William Wordsworth
¶[1770-1850]
¶ODE O N INTIMATIONS OF IMMORTALITY FROM RECOLLEC
Tions of Early Childhood
¶THERE was a time when meadow, grove, and stream,The earth, and every common sightTo me did seemApparell'd in celestial light,The glory and the freshness of a dream.It is not now as it has been of yore;—Turn wheresoe'er I may,By night or day,The things which I have seen I now can see no moreThe rainbow comes and goes,And lovely is the rose;The moon doth with delightLook round her when the heavens are bare;Waters on a starry nightAre beautiful and fair;The sunshine is a glorious birth;But yet I know, where'er I go,That there hath pass'd away a glory from the earth.
¶Now, while the birds thus sing a joyous song,And while the young lambs boundAs to the tabor's sound,To me alone there came a thought of grief:A timely utterance gave that thought relief,And I again am strong.The cataracts blow their trumpets from the steep,—No more shall grief of mine the season wrong:I hear the echoes through the mountains throng,The winds come to me from the fields of sleep,And all the earth is gay;Land and seaGive themselves up to jollity,And with the heart of MayDoth every beast keep holiday;—[596]Thou Child of JoyShout round me, let me hear thy shouts, thou happy Shepherd-boy!Ye blessed creatures, I have heard the callYe to each other make; I seeThe heavens laugh with you in your jubilee;My heart is at your festival,My head hath its coronal,The fulness of your bliss, I feel—I feel it all.0 evil day! if I were sullenWhile earth herself is adorningThis sweet May morning;And the children are cullingOn every side,In a thousand valleys far and wide,Fresh flowers; while the sun shines warm,And the babe leaps up on his mother's arm:—I hear, I hear, with joy I hear!—But there's a tree, of many, one,A single field which I have look'd upon,Both of them speak of something that is gone:The pansy at my feetDoth the same tale repeat:Whither is fled the visionary gleam ?Where is it now, the glory and the dream?Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting;The Soul that rises with us, our life's Star,Hath had elsewhere its settingAnd cometh from afar;Not in entire forgetfulness,And not in utter nakedness,But trailing clouds of glory do we comeFrom God, who is our home:Heaven lies about us in our infancy!Shades of the prison-house begin to closeUpon the growing boy,But he beholds the light, and whence it flows,He sees it in his joy;The youth, who daily farther from the east[597]Must travel, still is Nature's priest,And by the vision splendidIs on his way attended;At length the man perceives it die away,And fade into the light of common day.
¶Earth fills her lap with pleasures of her own;Yearnings she hath in her own natural kind,And, even with something of a mother's mind,And no unworthy aim,The homely nurse doth all she canTo make her foster-child, her inmate, Man,Forget the glories he hath knownAnd that imperial palace whence he came.Behold the Child among his new-born blisses,A six years' darling of a pigmy size!See, where 'mid work of his own hand he lies,Fretted by sallies of his mother's kisses,With light upon him from his father's eyes!See, at his feet, some little plan or chart,Some fragment from his dream of human lifeShaped by himself with newly-learned art;A wedding or a festival,A mourning or a funeral;And this hath now his heart,And unto this he frames his song:Then will he fit his tongueTo dialogues of business, love, or strife;But it will not be longEre this be thrown aside,And with new joy and prideThe little actor cons another part;Filling from time to time his 'humorous stage'With all the Persons, down to palsied Age,That life brings with her in her equipage;As if his whole vocationWere endless imitation.
¶Thou, whose exterior semblance doth belieThy soul's immensity;[598]Thou best philosopher, who yet dost keepThy heritage, thou eye among the blind,That, deaf and silent, read'st the eternal deep,Haunted for ever by the eternal Mind,—Mighty Prophet! Seer blest!On whom those truths do restWhich we are toiling all our lives to find;Thou, over whom thy immortalityBroods like the day, a master o'er a slave,A presence which is not to be put by;To whom the graveIs but a lonely bed without the sense or sightOf day or the warm light,A place of thought where we in waiting lie;Thou little Child, yet glorious in the mightOf heaven-born freedom on thy being's height,Why with such earnest pains dost thou provokeThe years to bring the inevitable yoke,Thus blindly with thy blessedness at strife?Full soon thy soul shall have her earthly freight,And custom lie upon thee with a weightHeavy as frost, and deep almost as life!
¶O joy! that in our embersIs something that doth live,That Nature yet remembersWhat was so fugitive!The thought of our past years in me doth breedPerpetual benediction: not indeedFor that which is most worthy to be blest,Delight and liberty, the simple creedOf childhood, whether busy or at rest,With new-fledged hope still fluttering in his breast:—Not for these I raiseThe song of thanks and praise;But for those obstinate questioningsOf sense and outward things,Fallings from us, vanishings,Blank misgivings of a creatureMoving about in worlds not realized,High instincts, before which our mortal nature[599]Did tremble like a guilty thing surprised:But for those first affections,Those shadowy recollections,Which, be they what they may,Are yet the fountain-light of all our day,Are yet a master-light of all our seeing;Uphold us—cherish—and have power to makeOur noisy years seem moments in the beingOf the eternal Silence: truths that wake,To perish never;Which neither lisdessness, nor mad endeavour,Nor Man nor Boy,Nor all that is at enmity with joy,Can utterly abolish or destroy!Hence, in a season of calm weatherThough inland far we be,Our souls have sight of that immortal seaWhich brought us hither;Can in a moment travel thither—And see the children sport upon the shore,And hear the mighty waters rolling evermore.
¶Then sing, ye birds, sing, sing a joyous song!And let the young lambs boundAs to the tabor's sound!We, in thought, will join your throng,Ye that pipe and ye that play,Ye that through your hearts to-dayFeel the gladness of the May!What though the radiance which was once so brightBe now for ever taken from my sight,Though nothing can bring back the hourOf splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower;We will grieve not, rather findStrength in what remains behind,In the primal sympathyWhich having been must ever be,In the soothing thoughts that springOut of human suffering,In the faith that looks through death,In years that bring the philosophic mind.[600]And O, ye Fountains, Meadows, Hills, and Groves,Forbode not any severing of our loves!Yet in my heart of hearts I feel your might;I only have relinquish'd one delightTo live beneath your more habitual sway;I love the brooks which down their channels fretEven more than when I tripp'd lightly as they;The innocent brightness of a new-born dayIs lovely yet;The clouds that gather round the setting sunDo take a sober colouring from an eyeThat hath kept watch o'er man's mortality;Another race hath been, and other palms are won.Thanks to the human heart by which we live,Thanks to its tenderness, its joys and fears,To me the meanest flower that blows can giveThoughts that do often lie too deep for tears.
My Heart Leaps Up
¶M Y heart leaps up when I beholdA rainbow in the sky:So was it when my life began,So is it now I am a man,So be it when I shall grow oldOr let me die!The Child is father of the Man:And I could wish my days to beBound each to each by natural piety.
The Two April Mornings
¶W E walk'd along, while bright and redUprose the morning sun;And Matthew stopp'd, he look'd, and said'The will of God be done!'
¶A village schoolmaster was he,With hair of glittering gray;As blithe a man as you could seeOn a spring holiday.[601]And on that morning, through the grassAnd by the steaming rillsWe travell'd merrily, to passA day among the hills.
¶'Our work,' said I, 'was well begun;Then from thy breast what thought,Beneath so beautiful a sun,So sad a sigh has brought?'
¶A second time did Matthew stop;And fixing still his eyeUpon the eastern mountain-top,To me he made reply:
¶'Yon cloud with that long purple cleftBrings fresh into my mindA day like this, which I have leftFull thirty years behind.
¶'And just above yon slope of cornSuch colours, and no other,Were in the sky that April mornOf this the very brother.
¶'With rod and line I sued the sportWhich that sweet season gave,And coming to the church, stopp'd shortBeside my daughter's grave.
¶'Nine summers had she scarcely seen,The pride of all the vale;And then she sang:—she would have beenA very nightingale.
¶'Six feet in earth my Emma lay;And yet I loved her more—For so it seem'd,—than till that dayI ne'er had loved before.[602]'And turning from her grave, I met,Beside the churchyard yew,A blooming Girl, whose hair was wetWith points of morning dew.
¶'A basket on her head she bare;Her brow was smooth and white:To see a child so very fair,It was a pure delight!
¶'No fountain from its rocky caveE'er tripp'd with foot so free;She seem'd as happy as a waveThat dances on the sea.
¶'There came from me a sigh of painWhich I could ill confine;I look'd at her, and look'd again:And did not wish her mine!'
¶—Matthew is in his grave, yet nowMethinks I see him standAs at that moment, with a boughOf wilding in his hand.
j&j THE FOUNTAIN
¶A Conversation
¶W E talk'd with open heart, and tongueAffectionate 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 brokeAnd gurgled at our feet.
¶'Now, Matthew!' said I, 'let us matchThis water's pleasant tuneWith some old border-song, or catchThat suits a summer's noon.[603]'Or of the church-clock and the chimesSing here beneath the shadeThat half-mad thing of witty rhymesWhich you last April made!'
¶In silence Matthew lay, and eyedThe spring beneath the tree;And thus the dear old man replied,The gray-hair'd man of glee:
¶'No check, no stay, this Streamlet fears,How merrily it goes!'Twill murmur on a thousand yearsAnd flow as now it flows.
¶'And here, on this delightful day,I cannot choose but thinkHow oft, a vigorous man, I layBeside this fountain's brink.
¶'My eyes are dim with childish tears,My heart is idly stirr'd,For the same sound is in my earsWhich in those days I heard.
