Poems by William Wordsworth

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"There!" said a Stripling, pointing with meet pride
'Tis said, that some have died for love:
I marvel how Nature could ever find space
There is a change and I am poor;
The Danish Conqueror, on his royal chair,
Farewell, thou little Nook of mountain-ground,
Tell me, ye Zephyrs! that unfold,
"Miserrimus," and neither name nor date,
Genius of Raphael! if thy wings
Fancy, who leads the pastimes of the glad,
A narrow girdle of rough stones and crags,
Lo! where the Moon along the sky
Lo! where the Moon along the sky
The sky is overcast
Where holy ground begins, unhallowed ends,
Part fenced by man, part by a rugged steep
Failing impartial measure to dispense
"Son of my buried Son, while thus thy hand"
A poet! He hath put his heart to school,
Art thou a Statist in the van
High deeds, O Germans, are to come from you!
List, the winds of March are blowing;
The little hedgerow birds,
A slumber did my spirit seal;
'Tis said that to the brow of yon fair hill
A volant Tribe of Bards on earth are found,
A Whirl-Blast from behind the hill
Among the dwellings framed by birds
"Thou look'st upon me, and dost fondly think,
What way does the wind come? What way does he go?
Child of loud-throated War! the mountain Stream
Hast thou then survived
I come, ye little noisy Crew,
Adieu, Rydalian Laurels! that have grown
Well may'st thou halt and gaze with brightening eye!
Advance, come forth from thy Tyrolean ground,
Aerial Rock, whose solitary brow
I thought of Thee, my partner and my guide,
Ah! where is Palafox? Nor tongue no pen
Not a breath of air
Alas! what boots the long laborious quest
The post-boy drove with fierce career,
Among all lovely things my Love had been;
Addressed To A Young Lady
Far from my dearest Friend, 'tis mine to rove
And is it among rude untutored Dales,
I hate that Andrew Jones; he'll breed
I have a boy of five years old;
The little hedgerow birds,
Shout, for a mighty Victory is won!
No more: the end is sudden and abrupt,
No more: the end is sudden and abrupt,
Where be the temples which, in Britain's Isle,
Beaumont! it was thy wish that I should rear
Broken in fortune, but in mind entire
Ah why deceive ourselves! by no mere fit
Hard task! exclaim the undisciplined, to lean
As leaves are to the tree whereon they grow
Here, where, of havoc tired and rash undoing,
Well have yon Railway Labourers to THIS ground
Bold words affirmed, in days when faith was strong
Avaunt all specious pliancy of mind
She had a tall man's height or more;
"Beloved Vale!" I said, "when I shall con
Blest Statesman He, whose Mind's unselfish will
Immured in Bothwell's Towers, at times the Brave
Immured in Bothwell's towers, at times the Brave
Brave Schill! by death delivered, take thy flight
It is not to be thought of that the Flood
Brook! whose society the Poet seeks,
By a blest Husband guided, Mary came
From early youth I ploughed the restless Main,
By Moscow self-devoted to a blaze
Why stand we gazing on the sparkling Brine,
The sun is couched, the sea-fowl gone to rest,
The linnet's warble, sinking towards a close,
Long time his pulse hath ceased to beat
Festivals have I seen that were not names:
Is it a reed that's shaken by the wind,
Call not the royal Swede unfortunate,
Calm is all nature as a resting wheel.
Calm is the fragrant air, and loth to lose
"As the cold aspect of a sunless way
We saw, but surely, in the motley crowd,
Ye shadowy Beings, that have rights and claims
Thanks for the lessons of this Spot fit school
By vain affections unenthralled,
Who is the happy Warrior? Who is he
Loving she is, and tractable, though wild;
Chatsworth! thy stately mansion, and the pride
Never enlivened with the liveliest ray
Dark and more dark the shades of evening fell;
"People! your chains are severing link by link;
Through shattered galleries, 'mid roofless halls,
If with old love of you, dear Hills! I share
I dropped my pen; and listened to the Wind
Fair Star of evening, Splendour of the west,
What mischief cleaves to unsubdued regret,
Clouds, lingering yet, extend in solid bars
One who was suffering tumult in his soul,
With each recurrence of this glorious morn
The wind is now thy organist; a clank
"This Land of Rainbows spanning glens whose walls,
Here, on our native soil, we breathe once more.
Jones! as from Calais southward you and I
Life with you Lambs, like day, is just begun,
Dogmatic Teachers, of the snow-white fur!
What need of clamorous bells, or ribands gay,
Earth has not anything to show more fair:
Not 'mid the world's vain objects that enslave
If these brief Records, by the Muses' art
While the Poor gather round, till the end of time
Oft have I seen, ere Time had ploughed my cheek,
Were there, below, a spot of holy ground
Surprised by joy, impatient as the Wind
Desire we past illusions to recall?
