Delphi Complete Works of William Wordsworth

by William Wordsworth

  Up would she climb to Norton Tower,

  And thence look round her far and wide, 1780

  Her fate there measuring;—all is stilled,—

  The weak One hath subdued her heart;

  Behold the prophecy fulfilled,

  Fulfilled, and she sustains her part!

  But here her Brother’s words have failed;

  Here hath a milder doom prevailed;

  That she, of him and all bereft,

  Hath yet this faithful Partner left;

  This one Associate, that disproves

  His words, remains for her, and loves. 1790

  If tears are shed, they do not fall

  For loss of him—for one, or all;

  Yet, sometimes, sometimes doth she weep

  Moved gently in her soul’s soft sleep;

  A few tears down her cheek descend

  For this her last and living Friend.

  Bless, tender Hearts, their mutual lot,

  And bless for both this savage spot;

  Which Emily doth sacred hold

  For reasons dear and manifold—1800

  Here hath she, here before her sight,

  Close to the summit of this height,

  The grassy rock-encircled Pound

  In which the Creature first was found.

  So beautiful the timid Thrall

  (A spotless Youngling white as foam)

  Her youngest Brother brought it home;

  The youngest, then a lusty boy,

  Bore it, or led, to Rylstone-hall

  With heart brimful of pride and joy! 1810

  But most to Bolton’s sacred Pile,

  On favouring nights, she loved to go;

  There ranged through cloister, court, and aisle,

  Attended by the soft-paced Doe;

  Nor feared she in the still moonshine

  To look upon Saint Mary’s shrine;

  Nor on the lonely turf that showed

  Where Francis slept in his last abode.

  For that she came; there oft she sate

  Forlorn, but not disconsolate:1820

  And, when she from the abyss returned

  Of thought, she neither shrunk nor mourned;

  Was happy that she lived to greet

  Her mute Companion as it lay

  In love and pity at her feet;

  How happy in its turn to meet

  The recognition! the mild glance

  Beamed from that gracious countenance;

  Communication, like the ray

  Of a new morning, to the nature 1830

  And prospects of the inferior Creature!

  A mortal Song we sing, by dower

  Encouraged of celestial power;

  Power which the viewless Spirit shed

  By whom we were first visited;

  Whose voice we heard, whose hand and wings

  Swept like a breeze the conscious strings,

  When, left in solitude, erewhile

  We stood before this ruined Pile,

  And, quitting unsubstantial dreams, 1840

  Sang in this Presence kindred themes;

  Distress and desolation spread

  Through human hearts, and pleasure dead,—

  Dead—but to live again on earth,

  A second and yet nobler birth;

  Dire overthrow, and yet how high

  The re-ascent in sanctity!

  From fair to fairer; day by day

  A more divine and loftier way!

  Even such this blessed Pilgrim trod, 1850

  By sorrow lifted towards her God;

  Uplifted to the purest sky

  Of undisturbed mortality.

  Her own thoughts loved she; and could bend

  A dear look to her lowly Friend;

  There stopped; her thirst was satisfied

  With what this innocent spring supplied:

  Her sanction inwardly she bore,

  And stood apart from human cares:

  But to the world returned no more, 1860

  Although with no unwilling mind

  Help did she give at need, and joined

  The Wharfdale peasants in their prayers.

  At length, thus faintly, faintly tied

  To earth, she was set free, and died.

  Thy soul, exalted Emily,

  Maid of the blasted family,

  Rose to the God from whom it came!

  —In Rylstone Church her mortal frame

  Was buried by her Mother’s side. 1870

  Most glorious sunset! and a ray

  Survives—the twilight of this day—

  In that fair Creature whom the fields

  Support, and whom the forest shields;

  Who, having filled a holy place,

  Partakes, in her degree, Heaven’s grace;

  And bears a memory and a mind

  Raised far above the law of kind;

  Haunting the spots with lonely cheer

  Which her dear Mistress once held dear: 1880

  Loves most what Emily loved most—

  The enclosure of this churchyard ground;

  Here wanders like a gliding ghost,

  And every sabbath here is found;

  Comes with the people when the bells

  Are heard among the moorland dells,

  Finds entrance through yon arch, where way

  Lies open on the sabbath-day;

  Here walks amid the mournful waste

  Of prostrate altars, shrines defaced, 1890

  And floors encumbered with rich show

  Of fret-work imagery laid low;

  Paces softly, or makes halt,

  By fractured cell, or tomb, or vault;

  By plate of monumental brass

  Dim-gleaming among weeds and grass,

  And sculptured Forms of Warriors brave:

  But chiefly by that single grave,

  That one sequestered hillock green,

  The pensive visitant is seen. 1900

  There doth the gentle Creature lie

  With those adversities unmoved;

  Calm spectacle, by earth and sky

  In their benignity approved!

  And aye, methinks, this hoary Pile,

  Subdued by outrage and decay,

  Looks down upon her with a smile,

  A gracious smile, that seems to say—

  “Thou, thou art not a Child of Time,

  But Daughter of the Eternal Prime!” 1910

  1807.

