Delphi Complete Works of William Wordsworth

by William Wordsworth

  But ‘like’ it, enjoy it, and thankfully eat.

  Long may you love your pensioner mouse,

  Though one of a tribe that torment the house: 40

  Nor dislike for her cruel sport the cat,

  Deadly foe both of mouse and rat;

  Remember she follows the law of her kind,

  And Instinct is neither wayward nor blind.

  Then think of her beautiful gliding form,

  Her tread that would scarcely crush a worm,

  And her soothing song by the winter fire,

  Soft as the dying throb of the lyre.

  I would not circumscribe your love:

  It may soar with the eagle and brood with the dove, 50

  May pierce the earth with the patient mole,

  Or track the hedgehog to his hole.

  Loving and liking are the solace of life,

  Rock the cradle of joy, smooth the death-bed of strife.

  You love your father and your mother,

  Your grown-up and your baby brother;

  You love your sister, and your friends,

  And countless blessings which God sends:

  And while these right affections play,

  You ‘live’ each moment of your day; 60

  They lead you on to full content,

  And likings fresh and innocent,

  That store the mind, the memory feed,

  And prompt to many a gentle deed:

  But ‘likings’ come, and pass away;

  ‘Tis ‘love’ that remains till our latest day:

  Our heavenward guide is holy love,

  And will be our bliss with saints above.

  1832.

  UPON THE LATE GENERAL FAST, MARCH 1832

  RELUCTANT call it was; the rite delayed;

  And in the Senate some there were who doffed

  The last of their humanity, and scoffed

  At providential judgments, undismayed

  By their own daring. But the People prayed

  As with one voice; their flinty heart grew soft

  With penitential sorrow, and aloft

  Their spirit mounted, crying, “God us aid!”

  Oh that with aspirations more intense,

  Chastised by self-abasement more profound, 10

  This People, once so happy, so renowned

  For liberty, would seek from God defence

  Against far heavier ill, the pestilence

  Of revolution, impiously unbound!

  FILIAL PIETY ON THE WAYSIDE BETWEEN PRESTON AND LIVERPOOL

  UNTOUCHED through all severity of cold;

  Inviolate, whate’er the cottage hearth

  Might need for comfort, or for festal mirth;

  That Pile of Turf is half a century old:

  Yes, Traveller! fifty winters have been told

  Since suddenly the dart of death went forth

  ‘Gainst him who raised it,—his last work on earth:

  Thence has it, with the Son, so strong a hold

  Upon his Father’s memory, that his hands,

  Through reverence, touch it only to repair 10

  Its waste.—Though crumbling with each breath of air,

  In annual renovation thus it stands—

  Rude Mausoleum! but wrens nestle there,

  And red-breasts warble when sweet sounds are rare.

  1832.

  TO B. R. HAYDON, ON SEEING HIS PICTURE OF NAPOLEON BUONAPARTE ON THE ISLAND OF ST. HELENA

  HAYDON! let worthier judges praise the skill

  Here by thy pencil shown in truth of lines

  And charm of colours; ‘I’ applaud those signs

  Of thought, that give the true poetic thrill;

  That unencumbered whole of blank and still

  Sky without cloud—ocean without a wave;

  And the one Man that laboured to enslave

  The World, sole-standing high on the bare hill—

  Back turned, arms folded, the unapparent face

  Tinged, we may fancy, in this dreary place, 10

  With light reflected from the invisible sun

  Set, like his fortunes; but not set for aye

  Like them. The unguilty Power pursues his way,

  And before ‘him’ doth dawn perpetual run.

  1832.

  IF THOU INDEED DERIVE THY LIGHT FROM HEAVEN

  IF thou indeed derive thy light from Heaven,

  Then, to the measure of that heaven-born light,

  Shine, Poet! in thy place, and be content:—

  The stars pre-eminent in magnitude,

  And they that from the zenith dart their beams,

  (Visible though they be to half the earth,

  Though half a sphere be conscious of their brightness)

  Are yet of no diviner origin,

  No purer essence, than the one that burns,

  Like an untended watch-fire on the ridge 10

  Of some dark mountain; or than those which seem

  Humbly to hang, like twinkling winter lamps,

  Among the branches of the leafless trees.

  All are the undying offspring of one Sire:

  Then, to the measure of the light vouchsafed,

  Shine, Poet! in thy place, and be content.

  1832.

  A WREN’S NEST

  AMONG the dwellings framed by birds

  In field or forest with nice care,

  Is none that with the little Wren’s

  In snugness may compare.

  No door the tenement requires,

  And seldom needs a laboured roof;

  Yet is it to the fiercest sun

  Impervious, and storm-proof.

  So warm, so beautiful withal,

  In perfect fitness for its aim, 10

  That to the Kind by special grace

  Their instinct surely came.

  And when for their abodes they seek

  An opportune recess,

  The hermit has no finer eye

  For shadowy quietness.