Despond who will, 'I' heard a voice exclaim,
"Not to the earth confined,
See Plutarch.
Dishonoured Rock and Ruin! that, by law
If there be prophets on whose spirits rest
Screams round the Arch-druid's brow the seamew white
Mercy and Love have met thee on thy road,
That heresies should strike (if truth be scanned
Darkness surrounds us; seeking, we are lost
Lament! for Diocletian's fiery sword
As, when a storm hath ceased, the birds regain
Watch, and be firm! for, soul-subduing vice,
Rise! they 'have' risen: of brave Aneurin ask
Nor wants the cause the panic-striking aid
'The oppression of the tumult, wrath and scorn
A bright-haired company of youthful slaves,
For ever hallowed be this morning fair,
How beautiful your presence, how benign,
But, to remote Northumbria's royal Hall,
"Man's life is like a Sparrow, mighty King!
Prompt transformation works the novel Lore;
Nor scorn the aid which Fancy oft doth lend
Ah, when the Body, round which in love we clung,
Lance, shield, and sword relinquished, at his side
Methinks that to some vacant hermitage
But what if One, through grove or flowery mead,
By such examples moved to unbought pains,
Woe to the Crown that doth the Cowl obey!
Not sedentary all: there are who roam
Behold a pupil of the monkish gown,
When thy great soul was freed from mortal chains,
Urged by Ambition, who with subtlest skill
A pleasant music floats along the Mere,
The woman-hearted Confessor prepares
Coldly we spake. The Saxons, overpowered
"And shall," the Pontiff asks, "profaneness flow
The turbaned Race are poured in thickening swarms
Unless to Peter's Chair the viewless wind
Redoubted King, of courage leonine,
Realms quake by turns: proud Arbitress of grace,
As with the Stream our voyage we pursue,
Black Demons hovering o'er his mitred head,
In series, 1821-22.
Part II. To the close of the Troubles in the Reign of Charles I
From false assumption rose, and, fondly hailed
"Here Man more purely lives, less oft doth fall,
Deplorable his lot who tills the ground,
As faith thus sanctified the warrior's crest
Record we too, with just and faithful pen,
And, not in vain embodied to the sight,
And what melodious sounds at times prevail!
Furl we the sails, and pass with tardy oars
Where long and deeply hath been fixed the root
Enough! for see, with dim association
But whence came they who for the Saviour Lord
Praised be the Rivers, from their mountain springs
Those had given earliest notice, as the lark
And what is Penance with her knotted thong;
Holy and heavenly Spirits as they are,
Men, who have ceased to reverence, soon defy,
Fear hath a hundred eyes that all agree
The Jung-Frau And The Fall Of The Rhine Near Schaffhausen,
Even such the contrast that, where'er we move,
Prejudged by foes determined not to spare,
Harp! could'st thou venture, on thy boldest string,
"What beast in wilderness or cultured field
Thus is the storm abated by the craft
Once more the Church is seized with sudden fear,
"Woe to you, Prelates! rioting in ease
Yet more, round many a Convent's blazing fire
Threats come which no submission may assuage,
The lovely Nun (submissive, but more meek
Yet many a Novice of the cloistral shade,
Ye, too, must fly before a chasing hand,
But, to outweigh all harm, the sacred Book,
Mother! whose virgin bosom was uncrost
Not utterly unworthy to endure
Deep is the lamentation! Not alone
Grant, that by this unsparing hurricane
For what contend the wise? for nothing less
"Sweet is the holiness of Youth" so felt
The tears of man in various measure gush
The saintly Youth has ceased to rule, discrowned
How fast the Marian death-list is unrolled!
Methinks that I could trip o'er heaviest soil,
Outstretching flameward his upbraided hand
Aid, glorious Martyrs, from your fields of light,
Scattering, like birds escaped the fowler's net,
Hail, Virgin Queen! o'er many an envious bar
Part III. From the Restoration to the Present Times.
Last night, without a voice, that Vision spake
Who comes with rapture greeted, and caressed
Yet Truth is keenly sought for, and the wind
Calm as an under-current, strong to draw
There are no colours in the fairest sky
Nor shall the eternal roll of praise reject
When Alpine Vales threw forth a suppliant cry,
A voice, from long-expecting thousands sent,
Ungrateful Country, if thou e'er forget
A sudden conflict rises from the swell
Down a swift Stream, thus far, a bold design
I. The Pilgrim Fathers
II. Continued
Yes, if the intensities of hope and fear
Mine ear has rung, my spirit sunk subdued,
The encircling ground, in native turf arrayed,
Open your gates, ye everlasting Piles!
