Volume 8 — 1842
Reading edition
The poems of 1842 include The Floating Island, The Norman Boy, The Poet’s Dream, Airey-Force Valley, the lines To the Clouds, and a number of miscellaneous sonnets.—Ed.
“INTENT ON GATHERING WOOL FROM HEDGE AND BRAKE”
Composed 8th March 1842.—Published 1842
[Suggested by a conversation with Miss Fenwick, who along with her sister had, during their childhood, found much delight in such gatherings for the purposes here alluded to.—I.F.]
One of the “Miscellaneous Sonnets.”—Ed.
Intent on gathering wool from hedge and brake Yon busy Little-ones rejoice that soon A poor old Dame will bless them for the boon: Great is their glee while flake they add to flake With rival earnestness; far other strife 5 Than will hereafter move them, if they make Pastime their idol, give their day of life To pleasure snatched for reckless pleasure’s sake. Can pomp and show allay one heart-born grief? Pains which the World inflicts can she requite? 10 Not for an interval however brief; The silent thoughts that search for stedfast light, Love from her depths,[221] and Duty in her might, And Faith—these only yield secure relief. March 8th, 1842.
PRELUDE, Prefixed to the Volume entitled “Poems chiefly of Early and Late Years”
Composed March 26, 1842.—Published 1842
[These verses were begun while I was on a visit to my son John at Brigham, and were finished at Rydal. As the contents of the volume, to which they are now prefixed, will be assigned to their respective classes when my poems shall be collected in one volume, I should be at a loss where with propriety to place this prelude, being too restricted in its bearing to serve for a preface for the whole. The lines towards the conclusion allude to the discontents then fomented through the country by the agitators of the Anti-Corn-Law League: the particular causes of such troubles are transitory, but disposition to excite and liability to be excited are nevertheless permanent, and therefore proper objects for the poet’s regard.—I.F.]
One of the “Miscellaneous Poems.”—Ed.
In desultory walk through orchard grounds, Or some deep chestnut grove, oft have I paused The while a Thrush, urged rather than restrained By gusts of vernal storm, attuned his song To his own genial instincts; and was heard 5 (Though not without some plaintive tones between) To utter, above showers of blossom swept From tossing boughs, the promise of a calm, Which the unsheltered traveller might receive With thankful spirit. The descant, and the wind 10 That seemed to play with it in love or scorn, Encouraged and endeared the strain of words That haply flowed from me, by fits of silence Impelled to livelier pace. But now, my Book! Charged with those lays, and others of like mood, 15 Or loftier pitch if higher rose the theme, Go, single—yet aspiring to be joined With thy Forerunners that through many a year Have faithfully prepared each other’s way— Go forth upon a mission best fulfilled 20 When and wherever, in this changeful world, Power hath been given to please for higher ends Than pleasure only; gladdening to prepare For wholesome sadness, troubling to refine, Calming to raise; and, by a sapient Art 25 Diffused through all the mysteries of our Being, Softening the toils and pains that have not ceased To cast their shadows on our mother Earth Since the primeval doom. Such is the grace Which, though unsued for, fails not to descend 30 With heavenly inspiration; such the aim That Reason dictates; and, as even the wish Has virtue in it, why should hope to me Be wanting that sometimes, where fancied ills Harass the mind and strip from off the bowers 35 Of private life their natural pleasantness, A Voice—devoted to the love whose seeds Are sown in every human breast, to beauty Lodged within compass of the humblest sight, To cheerful intercourse with wood and field, 40 And sympathy with man’s substantial griefs— Will not be heard in vain? And in those days When unforeseen distress spreads far and wide Among a People mournfully cast down, Or into anger roused by venal words 45 In recklessness flung out to overturn The judgment, and divert the general heart From mutual good—some strain of thine, my Book! Caught at propitious intervals, may win Listeners who not unwillingly admit 50 Kindly emotion tending to console And reconcile; and both with young and old Exalt the sense of thoughtful gratitude For benefits that still survive, by faith In progress, under laws divine, maintained. 55 Rydal Mount, March 26, 1842.
FLOATING ISLAND
Published 1842
These lines are by the Author of the Address to the Wind, etc., published heretofore along with my Poems. Those to a Redbreast are by a deceased female Relative.—W.W. 1842.
[My poor sister takes a pleasure in repeating these verses, which she composed not long before the beginning of her sad illness.—I.F.]
One of the “Miscellaneous Poems.”—Ed.
