Delphi Complete Works of William Wordsworth

by William Wordsworth

  A WEIGHT of awe, not easy to be borne,

  Fell suddenly upon my Spirit—cast

  From the dread bosom of the unknown past,

  When first I saw that family forlorn.

  Speak Thou, whose massy strength and stature scorn

  The power of years—pre-eminent, and placed

  Apart, to overlook the circle vast—

  Speak, Giant-mother! tell it to the Morn

  While she dispels the cumbrous shades of Night;

  Let the Moon hear, emerging from a cloud; 10

  At whose behest uprose on British ground

  That Sisterhood, in hieroglyphic round

  Forth-shadowing, some have deemed, the infinite

  The inviolable God, that tames the proud! 3

  XLIV.

  LOWTHER

  LOWTHER! in thy majestic Pile are seen

  Cathedral pomp and grace, in apt accord

  With the baronial castle’s sterner mien;

  Union significant of God adored,

  And charters won and guarded by the sword

  Of ancient honour; whence that goodly state

  Of polity which wise men venerate,

  And will maintain, if God his help afford.

  Hourly the democratic torrent swells;

  For airy promises and hopes suborned 10

  The strength of backward-looking thoughts is scorned.

  Fall if ye must, ye Towers and Pinnacles,

  With what ye symbolise; authentic Story

  Will say, Ye disappeared with England’s Glory!

  XLV.

  TO THE EARL OF LONSDALE

  “Magistratus indicat virum”

  LONSDALE! it were unworthy of a Guest,

  Whose heart with gratitude to thee inclines,

  If he should speak, by fancy touched, of signs

  On thy Abode harmoniously imprest,

  Yet be unmoved with wishes to attest

  How in thy mind and moral frame agree

  Fortitude, and that Christian Charity

  Which, filling, consecrates the human breast.

  And if the Motto on thy ‘scutcheon teach

  With truth, “THE MAGISTRACY SHOWS THE MAN;” 10

  ‘That’ searching test thy public course has stood;

  As will be owned alike by bad and good,

  Soon as the measuring of life’s little span

  Shall place thy virtues out of Envy’s reach.

  XLVI.

  THE SOMNAMBULIST

  LIST, ye who pass by Lyulph’s Tower

  At eve; how softly then

  Doth Aira-force, that torrent hoarse,

  Speak from the woody glen!

  Fit music for a solemn vale!

  And holier seems the ground

  To him who catches on the gale

  The spirit of a mournful tale,

  Embodied in the sound.

  Not far from that fair site whereon 10

  The Pleasure-house is reared,

  As story says, in antique days

  A stern-browed house appeared;

  Foil to a Jewel rich in light

  There set, and guarded well;

  Cage for a Bird of plumage bright,

  Sweet-voiced, nor wishing for a flight

  Beyond her native dell.

  To win this bright Bird from her cage,

  To make this Gem their own, 20

  Came Barons bold, with store of gold,

  And Knights of high renown;

  But one She prized, and only one;

  Sir Eglamore was he;

  Full happy season, when was known,

  Ye Dales and Hills! to yon alone

  Their mutual loyalty—

  Known chiefly, Aira! to thy glen,

  Thy brook, and bowers of holly;

  Where Passion caught what Nature taught, 30

  That all but love is folly;

  Where Fact with Fancy stooped to play;

  Doubt came not, nor regret—

  To trouble hours that winged their way,

  As if through an immortal day

  Whose sun could never set.

  But in old times Love dwelt not long

  Sequestered with repose;

  Best throve the fire of chaste desire,

  Fanned by the breath of foes. 40

  “A conquering lance is beauty’s test,

  “And proves the Lover true;”

  So spake Sir Eglamore, and pressed

  The drooping Emma to his breast,

  And looked a blind adieu.

  They parted.—Well with him it fared

  Through wide-spread regions errant;

  A knight of proof in love’s behoof,

  The thirst of fame his warrant:

  And She her happiness can build 50

  On woman’s quiet hours;

  Though faint, compared with spear and shield,

  The solace beads and masses yield,

  And needlework and flowers.

  Yet blest was Emma when she heard

  Her Champion’s praise recounted;

  Though brain would swim, and eyes grow dim,

  And high her blushes mounted;

  Or when a bold heroic lay

  She warbled from full heart; 60

  Delightful blossoms for the ‘May’

  Of absence! but they will not stay,

  Born only to depart.

  Hope wanes with her, while lustre fills

  Whatever path he chooses;

  As if his orb, that owns no curb,

  Received the light hers loses.

  He comes not back; an ampler space

  Requires for nobler deeds;

  He ranges on from place to place, 70

  Till of his doings is no trace,

  But what her fancy breeds.

  His fame may spread, but in the past

  Her spirit finds its centre;

  Clear sight She has of what he was,

  And that would now content her.

  “Still is he my devoted Knight?”

  The tear in answer flows;

  Month falls on month with heavier weight;

  Day sickens round her, and the night 80

  Is empty of repose.

