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William & Dorothy Wordsworth

Page 24

by Gavin Herbertson


  In fierce solstitial power,

  Less fair than when a lenient sky

  Brings on her parting hour.

  When earth repays with golden sheaves

  The labours of the plough,

  And ripening fruits and forest leaves

  All brighten on the bough;

  What pensive beauty autumn shows,

  Before she hears the sound

  Of winter rushing in, to close

  The emblematic round!

  Such be our Spring, our Summer such;

  So may our Autumn blend

  With hoary Winter, and Life touch,

  Through heaven-born hope, her end!

  The Brownie

  “How disappeared he?” Ask the newt and toad;

  Ask of his fellow men, and they will tell

  How he was found, cold as an icicle,

  Under an arch of that forlorn abode;

  Where he, unpropp’d, and by the gathering flood

  Of years hemm’d round, had dwelt, prepared to try

  Privation’s worst extremities, and die

  With no one near save the omnipresent God.

  Verily so to live was an awful choice—

  A choice that wears the aspect of a doom;

  But in the mould of mercy all is cast

  For Souls familiar with the eternal Voice;

  And this forgotten Taper to the last

  Drove from itself, we trust, all frightful gloom.

  To the Planet Venus, an Evening Star

  Composed at Loch Lomond

  Though joy attend Thee orient at the birth

  Of dawn, it cheers the lofty spirit most

  TowatchthycoursewhenDay-light,fledfromearth,

  In the grey sky hath left his lingering Ghost,

  Perplexed as if between a splendour lost

  And splendour slowly mustering. Since the Sun,

  The absolute, the world-absorbing One,

  Relinquished half his empire to the host

  Emboldened by thy guidance, holy Star,

  Holy as princely, who that looks on thee

  Touching, as now, in thy humility

  The mountain borders of this seat of care,

  Can question that thy countenance is bright,

  Celestial Power, as much with love as light?

  Calm is the Fragrant Air, and Loth to Lose

  Calm is the fragrant air, and loth to lose

  Day’s grateful warmth, tho’ moist with falling dews.

  Look for the stars, you’ll say that there are none;

  Look up a second time, and, one by one,

  You mark them twinkling out with silvery light,

  And wonder how they could elude the sight!

  The birds, of late so noisy in their bowers,

  Warbled a while with faint and fainter powers,

  But now are silent as the dim-seen flowers:

  Nor does the village Church-clock’s iron tone

  The time’s and season’s influence disown;

  Nine beats distinctly to each other bound

  In drowsy sequence—how unlike the sound

  That, in rough winter, oft inflicts a fear

  On fireside listeners, doubting what they hear!

  The shepherd, bent on rising with the sun,

  Had closed his door before the day was done,

  And now with thankful heart to bed doth creep,

  And joins his little children in their sleep.

  The bat, lured forth where trees the lane o’ershade,

  Flits and reflits along the close arcade;

  The busy dor-hawk chases the white moth

  With burring note, which Industry and Sloth

  Might both be pleased with, for it suits them both.

  A stream is heard—I see it not, but know

  By its soft music whence the waters flow:

  Wheels and the tread of hoofs are heard no more;

  One boat there was, but it will touch the shore

  With the next dipping of its slackened oar;

  Faint sound, that, for the gayest of the gay,

  Might give to serious thought a moment’s sway,

  As a last token of man’s toilsome day!

  Rural Illusions

  Sylph was it? or a Bird more bright

  Than those of fabulous stock?

  A second darted by;—and lo!

  Another of the flock,

  Through sunshine flitting from the bough

  To nestle in the rock.

  Transient deception! a gay freak

  Of April’s mimicries!

  Those brilliant strangers, hailed with joy

  Among the budding trees,

  Proved last year’s leaves, pushed from the spray

  To frolic on the breeze.

  Maternal Flora! show thy face,

  And let thy hand be seen,

  Thy hand here sprinkling tiny flowers,

  That, as they touch the green,

  Take root (so seems it) and look up

  In honour of their Queen.

  Yet, sooth, those little starry specks,

  That not in vain aspired

  To be confounded with live growths,

  Most dainty, most admired,

  Were only blossoms dropped from twigs

  Of their own offspring tired.

  Not such the World’s illusive shows;

  Her wingless flutterings,

  Her blossoms which, though shed, outbrave

  The floweret as it springs,

  For the undeceived, smile as they may,

  Are melancholy things:

  But gentle Nature plays her part

  With ever-varying wiles,

  And transient feignings with plain truth

  So well she reconciles,

  That those fond Idlers most are pleased

  Whom oftenest she beguiles.