Harmonious Powers with Nature work On sky, earth, river, lake, and sea; Sunshine and cloud, whirlwind and breeze, All in one duteous task agree. Once did I see a slip of earth 5 (By throbbing waves long undermined) Loosed from its hold; how, no one knew, But all might see it float, obedient to the wind; Might see it, from the mossy shore Dissevered, float upon the Lake, 10 Float with its crest of trees adorned On which the warbling birds their pastime take. Food, shelter, safety, there they find; There berries ripen, flowerets bloom; There insects live their lives, and die; 15 A peopled world it is; in size a tiny room. And thus through many seasons’ space This little Island may survive; But Nature, though we mark her not, Will take away, may cease to give. 20 Perchance when you are wandering forth Upon some vacant sunny day, Without an object, hope, or fear, Thither your eyes may turn—the Isle is passed away; Buried beneath the glittering Lake, 25 Its place no longer to be found; Yet the lost fragments shall remain To fertilize some other ground. D. W.
There is one of these floating islands in Loch Lomond in Argyll, another in Loch Dochart in Perthshire, and another in Loch Treig in Inverness. Their origin is probably due to a mass of peat being detached from the shore, and floated out into the lake. A mass of vegetable matter, however, has sometimes risen from the bottom of the water, and assumed for a time all the appearance of an island. This has been probably due to an accumulation of gas, within or under the detached portion, produced by the decay of vegetation in extremely hot weather.
Southey, in an unpublished letter to Sir George Beaumont (10th July 1824), thus describes the Island at Derwentwater: “You will have seen by the papers that the Floating Island has made its appearance. It sank again last week, when some heavy rains had raised the lake four feet. By good fortune Professor Sedgewick happened to be in Keswick, and examined it in time. Where he probed it a thin layer of mud lies upon a bed of peat, which is six feet thick, and this rests upon a stratum of fine white clay,—the same I believe which Miss Barker found in Borrowdale when building her unlucky house. Where the gas is generated remains yet to be discovered, but when the peat is filled with this gas, it separates from the clay and becomes buoyant. There must have been a considerable convulsion when this took place, for a rent was made in the bottom of the lake, several feet in depth, and not less than fifty yards long, on each side of which the bottom rose and floated. It was a pretty sight to see the small fry exploring this new made strait and darting at the bubbles which rose as the Professor was probing the bank. The discharge of air was considerable here, when a pole was thrust down. But at some distance where the rent did not extend, the bottom had been heaved up in a slight convexity, sloping equally in an inclined plane all round: and there, when the pole was introduced, a rush like a jet followed, as it was withdrawn. The thing is the more curious, because as yet no example of it is known to have been observed in any other place.”
Another of these detached islands used to float about in Esthwaite Water, and was carried from side to side of the pool at the north end of the lake—the same pool which the swans, described in The Prelude, used to frequent. This island had a few bushes on it: but it became stranded some time ago. One of the old natives of Hawkeshead described the process of trying to float it off again, by tying ropes to the bushes on its surface,—an experiment which was unsuccessful. Compare the reference to the Floating or “Buoyant” Island of Derwentwater, and to the “mossy islet” of Esthwaite, in Wordsworth’s Guide through the District of the Lakes.—Ed.
“THE CRESCENT-MOON, THE STAR OF LOVE”
Published 1842
One of the “Evening Voluntaries.”—Ed.
The Crescent-moon, the Star of Love, Glories of evening, as ye there are seen With but a span of sky between— Speak one of you, my doubts remove, Which is the attendant Page and which the Queen?
“A POET!—HE HATH PUT HIS HEART TO SCHOOL”
Published 1842
[I was impelled to write this Sonnet by the disgusting frequency with which the word artistical, imported with other impertinences from the Germans, is employed by writers of the present day: for artistical let them substitute artificial, and the poetry written on this system, both at home and abroad, will be for the most part much better characterised.—I.F.]
One of the “Miscellaneous Sonnets.”—Ed.
A Poet!—He hath put his heart to school, Nor dares to move unpropped upon the staff Which Art hath lodged within his hand—must laugh By precept only, and shed tears by rule. Thy Art be Nature; the live current quaff, 5 And let the groveller sip his stagnant pool, In fear that else, when Critics grave and cool Have killed him, Scorn should write his epitaph.[222] How does the Meadow-flower its bloom unfold? Because the lovely little flower is free 10 Down to its root, and, in that freedom, bold; And so the grandeur of the Forest-tree Comes not by casting in a formal mould, But from its own divine vitality.
“THE MOST ALLURING CLOUDS THAT MOUNT THE SKY”
Published 1842
[Hundreds of times have I seen, hanging about and above the vale of Rydal, clouds that might have given birth to this sonnet, which was thrown off on the impulse of the moment one evening when I was returning from the favourite walk of ours, along the Rotha, under Loughrigg.—I.F.]
One of the “Miscellaneous Sonnets.”—Ed.
