Delphi Complete Works of William Wordsworth

by William Wordsworth

  Lingering—and wandering on as loth to die;

  Like thoughts whose very sweetness yieldeth proof

  That they were born for immortality.

  INSIDE OF KING’S COLLEGE CHAPEL, CAMBRIDGE: THE SAME

  WHAT awful perspective! while from our sight

  With gradual stealth the lateral windows hide

  Their Portraitures, their stone-work glimmers, dyed

  In the soft chequerings of a sleepy light.

  Martyr, or King, or sainted Eremite,

  Whoe’er ye be, that thus, yourselves unseen,

  Imbue your prison-bars with solemn sheen,

  Shine on, until ye fade with coming Night!—

  But, from the arms of silence—list! O list!

  The music bursteth into second life; 10

  The notes luxuriate, every stone is kissed

  By sound, or ghost of sound, in mazy strife;

  Heart-thrilling strains, that cast, before the eye

  Of the devout, a veil of ecstasy!

  INSIDE OF KING’S COLLEGE CHAPEL, CAMBRIDGE: CONTINUED

  THEY dreamt not of a perishable home

  Who thus could build. Be mine, in hours of fear

  Or grovelling thought, to seek a refuge here;

  Or through the aisles of Westminster to roam:

  Where bubbles burst, and folly’s dancing foam

  Melts, if it cross the threshold; where the wreath

  Of awe-struck wisdom droops: or let my path

  Lead to that younger Pile, whose sky-like dome

  Hath typified by reach of daring art

  Infinity’s embrace; whose guardian crest, 10

  The silent Cross, among the stars shall spread

  As now, when She hath also seen her breast

  Filled with mementos, satiate with its part

  Of grateful England’s overflowing Dead.

  EJACULATION

  GLORY to God! and to the Power who came

  In filial duty, clothed with love divine,

  That made his human tabernacle shine

  Like Ocean burning with purpureal flame;

  Or like the Alpine Mount, that takes its name

  From roseate hues, far kenned at morn and even

  In hours of peace, or when the storm is driven

  Along the nether region’s rugged frame!

  Earth prompts—Heaven urges; let us seek the light,

  Studious of that pure intercourse begun 10

  When first our infant brows their lustre won;

  So, like the Mountain, may we grow more bright

  From unimpeded commerce with the Sun,

  At the approach of all-involving night.

  EJACULATION CONCLUSION

  WHY sleeps the future, as a snake enrolled,

  Coil within coil, at noon-tide? For the WORD

  Yields, if with unpresumptuous faith explored,

  Power at whose touch the sluggard shall unfold

  His drowsy rings. Look forth!—that Stream behold,

  THAT STREAM upon whose bosom we have passed

  Floating at ease while nations have effaced

  Nations, and Death has gathered to his fold

  Long lines of mighty Kings—look forth, my Soul!

  (Nor in this vision be thou slow to trust) 10

  The living Waters, less and less by guilt

  Stained and polluted, brighten as they roll,

  Till they have reached the eternal City—built

  For the perfected Spirit of the just!

  MEMORY

  A PEN—to register; a key—

  That winds through secret wards

  Are well assigned to Memory

  By allegoric Bards.

  As aptly, also, might be given

  A Pencil to her hand;

  That, softening objects, sometimes even

  Outstrips the heart’s demand;

  That smooths foregone distress, the lines

  Of lingering care subdues, 10

  Long-vanished happiness refines,

  And clothes in brighter hues;

  Yet, like a tool of Fancy, works

  Those Spectres to dilate

  That startle Conscience, as she lurks

  Within her lonely seat.

  Oh! that our lives, which flee so fast,

  In purity were such,

  That not an image of the past

  Should fear that pencil’s touch! 20

  Retirement then might hourly look

  Upon a soothing scene,

  Age steal to his allotted nook

  Contented and serene;

  With heart as calm as lakes that sleep,

  In frosty moonlight glistening;

  Or mountain rivers, where they creep

  Along a channel smooth and deep,

  To their own far-off murmurs listening.

  1823.

  TO THE LADY FLEMING ON SEEING THE FOUNDATION PREPARING FOR THE ERECTION OF RYDAL CHAPEL, WESTMORELAND

  I

  BLEST is this Isle—our native Land;

  Where battlement and moated gate

  Are objects only for the hand

  Of hoary Time to decorate;

  Where shady hamlet, town that breathes

  Its busy smoke in social wreaths,

  No rampart’s stern defence require,

  Nought but the heaven-directed spire,

  And steeple tower (with pealing bells

  Far-heard)—our only citadels.

  II

  O Lady! from a noble line

  Of chieftains sprung, who stoutly bore

  The spear, yet gave to works divine

  A bounteous help in days of yore,

  (As records mouldering in the Dell

  Of Nightshade haply yet may tell;)

  Thee kindred aspirations moved

  To build, within a vale beloved,

  For Him upon whose high behests

  All peace depends, all safety rests.

