Delphi Complete Works of William Wordsworth

by William Wordsworth

  Whirled adown the rocky channel,

  Sinking, rising, on they go,

  Peace and rest, as seems, before them

  Only in the lake below.

  Oh! it was a frightful current

  Whose fierce wrath the Girl had braved;

  Clap your hands with joy my Hearers,

  Shout in triumph, both are saved; 20

  Saved by courage that with danger

  Grew, by strength the gift of love,

  And belike a guardian angel

  Came with succour from above.

  PART II

  NOW, to a maturer Audience,

  Let me speak of this brave Child

  Left among her native mountains

  With wild Nature to run wild.

  So, unwatched by love maternal,

  Mother’s care no more her guide, 30

  Fared this little bright-eyed Orphan

  Even while at her father’s side.

  Spare your blame,—remembrance makes him

  Loth to rule by strict command;

  Still upon his cheek are living

  Touches of her infant hand,

  Dear caresses given in pity,

  Sympathy that soothed his grief,

  As the dying mother witnessed

  To her thankful mind’s relief. 40

  Time passed on; the Child was happy,

  Like a Spirit of air she moved,

  Wayward, yet by all who knew her

  For her tender heart beloved.

  Scarcely less than sacred passions,

  Bred in house, in grove, and field,

  Link her with the inferior creatures,

  Urge her powers their rights to shield.

  Anglers, bent on reckless pastime,

  Learn how she can feel alike 50

  Both for tiny harmless minnow

  And the fierce and sharp-toothed pike.

  Merciful protectress, kindling

  Into anger or disdain;

  Many a captive hath she rescued,

  Others saved from lingering pain.

  Listen yet awhile;—with patience

  Hear the homely truths I tell,

  She in Grasmere’s old church-steeple

  Tolled this day the passing-bell. 60

  Yes, the wild Girl of the mountains

  To their echoes gave the sound,

  Notice punctual as the minute,

  Warning solemn and profound.

  She, fulfilling her sire’s office,

  Rang alone the far-heard knell,

  Tribute, by her hand, in sorrow,

  Paid to One who loved her well.

  When his spirit was departed

  On that service she went forth; 70

  Nor will fail the like to render

  When his corse is laid in earth.

  What then wants the Child to temper,

  In her breast, unruly fire,

  To control the froward impulse

  And restrain the vague desire?

  Easily a pious training

  And a stedfast outward power

  Would supplant the weeds and cherish,

  In their stead, each opening flower. 80

  Thus the fearless Lamb-deliv’rer,

  Woman-grown, meek-hearted, sage,

  May become a blest example

  For her sex, of every age.

  Watchful as a wheeling eagle,

  Constant as a soaring lark,

  Should the country need a heroine,

  She might prove our Maid of Arc.

  Leave that thought; and here be uttered

  Prayer that Grace divine may raise 90

  Her humane courageous spirit

  Up to heaven, thro’ peaceful ways.

  June 6, 1845.

  AT FURNESS ABBEY

  WELL have yon Railway Labourers to THIS ground

  Withdrawn for noontide rest. They sit, they walk

  Among the Ruins, but no idle talk

  Is heard; to grave demeanour all are bound;

  And from one voice a Hymn with tuneful sound

  Hallows once more the long-deserted Quire

  And thrills the old sepulchral earth, around.

  Others look up, and with fixed eyes admire

  That wide-spanned arch, wondering how it was raised,

  To keep, so high in air, its strength and grace: 10

  All seem to feel the spirit of the place,

  And by the general reverence God is praised:

  Profane Despoilers, stand ye not reproved,

  While thus these simple-hearted men are moved?

  June 21, 1845.

  YES! THOU ART FAIR, YET BE NOT MOVED

  YES! thou art fair, yet be not moved

  To scorn the declaration,

  That sometimes I in thee have loved

  My fancy’s own creation.

  Imagination needs must stir;

  Dear Maid, this truth believe,

  Minds that have nothing to confer

  Find little to perceive.

  Be pleased that nature made thee fit

  To feed my heart’s devotion, 10

  By laws to which all Forms submit

  In sky, air, earth, and ocean.

  1845.

  WHAT HEAVENLY SMILES! O LADY MINE

  WHAT heavenly smiles! O Lady mine

  Through my very heart they shine;

  And, if my brow gives back their light,

  Do thou look gladly on the sight;

  As the clear Moon with modest pride

  Beholds her own bright beams

  Reflected from the mountain’s side

  And from the headlong streams.

  1845.

  TO A LADY IN ANSWER TO A REQUEST THAT I WOULD WRITE HER A POEM UPON SOME DRAWINGS THAT SHE HAD MADE OF FLOWERS IN THE ISLAND OF MADEIRA

  FAIR Lady! can I sing of flowers

  That in Madeira bloom and fade,

  I who ne’er sate within their bowers,

  Nor through their sunny lawns have strayed?

  How they in sprightly dance are worn

  By Shepherd-groom or May-day queen,

  Or holy festal pomps adorn,

  These eyes have never seen.

