Delphi Complete Works of William Wordsworth

by William Wordsworth

  And was his friend; and gave him joy

  Of which we nothing know.

  His Mother, too, no doubt, above

  Her other children him did love:

  For, was she here, or was she there,

  She thought of him with constant care,

  And more than mother’s love.

  And proud she was of heart, when clad

  In crimson stockings, tartan plaid,

  And bonnet with a feather gay,

  To Kirk he on the sabbath day

  Went hand in hand with her.

  A dog too, had he; not for need,

  But one to play with and to feed;

  Which would have led him, if bereft

  Of company or friends, and left

  Without a better guide.

  And then the bagpipes he could blow —

  And thus from house to house would go;

  And all were pleased to hear and see,

  For none made sweeter melody

  Than did the poor blind Boy.

  Yet he had many a restless dream;

  Both when he heard the eagles scream,

  And when he heard the torrents roar,

  And heard the water beat the shore

  Near which their cottage stood.

  Beside a lake their cottage stood,

  Not small like ours, a peaceful flood;

  But one of mighty size, and strange;

  That, rough or smooth, is full of change,

  And stirring in its bed.

  For to this lake, by night and day,

  The great Sea-water finds its way

  Through long, long windings of the hills

  And drinks up all the pretty rills

  And rivers large and strong:

  Then hurries back the road it came —

  Returns, on errand still the same;

  This did it when the earth was new;

  And this for evermore will do,

  As long as earth shall last.

  And, with the coming of the tide,

  Come boats and ships that safely ride

  Between the woods and lofty rocks;

  And to the shepherds with their flocks

  Bring tales of distant lands.

  And of those tales, whate’er they were,

  The blind Boy always had his share;

  Whether of mighty towns, or vales

  With warmer suns and softer gales,

  Or wonders of the Deep.

  Yet more it pleased him, more it stirred,

  When from the water-side he heard

  The shouting, and the jolly cheers;

  The bustle of the mariners

  In stillness or in storm.

  But what do his desires avail?

  For He must never handle sail;

  Nor mount the mast, nor row, nor float

  In sailor’s ship, or fisher’s boat,

  Upon the rocking waves.

  His Mother often thought, and said,

  What sin would be upon her head

  If she should suffer this: ‘My Son,

  Whate’er you do, leave this undone;

  The danger is so great.’

  Thus lived he by Loch-Leven’s side

  Still sounding with the sounding tide,

  And heard the billows leap and dance,

  Without a shadow of mischance,

  Till he was ten years old.

  When one day (and now mark me well,

  Ye soon shall know how this befel)

  He in a vessel of his own,

  On the swift flood is hurrying down,

  Down to the mighty Sea.

  In such a vessel never more

  May human creature leave the shore!

  If this or that way he should stir,

  Woe to the poor blind Mariner!

  For death will be his doom.

  But say what bears him? — Ye have seen

  The Indian’s bow, his arrows keen,

  Rare beasts, and birds with plumage bright;

  Gifts which, for wonder or delight,

  Are brought in ships from far.

  Such gifts had those seafaring men

  Spread round that haven in the glen;

  Each hut, perchance, might have its own,

  And to the Boy they all were known —

  He knew and prized them all.

  The rarest was a Turtle-shell

  Which he, poor Child, had studied well;

  A shell of ample size, and light

  As the pearly car of Amphitrite,

  That sportive dolphins drew.

  And, as a Coracle that braves

  On Vaga’s breast the fretful waves,

  This shell upon the deep would swim,

  And gaily lift its fearless brim

  Above the tossing surge.

  And this the little blind Boy knew:

  And he a story strange yet true

  Had heard, how in a shell like this

  An English Boy, O thought of bliss!

  Had stoutly launched from shore;

  Launched from the margin of a bay

  Among the Indian isles, where lay

  His father’s ship, and had sailed far —

  To join that gallant ship of war,

  In his delightful shell.

  Our Highland Boy oft visited

  The house that held this prize; and, led

  By choice or chance, did thither come

  One day when no one was at home,

  And found the door unbarred.

  While there he sate, alone and blind,

  That story flashed upon his mind; —

  A bold thought roused him, and he took

  The shell from out its secret nook,

  And bore it on his head.

  He launched his vessel, — and in pride

  Of spirit, from Loch-Leven’s side,

  Stepped into it — his thoughts all free

  As the light breezes that with glee

  Sang through the adventurer’s hair.

  A while he stood upon his feet;

  He felt the motion — took his seat;

  Still better pleased as more and more

  The tide retreated from the shore,

  And sucked, and sucked him in.

  And there he is in face of Heaven.

  How rapidly the Child is driven!

  The fourth part of a mile, I ween,

  He thus had gone, ere he was seen

  By any human eye.

  But when he was first seen, oh me,

  What shrieking and what misery!