  These find, ‘mid ivied abbey-walls,

  A canopy in some still nook;

  Others are pent-housed by a brae

  That overhangs a brook. 20

  There to the brooding bird her mate

  Warbles by fits his low clear song;

  And by the busy streamlet both

  Are sung to all day long.

  Or in sequestered lanes they build,

  Where, till the flitting bird’s return,

  Her eggs within the nest repose,

  Like relics in an urn.

  But still, where general choice is good,

  There is a better and a best; 30

  And, among fairest objects, some

  Are fairer than the rest;

  This, one of those small builders proved

  In a green covert, where, from out

  The forehead of a pollard oak,

  The leafy antlers sprout;

  For She who planned the mossy lodge,

  Mistrusting her evasive skill,

  Had to a Primrose looked for aid

  Her wishes to fulfil. 40

  High on the trunk’s projecting brow,

  And fixed an infant’s span above

  The budding flowers, peeped forth the nest

  The prettiest of the grove!

  The treasure proudly did I show

  To some whose minds without disdain

  Can turn to little things; but once

  Looked up for it in vain:

  ‘Tis gone—a ruthless spoiler’s prey,

  Who heeds not beauty, love, or song, 50

  ‘Tis gone! (so seemed it) and we grieved

  Indignant at the wrong.

  Just three days after, passing by

  In clearer light the moss-built cell

  I saw, espied its shaded mouth;

  And felt that all was well.

  The Primrose for a veil had spread

  The largest of her upright leaves;

  And thus, for purpose
s benign,

  A simple flower deceives. 60

  Concealed from friends who might disturb

  Thy quiet with no ill intent,

  Secure from evil eyes and hands

  On barbarous plunder bent,

  Rest, Mother-bird! and when thy young

  Take flight, and thou art free to roam,

  When withered is the guardian Flower,

  And empty thy late home,

  Think how ye prospered, thou and thine,

  Amid the unviolated grove 70

  Housed near the growing Primrose-tuft

  In foresight, or in love.

  1833.

  TO —— UPON THE BIRTH OF HER FIRST-BORN CHILD, MARCH 1833

  “Tum porro puer, ut saevis projectus ab undis

  Navita, nudus humi jacet, etc.”—LUCRETIUS.

  LIKE a shipwrecked Sailor tost

  By rough waves on a perilous coast,

  Lies the Babe, in helplessness

  And in tenderest nakedness,

  Flung by labouring nature forth

  Upon the mercies of the earth.

  Can its eyes beseech?—no more

  Than the hands are free to implore:

  Voice but serves for one brief cry;

  Plaint was it? or prophecy 10

  Of sorrow that will surely come?

  Omen of man’s grievous doom!

  But, O Mother! by the close

  Duly granted to thy throes;

  By the silent thanks, now tending

  Incense-like to Heaven, descending

  Now to mingle and to move

  With the gush of earthly love,

  As a debt to that frail Creature,

  Instrument of struggling Nature 20

  For the blissful calm, the peace

  Known but to this ‘one’ release—

  Can the pitying spirit doubt

  That for human-kind springs out

  From the penalty a sense

  Of more than mortal recompence?

  As a floating summer cloud,

  Though of gorgeous drapery proud,

  To the sun-burnt traveller,

  Or the stooping labourer, 30

  Oft-times makes its bounty known

  By its shadow round him thrown;

  So, by chequerings of sad cheer,

  Heavenly Guardians, brooding near,

  Of their presence tell—too bright

  Haply for corporeal sight!

  Ministers of grace divine

  Feelingly their brows incline

  O’er this seeming Castaway

  Breathing, in the light of day, 40

  Something like the faintest breath

  That has power to baffle death—

  Beautiful, while very weakness

  Captivates like passive meekness.

  And, sweet Mother! under warrant

  Of the universal Parent,

  Who repays in season due

  Them who have, like thee, been true

  To the filial chain let down

  From his everlasting throne, 50

  Angels hovering round thy couch,

  With their softest whispers vouch,

  That—whatever griefs may fret,

  Cares entangle, sins beset,

  This thy First-born, and with tears

  Stain her cheek in future years—

  Heavenly succour, not denied

  To the babe, whate’er betide,

  Will to the woman be supplied!

  Mother! blest be thy calm ease; 60

  Blest the starry promises,—

  And the firmament benign

  Hallowed be it, where they shine!

  Yes, for them whose souls have scope

  Ample for a winged hope,

  And can earthward bend an ear

  For needful listening, pledge is here,

  That, if thy new-born Charge shall tread

  In thy footsteps, and be led

  By that other Guide, whose light 70

  Of manly virtues, mildly bright,

  Gave him first the wished-for part

  In thy gentle virgin heart;

  Then, amid the storms of life

  Presignified by that dread strife

  Whence ye have escaped together,

  She may look for serene weather;

  In all trials sure to find

  Comfort for a faithful mind;

  Kindlier issues, holier rest, 80

  Than even now await her prest,

  Conscious Nursling, to thy breast!