Tax not the royal Saint with vain expense,
What awful perspective! while from our sight
They dreamt not of a perishable home
Glory to God! and to the Power who came
Why sleeps the future, as a snake enrolled,
III Concluded. American Episcopacy
Bishops and Priests, blessed are ye, if deep
As star that shines dependent upon star
A genial hearth, a hospitable board,
Dear be the Church, that, watching o'er the needs
Father! to God himself we cannot give
From Little down to Least, in due degree,
The Young-ones gathered in from hill and dale,
I saw a Mother's eye intensely bent
Shun not this Rite, neglected, yea abhorred,
By chain yet stronger must the Soul be tied:
The Vested Priest before the Altar stands;
Woman! the Power who left his throne on high,
The Sabbath bells renew the inviting peal;
To kneeling Worshipers no earthly floor
From the Baptismal hour, thro' weal and woe,
Closing the sacred Book which long has fed
Would that our scrupulous Sires had dared to leave
From low to high doth dissolution climb,
Be this the chosen site; the virgin sod,
Monastic Domes! following my downward way,
Even while I speak, the sacred roofs of France
Thus all things lead to Charity secured
But liberty, and triumphs on the Main,
With copious eulogy in prose or rhyme
Lulled by the sound of pastoral bells,
O for a dirge! But why complain?
I was thy neighbour once, thou rugged Pile!
Fair Ellen Irwin, when she sate
Emperors and Kings, how oft have temples rung
England! the time is come when thou should'st wean
O friend! I know not which way I must look
Milton! thou shouldst be living at this hour:
Great men have been among us; hands that penn’d
It is not to be thought of that the flood
When I have borne in memory what has tamed
Far from our home by Grasmere's quiet Lake,
By playful smiles, (alas! too oft
Weep not, beloved Friends! nor let the air
Perhaps some needful service of the State
O thou who movest onward with a mind
There never breathed a man who, when his life
Pause, courteous Spirit! Balbi supplicates
True is it that Ambrosio Salinero
Destined to war from very infancy
O flower of all that springs from gentle blood,
Not without heavy grief of heart did He
Ere with cold beads of midnight dew
Even as a dragon's eye that feels the stress
Giordano, verily thy Pencil's skill
Why, William, on that old gray stone,
When first, descending from the moorlands,
When first, descending from the moorlands,
Dear native regions, I foretell,
Fair Prime of life! were it enough to gild
The Lovers took within this ancient grove
"Hign bliss is only for a higher state,"
Dear Reliques! from a pit of vilest mould
Yet, yet, Biscayans! we must meet our Foes
The Land we from our fathers had in trust,
A barking sound the Shepherd hears,
Untouched through all severity of cold;
Harmonious Powers with Nature work
Hope smiled when your nativity was cast,
That is work of waste and ruin
Forth from a jutting ridge, around whose base
As It Appeared To Enthusiasts At Its Commencement. Reprinted From "The Friend"
From the dark chambers of dejection freed,
Yes! hope may with my strong desire keep pace,
No mortal object did these eyes behold
Who weeps for strangers? Many wept
Yet are they here the same unbroken knot
Glad sight wherever new with old
Go back to antique ages, if thine eyes
The soaring lark is blest as proud
A True Story
At early dawn, or rather when the air
Among the dwellers in the silent fields
Great men have been among us; hands that penned
'We' have not passed into a doleful City,
Grief, thou hast lost an ever-ready friend
Hail Twilight, sovereign of one peaceful hour!
Hail, Zaragoza! If with unwet eye
Hark! 'tis the Thrush, undaunted, undeprest,
Here stood an Oak, that long had borne affixed
The Knight had ridden down from Wensley Moor
Her only pilot the soft breeze, the boat
Here pause: the poet claims at least this praise,
See what gay wild flowers deck this earth-built Cot,
"Who but hails the sight with pleasure
Of mortal parents is the Hero born
Homeward we turn. Isle of Columba's Cell,
How beautiful the Queen of Night, on high
How rich that forehead's calm expanse!