The most alluring clouds that mount the sky Owe to a troubled element their forms, Their hues to sunset. If with raptured eye We watch their splendour, shall we covet storms, And wish the Lord of day his slow decline 5 Would hasten, that such pomp may float on high? Behold, already they forget to shine, Dissolve—and leave to him who gazed a sigh. Not loth to thank each moment for its boon Of pure delight, come whensoe’er[223] it may, 10 Peace let us seek,—to stedfast things attune Calm expectations, leaving to the gay And volatile their love of transient bowers, The house that cannot pass away be ours.[224]
“FEEL FOR THE WRONGS TO UNIVERSAL KEN”
Published 1842
[This Sonnet is recommended to the perusal of those who consider that the evils under which we groan are to be removed or palliated by measures ungoverned by moral and religious principles.—I.F.]
One of the “Sonnets dedicated to Liberty and Order.”—Ed.
Feel for the wrongs to universal ken Daily exposed, woe that unshrouded lies; And seek the Sufferer in his darkest den, Whether conducted to the spot by sighs And moanings, or he dwells (as if the wren 5 Taught him concealment) hidden from all eyes In silence and the awful modesties Of sorrow;—feel for all, as brother Men! Rest not in hope want’s icy chain to thaw By casual boons and formal charities;[225] 10 Learn to be just, just through impartial law; Far as ye may, erect and equalise; And, what ye cannot reach by statute, draw Each from his fountain of self-sacrifice!
IN ALLUSION TO VARIOUS RECENT HISTORIES AND NOTICES OF THE FRENCH REVOLUTION
Published 1842
One of the “Sonnets dedicated to Liberty and Order.”—Ed.
Portentous change when History can appear As the cool Advocate of foul device;[226] Reckless audacity extol, and jeer At consciences perplexed with scruples nice! They who bewail not, must abhor, the sneer 5 Born of Conceit, Power’s blind Idolater; Or haply sprung from vaunting Cowardice Betrayed by mockery of holy fear. Hath it not long been said the wrath of Man Works not the righteousness of God? Oh bend, 10 Bend, ye Perverse! to judgments from on High, Laws that lay under Heaven’s perpetual ban All principles of action that transcend The sacred limits of humanity.
CONTINUED
Published 1842
One of the “Sonnets dedicated to Liberty and Order.”—Ed.
Who ponders National events shall find An awful balancing of loss and gain, Joy based on sorrow, good with ill combined, And proud deliverance issuing out of pain And direful throes; as if the All-ruling Mind, 5 With whose perfection it consists to ordain Volcanic burst, earthquake, and hurricane, Dealt in like sort with feeble human kind By laws immutable. But woe for him Who thus deceived shall lend an eager hand 10 To social havoc. Is not Conscience ours, And Truth, whose eye guilt only can make dim; And Will, whose office, by divine command, Is to control and check disordered Powers?
CONCLUDED
Published 1842
One of the “Sonnets dedicated to Liberty and Order.”—Ed.
Long-favoured England! be not thou misled By monstrous theories of alien growth, Lest alien frenzy seize thee, waxing wroth, Self-smitten till thy garments reek dyed red With thy own blood, which tears in torrents shed 5 Fail to wash out, tears flowing ere thy troth Be plighted, not to ease but sullen sloth, Or wan despair—the ghost of false hope fled Into a shameful grave. Among thy youth, My Country! if such warning be held dear, 10 Then shall a Veteran’s heart be thrilled with joy, One who would gather from eternal truth, For time and season, rules that work to cheer— Not scourge, to save the People—not destroy.
“LO! WHERE SHE STANDS FIXED IN A SAINT-LIKE TRANCE”
Published 1842
One of the “Miscellaneous Sonnets.”—Ed.
Lo! where she stands fixed in a saint-like trance, One upward hand, as if she needed rest From rapture, lying softly on her breast! Nor wants her eyeball an ethereal glance; But not the less—nay more—that countenance, 5 While thus illumined, tells of painful strife For a sick heart made weary of this life By love, long crossed with adverse circumstance. —Would She were now as when she hoped to pass At God’s appointed hour to them who tread 10 Heaven’s sapphire pavement, yet breathed well content, Well pleased, her foot should print earth’s common grass, Lived thankful for day’s light, for daily bread, For health, and time in obvious duty spent.
THE NORMAN BOY
Published 1842
[The subject of this poem was sent me by Mrs. Ogle, to whom I was personally unknown, with a hope on her part that I might be induced to relate the incident in verse; and I do not regret that I took the trouble, for not improbably the fact is illustrative of the boy’s early piety, and may concur with my other little pieces on children to produce profitable reflection among my youthful readers. This is said, however, with an absolute conviction that children will derive most benefit from books which are not unworthy the perusal of persons of any age. I protest with all my heart against those productions, so abundant in the present day, in which the doings of children are dwelt upon as if they were incapable of being interested in anything else. On this subject I have dwelt at length in the poem on the growth of my own mind.—I.F.]
One of the “Poems referring to the Period of Childhood.”—Ed.
