Delphi Complete Works of William Wordsworth

by William Wordsworth

  Still tempering, from the unguilty forge

  Of vain conceit, an iron scourge!

  IV.

  Proud Remnant was he of a fearless Race,

  Who stood and flourished face to face

  With their perennial hills; — but Crime,

  Hastening the stern decrees of Time,

  Brought low a Power, which from its home

  Burst, when repose grew wearisome;

  And, taking impulse from the sword,

  And, mocking its own plighted word,

  Had found, in ravage widely dealt,

  Its warfare’s bourn, its travel’s belt!

  V.

  All, all were dispossessed, save him whose smile

  Shot lightning through this lonely Isle!

  No right had he but what he made

  To this small spot, his leafy shade;

  But the ground lay within that ring

  To which he only dared to cling;

  Renouncing here, as worse than dead,

  The craven few who bowed the head

  Beneath the change; who heard a claim

  How loud! yet lived in peace with shame.

  VI.

  From year to year this shaggy Mortal went

  (So seemed it) down a strange descent:

  Till they, who saw his outward frame,

  Fixed on him an unhallowed name;

  Him, free from all malicious taint,

  And guiding, like the Patmos Saint,

  A pen unwearied — to indite,

  In his lone Isle, the dreams of night;

  Impassioned dreams, that strove to span

  The faded glories of his Clan!

  VII.

  Suns that through blood their western harbour sought,

  And stars that in their courses fought;

  Towers rent, winds combating with woods,

  Lands deluged by unbridled floods;

  And beast and bird that from the spell

  Of sleep took import terrible; —

  These types mysterious (if the show

  Of battle and the routed foe

  Had failed) would furnish an array

  Of matter for the dawning day!

  VIII.

  How disappeared He? — ask the newt and toad,

  Inheritors of his abode;

  The otter crouching undisturbed,

  In her dark cleft; — but be thou curbed,

  O froward Fancy! ‘mid a scene

  Of aspect winning and serene;

  For those offensive creatures shun

  The inquisition of the sun!

  And in this region flowers delight,

  And all is lovely to the sight.

  IX.

  Spring finds not here a melancholy breast,

  When she applies her annual test

  To dead and living; when her breath

  Quickens, as now, the withered heath; —

  Nor flaunting Summer — when he throws

  His soul into the briar-rose;

  Or calls the lily from her sleep

  Prolonged beneath the bordering deep;

  Nor Autumn, when the viewless wren

  Is warbling near the Brownie’s Den.

  X.

  Wild Relique! beauteous as the chosen spot

  In Nysa’s isle, the embellished grot;

  Whither, by care of Libyan Jove,

  (High Servant of paternal Love)

  Young Bacchus was conveyed — to lie

  Safe from his step-dame Rhea’s eye;

  Where bud, and bloom, and fruitage, glowed,

  Close-crowding round the infant god;

  All colours, — and the liveliest streak

  A foil to his celestial cheek!

  APPENDIX G.

  ‘The bonny Holms of Yarrow.’ — Page 254.

  In the Tour in Scotland, 1814, the Poet writes: — ’I seldom read or think of this Poem without regretting that my dear sister was not of the party, as she would have had so much delight in recalling the time when travelling together in Scotland we declined going in search of this celebrated stream.’

  YARROW VISITED,

  September 1814.

  And is this — Yarrow? — This the Stream

  Of which my fancy cherished,

  So faithfully, a waking dream?

  An image that hath perished!

  O that some Minstrel’s harp were near,

  To utter notes of gladness,

  And chase this silence from the air,

  That fills my heart with sadness!

  Yet why? — a silvery current flows

  With uncontrolled meanderings;

  Nor have these eyes by greener hills

  Been soothed, in all my wanderings.

  And, through her depths, St. Mary’s Lake

  Is visibly delighted;

  For not a feature of those hills

  Is in the mirror slighted.

