Chapter V: Conclusion (1)

Yes, though He well may tremble at the sound
Of his own voice, who from the judgment-seat
Sends the pale Convict to his last retreat
In death; though Listeners shudder all around,
They know the dread requital’s source profound; 5
Nor is, they feel, its wisdom obsolete--
(Would that it were!) the sacrifice unmeet
For Christian Faith. But hopeful signs abound;
The social rights of man breathe purer air;
Religion deepens her preventive care; 10
Then, moved by needless fear of past abuse,
Strike not from Law’s firm hand that awful rod,
But leave it thence to drop for lack of use:
Oh, speed the blessed hour, Almighty God!

[208] “In the thirteenth sonnet he anticipates that a time may come when the punishment of death will be needed no longer; but he wishes that the disuse of it should grow out of the absence of the need, not be imposed by legislation.” (Sir Henry Taylor.)--ED.

XIV

APOLOGY

The formal World relaxes her cold chain
For One who speaks in numbers; ampler scope
His utterance finds; and, conscious of the gain,
Imagination works with bolder hope
The cause of grateful reason to sustain; 5
And, serving Truth, the heart more strongly beats
Against all barriers which his labour meets
In lofty place, or humble Life’s domain.
Enough;--before us lay a painful road,
And guidance have I sought in duteous love 10
From Wisdom’s heavenly Father. Hence hath flowed
Patience, with trust that, whatsoe’er the way
Each takes in this high matter, all may move
Cheered with the prospect of a brighter day.

1840.[209]

[209] In the editions of 1842, 1845, and 1850 the date “1840” follows this poem. It may have been written in that year.--ED.

“MEN OF THE WESTERN WORLD! IN FATE’S DARK BOOK”

Published 1842

One of the “Sonnets dedicated to Liberty and Order.”--ED.

Men of the Western World! in Fate’s dark book
Whence these opprobrious leaves of dire portent?
Think ye your British Ancestors forsook
Their native Land, for outrage provident;
From unsubmissive necks the bridle shook 5
To give, in their Descendants, freer vent
And wider range to passions turbulent,
To mutual tyranny a deadlier look?
Nay, said a voice, soft as the south wind’s breath,
Dive through the stormy surface of the flood 10
To the great current flowing underneath;
Explore the countless springs of silent good;
So shall the truth be better understood,
And thy grieved Spirit brighten strong in faith.[210]

[210] These lines were written several years ago, when reports prevailed of cruelties committed in many parts of America, by men making a law of their own passions. A far more formidable, as being a more deliberate mischief, has appeared among those States, which have lately broken faith with the public creditor in a manner so infamous. I cannot, however, but look at both evils under a similar relation to inherent good, and hope that the time is not distant when our brethren of the West will wipe off this stain from their name and nation.

ADDITIONAL NOTE.

I am happy to add that this anticipation is already partly realised; and that the reproach addressed to the Pennsylvanians is no longer applicable to them. I trust that those other states to which it may yet apply will soon follow the example now set them by Philadelphia, and redeem their credit with the world.--W.W. 1850.

“This editorial note is on a fly-leaf at the end of the fifth volume of the edition, which was completed only a short time before the Poet’s death. It contains probably the last sentences composed by him for the press. It was promptly added by him in consequence of a suggestion from me, that the sonnet addressed “_To Pennsylvanians_” was no longer just--a fact which is mentioned to shew that the fine sense of truth and justice which distinguish his writings was active to the last.” (Note to Professor Reed’s American Edition of 1851.)--ED.

1840

Only four poems, viz. _Poor Robin_, two sonnets referring to Miss Gillies, and one on Haydon’s portrait of the Duke of Wellington, belong to 1840.--ED.

TO A PAINTER

Composed 1840.--Published 1842

[The picture which gave occasion to this and the following sonnet was from the pencil of Miss M. Gillies, who resided for several weeks under our roof at Rydal Mount.--I.F.]

One of the “Miscellaneous Sonnets.”--ED.