High on a broad unfertile tract of forest-skirted Down, Nor kept by Nature for herself, nor made by man his own, From home and company remote and every playful joy, Served, tending a few sheep and goats, a ragged Norman boy. Him never saw I, nor the spot; but from an English Dame, 5 Stranger to me and yet my friend, a simple notice came, With suit that I would speak in verse of that sequestered child Whom, one bleak winter’s day, she met upon the dreary Wild. His flock, along the woodland’s edge with relics sprinkled o’er Of last night’s snow, beneath a sky threatening the fall of more, 10 Where tufts of herbage tempted each, were busy at their feed, And the poor Boy was busier still, with work of anxious heed. There was he, where of branches rent and withered and decayed, For covert from the keen north wind, his hands a hut had made. A tiny tenement, forsooth, and frail, as needs must be 15 A thing of such materials framed, by a builder such as he. The hut stood finished by his pains, nor seemingly lacked aught That skill or means of his could add, but the architect had wrought Some limber twigs into a Cross, well-shaped with fingers nice, To be engrafted on the top of his small edifice. 20 That Cross he now was fastening there, as the surest power and best For supplying all deficiencies, all wants of the rude nest In which, from burning heat, or tempest driving far and wide, The innocent Boy, else shelterless, his lonely head must hide. That Cross belike he also raised as a standard for the true 25 And faithful service of his heart in the worst that might ensue Of hardship and distressful fear, amid the houseless waste Where he, in his poor self so weak, by Providence was placed. ——Here, Lady! might I cease; but nay, let us before we part With this dear holy shepherd-boy breathe a prayer of earnest heart, 30 That unto him, where’er shall lie his life’s appointed way, The Cross, fixed in his soul, may prove an all-sufficing stay.
THE POET’S DREAM[227] Sequel To the Norman Boy
Published 1842
One of the “Poems referring to the Period of Childhood.”—Ed.
Just as those final words were penned, the sun broke out in power, And gladdened all things; but, as chanced, within that very hour, Air blackened, thunder growled, fire flashed from clouds that hid the sky, And, for the Subject of my Verse, I heaved a pensive sigh. Nor could my heart by second thoughts from heaviness be cleared, 5 For bodied forth before my eyes the cross-crowned hut appeared; And, while around it storm as fierce seemed troubling earth and air, I saw, within, the Norman Boy kneeling alone in prayer. The Child, as if the thunder’s voice spake with articulate call, Bowed meekly in submissive fear, before the Lord of All; 10 His lips were moving; and his eyes, upraised to sue for grace, With soft illumination cheered the dimness of that place. How beautiful is holiness!—what wonder if the sight, Almost as vivid as a dream, produced a dream at night? It came with sleep and showed the Boy, no cherub, not transformed, 15 But the poor ragged Thing whose ways my human heart had warmed. Me had the dream equipped with wings, so I took him in my arms, And lifted from the grassy floor, stilling his faint alarms, And bore him high through yielding air my debt of love to pay, By giving him, for both our sakes, an hour of holiday. 20 I whispered, “Yet a little while, dear Child! thou art my own, To show thee some delightful thing, in country or in town. What shall it be? a mirthful throng? or that holy place and calm St. Denis, filled with royal tombs,[228] or the Church of Notre Dame?[229] “St. Ouen’s golden Shrine?[230] Or choose what else would please thee most 25 Of any wonder Normandy, or all proud France, can boast!” “My Mother,” said the Boy, “was born near to a blessèd Tree, The Chapel Oak of Allonville;[231] good Angel, show it me!” On wings, from broad and stedfast poise let loose by this reply, For Allonville, o’er down and dale, away then did we fly; 30 O’er town and tower we flew, and fields in May’s fresh verdure drest; The wings they did not flag; the Child, though grave, was not deprest. But who shall show, to waking sense, the gleam of light that broke Forth from his eyes, when first the Boy looked down on that huge oak, For length of days so much revered, so famous where it stands 35 For twofold hallowing—Nature’s care, and work of human hands? Strong as an Eagle with my charge I glided round and round The wide-spread boughs, for view of door, window, and stair that wound Gracefully up the gnarled trunk; nor left we unsurveyed The pointed steeple peering forth from the centre of the shade. 