Delphi Complete Works of William Wordsworth

by William Wordsworth

  A liquid concert matchless by nice Art,

  A stream as if from one full heart.

  IV

  Blest be the song that brightens

  The blind man’s gloom, exalts the veteran’s mirth;

  Unscorned the peasant’s whistling breath, that lightens

  His duteous toil of furrowing the green earth.

  For the tired slave, Song lifts the languid oar,

  And bids it aptly fall, with chime

  That beautifies the fairest shore,

  And mitigates the harshest clime.

  Yon pilgrims see—in lagging file

  They move; but soon the appointed way

  A choral ‘Ave Marie’ shall beguile,

  And to their hope the distant shrine

  Glisten with a livelier ray:

  Nor friendless he, the prisoner of the mine,

  Who from the well-spring of his own clear breast

  Can draw, and sing his griefs to rest.

  V

  When civic renovation

  Dawns on a kingdom, and for needful haste

  Best eloquence avails not, Inspiration

  Mounts with a tune, that travels like a blast

  Piping through cave and battlemented tower;

  Then starts the sluggard, pleased to meet

  That voice of Freedom, in its power

  Of promises, shrill, wild, and sweet!

  Who, from a martial ‘pageant’, spreads

  Incitements of a battle-day,

  Thrilling the unweaponed crowd with plumeless heads?—

  Even She whose Lydian airs inspire

  Peaceful striving, gentle play

  Of timid hope and innocent desire

  Shot from the dancing Graces, as they move

  Fanned by the plausive wings of Love.

  VI

  How oft along thy mazes,

  Regent of sound, have dangerous Passions trod!

  O Thou, through whom the temple rings with praises,

  And blackening clouds in thunder speak of God,

  Betray not by the cozenage of sense

  Thy votaries, wooingly resigned

  To a voluptuous influence

  That taints the purer, better, mind;

  But lead sick Fancy to a harp

  That hath in noble tasks been tried;

  And, if the virtuous feel a pang too sharp,

  Soothe it into patience,—stay

  The uplifted arm of Suicide;

  And let some mood of thine in firm array

  Knit every thought the impending issue needs,

  Ere martyr burns, or patriot bleeds!

  VII

  As Conscience, to the centre

  Of being, smites with irresistible pain

  So shall a solemn cadence, if it enter

  The mouldy vaults of the dull idiot’s brain,

  Transmute him to a wretch from quiet hurled—

  Convulsed as by a jarring din;

  And then aghast, as at the world

  Of reason partially let in

  By concords winding with a sway

  Terrible for sense and soul!

  Or, awed he weeps, struggling to quell dismay.

  Point not these mysteries to an Art

  Lodged above the starry pole;

  Pure modulations flowing from the heart

  Of divine Love, where Wisdom, Beauty, Truth

  With Order dwell, in endless youth?

  VIII

  Oblivion may not cover

  All treasures hoarded by the miser, Time.

  Orphean Insight! truth’s undaunted lover,

  To the first leagues of tutored passion climb,

  When Music deigned within this grosser sphere

  Her subtle essence to enfold,

  And voice and shell drew forth a tear

  Softer than Nature’s self could mould.

  Yet ‘strenuous’ was the infant Age:

  Art, daring because souls could feel,

  Stirred nowhere but an urgent equipage

  Of rapt imagination sped her march

  Through the realms of woe and weal:

  Hell to the lyre bowed low; the upper arch

  Rejoiced that clamorous spell and magic verse

  Her wan disasters could disperse.

  IX

  The GIFT to king Amphion

  That walled a city with its melody

  Was for belief no dream:—thy skill, Arion!

  Could humanise the creatures of the sea,

  Where men were monsters. A last grace he craves,

  Leave for one chant;—the dulcet sound

  Steals from the deck o’er willing waves,

  And listening dolphins gather round.

  Self-cast, as with a desperate course,

  ‘Mid that strange audience, he bestrides

  A proud One docile as a managed horse;

  And singing, while the accordant hand

  Sweeps his harp, the Master rides;

  So shall he touch at length a friendly strand,

  And he, with his preserver, shine star-bright

  In memory, through silent night.

  X

  The pipe of Pan, to shepherds

  Couched in the shadow of Maenalian pines,

  Was passing sweet; the eyeballs of the leopards,

  That in high triumph drew the Lord of vines,

  How did they sparkle to the cymbal’s clang!

  While Fauns and Satyrs beat the ground

  In cadence,—and Silenus swang

  This way and that, with wild-flowers crowned.

  To life, to ‘life’ give back thine ear:

  Ye who are longing to be rid

  Of fable, though to truth subservient, hear

  The little sprinkling of cold earth that fell

  Echoed from the coffin-lid;

  The convict’s summons in the steeple’s knell;

  “The vain distress-gun,” from a leeward shore,

  Repeated—heard, and heard no more!

  XI

  For terror, joy, or pity,

  Vast is the compass and the swell of notes:

  From the babe’s first cry to voice of regal city,

  Rolling a solemn sea-like bass, that floats

  Far as the woodlands—with the trill to blend

  Of that shy songstress, whose love-tale

  Might tempt an angel to descend,

  While hovering o’er the moonlight vale.

