Delphi Complete Works of William Wordsworth

by William Wordsworth

  EPITAPHS IV

  THERE never breathed a man who, when his life

  Was closing, might not of that life relate

  Toils long and hard.—The warrior will report

  Of wounds, and bright swords flashing in the field,

  And blast of trumpets. He who hath been doomed

  To bow his forehead in the courts of kings,

  Will tell of fraud and never-ceasing hate,

  Envy and heart-inquietude, derived

  From intricate cabals of treacherous friends.

  I, who on shipboard lived from earliest youth, 10

  Could represent the countenance horrible

  Of the vexed waters, and the indignant rage

  Of Auster and Bootes. Fifty years

  Over the well-steered galleys did I rule:—

  From huge Pelorus to the Atlantic pillars,

  Rises no mountain to mine eyes unknown;

  And the broad gulfs I traversed oft and oft:

  Of every cloud which in the heavens might stir

  I knew the force; and hence the rough sea’s pride

  Availed not to my Vessel’s overthrow. 20

  What noble pomp and frequent have not I

  On regal decks beheld! yet in the end

  I learned that one poor moment can suffice

  To equalise the lofty and the low.

  We sail the sea of life—a ‘Calm’ One finds,

  And One a ‘Tempest’—and, the voyage o’er,

  Death is the quiet haven of us all.

  If more of my condition ye would know,

  Savona was my birth-place, and I sprang

  Of noble parents; seventy years and three 30

  Lived I—then yielded to a slow disease.

  EPITAPHS V

  TRUE is it that Ambrosio Salinero

  With an untoward fate was long involved

  In odious litigation; and full long,

  Fate harder still! had he to endure assaults

  Of racking malady. And true it is

  That not the less a frank courageous heart

  And buoyant spirit triumphed over pain;

  And he was strong to follow in the steps

  Of the fair Muses. Not a covert path

  Leads to the dear Parnassian forest’s shade, 10

  That might from him be hidden; not a track

  Mounts to pellucid Hippocrene, but he

  Had traced its windings.—This Savona knows,

  Yet no sepulchral honours to her Son

  She paid, for in our age the heart is ruled

  Only by gold. And now a simple stone

  Inscribed with this memorial here is raised

  By his bereft, his lonely, Chiabrera.

  Think not, O Passenger! who read’st the lines,

  That an exceeding love hath dazzled me; 20

  No—he was One whose memory ought to spread

  Where’er Permessus bears an honoured name,

  And live as long as its pure stream shall flow.

  EPITAPHS VI

  DESTINED to war from very infancy

  Was I, Roberto Dati, and I took

  In Malta the white symbol of the Cross:

  Nor in life’s vigorous season did I shun

  Hazard or toil; among the sands was seen

  Of Libya; and not seldom, on the banks

  Of wide Hungarian Danube, ‘twas my lot

  To hear the sanguinary trumpet sounded.

  So lived I, and repined not at such fate:

  This only grieves me, for it seems a wrong, 10

  That stripped of arms I to my end am brought

  On the soft down of my paternal home.

  Yet haply Arno shall be spared all cause

  To blush for me. Thou, loiter not nor halt

  In thy appointed way, and bear in mind

  How fleeting and how frail is human life!

  EPITAPHS VII

  O FLOWER of all that springs from gentle blood,

  And all that generous nurture breeds to make

  Youth amiable; O friend so true of soul

  To fair Aglaia; by what envy moved,

  Lelius! has death cut short thy brilliant day

  In its sweet opening? and what dire mishap

  Has from Savona torn her best delight?

  For thee she mourns, nor e’er will cease to mourn;

  And, should the out-pourings of her eyes suffice not

  For her heart’s grief, she will entreat Sebeto 10

  Not to withhold his bounteous aid, Sebeto

  Who saw thee, on his margin, yield to death,

  In the chaste arms of thy beloved Love!

  What profit riches? what does youth avail?

  Dust are our hopes;—I, weeping bitterly,

  Penned these sad lines, nor can forbear to pray

  That every gentle Spirit hither led

  May read them, not without some bitter tears.

  EPITAPHS VIII

  NOT without heavy grief of heart did He

  On whom the duty fell (for at that time

  The father sojourned in a distant land)

  Deposit in the hollow of this tomb

  A brother’s Child, most tenderly beloved!

  FRANCESCO was the name the Youth had borne,

  POZZOBONNELLI his illustrious house;

  And, when beneath this stone the Corse was laid,

  The eyes of all Savona streamed with tears.

  Alas! the twentieth April of his life 10

  Had scarcely flowered: and at this early time,

  By genuine virtue he inspired a hope

  That greatly cheered his country: to his kin

  He promised comfort; and the flattering thoughts

  His friends had in their fondness entertained,

  He suffered not to languish or decay.

  Now is there not good reason to break forth

  Into a passionate lament?—O Soul!

  Short while a Pilgrim in our nether world,

  Do thou enjoy the calm empyreal air; 20

  And round this earthly tomb let roses rise,

  An everlasting spring! in memory

  Of that delightful fragrance which was once

  From thy mild manners quietly exhaled.