40 I lighted—opened with soft touch the chapel’s iron door,[232] Past softly, leading in the Boy; and, while from roof to floor From floor to roof all round his eyes the Child with wonder cast,[233] Pleasure on pleasure crowded in, each livelier than the last. For, deftly framed within the trunk, the[234] sanctuary showed, 45 By light of lamp and precious stones, that glimmered here, there glowed, Shrine, Altar, Image, Offerings hung in sign of gratitude; Sight that inspired accordant thoughts; and speech[235] I thus renewed: “Hither the Afflicted come, as thou hast heard thy Mother say, And, kneeling, supplication make to our Lady de la Paix;[236] 50 What mournful sighs have here been heard, and, when the voice was stopt By sudden pangs; what bitter tears have on this pavement dropt! “Poor Shepherd of the naked Down, a favoured lot is thine, Far happier lot, dear Boy, than brings full many to this shrine; From body pains and pains of soul thou needest no release, 55 Thy hours as they flow on are spent, if not in joy, in peace. “Then offer up thy heart to God in thankfulness and praise, Give to Him prayers, and many thoughts, in thy most busy days; And in His sight the fragile Cross, on thy small hut, will be Holy as that which long hath crowned the Chapel of this Tree; 60 “Holy as that far seen which crowns the sumptuous Church in Rome Where thousands meet to worship God under a mighty Dome;[237] He sees the bending multitude, He hears the choral rites, Yet not the less, in children’s hymns and lonely prayer, delights. “God for His service needeth not proud work of human skill; 65 They please Him best who labour most to do in peace His will: So let us strive to live, and to our Spirits will be given Such wings as, when our Saviour calls, shall bear us up to heaven.” The Boy no answer made by words, but, so earnest was his look, Sleep fled, and with it fled the dream—recorded in this book, 70 Lest all that passed should melt away in silence from my mind, As visions still more bright have done, and left no trace behind. But oh! that Country-man of thine, whose eye, loved Child, can see A pledge of endless bliss in acts of early piety, In verse, which to thy ear might come, would treat this simple theme, 75 Nor leave untold our happy flight in that adventurous dream.[238] Alas the dream,[239] to thee, poor Boy! to thee from whom it flowed, Was nothing, scarcely can be aught, yet ’twas[240] bounteously bestowed, If I may dare to cherish hope that gentle eyes will read Not loth, and listening Little-ones, heart-touched, their fancies feed. 80
SUGGESTED BY A PICTURE OF THE BIRD OF PARADISE
Published 1842
[This subject has been treated of in another note. I will here only, by way of comment, direct attention to the fact, that pictures of animals and other productions of Nature, as seen in conservatories, menageries, and museums, etc., would do little for the national mind, nay, they would be rather injurious to it, if the imagination were excluded by the presence of the object, more or less out of a state of Nature. If it were not that we learn to talk and think of the lion and the eagle, the palm-tree, and even the cedar, from the impassioned introduction of them so frequently into Holy Scripture, and by great poets, and divines who wrote as poets, the spiritual part of our nature, and therefore the higher part of it, would derive no benefit from such intercourse with such subjects.—I.F.]
One of the “Poems of the Imagination.”—Ed.
The gentlest Poet, with free thoughts endowed, And a true master of the glowing strain, Might scan the narrow province with disdain That to the Painter’s skill is here allowed. This, this the Bird of Paradise! disclaim 5 The daring thought, forget the name; This the Sun’s Bird, whom Glendoveers might own As no unworthy Partner in their flight Through seas of ether, where the ruffling sway Of nether air’s rude billows is unknown; 10 Whom Sylphs, if e’er for casual pastime they Through India’s spicy regions wing their way, Might bow to as their Lord. What character, O sovereign Nature! I appeal to thee, Of all thy feathered progeny 15 Is so unearthly, and what shape so fair? So richly decked in variegated down, Green, sable, shining yellow, shadowy brown, Tints softly with each other blended, Hues doubtfully begun and ended; 20 Or intershooting, and to sight Lost and recovered, as the rays of light Glance on the conscious plumes touched here and there? Full surely, when with such proud gifts of life Began the pencil’s strife, 25 O’erweening Art was caught as in a snare. A sense of seemingly presumptuous wrong Gave the first impulse to the Poet’s song; But, of his scorn repenting soon, he drew A juster judgment from a calmer view; 30 And, with a spirit freed from discontent, Thankfully took an effort that was meant Not with God’s bounty, Nature’s love, to vie, Or made with hope to please that inward eye Which ever strives in vain itself to satisfy, 35 But to recal the truth by some faint trace Of power ethereal and celestial grace, That in the living Creature find on earth a place.
TO THE CLOUDS[241]
Published 1842
[These verses were suggested while I was walking on the foot-road between Rydal Mount and Grasmere. The clouds were driving over the top of Nab-Scar across the vale: they set my thoughts a-going, and the rest followed almost immediately.—I.F.]
First published (1842) in “Poems chiefly of Early and Late Years,” afterwards included in the “Poems of the Imagination.”—Ed.