  Ye wandering Utterances, has earth no scheme,

  No scale of moral music—to unite

  Powers that survive but in the faintest dream

  Of memory?—O that ye might stoop to bear

  Chains, such precious chains of sight

  As laboured minstrelsies through ages wear!

  O for a balance fit the truth to tell

  Of the Unsubstantial, pondered well!

  XII

  By one pervading spirit

  Of tones and numbers all things are controlled,

  As sages taught, where faith was found to merit

  Initiation in that mystery old.

  The heavens, whose aspect makes our minds as still

  As they themselves appear to be,

  Innumerable voices fill

  With everlasting harmony;

  The towering headlands, crowned with mist,

  Their feet among the billows, know

  That Ocean is a mighty harmonist;

  Thy pinions, universal Air,

  Ever waving to and fro,

  Are delegates of harmony, and bear

  Strains that support the Seasons in their round;

  Stern Winter loves a dirge-like sound.

  XIII

  Break forth into thanksgiving,

  Ye banded instruments of wind and chords

  Unite, to magnify the Ever-living,

  Your inarticulate notes with the voice of words!

  Nor hushed be service from the lowing mead,

  Nor mut
e the forest hum of noon;

  Thou too be heard, lone eagle! freed

  From snowy peak and cloud, attune

  Thy hungry barkings to the hymn

  Of joy, that from her utmost walls

  The six-days’ Work, by flaming Seraphim

  Transmits to Heaven! As Deep to Deep

  Shouting through one valley calls,

  All worlds, all natures, mood and measure keep

  For praise and ceaseless gratulation, poured

  Into the ear of God, their Lord!

  XIV

  A Voice to Light gave Being;

  To Time, and Man, his earth-born chronicler;

  A Voice shall finish doubt and dim foreseeing,

  And sweep away life’s visionary stir;

  The trumpet (we, intoxicate with pride,

  Arm at its blast for deadly wars)

  To archangelic lips applied,

  The grave shall open, quench the stars.

  O Silence! are Man’s noisy years

  No more than moments of thy life?

  Is Harmony, blest queen of smiles and tears,

  With her smooth tones and discords just,

  Tempered into rapturous strife,

  Thy destined bond-slave? No! though earth be dust

  And vanish, though the heavens dissolve, her stay

  Is in the WORD, that shall not pass away.

  1828.

  INCIDENT AT BRUGES

  IN Bruges town is many a street

  Whence busy life hath fled;

  Where, without hurry, noiseless feet

  The grass-grown pavement tread.

  There heard we, halting in the shade

  Flung from a Convent-tower,

  A harp that tuneful prelude made

  To a voice of thrilling power.

  The measure, simple truth to tell,

  Was fit for some gay throng; 10

  Though from the same grim turret fell

  The shadow and the song.

  When silent were both voice and chords,

  The strain seemed doubly dear,

  Yet sad as sweet,—for ‘English’ words

  Had fallen upon the ear.

  It was a breezy hour of eve;

  And pinnacle and spire

  Quivered and seemed almost to heave,

  Clothed with innocuous fire; 20

  But, where we stood, the setting sun

  Showed little of his state;

  And, if the glory reached the Nun,

  ‘Twas through an iron grate.

  Not always is the heart unwise,

  Nor pity idly born,

  If even a passing Stranger sighs

  For them who do not mourn.

  Sad is thy doom, self-solaced dove,

  Captive, whoe’er thou be! 30

  Oh! what is beauty, what is love,

  And opening life to thee?

  Such feeling pressed upon my soul,

  A feeling sanctified

  By one soft trickling tear that stole

  From the Maiden at my side;

  Less tribute could she pay than this,

  Borne gaily o’er the sea,

  Fresh from the beauty and the bliss

  Of English liberty? 40

  1828.

  GOLD AND SILVER FISHES IN A VASE

  THE soaring lark is blest as proud

  When at heaven’s gate she sings;

  The roving bee proclaims aloud

  Her flight by vocal wings;

  While Ye, in lasting durance pent,

  Your silent lives employ

  For something more than dull content,

  Though haply less than joy.

  Yet might your glassy prison seem

  A place where joy is known, 10

  Where golden flash and silver gleam

  Have meanings of their own;

  While, high and low, and all about,

  Your motions, glittering Elves!

  Ye weave—no danger from without,

  And peace among yourselves.

  Type of a sunny human breast

  Is your transparent cell;

  Where Fear is but a transient guest,

  No sullen Humours dwell; 20

  Where, sensitive of every ray

  That smites this tiny sea,

  Your scaly panoplies repay

  The loan with usury.

  How beautiful!—Yet none knows why

  This ever-graceful change,

  Renewed—renewed incessantly—

  Within your quiet range.

  Is it that ye with conscious skill

  For mutual pleasure glide; 30

  And sometimes, not without your will,

  Are dwarfed, or magnified?

  Fays, Genii of gigantic size!