¶'Thus fares it still in our decay:And yet the wiser mindMourns 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 wageA foolish strife; they seeA happy youth, and their old ageIs beautiful and free:
¶'But we are press'd by heavy laws;And often, glad no more,[604]We wear a face of joy, becauseWe have been glad of yore.
¶'If there be one who need bemoanHis 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 noneAm I enough beloved.'
¶'Now both himself and me he wrongs,The man who thus complains!I live and sing my idle songsUpon these happy plains:
¶'And Matthew, for thy children deadI'll be a son to thee!'At this he grasp'd my hand and said,'Alas! that cannot be.'
¶We rose up from the fountain-side;And down the smooth descentOf the green sheep-track did we glide,And through the wood we went;
¶And ere we came to Leonard's rockHe sang those witty rhymesAbout the crazy old church-clock,And the bewilder'd chimes.
Written in March
¶While resting on the Bridge at the foot of Brother'sTHE cock is crowing,The stream is flowing,The small birds twitter,The lake doth glitter,The green field sleeps in the sun;[605]The oldest and youngestAre at work with the strongest;The cattle are grazing,Their heads never raising;There are forty feeding like one!
p. 605¶Like an army defeated. The Snow hath retreated,And now doth fare illOn the top of the bare hill;The Ploughboy is whooping—anon—anon:There's joy in the mountains;There's life in the fountains;Small clouds are sailing,Blue sky prevailing;The rain is over and gone!
Nature and the Poet
¶Suggested by a Picture of Peele Castle in a Storm,painted by Sir George BeaumontI WAS thy neighbour once, thou rugged Pile!Four summer weeks I dwelt in sight of thee:I saw thee every day; and all the whileThy form was sleeping on a glassy sea.
¶So pure the sky, so quiet was the air!So like, so very like, was day to day!Whene'er I look'd, thy image still was there;It trembled, but it never pass'd away.
¶How perfect was the calm! It seem'd no sleep,No mood, which season takes away, or brings:I could have fancied that the mighty DeepWas even the gentlest of all gentle things.
¶Ah! then if mine had been the painter's handTo express what then I saw; and add the gleam,The light that never was on sea or land,The consecration, and the Poet's dream.—[606]I would have planted thee, thou hoary pile,Amid a world how different from this!Beside a sea that could not cease to smile;On tranquil land, beneath a sky of bliss.
¶A picture had it been of lasting ease,Elysian quiet, without toil or strife;No motion but the moving tide, a breeze,Or merely silent Nature's breathing life.
¶Such, in the fond illusion of my heart,Such picture would I at that time have made;And seen the soul of truth in every part,A steadfast peace that might not be betray'd.
¶So once it would have been,—'tis so no more;I have submitted to a new control:A power is gone, which nothing can restore;A deep distress hath humanized my soul.
¶Not for a moment could I now beholdA smiling sea, and be what I have been:The feeling of my loss will ne'er be old;This, which I know, I speak with mind serene.
¶Then, Beaumont, Friend! who would have been the friendIf he had lived, of him whom I deplore,This work of thine I blame not, but commend;This sea in anger, and that dismal shore.
¶0 'tis a passionate work!—yet wise and well,Well chosen is the spirit that is here;That hulk which labours in the deadly swell,This rueful sky, this pageantry of fear!
¶And this huge Castle, standing here sublime,I love to see the look with which it braves,—Cased in the unfeeling armour of old time—The lightning, the fierce wind, and trampling waves.[607]—Farewell, farewell the heart that lives alone,Housed in a dream, at distance from the Kind!Such happiness, wherever it be knownIs to be pitied; for 'tis surely blind.
¶But welcome fortitude, and patient cheer,And frequent sights of what is to be borne!Such sights, or worse, as are before me here:—Not without hope we suffer and we mourn.
Ruth: or the Influences of Nature
¶When Ruth was left half desolateHer father took another mate;And Ruth, not seven years old,A slighted child, at her own willWent wandering over dale and hill,In thoughdess freedom bold.
¶And she had made a pipe of straw,And music from that pipe could drawLike sounds of wind and floods;Had built a bower upon the green,As if she from her birth had beenAn infant of the woods.
¶Beneath her father's roof, aloneShe seem'd to live; her thoughts her own;Herself her own delight:Pleased with herself, nor sad nor gay,She passed her time; and in this wayGrew up to woman's height.
¶There came a youth from Georgia's shore—A military casque he woreWith splendid feathers drest;He brought them from the Cherokees;The feathers nodded in the breezeAnd made a gallant crest.[608]From Indian blood you deem him sprung:But no! he spake the English tongueAnd bore a soldier's name;And, when America was freeFrom battle and from jeopardy,He 'cross the ocean came.
¶With hues of genius on his cheek,In finest tones the youth could speak:—While he was yet a boyThe moon, the glory of the sun,And streams that murmur as they runHad been his dearest joy.
¶He was a lovely youth! I guessThe panther in the wildernessWas not so fair as he;And when he chose to sport and play,No dolphin ever was so gayUpon the tropic sea.
¶Among the Indians he had fought;And with him many tales he broughtOf pleasure and of fear;Such tales as, told to any maidBy such a youth, in the green shade,Were perilous to hear.
¶He told of girls, a happy rout!Who quit their fold with dance and shout,Their pleasant Indian town,To gather strawberries all day long;Returning with a choral songWhen daylight is gone down.
¶He spake of plants that hourly changeTheir blossoms, through a boundless rangeOf intermingling hues;With budding, fading, faded flowers,They stand the wonder of the bowersFrom morn to evening dews.[609]He told of the magnolia, spreadHigh as a cloud, high over head!The cypress and her spire;—Of flowers that with one scarlet gleamCover a hundred leagues, and seemTo set the hills on fire.
¶The youth of green savannahs spake,And many an endless, endless lakeWith all its fairy crowdsOf islands, that together lieAs quietly as spots of skyAmong the evening clouds.
¶'And,' then he said, 'how sweet it wereA fisher or a hunter there,In sunshine or in shadeTo wander with an easy mind,And build a household fire, and findA home in every glade!
¶'What days and what bright years! Ah iOur life were life indeed, with theeSo pass'd in quiet bliss;And all the while,' said he, 'to knowThat we were in a world of woe,On such an earth as this!'
¶And then he sometimes interwoveFond thoughts about a father's love,'For there,' said he, 'are spunAround the heart such tender ties,That our own children to our eyesAre dearer than the sun.
¶'Sweet Ruth! and could you.go with meMy helpmate in the woods to be,Our shed at night to rear;Or run, my own adopted bride,A sylvan huntress at my side,And drive the flying deer![610]'Beloved Ruth!'—No more he said.The wakeful Ruth at midnight shedA solitary tear:She thought again—and did agreeWith him to sail across the sea,And drive the flying deer.
¶'And now, as fitting is and right,We in the church our faith will plight,A husband and a wife.'Even so they did; and I may sayThat to sweet Ruth that happy dayWas more than human life.
¶Through dream and vision did she sink,Delighted all the while to thinkThat, on those lonesome floodsAnd green savannahs, she should shareHis board with lawful joy, and bearHis name in the wild woods.
¶But, as you have before been told,This stripling, sportive, gay, and bold,And with his dancing crestSo beautiful, through savage landsHad roam'd about, with vagrant bandsOf Indians in the West.
¶The wind, the tempest roaring high,The tumult of a tropic skyMight well be dangerous foodFor him, a youth to whom was givenSo much of earth—so much of heaven,And such impetuous blood.
¶Whatever in those climes he foundIrregular in sight or soundDid to his mind impartA kindred impulse, seem'd alliedTo his own powers, and justifiedThe workings of his heart.[611]Nor less, to feed voluptuous thought,The beauteous forms of Nature wrought,—Fair trees and gorgeous flowers;The breezes their own languor lent;The stars had feelings, which they sentInto those favour'd bowers.
¶Yet, in his worst pursuits, I weenThat sometimes there did intervenePure hopes of high intent:For passions link'd to forms so fairAnd stately, needs must have their shareOf noble sentiment.
¶But ill he lived, much evil saw,With men to whom no better lawNor better life was known;Deliberately and undeceivedThose wild men's vices he received,And gave them back his own.
¶His genius and his moral frameWere thus impair'd, and he becameThe slave of low desires;A man who without self-controlWould seek what the degraded soulUnworthily admires.
¶And yet he with no feign'd delightHad woo'd the maiden, day and nightHad loved her, night and morn:What could he less than love a maidWhose heart with so much nature play'd—So kind and so forlorn?
¶Sometimes most earnestly he said,'O Ruth! I have been worse than dead;False thoughts, thoughts bold and vainEncompass'd me on every sideWhen I, in confidence and pride,Had cross'd the Atlantic main.[612]'Before me shone a glorious worldFresh as a banner bright, unfurl'dTo music suddenly:I look'd upon those hills and plains,And seem'd as if let loose from chainsTo live at liberty!
¶'No more of this—for now, by thee,Dear Ruth! more happily set free,With nobler zeal I burn;My soul from darkness is releasedLike the whole sky when to the eastThe morning doth return.'
¶Full soon that better mind was gone;No hope, no wish remain'd, not one,—They stirr'd him now no more;New objects did new pleasure give,And once again he wish'd to liveAs lawless as before.
¶Meanwhile, as thus with him it fared,They for the voyage were prepared,And went to the sea-shore:But, when they thither came, the youthDeserted his poor bride, and RuthCould never find him more.
