Delphi Complete Works of William Wordsworth

by William Wordsworth

  The petty pleasures of the garish day,

  Meek eve shuts up the whole usurping host

  (Unbashful dwarfs each glittering at his post)

  And leaves the disencumbered spirit free

  To reassume a staid simplicity.

  ‘Tis well—but what are helps of time and place, 20

  When wisdom stands in need of nature’s grace;

  Why do good thoughts, invoked or not, descend,

  Like Angels from their bowers, our virtues to befriend;

  If yet To-morrow, unbelied, may say,

  “I come to open out, for fresh display,

  The elastic vanities of yesterday”?

  1834.

  THE LEAVES THAT RUSTLED ON THIS OAK-CROWNED HILL

  THE leaves that rustled on this oak-crowned hill,

  And sky that danced among those leaves, are still;

  Rest smooths the way for sleep; in field and bower

  Soft shades and dews have shed their blended power

  On drooping eyelid and the closing flower;

  Sound is there none at which the faintest heart

  Might leap, the weakest nerve of superstition start;

  Save when the Owlet’s unexpected scream

  Pierces the ethereal vault; and (‘mid the gleam

  Of unsubstantial imagery, the dream, 10

  From the hushed vale’s realities, transferred

  To the still lake) the imaginative Bird

  Seems, ‘mid inverted mountains, not unheard.

  Grave Creature!—whether, while the moon shines bright

  On thy wings opened wide for smoothest flight,

  Thou art discovered in a roofless tower,

  Rising from what may once have been a lady’s bower;

  Or spied where thou sitt’st moping in thy mew

  At the dim centre of a churchyard yew;

  Or, from a rifted crag or ivy tod 20

  Deep in a forest, thy secure abode,

  Thou giv’st, for pastime’s sake, by shriek or shout,

  A puzzling notice of thy whereabout—

  May the night never come, nor day be seen,

  When I shall scorn thy voice or mock thy mien!

  In classic ages men perceived a soul

  Of sapience in thy aspect, headless Owl!

  Thee Athens reverenced in the studious grove;

  And, near the golden sceptre grasped by Jove,

  His Eagle’s favourite perch, while round him sate 30

  The Gods revolving the decrees of Fate,

  Thou, too, wert present at Minerva’s side:—

  Hark to that second larum!—far and wide

  The elements have heard, and rock and cave replied.

  1834.

  THE LABOURER’S NOON-DAY HYMN

  UP to the throne of God is borne

  The voice of praise at early morn,

  And he accepts the punctual hymn

  Sung as the light of day grows dim:

  Nor will he turn his ear aside

  From holy offerings at noontide:

  Then here reposing let us raise

  A song of gratitude and praise.

  What though our burthen be not light,

  We need not toil from morn to night; 10

  The respite of the mid-day hour

  Is in the thankful Creature’s power.

  Blest are the moments, doubly blest,

  That, drawn from this one hour of rest,

  Are with a ready heart bestowed

  Upon the service of our God!

  Each field is then a hallowed spot,

  An altar is in each man’s cot,

  A church in every grove that spreads

  Its living roof above our heads. 20

  Look up to Heaven! the industrious Sun

  Already half his race hath run;

  ‘He’ cannot halt nor go astray,

  But our immortal Spirits may.

  Lord! since his rising in the East,

  If we have faltered or transgressed,

  Guide, from thy love’s abundant source,

  What yet remains of this day’s course:

  Help with thy grace, through life’s short day,

  Our upward and our downward way; 30

  And glorify for us the west,

  When we shall sink to final rest.

  1834.

  THE REDBREAST

  SUGGESTED IN A WESTMORELAND COTTAGE

  DRIVEN in by Autumn’s sharpening air

  From half-stripped woods and pastures bare,

  Brisk Robin seeks a kindlier home:

  Not like a beggar is he come,

  But enters as a looked-for guest,

  Confiding in his ruddy breast,

  As if it were a natural shield

  Charged with a blazon on the field,

  Due to that good and pious deed

  Of which we in the Ballad read. 10

  But pensive fancies putting by,

  And wild-wood sorrows, speedily

  He plays the expert ventriloquist;

  And, caught by glimpses now—now missed,

  Puzzles the listener with a doubt

  If the soft voice he throws about

  Comes from within doors or without!

  Was ever such a sweet confusion,

  Sustained by delicate illusion?

  He’s at your elbow—to your feeling 20

  The notes are from the floor or ceiling;

  And there’s a riddle to be guessed,

  ‘Till you have marked his heaving chest,

  And busy throat whose sink and swell,

  Betray the Elf that loves to dwell

  In Robin’s bosom, as a chosen cell.

  Heart-pleased we smile upon the Bird

  If seen, and with like pleasure stirred

  Commend him, when he’s only heard.

  But small and fugitive our gain 30

  Compared with ‘hers’ who long hath lain,

  With languid limbs and patient head

  Reposing on a lone sick-bed;

  Where now, she daily hears a strain

  That cheats her of too busy cares,

  Eases her pain, and helps her prayers.

