to me from the fields of sleep,

  And all the earth is gay;

  Land and sea

  Give themselves up to jollity,

  And with the heart of May

  Doth every Beast keep holiday;—

  Thou Child of Joy,

  Shout round me, let me hear thy shouts, thou happy

  Shepherd-boy!

  IV

  Ye blessed Creatures, I have heard the call

  Ye to each other make; I see

  The heavens laugh with you in your jubilee;

  My heart is at your festival,

  My head hath its coronal,

  The fulness of your bliss, I feel—I feel it all.

  Oh evil day! if I were sullen

  While Earth herself is adorning,

  This sweet May-morning,

  And the Children are culling

  On every side,

  In a thousand valleys far and wide,

  Fresh flowers; while the sun shines warm,

  And the Babe leaps up on his Mother’s arm:—

  I hear, I hear, with joy I hear!

  —But there’s a Tree, of many, one,

  A single Field which I have looked upon,

  Both of them speak of something that is gone:

  The Pansy at my feet

  Doth the same tale repeat:

  Whither is fled the visionary gleam?

  Where is it now, the glory and the dream?

  V

  Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting:

  The Soul that rises with us, our life’s Star,

  Hath had elsewhere its setting,

  And cometh from afar:

  Not in entire forgetfulness,

  And not in utter nakedness,

  But trailing clouds of glory do we come

  From God, who is our home:

  Heaven lies about us in our infancy!

  Shades of the prison-house begin to close

  Upon the growing Boy,

  But He beholds the light, and whence it flows,

  He sees it in his joy;

  The Youth, who daily farther from the east

  Must travel, still is Nature’s Priest,

  And by the vision splendid

  Is on his way attended;

  At length the Man perceives it die away,

  And fade into the light of common day.

  VI

  Earth fills her lap with pleasures of her own;

  Yearnings she hath in her own natural kind,

  And, even with something of a Mother’s mind,

  And no unworthy aim,


  The homely Nurse doth all she can

  To make her Foster-child, her Inmate Man,

  Forget the glories he hath known,

  And that imperial palace whence he came.

  VII

  Behold the Child among his new-born blisses,

  A six years’ Darling of a pigmy size!

  See, where ‘mid work of his own hand he lies,

  Fretted by sallies of his mother’s kisses,

  With light upon him from his father’s eyes!

  See, at his feet, some little plan or chart,

  Some fragment from his dream of human life,

  Shaped by himself with newly-learned art;

  A wedding or a festival,

  A mourning or a funeral;

  And this hath now his heart,

  And unto this he frames his song:

  Then will he fit his tongue

  To dialogues of business, love, or strife;

  But it will not be long

  Ere this be thrown aside,

  And with new joy and pride

  The little Actor cons another part;

  Filling from time to time his “humorous stage”

  With all the Persons, down to palsied Age,

  That Life brings with her in her equipage;

  As if his whole vocation

  Were endless imitation.

  VIII

  Thou, whose exterior semblance doth belie

  Thy Soul’s immensity;

  Thou best Philosopher, who yet dost keep

  Thy heritage, thou Eye among the blind,

  That, deaf and silent, read’st the eternal deep,

  Haunted for ever by the eternal mind,—

  Mighty Prophet! Seer blest!

  On whom those truths do rest,

  Which we are toiling all our lives to find,

  In darkness lost, the darkness of the grave;

  Thou, over whom thy Immortality

  Broods like the Day, a Master o’er a Slave,

  A Presence which is not to be put by;

  Thou little Child, yet glorious in the might

  Of heaven-born freedom on thy being’s height,

  Why with such earnest pains dost thou provoke

  The years to bring the inevitable yoke,

  Thus blindly with thy blessedness at strife?

  Full soon thy Soul shall have her earthly freight,

  And custom lie upon thee with a weight

  Heavy as frost, and deep almost as life!

  IX

  O joy! that in our embers

  Is something that doth live,

  That nature yet remembers

  What was so fugitive!

  The thought of our past years in me doth breed

 

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