Delphi Complete Works of William Wordsworth

by William Wordsworth

  The Hamadryad, pent within, bewailed

  Some bitter wrong. Nor is it unbelieved,

  By ruder fancy, that a troubled ghost

  Haunts the old trunk; lamenting deeds of which

  The flowery ground is conscious. But no wind 30

  Sweeps now along this elevated ridge;

  Not even a zephyr stirs;—the obnoxious Tree

  Is mute; and, in his silence, would look down,

  O lovely Wanderer of the trackless hills,

  On thy reclining form with more delight

  Than his coevals in the sheltered vale

  Seem to participate, the while they view

  Their own far-stretching arms and leafy heads

  Vividly pictured in some glassy pool,

  That, for a brief space, checks the hurrying stream! 40

  1819.

  SEPTEMBER 1819

  THE sylvan slopes with corn-clad fields

  Are hung, as if with golden shields,

  Bright trophies of the sun!

  Like a fair sister of the sky,

  Unruffled doth the blue lake lie,

  The mountains looking on.

  And, sooth to say, yon vocal grove,

  Albeit uninspired by love,

  By love untaught to ring,

  May well afford to mortal ear 10

  An impulse more profoundly dear

  Than music of the Spring.

  For ‘that’ from turbulence and heat

  Proceeds, from some uneasy seat

  In nature’s struggling frame,

  Some region of impatient life:

  And jealousy, and quivering strife,

  Therein a portion claim.

  This, this is holy;—while I hear

  These vespers of another year, 20

  This hymn of thanks and praise,

  My spirit seems to mount above

  The anxieties of human love,

  And earth’s precarious days.

  But list!—though winter storms be nigh,

  Unchecked is that soft harmony:

  There lives Who can provide

  For all his creatures; and in Him,

  Even like the radiant Seraphim,

  These choristers confide.

  UPON THE SAME OCCASION

  DEPARTING summer hath assumed

  An aspect tenderly illumed,

  The gentlest look of spring;

  That calls from yonder leafy shade

  Unfaded, yet prepared to fade,

  A timely carolling.

  No faint and hesitating trill,

  Such tribute as to winter chill

  The lonely redbreast pays!

  Clear, loud, and lively is the din, 10

  From social warblers gathering in

  Their harvest of sweet lays.

  Nor doth the example fail to cheer

  Me, conscious that my leaf is sere,

  And yellow on the bough:—

  Fall, rosy garlands, from my head!

  Ye myrtle wreaths, your fragrance shed

  Around a younger brow!

  Yet will I temperately rejoice;

  Wide is the range, and free the choice 20

  Of undiscordant themes;

  Which, haply, kindred souls may prize

  Not less than vernal ecstasies,

  And passion’s feverish dreams.

  For deathless powers to verse belong,

  And they like Demi-gods are strong

  On whom the Muses smile;

  But some their function have disclaimed,

  Best pleased with what is aptliest framed

  To enervate and defile. 30

  Not such the initiatory strains

  Committed to the silent plains

  In Britain’s earliest dawn:

  Trembled the groves, the stars grew pale,

  While all-too-daringly the veil

  Of nature was withdrawn!

  Nor such the spirit-stirring note

  When the live chords Alcaeus smote,

  Inflamed by sense of wrong;

  Woe! woe to Tyrants! from the lyre 40

  Broke threateningly, in sparkles dire

  Of fierce vindictive song.

  And not unhallowed was the page

  By winged Love inscribed, to assuage

  The pangs of vain pursuit;

  Love listening while the Lesbian Maid

  With finest touch of passion swayed

  Her own Aeolian lute.

  O ye, who patiently explore

  The wreck of Herculanean lore, 50

  What rapture! could ye seize

  Some Theban fragment, or unroll

  One precious, tender-hearted, scroll

  Of pure Simonides.

  That were, indeed, a genuine birth

  Of poesy; a bursting forth

  Of genius from the dust:

  What Horace gloried to behold,

  What Maro loved, shall we enfold?

  Can haughty Time be just! 60

  1819.

  THERE IS A LITTLE UNPRETENDING RILL

  THERE a little unpretending Rill

  Of limpid water, humbler far than aught

  That ever among Men or Naiads sought

  Notice or name!—It quivers down the hill,

  Furrowing its shallow way with dubious will;

  Yet to my mind this scanty Stream is brought

  Oftener than Ganges or the Nile; a thought

  Of private recollection sweet and still!

  Months perish with their moons; year treads on year!

  But, faithful Emma! thou with me canst say 10

  That, while ten thousand pleasures disappear,

  And flies their memory fast almost as they;

  The immortal Spirit of one happy day

  Lingers beside that Rill, in vision clear.

  1820.

  COMPOSED ON THE BANKS OF A ROCKY STREAM

  DOGMATIC Teachers, of the snow-white fur!

  Ye wrangling Schoolmen, of the scarlet hood!