¶God help thee, Ruth!—Such pains she hadThat she in half a year was madAnd in a prison housed;And there, exulting in her wrongsAmong the music of her songsShe fearfully caroused.
¶Yet sometimes milder hours she knew,Nor wanted sun, nor rain, nor dew,Nor pastimes of the May,—They all were with her in her cell;And a clear brook with cheerful knellDid o'er the pebbles play.[613]When Ruth three seasons thus had lain,There came a respite to her pain;She from her prison fled;But of the vagrant none took thought;And where it liked her best she soughtHer shelter and her bread.
¶Among the fields she breathed again:The master-current of her brainRan permanent and free;And, coming to the banks of Tone,There did she rest; and dwell aloneUnder the greenwood tree.
¶The engines of her pain, the toolsThat shaped her sorrow, rocks and pools.And airs that gently stirThe vernal leaves—she loved them still,Nor ever tax'd them with the illWhich had been done to her.
¶A barn her winter bed supplies;But, till the warmth of summer skiesAnd summer days is gone,(And all do in this tale agree)She sleeps beneath the greenwood tree,And other home hath none.
¶An innocent life, yet far astray!And Ruth will, long before her day,Be broken down and old.Sore aches she needs must have! but lessOf mind, than body's wretchedness,From damp, and rain, and cold.
¶If she is prest by want of foodShe from her dwelling in the woodRepairs to a road-side;And there she begs at one steep place,Where up and down with easy paceThe horsemen-travellers ride.[614]That oaten pipe of hers is muteOr thrown away: but with a fluteHer loneliness she cheers;This flute, made of a hemlock stalk,At evening in his homeward walkThe Quantock woodman hears.
¶I, too, have pass'd her on the hillsSetting her little water-millsBy spouts and fountains wild—Such small machinery as she turn'dEre she had wept, ere she had mourn'd,A young and happy child!
¶Farewell! and when thy days are told,Ill-fated Ruth! in hallow'd mouldThy corpse shall buried be;For thee a funeral bell shall ring,And all the congregation singA Christian psalm for thee.
A Lesson
¶THERE is a flower, the Lesser Celandine,That shrinks like many more from cold and rain,And the first moment that the sun may shine,Bright as the sun himself, 'tis out again!
¶When hailstones have been falling, swarm on swarm,Or blasts the green field and the trees distrest,Oft have I seen it muffled up from harmIn close self-shelter, like a thing at rest.
¶But lately, one rough day, this flower I past,And recognized it, though an alter'd form,Now standing forth an offering to the blast,And buffeted at will by rain and storm.
¶I stopp'd and said, with inly-mutter'd voice,'It doth not love the shower, nor seek the cold;This neither is its courage nor its choice,But its necessity in being old.[615]'The sunshine may not cheer it, nor the dew;It cannot help itself in its decay;Stiff in its members, wither'd, changed of hue,'—And, in my spleen, I smiled that it was gray.
¶To be a prodigal's favourite—then, worse truth,A miser's pensioner—behold our lot!O Man! that from thy fair and shining youthAge might but take the things Youth needed not I
Michael
¶A Pastoral PoemIF from the public way you turn your stepsUp the tumultuous brook of Greenhead Ghyll,You will suppose that with an upright pathYour feet must struggle; in such bold ascentThe pastoral mountains front you, face to face.But, courage! for around that boisterous brookThe mountains have all opened out themselves,And made a hidden valley of their own.No habitation can be seen; but theyWho journey thither find themselves aloneWith a few sheep, with rocks and stones, and kitesThat overhead are sailing in the sky.It is in truth an utter solitude;Nor should I have made mention of this DellBut for one object which you might pass by,Might see and notice not. Beside the brookAppears a struggling heap of unhewn stones!And to that simple object appertainsA story—unenriched with strange events,Yet not unfit, I deem, for the fireside,Or for the summer shade. It was the firstOf those domestic tales that spake to meOf shepherds, dwellers in the valleys, menWhom I already loved;—not verilyFor their own sakes, but for the fields and hillsWhere was their occupation and abode.And hence this Tale, while I was yet a BoyCareless of books, yet having felt the power[616]Of Nature, by the gentle agencyOf natural objects, led me on to feelFor passions that were not my own, and think(At random and imperfectly indeed)On man, the heart of man, and human life.Therefore, although it be a historyHomely and rude, I will relate the sameFor the delight of a few natural hearts;And, with yet fonder feeling, for the sakeOf youthful Poets, who among these hillsWill be my second self when I am gone.Upon the forest-side in Grasmere ValeThere dwelt a Shepherd, Michael was his name;An old man, stout of heart, and strong of limb.His bodily frame had been from youth to ageOf an unusual strength: his mind was keen,Intense, and frugal, apt for all affairs,And in his shepherd's calling he was promptAnd watchful more than ordinary men.Hence had he learned the meaning of all winds,Of blasts of every tone; and, oftentimes,When others heeded not, he heard the SouthMake subterraneous music, like the noiseOf bagpipers on distant Highland hills.The Shepherd, at such warning, of his flockBethought him, and he to himself would say,'The winds are now devising work for me!'And, truly, at all times, the storm, that drivesThe traveller to a shelter, summoned himUp to the mountains: he had been aloneAmid the heart of many thousand mists,That came to him, and left him, on the heights.So lived he till his eightieth year was past.And grossly that man errs, who should supposeThat the green valleys, and the streams and rocks,Were things indifferent to the Shepherd's thoughts.Fields, where with cheerful spirits he had breathedThe common air; hills, which with vigorous stepHe had so often climbed; which had impressedSo many incidents upon his mind[617]Of hardship, skill or courage, joy or fear;Which, like a book, preserved the memoryOf the dumb animals, whom he had saved,Had fed or sheltered, linking to such actsThe certainty of honourable gain;Those fields, those hills—what could they less? had laidStrong hold on his affections, were to himA pleasurable feeling of blind love,The pleasure which there is in life itself.
¶His days had not been passed in singleness.His Helpmate was a comely matron, old—Though younger than himself full twenty years.She was a woman of a stirring life,Whose heart was in her house; two wheels she hadOf antique form; this large, for spinning wool;That small, for flax; and if one wheel had restIt was because the other was at work.The Pair had but one inmate in their house,An only Child, who had been born to themWhen Michael, telling o'er his years, beganTo deem that he was old,—in shepherd's phrase,With one foot in the grave. This only Son,With two brave sheep-dogs tried in many a storm,The one of an inestimable worth,Made all their household. I may truly say,That they were as a proverb in the valeFor endless industry. When day was gone,And from their occupations out of doorsThe Son and Father were come home, even then,Their labour did not cease; unless when allTurned to the cleanly supper-board, and there,Each with a mess of pottage and skimmed milk,Sat round the basket piled with oaten cakes,And their plain home-made cheese. Yet when the mealWas ended, Luke (for so the son was named)And his old Father both betook themselvesTo such convenient work as might employTheir hands by the fireside; perhaps to cardWool for the Housewife's spindle, or repair[618]Some injury done to sickle, flail, or scythe,Or other implement of house or field.Down from the ceiling, by the chimney's edge,That in our ancient uncouth country styleWith huge and black projection overbrowedLarge space beneath, as duly as the lightOf day grew dim the Housewife hung a lamp;An aged utensil, which had performedService beyond all others of its kind.Early at evening did it burn—and late,Surviving comrade of uncounted hours,Which, going by from year to year, had found,And left, the couple neither gay perhapsNor cheerful, yet with objects and with hopes,Living a life of eager industry.And now, when Luke had reached his eighteenth year,There by the light of this old lamp they sate,Father and Son, while far into the nightThe Housewife plied her own peculiar work,Making the cottage through the silent hoursMurmur as with the sound of summer flies.This light was famous in its neighbourhood,And was a public symbol of the lifeThat thrifty Pair had lived. For, as it chanced,Their cottage on a plot of rising groundStood single, with large prospect, north and south,High into Easedale, up to Dunmail-Raise,And westward to the village near the lake;And from this constant light, so regularAnd so far seen, the House itself, by allWho dwelt within the limits of the vale,Both old and young, was named THE EVENING STAR.Thus living on through such a length of years,The Shepherd, if he loved himself, must needsHave loved his Helpmate; but to Michael's heartThis son of his old age was yet more dear -Less from instinctive tenderness, the sameFond spirit that blindly works in the blood of all—Than that a child, more than all other giftsThat earth can offer to declining man,[619]Brings hope with it, and forward-looking thoughts,And stirrings of inquietude, when theyBy tendency of nature needs must fail.Exceeding was the love he bare to him,His heart and his heart's joy! For oftentimesOld Michael, while he was a babe in arms,Had done him female service, not aloneFor pastime and delight, as is the useOf fathers, but with patient mind enforcedTo acts of tenderness; and he had rockedHis cradle, as with a woman's gentle hand.And, in a later time, ere yet the BoyHad put on boy's attire, did Michael love,Albeit of a stern unbending mind,To have the young-one in his sight, when heWrought in the field, or on his shepherd's stoolSate with a fettered sheep before him stretchedUnder the large old oak, that near his doorStood single, and, from matchless depth of shade,Chosen for the Shearer's covert from the sun,Thence in our rustic dialect was calledThe CLIPPING TREE, a name which yet it bears.There, while they two were sitting in the shade,With others round them, earnest all and blithe,Would Michael exercise his heart with looksOf fond correction and reproof bestowedUpon the Child, if he disturbed the sheepBy catching at their legs, or with his shoutsScared them, while they lay still beneath the shears.And when by Heaven's good grace the boy grew upA healthy Lad, and carried in his cheekTwo steady roses that were five years old;Then Michael from a winter coppice cutWith his own hand a sapling, which he hoopedWith iron, making it throughout in allDue requisites a perfect shepherd's staff,And gave it to the Boy; wherewith equiptHe as a watchman oftentimes was placedAt gate or gap, to stem or turn the flock;And, to his office prematurely called,[620]There stood the urchin, as you will divine,Something between a hindrance and a help;And for this cause not always, I believe,Receiving from his Father hire of praise;Though nought was left undone which staff, or voice,Or looks, or threatening gestures, could perform.But soon as Luke, full ten years old, could standAgainst the mountain blasts; and to the heights,Not fearing toil, nor length of weary ways,He with his Father daily went, and theyWere as companions, why should I relateThat objects which the Shepherd loved beforeWere dearer now? that from the Boy there cameFeelings and emanations—things which wereLight to the sun and music to the wind;And that the old Man's heart seemed born again?Thus in his Father's sight the Boy grew up:And now, when he had reached his eighteenth year,He was his comfort and his daily hope.