  A Wren’s Nest

  Among the dwellings framed by birds

  In field or forest with nice care,

  Is none that with the little Wren’s

  In snugness may compare.

  No door the tenement requires,

  And seldom needs a laboured roof;

  Yet is it to the fiercest sun

  Impervious, and storm-proof.

  So warm, so beautiful withal,

  In perfect fitness for its aim,

  That to the Kind by special grace

  Their instinct surely came.

  And when for their abodes they seek

  An opportune recess,

  The hermit has no finer eye

  For shadowy quietness.

  These find, ’mid ivied abbey-walls,

  A canopy in some still nook;

  Others are pent-housed by a brae

  That overhangs a brook.

  There to the brooding bird her mate

  Warbles by fits his low clear song;

  And by the busy streamlet both

  Are sung to all day long.

  Or in sequestered lanes they build,

  Where, till the flitting bird’s return,

  Her eggs within the nest repose,

  Like relics in an urn.

  But still, where general choice is good,

  There is a better and a best;

  And, among fairest objects, some

  Are fairer than the rest;

  This, one of those small builders proved

  In a green covert, where, from out

  The forehead of a pollard oak,

  The leafy antlers sprout;

  For She who planned the mossy lodge,

 
Mistrusting her evasive skill,

  Had to a Primrose looked for aid

  Her wishes to fulfil.

  High on the trunk’s projecting brow

  And fixed an infant’s span above

  The budding flowers, peeped forth the nest,

  The prettiest of the grove!

  The treasure proudly did I show

  To some whose minds without disdain

  Can turn to little things; but once

  Looked up for it in vain:

  ’Tis gone—a ruthless spoiler’s prey,

  Who heeds not beauty, love, or song,

  ’Tis gone! (so seemed it) and we grieved

  Indignant at the wrong.

  Just three days after, passing by

  In clearer light the moss-built cell

  I saw, espied its shaded mouth;

  And felt that all was well.

  The Primrose for a veil had spread

  The largest of her upright leaves;

  And thus, for purposes benign,

  A simple flower deceives.

  Concealed from friends who might disturb

  Thy quiet with no ill intent,

  Secure from evil eyes and hands

  On barbarous plunder bent,

  Rest, Mother-bird! and when thy young

  Take flight, and thou art free to roam,

  When withered is the guardian Flower,

  And empty thy late home,

  Think how ye prospered, thou and thine,

  Amid the unviolated grove

  Housed near the growing Primrose-tuft

  In foresight, or in love.

  On a High Part of the Coast of Cumberland

  The Sun, that seemed so mildly to retire,

  Flung back from distant climes a streaming fire,

  Whose blaze is now subdued to tender gleams,

  Prelude of night’s approach with soothing dreams.

  Look round;—of all the clouds not one is moving;

  ’Tis the still hour of thinking, feeling, loving.

  Silent, and stedfast as the vaulted sky,

  The boundless plain of waters seems to lie:—

  Comes that low sound from breezes rustling o’er

  The grass-crowned headland that conceals the shore?

  No; ’tis the earth-voice of the mighty sea,

  Whispering how meek and gentle he can be!

  Thou Power supreme! who, arming to rebuke

  Offenders, dost put off the gracious look,

  And clothe thyself with terrors like the flood

  Of ocean roused into his fiercest mood,

  Whatever discipline thy Will ordain

  For the brief course that must for me remain;

  Teach me with quick-eared spirit to rejoice

  In admonitions of thy softest voice!

  Whate’er the path these mortal feet may trace,

  Breathe through my soul the blessing of thy grace,

  Glad, through a perfect love, a faith sincere

  Drawn from the wisdom that begins with fear,

  Glad to expand; and, for a season, free

  From finite cares, to rest absorbed in Thee!

  Why Should the Enthusiast, Journeying Through this Isle

  Why should the Enthusiast, journeying through this Isle,

  Repine as if his hour were come too late?

  Not unprotected in her mouldering state,

  Antiquity salutes him with a smile,

  ’Mid fruitful fields that ring with jocund toil,

  And pleasure-grounds where Taste, refined Co-mate

  Of Truth and Beauty, strives to imitate,

  Far as she may, primeval Nature’s style.

  Fair Land! by Time’s parental love made free,

  By Social Order’s watchful arms embraced;

  With unexampled union meet in thee,

  For eye and mind, the present and the past;

  With golden prospect for futurity,

  If that be reverenced which ought to last.

  By the Sea-Shore, Isle of Man

  Why stand we gazing on the sparkling Brine,

  With wonder smit by its transparency,

  And all-enraptured with its purity?—

  Because the unstained, the clear, the crystalline,

  Have ever in them something of benign;

  Whether in gem, in water, or in sky,

  A sleeping infant’s brow, or wakeful eye

  Of a young maiden, only not divine.