  III

  How fondly will the woods embrace

  This daughter of thy pious care,

  Lifting her front with modest grace

  To make a fair recess more fair;

  And to exalt the passing hour;

  Or soothe it with a healing power

  Drawn from the Sacrifice fulfilled,

  Before this rugged soil was tilled,

  Or human habitation rose

  To interrupt the deep repose!

  IV

  Well may the villagers rejoice!

  Nor heat, nor cold, nor weary ways,

  Will be a hindrance to the voice

  That would unite in prayer and praise;

  More duly shall wild wandering Youth

  Receive the curb of sacred truth,

  Shall tottering Age, bent earthward, hear

  The Promise, with uplifted ear;

  And all shall welcome the new ray

  Imparted to their sabbath-day.

  V

  Nor deem the Poet’s hope misplaced,

  His fancy cheated—that can see

  A shade upon the future cast,

  Of time’s pathetic sanctity;

  Can hear the monitory clock

  Sound o’er the lake with gentle shock

  At evening, when the ground beneath

  Is ruffled o’er with cells of death;

  Where happy generations lie,

  Here tutored for eternity.

  VI

  Lives there a man whose sole delights

  Are trivial pomp and city noise,

  Hardening a heart that loathes or slights

  What every natural heart enjoys?

  Who never caught a noon-tide dream

  From murmur of a running stream;

  Could strip, for aught the prospect yields

  To him, their verdure from the fields;

  And take the radiance from the clouds

  In which the sun his setting shrouds.

  VII

  A soul so pitiably for
lorn,

  If such do on this earth abide,

  May season apathy with scorn,

  May turn indifference to pride;

  And still be not unblest—compared

  With him who grovels, self-debarred

  From all that lies within the scope

  Of holy faith and christian hope;

  Or, shipwrecked, kindles on the coast

  False fires, that others may be lost.

  VIII

  Alas! that such perverted zeal

  Should spread on Britain’s favoured ground!

  That public order, private weal,

  Should e’er have felt or feared a wound

  From champions of the desperate law

  Which from their own blind hearts they draw;

  Who tempt their reason to deny

  God, whom their passions dare defy,

  And boast that they alone are free

  Who reach this dire extremity!

  IX

  But turn we from these “bold bad” men;

  The way, mild Lady! that hath led

  Down to their dark opprobrious den,”

  Is all too rough for Thee to tread.

  Softly as morning vapours glide

  Down Rydal-cove from Fairfield’s side,

  Should move the tenor of ‘his’ song

  Who means to charity no wrong;

  Whose offering gladly would accord

  With this day’s work, in thought and word.

  X

  Heaven prosper it! may peace, and love,

  And hope, and consolation, fall,

  Through its meek influence, from above,

  And penetrate the hearts of all;

  All who, around the hallowed Fane,

  Shall sojourn in this fair domain;

  Grateful to Thee, while service pure,

  And ancient ordinance, shall endure,

  For opportunity bestowed

  To kneel together, and adore their God!

  1823.

  ON THE SAME OCCASION

  Oh! gather whencesoe’er ye safely may

  The help which slackening Pity requires;

  Nor deem that he perforce must go astray

  Who treads upon the footmarks of his sires.

  WHEN in the antique age of bow and spear

  And feudal rapine clothed with iron mail,

  Came ministers of peace, intent to rear

  The Mother Church in yon sequestered vale;

  Then, to her Patron Saint a previous rite

  Resounded with deep swell and solemn close,

  Through unremitting vigils of the night,

  Till from his couch the wished-for Sun uprose.

  He rose, and straight—as by divine command,

  They, who had waited for that sign to trace 10

  Their work’s foundation, gave with careful hand

  To the high altar its determined place;

  Mindful of Him who in the Orient born

  There lived, and on the cross his life resigned,

  And who, from out the regions of the morn,

  Issuing in pomp, shall come to judge mankind.

  So taught ‘their’ creed;—nor failed the eastern sky

  ‘Mid these more awful feelings, to infuse

  The sweet and natural hopes that shall not die,

  Long as the sun his gladsome course renews. 20

  For us hath such prelusive vigil ceased;

  Yet still we plant, like men of elder days,

  Our christian altar faithful to the east,

  Whence the tall window drinks the morning rays;

  That obvious emblem giving to the eye

  Of meek devotion, which erewhile it gave,

  That symbol of the dayspring from on high,

  Triumphant o’er the darkness of the grave.

  1823.

  A VOLANT TRIBE OF BARDS ON EARTH ARE FOUND

  A VOLANT Tribe of Bards on earth are found,

  Who, while the flattering Zephyrs round them play,

  On “coignes of vantage” hang their nests of clay;

  How quickly from that aery hold unbound,

  Dust for oblivion! To the solid ground

  Of nature trusts the Mind that builds for aye;

  Convinced that there, there only, she can lay

  Secure foundations. As the year runs round,

  Apart she toils within the chosen ring;

  While the stars shine, or while day’s purple eye 10

  Is gently closing with the flowers of spring;

  Where even the motion of an Angel’s wing

  Would interrupt the intense tranquillity

  Of silent hills, and more than silent sky.