  Yet tho’ to me the pencil’s art

  No like remembrances can give, 10

  Your portraits still may reach the heart

  And there for gentle pleasure live;

  While Fancy ranging with free scope

  Shall on some lovely Alien set

  A name with us endeared to hope,

  To peace, or fond regret.

  Still as we look with nicer care,

  Some new resemblance we may trace:

  A ‘Heart’s-ease’ will perhaps be there,

  A ‘Speedwell’ may not want its place. 20

  And so may we, with charmed mind

  Beholding what your skill has wrought,

  Another ‘Star-of-Bethlehem’ find,

  A new ‘Forget-me-not’.

  From earth to heaven with motion fleet

  From heaven to earth our thoughts will pass,

  A ‘Holy-thistle’ here we meet

  And there a ‘Shepherd’s weather-glass’;

  And haply some familiar name

  Shall grace the fairest, sweetest, plant 30

  Whose presence cheers the drooping frame

  Of English Emigrant.

  Gazing she feels its powers beguile

  Sad thoughts, and breathes with easier breath;

  Alas! that meek that tender smile

  Is but a harbinger of death:

  And pointing with a feeble hand

  She says, in faint words by sighs broken,

  Bear for me to my native land

  This precious Flower, true love’s last token. 40

  1845.

  GLAD SIGHT WHEREVER NEW WITH OLD

  GLAD sight wherever new with old

  Is joined through some dear homeborn tie;

  The life of all that we behold


  Depends upon that mystery.

  Vain is the glory of the sky,

  The beauty vain of field and grove,

  Unless, while with admiring eye

  We gaze, we also learn to love.

  1845.

  LOVE LIES BLEEDING

  YOU call it, “Love lies bleeding,”—so you may,

  Though the red Flower, not prostrate, only droops,

  As we have seen it here from day to day,

  From month to month, life passing not away:

  A flower how rich in sadness! Even thus stoops,

  (Sentient by Grecian sculpture’s marvellous power)

  Thus leans, with hanging brow and body bent

  Earthward in uncomplaining languishment

  The dying Gladiator. So, sad Flower!

  (‘Tis Fancy guides me willing to be led, 10

  Though by a slender thread,)

  So drooped Adonis bathed in sanguine dew

  Of his death-wound, when he from innocent air

  The gentlest breath of resignation drew;

  While Venus in a passion of despair

  Rent, weeping over him, her golden hair

  Spangled with drops of that celestial shower.

  She suffered, as Immortals sometimes do;

  But pangs more lasting far, ‘that’ Lover knew

  Who first, weighed down by scorn, in some lone bower 20

  Did press this semblance of unpitied smart

  Into the service of his constant heart,

  His own dejection, downcast Flower! could share

  With thine, and gave the mournful name which thou wilt ever

  bear.

  1845.

  COMPANION TO THE FOREGOING

  NEVER enlivened with the liveliest ray

  That fosters growth or checks or cheers decay,

  Nor by the heaviest rain-drops more deprest,

  This Flower, that first appeared as summer’s guest,

  Preserves her beauty ‘mid autumnal leaves

  And to her mournful habits fondly cleaves.

  When files of stateliest plants have ceased to bloom,

  One after one submitting to their doom,

  When her coevals each and all are fled,

  What keeps her thus reclined upon her lonesome bed? 10

  The old mythologists, more impressed than we

  Of this late day by character in tree

  Or herb, that claimed peculiar sympathy,

  Or by the silent lapse of fountain clear,

  Or with the language of the viewless air

  By bird or beast made vocal, sought a cause

  To solve the mystery, not in Nature’s laws

  But in Man’s fortunes. Hence a thousand tales

  Sung to the plaintive lyre in Grecian vales.

  Nor doubt that something of their spirit swayed 20

  The fancy-stricken Youth or heart-sick Maid,

  Who, while each stood companionless and eyed

  This undeparting Flower in crimson dyed,

  Thought of a wound which death is slow to cure,

  A fate that has endured and will endure,

  And, patience coveting yet passion feeding,

  Called the dejected Lingerer, ‘Loves lies bleeding’.

  1845.

  THE CUCKOO-CLOCK

  WOULDST thou be taught, when sleep has taken flight,

  By a sure voice that can most sweetly tell,

  How far off yet a glimpse of morning light,

  And if to lure the truant back be well,

  Forbear to covet a Repeater’s stroke,

  That, answering to thy touch, will sound the hour;

  Better provide thee with a Cuckoo-clock

  For service hung behind thy chamber-door;

  And in due time the soft spontaneous shock,

  The double note, as if with living power, 10

  Will to composure lead—or make thee blithe as bird in bower.

  List, Cuckoo—Cuckoo!—oft tho’ tempests howl,

  Or nipping frost remind thee trees are bare,

  How cattle pine, and droop the shivering fowl,

  Thy spirits will seem to feed on balmy air:

  I speak with knowledge,—by that Voice beguiled,

  Thou wilt salute old memories as they throng

  Into thy heart; and fancies, running wild

  Through fresh green fields, and budding groves among,

  Will make thee happy, happy as a child: 20

  Of sunshine wilt thou think, and flowers, and song,

  And breathe as in a world where nothing can go wrong.

