Delphi Complete Works of William Wordsworth

by William Wordsworth

  Bewildered whether ye, by slanderous tongues

  Deceived, mistake calamities for wrongs;

  And over fancied usurpations brood,

  Oft snapping at revenge in sullen mood;

  Or, from long stress of real injuries, fly

  To desperation for a remedy;

  In bursts of outrage spread your judgments wide,

  And to your wrath cry out, “Be thou our guide;” 120

  Or, bound by oaths, come forth to tread earth’s floor

  In marshalled thousands, darkening street and moor

  With the worst shape mock-patience ever wore;

  Or, to the giddy top of self-esteem

  By Flatterers carried, mount into a dream

  Of boundless suffrage, at whose sage behest

  Justice shall rule, disorder be supprest,

  And every man sit down as Plenty’s Guest!

  —Oh for a bridle bitted with remorse

  To stop your Leaders in their headstrong course! 130

  Oh may the Almighty scatter with his grace

  These mists, and lead you to a safer place,

  By paths no human wisdom can foretrace!

  May He pour round you, from worlds far above

  Man’s feverish passions, his pure light of love,

  That quietly restores the natural mien

  To hope, and makes truth willing to be seen!

  ‘Else’ shall your blood-stained hands in frenzy reap

  Fields gaily sown when promises were cheap.—

  Why is the Past belied with wicked art, 140

  The Future made to play so false a part,

  Among a people famed for strength of mind,

  Foremost in freedom, noblest of mankind?

  We act as if we joyed in the sad tune

  Storms make in rising, valued in the moon

  Nought but her changes. Thus, ungrateful Nation!

  If thou persist, and scorning moderation,

  Spread for thyself the snares of tribulation,

  Whom, then, shall meekness guard? What saving skill

  Lie in forbearance, strength in standing still? 150

  —Soon shall the widow (for the speed of Time

  Nought equals when the hours are winged with crime)

  Widow, or wife, implore on tremulous knee,

  From him who judged her lord, a like decree;

  The skies will weep o’er old men desolate:

  Ye little-ones! Earth shudders at your fate,

  Outcasts and homeless orphans—

  But turn, my Soul, and from the sleeping pair

  Learn thou the beauty of omniscient care!

  Be strong in faith, bid anxious thoughts lie still; 160

  Seek for the good and cherish it—the ill

  Oppose, or bear with a submissive will.

  1833.

  IF THIS GREAT WORLD OF JOY AND PAIN

  IF this great world of joy and pain

  Revolve in one sure track;

  If freedom, set, will rise again,

  And virtue, flown, come back;

  Woe to the purblind crew who fill

  The heart with each day’s care;

  Nor gain, from past or future, skill

  To bear, and to forbear!

  1833.

  ON A HIGH PART OF THE COAST OF CUMBERLAND

  EASTER SUNDAY, APRIL 7: THE AUTHOR’S SIXTY-THIRD BIRTHDAY

  THE Sun, that seemed so mildly to retire,

  Flung back from distant climes a streaming fire,

  Whose blaze is now subdued to tender gleams,

  Prelude of night’s approach with soothing dreams.

  Look round;—of all the clouds not one is moving;

  ‘Tis the still hour of thinking, feeling, loving.

  Silent, and stedfast as the vaulted sky,

  The boundless plain of waters seems to lie:—

  Comes that low sound from breezes rustling o’er

  The grass-crowned headland that conceals the shore? 10

  No; ‘tis the earth-voice of the mighty sea,

  Whispering how meek and gentle he ‘can’ be!

  Thou Power supreme! who, arming to rebuke

  Offenders, dost put off the gracious look,

  And clothe thyself with terrors like the flood

  Of ocean roused into its fiercest mood,

  Whatever discipline thy Will ordain

  For the brief course that must for me remain;

  Teach me with quick-eared spirit to rejoice

  In admonitions of thy softest voice! 20

  Whate’er the path these mortal feet may trace,

  Breathe through my soul the blessing of thy grace,

  Glad, through a perfect love, a faith sincere

  Drawn from the wisdom that begins with fear,

  Glad to expand; and, for a season, free

  From finite cares, to rest absorbed in Thee!