  A blue sky bends o’er Yarrow vale,

  Save where that pearly whiteness

  Is round the rising sun diffused

  A tender hazy brightness;

  Mild dawn of promise! that excludes

  All profitless dejection;

  Though not unwilling here to admit

  A pensive recollection.

  Where was it that the famous Flower

  Of Yarrow Vale lay bleeding?

  His bed perchance was yon smooth mound

  On which the herd is feeding:

  And haply from this crystal pool,

  Now peaceful as the morning,

  The Water-wraith ascended thrice —

  And gave his doleful warning.

  Delicious is the Lay that sings

  The haunts of happy Lovers,

  The path that leads them to the grove,

  The leafy grove that covers:

  And Pity sanctifies the Verse

  That paints, by strength of sorrow,

  The unconquerable strength of love;

  Bear witness, rueful Yarrow!

  But thou, that didst appear so fair

  To fond imagination,

  Dost rival in the light of day

  Her delicate creation:

  Meek loveliness is round thee spread,

  A softness still and holy;

  The grace of forest charms decayed,

  And pastoral melancholy.

  That region left, the vale unfolds

  Rich groves of lofty stature,

  With Yarrow winding through the pomp

  Of cultivated nature;

  And, rising from those lofty groves,

  Behold a Ruin hoary!

  The shattered front of Newark’s Towers,

  Renowned in Border story.

  Fair scenes for childhood’s opening bloom,

  For sportive youth to stray in;

  For manhood to enjoy his strength;

  And age to wear away in!

  Yon cottage seems a bower of bliss,

  A covert for protection

  Of tender thoughts, that nestle there —

  The brood of chaste affection.

  How sweet, on this autumnal day,

  The wild-wood fruits to gather,

  And on my True-love’s forehead plant

  A crest of blooming heather!

  And what if I enwreathed my own!

  ‘Twere no offence to reason;

  The sober Hills thus deck their brows

  To meet the wintry season.

  I see — but not by sight alone,

  Loved Yarrow, have I won thee;

  A ray of fancy still survives —

  Her sunshine plays upon thee!

  Thy ever-youthful waters keep

  A course of lively pleasure;

  And gladsome notes my lips can breathe,

  Accordant to the measure.

  The vapours linger round the Heights,

  They melt, and soon must vanish;

  One hour is theirs, nor more is mine —

  Sad thoughts, wh
ich I would banish,

  But that I know, where’er I go,

  Thy genuine image, Yarrow!

  Will dwell with me — to heighten joy,

  And cheer my mind in sorrow.

  It may interest many to read Wordsworth’s own comment on the two following poems. ‘On Tuesday morning,’ he says, ‘Sir Walter Scott accompanied us and most of the party to Newark Castle, on the Yarrow. When we alighted from the carriages he walked pretty stoutly, and had great pleasure in revisiting there his favourite haunts. Of that excursion the verses “Yarrow Revisited” are a memorial. Notwithstanding the romance that pervades Sir Walter’s works, and attaches to many of his habits, there is too much pressure of fact for these verses to harmonize, as much as I could wish, with the two preceding poems. On our return in the afternoon, we had to cross the Tweed, directly opposite Abbotsford. The wheels of our carriage grated upon the pebbles in the bed of the stream, that there flows somewhat rapidly. A rich but sad light, of rather a purple than a golden hue, was spread over the Eildon Hills at that moment; and thinking it probable that it might be the last time Sir Walter would cross the stream, I was not a little moved, and expressed some of my feelings in the sonnet beginning

  “A trouble not of clouds,” etc.

  At noon on Thursday we left Abbotsford, and on the morning of that day Sir Walter and I had a serious conversation, tête-à-tête, when he spoke with gratitude of the happy life which, upon the whole, he had led.

  ‘In this interview also it was, that, upon my expressing a hope of his health being benefited by the climate of the country to which he was going, and by the interest he would take in the classic remembrances of Italy, he made use of the quotation from “Yarrow Unvisited,” as recorded by me in the “Musings near Aquapendente,” six years afterwards. . . . Both the “Yarrow Revisited” and the “Sonnet” were sent him before his departure from England.’