  And who but this dear Bird beguiled

  The fever of that pale-faced Child;

  Now cooling, with his passing wing,

  Her forehead, like a breeze of Spring: 40

  Recalling now, with descant soft

  Shed round her pillow from aloft,

  Sweet thoughts of angels hovering nigh,

  And the invisible sympathy

  Of “Matthew, Mark, and Luke, and John,

  Blessing the bed she lies upon”?

  And sometimes, just as listening ends

  In slumber, with the cadence blends

  A dream of that low-warbled hymn

  Which old folk, fondly pleased to trim 50

  Lamps of faith, now burning dim,

  Say that the Cherubs carved in stone,

  When clouds gave way at dead of night

  And the ancient church was filled with light,

  Used to sing in heavenly tone,

  Above and round the sacred places

  They guard, with winged baby-faces.

  Thrice happy Creature! in all lands

  Nurtured by hospitable hands:

  Free entrance to this cot has he, 60

  Entrance and exit both ‘yet’ free;

  And, when the keen unruffled weather

  That thus brings man and bird together,

  Shall with its pleasantness be past,

  And casement closed and door made fast,

  To keep at bay the howling blast,

  ‘He’ needs not fear the season’s rage,

  For the whole house is Robin’s cage.

  Whether the bird flit here or there,

  O’er table ‘lilt’, or perch on chair, 70

  Though some may frown and make a stir,

  To scare him as a trespasser,


  And he belike will flinch or start,

  Good friends he has to take his part;

  One chiefly, who with voice and look

  Pleads for him from the chimney-nook,

  Where sits the Dame, and wears away

  Her long and vacant holiday;

  With images about her heart,

  Reflected from the years gone by, 80

  On human nature’s second infancy.

  1834.

  LINES SUGGESTED BY A PORTRAIT FROM THE PENCIL OF F. STONE

  BEGUILED into forgetfulness of care

  Due to the day’s unfinished task; of pen

  Or book regardless, and of that fair scene

  In Nature’s prodigality displayed

  Before my window, oftentimes and long

  I gaze upon a Portrait whose mild gleam

  Of beauty never ceases to enrich

  The common light; whose stillness charms the air,

  Or seems to charm it, into like repose;

  Whose silence, for the pleasure of the ear, 10

  Surpasses sweetest music. There she sits

  With emblematic purity attired

  In a white vest, white as her marble neck

  Is, and the pillar of the throat would be

  But for the shadow by the drooping chin

  Cast into that recess—the tender shade,

  The shade and light, both there and everywhere,

  And through the very atmosphere she breathes,

  Broad, clear, and toned harmoniously, with skill

  That might from nature have been learnt in the hour 20

  When the lone shepherd sees the morning spread

  Upon the mountains. Look at her, whoe’er

  Thou be that, kindling with a poet’s soul,

  Hast loved the painter’s true Promethean craft

  Intensely—from Imagination take

  The treasure,—what mine eyes behold, see thou,

  Even though the Atlantic ocean roll between.

  A silver line, that runs from brow to crown

  And in the middle parts the braided hair,

  Just serves to show how delicate a soil 30

  The golden harvest grows in; and those eyes,

  Soft and capacious as a cloudless sky

  Whose azure depth their colour emulates,

  Must needs be conversant with upward looks,

  Prayer’s voiceless service; but now, seeking nought

  And shunning nought, their own peculiar life

  Of motion they renounce, and with the head

  Partake its inclination towards earth

  In humble grace, and quiet pensiveness

  Caught at the point where it stops short of sadness. 40

  Offspring of soul-bewitching Art, make me

  Thy confidant! say, whence derived that air

  Of calm abstraction? Can the ruling thought

  Be with some lover far away, or one

  Crossed by misfortune, or of doubted faith?

  Inapt conjecture! Childhood here, a moon

  Crescent in simple loveliness serene,

  Has but approached the gates of womanhood,

  Not entered them; her heart is yet unpierced

  By the blind Archer-god; her fancy free: 50

  The fount of feeling if unsought elsewhere,

  Will not be found.

  Her right hand, as it lies

  Across the slender wrist of the left arm

  Upon her lap reposing, holds—but mark

  How slackly, for the absent mind permits

  No firmer grasp—a little wild-flower, joined

  As in a posy, with a few pale ears

  Of yellowing corn, the same that overtopped

  And in their common birthplace sheltered it

  ‘Till they were plucked together; a blue flower 60

  Called by the thrifty husbandman a weed;

  But Ceres, in her garland, might have worn

  That ornament, unblamed. The floweret, held

  In scarcely conscious fingers, was, she knows,

  (Her Father told her so) in youth’s gay dawn

  Her Mother’s favourite; and the orphan Girl,

  In her own dawn—a dawn less gay and bright,

  Loves it, while there in solitary peace

  She sits, for that departed Mother’s sake.

  —Not from a source less sacred is derived 70

  (Surely I do not err) that pensive air

  Of calm abstraction through the face diffused

  And the whole person.

