Delphi Complete Works of William Wordsworth

by William Wordsworth

Let all remind the soul of heaven;

  Our slack devotion needs them all;

  And Faith—so oft of sense the thrall,

  While she, by aid of Nature, climbs—

  May hope to be forgiven.

  Glory, and patriotic Love,

  And all the Pomps of this frail “spot 20

  Which men call Earth,” have yearned to seek,

  Associate with the simply meek,

  Religion in the sainted grove,

  And in the hallowed grot.

  Thither, in time of adverse shocks,

  Of fainting hopes and backward wills,

  Did mighty Tell repair of old—

  A Hero cast in Nature’s mould,

  Deliverer of the stedfast rocks

  And of the ancient hills! 30

  ‘He’, too, of battle-martyrs chief!

  Who, to recall his daunted peers,

  For victory shaped an open space,

  By gathering with a wide embrace,

  Into his single breast, a sheaf

  Of fatal Austrian spears.

  MEMORIALS OF A TOUR ON THE CONTINENT, 1820, XXIV

  THE ITALIAN ITINERANT AND THE SWISS GOATHERD: PART I

  I

  NOW that the farewell tear is dried,

  Heaven prosper thee, be hope thy guide

  Hope be thy guide, adventurous Boy;

  The wages of thy travel, joy!

  Whether for London bound—to trill

  Thy mountain notes with simple skill;

  Or on thy head to poise a show

  Of Images in seemly row;

  The graceful form of milk-white Steed,

  Or Bird that soared with Ganymede;

  Or through our hamlets thou wilt bear

  The sightless Milton, with his hair

  Around his placid temples curled;

  And Shakspeare at his side—a freight,

  If clay could think and mind were weight,

  For him who bore the world!

  Hope be thy guide, adventurous Boy;

  The wages of thy travel, joy!

  II

  But thou, perhaps, (alert as free

  Though serving sage philosophy)

  Wilt ramble over hill and dale,

  A Vender of the well-wrought Scale,

  Whose sentient tube instructs to time

  A purpose to a fickle clime:

  Whether thou choose this useful part,

  Or minister to finer art,

  Though robbed of many a cherished dream,

  And crossed by many a shattered scheme,

  What stirring wonders wilt thou see

  In the proud Isle of liberty!

  Yet will the Wanderer sometimes pine

  With thoughts which no delights can chase,

  Recall a Sister’s last embrace,

  His Mother’s neck entwine;

  Nor shall forget the Maiden coy

  That ‘would’ have loved the bright-haired Boy!

  III

  My Song, encouraged by the grace

  That beams from his ingenuous face,

  For this Adventurer scruples not

  To prophesy a golden lot;

  Due recompence, and safe return

  TO COMO’S steeps—his happy bourne!

  Where he, aloft in garden glade,

  Shall tend, with his own dark-eyed Maid,

  The towering maize, and prop the twig

  That ill supports the luscious fig;

  Or feed his eye in paths sun-proof

  With purple of the trellis-roof,

  That through the jealous leaves escapes

  From Cadenabbia’s pendent grapes.

  —Oh might he tempt that Goatherd-child

  To share his wanderings! him whose look

  Even yet my heart can scarcely brook,

  So touchingly he smiled—

  As with a rapture caught from heaven—

  For unasked alms in pity given.

  MEMORIALS OF A TOUR ON THE CONTINENT, 1820, XXIV

  THE ITALIAN ITINERANT AND THE SWISS GOATHERD: PART II

  I

  WITH nodding plumes, and lightly drest

  Like foresters in leaf-green vest,

  The Helvetian Mountaineers, on ground

  For Tell’s dread archery renowned,

  Before the target stood—to claim

  The guerdon of the steadiest aim.

  Loud was the rifle-gun’s report—

  A startling thunder quick and short!

  But, flying through the heights around,

  Echo prolonged a tell-tale sound

  Of hearts and hands alike “prepared

  The treasures they enjoy to guard!”