  Scarcely the hand forbears to dip its palm

  For beverage drawn as from a mountain-well.

  Temptation centres in the liquid Calm;

  Our daily raiment seems no obstacle

  To instantaneous plunging in, deep Sea!

  And revelling in long embrace with thee.

  Most Sweet it is with Unuplifted Eyes

  Most sweet it is with unuplifted eyes

  To pace the ground, if path be there or none,

  While a fair region round the traveller lies

  Which he forbears again to look upon;

  Pleased rather with some soft ideal scene,

  The work of Fancy, or some happy tone

  Of meditation, slipping in between

  The beauty coming and the beauty gone.

  If Thought and Love desert us, from that day

  Let us break off all commerce with the Muse:

  With Thought and Love companions of our way,

  Whate’er the senses take or may refuse,

  The Mind’s internal heaven shall shed her dews

  Of inspiration on the humblest lay.

  Not in the Lucid Intervals of Life

  Not in the lucid intervals of life

  That come but as a curse to party-strife;

  Not in some hour when Pleasure with a sigh

  Of languor puts his rosy garland by;

  Not in the breathing-times of that poor slave

  Who daily piles up wealth in Mammon’s cave—

  Is Nature felt, or can be; nor do words,

  Which practised talent readily affords,

  Prove that her hand has touched responsive chords;

  Nor has her gentle beauty power to move

  With genuine rapture and with fervent love

  The soul of Genius, if he dare to take

  Life’s rule from passion craved for passion’s sake;

  Untaught that meekness is the cherished bent

  Of all the truly great and all the innocent.

  But who is innocent? By grace divine,

  Not otherwise, O Nature! we are thine,

  Through good and evil thine, in just degree

  Of rational and manly sympathy.

  To all that Earth from pensive hearts is stealing,

  And Heaven is now to gladdened eyes revealing,

  Add every charm the Universe can show

  Through every change its aspects undergo—

  Care may be respited, but not repealed;

  No perfect cure grows on that bounded field.

  Vain is the pleasure, a false calm the peace,

  If He, through whom alone our conflicts cease,

  Our virtuous hopes without relapse advance,

  Come not to speed the Soul’s deliverance;

  To the distempered Intellect refuse

  His gracious help, or give what we abuse.

  By the Side of Rydal Mere

  The linnet’s warble, sinking towards a close,

  Hints to the thrush ’tis time for their repose;

  The shrill-voiced thrush is heedless, and again

  The monitor revives his own sweet strain;

&nbs
p; But both will soon be mastered, and the copse

  Be left as silent as the mountain-tops,

  Ere some commanding star dismiss to rest

  The throng of rooks, that now, from twig or nest,

  (After a steady flight on home-bound wings,

  And a last game of mazy hoverings

  Around their ancient grove) with cawing noise

  Disturb the liquid music’s equipoise.

  O Nightingale! Who ever heard thy song

  Might here be moved, till Fancy grows so strong

  That listening sense is pardonably cheated

  Where wood or stream by thee was never greeted.

  Surely, from fairest spots of favoured lands,

  Were not some gifts withheld by jealous hands,

  This hour of deepening darkness here would be

  As a fresh morning for new harmony;

  And lays as prompt would hail the dawn of Night:

  A dawn she has both beautiful and bright,

  When the East kindles with the full moon’s light;

  Not like the rising sun’s impatient glow

  Dazzling the mountains, but an overflow

  Of solemn splendour, in mutation slow.

  Wanderer by spring with gradual progress led,

  For sway profoundly felt as widely spread;

  To king, to peasant, to rough sailor, dear,

  And to the soldier’s trumpet-wearied ear;

  How welcome wouldst thou be to this green Vale

  Fairer than Tempe! Yet, sweet Nightingale!

  From the warm breeze that bears thee on, alight

  At will, and stay thy migratory flight;

  Build, at thy choice, or sing, by pool or fount,

  Who shall complain, or call thee to account?

  The wisest, happiest, of our kind are they

  That ever walk content with Nature’s way,

  God’s goodness—measuring bounty as it may;

  For whom the gravest thought of what they miss,

  Chastening the fulness of a present bliss,

  Is with that wholesome office satisfied,

  While unrepining sadness is allied

  In thankful bosoms to a modest pride.

  Ode Composed on May Morning

  While from the purpling east departs

  The star that led the dawn,

  Blithe Flora from her couch upstarts,

  For May is on the lawn,

  A quickening hope, a freshening glee,

 

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