William & Dorothy Wordsworth

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William & Dorothy Wordsworth Page 7

by Gavin Herbertson


  In which they found their kindred with a world

  Where want and sorrow were. The easy man

  Who sits at his own door,—and, like the pear

  That overhangs his head from the green wall,

  Feeds in the sunshine; the robust and young,

  The prosperous and unthinking, they who live

  Sheltered, and flourish in a little grove

  Of their own kindred;—all behold in him

  A silent monitor, which on their minds

  Must needs impress a transitory thought

  Of self-congratulation, to the heart

  Of each recalling his peculiar boons,

  His charters and exemptions; and, perchance,

  Though he to no one give the fortitude

  And circumspection needful to preserve

  His present blessings, and to husband up

  The respite of the season, he, at least,

  And ’tis no vulgar service, makes them felt.

  Yet further.—Many, I believe, there are

  Who live a life of virtuous decency,

  Men who can hear the Decalogue and feel

  No self-reproach; who of the moral law

  Established in the land where they abide

  Are strict observers; and not negligent

  In acts of love to those with whom they dwell,

  Their kindred, and the children of their blood.

  Praise be to such, and to their slumbers peace!

  —But of the poor man ask, the abject poor;

  Go, and demand of him, if there be here

  In this cold abstinence from evil deeds,

  And these inevitable charities,

  Wherewith to satisfy the human soul?

  No—man is dear to man; the poorest poor

  Long for some moments in a weary life

  When they can know and feel that they have been,

  Themselves, the fathers and the dealers-out

  Of some small blessings; have been kind to such

  As needed kindness, for this single cause,

  That we have all of us one human heart.

  —Such pleasure is to one kind Being known,

  My neighbour, when with punctual care, each week

  Duly as Friday comes, though pressed herself

  By her own wants, she from her store of meal

  Takes one unsparing handful for the scrip

  Of this old Mendicant, and, from her door

  Returning with exhilarated heart,

  Sits by her fire, and builds her hope in heaven.

  Then let him pass, a blessing on his head!

  And while in that vast solitude to which

  The tide of things has borne him, he appears

  To breathe and live but for himself alone,

  Unblamed, uninjured, let him bear about

  The good which the benignant law of Heaven

  Has hung around him: and, while life is his,

  Still let him prompt the unlettered villagers

  To tender offices and pensive thoughts.

  —Then let him pass, a blessing on his head!

  And, long as he can wander, let him breathe

  The freshness of the valleys; let his blood

  Struggle with frosty air and winter snows;

  And let the chartered wind that sweeps the heath

  Beat his grey locks against his withered face.

  Reverence the hope whose vital anxiousness

  Gives the last human interest to his heart.

  May never HOUSE, misnamed of INDUSTRY,

  Make him a captive!—for that pent-up din,

  Those life-consuming sounds that clog the air,

  Be his the natural silence of old age!

  Let him be free of mountain solitudes;

  And have around him, whether heard or not,

  The pleasant melody of woodland birds.

  Few are his pleasures: if his eyes have now

  Been doomed so long to settle upon earth

  That not without some effort they behold

  The countenance of the horizontal sun,

  Rising or setting, let the light at least

  Find a free entrance to their languid orbs.

  And let him, ‘where’ and ‘when’ he will, sit down

  Beneath the trees, or on a grassy bank

  Of highway side, and with the little birds

  Share his chance-gathered meal; and, finally,

  As in the eye of Nature he has lived,

  So in the eye of Nature let him die!

  Animal Tranquillity and Decay

  The little hedgerow birds,

  That peck along the road, regard him not.

  He travels on, and in his face, his step,

  His gait, is one expression: every limb,

  His look and bending figure, all bespeak

  A man who does not move with pain, but moves

  With thought.—He is insensibly subdued

  To settled quiet: he is one by whom

  All effort seems forgotten; one to whom

  Long patience hath such mild composure given,

  That patience now doth seem a thing of which

  He hath no need. He is by nature led

  To peace so perfect that the young behold

  With envy, what the Old Man hardly feels.

  The Simplon Pass

  —Brook and road

  Were fellow-travellers in this gloomy Pass,

  And with them did we journey several hours

  At a slow step. The immeasurable height

  Of woods decaying, never to be decayed,

  The stationary blasts of waterfalls,

  And in the narrow rent, at every turn,

  Winds thwarting winds bewildered and forlorn,

  The torrents shooting from the clear blue sky,

  The rocks that muttered close upon our ears,

  Black drizzling crags that spake by the wayside

  As if a voice were in them, the sick sight

  And giddy prospect of the raving stream,

  The unfettered clouds and region of the heavens,

  Tumult and peace, the darkness and the light—

  Were all like workings of one mind, the features

  Of the same face, blossoms upon one tree,

  Characters of the great Apocalypse,

  The types and symbols of Eternity,

  Of first, and last, and midst, and without end.