  1833.

  BY THE SEASIDE

  THE sun is couched, the sea-fowl gone to rest,

  And the wild storm hath somewhere found a nest;

  Air slumbers—wave with wave no longer strives,

  Only a heaving of the deep survives,

  A tell-tale motion! soon will it be laid,

  And by the tide alone the water swayed.

  Stealthy withdrawings, interminglings mild

  Of light with shade in beauty reconciled—

  Such is the prospect far as sight can range,

  The soothing recompence, the welcome change. 10

  Where, now, the ships that drove before the blast,

  Threatened by angry breakers as they passed;

  And by a train of flying clouds bemocked;

  Or, in the hollow surge, at anchor rocked

  As on a bed of death? Some lodge in peace,

  Saved by His care who bade the tempest cease;

  And some, too heedless of past danger, court

  Fresh gales to waft them to the far-off port

  But near, or hanging sea and sky between,

  Not one of all those winged powers is seen, 20

  Seen in her course, nor ‘mid this quiet heard;

  Yet oh! how gladly would the air be stirred

  By some acknowledgment of thanks and praise,

  Soft in its temper as those vesper lays

  Sung to the Virgin while accordant oars

  Urge the slow bark along Calabrian shores;

  A sea-born service through the mountains felt

  Till into one loved vision all things melt:

  Or like those hymns that soothe with graver sound

  The gulfy coast of Norway iron-bound; 30

  And, from the wide and open Baltic, rise

  With punctual care, Lutherian harmonies.

  Hush, not a voice is here! but why repine,

  Now when the star of eve comes forth to shine

  On British waters with that look benign?

  Ye mariners, that plough your onward way,

  Or in the haven rest, or sheltering bay,

  May silent thanks at least to God be given

  With a full heart; “our thoughts are ‘heard’ in heaven.”

  1833.

  POEMS COMPOSED OR SUGGESTED DURING A TOUR IN THE SUMMER OF 1833

  I

  ADIEU, RYDALIAN LAURELS! THAT HAVE GROWN

  ADIEU, Rydalian Laurels! that have grown

  And spread as if ye knew that days might come

  When ye would shelter in a happy home,

  On this fair Mount, a Poet of your own,

  One who ne’er ventured for a Delphic crown

  To sue the God; but, haunting your green shade

  All seasons through, is humbly pleased to braid

  Ground-flowers, beneath your guardianship, self-sown.

  Farewell! no Minstrels now with harp new-strung

  For summer wandering quit their household bowers; 10

  Yet not for this wants Poesy a tongue

  To cheer the Itinerant on w
hom she pours

  Her spirit, while he crosses lonely moors,

  Or musing sits forsaken halls among.

  II

  WHY SHOULD THE ENTHUSIAST, JOURNEYING THROUGH THIS ISLE

  why should the enthusiast, journeying through this isle

  Repine as if his hour were come too late?

  Not unprotected in her mouldering state,

  Antiquity salutes him with a smile,

  ‘Mid fruitful fields that ring with jocund toil,

  And pleasure-grounds where Taste, refined Co-mate

  Of Truth and Beauty, strives to imitate,

  Far as she may, primeval Nature’s style.

  Fair land! by Time’s parental love made free,

  By Social Order’s watchful arms embraced; 10

  With unexampled union meet in thee,

  For eye and mind, the present and the past;

  With golden prospect for futurity,

  If that be reverenced which ought to last.

