Delphi Complete Works of William Wordsworth

by William Wordsworth

  Nay, said a voice, soft as the south wind’s breath,

  Dive through the stormy surface of the flood 10

  To the great current flowing underneath;

  Explore the countless springs of silent good;

  So shall the truth be better understood,

  And thy grieved Spirit brighten strong in faith.

  LO! WHERE SHE STANDS FIXED IN A SAINT-LIKE TRANCE

  LO! where she stands fixed in a saint-like trance,

  One upward hand, as if she needed rest

  From rapture, lying softly on her breast!

  Nor wants her eyeball an ethereal glance;

  But not the less—nay more—that countenance,

  While thus illumined, tells of painful strife

  For a sick heart made weary of this life

  By love, long crossed with adverse circumstance.

  —Would She were now as when she hoped to pass

  At God’s appointed hour to them who tread 10

  Heaven’s sapphire pavement, yet breathed well content,

  Well pleased, her foot should print earth’s common grass,

  Lived thankful for day’s light, for daily bread,

  For health, and time in obvious duty spent.

  THE NORMAN BOY

  HIGH on a broad unfertile tract of forest-skirted Down,

  Nor kept by Nature for herself, nor made by man his own,

  From home and company remote and every playful joy,

  Served, tending a few sheep and goats, a ragged Norman Boy.

  Him never saw I, nor the spot; but from an English Dame,

  Stranger to me and yet my friend, a simple notice came,

  With suit that I would speak in verse of that sequestered child

  Whom, one bleak winter’s day, she met upon the dreary Wild.

  His flock, along the woodland’s edge with relics sprinkled o’er

  Of last night’s snow, beneath a sky threatening the fall of more, 10

  Where tufts of herbage tempted each, were busy at their feed,

  And the poor Boy was busier still, with work of anxious heed.

  There ‘was’ he, where of branches rent and withered and decayed,

  For covert from the keen north wind, his hands a hut had made.

  A tiny tenement, forsooth, and frail, as needs must be

  A thing of such materials framed, by a builder such as he.

  The hut stood finished by his pains, nor seemingly lacked aught

  That skill or means of his could add, but the architect had wrought

  Some limber twigs into a Cross, well-shaped with fingers nice,

  To be engrafted on the top of his small edifice. 20

  That Cross he now was fastening there, as the surest power and best

  For supplying all deficiencies, all wants of the rude nest

  In which, from burning heat, or tempest driving far and wide,

  The innocent Boy, else shelterless, his lonely head must hide.

  That Cross belike he also raised as a standard for the true

  And faithful service of his heart in the worst that might ensue

  Of hardship and distressful fear, amid the houseless waste

  Where he, in his poor self so weak, by Providence was placed.

  —Here, Lady! might I cease; but nay, let ‘us’ before we part

  With this dear holy shepherd-boy breathe a prayer of earnest

  heart, 30

  That unto him, where’er shall lie his life’s appointed way,

  The Cross, fixed in his soul, may prove an all-sufficing stay.

  1842.

  THE POET’S DREAM

  SEQUEL TO THE NORMAN BOY

  JUST as those final words were penned, the sun broke out in power,

  And gladdened all things; but, as chanced, within that very hour,

  Air blackened, thunder growled, fire flashed from clouds that hid the

  sky,

  And, for the Subject of my Verse, I heaved a pensive sigh.

  Nor could my heart by second thoughts from heaviness be cleared,

  For bodied forth before my eyes the cross-crowned hut appeared;

  And, while around it storm as fierce seemed troubling earth and air,

  I saw, within, the Norman Boy kneeling alone in prayer.

  The Child, as if the thunder’s voice spake with articulate call,

  Bowed meekly in submissive fear, before the Lord of All; 10

  His lips were moving; and his eyes, up-raised to sue for grace,

  With soft illumination cheered the dimness of that place.

  How beautiful is holiness!—what wonder if the sight,

  Almost as vivid as a dream, produced a dream at night?

  It came with sleep and showed the Boy, no cherub, not transformed,

  But the poor ragged Thing whose ways my human heart had warmed.

  Me had the dream equipped with wings, so I took him in my arms,

  And lifted from the grassy floor, stilling his faint alarms,

  And bore him high through yielding air my debt of love to pay,

  By giving him, for both our sakes, an hour of holiday. 20

  I whispered, “Yet a little while, dear Child! thou art my own,

  To show thee some delightful thing, in country or in town.

  What shall it be? a mirthful throng? or that holy place and calm

  St. Denis, filled with royal tombs, or the Church of Notre Dame?

  St. Ouen’s golden Shrine? Or choose what else would please thee most

  Of any wonder Normandy, or all proud France, can boast!”

  “My Mother,” said the Boy, “was born near to a blessed Tree,

  The Chapel Oak of Allonville; good Angel, show it me!”

  On wings, from broad and stedfast poise let loose by this reply,

  For Allonville, o’er down and dale, away then did we fly; 30

  O’er town and tower we flew, and fields in May’s fresh verdure drest;

  The wings they did not flag; the Child, though grave, was not

  deprest.