  THE WARNING

  A SEQUEL TO THE FOREGOING

  LIST, the winds of March are blowing;

  Her ground-flowers shrink, afraid of showing

  Their meek heads to the nipping air,

  Which ye feel not, happy pair!

  Sunk into a kindly sleep.

  We, meanwhile, our hope will keep;

  And if Time leagued with adverse Change

  (Too busy fear!) shall cross its range,

  Whatsoever check they bring,

  Anxious duty hindering, 10

  To like hope our prayers will cling.

  Thus, while the ruminating spirit feeds

  Upon the events of home as life proceeds,

  Affections pure and holy in their source

  Gain a fresh impulse, run a livelier course;

  Hopes that within the Father’s heart prevail,

  Are in the experienced Grandsire’s slow to fail;

  And if the harp pleased his gay youth, it rings

  To his grave touch with no unready strings,

  While thoughts press on, and feelings overflow, 20

  And quick words round him fall like flakes of snow.

  Thanks to the Powers that yet maintain their sway,

  And have renewed the tributary Lay.

  Truths of the heart flock in with eager pace,

  And FANCY greets them with a fond embrace;

  Swift as the rising sun his beams extends

  She shoots the tidings forth to distant friends;

  Their gifts she hails (deemed precious, as they prove

  For the unconscious Babe so prompt a love!)—

  But from this peaceful centre of delight 30

  Vague sympathies have urged her to take flight:

  Rapt into upper regions, like the bee

  That sucks from mountain heath her honey fee;

  Or, like the warbling lark intent to shroud

  His head in sunbeams or a bowery cloud,

  She soars—and here and there her pinions rest

  On proud towers, like this humble cottage, blest

  With a new visitant, an infant guest—

  Towers where red streamers flout the breezy sky

  In pomp foreseen by her creative eye, 40

  When feasts shall crowd the hall, and steeple bells

  Glad proclamation make, and heights and dells

  Catch the blithe music as it sinks and swells,

  And harboured ships, whose pride is on the sea,

  Shall hoist their topmost flags in sign of glee,

  Honouring the hope of noble ancestry.

  But who (though neither reckoning ills assigned

  By Nature, nor reviewing in the mind

  The track that was, and is, and must be, worn

  With weary feet by all of woman born)— 50

  Shall ‘now’ by such a gift with joy be moved,

  Nor feel the fulness of that joy reproved?

  Not He, whose last faint memory will command

  The truth that Britain was his native land;

  Whose infant soul was tutored to confide

  In the cleansed faith for which her martyrs died;

  Whose boyish ear the voice of her renown

  With rapture thrilled; whose Youth revered the crown

  Of Saxon liberty that Alfred wore,

  Alfred, dear Babe, thy great Progenitor! 60

  —Not He, who from her mellowed practice drew

 
His social sense of just, and fair, and true;

  And saw, thereafter, on the soil of France

  Rash Polity begin her maniac dance,

  Foundations broken up, the deeps run wild,

  Nor grieved to see (himself not unbeguiled)—

  Woke from the dream, the dreamer to upbraid,

  And learn how sanguine expectations fade

  When novel trusts by folly are betrayed,—

  To see Presumption, turning pale, refrain 70

  From further havoc, but repent in vain,—

  Good aims lie down, and perish in the road

  Where guilt had urged them on with ceaseless goad,

  Proofs thickening round her that on public ends

  Domestic virtue vitally depends,

  That civic strife can turn the happiest hearth

  Into a grievous sore of self-tormenting earth.

  Can such a One, dear Babe! though glad and proud

  To welcome thee, repel the fears that crowd

  Into his English breast, and spare to quake 80

  Less for his own than for thy innocent sake?

  Too late—or, should the providence of God

  Lead, through dark ways by sin and sorrow trod,

  Justice and peace to a secure abode,

  Too soon—thou com’st into this breathing world;

  Ensigns of mimic outrage are unfurled.

  Who shall preserve or prop the tottering Realm?

  What hand suffice to govern the state-helm?

  If, in the aims of men, the surest test

  Of good or bad (whate’er be sought for or profest) 90

  Lie in the means required, or ways ordained,

  For compassing the end, else never gained;

  Yet governors and governed both are blind

  To this plain truth, or fling it to the wind;

  If to expedience principle must bow;

  Past, future, shrinking up beneath the incumbent Now;

  If cowardly concession still must feed

  The thirst for power in men who ne’er concede;

  Nor turn aside, unless to shape a way

  For domination at some riper day; 100

  If generous Loyalty must stand in awe

  Of subtle Treason, in his mask of law,

  Or with bravado insolent and hard,

  Provoking punishment, to win reward;

  If office help the factious to conspire,

  And they who ‘should’ extinguish, fan the fire—

  Then, will the sceptre be a straw, the crown

  Sit loosely, like the thistle’s crest of down;

  To be blown off at will, by Power that spares it

  In cunning patience, from the head that wears it. 110

  Lost people, trained to theoretic feud!

  Lost above all, ye labouring multitude!