Army of Clouds! ye wingèd Host in troops Ascending from behind the motionless brow Of that tall rock,[242] as from a hidden world, O whither with[243] such eagerness of speed? What seek ye, or what shun ye? of the gale[244] 5 Companions, fear ye to be left behind, Or racing o’er[245] your blue ethereal field Contend ye with each other? of the sea Children, thus post ye over vale and height[246] To sink upon your mother’s lap—and rest?[247] 10 Or were ye rightlier hailed, when first mine eyes Beheld in your impetuous march the likeness Of a wide army pressing on to meet Or overtake some unknown enemy?— But your smooth motions suit a peaceful aim; 15 And Fancy, not less aptly pleased, compares Your squadrons to an endless flight of birds Aerial, upon due migration bound To milder climes; or rather do ye urge In caravan your hasty pilgrimage 20 To pause at last on more aspiring heights Than these,[248] and utter your devotion there With thunderous voice? Or are ye jubilant, And would ye, tracking your proud lord the Sun, Be present at his setting; or the pomp 25 Of Persian mornings would ye fill, and stand Poising your splendours high above the heads Of worshippers kneeling to their up-risen God? Whence, whence, ye Clouds! this eagerness of speed? Speak, silent creatures.—They are gone, are fled, 30 Buried together in yon gloomy mass That loads the middle heaven; and clear and bright And vacant doth the region which they thronged Appear; a calm descent of sky conducting Down to the unapproachable abyss, 35 Down to that hidden gulf from which they rose To vanish—fleet as days and months and years, Fleet as the generations of mankind, Power, glory, empire, as the world itself, The lingering world, when time hath ceased to be. 40 But the winds roar, shaking the rooted trees, And see! a bright precursor to a train Perchance as numerous, overpeers the rock That sullenly refuses to partake Of the wild impulse. From a fount of life 45 Invisible, the long procession moves Luminous or gloomy, welcome to the vale Which they are entering, welcome to mine eye That sees them, to my soul that owns in them, And in the bosom of the firmament 50 O’er which they move, wherein they are contained, A type of her capacious self and all Her restless progeny. A humble walk Here is my body doomed to tread, this path, A little hoary line and faintly traced,[249] 55 Work, shall we call it, of the shepherd’s foot Or of his flock?—joint vestige of them both. I pace it unrepining, for my thoughts Admit no bondage and my words have wings. Where is the Orphean lyre, or Druid harp, 60 To accompany the verse? The mountain blast Shall be our hand of music; he shall sweep The rocks, and quivering trees, and billowy lake, And search the fibres of the caves, and they Shall answer, for our song is of the Clouds 65 And the wind loves them; and the gentle gales— Which by their aid re-clothe the naked lawn With annual verdure, and revive the woods, And moisten the parched lips of thirsty flowers— Love them; and every idle breeze of air 70 Bends to the favourite burthen. Moon and stars Keep their most solemn vigils when the Clouds Watch also, shifting peaceably their place Like bands of ministering Spirits, or when they lie, As if some Protean art the change had wrought, 75 In listless quiet o’er the ethereal deep Scattered, a Cyclades[250] of various shapes And all degrees of beauty. O ye Lightnings! Ye are their perilous offspring;[251] and the Sun— Source inexhaustible of life and joy, 80 And type of man’s far-darting reason, therefore In old time worshipped as the god of verse,[252] A blazing intellectual deity— Loves his own glory in their looks, and showers Upon that unsubstantial brotherhood 85 Visions with all but beatific light Enriched—too transient were they not renewed From age to age, and did not, while we gaze In silent rapture, credulous desire Nourish the hope that memory lacks not power 90 To keep the treasure unimpaired. Vain thought! Yet why repine, created as we are For joy and rest, albeit to find them only Lodged in the bosom of eternal things?
AIREY-FORCE VALLEY
Published 1842
First published (1842) in “Poems, chiefly of Early and Late Years.” Afterwards one of the “Poems of the Imagination.”—Ed.
——Not a breath of air Ruffles the bosom of this leafy glen. From the brook’s margin, wide around, the trees Are stedfast as the rocks; the brook itself, Old as the hills that feed it from afar, 5 Doth rather deepen than disturb the calm Where all things else are still and motionless. And yet, even now, a little breeze, perchance Escaped from boisterous winds that rage without, Has entered, by the sturdy oaks unfelt, 10 But to its gentle touch how sensitive Is the light ash! that, pendent from the brow Of yon dim cave,[253] in seeming silence makes A soft eye-music of slow-waving boughs, Powerful almost as vocal harmony 15 To stay the wanderer’s steps and soothe his thoughts.
The Aira beck rises on the slopes of Great Dodd, passes Dockray, and enters Ullswater between Glencoin Park and Gowbarrow Park, about two miles from the head of the lake. The Force is quite near to Lyulph’s Tower, where the stream has a fall of about eighty feet. Compare the reference to it in The Somnambulist (1833), and Wordsworth’s account of “Aira-Force,” in his Guide through the District of the Lakes, “Here is a powerful Brook, which dashes among rocks through a deep glen, hung on every side with a rich and happy intermixture of native wood; here are beds of luxuriant fern, aged hawthorns and hollies decked with honeysuckles; and fallow deer glancing and bounding over the lawns and through the thickets.”—Ed.
“LYRE! THOUGH SUCH POWER DO IN THY MAGIC LIVE”
Composed 1842 (or earlier).—Published 1842
One of the “Poems of the Imagination.”—Ed.