¶While in this sort the simple household livedFrom day to day, to Michael's ear there cameDistressful tidings. Long before the timeOf which I speak, the Shepherd had been boundIn surety for his brother's son, a manOf an industrious life, and ample means;But unforeseen misfortunes suddenlyHad prest upon him; and old Michael nowWas summoned to discharge the forfeiture,A grievous penalty, but little lessThan half his substance. This unlooked-for claim,At the first hearing, for a moment tookMore hope out of his life than he supposedThat any old man ever could have lost.As soon as he had armed himself with strengthTo look his troubles in the face, it seemedThe Shepherd's sole resource to sell at onceA portion of his patrimonial fields.Such was his first resolve; he thought again,And his heart failed him. 'Isabel,' said he,[621]Two evenings after he had heard the news,'I have been toiling more than seventy years,And in the open sunshine of God's loveHave we all lived; yet if these fields of oursShould pass into a stranger's hand, I thinkThat I could not lie quiet in my grave.Our lot is a hard lot; the sun himselfHas scarcely been more diligent than I;And I have lived to be a fool at lastTo my own family. An evil manThat was, and made an evil choice, if heWere false to us; and if he were not false,There are ten thousand to whom loss like thisHad been no sorrow. I forgive him;—butTwere better to be dumb than to talk thus.When I began, my purpose was to speakOf remedies and of a cheerful hope.Our Luke shall leave us, Isabel; the landShall not go from us, and it shall be free;He shall possess it, free as is the windThat passes over it. We have, thou know'st,Another kinsman—he will be our friendIn this distress. He is a prosperous man,Thriving in trade—and Luke to him shall go,And with his kinsman's help and his own thriftHe quickly will repair this loss, and thenHe may return to us. If here he stay,What can be done? Where every one is poor,What can be gained?At this the old Man paused,And Isabel sat silent, for her mindWas busy, looking back into past times.There's Richard Bateman, thought she to herself,He was a parish boy—at the church-doorThey made a gathering for him, shillings, penceAnd halfpennies, wherewith the neighbours boughtA basket, which they filled with pedlar's wares;And, with this basket on his arm, the ladWent up to London, found a master there,Who, out of many, chose the trusty boy[622]To go and overlook his merchandiseBeyond the seas; where he grew wondrous rich,And left estates and monies to the poor,And, at his birthplace, built a chapel flooredWith marble which he sent from foreign lands.These thoughts, and many others of like sort,Passed quickly through the mind of Isabel,And her face brightened. The old Man was glad,And thus resumed:—'Well, Isabel! this schemeThese two days, has been meat and drink to me.Far more than we have lost is left us yet.—We have enough—I wish indeed that IWere younger;—but this hope is a good hope.—Make ready Luke's best garments, of the bestBuy for him more, and let us send him forthTo-morrow, or the next day, or to-night:—If he could go, the Boy should go to-night.'Here Michael ceased, and to the fields went forthWith a light heart. The Housewife for five daysWas restless morn and night, and all day longWrought on with her best fingers to prepareThings needful for the journey of her son.But Isabel was glad when Sunday cameTo stop her in her work: for, when she layBy Michael's side, she through the last two nightsHeard him, how he was troubled in his sleep:And when they rose at morning she could seeThat all his hopes were gone. That day at noonShe said to Luke, while they two by themselvesWere sitting at the door, 'Thou must not go:We have no other Child but thee to lose,None to remember—do not go away,For if thou leave thy Father he will die.'The Youth made answer with a jocund voice;And Isabel, when she had told her fears,Recovered heart. That evening her best fareDid she bring forth, and all together satLike happy people round a Christmas fire.With daylight Isabel resumed her work;And all the ensuing week the house appeared[623]As cheerful as a grove in Spring: at lengthThe expected letter from their kinsman came,With kind assurances that he would doHis utmost for the welfare of the Boy;To which, requests were added, that forthwithHe might be sent to him. Ten times or moreThe letter was read over; IsabelWent forth to show it to the neighbours round;Nor was there at that time on English landA prouder heart than Luke's. When IsabelHad to her house returned, the old Man said,'He shall depart to-morrow.' To this wordThe Housewife answered, talking much of thingsWhich, if at such short notice he should go,Would surely be forgotten. But at lengthShe gave consent, and Michael was at ease.Near the tumultuous brook of Greenhead Ghyll,In that deep valley, Michael had designedTo build a Sheepfold; and, before he heardThe tidings of his melancholy loss,For this same purpose he had gathered upA heap of stones, which by the streamlet's edgeLay thrown together, ready for the work.With Luke that evening thitherward he walked;And soon as they had reached the place he stopped.And thus the old Man spake to him:—'My Son,To-morrow thou wilt leave me: with full heartI look upon thee, for thou art the sameThat wert a promise to me ere thy birth,And all thy life hast been my daily joy.I will relate to thee some little partOf our two histories; 'twill do thee goodWhen thou art from me, even if I should touchOn things thou canst not know of.—After thouFirst cam'st into the world—as oft befallsTo new-born infants—thou didst sleep awayTwo days, and blessings from thy Father's tongueThen fell upon thee. Day by day passed on,And still I loved thee with increasing love.Never to living ear came sweeter sounds[624]Than when I heard thee by our own firesideFirst uttering, without words, a natural tune:While thou, a feeding babe, didst in thy joySing at thy Mother's breast. Month followed month,And in the open fields my life was passedAnd on the mountains; else I think that thouHadst been brought up upon thy Father's knees.But we were playmates, Luke: among these hills,As well thou knowest, in us the old and youngHave played together, nor with me didst thouLack any pleasure which a boy can know.'Luke had a manly heart; but at these wordsHe sobbed aloud. The old Man grasped his hand,And said, 'Nay, do not take it so—I seeThat these are things of which I need not speak.—Even to the utmost I have been to theeA kind and a good Father: and hereinI but repay a gift which I myselfReceived at others' hand; for, though now oldBeyond the common life of man, I stillRemember them who loved me in my youth.Both of them sleep together; here they lived,As all their Forefathers had done; and whenAt length their time was come, they were not lothTo give their bodies to the family mould.I wished that thou shouldst live the life they lived:But, 'tis a long time to look back, my SonAnd see so little gained from threescore years.These fields were burthened when they came to me;Till I was forty years of age, not moreThan half of my inheritance was mine.I toiled and toiled; God blessed me in my work,And till these three weeks past the land was free.—It looks as if it never could endureAnother Master. Heaven forgive me, Luke,If I judge ill for thee, but it seems goodThat thou shouldst go.'At this the old Man paused;Then, pointing to the stones near which they stood,Thus, after a short silence, he resumed:[625]'This was a work for us; and now, my Son,It is a work for me. But, lay one stone—Here, lay it for me, Luke, with thine own hands.Nay, Boy, be of good hope;—we both may liveTo see a better day. At eighty-fourI still am strong and hale;—do thou thy part;I will do mine.—I will begin againWith many tasks that were resigned to thee:Up to the heights, and in among the storms,Will I without thee go again, and doAll works which I was wont to do alone,Before I knew thy face.—Heaven bless thee, Boy!Thy heart these two weeks has been beating fastWith many hopes; it should be so—yes—yes—I knew that thou couldst never have a wishTo leave me, Luke: thou hast been bound to meOnly by links of love: when thou art gone,What will be left to us!—But, I forgetMy purposes: Lay now the corner-stone,As I requested; and hereafter, Luke,When thou art gone away, should evil menBe thy companions, think of me, my Son,And of this moment; hither turn thy thoughts,And God will strengthen thee: amid all fearAnd all temptations, Luke, I pray that thouMay'st bear in mind the life thy Fathers lived,Who, being innocent, did for that causeBestir them in good deeds. Now, fare thee well—When thou return'st, thou in this place wilt seeA work which is not here: a covenant'Twill be between us; but, whatever fateBefall thee, I shall love thee to the last,And bear thy memory with me to the grave.'The Shepherd ended here; and Luke stooped down,And, as his Father had requested, laidThe first stone of the Sheepfold. At the sightThe old Man's grief broke from him; to his heartHe pressed his Son, he kissed him and wept;And to the house together they returned.—Hushed was that House in peace, or seeming peace,[626]Ere the Night fell:—with morrow's dawn the BoyBegan his journey, and when he had reachedThe public way, he put on a bold face;And all the neighbours, as he passed their doors,Came forth with wishes and with farewell prayers,That followed him till he was out of sight.A good report did from their kinsman come,Of Luke and his well-doing: and the BoyWrote loving letters, full of wondrous news,Which, as the Housewife phrased it, were throughi'The prettiest letters that were ever seen.'Both parents read them with rejoicing hearts.So, many months passed on: and once againThe Shepherd went about his daily workWith confident and cheerful thoughts; and nowSometimes when he could find a leisure hourHe to that valley took his way, and thereWrought at the Sheepfold. Meantime Luke beganTo slacken in his duty; and, at length,He in the dissolute city gave himselfTo evil courses: ignominy and shameFell on him, so that he was driven at lastTo seek a hiding-place beyond the seas.There is a comfort in the strength of love;'Twill make a thing endurable, which elseWould overset the brain, or break the heart:I have conversed with more than one who wellRemember the old Man, and what he wasYears after he had heard this heavy news.His bodily frame had been from youth to ageOf an unusual strength. Among the rocksHe went, and still looked up to sun and cloud,And listened to the wind; and, as before,Performed all kinds of labour for his sheep,And for the land, his small inheritance.And to that hollow dell from time to timeDid he repair, to build the Fold of whichHis flock had need. 'Tis not forgotten yetThe pity which was then in every heartFor the old Man—and 'tis believed by all[627]That many and many a day he thither went,And never lifted up a single stone.There, by the Sheepfold, sometimes was he seenSitting alone, or with his faithful Dog,Then old, beside him, lying at his feet.The length of full seven years, from time to time,He at the building of this Sheepfold wrought,And left the work unfinished when he died.Three years, or little more, did IsabelSurvive her Husband: at her death the estateWas sold, and went into a stranger's hand.The Cottage which was named THE EVENING STARIs gone—the ploughshare has been through the groundOn which it stood; great changes have been wroughtIn all the neighbourhood:—yet the oak is leftThat grew beside their door; and the remainsOf the unfinished Sheepfold may be seenBeside the boisterous brook of Greenhead Ghyll.