  And now, in twilight dim,

  Clustering like constellated eyes,

  In wings of Cherubim,

  When the fierce orbs abate their glare;—

  Whate’er your forms express,

  Whate’er ye seem, whate’er ye are—

  All leads to gentleness. 40

  Cold though your nature be, ‘tis pure,

  Your birthright is a fence

  From all that haughtier kinds endure

  Through tyranny of sense.

  Ah! not alone by colours bright

  Are Ye to heaven allied,

  When, like essential Forms of light,

  Ye mingle, or divide.

  For day-dreams soft as e’er beguiled

  Day-thoughts while limbs repose; 50

  For moonlight fascinations mild,

  Your gift, ere shutters close—

  Accept, mute Captives! thanks and praise;

  And may this tribute prove

  That gentle admirations raise

  Delight resembling love.

  1829.

  LIBERTY

  (SEQUEL TO THE ABOVE)

  ADDRESSED TO A FRIEND; THE GOLD AND SILVER FISHES HAVING BEEN REMOVED TO A POOL IN THE PLEASURE-GROUND OF RYDAL MOUNT.

  THOSE breathing Tokens of your kind regard,

  (Suspect not, Anna, that their fate is hard;

  Not soon does aught to which mild fancies cling

  In lonely spots, become a slighted thing;)

  Those silent Inmates now no longer share,

  Nor do they need, our hospitable care,

  Removed in kindness from their glassy Cell

  To the fresh waters of a living Well—

  An elfin pool so sheltered that its rest

  No winds disturb; the mirror of whose breast 10

  Is smooth as clear, save where with dimples small

  A fly may settle, or a blossom fall.

  —’There’ swims, of blazing sun and beating shower

  Fearless (but how obscured!) the golden Power,

  That from his bauble prison used to cast

  Gleams by the richest jewel unsurpast;

  And near him, darkling like a sullen Gnome,

  The silver Tenant of the crystal dome;

  Dissevered both from all the mysteries

  Of hue and altering shape that charmed all eyes. 20

  Alas! they pined, they languished while they shone;

  And, if not so, what matters beauty gone

  And admiration lost, by change of place

  That brings to the inward creature no disgrace?

  But if the change restore his birthright, then,

  Whate’er the difference, boundless is the gain.

  Who can divine what impulses from God

  Reach the caged lark, within a town-abode,

  From his poor inch or two of daisied sod?

  O yield him back his privilege!—No sea 30

  Swells like the bosom of a man set free;

  A wilderness is rich with liberty.

  Roll on, ye spouting whales, who die or keep

  Your independence in the fathomless Deep!

  Spread, tiny nautilus, the living sail;

  Dive, at thy choic
e, or brave the freshening gale!

  If unreproved the ambitious eagle mount

  Sunward to seek the daylight in its fount,

  Bays, gulfs, and ocean’s Indian width, shall be,

  Till the world perishes, a field for thee! 40

  While musing here I sit in shadow cool,

  And watch these mute Companions, in the pool,

  (Among reflected boughs of leafy trees)

  By glimpses caught—disporting at their ease,

  Enlivened, braced, by hardy luxuries,

  I ask what warrant fixed them (like a spell

  Of witchcraft fixed them) in the crystal cell;

  To wheel with languid motion round and round,

  Beautiful, yet in mournful durance bound.

  Their peace, perhaps, our lightest footfall marred; 50

  On their quick sense our sweetest music jarred;

  And whither could they dart, if seized with fear?

  No sheltering stone, no tangled root was near.

  When fire or taper ceased to cheer the room,

  They wore away the night in starless gloom;

  And, when the sun first dawned upon the streams,

  How faint their portion of his vital beams!

  Thus, and unable to complain, they fared,

  While not one joy of ours by them was shared.

  Is there a cherished bird (I venture now 60

  To snatch a sprig from Chaucer’s reverend brow)—

  Is there a brilliant fondling of the cage,

  Though sure of plaudits on his costly stage,

  Though fed with dainties from the snow-white hand

  Of a kind mistress, fairest of the land,

  But gladly would escape; and, if need were,

  Scatter the colours from the plumes that bear

  The emancipated captive through blithe air

  Into strange woods, where he at large may live

  On best or worst which they and Nature give? 70

  The beetle loves his unpretending track,

  The snail the house he carries on his back;

  The far-fetched worm with pleasure would disown

  The bed we give him, though of softest down;

  A noble instinct; in all kinds the same,

  All ranks! What Sovereign, worthy of the name,

  If doomed to breathe against his lawful will

  An element that flatters him—to kill,

  But would rejoice to barter outward show

  For the least boon that freedom can bestow? 80

  But most the Bard is true to inborn right,

  Lark of the dawn, and Philomel of night,

  Exults in freedom, can with rapture vouch

  For the dear blessings of a lowly couch,

  A natural meal—days, months, from Nature’s hand;

  Time, place, and business, all at his command!—

  Who bends to happier duties, who more wise

  Than the industrious Poet, taught to prize,

  Above all grandeur, a pure life uncrossed