Lyre! though such power do in thy magic live As might from India’s farthest plain Recal the not unwilling Maid, Assist me to detain The lovely Fugitive: 5 Check with thy notes the impulse which, betrayed By her sweet farewell looks, I longed to aid. Here let me gaze enrapt upon that eye, The impregnable and awe-inspiring fort Of contemplation, the calm port 10 By reason fenced from winds that sigh Among the restless sails of vanity. But if no wish be hers that we should part, A humbler bliss would satisfy my heart. Where all things are so fair, 15 Enough by her dear side to breathe the air Of this Elysian weather; And, on or in, or near, the brook, espy Shade upon the sunshine lying Faint and somewhat pensively; 20 And downward Image gaily vying With its upright living tree ’Mid silver clouds, and openings of blue sky As soft almost and deep as her cerulean eye. Nor less the joy with many a glance 25 Cast up the Stream or down at her beseeching, To mark its eddying foam-balls prettily distrest By ever-changing shape and want of rest; Or watch, with mutual teaching, The current as it plays 30 In flashing leaps and stealthy creeps Adown a rocky maze; Or note (translucent summer’s happiest chance!) In the slope-channel floored with pebbles bright, Stones of all hues, gem emulous of gem, 35 So vivid that they take from keenest sight The liquid veil that seeks not to hide them.[254]
LOVE LIES BLEEDING
Composed 1842.—Published 1842
[It has been said that the English, though their country has produced so many great poets, is now the most unpoetical nation in Europe. It is probably true; for they have more temptation to become so than any other European people. Trade, commerce, and manufactures, physical science, and mechanic arts, out of which so much wealth has arisen, have made our countrymen infinitely less sensible to movements of imagination and fancy than were our forefathers in their simple state of society. How touching and beautiful were, in most instances, the names they gave to our indigenous flowers, or any other they were familiarly acquainted with!—Every month for many years have we been importing plants and flowers from all quarters of the globe, many of which are spread through our gardens, and some perhaps likely to be met with on the few Commons which we have left. Will their botanical names ever be displaced by plain English appellations, which will bring them home to our hearts by connexion with our joys and sorrows? It can never be, unless society treads back her steps towards those simplicities which have been banished by the undue influence of towns spreading and spreading in every direction, so that city-life with every generation takes more and more the lead of rural. Among the ancients, villages were reckoned the seats of barbarism. Refinement, for the most part false, increases the desire to accumulate wealth; and while theories of political economy are boastfully pleading for the practice, inhumanity pervades all our dealings in buying and selling. This selfishness wars against disinterested imagination in all directions, and, evils coming round in a circle, barbarism spreads in every quarter of our island. Oh for the reign of justice, and then the humblest man among us would have more power and dignity in and about him than the highest have now!—I.F.]
One of the “Poems of the Fancy.”—Ed.
You call it, “Love lies bleeding,”—so you may,[255] Though the red Flower, not prostrate, only droops, As we have seen it here from day to day, From month to month, life passing not away: A flower how rich in sadness! Even thus stoops, 5 (Sentient by Grecian sculpture’s marvellous power) Thus leans, with hanging brow and body bent Earthward in uncomplaining languishment, The dying Gladiator. So, sad Flower! (’Tis Fancy guides me willing to be led, 10 Though by a slender thread,) So drooped Adonis bathed in sanguine dew Of his death-wound, when he from innocent air The gentlest breath of resignation drew; While Venus in a passion of despair 15 Rent, weeping over him, her golden hair Spangled with drops of that celestial shower. She suffered, as Immortals sometimes do; But pangs more lasting far, that Lover knew Who first, weighed down by scorn, in some lone bower 20 Did press this semblance of unpitied smart Into the service of his constant heart, His own dejection, downcast Flower! could share With thine, and gave the mournful name which thou wilt ever bear.
“THEY CALL IT LOVE LIES BLEEDING! RATHER SAY”
The previous poem was originally composed in sonnet form; and it belongs, in that form, to the year 1833. It occurs in a MS. copy of the sonnets which record the Tour of 1833 to the Isle of Man and to Scotland.—Ed.
They call it Love lies bleeding! rather say That in this crimson Flower Love bleeding droops, A Flower how sick in sadness! Thus it stoops With languid head unpropped from day to day From month to month, life passing not away. 5 Even so the dying Gladiator leans On mother earth, and from his patience gleans Relics of tender thoughts, regrets that stay A moment and are gone. O fate-bowed flower! Fair as Adonis bathed in sanguine dew, 10 Of his death-wound, that Lover’s heart was true As heaven, who pierced by scorn in some lone bower Could press thy semblance of unpitied smart Into the service of his constant heart.
