Delphi Complete Works of William Wordsworth

by William Wordsworth

  Or listens to its play among the boughs

  Above her head and so forgets her vows—

  If such a Visitant of Earth there be 50

  And she would deign this day to smile on me

  And aid my verse, content with local bounds

  Of natural beauty and life’s daily rounds,

  Thoughts, chances, sights, or doings, which we tell

  Without reserve to those whom we love well—

  Then haply, Beaumont! words in current clear

  Will flow, and on a welcome page appear

  Duly before thy sight, unless they perish here.

  What shall I treat of? News from Mona’s Isle?

  Such have we, but unvaried in its style; 60

  No tales of Runagates fresh landed, whence

  And wherefore fugitive or on what pretence;

  Of feasts, or scandal, eddying like the wind

  Most restlessly alive when most confined.

  Ask not of me, whose tongue can best appease

  The mighty tumults of the HOUSE OF KEYS;

  The last year’s cup whose Ram or Heifer gained,

  What slopes are planted, or what mosses drained:

  An eye of fancy only can I cast

  On that proud pageant now at hand or past, 70

  When full five hundred boats in trim array,

  With nets and sails outspread and streamers gay,

  And chanted hymns and stiller voice of prayer,

  For the old Manx-harvest to the Deep repair,

  Soon as the herring-shoals at distance shine

  Like beds of moonlight shifting on the brine.

  Mona from our Abode is daily seen,

  But with a wilderness of waves between;

  And by conjecture only can we speak

  Of aught transacted there in bay or creek; 80

  No tidings reach us thence from town or field,

  Only faint news her mountain sunbeams yield,

  And some we gather from the misty air,

  And some the hovering clouds, our telegraph, declare.

  But these poetic mysteries I withhold;

  For Fancy hath her fits both hot and cold,

  And should the colder fit with You be on

  When You might read, my credit would be gone.

  Let more substantial themes the pen engage,

  And nearer interests culled from the opening stage 90

  Of our migration.—Ere the welcome dawn

  Had from the east her silver star withdrawn,

  The Wain stood ready, at our Cottage-door,

  Thoughtfully freighted with a various store;

  And long or ere the uprising of the Sun

  O’er dew-damped dust our journey was begun,

  A needful journey, under favouring skies,

  Through peopled Vales; yet something in the guise

  Of those old Patriarchs when from well to well

  They roamed through Wastes where now the tented Arabs

  dwell. 100

  Say first, to whom did we the charge confide,

  Who promptly undertook the Wain to guide

  Up many a sharply-twining road and down,

  And over many a wide hill’s craggy crown,

  Through the quick turns of many a hollow nook,

  And the rough bed of many an unbridged brook?

  A blooming Lass—who in her better hand

  Bore a light switch, her sceptre of command

  When, yet a slender Girl, she often led,

  Skilful and bold, the horse and burthened ‘sled’ 110

  From the peat-yielding Moss on Gowdar’s head.

  What could go wrong with such a Charioteer

  For goods and chattels, or those Infants dear,

  A Pair who smilingly sate side by side,

  Our hope confirming that the salt-sea tide

  Whose free embraces we were bound to seek,

  Would their lost strength restore and freshen the pale cheek?

  Such hope did either Parent entertain

  Pacing behind along the silent lane.

  Blithe hopes and happy musings soon took flight, 120

  For lo! an uncouth melancholy sight—

  On a green bank a creature stood forlorn

  Just half protruded to the light of morn,

  Its hinder part concealed by hedge-row thorn

  The Figure called to mind a beast of prey

  Stript of its frightful powers by slow decay,

  And, though no longer upon rapine bent,

  Dim memory keeping of its old intent.

  We started, looked again with anxious eyes,

  And in that griesly object recognise 130

  The Curate’s Dog—his long-tried friend, for they,

  As well we knew, together had grown grey.