  But who shall show, to waking sense, the gleam of light that broke

  Forth from his eyes, when first the Boy looked down on that huge oak,

  For length of days so much revered, so famous where it stands

  For twofold hallowing—Nature’s care, and work of human hands?

  Strong as an Eagle with my charge I glided round and round

  The wide-spread boughs, for view of door, window, and stair that

  wound

  Gracefully up the gnarled trunk; nor left we unsurveyed

  The pointed steeple peering forth from the centre of the shade. 40

  I lighted—opened with soft touch the chapel’s iron door,

  Past softly, leading in the Boy; and, while from roof to floor

  From floor to roof all round his eyes the Child with wonder cast,

  Pleasure on pleasure crowded in, each livelier than the last.

  For, deftly framed within the trunk, the sanctuary showed,

  By light of lamp and precious stones, that glimmered here, there

  glowed,

  Shrine, Altar, Image, Offerings hung in sign of gratitude;

  Sight that inspired accordant thoughts; and speech I thus renewed:

  “Hither the Afflicted come, as thou hast heard thy Mother say,

  And, kneeling, supplication make to our Lady de la Paix; 50

  What mournful sighs have here been heard, and, when the voice was

  stopt

  By sudden pangs; what bitter tears have on this pavement dropt!

  Poor Shepherd of the naked Down, a favoured lot is thine,

  Far happier lot, dear Boy, than brings full many to this shrine;

  From body pains and pains of soul thou needest no release,

  Thy hours as they flow on are spent, if not in joy, in peace.

  Then offer up thy heart to God in thankfulness and praise,

  Give to Him prayers, and many
thoughts, in thy most busy days;

  And in His sight the fragile Cross, on thy small hut, will be

  Holy as that which long hath crowned the Chapel of this Tree; 60

  Holy as that far seen which crowns the sumptuous Church in Rome

  Where thousands meet to worship God under a mighty Dome;

  He sees the bending multitude, he hears the choral rites,

  Yet not the less, in children’s hymns and lonely prayer, delights.

  God for his service needeth not proud work of human skill;

  They please him best who labour most to do in peace his will:

  So let us strive to live, and to our Spirits will be given

  Such wings as, when our Saviour calls, shall bear us up to heaven.”

  The Boy no answer made by words, but, so earnest was his look,

  Sleep fled, and with it fled the dream—recorded in this book, 70

  Lest all that passed should melt away in silence from my mind,

  As visions still more bright have done, and left no trace behind.

  But oh! that Country-man of thine, whose eye, loved Child, can see

  A pledge of endless bliss in acts of early piety,

  In verse, which to thy ear might come, would treat this simple theme,

  Nor leave untold our happy flight in that adventurous dream.

  Alas the dream, to thee, poor Boy! to thee from whom it flowed,

  Was nothing, scarcely can be aught, yet ‘twas bounteously bestowed,

  If I may dare to cherish hope that gentle eyes will read

  Not loth, and listening Little-ones, heart-touched, their fancies

  feed. 80

  1842.

  THE WIDOW ON WINDERMERE SIDE

  I

  HOW beautiful when up a lofty height

  Honour ascends among the humblest poor,

  And feeling sinks as deep! See there the door

  Of One, a Widow, left beneath a weight

  Of blameless debt. On evil Fortune’s spite

  She wasted no complaint, but strove to make

  A just repayment, both for conscience-sake

  And that herself and hers should stand upright

  In the world’s eye. Her work when daylight failed

  Paused not, and through the depth of night she kept

  Such earnest vigils, that belief prevailed

  With some, the noble Creature never slept;

  But, one by one, the hand of death assailed

  Her children from her inmost heart bewept.

  II

  The Mother mourned, nor ceased her tears to flow,

  Till a winter’s noonday placed her buried Son

  Before her eyes, last child of many gone—

  His raiment of angelic white, and lo!

  His very feet bright as the dazzling snow

  Which they are touching; yea far brighter, even

  As that which comes, or seems to come, from heaven,

  Surpasses aught these elements can show.

  Much she rejoiced, trusting that from that hour

  Whate’er befell she could not grieve or pine;

  But the Transfigured, in and out of season,

  Appeared, and spiritual presence gained a power

  Over material forms that mastered reason.

  Oh, gracious Heaven, in pity make her thine!

  III

  But why that prayer? as if to her could come

  No good but by the way that leads to bliss

  Through Death,—so judging we should judge amiss.

  Since reason failed want is her threatened doom,

  Yet frequent transports mitigate the gloom:

  Nor of those maniacs is she one that kiss

  The air or laugh upon a precipice;

  No, passing through strange sufferings toward the tomb

  She smiles as if a martyr’s crown were won:

  Oft, when light breaks through clouds or waving trees,

  With outspread arms and fallen upon her knees

  The Mother hails in her descending Son

  An Angel, and in earthly ecstasies

  Her own angelic glory seems begun.

  1842.