  For many saw; among the rest

  His Mother, she who loved him best,

  She saw her poor blind Boy.

  But for the child, the sightless Boy,

  It is the triumph of his joy!

  The bravest traveller in balloon,

  Mounting as if to reach the moon,

  Was never half so blessed.

  And let him, let him go his way,

  Alone, and innocent, and gay!

  For, if good Angels love to wait

  On the forlorn unfortunate,

  This Child will take no harm.

  But now the passionate lament,

  Which from the crowd on shore was sent,

  The cries which broke from old and young

  In Gaelic, or the English tongue,

  Are stifled — all is still.

  And quickly with a silent crew,

  A boat is ready to pursue;

  And from the shore their course they take,

  And swiftly down the running lake

  They follow the blind Boy.

  But soon they move with softer pace;

  So have ye seen the fowler chase

  On Grasmere’s clear unruffled breast

  A youngling of the wild-duck’s nest

  With deftly-lifted oar;

  Or as the wily sailors crept

  To seize (while on the Deep it slept)

  The hapless creature which did dwe
ll

  Erewhile within the dancing shell,

  They steal upon their prey.

  With sound the least that can be made,

  They follow, more and more afraid,

  More cautious as they draw more near;

  But in his darkness he can hear,

  And guesses their intent.

  ‘Lei-gha — Lei-gha’ — he then cried out,

  ‘Lei-gha — Lei-gha’ — with eager shout;

  Thus did he cry, and thus did pray,

  And what he meant was, ‘Keep away,

  And leave me to myself!’

  Alas! and when he felt their hands —

  You’ve often heard of magic wands,

  That with a motion overthrow

  A palace of the proudest show,

  Or melt it into air:

  So all his dreams — that inward light

  With which his soul had shone so bright —

  All vanished; — ’twas a heart-felt cross

  To him, a heavy, bitter loss,

  As he had ever known.

  But hark! a gratulating voice,

  With which the very hills rejoice:

  ‘Tis from the crowd, who tremblingly

  Have watched the event, and now can see

  That he is safe at last.

  And then, when he was brought to land,

  Full sure they were a happy band,

  Which, gathering round, did on the banks

  Of that great Water give God thanks,

  And welcomed the poor Child.

  And in the general joy of heart

  The blind Boy’s little dog took part;

  He leapt about, and oft did kiss

  His master’s hands in sign of bliss,

  With sound like lamentation.

  But most of all, his Mother dear,

  She who had fainted with her fear,

  Rejoiced when waking she espies

  The Child; when she can trust her eyes,

  And touches the blind Boy.

  She led him home, and wept amain,

  When he was in the house again:

  Tears flowed in torrents from her eyes;

  She kissed him — how could she chastise?

  She was too happy far.

  Thus, after he had fondly braved

  The perilous Deep, the Boy was saved;

  And, though his fancies had been wild,

  Yet he was pleased and reconciled

  To live in peace on shore.

  And in the lonely Highland dell

  Still do they keep the Turtle-shell;

  And long the story will repeat

  Of the blind Boy’s adventurous feat,

  And how he was preserved.

  APPENDIX E.

  ‘Mirrors upon the ceiling and against the walls.’ — Page 210.

  EFFUSION,

  in the pleasure-ground on the banks of the bran, near dunkeld.

  What He — who, mid the kindred throng

  Of Heroes that inspired his song,

  Doth yet frequent the hill of storms,

  The stars dim-twinkling through their forms!

  What! Ossian here — a painted Thrall,

  Mute fixture on a stuccoed wall;

  To serve — an unsuspected screen

  For show that must not yet be seen;

  And, when the moment comes, to part

  And vanish by mysterious art;

  Head, harp, and body, split asunder,

  For ingress to a world of wonder;

  A gay saloon, with waters dancing

  Upon the sight wherever glancing;

  One loud cascade in front, and lo!

  A thousand like it, white as snow —

  Streams on the walls, and torrent-foam

  As active round the hollow dome,

  Illusive cataracts! of their terrors

  Not stripped, nor voiceless in the mirrors,

  That catch the pageant from the flood

  Thundering adown a rocky wood.

  What pains to dazzle and confound!

  What strife of colour, shape, and sound

  In this quaint medley, that might seem

  Devised out of a sick man’s dream!

  Strange scene, fantastic and uneasy

  As ever made a maniac dizzy,

  When disenchanted from the mood

  That loves on sullen thoughts to brood!

  O Nature — in thy changeful visions,

  Through all thy most abrupt transitions,

  Smooth, graceful, tender, or sublime —

  Ever averse to pantomime,

  Thee neither do they know nor us

  Thy servants, who can trifle thus;

  Else verily the sober powers

  Of rock that frowns, and stream that roars,

  Exalted by congenial sway

  Of Spirits, and the undying Lay,

  And Names that moulder not away,

  Had wakened some redeeming thought

  More worthy of this favoured Spot;

  Recalled some feeling — to set free

  The Bard from such indignity!