Yarrow Unvisited
¶[ / % ]
¶FROM Stirling Castle we had seenThe mazy Forth unravell'd,Had trod the banks of Clyde and Tay,And with the Tweed had travell'd;And when we came to Clovenford,Then said my 'winsome Marrow,''Whate'er betide, we'll turn aside,And see the Braes of Yarrow.'
¶'Let Yarrow folk, frae Selkirk town,Who have been buying, selling,Go back to Yarrow, 'tis their own,Each maiden to her dwelling!On Yarrow's banks let herons feed,Hares couch, and rabbits burrow;But we will downward with the Tweed,Nor turn aside to Yarrow.[628]'There's Galla Water, Leader Haughs,Both lying right before us;And Dryburgh, where with chiming TweedThe lintwhites sing in chorus;There's pleasant Teviotdale, a landMade blythe with plough and harrow:Why throw away a needful dayTo go in search of Yarrow?
¶'What's Yarrow but a river bareThat glides the dark hills under?There are a thousand such elsewhereAs worthy of your wonder.'—Strange words they seem'd of slight and scornMy true-love sigh'd for sorrow,And look'd me in the face, to thinkI thus could speak of Yarrow!
¶'O green,' said I, 'are Yarrow's holms.And sweet is Yarrow flowing!Fair hangs the apple frae the rock,But we will leave it growing.O'er hilly path and open strathWe'll wander Scotland thorough;But, though so near, we will not turnInto the dale of Yarrow.
¶'Let beeves and home-bred kine partakeThe sweets of Burn-mill meadow;The swan on still Saint Mary's LakeFloat double, swan and shadow!We will not see them; will not goTo-day, nor yet to-morrow;Enough if in our hearts we knowThere's such a place as Yarrow.
¶'Be Yarrow stream unseen, unknown;It must, or we shall rue it:We have a vision of our own,Ah! why should we undo it?[629]The treasured dreams of times long past,We'll keep them, winsome Marrow!For when we're there, although 'tis fair,'Twill be another Yarrow!
¶'If care with freezing years should comeAnd wandering seem but folly,—Should we be loth to stir from home,And yet be melancholy;Should life be dull, and spirits low,'Twill soothe us in our sorrowThat earth has something yet to show,The bonny holms of Yarrow!'
Yarrow Visited
¶[September, 1814]
¶AND is this—Yarrow?—This the streamOf which my fancy cherish'dSo faithfully, a waking dream,An image that hath perish'd?O that some minstrel's harp were nearTo utter notes of gladnessAnd chase this silence from the air,That fills my heart with sadness.
¶Yet why?—a silvery current flowsWith uncontroll'd meanderings;Nor have these eyes by greener hillsBeen soothed, in all my wanderings.And, through her depths, Saint Mary's LakeIs visibly delighted;For not a feature of those hillsIs in the mirror slighted.
¶A blue sky bends o'er Yarrow Vale,Save where that pearly whitenessIs round the rising sun diffused,A tender hazy brightness;[630]Mild dawn of promise! that excludesAll profitless dejection;Though not unwilling here to admitA pensive recollection.
¶Where was it that the famous FlowerOf Yarrow Vale lay bleeding?His bed perchance was yon smooth moundOn which the herd is feeding:And haply from this crystal poolNow peaceful as the morning,The water-Wraith ascended thrice,And gave his doleful warning.
¶Delicious is the Lay that singsThe haunts of happy lovers,The path that leads them to the grove,The leafy grove that covers:And pity sanctifies the verseThat paints, by strength of sorrow,The unconquerable strength of love;Bear witness, rueful Yarrow!
¶But thou that didst appear so fairTo fond imaginationDost rival in the light of dayHer delicate creation:Meek loveliness is round thee spread,A softness still and holy:The grace of forest charms decay'd,And pastoral melancholy.
¶That region left, the vale unfoldsRich groves of lofty stature,With Yarrow winding through the pompOf cultivated Nature;And rising from those lofty grovesBehold a ruin hoary,The shatter'd front of Newark's Towers,Renown'd in Border story.[631]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 protectionOf studious ease and generous caresAnd every chaste affection!
¶How sweet on this autumnal dayThe wild-wood fruits to gather,And on my true-love's forehead plantA crest of blooming heather!And what if I enwreathed my own?'Twere no offence to reason;The sober hills thus deck their browsTo 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 keepA course of lively pleasure;And gladsome notes my lips can breatheAccordant to the measure.
¶The vapours linger round the heights,They melt, and soon must vanish;One hour is theirs, nor more is mine—Sad thought! which I would banish,But that I know, where'er I go,Thy genuine image, Yarrow!Will dwell with me, to heighten joyAnd cheer my mind in sorrow.
Yarrow Revisited
¶THE gallant Youth, who may have gained,Or seeks, a 'winsome Marrow,'Was but an Infant in the lapWhen first I looked on Yarrow;[632]Once more, by Newark's Castle-gateLong left without a warder,I stood, looked, listened, and with Thee,Great Minstrel of the Border!
¶Grave thoughts ruled wide on that sweet d;Their dignity installingIn gentle bosoms, while sere leavesWere on the bough, or falling;But breezes played, and sunshine gleamed—The forest to embolden;Reddened the fiery hues, and shotTransparence through the golden.
¶For busy thoughts the Stream flowed onIn foamy agitation;And slept in many a crystal poolFor quiet contemplation:No public and no private careThe 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 appearedIn harmony united,Like guests that meet, and some from far,By cordial love invited.
¶And if, as Yarrow, through the woodsAnd down the meadow ranging,Did meet us with unaltered face,Though we were changed and changing;If, then, some natural shadows spreadOur inward prospect over,The soul's deep valley was not slowIts brightness to recover.[633]Eternal blessings on the Muse,And her divine employment!The blameless Muse, who trains her SonsFor hope and calm enjoyment;Albeit sickness, lingering yet,Has o'er their pillow brooded;And Care waylays their steps—a SpriteNot easily eluded.
¶For thee, O SCOTT! compelled to changeGreen Eildon-hill and CheviotFor warm Vesuvio's vine-clad slopes,And leave thy Tweed and TiviotFor mild Sorrento's breezy waves;May classic Fancy, linkingWith native Fancy her fresh aid,Preserve thy heart from sinking!
¶Oh! while they minister to thee,Each vying with the other,May Health return to mellow AgeWith Strength, her venturous brother;And Tiber, and each brook and rillRenowned 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 honourAs thy own Yarrow gave to meWhen first I gazed upon her;[634]Beheld what I had feared to see,Unwilling to surrenderDreams treasured up from early days,The holy and the tender.
¶And what, for this frail world, were allThat 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 voiceThat hourly speaks within us?
¶Nor deem that localized RomancePlays false with our affections;Unsanctifies our tears—made sportFor fanciful dejections;Ah, no! the visions of the pastSustain the heart in feelingLife as she is—our changeful Life,With friends and kindred dealing.
¶Bear witness, Ye, whose thoughts that dayIn Yarrow's groves were centred;Who through the silent portal archOf mouldering Newark enter'd;And clomb the winding stair that onceToo timidly was mountedBy 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 chantFor simple hearts thy beauty;To dream-light dear while yet unseenDear to the common sunshine,And dearer still, as now I feel,To memory's shadowy moonshine!