  Who, with a keenness not to be withstood,

  Press the point home, or falter and demur,

  Checked in your course by many a teasing burr;

  These natural council-seats your acrid blood

  Might cool;—and, as the Genius of the flood

  Stoops willingly to animate and spur

  Each lighter function slumbering in the brain,

  Yon eddying balls of foam, these arrowy gleams 10

  That o’er the pavement of the surging streams

  Welter and flash, a synod might detain

  With subtle speculations, haply vain,

  But surely less so than your far-fetched themes!

  1820.

  ON THE DEATH OF HIS MAJESTY (GEORGE THE THIRD)

  WARD of the LAW!—dread Shadow of a King!

  Whose realm had dwindled to one stately room;

  Whose universe was gloom immersed in gloom,

  Darkness as thick as life o’er life could fling,

  Save haply for some feeble glimmering

  Of Faith and Hope—if thou, by nature’s doom,

  Gently hast sunk into the quiet tomb,

  Why should we bend in grief, to sorrow cling,

  When thankfulness were best?—Fresh-flowing tears,

  Or, where tears flow not, sigh succeeding sigh, 10

  Yield to such after-thought the sole reply

  Which justly it can claim. The Nation hears

  In this deep knell, silent for threescore years,

  An unexampled voice of awful memory!

  1820.

  THE STARS ARE MANSIONS BUILT BY NATURE’S HAND

  THE stars are mansions built by Nature’s hand,

  And, haply, there the spirits of the blest

  Dwell, clothed in radiance, their immortal vest;

  Huge Ocean shows, within his yellow strand,

  A habitation marvellously planned,

  For life to occupy in love and rest;

  All
that we see—is dome, or vault, or nest,

  Or fortress, reared at Nature’s sage command.

  Glad thought for every season! but the Spring

  Gave it while cares were weighing on my heart, 10

  ‘Mid song of birds, and insects murmuring;

  And while the youthful year’s prolific art—

  Of bud, leaf, blade, and flower—was fashioning

  Abodes where self-disturbance hath no part.

  1820.

  TO THE LADY MARY LOWTHER

  LADY! I rifled a Parnassian Cave

  (But seldom trod) of mildly-gleaming ore;

  And culled, from sundry beds, a lucid store

  Of genuine crystals, pure as those that pave

  The azure brooks, where Dian joys to lave

  Her spotless limbs; and ventured to explore

  Dim shades—for reliques, upon Lethe’s shore,

  Cast up at random by the sullen wave.

  To female hands the treasures were resigned;

  And lo this Work!—a grotto bright and clear 10

  From stain or taint; in which thy blameless mind

  May feed on thoughts though pensive not austere;

  Or, if thy deeper spirit be inclined

  To holy musing, it may enter her.

  1820.

  ON THE DETRACTION WHICH FOLLOWED THE PUBLICATION OF A CERTAIN POEM

  A BOOK came forth of late, called PETER BELL;

  Not negligent the style;—the matter?—good

  As aught that song records of Robin Hood;

  Or Roy, renowned through many a Scottish dell;

  But some (who brook those hackneyed themes full well,

  Nor heat, at Tam o’ Shanter’s name, their blood)

  Waxed wroth, and with foul claws, a harpy brood,

  On Bard and Hero clamorously fell.

  Heed not, wild Rover once through heath and glen,

  Who mad’st at length the better life thy choice, 10

  Heed not such onset! nay, if praise of men

  To thee appear not an unmeaning voice,

  Lift up that grey-haired forehead, and rejoice

  In the just tribute of thy Poet’s pen!

  1820.

  OXFORD, MAY 30, 1820

  YE sacred Nurseries of blooming Youth!

  In whose collegiate shelter England’s Flowers

  Expand, enjoying through their vernal hours

  The air of liberty, the light of truth;

  Much have ye suffered from Time’s gnawing tooth:

  Yet, O ye spires of Oxford! domes and towers!

  Gardens and groves! your presence overpowers

  The soberness of reason; till, in sooth,

  Transformed, and rushing on a bold exchange,

  I slight my own beloved Cam, to range 10

  Where silver Isis leads my stripling feet;

  Pace the long avenue, or glide adown

  The stream-like windings of that glorious street—

  An eager Novice robed in fluttering gown!

  OXFORD, MAY 30, 1820

  SHAME on this faithless heart! that could allow

  Such transport, though but for a moment’s space;

  Not while—to aid the spirit of the place—

  The crescent moon clove with its glittering prow

  The clouds, or night-bird sang from shady bough;

  But in plain daylight:—She, too, at my side,

  Who, with her heart’s experience satisfied,

  Maintains inviolate its slightest vow!

  Sweet Fancy! other gifts must I receive;

  Proofs of a higher sovereignty I claim; 10

  Take from ‘her’ brow the withering flowers of eve,

  And to that brow life’s morning wreath restore;

  Let ‘her’ be comprehended in the frame

  Of these illusions, or they please no more.

  JUNE 1820

  FAME tells of groves—from England far away—

  Groves that inspire the Nightingale to trill

  And modulate, with subtle reach of skill

  Elsewhere unmatched, her ever-varying lay;

  Such bold report I venture to gainsay:

  For I have heard the quire of Richmond hill

  Chanting, with indefatigable bill,

  Strains that recalled to mind a distant day;

  When, haply under shade of that same wood,

  And scarcely conscious of the dashing oars 10

  Plied steadily between those willowy shores,

  The sweet-souled Poet of the Seasons stood—

  Listening, and listening long, in rapturous mood,

  Ye heavenly Birds! to your Progenitors.