How sweet it is, when mother Fancy rocks
What though the Accused, upon his own appeal
I Grieved for Buonaparte, with a vain
I grieved for Buonaparte, with a vain
I heard (alas! 'twas only in a dream)
I know an aged Man constrained to dwell
I know an aged Man constrained to dwell
I travelled among unknown men,
I wandered lonely as a cloud
I watch, and long have watched, with calm regret
If this great world of joy and pain
If thou indeed derive thy light from Heaven,
Discourse was deemed Man's noblest attribute,
In due observance of an ancient rite,
In my mind's eye a Temple, like a cloud
A point of life between my Parent's dust,
Ranging the heights of Scawfell or Blackcomb,
Since risen from ocean, ocean to defy,
Six thousand veterans practised in war's game,
Tradition, be thou mute! Oblivion, throw
Wild Redbreast! hadst thou at Jemima's lip
In these fair vales hath many a Tree
In Bruges town is many a street
On his morning rounds the Master
We can endure that He should waste our lands,
In Calling Forth and Strengthening the Imagination
Ye vales and hills whose beauty hither drew
Oft is the medal faithful to its trust
Hopes what are they? Beads of morning
Pause, Traveller! whosoe'er thou be
Hast thou seen, with flash incessant,
Troubled long with warring notions
Not seldom, clad in radiant vest,
Ye Lime-trees, ranged before this hallowed Urn,
Beneath yon eastern ridge, the craggy bound,
If thou in the dear love of some one Friend
The embowering rose, the acacia, and the pine,
Rude is this Edifice, and Thou hast seen
Stranger! this hillock of mis-shapen stones
Stranger! this hillock of mis-shapen stones
Tax not the royal Saint with vain expense,
Intent on gathering wool from hedge and brake
On to Iona! What can she afford
How sad a welcome! To each voyager
Is there a power that can sustain and cheer
A youth too certain of his power to wade
Did pangs of grief for lenient time too keen,
It is a beauteous evening, calm and free,
It is no Spirit who from heaven hath flown,
It is not to be thought of that the Flood
It was an April morning: fresh and clear
Fame tells of groves, from England far away,
Smile of the Moon! for I so name
"With sacrifice before the rising morn
Nay, Traveller! rest. This lonely Yew-tree stands
Those breathing Tokens of your kind regard,
Loud is the Vale! the Voice is up
Five years have past; five summers, with the length
Come ye who, if (which Heaven avert!) the Land
Beguiled into forgetfulness of care
"And has the Sun his flaming chariot driven
I heard a thousand blended notes,
Lady! a Pen (perhaps with thy regard,
Upon Hearing Of The Death Of The Late Vicar Of Kendal
How richly glows the water's breast
Milton! thou shouldst be living at this hour:
Look now on that Adventurer who hath paid
I met Louisa in the shade,
You call it, "Love lies bleeding," so you may,
There's more in words than I can teach:
Lowther! in thy majestic Pile are seen
Oft I had heard of Lucy Gray,
Strange fits of passion have I known:
She dwelt among the untrodden ways
I travell’d among unknown men,
Three years she grew in sun and shower;
A slumber did my spirit seal;
Lyre! though such power do in thy magic live
Was the aim frustrated by force or guile,
Mark the concentred hazels that enclose
Dear to the Loves, and to the Graces vowed,
Departed Child! I could forget thee once
If Nature, for a favourite child,
Ye Apennines! with all your fertile vales
I saw far off the dark top of a Pine
Is this, ye Gods, the Capitolian Hill?
Those old credulities, to nature dear,
Days passed and Monte Calvo would not clear
Companion! by whose buoyant Spirit cheered,
Complacent Fictions were they, yet the same
Forbear to deem the Chronicler unwise,
They who have seen the noble Roman's scorn
Long has the dew been dried on tree and lawn:
Near Anio's stream, I spied a gentle Dove
Forgive, illustrious Country! these deep sighs,
When here with Carthage Rome to conflict came,
For action born, existing to be tried,
List 'twas the Cuckoo. O with what delight
Under the shadow of a stately Pile,
Grieve for the Man who hither came bereft,
The world forsaken, all its busy cares
What aim had they, the Pair of Monks, in size
"Thick as autumnal leaves that strew the brooks
The Baptist might have been ordained to cry
Rapt above earth by power of one fair face,
Eternal Lord! eased of a cumbrous load,
Ye Trees! whose slender roots entwine
See, where his difficult way that Old Man wins
Fair Land! Thee all men greet with joy; how few,
As indignation mastered grief, my tongue
Too frail to keep the lofty vow
"How Wallace fought for Scotland, left the name
What He who, 'mid the kindred throng
And is this, Yarrow? 'This' the Stream
Now we are tired of boisterous joy,
The gentlest Shade that walked Elysian plains
Too frail to keep the lofty vow
'Mid crowded obelisks and urns
Child of loud-throated War! the mountain Stream
Sweet Highland Girl, a very shower
"What, you are stepping westward?" "Yea."
Behold her, single in the field,
A Famous man is Robin Hood,
Degenerate Douglas! oh, the unworthy Lord!
From Stirling castle we had seen
Age! twine thy brows with fresh spring flowers,
Fly, some kind Harbinger, to Grasmere-dale!