  THE FORCE OF PRAYER

  OR, THE FOUNDING OF BOLTON PRIORY: A TRADITION

  “What is good for a bootless bene?”

  With these dark words begins my Tale;

  And their meaning is, whence can comfort spring

  When Prayer is of no avail?

  “What is good for a bootless bene?”

  The Falconer to the Lady said;

  And she made answer “ENDLESS SORROW!”

  For she knew that her Son was dead.

  She knew it by the Falconer’s words,

  And from the look of the Falconer’s eye; 10

  And from the love which was in her soul

  For her youthful Romilly.

  —Young Romilly through Barden woods

  Is ranging high and low;

  And holds a greyhound in a leash,

  To let slip upon buck or doe.

  The pair have reached that fearful chasm,

  How tempting to bestride!

  For lordly Wharf is there pent in

  With rocks on either side. 20

  This striding-place is called THE STRID,

  A name which it took of yore:

  A thousand years hath it borne that name,

  And shall a thousand more.

  And hither is young Romilly come,

  And what may now forbid

  That he, perhaps for the hundredth time,

  Shall bound across THE STRID?

  He sprang in glee,—for what cared he

  That the river was
strong, and the rocks were steep?— 30

  But the greyhound in the leash hung back,

  And checked him in his leap.

  The Boy is in the arms of Wharf,

  And strangled by a merciless force;

  For never more was young Romilly seen

  Till he rose a lifeless corse.

  Now there is stillness in the vale,

  And long, unspeaking, sorrow:

  Wharf shall be to pitying hearts

  A name more sad than Yarrow. 40

  If for a lover the Lady wept,

  A solace she might borrow

  From death, and from the passion of death;—

  Old Wharf might heal her sorrow.

  She weeps not for the wedding-day

  Which was to be to-morrow:

  Her hope was a further-looking hope,

  And hers is a mother’s sorrow.

  He was a tree that stood alone,

  And proudly did its branches wave; 50

  And the root of this delightful tree

  Was in her husband’s grave!

  Long, long in darkness did she sit,

  And her first words were, “Let there be

  In Bolton, on the field of Wharf,

  A stately Priory!”

  The stately Priory was reared;

  And Wharf, as he moved along,

  To matins joined a mournful voice,

  Nor failed at evensong. 60

  And the Lady prayed in heaviness

  That looked not for relief!

  But slowly did her succour come,

  And a patience to her grief.

  Oh! there is never sorrow of heart

  That shall lack a timely end,

  If but to God we turn, and ask

  Of Him to be our friend!

  1807.

  COMPOSED WHILE THE AUTHOR WAS ENGAGED IN WRITING A TRACT OCCASIONED BY THE CONVENTION OF CINTRA

  NOT ‘mid the world’s vain objects that enslave

  The free-born Soul—that World whose vaunted skill

  In selfish interest perverts the will,

  Whose factions lead astray the wise and brave—

  Not there; but in dark wood and rocky cave,

  And hollow vale which foaming torrents fill

  With omnipresent murmur as they rave

  Down their steep beds, that never shall be still:

  Here, mighty Nature! in this school sublime

  I weigh the hopes and fears of suffering Spain; 10

  For her consult the auguries of time,

  And through the human heart explore my way;

  And look and listen—gathering, whence I may,

  Triumph, and thoughts no bondage can restrain.

  1808.

  COMPOSED AT THE SAME TIME AND ON THE SAME OCCASION

  I DROPPED my pen; and listened to the Wind

  That sang of trees uptorn and vessels tost—

  A midnight harmony; and wholly lost

  To the general sense of men by chains confined

  Of business, care, or pleasure; or resigned

  To timely sleep. Thought I, the impassioned strain,

  Which, without aid of numbers, I sustain,

  Like acceptation from the World will find.

  Yet some with apprehensive ear shall drink

  A dirge devoutly breathed o’er sorrows past; 10

  And to the attendant promise will give heed—

  The prophecy,—like that of this wild blast,

  Which, while it makes the heart with sadness shrink,

  Tells also of bright calms that shall succeed.

  1808.

  GEORGE AND SARAH GREEN

  WHO weeps for strangers? Many wept

  For George and Sarah Green;

  Wept for that pair’s unhappy fate,

  Whose grave may here be seen.

  By night, upon these stormy fells,

  Did wife and husband roam;

  Six little ones at home had left,

  And could not find that home.

  For ‘any’ dwelling-place of man

  As vainly did they seek. 10

  He perish’d; and a voice was heard—

  The widow’s lonely shriek.

  Not many steps, and she was left

  A body without life—

  A few short steps were the chain that bound

  The husband to the wife.

  Now do those sternly-featured hills

  Look gently on this grave;

  And quiet now are the depths of air,

  As a sea without a wave. 20

  But deeper lies the heart of peace

  In quiet more profound;

  The heart of quietness is here

  Within this churchyard bound.

