Delphi Complete Works of William Wordsworth

by William Wordsworth

  —Again he wanders forth at will, 110

  And tends a flock from hill to hill:

  His garb is humble; ne’er was seen

  Such garb with such a noble mien;

  Among the shepherd grooms no mate

  Hath he, a Child of strength and state!

  Yet lacks not friends for simple glee,

  Nor yet for higher sympathy.

  To his side the fallow-deer

  Came, and rested without fear;

  The eagle, lord of land and sea, 120

  Stooped down to pay him fealty;

  And both the undying fish that swim

  Through Bowscale-tarn did wait on him;

  The pair were servants of his eye

  In their immortality;

  And glancing, gleaming, dark or bright,

  Moved to and fro, for his delight.

  He knew the rocks which Angels haunt

  Upon the mountains visitant;

  He hath kenned them taking wing:130

  And into caves where Faeries sing

  He hath entered; and been told

  By Voices how men lived of old.

  Among the heavens his eye can see

  The face of thing that is to be;

  And, if that men report him right,

  His tongue could whisper words of might.

  —Now another day is come,

  Fitter hope, and nobler doom;

  He hath thrown aside his crook, 140

  And hath buried deep his book;

  Armour rusting in his halls

  On the blood of Clifford calls;—

  ‘Quell the Scot,’ exclaims the Lance—

  Bear me to the heart of France,

  Is the longing of the Shield—

  Tell thy name, thou trembling Field;

  Field of death, where’er thou be,

  Groan thou with our victory!

  Happy day, and mighty hour, 150

  When our Shepherd, in his power,

  Mailed and horsed, with lance and sword,

  To his ancestors restored

  Like a re-appearing Star,

  Like a glory from afar,

  First shall head the flock of war!”

  Alas! the impassioned minstrel did not know

  How, by Heaven’s grace, this Clifford’s heart was framed,

  How he, long forced in humble walks to go,

  Was softened into feeling, soothed, and tamed. 160

  Love had he found in huts where poor men lie;

  His daily teachers had been woods and rills,

  The silence that is in the starry sky,

  The sleep that is among the lonely hills.

  In him the savage virtue of the Race,

  Revenge, and all ferocious thoughts were dead:

  Nor did he change; but kept in lofty place

  The wisdom which adversity had bred.

  Glad were the vales, and every cottage hearth;

  The Shepherd-lord was honoured more and more; 170

  And, ages after he was laid in earth,

  “The good Lord Clifford” was the name he bore.

  1807.

  THE WHITE DOE OF RYLSTONE

  OR, THE FATE OF THE NORTONS

  DEDICATION

  IN trellised shed with clustering roses gay,

  And, MARY! oft beside our blazing fire,

  When yeas of wedded life were as a day

  Whose current answers to the heart’s desire,

  Did we together read in Spenser’s Lay

  How Una, sad of soul—in sad attire,

  The gentle Una, of celestial birth,

  To seek her Knight went wandering o’er the earth.

  Ah, then, Beloved! pleasing was the smart,

  And the tear precious in compassion shed 10

  For Her, who, pierced by sorrow’s thrilling dart,

  Did meekly bear the pang unmerited;

  Meek as that emblem of her lowly heart

  The milk-white Lamb which in a line she led,—

  And faithful, loyal in her innocence,

  Like the brave Lion slain in her defence.

  Notes could we hear as of a faery shell

  Attuned to words with sacred wisdom fraught;

  Free Fancy prized each specious miracle,

  And all its finer inspiration caught; 20

  Till in the bosom of our rustic Cell,

  We by a lamentable change were taught

  That “bliss with mortal Man may not abide:”

  How nearly joy and sorrow are allied!

  For us the stream of fiction ceased to flow,

  For us the voice of melody was mute.

  —But, as soft gales dissolve the dreary snow,

  And give the timid herbage leave to shoot,

  Heaven’s breathing influence failed not to bestow

  A timely promise of unlooked-for fruit, 30

  Fair fruit of pleasure and serene content

  From blossoms wild of fancies innocent.

  It soothed us—it beguiled us—then, to hear

  Once more of troubles wrought by magic spell;

  And griefs whose aery motion comes not near

  The pangs that tempt the Spirit to rebel:

  Then, with mild Una in her sober cheer,

  High over hill and low adown the dell

  Again we wandered, willing to partake

  All that she suffered for her dear Lord’s sake. 40

  Then, too, this Song ‘of mine’ once more could please,

  Where anguish, strange as dreams of restless sleep,

  Is tempered and allayed by sympathies

  Aloft ascending, and descending deep,

  Even to the inferior Kinds; whom forest-trees

  Protect from beating sunbeams, and the sweep

  Of the sharp winds;—fair Creatures!—to whom Heaven

  A calm and sinless life, with love, hath given.