  And, if there be a favoured hour

  When Heroes are allowed to quit

  The tomb, and on the clouds to sit

  With tutelary power,

  On their Descendants shedding grace—

  This was the hour, and that the place.

  II

  But Truth inspired the Bards of old

  When of an iron age they told,

  Which to unequal laws gave birth,

  And drove Astraea from the earth.

  —A gentle Boy (perchance with blood

  As noble as the best endued,

  But seemingly a Thing despised;

  Even by the sun and air unprized;

  For not a tinge or flowery streak

  Appeared upon his tender cheek)

  Heart-deaf to those rebounding notes,

  Apart, beside his silent goats,

  Sate watching in a forest shed,

  Pale, ragged, with bare feet and head;

  Mute as the snow upon the hill,

  And, as the saint he prays to, still.

  Ah, what avails heroic deed?

  What liberty? if no defence

  Be won for feeble Innocence.

  Father of all! though wilful Manhood read

  His punishment in soul-distress,

  Grant to the morn of life its natural blessedness!

  MEMORIALS OF A TOUR ON THE CONTINENT, 1820, XXV

  THE LAST SUPPER BY LEONARDO DA VINCI, IN THE REFECTORY OF THE CONVENT OF MARIA DELLA GRAZIA—MILAN

  THO’ searching damps and many an envious flaw

  Have marred this Work; the calm ethereal grace,

  The love deep-seated in the Saviour’s face,

  The mercy, goodness, have not failed to awe

  The Elements; as they do melt and thaw

  The heart of the Beholder—and erase

  (At least for one rapt moment) every trace

  Of disobedience to the primal law.

  The annunciation of the dreadful truth

  Made to the Twelve, survives: lip, forehead, cheek, 10

  And hand reposing on the board in ruth

  Of what it utters, while the unguilty seek

  Unquestionable meanings—still bespeak

  A labour worthy of eternal youth!

  MEMORIALS OF A TOUR ON THE CONTINENT, 1820, XXVI

  THE ECLIPSE OF THE SUN, 1820

  HIGH on her speculative tower

  Stood Science waiting for the hour

  When Sol was destined to endure

  ‘That’ darkening of his radiant face

  Which Superstition strove to chase,

  Erewhile, with rites impure.

  Afloat beneath Italian skies,

  Through regions fair as Paradise

  We gaily passed,—till Nature wrought

  A silent and unlooked-for change, 10

  That checked the desultory range

  Of joy and sprightly thought.

  Where’er was dipped the toiling oar,

  The waves danced round us as before,

  As lightly, though of altered hue,

  ‘Mid recent coolness, such as falls

  At noontide from umbrageous walls

  That screen the morning dew.

  No vapour stretched its wings; no cloud

  Cast far or near
a murky shroud; 20

  The sky an azure field displayed;

  ‘Twas sunlight sheathed and gently charmed,

  Of all its sparkling rays disarmed,

  And as in slumber laid,—

  Or something night and day between,

  Like moonshine—but the hue was green;

  Still moonshine, without shadow, spread

  On jutting rock, and curved shore,

  Where gazed the peasant from his door

  And on the mountain’s head. 30

  It tinged the Julian steeps—it lay,

  Lugano! on thy ample bay;

  The solemnizing veil was drawn

  O’er villas, terraces, and towers;

  To Albogasio’s olive bowers,

  Porlezza’s verdant lawn.

  But Fancy with the speed of fire

  Hath passed to Milan’s loftiest spire,

  And there alights ‘mid that aerial host

  Of Figures human and divine, 40

  White as the snows of Apennine

  Indurated by frost.

  Awe-stricken she beholds the array

  That guards the Temple night and day;

  Angels she sees—that might from heaven have flown,

  And Virgin-saints, who not in vain

  Have striven by purity to gain

  The beatific crown—

  Sees long-drawn files, concentric rings

  Each narrowing above each;—the wings, 50

  The uplifted palms, the silent marble lips

  The starry zone of sovereign height—

  All steeped in this portentous light!