  1823.

  NOT LOVE, NOT WAR, NOR THE TUMULTUOUS SWELL

  NOT Love, not War, nor the tumultuous swell,

  Of civil conflict, nor the wrecks of change,

  Nor Duty struggling with afflictions strange—

  Not these ‘alone’ inspire the tuneful shell;

  But where untroubled peace and concord dwell,

  There also is the Muse not loth to range,

  Watching the twilight smoke of cot or grange,

  Skyward ascending from a woody dell.

  Meek aspirations please her, lone endeavour,

  And sage content, and placid melancholy; 10

  She loves to gaze upon a crystal river—

  Diaphanous because it travels slowly;

  Soft is the music that would charm for ever;

  The flower of sweetest smell is shy and lowly.

  1823.

  TO ——

  LET other bards of angels sing,

  Bright suns without a spot;

  But thou art no such perfect thing:

  Rejoice that thou art not!

  Heed not tho’ none should call thee fair;

  So, Mary, let it be

  If nought in loveliness compare

  With what thou art to me.

  True beauty dwells in deep retreats,

  Whose veil is unremoved 10

  Till heart with heart in concord beats,

  And the lover is beloved.

  1824.

  TO ——

  O DEARER far than light and life are dear,

  Full oft our human foresight I deplore;

  Trembling, through my unworthiness, with fear

  That friends, by death disjoined, may meet no more!

  Misgivings, hard to vanquish or control,

  Mix with the day, and cross the hour of rest;

  While all the future, for thy purer soul,

  With “sober certainties” of love is blest.

  That sigh of thine, not meant for human ear,

  Tells that these words thy humbleness offend; 10

  Yet bear me up—else faltering in the rear

  Of a steep march: support me to the end.

  Peace settles where the intellect is meek,

  And Love is dutiful in thought and deed;

  Through Thee communion with that Love I seek:

  The faith Heaven strengthens where ‘he’ moulds the Creed.

  1824.

  HOW RICH THAT FOREHEAD’S CALM EXPANSE

  HOW rich that forehead’s calm expanse!

  How bright that heaven-directed glance!

  —Waft her to glory, winged Powers,

  Ere sorrow be renewed,

  And intercourse with mortal hours

  Bring back a humbler mood!

  So looked Cecilia when she drew

  An Angel from his station;

  So looked; not ceasing to pursue

  Her tuneful adoration! 10

  But hand and voice alike are still;

  No sound ‘here’ sweeps away the will

  That gave it birth: in service meek

  One upright arm sustains the cheek,

  And one across the bosom lies—

  That rose, and now forgets to rise,

  Subdued by breathless harmonies

 
Of meditative feeling;

  Mute strains from worlds beyond the skies,

  Through the pure light of female eyes, 20

  Their sanctity revealing!

  1824.

  TO ——

  LOOK at the fate of summer flowers,

  Which blow at daybreak, droop e’er evensong;

  And, grieved for their brief date, confess that ours,

  Measured by what we are and ought to be,

  Measured by all that, trembling, we foresee,

  Is not so long!

  If human Life do pass away,

  Perishing yet more swiftly than the flower,

  If we are creatures of a ‘winter’s’ day;

  What space hath Virgin’s beauty to disclose 10

  Her sweets, and triumph o’er the breathing rose?

  Not even an hour!

  The deepest grove whose foliage hid

  The happiest lovers Arcady might boast,

  Could not the entrance of this thought forbid:

  O be thou wise as they, soul-gifted Maid!

  Nor rate too high what must so quickly fade,

  So soon be lost.

  Then shall love teach some virtuous Youth

  “To draw, out of the object of his eyes,” 20

  The while on thee they gaze in simple truth,

  Hues more exalted, “a refined Form,”

  That dreads not age, nor suffers from the worm,

  And never dies.

  1824.

  A FLOWER GARDEN AT COLEORTON HALL, LEICESTERSHIRE

  TELL me, ye Zephyrs! that unfold,

  While fluttering o’er this gay Recess,

  Pinions that fanned the teeming mould

  Of Eden’s blissful wilderness,

  Did only softly-stealing hours

  There close the peaceful lives of flowers?

  Say, when the ‘moving’ creatures saw

  All kinds commingled without fear,

  Prevailed a like indulgent law

  For the still growths that prosper here? 10

  Did wanton fawn and kid forbear

  The half-blown rose, the lily spare?

  Or peeped they often from their beds

  And prematurely disappeared,

  Devoured like pleasure ere it spreads

  A bosom to the sun endeared?

  If such their harsh untimely doom,

  It falls not ‘here’ on bud or bloom.

  All summer long the happy Eve

  Of this fair Spot her flowers may bind, 20

  Nor e’er, with ruffled fancy, grieve,

  From the next glance she casts, to find