Lines
¶FIVE years have past; five summers, with the lengthOf five long winters! and again I hearThese waters, rolling from their mountain-springsWith a soft inland murmur.—Once againDo I behold these steep and lofty cliffs,That on a wild secluded scene impressThoughts of more deep seclusion; and connectThe landscape with the quiet of the sky.The day is come when I again reposeHere, under this dark sycamore, and viewThese plots of cottage-ground, these orchard-tufts,Which at this season, with their unripe fruits,Are clad in one green hue, and lose themselves'Mid groves and copses. Once again I seeThese hedge-rows, hardly hedge-rows, little linesOf sportive wood run wild: these pastoral farms,Green to the very door; and wreaths of smokeSent up, in silence, from among the trees!With some uncertain notice, as might seemOf vagrant dwellers in the houseless woods,Or of some Hermit's cave, where by his fireThe Hermit sits alone.These beauteous forms,Through a long absence, have not been to meAs is a landscape to a blind man's eye:But oft, in lonely rooms, and 'mid the dinOf towns and cities, I have owed to themIn hours of weariness, sensations sweet,Felt in the blood, and felt along the heart;And passing even into my purer mind,With tranquil restoration:—feelings tooOf unremembered pleasure: such, perhaps,As have no slight or trivial influenceOn that best portion of a good man's life,His little, nameless, unremembered, acts[636]Of kindness and of love. Nor less, I trust,To them I may have owed another gift,Of aspect more sublime; that blessed mood,In which the burthen of the mystery,In which the heavy and the weary weightOf all this unintelligible world,Is lightened:—that serene and blessed mood,In which the affections gently lead us on,—Until, the breath of this corporeal frameAnd even the motion of our human bloodAlmost suspended, we are laid asleepIn body, and become a living soul:While with an eye made quiet by the powerOf harmony, and the deep power of joy,We see into the life of things.If thisBe but a vain belief, yet, oh! how oft,In darkness, and amid the many shapesOf joyless daylight; when the fretful stirUnprofitable, and the fever of the world,Have hung upon the beatings of my heart,How oft, in spirit, have I turned to thee,0 sylvan Wye! thou wanderer thro' the woods,How often has my spirit turned to thee!And now, with gleams of half-extinguished thought,With many recognitions dim and faint,And somewhat of a sad perplexity,The picture of the mind revives again:While here I stand, not only with the senseOf present pleasure, but with pleasing thoughtsThat in this moment there is life and foodFor future years. And so I dare to hope,Though changed, no doubt, from what I was when firstI came among these hills; when like a roeI bounded o'er the mountains, by the sidesOf the deep rivers, and the lonely streams,Wherever nature led: more like a manFlying from something that he dreads, than oneWho sought the thing he loved. For nature then(The coarser pleasures of my boyish days,[637]And their glad animal movements all gone by)To me was all in all.—I cannot paintWhat then I was. The sounding cataractHaunted me like a passion: the tall rock,The mountain, and the deep and gloomy wood,Their colours and their forms, were then to meAn appetite; a feeling and a love,That had no need of a remoter charm,By thought supplied, nor any interestUnborrowed from the eye.—That time is past,And all its aching joys are now no more,And all its dizzy raptures. Not for thisFaint I, nor mourn nor murmur; other giftsHave followed; for such loss, I would believe,Abundant recompence. For I have learnedTo look on nature, not as in the hourOf thoughtless youth; but hearing oftentimesThe still, sad music of humanity,Nor harsh nor grating, though of ample powerTo chasten and subdue. And I have feltA presence that disturbs me with the joyOf elevated thoughts: a sense sublimeOf something far more deeply interfused,Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns,And the round ocean and the living air,And the blue sky, and in the mind of man:A motion and a spirit, that impelsAll thinking things, all objects of all thought,And rolls through all things. Therefore am I stillA lover of the meadows and the woods,And mountains; and of all that we beholdFrom this green earth; of all the mighty worldOf eye and ear,—both what they half create,And what perceive; well pleased to recogniseIn nature and the language of the sense,The anchor of my purest thoughts, the nurse,The guide, the guardian of my heart, and soulOf all my moral being.Nor perchance,If I were not thus taught, should I the more[638]Suffer my genial spirits to decay:For thou art with me here upon the banksOf this fair river; thou, my dearest Friend,My dear, dear Friend; and in thy voice I catchThe language of my former heart, and readMy former pleasures in the shooting lightsOf thy wild eyes. Oh! yet a little whileMay I behold in thee what I was once,My dear, dear Sister! and this prayer I makeKnowing that Nature never did betrayThe heart that loved her; 'tis her privilegeThrough all the years of this our life, to leadFrom joy to joy: for she can so informThe mind that is within us, so impressWith quietness and beauty, and so feedWith lofty thoughts, that neither evil tongues,Rash judgments, nor the sneers of selfish men,Nor greetings where no kindness is, nor allThe dreary intercourse of daily life,Shall e'er prevail against us, or disturbOur cheerful faith, that all which we beholdIs full of blessings. Therefore let the moonShine on thee in thy solitary walk;And let the misty mountain winds be freeTo blow against thee: and, in after years,When these wild ecstasies shall be maturedInto a sober pleasure; when thy mindShall be a mansion for all lovely forms,Thy memory be as a dwelling-placeFor all sweet sounds and harmonies; oh! then,If solitude, or fear, or pain, or grief,Should be thy portion, with what healing thoughtsOf tender joy wilt thou remember me,And these my exhortations! Nor, perchance—If I should be where I no more can hearThy voice, nor catch from thy wild eyes those gleamsOf past existence,—wilt thou then forgetThat on the banks of this delightful streamWe stood together; and that I, so longA worshipper of Nature, hither came[639]Unwearied in that service: rather sayWith warmer love, oh! with far deeper zealOf holier love. Nor wilt thou then forget,That after many wanderings, many yearsOf absence, these steep woods and lofty cliffs,And this green pastoral landscape, were to meMore dear, both for themselves and for thy sake!
The Daffodils
¶I WANDER'D lonely as a cloudThat floats on high o'er vales and hills,When all at once I saw a crowd,A host of golden daffodils,Beside the lake, beneath the treesFluttering and dancing in the breeze.
¶Continuous as the stars that shineAnd twinkle on the milky way,They stretch'd in never-ending lineAlong the margin of a bay:Ten thousand saw I at a glanceTossing their heads in sprightly dance.
¶The waves beside them danced, but theyOut-did the sparkling waves in glee:—A Poet could not but be gayIn such a jocund company!I gazed—and gazed—but little thoughtWhat wealth the show to me had brought;
¶For oft, when on my couch I lieIn vacant or in pensive mood,They flash upon that inward eyeWhich is the bliss of solitude;And then my heart with pleasure fills,And dances with the daffodils.
To THE DAISY
¶WITH little here to do or seeOf things that in the great world be,Sweet Daisy! oft I talk to theeFor thou art worthy,Thou Unassuming commonplaceOf Nature, with that homely face,And yet with something of a graceWhich love makes for thee!
¶Oft on the dappled turf at easeI sit and play with similes,Loose types of things through all degrees,Thoughts of thy raising;And many a fond and idle nameI give to thee, for praise or blameAs is the humour of the game,While I am gazing.
¶A nun demure, of lowly port;Or sprightly maiden, of Love's court,In thy simplicity the sportOf all temptations;A queen in crown of rubies drest;A starveling in a scanty vest;Are all, as seems to suit thee best,Thy appellations.
¶A little Cyclops, with one eyeStaring to threaten and defy,That thought comes next—and instantlyThe freak is over,The shape will vanish, and behold!A silver shield with boss of goldThat spreads itself, some fairy boldIn fight to cover.
¶I see thee glittering from afar—And then thou art a pretty star,Not quite so fair as many areIn heaven above thee![641]Yet like a star, with glittering crest,Self-poised in air thou seem'st to rest;—May peace come never to his nestWho shall reprove thee!
¶Sweet Flower! for by that name at lastWhen all my reveries are past,I call thee, and to that cleave fast,Sweet silent Creature!That breath'st with me in sun and air,Do thou, as thou art wont, repairMy heart with gladness, and a shareOf thy meek nature!
To THE CUCKOO
¶0 BLITHE new-comer! I have heard,I hear thee and rejoice:0 Cuckoo! shall I call thee Bird,Or but a wandering Voice?
¶While I am lying on the grassThy twofold shout I hear;From hill to hill it seems to pass,At once far off and near.
¶Though babbling only to the valeOf sunshine and of flowers,Thou bringest unto me a taleOf visionary hours.
¶Thrice welcome, darling of the Spring!Even yet thou art to meNo bird, but an invisible thing,A voice, a mystery,
¶The same whom in my school-boy daysI listen'd to; that CryWhich made me look a thousand waysIn bush, and tree, and sky.[642]To seek thee did I often roveThrough woods and on the green;And thou wert still a hope, a love;Still long'd for, never seen!
¶And I can listen to thee yet;Can lie upon the plainAnd listen, till I do begetThat golden time again.
¶O blessed Bird! the earth we paceAgain appears to beAn unsubstantial, fairy place,That is fit home for Thee!
The Green Linnet
¶BENEATH these fruit-tree boughs that shedTheir snow-white blossoms on my head,With brightest sunshine round me spreadOf Spring's unclouded weather,In this sequester'd nook how sweetTo sit upon my orchard-seat!And flowers and birds once more to greet,My last year's friends together.
¶One have I mark'd, the happiest guestIn all this covert of the blest:Hail to Thee, far above the restIn joy of voice and pinion!Thou, Linnet! in thy green arrayPresiding Spirit here to-dayDost lead the revels of the May,And this is thy dominion.
¶While birds, and butterflies, and flowers,Make all one band of paramours,Thou, ranging up and down the bowersArt sole in thy employment;A Life, a Presence like the air,Scattering thy gladness without care,[643]Too blest with any one to pair,Thyself thy own enjoyment.