  EPITAPHS IX

  PAUSE, courteous Spirit!—Balbi supplicates

  That Thou, with no reluctant voice, for him

  Here laid in mortal darkness, wouldst prefer

  A prayer to the Redeemer of the world.

  This to the dead by sacred right belongs;

  All else is nothing.—Did occasion suit

  To tell his worth, the marble of this tomb

  Would ill suffice: for Plato’s lore sublime,

  And all the wisdom of the Stagyrite,

  Enriched and beautified his studious mind: 10

  With Archimedes also he conversed

  As with a chosen friend, nor did he leave

  Those laureat wreaths ungathered which the Nymphs

  Twine near their loved Permessus.—Finally,

  Himself above each lower thought uplifting,

  His ears he closed to listen to the songs

  Which Sion’s Kings did consecrate of old;

  And his Permessus found on Lebanon.

  A blessed Man! who of protracted days

  Made not, as thousands do, a vulgar sleep; 20

  But truly did ‘He’ live his life. Urbino,

  Take pride in him!—O Passenger, farewell!

  MATERNAL GRIEF

  DEPARTED Child! I could forget thee once

  Though at my bosom nursed; this woeful gain

  Thy dissolution brings, that in my soul

  Is present and perpetually abides

  A shadow, never, never to be displaced

  By the returning substance, seen or touched,

  Seen by mine eyes, or clasped in my embrace.

  Absence and death how differ they! and how

  Shall I admit that nothing can restore />
  What one short sigh so easily removed?— 10

  Death, life, and sleep, reality and thought,

  Assist me, God, their boundaries to know,

  O teach me calm submission to thy Will!

  The Child she mourned had overstepped the pale

  Of Infancy, but still did breathe the air

  That sanctifies its confines, and partook

  Reflected beams of that celestial light

  To all the Little-ones on sinful earth

  Not unvouchsafed—a light that warmed and cheered

  Those several qualities of heart and mind 20

  Which, in her own blest nature, rooted deep,

  Daily before the Mother’s watchful eye,

  And not hers only, their peculiar charms

  Unfolded,—beauty, for its present self,

  And for its promises to future years,

  With not unfrequent rapture fondly hailed.

  Have you espied upon a dewy lawn

  A pair of Leverets each provoking each

  To a continuance of their fearless sport,

  Two separate Creatures in their several gifts 30

  Abounding, but so fashioned that, in all

  That Nature prompts them to display, their looks,

  Their starts of motion and their fits of rest,

  An undistinguishable style appears

  And character of gladness, as if Spring

  Lodged in their innocent bosoms, and the spirit

  Of the rejoicing morning were their own?

  Such union, in the lovely Girl maintained

  And her twin Brother, had the parent seen,

  Ere, pouncing like a ravenous bird of prey, 40

  Death in a moment parted them, and left

  The Mother, in her turns of anguish, worse

  Than desolate; for oft-times from the sound

  Of the survivor’s sweetest voice (dear child,

  He knew it not) and from his happiest looks,

  Did she extract the food of self-reproach,

  As one that lived ungrateful for the stay

  By Heaven afforded to uphold her maimed

  And tottering spirit. And full oft the Boy,

  Now first acquainted with distress and grief, 50

  Shrunk from his Mother’s presence, shunned with fear

  Her sad approach, and stole away to find,

  In his known haunts of joy where’er he might,

  A more congenial object. But, as time

  Softened her pangs and reconciled the child

  To what he saw, he gradually returned,

  Like a scared Bird encouraged to renew

  A broken intercourse; and, while his eyes

  Were yet with pensive fear and gentle awe

  Turned upon her who bore him, she would stoop 60

  To imprint a kiss that lacked not power to spread

  Faint colour over both their pallid cheeks,

  And stilled his tremulous lip. Thus they were calmed

  And cheered; and now together breathe fresh air

  In open fields; and when the glare of day

  Is gone, and twilight to the Mother’s wish

  Befriends the observance, readily they join

  In walks whose boundary is the lost One’s grave,

  Which he with flowers hath planted, finding there

  Amusement, where the Mother does not miss 70

  Dear consolation, kneeling on the turf

  In prayer, yet blending with that solemn rite

  Of pious faith the vanities of grief;

  For such, by pitying Angels and by Spirits

  Transferred to regions upon which the clouds

  Of our weak nature rest not, must be deemed

  Those willing tears, and unforbidden sighs,

  And all those tokens of a cherished sorrow,

  Which, soothed and sweetened by the grace of Heaven

  As now it is, seems to her own fond heart, 80

  Immortal as the love that gave it being.

  1810.

  CHARACTERISTICS OF A CHILD THREE YEARS OLD

  LOVING she is, and tractable, though wild;

  And Innocence hath privilege in her

  To dignify arch looks and laughing eyes;

  And feats of cunning; and the pretty round

  Of trespasses, affected to provoke

  Mock-chastisement and partnership in play.