  III

  THEY CALLED THEE MERRY ENGLAND, IN OLD TIME;

  THEY called Thee MERRY ENGLAND, in old time;

  A happy people won for thee that name

  With envy heard in many a distant clime;

  And, spite of change, for me thou keep’st the same

  Endearing title, a responsive chime

  To the heart’s fond belief; though some there are

  Whose sterner judgments deem that word a snare

  For inattentive Fancy, like the lime

  Which foolish birds are caught with. Can, I ask,

  This face of rural beauty be a mask 10

  For discontent, and poverty, and crime;

  These spreading towns a cloak for lawless will?

  Forbid it, Heaven!—and MERRY ENGLAND still

  Shall be thy rightful name, in prose and rhyme!

  IV

  TO THE RIVER GRETA, NEAR KESWICK

  GRETA, what fearful listening! when huge stones

  Rumble along thy bed, block after block:

  Or, whirling with reiterated shock,

  Combat, while darkness aggravates the groans:

  But if thou (like Cocytus from the moans

  Heard on his rueful margin) thence wert named

  The Mourner, thy true nature was defamed,

  And the habitual murmur that atones

  For thy worst rage, forgotten. Oft as Spring

  Decks, on thy sinuous banks, her thousand thrones 10

  Seats of glad instinct and love’s carolling,

  The concert, for the happy, then may vie

  With liveliest peals of birth-day harmony:

  To a grieved heart, the notes are benisons.

  V

  TO THE RIVER DERWENT

  AMONG the mountains were we nursed, loved Stream

  Thou near the eagle’s nest—within brief sail,

  I, of his bold wing floating on the gale,

  Where thy deep voice could lull me! Faint the beam

  Of human life when first allowed to gleam

  On mortal notice.—Glory of the vale,

  Such thy meek outset, with a crown, though frail,

  Kept in perpetual verdure by the steam

  Of thy soft breath!—Less vivid wreath entwined

  Nemaean victor’s brow; less bright was worn, 10

  Meed of some Roman chief—in triumph borne

  With captives chained; and shedding from his car

  The sunset splendours of a finished war

  Upon the proud enslavers of mankind!

  1819.

  VI

  IN SIGHT OF THE TOWN OF COCKERMOUTH

  A POINT of life between my Parent’s dust,

  And yours, my buried Little-ones! am I;

  And to those graves looking habitually

  In kindred quiet I repose my trust.

  Death to the innocent is more than just,

  And, to the sinner, mercifully bent;

  So may I hope, if truly I repent

  And meekly bear the ills which bear I must:

  And You, my Offspring! that do still remain,

  Yet may outstrip me in the appointed race, 10

  If e’er, through fault of mine, in mutual pain

  We breathed together for a moment’s space,

  The wrong, by love provoked, let love arraign,

  And only love keep in your hearts a place.

  VII

  ADDRESS FROM THE SPIRIT OF COCKERMOUTH CASTLE

  “THOU look’st upon me, and dost fondly think,

  Poet! that, stricken as both are by years,

  We, differing once so much, are now Compeers,

  Prepared, when each has stood his time, to sink

  Into the dust. Erewhile a sterner link

  United us; when thou, in boyish play,

  Entering my dungeon, didst become a prey

  To soul-appalling darkness. Not a blink

  Of light was there;—and thus did I, thy Tutor,

  Make thy young thoughts acquainted with the grave; 10

  While thou wert chasing the winged butterfly

  Through my green courts; or climbing, a bold suitor,

  Up to the flowers whose golden progeny

  Still round my shattered brow in beauty wave.”

  VIII

  WHY SHOULD THE ENTHUSIAST, JOURNEYING THROUGH THIS ISLE

  NUN’S WELL, BRIGHAM

  THE cattle crowding round this beverage clear

  To slake their thirst, with reckless hoofs have trod

  The encircling turf into a barren clod;

  Through which the waters creep, then disappear,

  Born to be lost in Derwent flowing near;

  Yet, o’er the brink, and round the limestone cell

  Of the pure spring (they call it the “Nun’s Well,”

  Name that first struck by chance my startled ear)

  A tender Spirit broods—the pensive Shade

  Of ritual honours to this Fountain paid 10

  By hooded Votaresses with saintly cheer;

  Albeit oft the Virgin-mother mild

  Looked down with pity upon eyes beguiled

  Into the shedding of “too soft a tear.”