All praise the Likeness by thy skill portrayed;[211]
But ’tis a fruitless task to paint for me,
Who, yielding not to changes Time has made,
By the habitual light of memory see
Eyes unbedimmed, see bloom that cannot fade, 5
And smiles that from their birth-place ne’er shall flee
Into the land where ghosts and phantoms be;
And, seeing this, own nothing in its stead.
Couldst thou go back into far-distant years,
Or share with me, fond thought! that inward eye,[212] 10
Then, and then only, Painter! could thy Art
The visual powers of Nature satisfy,
Which hold, whate’er to common sight appears,
Their sovereign empire in a faithful heart.

[211] Miss Gillies told me that she visited Rydal Mount in 1841, at the invitation of the Wordsworths, to make a miniature portrait of the poet on ivory, which had been commissioned by Mr. Moon, the publisher, for the purpose of engraving. An engraving of this portrait was published on the 6th of August 1841. The original is now in America. I think she must have been wrong in her memory of the year, which was 1840. Miss Gillies also told me that the Wordsworths were so pleased with what she had done for Mr. Moon that they wished a replica for themselves, with Mrs. Wordsworth added. She painted this; and a copy of it, subsequently taken for Miss Quillinan, was long in her possession at Loughrigg Holme. It now belongs to Mr. Gordon Wordsworth. It is to the portrait of Mrs. Wordsworth that this sonnet and the next refer.--ED.

[212] Compare the lines in vol. iii. p. 5--

They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude.

The fact that these two lines had been added by Mrs. Wordsworth (see note to the poem, p. 7) was doubtless remembered by the poet, when he wrote this sonnet suggested by her portrait.--ED.

ON THE SAME SUBJECT

Composed 1840.--Published 1842

One of the “Miscellaneous Sonnets.”--ED.

Though I beheld at first with blank surprise
This Work, I now have gazed on it so long
I see its truth with unreluctant eyes;
O, my Belovèd! I have done thee wrong,
Conscious of blessedness, but, whence it sprung, 5
Ever too heedless, as I now perceive:
Morn into noon did pass, noon into eve,
And the old day was welcome as the young,
As welcome, and as beautiful--in sooth
More beautiful, as being a thing more holy: 10
Thanks to thy virtues, to the eternal youth
Of all thy goodness, never melancholy;
To thy large heart and humble mind, that cast
Into one vision, future, present, past.[213]

[213] Compare--

O dearer far than light and life are dear (1824).
Let other bards of angels sing (1824).
Such age how beautiful! O Lady bright (1827).
What heavenly smiles! O Lady mine (1845).

ED.

POOR ROBIN[214]

Composed March 1840.--Published 1842

[I often ask myself what will become of Rydal Mount after our day. Will the old walls and steps remain in front of the house and about the grounds, or will they be swept away with all the beautiful mosses and ferns and wild geraniums and other flowers which their rude construction suffered and encouraged to grow among them?[215]--This little wild flower--“Poor Robin”--is here constantly courting my attention, and exciting what may be called a domestic interest with the varying aspects of its stalks and leaves and flowers.[216] Strangely do the tastes of men differ according to their employment and habits of life. “What a nice well would that be,” said a labouring man to me one day, “if all that rubbish was cleared off.” The “_rubbish_” was some of the most beautiful mosses and lichens and ferns and other wild growths that could possibly be seen. Defend us from the tyranny of trimness and neatness showing itself in this way! Chatterton says of freedom--“Upon her head wild weeds were spread,” and depend upon it if “the marvellous boy” had undertaken to give Flora a garland, he would have preferred what we are apt to call weeds to garden flowers. True taste has an eye for both. Weeds have been called flowers out of place. I fear the place most people would assign to them is too limited. Let them come near to our abodes, as surely they may, without impropriety or disorder.--I.F.]

One of the “Miscellaneous Poems.”--ED.