  Nutting

  —It seems a day

  (I speak of one from many singled out)

  One of those heavenly days that cannot die;

  When, in the eagerness of boyish hope,

  I left our cottage-threshold, sallying forth

  With a huge wallet o’er my shoulders slung,

  A nutting-crook in hand; and turned my steps

  Tow’rd some far-distant wood, a Figure quaint,

  Tricked out in proud disguise of cast-off weeds

  Which for that service had been husbanded,

  By exhortation of my frugal Dame—

  Motley accoutrement, of power to smile

  At thorns, and brakes, and brambles,—and, in truth,

  More ragged than need was! O’er pathless rocks,

  Through beds of matted fern, and tangled thickets,

  Forcing my way, I came to one dear nook

  Unvisited, where not a broken bough

  Drooped with its withered leaves, ungracious sign

  Of devastation; but the hazels rose

  Tall and erect, with tempting clusters hung,

  A virgin scene!—A little while I stood,


  Breathing with such suppression of the heart

  As joy delights in; and, with wise restraint

  Voluptuous, fearless of a rival, eyed

  The banquet;—or beneath the trees I sate

  Among the flowers, and with the flowers I played;

  A temper known to those, who, after long

  And weary expectation, have been blest

  With sudden happiness beyond all hope.

  Perhaps it was a bower beneath whose leaves

  The violets of five seasons re-appear

  And fade, unseen by any human eye;

  Where fairy water-breaks do murmur on

  For ever; and I saw the sparkling foam,

  And—with my cheek on one of those green stones

  That, fleeced with moss, under the shady trees,

  Lay round me, scattered like a flock of sheep—

  I heard the murmur and the murmuring sound,

  In that sweet mood when pleasure loves to pay

  Tribute to ease; and, of its joy secure,

  The heart luxuriates with indifferent things,

  Wasting its kindliness on stocks and stones,

  And on the vacant air. Then up I rose,

  And dragged to earth both branch and bough, with crash

  And merciless ravage: and the shady nook

  Of hazels, and the green and mossy bower,

  Deformed and sullied, patiently gave up

  Their quiet being: and, unless I now

  Confound my present feelings with the past;

  Ere from the mutilated bower I turned

  Exulting, rich beyond the wealth of kings,

  I felt a sense of pain when I beheld

  The silent trees, and saw the intruding sky.—

  Then, dearest Maiden, move along these shades

  In gentleness of heart; with gentle hand

  Touch—for there is a spirit in the woods.

  She Dwelt Among the Untrodden Ways

  She Dwelt among the untrodden ways

  Beside the springs of Dove,

  A Maid whom there were none to praise

  And very few to love:

  A violet by a mossy stone

  Half hidden from the eye!

  —Fair as a star, when only one

  Is shining in the sky.

  She lived unknown, and few could know

  When Lucy ceased to be;

  But she is in her grave, and, oh,

  The difference to me!

  I Travelled Among Unknown Men

  I travelled among unknown men,

  In lands beyond the sea;

  Nor, England! did I know till then

  What love I bore to thee.

  ’Tis past, that melancholy dream!

  Nor will I quit thy shore

  A second time; for still I seem

  To love thee more and more.

  Among thy mountains did I feel

  The joy of my desire;

  And she I cherished turned her wheel

  Beside an English fire.

  Thy mornings showed, thy nights concealed

  The bowers where Lucy played;

  And thine too is the last green field

  That Lucy’s eyes surveyed.

  A Poet’s Epitaph

  Art thou a Statist in the van

  Of public conflicts trained and bred?

  —First learn to love one living man;

  Then may’st thou think upon the dead.

  A Lawyer art thou?—draw not nigh!

  Go, carry to some fitter place

  The keenness of that practised eye,

  The hardness of that sallow face.

  Art thou a Man of purple cheer?

  A rosy Man, right plump to see?

  Approach; yet, Doctor, not too near,

  This grave no cushion is for thee.

  Or art thou one of gallant pride,

  A Soldier and no man of chaff?

  Welcome!—but lay thy sword aside,

  And lean upon a peasant’s staff.

  Physician art thou?—one, all eyes,

  Philosopher!—a fingering slave,

  One that would peep and botanize

  Upon his mother’s grave?