  And from all agony of mind

  It keeps them safe, and far

  From fear and grief, and from all need

  Of sun or guiding star.

  O darkness of the grave! how deep,

  After that living night—30

  That last and dreary living one

  Of sorrow and affright?

  O sacred marriage-bed of death,

  That keeps them side by side

  In bond of peace, in bond of love,

  That may not be untied!

  1808.

  HOFFER

  OF mortal parents is the Hero born

  By whom the undaunted Tyrolese are led?

  Or is it Tell’s great Spirit, from the dead

  Returned to animate an age forlorn?

  He comes like Phoebus through the gates of morn

  When dreary darkness is discomfited,

  Yet mark his modest state! upon his head,

  That simple crest, a heron’s plume, is worn.

  O Liberty! they stagger at the shock

  From van to rear—and with one mind would flee, 10

  But half their host is buried:—rock on rock

  Descends:—beneath this godlike Warrior, see!

  Hills, torrents, woods, embodied to bemock

  The Tyrant, and confound his cruelty.

  1809.

  ADVANCE—COME FORTH FROM THY TYROLEAN GROUND

  ADVANCE—come forth from thy Tyrolean ground,

  Dear Liberty! stern Nymph of soul untamed;

  Sweet Nymph, O rightly of the mountains named!

  Through the long chain of Alps from mound to mound

  And o’er the eternal snows, like Echo, bound;

  Like Echo, when the hunter train at dawn

  Have roused her from her sleep: and forest-lawn,

  Cliffs, woods and caves, her viewless steps resound

  And babble of her pastime!—On, dread Power!

  With such invisible motion speed thy flight, 10

  Through hanging clouds, from craggy height to height,

  Through the green vales and through the herdsman’s bower—

  That all the Alps may gladden in thy might,

  Here, there, and in all places at one hour.

  1809.

  FEELINGS OF THE TYROLESE

  THE Land we from our fathers had in trust,

  And to our children will transmit, or die:

  This is our maxim, this our piety;

  And God and Nature say that it is just.

  That which we ‘would’ perform in arms—we must!

  We read the dictate in the infant’s eye;

  In the wife’s smile; and in the placid sky;

  And, at our feet, amid the silent dust

  Of them that were before us.—Sing aloud

  Old songs, the precious music of the heart! 10

  Give, herds and flocks, your voices to the wind!

  While we go forth, a self-devoted crowd,

  With weapons grasped in fearless hands, to assert

  Our virtue, and to vindicate mankind.

  1809.

  ALAS! WHAT BOOTS THE LONG LABORIOUS QUEST

  ALAS! what boots the long laborious quest

  Of moral prudence, sought th
rough good and ill;

  Or pains abstruse—to elevate the will,

  And lead us on to that transcendent rest

  Where every passion shall the sway attest

  Of Reason, seated on her sovereign hill;

  What is it but a vain and curious skill,

  If sapient Germany must lie deprest,

  Beneath the brutal sword?—Her haughty Schools

  Shall blush; and may not we with sorrow say— 10

  A few strong instincts and a few plain rules,

  Among the herdsmen of the Alps, have wrought

  More for mankind at this unhappy day

  Then all the pride of intellect and thought?

  1809.

  AND IS IT AMONG RUDE UNTUTORED DALES

  AND is it among rude untutored Dales,

  There, and there only, that the heart is true?

  And, rising to repel or to subdue,

  Is it by rocks and woods that man prevails?

  Ah no! though Nature’s dread protection fails,

  There is a bulwark in the soul. This knew

  Iberian Burghers when the sword they drew

  In Zaragoza, naked to the gales

  Of fiercely-breathing war. The truth was felt

  By Palafox, and many a brave compeer, 10

  Like him of noble birth and noble mind;

  By ladies, meek-eyed women without fear;

  And wanderers of the street, to whom is dealt

  The bread which without industry they find.

  1809.

  O’ER THE WIDE EARTH, ON MOUNTAIN AND ON PLAIN

  O’ER the wide earth, on mountain and on plain,

  Dwells in the affections and the soul of man

  A Godhead, like the universal PAN;

  But more exalted, with a brighter train:

  And shall his bounty be dispensed in vain,

  Showered equally on city and on field,

  And neither hope nor steadfast promise yield

  In these usurping times of fear and pain?

  Such doom awaits us. Nay, forbid it Heaven!

  We know the arduous strife, the eternal laws 10

  To which the triumph of all good is given,

  High sacrifice, and labour without pause,

  Even to the death:—else wherefore should the eye

  Of man converse with immortality?

  1809.

  ON THE FINAL SUBMISSION OF THE TYROLESE

  IT was a ‘moral’ end for which they fought;

  Else how, when mighty Thrones were put to shame,

  Could they, poor Shepherds, have preserved an aim,

  A resolution, or enlivening thought?

  Nor hath that moral good been ‘vainly’ sought;