  FAREWELL LINES

  “HIGH bliss is only for a higher state,”

  But, surely, if severe afflictions borne

  With patience merit the reward of peace,

  Peace ye deserve; and may the solid good,

  Sought by a wise though late exchange, and here

  With bounteous hand beneath a cottage-roof

  To you accorded, never be withdrawn,

  Nor for the world’s best promises renounced.

  Most soothing was it for a welcome Friend,

  Fresh from the crowded city, to behold 10

  That lonely union, privacy so deep,

  Such calm employments, such entire content.

  So when the rain is over, the storm laid,

  A pair of herons oft-times have I seen,

  Upon a rocky islet, side by side,

  Drying their feathers in the sun, at ease;

  And so, when night with grateful gloom had fallen,

  Two glow-worms in such nearness that they shared,

  As seemed, their soft self-satisfying light,

  Each with the other, on the dewy ground, 20

  Where He that made them blesses their repose.—

  When wandering among lakes and hills I note,

  Once more, those creatures thus by nature paired,

  And guarded in their tranquil state of life,

  Even, as your happy presence to my mind

  Their union brought, will they repay the debt,

  And send a thankful spirit back to you,

  With hope that we, dear Friends! shall meet again.

  1842.

  AIREY-FORCE VALLEY

  ——NOT a breath of air

  Ruffles the bosom of this leafy glen.

  From the brook’s margin, wide around, the trees

  Are stedfast as the rocks; the brook itself,

  Old as the hills that feed it from afar,

  Doth rather deepen than disturb the calm

  Where all things else are still and motionless.

  And yet, even now, a little breeze, perchance

  Escaped from boisterous winds that rage without,

  Has entered, by the sturdy oaks unfelt, 10

  But to its gentle touch how sensitive

  Is the light ash! that, pendent from the brow

  Of yon dim cave, in seeming silence makes

  A soft eye-music of slow-waving boughs,

  Powerful almost as vocal harmony

  To stay the wanderer’s steps and soothe his thoughts.

  1842.

  LYRE! THOUGH SUCH POWER DO IN THY MAGIC LIVE

  LYRE! though such power do in thy magic live

  As might from India’s farthest plain

  Recall the not unwilling Maid,

  Assist me to detain

  The lovely Fugitive:

  Check with thy notes the impulse which, betrayed

  By her sweet farewell looks, I longed to aid.

  Here let me gaze enrapt upon that eye,

  The impregnable and awe-inspiring fort

  Of contemplation, the calm port 10

  By reason fenced from winds that sigh

  Among the restless sails of vanity.

  But if no wish be hers that we should part,

  A humbler bliss would satisfy my heart.

  Where all things are so fair,

  Enough by her dear side to breathe the air

  Of this Elysian weather;

  And, on or in, or near, the brook, espy

  Shade upon the sunshine lying

  Faint and somewhat pensively; 20

  And downward Image gaily vying

  With its upright living tree

  ‘Mid silver clouds, and openings of blue sky

  As soft almost and deep as her cerulean eye.

  Nor less the j
oy with many a glance

  Cast up the Stream or down at her beseeching,

  To mark its eddying foam-balls prettily distrest

  By ever-changing shape and want of rest;

  Or watch, with mutual teaching,

  The current as it plays 30

  In flashing leaps and stealthy creeps

  Adown a rocky maze;

  Or note (translucent summer’s happiest chance!)

  In the slope-channel floored with pebbles bright,

  Stones of all hues, gem emulous of gem,

  So vivid that they take from keenest sight

  The liquid veil that seeks not to hide them.

  1842.

  TO THE CLOUDS

  ARMY of Clouds! ye winged Hosts in troops

  Ascending from behind the motionless brow

  Of that tall rock, as from a hidden world,

  Oh whither with such eagerness of speed?

  What seek ye, or what shun ye? of the gale

  Companions, fear ye to be left behind,

  Or racing o’er your blue ethereal field

  Contend ye with each other? of the sea

  Children, thus post ye over vale and height

  To sink upon your’s mother’s lap—and rest? 10

  Or were ye rightlier hailed, when first mine eyes

  Beheld in your impetuous march the likeness

  Of a wide army pressing on to meet

  Or overtake some unknown enemy?—

  But your smooth motions suit a peaceful aim;

  And Fancy, not less aptly pleased, compares

  Your squadrons to an endless flight of birds

  Aerial, upon due migration bound

  To milder climes; or rather do ye urge

  In caravan your hasty pilgrimage 20

  To pause at last on more aspiring heights

  Than these, and utter your devotion there

  With thunderous voice? Or are ye jubilant,

  And would ye, tracking your proud lord the Sun,

  Be present at his setting; or the pomp

  Of Persian mornings would ye fill, and stand

  Poising your splendours high above the heads

  Of worshippers kneeling to their up-risen God?

  Whence, whence, ye Clouds! this eagerness of speed?

  Speak, silent creatures.—They are gone, are fled, 30

  Buried together in yon gloomy mass

  That loads the middle heaven; and clear and bright

  And vacant doth the region which they thronged

  Appear; a calm descent of sky conducting

  Down to the unapproachable abyss,