  Wrapt closely in thy sensual fleece,

  O turn aside,—and take, I pray,

  That he below may rest in peace,

  Thy ever-dwindling soul, away!

  A Moralist perchance appears;

  Led, Heaven knows how! to this poor sod:

  And he has neither eyes nor ears;

  Himself his world, and his own God;

  One to whose smooth-rubbed soul can cling

  Nor form, nor feeling, great or small;

  A reasoning, self-sufficing thing,

  An intellectual All-in-all!

  Shut close the door; press down the latch;

  Sleep in thy intellectual crust;

  Nor lose ten tickings of thy watch

  Near this unprofitable dust.

  But who is He, with modest looks,

  And clad in homely russet brown?

  He murmurs near the running brooks

  A music sweeter than their own.

  He is retired as noontide dew,

  Or fountain in a noon-day grove;

  And you must love him, ere to you

  He will seem worthy of your love.

  The outward shows of sky and earth,

  Of hill and valley, he has viewed;

  And impulses of deeper birth

  Have come to him in solitude.

  In common things that round us lie

  Some random truths he can impart,—

  The harvest of a quiet eye

  That broods and sleeps on his own heart.

  But he is weak; both Man and Boy,

  Hath been an idler in the land;

  Contented if he might enjoy

  The things which others understand.

  —Come hither in thy hour of strength;

  Come, weak as is a breaking wave!

  Here stretch thy body at full length;

  Or build thy house upon this grave.

  The Fountain

  We talked with open heart, and tongue

  Affectionate and true,

  A pair of friends, though I was young,

  And Matthew seventy-two.

  We lay beneath a spreading oak,

  Beside a mossy seat;

  And from the turf a fountain broke,

  And gurgled at our feet.

  “Now, Matthew!” said I, “let us match

  This water’s pleasant tune

  With some old border-song, or catch

  That suits a summer’s noon;

  “Or of the church-clock and the chimes

  Sing here beneath the shade,

  That half-mad thing of witty rhymes

  Which you last April made!”

  In silence Matthew lay, and eyed

  The spring beneath the tree;

  And thus the dear old Man replied,

  The grey-haired man of glee:

  “No check, no stay, this Streamlet fears;

  How merrily it goes!

  ’Twill murmur on a thousand years,

  And flow as now it flows.

  “And here, on this delightful day,

  I cannot choose but think

  How oft, a vigorous man, I lay

  Beside this fountain’s brink.

  “My eyes are dim with childish tears,

  My heart is idly stirred,

  For the same sound is in my ears

  Which in those days I heard.
<
br />   “Thus fares it still in our decay:

  And yet the wiser mind

  Mourns less for what age takes away

  Than what it leaves behind.

  “The blackbird amid leafy trees,

  The lark above the hill,

  Let loose their carols when they please,

  Are quiet when they will.

  “With Nature never do they wage

  A foolish strife; they see

  A happy youth, and their old age

  Is beautiful and free:

  “But we are pressed by heavy laws;

  And often, glad no more,

  We wear a face of joy, because

  We have been glad of yore.

  “If there be one who need bemoan

  His kindred laid in earth,

  The household hearts that were his own;

  It is the man of mirth.

  “My days, my Friend, are almost gone,

  My life has been approved,

  And many love me; but by none

  Am I enough beloved.”

  “Now both himself and me he wrongs,

  The man who thus complains!

  I live and sing my idle songs

  Upon these happy plains;

  “And, Matthew, for thy children dead

  I’ll be a son to thee!”

  At this he grasped my hand, and said,

  “Alas! that cannot be.”

  We rose up from the fountain-side;

  And down the smooth descent

  Of the green sheep-track did we glide;

  And through the wood we went;

  And, ere we came to Leonard’s rock,

  He sang those witty rhymes

  About the crazy old church-clock,

  And the bewildered chimes.

  Lucy Gray

  Oft I had heard of Lucy Gray:

  And, when I crossed the wild,

  I chanced to see at break of day

  The solitary child.

  No mate, no comrade Lucy knew;

  She dwelt on a wide moor,

  —The sweetest thing that ever grew

  Beside a human door!

  You yet may spy the fawn at play,

  The hare upon the green;

  But the sweet face of Lucy Gray

  Will never more be seen.

  “To-night will be a stormy night—

  You to the town must go;

  And take a lantern, Child, to light

  Your mother through the snow.”

  “That, Father! will I gladly do:

  ’Tis scarcely afternoon—

 

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