Now we are tired of boisterous joy,
In this still place, remote from men,
Dear Fellow-travellers! think not that the Muse,
'Tis said, fantastic ocean doth enfold
Bruges I saw attired with golden light
The Spirit of Antiquity, enshrined
A winged Goddess, clothed in vesture wrought
Jesu! bless our slender Boat,
What lovelier home could gentle Fancy choose?
Was it to disenchant, and to undo,
O for the help of Angels to complete
Amid this dance of objects sadness steals
Not, like his great Compeers, indignantly
Uttered by whom, or how inspired designed
From the fierce aspect of this River, throwing
Near The Outlet Of The Lake Of Thun
Doomed as we are our native dust
In Presence Of The Painted Tower Of Tell, At Altorf.
O life! without thy chequered scene
"What know we of the Blest above
For gentlest uses, oft-times Nature takes
Meek Virgin Mother, more benign
By antique Fancy trimmed, though lowly, bred
I listen, but no faculty of mine
Dread hour! when, upheaved by war's sulphurous blast,
Seen From The Lake Of Lugano
Vallombrosa! I longed in thy shadiest wood
By Leonardo Da Vinci, In The Refectory Of The Convent Of Maria Della Grazia - Milan.
High on her speculative tower
Ambition, following down this far-famed slope
What beast of chase hath broken from the cover?
To appease the Gods; or public thanks to yield;
Lulled by the sound of pastoral bells,
Lo! in the burning west, the craggy nape
Why cast ye back upon the Gallic shore,
Where be the noisy followers of the game
From the Pier's head, musing, and with increase
Is then the final page before me spread,
A pen, to register; a key
Methought I saw the footsteps of a throne
If from the public way you turn your steps
'Night Speaks'
The minstrels played their Christmas tune
'A poet'! He hath put his heart to school,
The most alluring clouds that mount the sky
Feel for the wrongs to universal ken
Portentous change when History can appear
Who ponders National events shall find
Long-favoured England! be not thou misled
Men of the Western World! in Fate's dark book
Lo! where she stands fixed in a saint-like trance,
Stretched on the dying Mother's lap, lies dead
Most sweet it is with unuplifted eyes
Most sweet it is with unuplifted eyes
From low to high doth dissolution climb,
My heart leaps up when I behold
Inland, within a hollow vale, I stood;
Not in the lucid intervals of life
Not Love, not War, nor the tumultuous swell,
How clear, how keen, how marvellously bright
Even so for me a Vision sanctified
Another year! another deadly blow!
Now that all hearts are glad, all faces bright,
The cattle crowding round this beverage clear
The floods are roused, and will not soon be weary;
Nuns fret not at their convent's narrow room;
It seems a day
O Nightingale! thou surely art
Intrepid sons of Albion! not by you
The Bard, whose soul is meek as dawning day,
One might believe that natural miseries
These times strike monied worldlings with dismay:
When, looking on the present face of things,
- Carmina possumus
From Recollections of Early Childhood
Jam non consilio bonus, sed more eo perductus, ut non tantum
While from the purpling east departs
The child is father of the man;
Oh what a Wreck! how changed in mien and speech!
A Roman Master stands on Grecian ground,
The Sun, that seemed so mildly to retire,
We gaze, nor grieve to think that we must die,
By Art's bold privilege Warrior and War-horse stand
The feudal Keep, the bastions of Cohorn,
The captive Bird was gone; to cliff or moor
Frowns are on every Muse's face,
When haughty expectations prostrate lie,
Behold an emblem of our human mind
Ward of the Law! dread Shadow of a King!
A trouble, not of clouds, or weeping rain,
A trouble, not of clouds, or weeping rain,
A book came forth of late, called PETER BELL;
Once did She hold the gorgeous east in fee;
It was a 'moral' end for which they fought;
Arran! a single-crested Teneriffe,
Is then no nook of English ground secure
(The Final Submission Of The Tyrolese)
Oh! gather whencesoe'er ye safely may
Though I beheld at first with blank surprise
Say, ye far-traveled clouds, far-seeing hills
"Late, late yestreen I saw the new moone
Shame on this faithless heart! that could allow
Ye sacred Nurseries of blooming Youth!
O'er the wide earth, on mountain and on plain,
O’erweening Statesmen have full long relied
Pelion and Ossa flourish side by side,
What's in a 'Name'?