  IX.

  TO A FRIEND ON THE BANKS OF THE DERWENT

  PASTOR and Patriot!—at whose bidding rise

  These modest walls, amid a flock that need,

  For one who comes to watch them and to feed,

  A fixed Abode—keep down presageful sighs.

  Threats, which the unthinking only can despise,

  Perplex the Church; but be thou firm,—be true

  To thy first hope, and this good work pursue,

  Poor as thou art. A welcome sacrifice

  Dost Thou prepare, whose sign will be the smoke

  Of thy new hearth; and sooner shall its wreaths, 10

  Mounting while earth her morning incense breathes,

  From wandering fiends of air receive a yoke,

  And straightway cease to aspire, than God disdain

  This humble tribute as ill-timed or vain.

  X.

  MARY QUEEN OF SCOTS LANDING AT THE MOUTH OF THE DERWENT, WORKINGTON

  DEAR to the Loves, and to the Graces vowed,

  The Queen drew back the wimple that she wore;

  And to the throng, that on the Cumbrian shore

  Her landing hailed, how touchingly she bowed!

  And like a Star (that, from a heavy cloud

  Of pine-tree foliage poised in air, forth darts,

  When a soft summer gale at evening parts

  The gloom that did its loveliness enshroud)

  She smiled; but Time, the old Saturnian seer,

  Sighed on the wing as her foot pressed the strand, 10

  With step prelusive to a long array

  Of woes and degradations hand in hand—

  Weeping captivity, and shuddering fear

  Stilled by the ensanguined block of Fotheringay!

  XI.

&nbs
p; STANZAS SUGGESTED IN A STEAMBOAT OFF SAINT BEES’ HEADS, ON THE COAST OF CUMBERLAND

  IF Life were slumber on a bed of down,

  Toil unimposed, vicissitude unknown,

  Sad were our lot: no hunter of the hare

  Exults like him whose javelin from the lair

  Has roused the lion; no one plucks the rose,

  Whose proffered beauty in safe shelter blows

  ‘Mid a trim garden’s summer luxuries,

  With joy like his who climbs, on hands and knees,

  For some rare plant, yon Headland of St. Bees.

  This independence upon oar and sail, 10

  This new indifference to breeze or gale,

  This straight-lined progress, furrowing a flat lea,

  And regular as if locked in certainty—

  Depress the hours. Up, Spirit of the storm!

  That Courage may find something to perform;

  That Fortitude, whose blood disdains to freeze

  At Danger’s bidding, may confront the seas,

  Firm as the towering Headlands of St. Bees.

  Dread cliff of Baruth! ‘that’ wild wish may sleep,

  Bold as if men and creatures of the Deep 20

  Breathed the same element; too many wrecks

  Have struck thy sides, too many ghastly decks

  Hast thou looked down upon, that such a thought

  Should here be welcome, and in verse enwrought:

  With thy stern aspect better far agrees

  Utterance of thanks that we have past with ease,

  As millions thus shall do, the Headlands of St. Bees.

  Yet, while each useful Art augments her store,

  What boots the gain if Nature should lose more?

  And Wisdom, as she holds a Christian place 30

  In man’s intelligence sublimed by grace?

  When Bega sought of yore the Cumbrian coast,

  Tempestuous winds her holy errand crossed:

  She knelt in prayer—the waves their wrath appease;

  And, from her vow well weighed in Heaven’s decrees,

  Rose, where she touched the strand, the Chantry of St. Bees.

  “Cruel of heart were they, bloody of hand,”

  Who in these Wilds then struggled for command;

  The strong were merciless, without hope the weak;

  Till this bright Stranger came, fair as daybreak, 40

  And as a cresset true that darts its length