  All suffering dim eclipse!

  Thus after Man had fallen (if aught

  These perishable spheres have wrought

  May with that issue be compared)

  Throngs of celestial visages,

  Darkening like water in the breeze,

  A holy sadness shared. 60

  Lo! while I speak, the labouring Sun

  His glad deliverance has begun:

  The cypress waves her sombre plume

  More cheerily; and town and tower,

  The vineyard and the olive-bower,

  Their lustre re-assume!

  O Ye, who guard and grace my home

  While in far-distant lands we roam,

  What countenance hath this Day put on for you?

  While we looked round with favoured eyes, 70

  Did sullen mists hide lake and skies

  And mountains from your view?

  Or was it given you to behold

  Like vision, pensive though not cold,

  From the smooth breast of gay Winandermere?

  Saw ye the soft yet awful veil

  Spread over Grasmere’s lovely dale,

  Helvellyn’s brow severe?

  I ask in vain—and know far less

  If sickness, sorrow, or distress 80

  Have spared my Dwelling to this hour;

  Sad blindness! but ordained to prove

  Our faith in Heaven’s unfailing love

  And all-controlling power.

  MEMORIALS OF A TOUR ON THE CONTINENT, 1820, XXVII

  THE THREE COTTAGE GIRLS

  I

  HOW blest the Maid whose heart—yet free

  From Love’s uneasy sovereignty—

  Beats with a fancy running high,

  Her simple cares to magnify;

  Whom Labour, never urged to toil,

  Hath cherished on a healthful soil;

  Who knows not pomp, who heeds not pelf;

  Whose heaviest sin it is to look

  Askance upon her pretty Self

  Reflected in some crystal brook;

  Whom grief hath spared—who sheds no tear

  But in sweet pity; and can hear

  Another’s praise from envy clear.

  II

  Such (but O lavish Nature! why

  That dark unfathomable eye,

  Where lurks a Spirit that replies

  To stillest mood of softest skies,

  Yet hints at peace to be o’erthrown,

  Another’s first, and then her own?)

  Such, haply, yon ITALIAN Maid,

  Our Lady’s laggard Votaress,

  Halting beneath the chestnut shade

  To accomplish there her loveliness:

  Nice aid maternal fingers lend;

  A Sister serves with slacker hand;

  Then, glittering like a star, she joins the festal band.

  III

  How blest (if truth may entertain

  Coy fancy with a bolder strain)

  The HELVETIAN Girl—who daily braves,

  In her light skiff, the tossing waves,

  And quits the bosom of the deep

  Only to climb the rugged steep!

  —Say whence that modulated shout!

  From Wood-nymph of Diana’s throng?

  Or does the greeting to a rout

  Of giddy Bacchanals belong?

  Jubilant outcry! rock and glade

  Resounded—but the voice obeyed

  The breath of an Helvetian Maid.

  IV

  Her beauty dazzles the thick wood;

  Her courage animates the flood;

  Her steps the elastic greensward meets

  Returning unreluctant sweets;

  The mountains (as ye heard) rejoice

  Aloud, saluted by her voice!

  Blithe Paragon of Alpine grace,

  Be as thou art—for through thy veins

  The blood of Heroes runs its race!

  And nobly wilt thou brook the chains

  That, for the virtuous, Life prepares;

  The fetters which the Matron wears;

  The patriot Mother’s weight of anxious cares!

  V

  “Sweet HIGHLAND Girl! a very shower

  Of beauty was thy earthly dower,”

  When thou didst flit before mine eyes,

  Gay Vision under sullen skies,

  While Hope and Love around thee played,

  Near the rough falls of Inversneyd!

  Have they, who nursed the blossom, seen

  No breach of promise in the fruit?

  Was joy, in following joy, as keen

  As grief can be in grief’s pursuit?

  When youth had flown did hope still bless

  Thy goings—or the cheerfulness

  Of innocence survive to mitigate distress?