¶Amid yon tuft of hazel treesThat twinkle to the gusty breeze,Behold him perch'd in ecstasiesYet seeming still to hover;There, where the flutter of his wingsUpon his back and body flingsShadows and sunny glimmerings,That cover him all over.
¶My dazzled sight he oft deceives—A brother of the dancing leaves;Then flits, and from the cottage-eavesPours forth his song in gushes,As if by that exulting strainHe mock'd and treated with disdainThe voiceless Form he chose to feign,While fluttering in the bushes.
Written in Early Spring
¶I HEARD a thousand blended notesWhile in a grove I sate reclined,In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughtsBring sad thoughts to the mind.
¶To her fair works did Nature linkThe human soul that through me ran;And much it grieved my heart to thinkWhat Man has made of Man.
¶Through primrose tufts, in that sweet bower,The periwinkle trail'd its wreaths;And 'tis my faith that every flowerEnjoys the air it breathes.
¶The birds around me hopp'd and play'd,Their thoughts I cannot measure,—But the least motion which they madeIt seem'd a thrill of pleasure.[644]The budding twigs spread out their fanTo catch the breezy air;And I must think, do all I can,That there was pleasure there.
¶If this belief from heaven be sent,If such be Nature's holy plan,Have I not reason to lamentWhat Man has made of Man?
To THE SKYLARK
¶ETHEREAL minstrel! pilgrim of the sky!
¶Dost thou despise the earth where cares abound?Or while the wings aspire, are heart and eyeBoth with thy nest upon the dewy ground?Thy nest which thou canst drop into at will,Those quivering wings composed, that music still!
¶To the last point of vision, and beyondMount, daring warbler!—that love-prompted strain—'Twixt thee and thine a never-failing bond—Thrills not the less the bosom of the plain:Yet might'st thou seem, proud privilege! to singAll independent of the leafy Spring.
¶Leave to the nightingale her shady wood;A privacy of glorious light is thine,Whence thou dost pour upon the world a floodOf harmony, with instinct more divine;Type of the wise, who soar, but never roam—True to the kindred points of Heaven and Home.
The Affliction of Margaret
¶WHERE art thou, my beloved Son,
¶Where art thou, worse to me than dead!O find me, prosperous or undone!Or if the grave be now thy bed,Why am I ignorant of the sameThat I may rest; and neither blameNor sorrow may attend thy name?[645]Seven years, alas! to have receivedNo tidings of an only child—To have despair'd, have hoped, believed,And been for evermore beguiled,—Sometimes with thoughts of very bliss!I catch at them, and then I miss;Was ever darkness like to this?
¶He was among the prime in worth,An object beauteous to behold;Well born, well bred; I sent him forthIngenuous, innocent, and bold:If things ensued that wanted graceAs hath been said, they were not base;And never blush was on my face.
¶Ah! little doth the young-one dreamWhen full of play and childish cares,What power is in his wildest screamHeard by his mother unawares!He knows it not, he cannot guess;Years to a mother bring distress,But do not make her love the less.
¶Neglect me! no, I suffer'd longFrom that ill thought; and being blindSaid 'Pride shall help me in my wrong:Kind mother have I been, as kindAs ever breathed:' and that is true;I've wet my path with tears like dew,Weeping for him when no one knew.
¶My Son, if thou be humbled, poor,Hopeless of honour and of gain,O! do not dread thy mother's door;Think not of me with grief and pain:I now can see with better eyes;And worldly grandeur I despiseAnd fortune with her gifts and lies.[646]Alas! the fowls of heaven have wings,And blasts of heaven will aid their flight;They mount—how short a voyage bringsThe wanderers back to their delight!Chains tie us down by land and sea;And wishes, vain as mine, may beAll that is left to comfort thee.
¶Perhaps some dungeon hears thee groanMaim'd, mangled by inhuman men;Or thou upon a desert thrownInheritest the lion's den;Or hast been summon'd to the deepThou, thou, and all thy mates, to keepAn incommunicable sleep.
¶I look for ghosts; but none will forceTheir way to me: 'tis falsely saidThat there was ever intercourseBetween the living and the dead;For surely then I should have sightOf him I wait for day and nightWith love and longings infinite.
¶My apprehensions come in crowds;I dread the rustling of the grass;The very shadows of the cloudsHave power to shake me as they pass;I question things, and do not findOne that will answer to my mind;And all the world appears unkind.
¶Beyond participation lieMy troubles, and beyond relief:If any chance to heave a sighThey pity me, and not my grief.Then come to me, my Son, or sendSome tidings that my woes may end!I have no other earthly friend.
Simon Lee the Old Huntsman
¶IN the sweet shire of Cardigan,Not far from pleasant Ivor Hall,An old man dwells, a little man,I've heard he once was tall.Full five-and-thirty years he livedA running huntsman merry;And still the centre of his cheekIs red as a ripe cherry.
¶No man like him the horn could sound,And hill and valley rang with glee,When Echo bandied, round and round,The halloo of Simon Lee.In those proud days he little caredFor husbandry or tillage;To blither tasks did Simon rouseThe sleepers of the village.
¶He all the country could outrun,Could leave both man and horse behind;And often, ere the chase was done,He reel'd and was stone-blind.And still there's something in the worldAt which his heart rejoices;For when the chiming hounds are out,He dearly loves their voices.
¶But O the heavy change!—bereftOf health, strength, friends and kindred;Old Simon to the world is leftIn liveried poverty:His master's dead, and no one nowDwells in the Hall of Ivor;Men, dogs, and horses, all are dead;He is the sole survivor.
¶And he is lean and he is sick,His body, dwindled and awry,[648]Rests upon ankles swoln and thick;His legs are thin and dry.He has no son, he has no child,His wife, an aged woman,Lives with him, near the waterfall,Upon the village common.
¶Beside their moss-grown hut of clay,Not twenty paces from the door,A scrap of land they have, but theyAre poorest of the poor.This scrap of land he from the heathEnclosed when he was stronger;But what avails the land to themWhich he can till no longer?
¶Oft, working by her husband's side,Ruth does what Simon cannot do;For she, with scanty cause for pride,Is stouter of the two.And, though you with your utmost skillFrom labour could not wean them,'Tis little, very little, allThat they can do between them.
¶Few months of life has he in storeAs he to you will tell,For still, the more he works, the moreDo his weak ankles swell.My gentle reader, I perceiveHow patiently you've waited,And now I fear that you expectSome tale will be related.
¶O reader! had you in your mindSuch stores as silent thought can bring,O gentle reader! you would findA tale in everything.What more I have to say is short,And you must kindly take it:[649]It is no tale; but, should you think,Perhaps a tale you'll make it.
¶One summer-day I chanced to seeThis old man doing all he couldTo unearth the root of an old tree,A stump of rotten wood.The mattock totter'd in his hand;So vain was his endeavourThat at the root of the old treeHe might have work'd for ever.
¶'You're overtask'd, good Simon Lee,Give me your tool,' to him I said;And at the word right gladly heReceived my proffer'd aid.I struck, and with a single blowThe tangled root I sever'd,At which the poor old man so longAnd vainly had endeavour'd.
¶The tears into his eyes were brought,And thanks and praises seem'd to runSo fast out of his heart, I thoughtThey never would have done.—I've heard of hearts unkind, kind deedsWith coldness still returning;Alas! the gratitude of menHath oftener left me mourning.
Ode to Duty
¶STERN Daughter of the voice of God!O Duty! if that name thou loveWho art a light to guide, a rodTo check the erring, and reprove;Thou who art victory and lawWhen empty terrors overawe;From vain temptations dost set free,And calm'st the weary strife of frail humanity![650]There are who ask not if thine eyeBe on them; who, in love and truthWhere no misgiving is, relyUpon the genial sense of youth:Glad hearts! without reproach or blot,Who do thy work, and know it not:O! if through confidence misplacedThey fail, thy saving arms, dread Power! aroundthem cast.
¶Serene will be our days and brightAnd happy will our nature beWhen love is an unerring light,And joy its own security.And they a blissful course may holdEv'n now, who, not unwisely bold,Live in the spirit of this creed;Yet find that other strength according to their need.
¶I, loving freedom, and untried,No sport of every random gust,Yet being to myself a guide,Too blindly have reposed my trust:And oft, when in my heart was heardThy timely mandate, I deferr'dThe task, in smoother walks to stray;But thee I now would serve more strictly, if I may.
¶Through no disturbance of my soulOr strong compunction in me wrought,I supplicate for thy controul,But in the quietness of thought:Me this uncharter'd freedom tires;I feel the weight of chance-desires:My hopes no more must change their name;I long for a repose that ever is the same.
¶Stern Lawgiver! yet thou dost wearThe Godhead's most benignant grace;Nor know we anything so fair[651]As is the smile upon thy face:Flowers laugh before thee on their beds,And fragrance in thy footing treads;Thou dost preserve the Stars from wrong;And the most ancient Heavens, through thee, arefresh and strong.
¶To humbler functions, awful Power!I call thee: I myself commendUnto thy guidance from this hour;O let my weakness have an end!Give unto me, made lowly wise,The spirit of self-sacrifice;The confidence of reason give;And in the light of Truth thy bondman let me li
She Was a Phantom of Delight
¶SHE was a phantom of delightWhen first she gleam'd upon my sight;A lovely apparition, sentTo be a moment's ornament;Her eyes as stars of twilight fair;Like Twilight's, too, her dusky hair;But all things else about her drawnFrom May-time and the cheerful dawn;A dancing shape, an image gay,To haunt, to starde, and waylay.