  The Master died, his drooping servant’s grief

  Found at the Widow’s feet some sad relief;

  Yet still he lived in pining discontent,

  Sadness which no indulgence could prevent;

  Hence whole day wanderings, broken nightly sleeps

  And lonesome watch that out of doors he keeps;

  Not oftentimes, I trust, as we, poor brute!

  Espied him on his legs sustained, blank, mute, 140

  And of all visible motion destitute,

  So that the very heaving of his breath

  Seemed stopt, though by some other power than death.

  Long as we gazed upon the form and face,

  A mild domestic pity kept its place,

  Unscared by thronging fancies of strange hue

  That haunted us in spite of what we knew.

  Even now I sometimes think of him as lost

  In second-sight appearances, or crost

  By spectral shapes of guilt, or to the ground, 150

  On which he stood, by spells unnatural bound,

  Like a gaunt shaggy Porter forced to wait

  In days of old romance at Archimago’s gate.

  Advancing Summer, Nature’s law fulfilled,

  The choristers in every grove had stilled;

  But we, we lacked not music of our own,

  For lightsome Fanny had thus early thrown,

  Mid the gay prattle of those infant tongues,

  Some notes prelusive, from the round of songs

  With which, more zealous than the liveliest bird 160

  That in wild Arden’s brakes was ever heard,

  Her work and her work’s partners she can cheer,

  The whole day long, and all days of the year.

  Thus gladdened from our own dear Vale we pass

  And soon approach Diana’s Looking-glass!

  To Loughrigg-tarn, round clear and bright as heaven,

  Such name Italian fancy would have given,

  Ere on its banks the few grey cabins rose

  That yet disturb not its concealed repose

  More than the feeblest wind that idly blows. 170

  Ah, Beaumont! when an opening in the road

  Stopped me at once by charm of what it showed,

  The encircling region vividly exprest

  Within the mirror’s depth, a world at rest—

  Sky streaked with purple, grove and craggy ‘bield’,

  And the smooth green of many a pendent field,

  And, quieted and soothed, a torrent small,

  A little daring would-be waterfall,

  One chimney smoking and its azure wreath,

  Associate all in the calm Pool beneath, 180

  With here and there a faint imperfect gleam

  Of water-lilies veiled in misty steam—

  What wonder at this hour of stillness deep,

  A shadowy link ‘tween wakefulness and sleep,

  When Nature’s self, amid such blending, seems

  To render visible her own soft dreams,

  If, mixed with what appeared of rock, lawn, wood,

  Fondly embosomed in the tranquil flood,

  A glim
pse I caught of that Abode, by Thee

  Designed to rise in humble privacy, 190

  A lowly Dwelling, here to be outspread,

  Like a small Hamlet, with its bashful head

  Half hid in native trees. Alas ‘tis not,

  Nor ever was; I sighed, and left the spot

  Unconscious of its own untoward lot,

  And thought in silence, with regret too keen,

  Of unexperienced joys that might have been;

  Of neighbourhood and intermingling arts,

  And golden summer days uniting cheerful hearts.

  But time, irrevocable time, is flown. 200

  And let us utter thanks for blessings sown

  And reaped—what hath been, and what is, our own.

  Not far we travelled ere a shout of glee,

  Startling us all, dispersed my reverie;

  Such shout as many a sportive echo meeting

  Oft-times from Alpine ‘chalets’ sends a greeting.

  Whence the blithe hail? behold a Peasant stand

  On high, a kerchief waving in her hand!

  Not unexpectant that by early day

  Our little Band would thrid this mountain way, 210

  Before her cottage on the bright hill side

  She hath advanced with hope to be descried.

  Right gladly answering signals we displayed,

  Moving along a tract of morning shade,

  And vocal wishes sent of like good will

  To our kind Friend high on the sunny hill—

  Luminous region, fair as if the prime

  Were tempting all astir to look aloft or climb;

  Only the centre of the shining cot

  With door left open makes a gloomy spot, 220

  Emblem of those dark corners sometimes found

  Within the happiest breast on earthly ground.