Amid a fertile region green with wood
Amid a fertile region green with wood
Now when the primrose makes a splendid show,
An Orpheus! an Orpheus! yes, Faith may grow bold,
In desultory walk through orchard grounds,
Presentiments! they judge not right
Forth rushed from Envy sprung and Self-conceit,
Proud were ye, Mountains, when, in times of old,
Pure element of waters! wheresoe'er
The imperial Stature, the colossal stride,
Glide gently, thus for ever glide,
Glide gently, thus for ever glide,
The fields which with covetous spirit we sold,
There was a roaring in the wind all night;
Doubling and doubling with laborious walk,
If the whole weight of what we think and feel,
How profitless the relics that we cull,
There's George Fisher, Charles Fleming, and Reginald Shore,
Sylph was it? or a Bird more bright
When Ruth was left half desolate,
Say, what is Honour? 'Tis the finest sense
Scorn not the Sonnet; Critic, you have frowned,
We had a female Passenger who came
The sylvan slopes with corn-clad fields
While not a leaf seems faded; while the fields,
Departing summer hath assumed
Where are they now, those wanton Boys?
She dwelt among the untrodden ways
She was a Phantom of delight
February 1816
With an incident in which he was concerned
Six months to six years added he remained
So fair, so sweet, withal so sensitive,
Soft as a cloud is yon blue Ridge, the Mere
Oft I had heard of Lucy Gray:
High in the breathless Hall the Minstrel sate,
Swiftly turn the murmuring wheel!
Though the torrents from their fountains
Why should we weep or mourn, Angelic boy,
Affections lose their object; Time brings forth
It is not to be thought of that the Flood
She wept. Life's purple tide began to flow
While poring Antiquarians search the ground
When human touch (as monkish books attest)
Why art thou silent! Is thy love a plant
Four fiery steeds impatient of the rein
"Miss not the occasion: by the forelock take
Said Secrecy to Cowardice and Fraud,
This Spot, at once unfolding sight so fair
Though to give timely warning and deter
Our bodily life, some plead, that life the shrine
Ah, think how one compelled for life to abide
See the Condemned alone within his cell
Yes, though He well may tremble at the sound
The formal World relaxes her cold chain
Tenderly do we feel by Nature's law
The Roman Consul doomed his sons to die
Is 'Death', when evil against good has fought
Not to the object specially designed,
Ye brood of conscience Spectres! that frequent
Before the world had past her time of youth
Fit retribution, by the moral code
Desponding Father! mark this altered bough,
They seek, are sought; to daily battle led,
Why art thou silent! Is thy love a plant
Once I could hail (howe'er serene the sky)
If Life were slumber on a bed of down,
Within our happy Castle there dwelt One
What crowd is this? what have we here! we must not pass it by;
Motions and Means, on land and sea at war
"What, you are stepping westward?" "Yea."
Strange fits of passion have I known:
By their floating mill,
Enough of garlands, of the Arcadian crook,
The gentlest Poet, with free thoughts endowed,
The forest huge of ancient Caledon
Tranquility! the sovereign aim wert thou
Surprised by joy, impatient as the Wind
Surprised by joy, impatient as the Wind
Avon, a precious, an immortal name!
When Love was born of heavenly line,
Here on their knees men swore: the stones were black,
Fair Ellen Irwin, when she sate
"These Tourists, heaven preserve us! needs must live
"How disappeared he?" Ask the newt and toad;
"Up, Timothy, up with your staff and away!
Before I see another day,
The days are cold, the nights are long,
The Crescent-moon, the Star of Love,
Wouldst thou be taught, when sleep has taken flight,
I wandered lonely as a cloud
Not to the clouds, not to the cliff, he flew;
Shade of Caractacus, if spirits love
Well sang the Bard who called the grave, in strains
While Merlin paced the Cornish sands,
Once in a lonely hamlet I sojourned
The pensive Sceptic of the lonely vale
"Farewell, deep Valley, with thy one rude House,
'Twas summer, and the sun had mounted high:
Here closed the Tenant of that lonely vale
"To every Form of being is assigned,"
In days of yore how fortunately fared
While thus from theme to theme the Historian passed,
Hail to the crown by Freedom shaped to gird
A humming bee a little tinkling rill
Something must now be said of this poem, but chiefly, as has been done through the whole of these notes, with reference to my personal friends, and especially to her who has perseveringly taken them down from my dictation. Towards the close of the fi
The fairest, brightest, hues of ether fade;
'Tis not for the unfeeling, the falsely refined,
"What is good for a bootless bene?"
Among a grave fraternity of Monks,
The peace which others seek they find;
A Conversation
Hunger, and sultry heat, and nipping blast
Humanity, delighting to behold
Oh! pleasant exercise of hope and joy!
Abruptly paused the strife; the field throughout
That happy gleam of vernal eyes,
Beneath these fruit-tree boughs that shed
Those silver clouds collected round the sun
If to Tradition faith be due,
If to Tradition faith be due,
If to Tradition faith be due,
Ere the Brothers through the gateway
'Tis eight o'clock, a clear March night,
The valley rings with mirth and joy;
Unquiet Childhood here by special grace
The Voice of song from distant lands shall call
That way look, my Infant, lo!