Now when the primrose makes a splendid show,
And lilies face the March-winds in full blow,
And humbler growths as moved with one desire
Put on, to welcome spring, their best attire,
Poor Robin is yet flowerless; but how gay 5
With his red stalks upon this sunny day!
And, as his tufts[217] of leaves he spreads, content
With a hard bed and scanty nourishment,
Mixed with the green, some shine not lacking power
To rival summer’s brightest scarlet flower; 10
And flowers they well might seem to passers-by
If looked at only with a careless eye;
Flowers--or a richer produce (did it suit
The season) sprinklings of ripe strawberry fruit.
But while a thousand pleasures come unsought, 15
Why fix upon his wealth or want[218] a thought?
Is the string touched in prelude to a lay
Of pretty fancies that would round him play
When all the world acknowledged elfin sway?
Or does it suit our humour to commend 20
Poor Robin as a sure and crafty friend,
Whose practice teaches, spite of names to show
Bright colours whether they deceive or no?--
Nay, we would simply praise the free good-will
With which, though slighted, he, on naked hill 25
Or in warm valley, seeks his part to fill;
Cheerful alike if bare of flowers as now,
Or when his tiny gems shall deck his brow:
Yet more, we wish that men by men despised,
And such as lift their foreheads overprized, 30
Should sometimes think, where’er they chance to spy
This child of Nature’s own humility,
What recompense is kept in store or left
For all that seem neglected or bereft;
With what nice care equivalents are given, 35
How just, how bountiful, the hand of Heaven.

_March, 1840._

[214] The small wild Geranium known by that name.--W.W. 1842.

[215] These things remain comparatively unaltered. Rydal Mount has suffered little in picturesqueness since Wordsworth’s death; while the house, and the grounds, have gained in many ways by what the present tenant has done for them. It is impossible to keep such a place exactly as it was left by its greatest tenant; and Mr. Crewdson has certainly not injured, but wisely improved the place.--ED.

[216] Compare what is said of it in the _Memoirs of Wordsworth_, by his nephew, vol. i. p. 20.--ED.

[217] 1849.

… tuft

1842.

[218] 1845.

… want or wealth

1842.

ON A PORTRAIT OF THE DUKE OF WELLINGTON UPON THE FIELD OF WATERLOO, BY HAYDON[219]

Composed August 31, 1840.--Published 1842

[This was composed while I was ascending Helvellyn in company with my daughter and her husband. She was on horseback, and rode to the top of the hill without once dismounting, a feat which it was scarcely possible to perform except during a season of dry weather; and a guide, with whom we fell in on the mountain, told us he believed it had never been accomplished before by any one.--I.F.]

One of the “Miscellaneous Sonnets”; but first published in the “Poems chiefly of Early and Late Years.”--ED.

By Art’s bold privilege Warrior and War-horse stand
On ground yet strewn with their last battle’s wreck;
Let the Steed glory while his Master’s hand
Lies fixed for ages on his conscious neck;
But by the Chieftain’s look, though at his side 5
Hangs that day’s treasured sword, how firm a check
Is given to triumph and all human pride!
Yon trophied Mound shrinks to a shadowy speck
In his calm presence! Him the mighty deed
Elates not, brought far nearer the grave’s rest, 10
As shows that time-worn face, for he such seed
Has sown as yields, we trust, the fruit of fame
In Heaven;[220] hence no one blushes for thy name,
Conqueror, ’mid some sad thoughts, divinely blest!

[219] Haydon worked at this picture of Wellington from June to November, 1839. (See his Autobiography, vol. iii. pp. 108-131.) He writes under date, Sept. 4, 1840:--“Hard at work. I heard from dear Wordsworth, with a glorious sonnet on the Duke, and Copenhagen.† It is very fine, and I began a new journal directly, and put in the sonnet. God bless him.” The following is part of Wordsworth’s letter:--

“MY DEAR HAYDON,--We are all charmed with your etching. It is both poetically and pictorially conceived, and finely executed. I should have written immediately to thank you for it, and for your letter and the enclosed one, which is interesting, but I wished to gratify you by writing a sonnet. I now send it, but with an earnest request that it may not be put into circulation for some little time, as it is warm from the brain, and may require, in consequence, some little retouching. It has this, at least, remarkable attached to it, which will add to its value in your eyes, that it was actually composed while I was climbing Helvellyn last Monday.”--ED.