  In sleep She sometimes walked abroad,

  Deep sighs with quick words blending,

  Like that pale Queen whose hands are seen

  With fancied spots contending;

  But ‘she’ is innocent of blood,—

  The moon is not more pure

  That shines aloft, while through the wood

  She thrids her way, the sounding Flood

  Her melancholy lure! 90

  While ‘mid the fern-brake sleeps the doe,

  And owls alone are waking,

  In white arrayed, glides on the Maid

  The downward pathway taking,

  That leads her to the torrent’s side

  And to a holly bower;

  By whom on this still night descried?

  By whom in that lone place espied?

  By thee, Sir Eglamore!

  A wandering Ghost, so thinks the Knight, 100

  His coming step has thwarted,

  Beneath the boughs that heard their vows,

  Within whose shade they parted.

  Hush, hush, the busy Sleeper see!

  Perplexed her fingers seem,

  As if they from the holly tree

  Green twigs would pluck, as rapidly

  Flung from her to the stream.

  What means the Spectre? Why intent

  To violate the Tree, 110

  Thought Eglamore, by which I swore,

  Unfading constancy?

  Here am I, and to-morrow’s sun,

  To her I left, shall prove

  That bliss is ne’er so surely won

  As when a circuit has been run

  Of valour, truth, and love.

  So from the spot whereon he stood,

  He moved with stealthy pace;

  And,
drawing nigh, with his living eye, 120

  He recognised the face;

  And whispers caught, and speeches small,

  Some to the green-leaved tree,

  Some muttered to the torrent-fall;—

  “Roar on, and bring him with thy call;

  “I heard, and so may He!”

  Soul-shattered was the Knight, nor knew

  If Emma’s Ghost it were,

  Or boding Shade, or if the Maid

  Her very self stood there. 130

  He touched; what followed who shall tell?

  The soft touch snapped the thread

  Of slumber—shrieking back she fell,

  And the Stream whirled her down the dell

  Along its foaming bed.

  In plunged the Knight!—when on firm ground

  The rescued Maiden lay,

  Her eyes grew bright with blissful light,

  Confusion passed away;

  She heard, ere to the throne of grace 140

  Her faithful Spirit flew,

  His voice—beheld his speaking face;

  And, dying, from his own embrace,

  She felt that he was true.

  So was he reconciled to life:

  Brief words may speak the rest;

  Within the dell he built a cell,

  And there was Sorrow’s guest;

  In hermits’ weeds repose he found,

  From vain temptations free; 150

  Beside the torrent dwelling—bound

  By one deep heart-controlling sound,

  And awed to piety.

  Wild stream of Aira, hold thy course,

  Nor fear memorial lays,

  Where clouds that spread in solemn shade,

  Are edged with golden rays!

  Dear art thou to the light of heaven,

  Though minister of sorrow;

  Sweet is thy voice at pensive even; 160

  And thou, in lovers’ hearts forgiven,

  Shalt take thy place with Yarrow!

  XLVII.

  TO CORDELIA M—, HALLSTEADS, ULLSWATER

  NOT in the mines beyond the western main,

  You say, Cordelia, was the metal sought,

  Which a fine skill, of Indian growth, has wrought

  Into this flexible yet faithful Chain;

  Nor is it silver of romantic Spain

  But from our loved Helvellyn’s depths was brought,

  Our own domestic mountain. Thing and thought

  Mix strangely; trifles light, and partly vain,

  Can prop, as you have learnt, our nobler being:

  Yes, Lady, while about your neck is wound 10

  (Your casual glance oft meeting) this bright cord,

  What witchery, for pure gifts of inward seeing,

  Lurks in it, Memory’s Helper, Fancy’s Lord,

  For precious tremblings in your bosom found!

  XLVIII

  MOST SWEET IT IS WITH UNUPLIFTED EYES

  MOST sweet it is with unuplifted eyes

  To pace the ground, if path be there or none,

  While a fair region round the traveller lies

  Which he forbears again to look upon;

  Pleased rather with some soft ideal scene,

  The work of Fancy, or some happy tone

  Of meditation, slipping in between

  The beauty coming and the beauty gone.

  If Thought and Love desert us, from that day

  Let us break off all commerce with the Muse: 10

  With Thought and Love companions of our way,

  Whate’er the senses take or may refuse,

  The Mind’s internal heaven shall shed her dews

  Of inspiration on the humblest lay.

  COMPOSED BY THE SEASHORE

  WHAT mischief cleaves to unsubdued regret,

  How fancy sickens by vague hopes beset;

  How baffled projects on the spirit prey,

  And fruitless wishes eat the heart away,

  The Sailor knows; he best, whose lot is cast

  On the relentless sea that holds him fast

  On chance dependent, and the fickle star

  Of power, through long and melancholy war.