  Rich prospect left behind of stream and vale,

  And mountain-tops, a barren ridge we scale;

  Descend, and reach, in Yewdale’s depths, a plain

  With haycocks studded, striped with yellowing grain—

  An area level as a Lake and spread

  Under a rock too steep for man to tread,

  Where sheltered from the north and bleak northwest

  Aloft the Raven hangs a visible nest, 230

  Fearless of all assaults that would her brood molest.

  Hot sunbeams fill the steaming vale; but hark,

  At our approach, a jealous watch-dog’s bark,

  Noise that brings forth no liveried Page of state,

  But the whole household, that our coming wait.

  With Young and Old warm greetings we exchange,

  And jocund smiles, and toward the lowly Grange

  Press forward by the teasing dogs unscared.

  Entering, we find the morning meal prepared:

  So down we sit, though not till each had cast 240

  Pleased looks around the delicate repast—

  Rich cream, and snow-white eggs fresh from the nest,

  With amber honey from the mountain’s breast;

  Strawberries from lane or woodland, offering wild

  Of children’s industry, in hillocks piled;

  Cakes for the nonce, and butter fit to lie

  Upon a lordly dish; frank hospitality

  Where simple art with bounteous nature vied,

  And cottage comfort shuned not seemly pride.

  Kind Hostess! Handmaid also of the feast, 250

  If thou be lovelier than the kindling East,

  Words by thy presence unrestrained may speak

  Of a perpetual dawn from brow and cheek

  Instinct with light whose sweetest promise lies,

  Never retiring, in thy large dark eyes,

  Dark but to every gentle feeling true,

  As if their lustre flowed from ether’s purest blue.

  Let me not ask what tears may have been wept

  By those bright eyes, what weary vigils kept,

  Beside that hearth what sighs may have been heaved 260

  For wounds inflicted, nor what toil relieved

  By fortitude and patience, and the grace

  Of heaven in pity visiting the place.

  Not unadvisedly those secret springs

  I leave unsearched: enough that memory clings,

  Here as elsewhere, to notices that make

  Their own significance for hearts awake,

  To rural incidents, whose genial powers

  Filled with delight three summer morning hours.

  More cold my pen report of grave or gay 270

  That through our gipsy travel cheered the way;

  But, bursting forth above the waves, the Sun

  Laughs at my pains, and seems to say, “Be done.”

  Yet, Beaumont, thou wilt not, I trust, reprove

  This humble offering made by Truth to Love,

  Nor chide the Muse that stooped to break a spell

  Which might have else been on me yet:—

  FAREWELL.

  1811.

  UPON PERUSING THE FOREGOING EPISTLE THIRTY YEARS AFTER ITS COMPOSITION

  SOON did he Almighty Giver of all rest

  Take those dear young Ones to a fearless nest;

  And in Death’s arms has long reposed the Friend

  For whom this simple Register was penned.

  Thanks to the moth that spared it for our eyes;

  And Strangers even the slighted Scroll may prize,

  Moved by the touch of kindred sympathies.

  For—save the calm, repentance sheds o’er strife

  Raised by remembrances of misused life,

  The light from past endeavours purely willed 10

  And by Heaven’s favour happily fulfilled;

  Save hope that we, yet bound to Earth, may share

  The joys of the Departed—what so fair

  As blameless pleasure, not without some tears,

  Reviewed through Love’s transparent veil of years?

  UPON THE SIGHT OF A BEAUTIFUL PICTURE

  PAINTED BY SIR G. H. BEAUMONT, BART.

  PRAISED be the Art whose subtle power could stay

  Yon cloud, and fix it in that glorious shape;

  Nor would permit the thin smoke to escape,

  Nor those bright sunbeams to forsake the day;

  Which stopped that band of travellers on their way,

  Ere they were lost within the shady wood;

  And showed the Bark upon the glassy flood

  For ever anchored in her sheltering bay.