  And, as a faggot sparkles on the hearth,

  Not less if unattended and alone

  Than when both young and old sit gathered round

  And take delight in its activity; 10

  Even so this happy Creature of herself

  Is all-sufficient, solitude to her

  Is blithe society, who fills the air

  With gladness and involuntary songs.

  Light are her sallies as the tripping fawn’s

  Forth-startled from the fern where she lay couched;

  Unthought-of, unexpected, as the stir

  Of the soft breeze ruffling the meadow-flowers,

  Or from before it chasing wantonly

  The many-coloured images imprest 20

  Upon the bosom of a placid lake.

  1811.

  SPANISH GUERILLAS

  THEY seek, are sought; to daily battle led,

  Shrink not, though far outnumbered by their Foes,

  For they have learnt to open and to close

  The ridges of grim war; and at their head

  Are captains such as erst their country bred

  Or fostered, self-supported chiefs,—like those

  Whom hardy Rome was fearful to oppose;

  Whose desperate shock the Carthaginian fled.

  In One who lived unknown a shepherd’s life

  Redoubted Viriatus breathes again; 10

  And Mina, nourished in the studious shade,

  With that great Leader vies, who, sick of strife

  And bloodshed, longed in quiet to be laid

  In some green island of the western main.

  1811.

  THE POWER OF ARMIES IS A VISIBLE THING

  THE power of Armies is a visible thing,

  Formal, and circumscribed in time and space;

  But who the limits of that power shall trace

  Which a brave People into light can bring

  Or hide, at will,—for freedom combating

  By just revenge inflamed? No foot may chase,

  No eye can follow, to a fatal place

  That power, that spirit, whether on the wing

  Like the strong wind, or sleeping like the wind

  Within its awful caves.—From year to year 10

  Springs this indigenous produce far and near;

  No craft this subtle element can bind,

  Rising like water from the soil, to find

  In every nook a lip that it may cheer.

  1811.

  HERE PAUSE: THE POET CLAIMS AT LEAST THIS PRAISE

  HERE pause: the poet claims at least this praise,

  That virtuous Liberty hath been the scope

  Of his pure song, which did not shrink from hope

  In the worst moment of these evil days;

  From hope, the paramount ‘duty’ that Heaven lays,

  For its own honour, on man’s suffering heart.

  Never may from our souls one truth depart—

  That an accursed thing it is to gaze

  On prosperous tyrants with a dazzled eye;

  Nor—touched with due abhorrence of ‘their’ guilt 10

  For whose dire ends tears flow, and blood is spilt,

  And justice labours in extremity—

  Forget thy weakness, upon which is built,

  O wretched man, the throne of tyranny!

  1811.

  EPISTLE TO SIR GEORGE HOWLAND BEAUMONT, BART.

  FROM THE SOUTH-WEST COAST OR CUMBERLAND 1811

  FAR from our home by Grasmere’s quiet Lake,

  From the Vale’s peace which al
l her fields partake,

  Here on the bleakest point of Cumbria’s shore

  We sojourn stunned by Ocean’s ceaseless roar;

  While, day by day, grim neighbour! huge Black Comb

  Frowns deepening visibly his native gloom,

  Unless, perchance rejecting in despite

  What on the Plain ‘we’ have of warmth and light,

  In his own storms he hides himself from sight.

  Rough is the time; and thoughts, that would be free 10

  From heaviness, oft fly, dear Friend, to thee;

  Turn from a spot where neither sheltered road

  Nor hedge-row screen invites my steps abroad;

  Where one poor Plane-tree, having as it might

  Attained a stature twice a tall man’s height,

  Hopeless of further growth, and brown and sere

  Through half the summer, stands with top cut sheer,

  Like an unshifting weathercock which proves

  How cold the quarter that the wind best loves,

  Or like a Centinel that, evermore 20

  Darkening the window, ill defends the door

  Of this unfinished house—a Fortress bare,

  Where strength has been the Builder’s only care;

  Whose rugged walls may still for years demand

  The final polish of the Plasterer’s hand.

  —This Dwelling’s Inmate more than three weeks space

  And oft a Prisoner in the cheerless place,

  I—of whose touch the fiddle would complain,

  Whose breath would labour at the flute in vain,

  In music all unversed, nor blessed with skill 30

  A bridge to copy, or to paint a mill,

  Tired of my books, a scanty company!

  And tired of listening to the boisterous sea—

  Pace between door and window muttering rhyme,

  An old resource to cheat a froward time!

  Though these dull hours (mine is it, or their shame?)

  Would tempt me to renounce that humble aim.

  —But if there be a Muse who, free to take

  Her seat upon Olympus, doth forsake

  Those heights (like Phoebus when his golden locks 40

  He veiled, attendant on Thessalian flocks)

  And, in disguise, a Milkmaid with her pail

  Trips down the pathways of some winding dale;

  Or, like a Mermaid, warbles on the shores

  To fishers mending nets beside their doors;

  Or, Pilgrim-like, on forest moss reclined,

  Gives plaintive ditties to the heedless wind,