  O sad it is, in sight of foreign shores,

  Daily to think on old familiar doors, 10

  Hearths loved in childhood, and ancestral floors;

  Or, tossed about along a waste of foam,

  To ruminate on that delightful home

  Which with the dear Betrothed ‘was’ to come;

  Or came and was and is, yet meets the eye

  Never but in the world of memory;

  Or in a dream recalled, whose smoothest range

  Is crossed by knowledge, or by dread, of change,

  And if not so, whose perfect joy makes sleep

  A thing too bright for breathing man to keep. 20

  Hail to the virtues which that perilous life

  Extracts from Nature’s elemental strife;

  And welcome glory won in battles fought

  As bravely as the foe was keenly sought.

  But to each gallant Captain and his crew

  A less imperious sympathy is due,

  Such as my verse now yields, while moonbeams play

  On the mute sea in this unruffled bay;

  Such as will promptly flow from every breast,

  Where good men, disappointed in the quest 30

  Of wealth and power and honours, long for rest;

  Or, having known the splendours of success,

  Sigh for the obscurities of happiness.

  1833.

  NOT IN THE LUCID INTERVALS OF LIFE

  NOT in the lucid intervals of life

  That come but as a curse to party-strife;

  Not in some hour when Pleasure with a sigh

  Of languor puts his rosy garland by;

  Not in the breathing-times of that poor slave

  Who daily piles up wealth in Mammon’s cave—

  Is Nature felt, or can be; nor do words,

  Which practised talent readily affords,

  Prove that her hand has touched responsive chords;

  Nor has her gentle beauty power to move 10

  With genuine rapture and with fervent love

  The soul of Genius, if he dare to take

  Life’s rule from passion craved for passion’s sake;

  Untaught that meekness is the cherished bent

  Of all the truly great and all the innocent.

  But who is innocent? By grace divine,

  Not otherwise, O Nature! we are thine,

  Through good and evil thine, in just degree

  Of rational and manly sympathy.

  To all that Earth from pensive hearts is stealing, 20

  And Heaven is now to gladdened eyes revealing,

  Add every charm the Universe can show

  Through every change its aspects undergo—

  Care may be respited, but not repealed;

  No perfect cure grows on that bounded field.

  Vain is the pleasure, a false calm the peace,

  If He, through whom alone our conflicts cease,

  Our virtuous hopes without relapse advance,

  Come not to speed the Soul’s deliverance;

  To the distempered Intellect refuse 30

  His gracious help, or give what we abuse.

  1834.

  BY THE SIDE OF RYDAL MERE

  THE linnet’s warble, sinking towards a close,

  Hints to the thrush ‘tis time for their repose;

  The shrill-voiced thrush is heedless, and again

  The monitor revives his own sweet strain;

  But both will soon be mastered, and the copse

  Be left as silent as the mountain-tops,

  Ere some commanding star dismiss to rest

  The throng of rooks, that now, from twig or nest,

  (After a steady flight on home-bound wings,

  And a last game of mazy hoverings 10

  Around thei
r ancient grove) with cawing noise

  Disturb the liquid music’s equipoise.

  O Nightingale! Who ever heard thy song

  Might here be moved, till Fancy grows so strong

  That listening sense is pardonably cheated

  Where wood or stream by thee was never greeted.

  Surely, from fairest spots of favoured lands,

  Were not some gifts withheld by jealous hands,

  This hour of deepening darkness here would be

  As a fresh morning for new harmony; 20

  And lays as prompt would hail the dawn of Night:

  A ‘dawn’ she has both beautiful and bright,

  When the East kindles with the full moon’s light;

  Not like the rising sun’s impatient glow

  Dazzling the mountains, but an overflow

  Of solemn splendour, in mutation slow.

  Wanderer by spring with gradual progress led,

  For sway profoundly felt as widely spread;

  To king, to peasant, to rough sailor, dear,

  And to the soldier’s trumpet-wearied ear; 30

  How welcome wouldst thou be to this green Vale

  Fairer than Tempe! Yet, sweet Nightingale!

  From the warm breeze that bears thee on, alight

  At will, and stay thy migratory flight;

  Build, at thy choice, or sing, by pool or fount,

  Who shall complain, or call thee to account?

  The wisest, happiest, of our kind are they

  That ever walk content with Nature’s way,

  God’s goodness—measuring bounty as it may;

  For whom the gravest thought of what they miss, 40

  Chastening the fulness of a present bliss,

  Is with that wholesome office satisfied,

  While unrepining sadness is allied

  In thankful bosoms to a modest pride.

  1834.

  SOFT AS A CLOUD IS YON BLUE RIDGE

  SOFT as a cloud is yon blue Ridge—the Mere

  Seems firm as solid crystal, breathless, clear,

  And motionless; and, to the gazer’s eye,

  Deeper than ocean, in the immensity

  Of its vague mountains and unreal sky!

  But, from the process in that still retreat,

  Turn to minuter changes at our feet;

  Observe how dewy Twilight has withdrawn

  The crowd of daisies from the shaven lawn,

  And has restored to view its tender green, 10

  That, while the sun rode high, was lost beneath their

  dazzling sheen.

  —An emblem this of what the sober Hour

  Can do for minds disposed to feel its power!

  Thus oft, when we in vain have wished away