  This tragic Story cheered us; for it speaks

  Of female patience winning firm repose; 50

  And, of the recompense that conscience seeks,

  A bright, encouraging, example shows;

  Needful when o’er wide realms the tempest breaks,

  Needful amid life’s ordinary woes;—

  Hence, not for them unfitted who would bless

  A happy hour with holier happiness.

  He serves the Muses erringly and ill,

  Whose aim is pleasure light and fugitive:

  Oh, that my mind were equal to fulfil

  The comprehensive mandate which they give— 60

  Vain aspiration of an earnest will!

  Yet in this moral Strain a power may live,

  Beloved Wife! such solace to impart

  As it hath yielded to thy tender heart.

  RYDAL MOUNT, WESTMORELAND, APRIL 20, 1815.

  “Action is transitory—a step, a blow,

  The motion of a muscle—this way or that—

  ‘Tis done; and in the after-vacancy

  We wonder at ourselves like men betrayed:

  Suffering is permanent, obscure and dark,

  And has the nature of infinity.

  Yet through that darkness (infinite though it seem

  And irremoveable) gracious openings lie,

  By which the soul—with patient steps of thought

  Now toiling, waked now on wings of prayer— 10

  May pass in hope, and, though from mortal bonds

  Yet undelivered, rise with sure ascent

  Even to the fountain-head of peace divine.”

  “They that deny a God, destroy Man’s nobility: for certainly Man

  is of kinn to the Beast by his Body; and if he be not of kinn to

  God by his Spirit, he is a base, ignoble Creature. It destroys

  likewise Magnanimity, and the raising of humane Nature: for take

  an example of a Dogg, and mark what a generosity and courage he

  will put on, when he finds himself maintained by a Man, who to himr />
  is instead of a God, or Melior Natura. Which courage is manifestly

  such, as that Creature without that confidence of a better Nature

  than his own could never attain. So Man, when he resteth and

  assureth himself upon Divine protection and favour, gathereth a

  force and faith which human Nature in itself could not obtain.”

  LORD BACON.

  CANTO FIRST

  FROM Bolton’s old monastic tower

  The bells ring loud with gladsome power;

  The sun shines bright; the fields are gay

  With people in their best array

  Of stole and doublet, hood and scarf,

  Along the banks of crystal Wharf,

  Through the Vale retired and lowly,

  Trooping to that summons holy.

  And, up among the moorlands, see

  What sprinklings of blithe company! 10

  Of lasses and of shepherd grooms,

  That down the steep hills force their way,

  Like cattle through the budded brooms;

  Path, or no path, what care they?

  And thus in joyous mood they hie

  To Bolton’s mouldering Priory.

  What would they there?—Full fifty years

  That sumptuous Pile, with all its peers,

  Too harshly hath been doomed to taste

  The bitterness of wrong and waste:20

  Its courts are ravaged; but the tower

  Is standing with a voice of power,

  That ancient voice which wont to call

  To mass or some high festival;

  And in the shattered fabric’s heart

  Remaineth one protected part;

  A Chapel, like a wild-bird’s nest,

  Closely embowered and trimly drest;

  And thither young and old repair,

  This Sabbath-day, for praise and prayer. 30

  Fast the churchyard fills;—anon

  Look again, and they all are gone;

  The cluster round the porch, and the folk

  Who sate in the shade of the Prior’s Oak!

  And scarcely have they disappeared

  Ere the prelusive hymn is heard:—

  With one consent the people rejoice,

  Filling the church with a lofty voice!

  They sing a service which they feel:

  For ‘tis the sunrise now of zeal; 40

  Of a pure faith the vernal prime—

  In great Eliza’s golden time.

  A moment ends the fervent din,

  And all is hushed, without and within;

  For though the priest, more tranquilly,

  Recites the holy liturgy,

  The only voice which you can hear

  Is the river murmuring near.

  —When soft!—the dusky trees between,

  And down the path through the open green, 50

  Where is no living thing to be seen;

  And through yon gateway, where is found,

  Beneath the arch with ivy bound,

  Free entrance to the churchyard ground—

  Comes gliding in with lovely gleam,

  Comes gliding in serene and slow,

  Soft and silent as a dream,

  A solitary Doe!

  White she is as lily of June,

  And beauteous as the silver moon 60

  When out of sight the clouds are driven

  And she is left alone in heaven;

  Or like a ship some gentle day

  In sunshine sailing far away,

  A glittering ship, that hath the plain

  Of ocean for her own domain.

  Lie silent in your graves, ye dead!

  Lie quiet in your churchyard bed!

  Ye living, tend your holy cares;

  Ye multitude, pursue your prayers; 70

  And blame not me if my heart and sight

  Are occupied with one delight!

  ‘Tis a work for sabbath hours

  If I with this bright Creature go:

  Whether she be of forest bowers,

  From the bowers of earth below;

  Or a Spirit for one day given,

  A pledge of grace from purest heaven.

  What harmonious pensive changes

  Wait upon her as she ranges 80

  Round and through this Pile of state

  Overthrown and desolate!