† Wellington’s war-horse.--ED.

[220] 1842.

… Since the mighty deed
Him years have brought far nearer the grave’s rest,
He shows that face time-worn. But he such seed
Has sowed that bears, we trust, the fruit of fame
In Heaven.…

From a copy sent to Haydon.

1841

EPITAPH

IN THE CHAPEL-YARD OF LANGDALE, WESTMORELAND

Composed 1841.--Published 1842

[OWEN LLOYD, the subject of this epitaph, was born at Old Brathay, near Ambleside, and was the son of Charles Lloyd and his wife Sophia (_née_ Pemberton), both of Birmingham, who came to reside in this part of the country, soon after their marriage. They had many children, both sons and daughters, of whom the most remarkable was the subject of this epitaph. He was educated under Mr. Dawes, at Ambleside, Dr. Butler, of Shrewsbury, and lastly at Trinity College, Cambridge, where he would have been greatly distinguished as a scholar but for inherited infirmities of bodily constitution, which, from early childhood, affected his mind. His love for the neighbourhood in which he was born, and his sympathy with the habits and characters of the mountain yeomanry, in conjunction with irregular spirits, that unfitted him for facing duties in situations to which he was unaccustomed, induced him to accept the retired curacy of Langdale. How much he was beloved and honoured there, and with what feelings he discharged his duty under the oppression of severe malady, is set forth, though imperfectly, in the epitaph.--I.F.]

One of the “Epitaphs and Elegiac Pieces.”--ED.

By playful smiles, (alas! too oft
A sad heart’s sunshine) by a soft
And gentle nature, and a free
Yet modest hand of charity,
Through life was OWEN LLOYD endeared 5
To young and old; and how revered
Had been that pious spirit, a tide
Of humble mourners testified,
When, after pains dispensed to prove
The measure of God’s chastening love, 10
Here, brought from far, his corse found rest,--
Fulfilment of his own request;--
Urged less for this Yew’s shade, though he
Planted with such fond hope the tree;
Less for the love of stream and rock, 15
Dear as they were, than that his Flock,
When they no more their Pastor’s voice
Could hear to guide them in their choice
Through good and evil, help might have,
Admonished, from his silent grave, 20
Of righteousness, of sins forgiven,
For peace on earth and bliss in heaven.

This commemorative epitaph to the Rev. Owen Lloyd--the friend of Hartley Coleridge and of Faber--is carved on the headstone over his grave in the churchyard at the small hamlet of Chapel Stile, Great Langdale, Westmoreland. The stone also carries the inscription, “To the memory of Owen Lloyd, M.A., nearly twelve years incumbent of this chapel. Born at Old Brathay, March 31, 1803, died at Manchester, April 18, 1841, aged 38.” See a letter of Wordsworth’s referring to Lloyd amongst his letters in a subsequent volume. In a previous edition I erred by giving this poem an earlier date. Professor Dowden has shown the true one conclusively.

Writing from Rydal on 11th August 1841, to his brother Christopher, Wordsworth said, “I send you with the last corrections an epitaph which I have just written for poor Owen Lloyd. His brother Edward forwarded for my perusal some verses which he had composed with a view to that object; but he expressed a wish that I would compose something myself. Not approving Edward’s lines altogether, though the sentiments were sufficiently appropriate, I sent him what I now forward to you, or rather the substance of it, for something has been added, and some change of expression introduced. I hope you will approve of it. I find no fault with it myself, the circumstances considered, except that it is too long for an Epitaph, but this was inevitable if the memorial was to be as conspicuous as the subject required, at least according to the light in which it offered itself to my mind.”--ED.

1842

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._

[221] 1845.

Love from on high, …

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.

[222] Compare _A Poet’s Epitaph_ (vol. ii. p. 75).--ED.

“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]

[223] 1849

… whencesoe’er …

1842.

[224] Compare _To the Clouds_, I. 94, p. 145.--ED.