COMPANION TO THE FOREGOING
Composed (?)[256]—Published 1845
Never enlivened with the liveliest ray That fosters growth or checks or cheers decay, Nor by the heaviest rain-drops more deprest, This Flower, that first appeared as summer’s guest, Preserves her beauty ’mid autumnal leaves 5 And to her mournful habits fondly cleaves. When files of stateliest plants have ceased to bloom, One after one submitting to their doom, When her coevals each and all are fled, What keeps her thus reclined upon her lonesome bed? 10 The old mythologists, more impress’d than we Of this late day by character in tree Or herb, that claimed peculiar sympathy, Or by the silent lapse of fountain clear, Or with the language of the viewless air 15 By bird or beast made vocal, sought a cause To solve the mystery, not in Nature’s laws But in Man’s fortunes. Hence a thousand tales Sung to the plaintive lyre in Grecian vales. Nor doubt that something of their spirit swayed 20 The fancy-stricken Youth or heart-sick Maid, Who, while each stood companionless and eyed This undeparting Flower in crimson dyed, Thought of a wound which death is slow to cure, A fate that has endured and will endure, 25 And, patience coveting yet passion feeding, Called the dejected Lingerer, Love lies bleeding.
THE CUCKOO-CLOCK
Composed 1842.—Published 1842
[Of this clock I have nothing further to say than what the poem expresses, except that it must be here recorded that it was a present from the dear friend for whose sake these notes were chiefly undertaken, and who has written them from my dictation.—I.F.]
One of the “Poems of the Imagination.”—Ed.
Wouldst thou be taught, when sleep has taken flight, By a sure voice that can most sweetly tell, How far-off yet a glimpse of morning light, And if to lure the truant back be well, Forbear to covet a Repeater’s stroke, 5 That, answering to thy touch, will sound the hour; Better provide thee with a Cuckoo-clock For service hung behind thy chamber-door; And in due time the soft spontaneous shock, The double note, as if with living power, 10 Will to composure lead—or make thee blithe as bird in bower. List, Cuckoo—Cuckoo!—oft tho’ tempests howl, Or nipping frost remind thee trees are bare, How cattle pine, and droop the shivering fowl, Thy spirits will seem to feed on balmy air: 15 I speak with knowledge,—by that Voice beguiled, Thou wilt salute old memories as they throng Into thy heart; and fancies, running wild Through fresh green fields, and budding groves among, Will make thee happy, happy as a child; 20 Of sunshine wilt thou think, and flowers, and song, And breathe as in a world where nothing can go wrong. And know—that, even for him who shuns the day And nightly tosses on a bed of pain; Whose joys, from all but memory swept away, 25 Must come unhoped for, if they come again; Know—that, for him whose waking thoughts, severe As his distress is sharp, would scorn my theme, The mimic notes, striking upon his ear In sleep, and intermingling with his dream, 30 Could from sad regions send him to a dear Delightful land of verdure, shower and gleam, To mock the wandering Voice[257] beside some haunted stream.[258] O bounty without measure! while the grace Of Heaven doth in such wise, from humblest springs, 35 Pour pleasure forth, and solaces that trace A mazy course along familiar things, Well may our hearts have faith that blessings come, Streaming from founts above the starry sky, With angels when their own untroubled home 40 They leave, and speed on nightly embassy To visit earthly chambers,—and for whom? Yea, both for souls who God’s forbearance try, And those that seek his help, and for his mercy sigh.
“WANSFELL! THIS HOUSEHOLD HAS A FAVOURED LOT”
Composed 1842.—Published 1845
One of the “Miscellaneous Sonnets.”—Ed.
Wansfell![259] this Household has a favoured lot, Living with liberty on thee to gaze, To watch while Morn first crowns thee with her rays, Or when along thy breast serenely float Evening’s angelic clouds. Yet ne’er a note 5 Hath sounded (shame upon the Bard!) thy praise For all that thou, as if from heaven, hast brought Of glory lavished on our quiet days. Bountiful Son of Earth! when we are gone From every object dear to mortal sight, 10 As soon we shall be, may these words attest How oft, to elevate our spirits, shone Thy visionary majesties of light, How in thy pensive glooms our hearts found rest. Dec. 24, 1842.
“THOUGH THE BOLD WINGS OF POESY AFFECT”
Composed (?)—Published 1842
One of the “Miscellaneous Sonnets.”—Ed.
Though the bold wings of Poesy affect The clouds, and wheel around the mountain tops Rejoicing, from her loftiest height she drops Well pleased to skim the plain with wild flowers deckt, Or muse in solemn grove whose shades protect 5 The lingering dew—there steals along, or stops Watching the least small bird that round her hops, Or creeping worm, with sensitive respect. Her functions are they therefore less divine, Her thoughts less deep, or void of grave intent 10 Her simplest fancies? Should that fear be thine, Aspiring Votary, ere thy hand present One offering, kneel before her modest shrine, With brow in penitential sorrow bent!
“GLAD SIGHT WHEREVER NEW WITH OLD”
Composed 1842.[260]—Published 1845
One of the “Poems of the Fancy.”—Ed.