  Now a step or two her way

  Leads through space of open day,

  Where the enamoured sunny light

  Brightens her that was so bright;

  Now doth a delicate shadow fall,

  Falls upon her like a breath,

  From some lofty arch or wall,

  As she passes underneath:90

  Now some gloomy nook partakes

  Of the glory that she makes,—

  High-ribbed vault of stone, or cell,

  With perfect cunning framed as well

  Of stone, and ivy, and the spread

  Of the elder’s bushy head;

  Some jealous and forbidding cell,

  That doth the living stars repel,

  And where no flower hath leave to dwell.

  The presence of this wandering Doe 100

  Fills many a damp obscure recess

  With lustre of a saintly show;

  And, reappearing, she no less

  Sheds on the flowers that round her blow

  A more than sunny liveliness.

  But say, among these holy places,

  Which thus assiduously she paces,

  Comes she with a votary’s task,

  Rite to perform, or boon to ask?

  Fair Pilgrim! harbours she a sense 110

  Of sorrow, or of reverence?

  Can she be grieved for quire or shrine,

  Crushed as if by wrath divine?

  For what survives of house where God

  Was worshipped, or where Man abode;

  For old magnificence undone;

  Or for the gentler work begun

  By Nature, softening and concealing,

  And busy with a hand of healing?

  Mourns she for lordly chamber’s hearth 120

  That to the sapling ash gives birth;

  For dormitory’s length laid bare

  Where the wild rose blossoms fair;

  Or altar, whence the cross was rent,

  Now rich with mossy ornament?

  —She sees a warrior carved in stone,

  Among the thick weeds, stretched alone;

  A warrior, with his shield of pride

  Cleaving humbly to his side,

  And hands in resignation prest, 130

  Palm to palm, on his tranquil breast;

  As little she regards the sight

  As a common creature might:

  If she be doomed to inward care,

  Or service, it must lie elsewhere.

  —But hers are eyes serenely bright,

  And on she moves—with pace how light!

  Nor spares to stoop her head, and taste

  The dewy turf with flowers bestrown;

  And thus she fares, until at last 140

  Beside the ridge of a grassy grave

  In quietness she lays her down;

  Gentle as a weary wave

  Sinks, when the summer breeze hath died,

  Against an anchored vessel’s side;

  Even so, without distress, doth she

  Lie down in peace, and lovingly.

  The day is placid in its going,

  To a lingering motion bound,

  Like the crystal stream now flowing 150

  With its softest summer sound:

  So the balmy minutes pass,

  While this radiant Creature lies

  Couched upon the dewy grass,

  Pensively with downcast eyes.

  —But now again the people raise

  With awful cheer a voice of praise;

  It is the last, the parting song;

  And from the templ
e forth they throng,

  And quickly spread themselves abroad, 160

  While each pursues his several road.

  But some—a variegated band

  Of middle-aged, and old, and young,

  And little children by the hand

  Upon their leading mothers hung—

  With mute obeisance gladly paid

  Turn towards the spot, where, full in view,

  The white Doe, to her service true,

  Her sabbath couch has made.

  It was a solitary mound; 170

  Which two spears’ length of level ground

  Did from all other graves divide:

  As if in some respect of pride;

  Or melancholy’s sickly mood,

  Still shy of human neighbourhood;

  Or guilt, that humbly would express

  A penitential loneliness.

  “Look, there she is, my Child! draw near;

  She fears not, wherefore should we fear?

  She means no harm;”—but still the Boy, 180

  To whom the words were softly said,

  Hung back, and smiled, and blushed for joy,

  A shame-faced blush of glowing red!

  Again the Mother whispered low,

  “Now you have seen the famous Doe;

  From Rylstone she hath found her way

  Over the hills this sabbath day

  Her work, whate’er it be, is done,

  And she will depart when we are gone;

  Thus doth she keep, from year to year, 190

  Her sabbath morning, foul or fair.”

  Bright was the Creature, as in dreams

  The Boy had seen her, yea, more bright;

  But is she truly what she seems?

  He asks with insecure delight,

  Asks of himself, and doubts,—and still

  The doubt returns against his will:

  Though he, and all the standers-by,

  Could tell a tragic history

  Of facts divulged, wherein appear 200

  Substantial motive, reason clear,

  Why thus the milk-white Doe is found

  Couchant beside that lonely mound;

  And why she duly loves to pace

  The circuit of this hallowed place.

  Nor to the Child’s inquiring mind

  Is such perplexity confined:

  For, spite of sober Truth that sees

  A world of fixed remembrances

  Which to this mystery belong, 210

  If, undeceived, my skill can trace

  The characters of every face,

  There lack not strange delusion here,

  Conjecture vague, and idle fear,

  And superstitious fancies strong,

  Which do the gentle Creature wrong.

  That bearded, staff-supported Sire—

  Who in his boyhood often fed

  Full cheerily on convent-bread

  And heard old tales by the convent-fire, 220