Up to the throne of God is borne
The leaves that rustled on this oak-crowned hill,
Let us quit the leafy arbor,
The martial courage of a day is vain,
The massy Ways, carried across these heights
A weight of awe, not easy to be borne,
A month, sweet Little-ones, is past
High on a broad unfertile tract of forest-skirted Down,
Oak of Guernica! Tree of holier power
I saw an aged Beggar in my walk;
The dew was falling fast, the stars began to blink;
The pibroch's note, discountenanced or mute;
A Pilgrim, when the summer day
Where towers are crushed, and unforbidden weeds
As often as I murmur here
Just as those final words were penned, the sun broke out in power,
The power of Armies is a visible thing,
FRANCE (concluded)
SCHOOL-TIME (continued)
The following Poem was commenced in the beginning of the year 1799, and completed in the summer of 1805.
A Rock there is whose homely front
My heart leaps up when I behold
Driven in by Autumn's sharpening air
Art thou the bird whom Man loves best,
At the corner of Wood Street, when daylight appears,
Not envying Latian shades, if yet they throw
Child of the clouds! remote from every taint
How shall I paint thee? Be this naked stone
Take, cradled Nursling of the mountain, take
The Minstrels played their Christmas tune
Sole listener, Duddon! to the breeze that played
Ere yet our course was graced with social trees
"Change me, some God, into that breathing rose!"
What aspect bore the Man who roved or fled,
Not so that Pair whose youthful spirits dance
No fiction was it of the antique age:
On, loitering Muse, the swift Stream chides us on!
Hail to the fields, with Dwellings sprinkled o'er,
O Mountain Stream! the Shepherd and his Cot
The struggling Rill insensibly is grown
My frame hath often trembled with delight
From this deep chasm, where quivering sunbeams play
Such fruitless questions may not long beguile
A dark plume fetch me from yon blasted yew,
Sacred Religion! "mother of form and fear,"
The old inventive Poets, had they seen,
Whence that low voice? A whisper from the heart,
A love-lorn Maid, at some far-distant time,
Sad thoughts, avaunt! partake we their blithe cheer
Mid-noon is past; upon the sultry mead
No record tells of lance opposed to lance,
Methinks 'twere no unprecedented feat
Return, Content! for fondly I pursued,
Fallen, and diffused into a shapeless heap,
I rose while yet the cattle, heat-opprest,
Who swerves from innocence, who makes divorce
The Kirk of Ulpha to the pilgrim's eye
Not hurled precipitous from steep to steep;
But here no cannon thunders to the gale;
I thought of Thee, my partner and my guide,
Eden! till now thy beauty had I viewed
While Merlin paced the Cornish sands,
One morning (raw it was and wet
Or, The Solitude Of Binnorie
The Shepherd, looking eastward, softly said
Brook and road
Behold her, single in the field,
List, ye who pass by Lyulph's Tower
Nuns fret not at their convent’s narrow room,
Scorn not the Sonnet; Critic, you have frown’d,
Behold, within the leafy shade,
The stars are mansions built by Nature's hand,
The sun has long been set,
Up! up! my Friend, and quit your books;
Show me the noblest Youth of present time,
There’s not a nook within this solemn Pass,
We walked along, while bright and red
O now that the genius of Bewick were mine,
The unremitting voice of nightly streams
Mother! whose virgin bosom was uncrost
'Tis spent this burning day of June!
Thus they, with freaks of proud delight,
IF Wytheburn's modest House of prayer,
Right gladly had the horses stirred,
High on a point of rugged ground
From Bolton's old monastic tower
'Tis night: in silence looking down,
The Harp in lowliness obeyed;
"Powers there are
Why comes not Francis? From the doleful City
Now joy for you who from the towers
In trellised shed with clustering roses gay,
The imperial Consort of the Fairy-king
[In the vale of Grasmere, by the side of an old highway
'Tis gone, with old belief and dream
The world is too much with us; late and soon,
There is a bondage worse, far worse, to bear
There is a little unpretending Rill
'There is a pleasure in poetic pains
There is an Eminence, of these our hills
There was a Boy; ye knew him well, ye cliffs
They called Thee Merry England, in old time;
This Lawn, a carpet all alive
Those words were uttered as in pensive mood
Through narrow be that old Man's cares, and near,
Though the bold wings of Poesy affect
Two Voices are there; one is of the sea,
Flattered with promise of escape
Three years she grew in sun and shower,
'Tis He whose yester-evening's high disdain
Such age how beautiful! O Lady bright,
Happy the feeling from the bosom thrown
Let other bards of angels sing,
Look at the fate of summer flowers,
O Dearer far than light and life are dear,
Stay near me, do not take thy flight!