  YARROW REVISITED.

  The gallant Youth, who may have gained,

  Or seeks, a ‘winsome Marrow,’

  Was but an Infant in the lap

  When first I looked on Yarrow;

  Once more, by Newark’s Castle-gate

  Long left without a warder,

  I stood, looked, listened, and with Thee,

  Great Minstrel of the Border!

  Grave thoughts ruled wide on that sweet day,

  Their dignity installing

  In gentle bosoms, while sere leaves

  Were on the bough, or falling;

  But breezes played, and sunshine gleamed —

  The forest to embolden;

  Reddened the fiery hues, and shot

  Transparence through the golden.

  For busy thoughts the Stream flowed on

  In foamy agitation;

  And slept in many a crystal pool

  For quiet contemplation:

  No public and no private care

  The freeborn mind enthralling,

  We made a day of happy hours,

  Our happy days recalling.

  Brisk Youth appeared, the Morn of youth,

  With freaks of graceful folly, —

  Life’s temperate Noon, her sober Eve,

  Her Night not melancholy;

  Past, present, future, all appeared

  In harmony united,

  Like guests that meet, and some from far,

  By cordial love invited.

  And if, as Yarrow, through the woods

  And down the meadow ranging,

  Did meet us with unaltered face,

  Though we were changed and changing;

  If, then, some natural shadows spread,

  Our inward prospect over,

  The soul’s deep valley was not slow

  Its brightness to recover.

  Eternal blessings on the Muse,

  And her divine employment!

  The blameless Muse, who trains her Sons

  For hope and calm enjoyment;

  Albeit sickness, lingering yet,

  Has o’er their pillow brooded;

  And Care waylays their steps — a Sprite

  Not easily eluded.

  For thee, O Scott! compelled to change

  Green Eildon-hill and Cheviot

  For warm Vesuvio’s vine-clad slopes;

  And leave thy Tweed and Teviot

  For mild Sorento’s breezy waves;

  May classic Fancy, linking

  With native Fancy her fresh aid,

  Preserve thy heart from sinking!

  O! while they minister to thee,

  Each vying with the other,

  May Health return to mellow Age,

  With Strength, her venturous brother;

  And Tiber, and each brook and rill

  Renowned in song and story,

  With unimagined beauty shine,

  Nor lose one ray of glory!

  For Thou, upon a hundred streams,

  By tales of love and sorrow,

  Of faithful love, undaunted truth

  Hast shed the power of Yarrow;

  And streams unknown, hills yet unseen,

  Wherever they invite Thee,

  At parent Nature’s grateful call,

  With gladness must requite Thee.

  A gracious welcome shall be thine,

  Such looks of love and honour

  As thy own Yarrow gave to me

  When first I gazed upon her;

  Beheld what I had feared to see,

  Unwilling to surrender

  Dreams treasured up from early days,

  The holy and the tender.

  And what, for this frail world, were all,

  That mortals do or suffer,

  Did no responsive harp, no pen,

  Memorial tribute offer?

  Yea, what were mighty Nature’s self?

  Her features, could they win us,

  Unhelped by the poetic voice

  That hourly speaks within us?

  Nor deem that localised Romance

  Plays false with our affections;

  Unsanctifies our tears — made sport

  For fanciful dejections:

  Ah, no! the visions of the past

  Sustain the heart in feeling

  Life as she is — our changeful Life,

  With friends and kindred dealing.

  Bear witness, Ye, whose thoughts that day

  In Yarrow’s groves were centred;

  Who through the silent portal arch

  Of mouldering Newark enter’d;

  And clomb the winding stair that once

  Too timidly was mounted

  By the ‘last Minstrel,’ (not the last!)

  Ere he his Tale recounted.

  Flow on for ever, Yarrow Stream!