  The Effigies of a valiant Wight

  I once beheld, a Templar Knight;

  Not prostrate, not like those that rest

  On tombs, with palms together prest,

  But sculptured out of living stone,

  And standing upright and alone,

  Both hands with rival energy

  Employed in setting his sword free

  From its dull sheath — stern sentinel

  Intent to guard St. Robert’s cell;

  As if with memory of the affray

  Far distant, when, as legends say,

  The Monks of Fountain’s thronged to force

  From its dear home the Hermit’s corse,

  That in their keeping it might lie,

  To crown their abbey’s sanctity.

  So had they rushed into the grot

  Of sense despised, a world forgot,

  And torn him from his loved retreat,

  Where altar-stone and rock-hewn seat

  Still hint that quiet best is found,

  Even by the Living, under ground;

  But a bold Knight, the selfish aim

  Defeating, put the Monks to shame,

  There where you see his Image stand

  Bare to the sky, with threatening brand

  Which lingering Nid is proud to show

  Reflected in the pool below.

  Thus, like the men of earliest days,

  Our sires set forth their grateful praise:

  Uncouth the workmanship, and rude!

  But, nursed in mountain solitude,

  Might some aspiring artist dare

  To seize whate’er, through misty air,

  A ghost, by glimpses, may present

  Of imitable lineament,

  And give the phantom an array

  That less should scorn the abandoned clay;

  Then let him hew with patient stroke

  An Ossian out of mural rock,

  And leave the figurative Man —

  Upon thy margin, roaring Bran! —

  Fixed like the Templar of the steep,

  An everlasting watch to keep;

  With local sanctities in trust,

  More precious than a hermit’s dust;

  And virtues through the mass infused,

  Which old idolatry abused.

  What though the Granite would deny

  All fervour to the sightless eye;

  And touch from rising suns in vain

  Solicit a Memnonian strain;

  Yet, in some fit of anger sharp,

  The wind might force the deep-grooved harp

  To utter melancholy moans

  Not unconnected with the tones

  Of soul-sick flesh and weary bones;

  While grove and river notes would lend,

  Less deeply sad, with these to blend!

  Vain pleasures of luxurious life,

&nbs
p; For ever with yourselves at strife;

  Through town and country both deranged

  By affectations interchanged,

  And all the perishable gauds

  That heaven-deserted man applauds;

  When will your hapless patrons learn

  To watch and ponder — to discern

  The freshness, the everlasting youth,

  Of admiration sprung from truth;

  From beauty infinitely growing

  Upon a mind with love o’erflowing —

  To sound the depths of every Art

  That seeks its wisdom through the heart?

  Thus (where the intrusive Pile, ill-graced

  With baubles of theatric taste,

  O’erlooks the torrent breathing showers

  On motley bands of alien flowers

  In stiff confusion set or sown,

  Till Nature cannot find her own,

  Or keep a remnant of the sod

  Which Caledonian Heroes trod)

  I mused; and, thirsting for redress,

  Recoiled into the wilderness.

  APPENDIX F.

  ‘Three or four times the size of Bowder Stone.’ — Page 225.

  From the Tour in Scotland, 1814: — ’The account of the Brownie’s Cell and the Ruins was given me by a man we met with on the banks of Loch Lomond, a little above Tarbet, and in front of a huge mass of rock, by the side of which we were told preachings were often held in the open air. The place is quite a solitude, and the surrounding scenery quite striking.’

  suggested by a beautiful ruin upon one of the islands of loch lomond, a place chosen for the retreat of a solitary individual, from whom this habitation acquired the name of

  THE BROWNIE’S CELL.

  I.

  To barren heath, bleak moor, and quaking fen,

  Or depth of labyrinthine glen;

  Or into trackless forest set

  With trees, whose lofty umbrage met;

  World-wearied Men withdrew of yore;

  (Penance their trust, and prayer their store;)

  And in the wilderness were bound

  To such apartments as they found;

  Or with a new ambition raised;

  That God might suitably be praised.

  II.

  High lodged the Warrior, like a bird of prey;

  Or where broad waters round him lay:

  But this wild Ruin is no ghost

  Of his devices — buried, lost!

  Within this little lonely isle

  There stood a consecrated Pile;

  Where tapers burned, and mass was sung,

  For them whose timid Spirits clung

  To mortal succour, though the tomb

  Had fixed, for ever fixed, their doom!

  III.

  Upon those servants of another world,

  When madding Power her bolts had hurled,

  Their habitation shook; — it fell,

  And perished, save one narrow cell;

  Whither at length, a Wretch retired

  Who neither grovelled nor aspired:

  He, struggling in the net of pride,

  The future scorned, the past defied;