  Soul-soothing Art! whom Morning, Noontide, Even,

  Do serve with all their changeful pageantry; 10

  Thou, with ambition modest yet sublime,

  Here, for the sight of mortal man, hast given

  To one brief moment caught from fleeting time

  The appropriate calm of blest eternity.

  1811.

  INSCRIPTIONS IN THE GROUNDS OF COLEORTON, THE SEAT OF SIR GEORGE BEAUMONT, BART., LEICESTERSHIRE

  THE embowering rose, the acacia, and the pine,

  Will not unwillingly their place resign;

  If but the Cedar thrive that near them stands,

  Planted by Beaumont’s and by Wordsworth’s hands.

  One wooed the silent Art with studious pains:

  These groves have heard the Other’s pensive strains;

  Devoted thus, their spirits did unite

  By interchange of knowledge and delight.

  May Nature’s kindliest powers sustain the Tree,

  And Love protect it from all injury! 10

  And when its potent branches, wide out-thrown,

  Darken the brow of this memorial Stone,

  Here may some Painter sit in future days,

  Some future Poet meditate his lays;

  Not mindless of that distant age renowned

  When Inspiration hovered o’er this ground,

  The haunt of him who sang how spear and shield

&n
bsp; In civil conflict met on Bosworth-field;

  And of that famous Youth, full soon removed

  From earth, perhaps by Shakspeare’s self approved, 20

  Fletcher’s Associate, Jonson’s Friend beloved.

  1808.

  INSCRIPTIONS IN A GARDEN OF SIR GEORGE BEAUMONT, BART.

  OFT is the medal faithful to its trust

  When temples, columns, towers, are laid in dust;

  And ‘tis a common ordinance of fate

  That things obscure and small outlive the great:

  Hence, when yon mansion and the flowery trim

  Of this fair garden, and its alleys dim,

  And all its stately trees, are passed away,

  This little Niche, unconscious of decay,

  Perchance may still survive. And be it known

  That it was scooped within the living stone,— 10

  Not by the sluggish and ungrateful pains

  Of labourer plodding for his daily gains,

  But by an industry that wrought in love;

  With help from female hands, that proudly strove

  To aid the work, what time these walks and bowers

  Were shaped to cheer dark winter’s lonely hours.

  1811.

  INSCRIPTIONS WRITTEN AT THE REQUEST OF SIR GEORGE BEAUMONT, BART., AND IN HIS NAME, FOR AN URN, PLACED BY HIM AT THE TERMINATION OF A NEWLY-PLANTED AVENUE, IN THE SAME GROUNDS

  YE Lime-trees, ranged before this hallowed Urn,

  Shoot forth with lively power at Spring’s return;

  And be not slow a stately growth to rear

  Of pillars, branching off from year to year,

  Till they have learned to frame a darksome aisle;—

  That may recall to mind that awful Pile

  Where Reynolds, ‘mid our country’s noblest dead,

  In the last sanctity of fame is laid.

  —There, though by right the excelling Painter sleep

  Where Death and Glory a joint sabbath keep, 10

  Yet not the less his Spirit would hold dear

  Self-hidden praise, and Friendship’s private tear:

  Hence, on my patrimonial grounds, have I

  Raised this frail tribute to his memory;

  From youth a zealous follower of the Art

  That he professed; attached to him in heart;

  Admiring, loving, and with grief and pride

  Feeling what England lost when Reynolds died.

  1808.

  INSCRIPTIONS FOR A SEAT IN THE GROVES OF COLEORTON.

  BENEATH yon eastern ridge, the craggy bound,

  Rugged and high, of Charnwood’s forest ground

  Stand yet, but, Stranger! hidden from thy view,

  The ivied Ruins of forlorn GRACE DIEU;