  Words have something told

  More than the pencil can, and verily

  More than is needed, but the precious Art

  Forgives their interference—Art divine,

  That both creates and fixes, in despite

  Of Death and Time, the marvels it hath wrought.

  Strange contrasts have we in this world of ours!

  That posture, and the look of filial love 80

  Thinking of past and gone, with what is left

  Dearly united, might be swept away

  From this fair Portrait’s fleshly Archetype,

  Even by an innocent fancy’s slightest freak

  Banished, nor ever, haply, be restored

  To their lost place, or meet in harmony

  So exquisite; but ‘here’ do they abide,

  Enshrined for ages. Is not then the Art

  Godlike, a humble branch of the divine,

  In visible quest of immortality, 90

  Stretched forth with trembling hope?—In every realm,

  From high Gibraltar to Siberian plains,

  Thousands, in each variety of tongue

  That Europe knows, would echo this appeal;

  One above all, a Monk who waits on God

  In the magnific Convent built of yore

  To sanctify the Escurial palace. He—

  Guiding, from cell to cell and room to room,

  A British Painter (eminent for truth

  In character, and depth of feeling, shown 100

  By labours that have touched the hearts of kings,

  And are endeared to simple cottagers)—

  Came, in that service, to a glorious work,

  Our Lord’s Last Supper, beautiful as when first

  The appropriate Picture, fresh from Titian’s hand,

  Graced the Refectory: and there, while both

  Stood with eyes fixed upon that masterpiece,

  The hoary Father in the Stranger’s ear

  Breathed out these words:—”Here daily do we sit,

  Thanks given to God for daily bread, and here 110

  Pondering the mischiefs of these restless times,

  And thinking of my Brethren, dead, dispersed,

  Or changed and changing, I not seldom gaze

  Upon this solemn Company unmoved

  By shock of circumstance, or lapse of years,

  Until I cannot but believe that they—

  They are in truth the Substance, we the Shadows.”

  So spake the mild Jeronymite, his griefs

  Melting away within him like a dream

  Ere he had ceased to gaze, perhaps to speak: 120

  And I, grown old, but in a happier land,

  Domestic Portrait! have to verse consigned

  In thy calm presence those heart-moving words:

  Words that can soothe, more than they agitate;

  Whose spirit, like the angel that went down

  Into Bethesda’s pool, with healing virtue

  Informs the fountain in the human breast

  Which by the visitation was disturbed.

  —But why this stealing tear? Companion mute,

  On thee I look, not sorrowing; fare thee well, 130

  My Song’s Inspirer, once again farewell!

  1834.

  THE FOREGOING SUBJECT RESUMED

  AMONG a grave fraternity of Monks,

  For One, but surely not for One alone,

  Tr
iumphs, in that great work, the Painter’s skill,

  Humbling the body, to exalt the soul;

  Yet representing, amid wreck and wrong

  And dissolution and decay, the warm

  And breathing life of flesh, as if already

  Clothed with impassive majesty, and graced

  With no mean earnest of a heritage

  Assigned to it in future worlds. Thou, too, 10

  With thy memorial flower, meek Portraiture!

  From whose serene companionship I passed

  Pursued by thoughts that haunt me still; thou also—

  Though but a simple object, into light

  Called forth by those affections that endear

  The private hearth; though keeping thy sole seat

  In singleness, and little tried by time,

  Creation, as it were, of yesterday—

  With a congenial function art endued

  For each and all of us, together joined 20

  In course of nature under a low roof

  By charities and duties that proceed

  Out of the bosom of a wiser vow.

  To a like salutary sense of awe

  Or sacred wonder, growing with the power

  Of meditation that attempts to weigh,

  In faithful scales, things and their opposites,

  Can thy enduring quiet gently raise

  A household small and sensitive,—whose love,

  Dependent as in part its blessings are 30

  Upon frail ties dissolving or dissolved

  On earth, will be revived, we trust, in heaven.

  1834.

  TO A CHILD WRITTEN IN HER ALBUM

  SMALL service is true service while it lasts:

  Of humblest Friends, bright Creature! scorn not one:

  The Daisy, by the shadow that it casts,

  Protects the lingering dew-drop from the Sun.

  1834.

  LINES WRITTEN IN THE ALBUM OF THE COUNTESS OF LONSDALE. NOV. 5, 1834

  LADY! a Pen (perhaps with thy regard,

  Among the Favoured, favoured not the least)

  Left, ‘mid the Records of this Book inscribed,

  Deliberate traces, registers of thought

  And feeling, suited to the place and time

  That gave them birth:—months passed, and still this hand,

  That had not been too timid to imprint

  Words which the virtues of thy Lord inspired,

  Was yet not bold enough to write of Thee.

  And why that scrupulous reserve? In sooth 10

  The blameless cause lay in the Theme itself.

  Flowers are there many that delight to strive

  With the sharp wind, and seem to court the shower,

  Yet are by nature careless of the sun