  Fulfil thy pensive duty,

  Well pleased that future Bards should chant

  For simple hearts thy beauty;

  To dream-light dear while yet unseen,

  Dear to the common sunshine,

  And dearer still, as now I feel,

  To memory’s shadowy moonshine!

  ON THE DEPARTURE OF SIR WALTER SCOTT FROM

  ABBOTSFORD FOR NAPLES.

  A trouble, not of clouds, or weeping rain,

  Nor of the setting sun’s pathetic light

  Engendered, hangs o’er Eildon’s triple height:

  Spirits of Power, assembled there, complain

  For kindred Power departing from their sight;

  While Tweed, best pleased in chanting a blithe strain,

  Saddens his voice again, and yet again.

  Lift up your hearts, ye Mourners! for the might

  Of the whole world’s good wishes with him goes;

  Blessings and prayers in nobler retinue

  Than sceptered king or laurelled conqueror knows,

  Follow this wondrous Potentate. Be true,

  Ye winds of ocean, and the midland sea,

  Wafting your Charge to soft Parthenope!

  THE TROSSACHS.

  [Compare
with this Sonnet the poem composed about thirty years earlier on nearly the same spot of ground, ‘What! you are stepping westward?’ (See .) This earlier poem, one of the most truly ethereal and ideal Wordsworth ever wrote, is filled with the overflowing spirit of life and hope. In every line of it we feel the exulting pulse of the

  ’traveller through the world that lay

  Before him on his endless way.’

  The later one is stilled down to perfect autumnal quiet. There is in it the chastened pensiveness of one to whom all things now

  ’do take a sober colouring from an eye

  That hath kept watch o’er man’s mortality.’

  But the sadness has at the heart of it peaceful hope. This is Wordsworth’s own comment: — ’As recorded in my sister’s Journal, I had first seen the Trossachs in her and Coleridge’s company. The sentiment that runs through this sonnet was natural to the season in which I again visited this beautiful spot; but this and some other sonnets that follow were coloured by the remembrance of my recent visit to Sir Walter Scott, and the melancholy errand on which he was going.’]

  There’s not a nook within this solemn Pass,

  But were an apt confessional for One

  Taught by his summer spent, his autumn gone,

  That Life is but a tale of morning grass

  Withered at eve. From scenes of art which chase

  That thought away, turn, and with watchful eyes

  Feed it ‘mid Nature’s old felicities,

  Rocks, rivers, and smooth lakes more clear than glass

  Untouched, unbreathed upon. Thrice happy quest,

  If from a golden perch of aspen spray

  (October’s workmanship to rival May)

  The pensive warbler of the ruddy breast

  That moral sweeten by a heaven-taught lay,

  Lulling the year, with all its cares, to rest!

  THE ALFOXDEN JOURNAL, 1798

  William Wordsworth and his sister Dorothy lived at Alfoxden House, in Holford, Somerset, between July 1797 and June 1798, during the time of their friendship with Samuel Taylor Coleridge. Dorothy began her journals here in January 1798, when she played an integral part to the talking and observing that led to the production of Lyrical Ballads, 1798. However, Dorothy discontinued writing The Alfoxden Journal two months later, only to recommence a new journal when she and her brother moved to the Lake District. The Alfoxden Journal was first published posthumously in 1889.

  Alfoxden House

  THE ALFOXDEN JOURNAL, 1798

  Alfoxden, 20th January 1798. The green paths down the hill-sides are channels for streams. The young wheat is streaked by silver lines of water running between the ridges, the sheep are gathered together on the slopes. After the wet dark days, the country seems more populous. It peoples itself in the sunbeams. The garden, mimic of spring, is gay with flowers. The purple-starred hepatica spreads itself in the sun, and the clustering snow-drops put forth their white heads, at first upright, ribbed with green, and like a rosebud when completely opened, hanging their heads downwards, but slowly lengthening their slender stems. The slanting woods of an unvarying brown, showing the light through the thin net-work of their upper boughs. Upon the highest ridge of that round hill covered with planted oaks, the shafts of the trees show in the light like the columns of a ruin.