  MEMORIALS OF A TOUR ON THE CONTINENT, 1820

  DEDICATION (SENT WITH THESE POEMS, IN MS., TO —)

  DEAR Fellow-travellers! think not that the Muse,

  To You presenting these memorial Lays,

  Can hope the general eye thereon would gaze,

  As on a mirror that gives back the hues

  Of living Nature; no—though free to choose

  The greenest bowers, the most inviting ways,

  The fairest landscapes and the brightest days—

  Her skill she tried with less ambitious views.

  For You she wrought: Ye only can supply

  The life, the truth, the beauty: she confides

  In that enjoyment which with You abides,

  Trusts to your love and vivid memory;

  Thus far contented, that for You her verse

  Shall lack not power the “meeting soul to pierce!”

  W. WORDSWORTH.

  RYDAL MOUNT, Nov. 1821.

  MEMORIALS OF A TOUR ON THE CONTINENT, 1820, I

  FISH-WOMEN—ON LANDING AT CALAIS

  ‘Tis said, fantastic ocean doth enfold

  The likeness of whate’er on land is seen;

  But, if the Nereid Sisters and their Queen,

  Above whose heads the tide so long hath rolled,

  The Dames resemble whom we here behold,

  How fearful were it down through opening waves

  To sink, and meet them in their fretted caves,

  Withered grotesque, immeasurably old,

  And shrill and fierce in accent!—Fear it not:

  For they Earth’s fairest daughters do excel; 10

  Pure undecaying beauty is their lot;

  Their voices into liquid music swell,

  Thrilling each pearly cleft and sparry grot,

  The undisturbed abodes where Sea-nymphs dwell!

  MEMORIALS OF A TOUR ON THE CONTINENT, 1820, II

  BRUGES

  BRUGES I saw attired with golden light

  (Streamed from the west) as with a robe of power:

  The splendour fled; and now the sunless hour,

  That, slowly making way for peaceful night,

  Best suits with fallen grandeur, to my sight

  Offers the beauty, the magnificence,

  And sober graces, left her for defence

  Against the injuries of time, the spite

  Of fortune, and the desolating storms

  Of future war. Advance not—spare to hide, 10

  O gentle Power of darkness! these mild hues;

  Obscure not yet these silent avenues

  Of stateliest architecture, where the Forms

  Of nun-like females, with soft motion, glide!

  MEMORIALS OF A TOUR ON THE CONTINENT, 1820, III

  BRUGES

  THE Spirit of Antiquity—enshrined

  In sumptuous buildings, vocal in sweet song,

  In picture, speaking with heroic tongue,

  And with devout solemnities entwined—

  Mounts to the seat of grace within the mind:

  Hence Forms that glide with swan-like ease along,

  Hence motions, even amid the vulgar throng,

  To an harmonious decency confined:

  As if the streets were consecrated ground,

  The city one vast
temple, dedicate 10

  To mutual respect in thought and deed;

  To leisure, to forbearances sedate;

  To social cares from jarring passions freed;

  A deeper peace than that in deserts found!

  MEMORIALS OF A TOUR ON THE CONTINENT, 1820, IV

  AFTER VISITING THE FIELD OF WATERLOO

  A WINGED Goddess—clothed in vesture wrought

  Of rainbow colours; One whose port was bold,

  Whose overburthened hand could scarcely hold

  The glittering crowns and garlands which it brought—

  Hovered in air above the far-famed Spot.

  She vanished; leaving prospect blank and cold

  Of wind-swept corn that wide around us rolled

  In dreary billows; wood, and meagre cot,

  And monuments that soon must disappear:

  Yet a dread local recompence we found; 10

  While glory seemed betrayed, while patriot-zeal

  Sank in our hearts, we felt as men ‘should’ feel

  With such vast hoards of hidden carnage near,

  And horror breathing from the silent ground!

  MEMORIALS OF A TOUR ON THE CONTINENT, 1820, V

  BETWEEN NAMUR AND LIEGE

  WHAT lovelier home could gentle Fancy choose?

  Is this the stream, whose cities, heights, and plains,

  War’s favourite playground, are with crimson stains

  Familiar, as the Morn with pearly dews?

  The Morn, that now, along the silver MEUSE,

  Spreading her peaceful ensigns, calls the swains

  To tend their silent boats and ringing wains,

  Or strip the bough whose mellow fruit bestrews

  The ripening corn beneath it. As mine eyes

  Turn from the fortified and threatening hill, 10

  How sweet the prospect of yon watery glade,

  With its grey rocks clustering in pensive shade—

  That, shaped like old monastic turrets, rise

  From the smooth meadow-ground, serene and still!

  MEMORIALS OF A TOUR ON THE CONTINENT, 1820, VI

  AIX-LA-CHAPELLE

  WAS it to disenchant, and to undo,

  That we approached the Seat of Charlemaine?

  To sweep from many an old romantic strain

  That faith which no devotion may renew!