  VI

  But from our course why turn—to tread

  A way with shadows overspread;

  Where what we gladliest would believe

  Is feared as what may most deceive?

  Bright Spirit, not with amaranth crowned

  But heath-bells from thy native ground,

  Time cannot thin thy flowing hair,

  Nor take one ray of light from Thee;

  For in my Fancy thou dost share

  The gift of immortality;

  And there shall bloom, with Thee allied,

  The Votaress by Lugano’s side;

  And that intrepid Nymph, on Uri’s steep descried!

  MEMORIALS OF A TOUR ON THE CONTINENT, 1820, XXVIII

  THE COLUMN INTENDED BY BUONAPARTE FOR A TRIUMPHAL EDIFICE IN MILAN, NOW LYING BY THE WAY-SIDE IN THE SIMPLON PASS

  AMBITION—following down this far-famed slope

  Her Pioneer, the snow-dissolving Sun,

  While clarions prate of kingdoms to be won—

  Perchance, in future ages, here may stop;

  Taught to mistrust her flattering horoscope

  By admonition from this prostrate Stone!

  Memento uninscribed of Pride o’erthrown;

  Vanity’s hieroglyphic; a choice trope

  In Fortune’s rhetoric. Daughter of the Rock,

  Rest where thy course was stayed by Power divine! 10

  The Soul transported sees, from hint of thine,

  Crimes which the great Avenger’s hand provoke,

  Hears combats whistli
ng o’er the ensanguined heath:

  What groans! what shrieks! what quietness in death.

  MEMORIALS OF A TOUR ON THE CONTINENT, 1820, XXIX

  STANZAS COMPOSED IN THE SIMPLON PASS

  VALLOMBROSA! I longed in thy shadiest wood

  To slumber, reclined on the moss-covered floor,

  To listen to ANIO’S precipitous flood,

  When the stillness of evening hath deepened its roar;

  To range through the Temples of PAESTUM, to muse

  In POMPEII preserved by her burial in earth;

  On pictures to gaze where they drank in their hues;

  And murmur sweet songs on the ground of their birth.

  The beauty of Florence, the grandeur of Rome,

  Could I leave them unseen, and not yield to regret? 10

  With a hope (and no more) for a season to come,

  Which ne’er may discharge the magnificent debt?

  Thou fortunate Region! whose Greatness inurned

  Awoke to new life from its ashes and dust;

  Twice-glorified fields! if in sadness I turned

  From your infinite marvels, the sadness was just.

  Now, risen ere the light-footed Chamois retires

  From dew-sprinkled grass to heights guarded with snow,

  Toward the mists that hang over the land of my Sires,

  From the climate of myrtles contented I go. 20

  My thoughts become bright like yon edging of Pines

  On the steep’s lofty verge: how it blackened the air!

  But, touched from behind by the Sun, it now shines

  With threads that seem part of his own silver hair.

  Though the toil of the way with dear Friends we divide,

  Though by the same zephyr our temples be fanned

  As we rest in the cool orange-bower side by side,

  A yearning survives which few hearts shall withstand:

  Each step hath its value while homeward we move;—

  O joy when the girdle of England appears! 30

  What moment in life is so conscious of love,

  Of love in the heart made more happy by tears?

  MEMORIALS OF A TOUR ON THE CONTINENT, 1820, XXX

  ECHO, UPON THE GEMMI

  WHAT beast of chase hath broken from the cover?

  Stern GEMMI listens to as full a cry,

  As multitudinous a harmony

  Of sounds as rang the heights of Latmos over,

  When, from the soft couch of her sleeping Lover,

  Up-starting, Cynthia skimmed the mountain dew

  In keen pursuit—and gave, where’er she flew,

  Impetuous motion to the Stars above her.

  A solitary Wolf-dog, ranging on

  Through the bleak concave, wakes this wondrous chime 10

  Of aery voices locked in unison,—