I've watched you now a full half-hour;
Small service is true service while it lasts:
Pastor and Patriot! at whose bidding rise
Sweet Highland Girl, a very shower
Fair Lady! can I sing of flowers
All praise the Likeness by thy skill portrayed;
Stay, little cheerful Robin! stay,
Let thy wheel-barrow alone
Up with me! up with me into the clouds!
Ethereal minstrel! pilgrim of the sky!
Lone Flower, hemmed in with snows and white as they
Dear Child of Nature, let them rail!
High is our calling, Friend! Creative Art
Not in the mines beyond the western main,
"'A little onward lend thy guiding hand
Keep for the Young the impassioned smile
The star which comes at close of day to shine
Amid the smoke of cities did you pass
Lady! the songs of Spring were in the grove
A stream to mingle with your favorite Dee
Though many suns have risen and set
It is the first mild day of March:
Rotha, my Spiritual Child! this head was grey
Excuse is needless when with love sincere
Far from our home by Grasmere's quiet Lake,
A flock of sheep that leisurely pass by,
Fond words have oft been spoken to thee, Sleep!
O gentle sleep! do they belong to thee,
Go, faithful Portrait! and where long hath knelt
Army of Clouds! ye winged Hosts in troops
O blithe New-comer! I have heard,
Bright Flower! whose home is everywhere,
In youth from rock to rock I went
Sweet Flower! belike one day to have
"Her divine skill taught me this,
"Magistratus indicat virum"
A stream, to mingle with your favourite Dee,
On Seeing The Foundation Preparing For The Erection Of Rydal Chapel, Westmoreland.
Lady! I rifled a Parnassian Cave
Calvert! it must not be unheard by them
Wanderer! that stoop'st so low, and com'st so near
Queen of the stars! so gentle, so benign,
Days undefiled by luxury or sloth,
What strong allurement draws, what spirit guides,
Though joy attend Thee orient at the birth
Bard of the Fleece, whose skilful genius made
Enlightened Teacher, gladly from thy hand
Among the mountains were we nursed, loved Stream
Greta, what fearful listening! when huge stones
(Ode to Lycoris. May 1817)
Enough of climbing toil! Ambition treads
Pleasures newly found are sweet
With little here to do or see
Pansies, lilies, kingcups, daisies,
Spade! with which Wilkinson hath tilled his lands,
The prayers I make will then be sweet indeed
How art thou named? In search of what strange land
Toussaint, the most unhappy man of men!
"Tum porro puer, ut saevis projectus ab undis
Inmate of a mountain-dwelling,
Lie here, without a record of thy worth,
Once on the top of Tynwald's formal mound
Soon did he Almighty Giver of all rest
Who rashly strove thy Image to portray?
Reluctant call it was; the rite delayed;
When, far and wide, swift as the beams of morn
Departing summer hath assumed
Praised be the Art whose subtle power could stay
Serving no haughty Muse, my hands have here
O happy time of youthful lovers (thus
This Height a ministering Angel might select:
Wansfell! this Household has a favoured lot,
Mark how the feathered tenants of the flood,
A simple child,
'Weak is the will of Man, his judgment blind;
What heavenly smiles! O Lady mine
What if our numbers barely could defy
When I have borne in memory what has tamed
When Philoctetes in the Lemnian isle
When Severn's sweeping flood had overthrown
When, to the attractions of the busy world,
Where lies the Land to which yon Ship must go?
Where lies the truth? has Man, in wisdom's creed,
While Anna's peers and early playmates tread,
While beams of orient light shoot wide and high,
Who but is pleased to watch the moon on high
Who fancied what a pretty sight
Why should the Enthusiast, journeying through this Isle
"Why, Minstrel, these untuneful murmurings
With how sad steps, O Moon, thou climb'st the sky,
With ships the sea was sprinkled far and nigh,
To a good Man of most dear memory
Oft have I caught, upon a fitful breeze,
A plague on your languages, German and Norse!
O Friend! I know not which way I must look
The cock is crowing,
The Cock is crowing,
Calm is all nature as a resting wheel.
While flowing rivers yield a blameless sport,
Rude is this Edifice, and Thou hast seen
Stay, bold Adventurer; rest awhile thy limbs
The gallant Youth, who may have gained,
See the various Poems the scene of which is laid upon the banks of the Yarrow; in particular, the exquisite Ballad of Hamilton beginning
And is this Yarrow? This the stream
Yes! thou art fair, yet be not moved
Yes, it was the mountain Echo,
There is a Yew-tree, pride of Lorton Vale,
Young England, what is then become of Old