¶I saw her upon nearer view,A spirit, yet a woman too!Her household motions light and free,And steps of virgin-liberty;A countenance in which did. meetSweet records, promises as sweet;A creature not too bright or goodFor human nature's daily food,For transient sorrows, simple wiles,Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles.[652]And now I see with eye sereneThe very pulse of the machine;A being breathing thoughtful breath,A traveller between life and death:The reason firm, the temperate will,Endurance, foresight, strength, and skill;A perfect woman, nobly plann'dTo warn, to comfort, and command;And yet a Spirit still, and brightWith something of angelic light.
To THE HIGHLAND GIRL OF INVERSNEYDE
¶SWEET Highland Girl, a very showerOf beauty is thy earthly dower!Twice seven consenting years have shedTheir utmost bounty on thy head:And these gray rocks, this household lawn,These trees—a veil just half withdrawn,This fall of water that doth makeA murmur near the silent lake,This little bay, a quiet roadThat holds in shelter thy abode;In truth together ye do seemLike something fashion'd in a dream;Such forms as from their covert peepWhen earthly cares are laid asleep!But O fair Creature! in the lightOf common day, so heavenly brightI bless Thee, Vision as thou art,I bless thee with a human heart:God shield thee to thy latest years!I neither know thee nor thy peers:And yet my eyes are fill'd with tears.
¶With earnest feeling I shall prayFor thee when I am far away;For never saw I mien or faceIn which more plainly I could traceBenignity and home-bred senseRipening in perfect innocence.[653]Here scatter'd, like a random seed,Remote from men, Thou dost not needThe embarrass'd look of shy distress,And maidenly shamefacedness:Thou wear'st upon thy forehead clearThe freedom of a mountaineer:A face with gladness overspread,Soft smiles, by human kindness bred;And seemliness complete, that swaysThy courtesies, about thee plays;With no restraint, but such as springsFrom quick and eager visitingsOf thoughts that lie beyond the reachOf thy few words of English speech:A bondage sweetly brook'd, a strifeThat gives thy gestures grace and life!So have I, not unmoved in mind,Seen birds of tempest-loving kind,Thus beating up against the wind.
¶What hand but would a garland cullFor thee who art so beautiful?0 happy pleasure! here to dwellBeside thee in some heathy dell;Adopt your homely ways, and dress,A shepherd, thou a shepherdess!But I could frame a wish for theeMore like a grave reality:Thou art to me but as a waveOf the wild sea: and I would haveSome claim upon thee, if I could,Though but of common neighbourhood.What joy to hear thee, and to see!Thy elder brother I would be,Thy father, anything to thee.Now thanks to Heaven! that of its graceHath led me to this lonely place:Joy have I had; and going henceI bear away my recompense.In spots like these it is we prize[654]Our memory, feel that she hath eyes:Then why should I be loth to stir?I feel this place was made for her;To give new pleasure like the past,Continued long as life shall last.Nor am I loth, though pleased at heart,Sweet Highland Girl! from thee to part;For I, methinks, till I grow oldAs fair before me shall beholdAs I do now, the cabin small,The lake, the bay, the waterfall;And Thee, the spirit of them all!
The Solitary Reaper
¶BEHOLD her, single in the field,Yon solitary Highland Lass!Reaping and singing by herself;Stop here, or gently pass!Alone she cuts and binds the grain,And sings a melancholy strain;O listen! for the vale profoundIs overflowing with the sound.
¶No nightingale did ever chauntMore welcome notes to weary bandsOf travellers in some shady haunt,Among Arabian sands:No sweeter voice was ever heardIn spring-time from the cuckoo-bird,Breaking the silence of the seasAmong the farthest Hebrides.
¶Will no one tell me what she sings?Perhaps the plaintive numbers flowFor old, unhappy, far-off things,And battles long ago:Or is it some more humble lay,Familiar matter of to-day?Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain,That has been, and may be again![655]Whate'er the theme, the maiden sangAs if her song could have no ending;I saw her singing at her work,And o'er the sickle bending;I listen'd, till I had my fill;And, as I mounted up the hill,The music in my heart I boreLong after it was heard no more.
589 the Reverie of Poor Susan
¶A T the corner of Wood Street, when daylight appears,Hangs a Thrush that sings loud, it has sung for three years:Poor Susan has pass'd by the spot, and has heardIn the silence of morning the song of the bird.
¶'Tis a note of enchantment; what ails her? She seesA mountain ascending, a vision of trees;Bright volumes of vapour through Lothbury glide,And a river flows on through the vale of Cheapside.
¶Green pastures she views in the midst of the daleDown which she so often has tripp'd with her pail;And a single small cottage, a nest like a dove's,The one only dwelling on earth that she loves.
¶She looks, and her heart is in heaven: but they fade,The mist and the river, the hill and the shade;The stream will not flow, and the hill will not rise,And the colours have all pass'd away from her eyes!
To TOUSSAINT L'OUVERTURE
¶TOUSSAINT, the most unhappy man of men!Whether the whistling Rustic tend his ploughWithin thy hearing, or thy head be nowPillowed in some deep dungeon's earless den;—O miserable Chieftain! where and whenWilt thou find patience? Yet die not; do thouWear rather in thy bonds a cheerful brow:Though fallen thyself, never to rise again,[656]Live, and take comfort. Thou hast left behindPowers that will work for thee; air, earth, and skies;There's not a breathing of the common windThat will forget thee; thou hast great allies;Thy friends are exultations, agonies,And love, and man's unconquerable mind.
Character of the Happy Warrior
¶WHO is the happy Warrior? Who is heWhat every man in arms should wish to be?—It is the generous Spirit, who, when broughtAmong the tasks of real life, hath wroughtUpon the plan that pleased his childish thought:Whose high endeavours are an inward lightThat makes the path before him always bright:Who, with a natural instinct to discernWhat knowledge can perform, is diligent to learn,Abides by this resolve, and stops not there,But makes his moral being his prime care;Who, doomed to go in company with Pain,And Fear, and Bloodshed, miserable train!Turns his necessity to glorious gain;In face of these doth exercise a powerWhich is our human nature's highest dower;Controls them and subdues, transmutes, bereavesOf their bad influence, and their good receives:By objects, which might force the soul to abateHer feeling, rendered more compassionate;Is placable—because occasions riseSo often that demand such sacrifice;More skilful in self-knowledge, even more pure,As tempted more; more able to endure,As more exposed to suffering and distress;Thence, also, more alive to tenderness.—'Tis he whose law is reason; who dependsUpon that law as on the best of friends;Whence, in a state where men are tempted stillTo evil for a guard against worse ill,And what in quality or act is bestDoth seldom on a right foundation rest,[657]He labours good on good to fix, and owesTo virtue every triumph that he knows:—Who, if he rise to station of command,Rises by open means; and there will standOn honourable terms, or else retire,And in himself possess his own desire;Who comprehends his trust, and to the sameKeeps faithful with a singleness of aim;And therefore does not stoop, nor lie in waitFor wealth, or honours, or for worldly state,Whom they must follow; on whose head must fall,Like showers of manna, if they come at all:Whose power shed round him in the common strife,Or mild concerns of ordinary life,A constant influence, a peculiar grace;But who, if he be called upon to faceSome awful moment to which Heaven has joinedGreat issues, good or bad for human kind,Is happy as a Lover; and attiredWith sudden brightness, like a Man inspired;And, through the heat of conflict, keeps the lawIn calmness made, and sees what he foresaw:Or if an unexpected call succeed,Come when it will, is equal to the need:—He who, though thus endued as with a senseAnd faculty for storm and turbulence,Is yet a Soul whose master-bias leansTo homefelt pleasures and to gentle scenes;Sweet images! which, whereso'er he be,Are at his heart; and such fidelityIt is his darling passion to approve;More brave for this, that he hath much to love:—'Tis, finally, the Man, who, lifted high,Conspicuous object in a Nation's eye,Or left unthought-of in obscurity,—Who, with a toward or untoward lot,Prosperous or adverse, to his wish or not,Plays, in the many games of life, that oneWhere what he most doth value must be won.Whom neither shape of danger can dismay,[658]Nor thought of tender happiness betray;Who, not content that former worth stand fast,Looks forward, persevering to the last,From well to better, daily self-surpast:Who, whether praise of him must walk the earthFor ever, and to noble deeds give birth,Or he must fall to sleep without his fame,And leave a dead unprofitable name,Finds comfort in himself and in his cause;And, while the mortal mist is gathering, drawsHis breath in confidence of Heaven's applause:This is the happy Warrior; this is heWhom every Man in arms should wish to be.
Resolution and Independence
¶THERE was a roaring in the wind all night;The rain came heavily and fell in floods;But now the sun is rising calm and bright;The birds are singing in the distant woods;Over his own sweet voice the Stock-dove broods;The Jay makes answer as the Magpie chatters;And all the air is filled with pleasant noise of waters.
¶All things that love the sun are out of doors;The sky rejoices in the morning's birth;The grass is bright with rain-drops;—on the moorsThe hare is running races in her mirth;And with her feet she from the plashy earthRaises a mist, that, glittering in the sun,Runs with her all the way, wherever she doth run.
¶I was a Traveller then upon the moor,I saw the hare that raced about with joy;I heard the woods and distant waters roar;Or heard them not, as happy as a boy;The pleasant season did my heart employ:My old remembrances went from me wholly;And all the ways of men, so vain and melancholy.[659]But, as it sometimes chanceth, from the mightOf joys in minds that can no further go,As high as we have mounted in delightIn our dejection do we sink as low;To me that morning did it happen so;And fears and fancies thick upon me came;Dim sadness—and blind thoughts, I knew not, nor couldname.