“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!

[225] 1845.

… Men!--
Feel for the Poor,--but not to still your qualms
By formal charity or dole of alms;
Learn …

1842.

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.

[226] Wordsworth wrote this sonnet against Carlyle’s _French Revolution_ in particular. Carlyle knew it, and this may in part--although only in part--account for Carlyle’s indifference to Wordsworth.--ED.

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

[227] 1845.

The title in 1842 was “SEQUEL TO THE NORMAN BOY.”

[228] The Abbey Church of St. Denis, to the north of Paris,--one of the finest specimens of French Gothic,--was the burial-place of the French Kings for many generations.--ED.

[229] In Paris.--ED.

[230] The Church of St. Ouen, in Rouen, is the most perfect edifice of its kind in Europe.--ED.

[231] “Among ancient Trees there are few, I believe, at least in France, so worthy of attention as an Oak which may be seen in the ‘Pays de Caux,’ about a league from Yvetot, close to the church, and in the burial-ground of Allonville.

The height of this Tree does not answer to its girth; the trunk, from the roots to the summit, forms a complete cone; and the inside of this cone is hollow throughout the whole of its height.

Such is the Oak of Allonville, in its state of nature. The hand of Man, however, has endeavoured to impress upon it a character still more interesting, by adding a religious feeling to the respect which its age naturally inspires.

The lower part of its hollow trunk has been transformed into a Chapel of six or seven feet in diameter, carefully wainscotted and paved, and an open iron gate guards the humble Sanctuary.

Leading to it there is a staircase, which twists round the body of the Tree. At certain seasons of the year divine service is performed in this Chapel.

The summit has been broken off many years, but there is a surface at the top of the trunk, of the diameter of a very large tree, and from it rises a pointed roof, covered with slates, in the form of a steeple, which is surmounted with an iron Cross, that rises in a picturesque manner from the middle of the leaves, like an ancient Hermitage above the surrounding Wood.

Over the entrance to the Chapel an Inscription appears, which informs us it was erected by the Abbé du Détroit, Curate of Allonville, in the year 1696; and over a door is another, dedicating it ‘To Our Lady of Peace.’”--Vide 14 _No. Saturday Magazine_.--W.W. 1842.

[232] 1845.

… touch a grated iron door,

1842.

[233] 1845.

… his eyes the wondering creature cast,

1842.

[234] 1845.

… a …

1842.

[235] 1845.

And swift as lightning went the time, ere speech

1842.

[236] See note, p. 137.--ED.

[237] St. Peter’s Church.--ED.

[238] This stanza was added in the edition of 1845.

[239] 1845.

And though the dream, …

1842.

[240] 1845.

Was nothing, nor e’er can be aught, ’twas …

1842.

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?

[241] The title in the edition of 1842 was _Address to the Clouds_.--ED.

[242] See the Fenwick note and compare Dorothy Wordsworth’s Grasmere Journal, 31st January 1802.--ED.

[243] 1842.

… in …

MS.

[244] 1842.

… wind

MS.

[245] 1842.

… on …

MS.

[246] 1842.

… over dale and mountain height

MS.

[247] 1842.

… mother’s joyous lap?

MS.

[248] 1842.

Or come ye as I hailed you first, a Flight
Aerial, on a due migration bound,
Embodied travellers not blindly led
To milder climes; or rather do ye urge
Your Caravan, your hasty pilgrimage
With hope to pause at last upon the top
Of some remoter mountains more beloved
Than these, …

MS.

[249] Compare, in the “Poems on the Naming of Places” (1805), the lines beginning, “When, to the attractions of the busy world,” l. 48--

A hoary pathway traced between the trees.

ED.

[250] The fifty-three small islands in the Ægean surrounding Delos, as with a circle (κύκλος)--hence the name.--ED.

[251] Compare Coleridge’s _Hymn before Sunrise in the Vale of Chamouni_--

Ye lightnings, the dread arrows of the clouds!

ED.

[252] Sol = Phoebus = Apollo.--ED.

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.