  And know—that, even for him who shuns the day

  And nightly tosses on a bed of pain;

  Whose joys, from all but memory swept away,

  Must come unhoped for, if they come again;

  Know—that, for him whose waking thoughts, severe

  As his distress is sharp, would scorn my theme,

  The mimic notes, striking upon his ear

  In sleep, and intermingling with his dream, 30

  Could from sad regions send him to a dear

  Delightful land of verdure, shower and gleam,

  To mock the ‘wandering’ Voice beside some haunted stream.

  O bounty without measure! while the grace

  Of Heaven doth in such wise, from humblest springs,

  Pour pleasure forth, and solaces that trace

  A mazy course along familiar things,

  Well may our hearts have faith that blessings come,

  Streaming from founts above the starry sky,

  With angels when their own untroubled home 40

  They leave, and speed on nightly embassy

  To visit earthly chambers,—and for whom?

  Yea, both for souls who God’s forbearance try,

  And those that seek his help, and for his mercy sigh.

  1845.

  SO FAIR, SO SWEET, WITHAL SO SENSITIVE

  SO fair, so sweet, withal so sensitive,

  Would that the little Flowers were born to live,

  Conscious of half the pleasure which they give;

  That to this mountain-daisy’s self were known

  The beauty of its star-shaped shadow, thrown

  On the smooth surface of this naked stone!

  And what if hence a bold desire should mount

  High as the Sun, that he could take account

  Of all that issues from his glorious fount!

  So might he ken how by his sovereign aid 10

  These delicate companionships are made;

  And how he rules the pomp of light and shade;

  And were the Sister-power that shines by night

  So privileged, what a countenance of delight

  Would through the clouds break forth on human sight!

  Fond fancies! wheresoe’er shall turn thine eye

  On earth, air, ocean, or the starry sky,

  Converse with Nature in pure sympathy;

  All vain desires, all lawless wishes quelled,

  Be Thou to love and praise alike impelled, 20

  Whatever boon is granted or withheld.

  1845.

  TO THE PENNSYLVANIANS

  DAYS undefiled by luxury or sloth,

  Firm self-denial, manners grave and staid,

  Rights equal, laws with cheerfulness obeyed,

  Words that require no sanction from an oath,

  And simple honesty a common growth—

  This high repute, with bounteous Nature’s aid,

  Won confidence, now ruthlessly betrayed

  At will, your power the measure of your troth!—

  All who revere the memory of Penn

  Grieve for the land on whose wild woods his name 10

  Was fondly grafted with a virtuous aim,

  Renounced, abandoned by degenerate Men

  For state-dishonour black as ever came

  To upper air from Mammon’s loathsome den.

  1845.

&nbs
p; YOUNG ENGLAND—WHAT IS THEN BECOME OF OLD

  YOUNG ENGLAND—what is then become of Old

  Of dear Old England? Think they she is dead,

  Dead to the very name? Presumption fed

  On empty air! That name will keep its hold

  In the true filial bosom’s inmost fold

  For ever.—The Spirit of Alfred, at the head

  Of all who for her rights watched, toiled and bled,

  Knows that this prophecy is not too bold.

  What—how! shall she submit in will and deed

  To Beardless Boys—an imitative race, 10

  The ‘servum pecus’ of a Gallic breed?

  Dear Mother! if thou ‘must’ thy steps retrace,

  Go where at least meek Innocency dwells;

  Let Babes and Sucklings be thy oracles.

  1845.

  THOUGH THE BOLD WINGS OF POESY AFFECT

  THOUGH the bold wings of Poesy affect

  The clouds, and wheel around the mountain tops

  Rejoicing, from her loftiest height she drops

  Well pleased to skim the plain with wild flowers deckt

  Or muse in solemn grove whose shades protect

  The lingering dew—there steals along, or stops

  Watching the least small bird that round her hops,

  Or creeping worm, with sensitive respect.

  Her functions are they therefore less divine,

  Her thoughts less deep, or void of grave intent 10

  Her simplest fancies? Should that fear be thine,

  Aspiring Votary, ere thy hand present

  One offering, kneel before her modest shrine,

  With brow in penitential sorrow bent!

  1845.

  SUGGESTED BY A PICTURE OF THE BIRD OF PARADISE

  THE gentlest Poet, with free thoughts endowed,

  And a true master of the glowing strain,

  Might scan the narrow province with disdain

  That to the Painter’s skill is here allowed.

  This, this the Bird of Paradise! disclaim

  The daring thought, forget the name;

  This the Sun’s Bird, whom Glendoveers might own

  As no unworthy Partner in their flight

  Through seas of ether, where the ruffling sway

  Of nether air’s rude billows is unknown; 10

  Whom Sylphs, if e’er for casual pastime they

  Through India’s spicy regions wing their way,

  Might bow to as their Lord. What character,

  O sovereign Nature! I appeal to thee,

  Of all thy feathered progeny