Delphi Complete Works of William Wordsworth

by William Wordsworth

  Yet sometimes when the secret cup

  Of still and serious thought went round

  It seem’d as if he drank it up,

  He felt with spirit so profound.

  — Thou soul of God’s best earthly mould,

  Thou happy soul, and can it be

  That these two words of glittering gold

  Are all that must remain of thee?

  The Two April Mornings.

  We walk’d along, while bright and red

  Uprose the morning sun,

  And Matthew stopp’d, he look’d, and said,

  ”The will of God be done!”

  A village Schoolmaster was he,

  With hair of glittering grey;

  As blithe a man as you could see

  On a spring holiday.

  And on that morning, through the grass,

  And by the steaming rills,

  We travell’d merrily to pass

  A day among the hills.

  ”Our work,” said I, “was well begun;

  Then, from thy breast what thought,

  Beneath so beautiful a sun,

  So sad a sigh has brought?”

  A second time did Matthew stop,

  And fixing still his eye

  Upon the eastern mountain-top

  To me he made reply.

  Yon cloud with that long purple cleft

  Brings fresh into my mind

  A day like this which I have left

  Full thirty years behind.

  And on that slope of springing corn

  The self-same crimson hue

  Fell from the sky that April morn,

  The same which now I view!

  With rod and line my silent sport

  I plied by Derwent’s wave,

  And, coming to the church, stopp’d short

  Beside my Daughter’s grave.

  Nine summers had she scarcely seen

  The pride of all the vale;

  And then she sang! — she would have been

  A very nightingale.

  Six feet in earth my Emma lay,

  And yet I lov’d her more,

  For so it seem’d, than till that day

  I e’er had lov’d before.

  And, turning from her grave, I met

  Beside the church-yard Yew

  A blooming Girl, whose hair was wet

  With points of morning dew.

  THE FOUNTAIN.

  A Conversation.

  We talk’d with open heart, and tongue

  Affectionate and true,

  A pair of Friends, though I was young,

  And Matthew seventy-two.

  We lay beneath a spreading oak,

  Beside a mossy seat,

  And from the turf a fountain broke,

  And gurgled at our feet.

  Now, Matthew, let us try to match

  This water’s pleasant tune

  With some old Border-song, or catch

  That suits a summer’s noon.

  Or of the Church-clock and the chimes

  Sing here beneath the shade,

  That half-mad thing of witty rhymes

  Which you last April made!

  On silence Matthew lay, and eyed

  The spring beneath the tree;

  And thus the dear old Man replied,

  The grey-hair’d Man of glee.

  ”Down to the vale this water steers,

  How merrily it goes!

  Twill murmur on a thousand years,

  And flow as now it flows.”

  And here, on this delightful day,

  I cannot chuse but think

  How oft, a vigorous Man, I lay

  Beside this Fountain’s brink.

  My eyes are dim with childish tears.

  My heart is idly stirr’d,

  For the same sound is in my ears,

  Which in those days I heard.

  Thus fares it still in our decay:

  And yet the wiser mind

  Mourns less for what age takes away

  Than what it leaves behind.

  The blackbird in the summer trees,

  The lark upon the hill,

  Let loose their carols when they please,

  Are quiet when they will.

  With Nature never do they wage

  A foolish strife; they see

  A happy youth, and their old age

  Is beautiful and free:

  But we are press’d by heavy laws,

  And often, glad no more,

  We wear a face of joy, because

  We have been glad of yore.

  If there is one who need bemoan

  His kindred laid in earth,

  The houshold hearts that were his own,

  It is the man of mirth.

  ”My days, my Friend, are almost gone,

  My life has been approv’d,

  And many love me, but by none

  Am I enough belov’d.”

  ”Now both himself and me he wrongs,

  The man who thus complains!

  I live and sing my idle songs

  Upon these happy plains,”

  ”And, Matthew, for thy Children dead

  I’ll be a son to thee!”

  At this he grasp’d his hands, and said,

  ”Alas! that cannot be.”

  We rose up from the fountain-side,

  And down the smooth descent

  Of the green sheep-track did we glide,

  And through the wood we went,

  And, ere we came to Leonard’s Rock,

  He sang those witty rhymes

  About the crazy old church-clock

  And the bewilder’d chimes.

  NUTTING.

  — It seems a day,

  One of those heavenly days which cannot die,

  When forth I sallied from our cottage-door,

  And with a wallet o’er my shoulder slung,

  A nutting crook in hand, I turn’d my steps

  Towards the distant woods, a Figure quaint,

  Trick’d out in proud disguise of Beggar’s weeds

  Put on for the occasion, by advice

  And exhortation of my frugal Dame.

  Motley accoutrements! of power to smile

  At thorns, and brakes, and brambles, and, in truth,

  More ragged than need was. Among the woods,

  And o’er the pathless rocks, I forc’d my way

  Until, at length, I came to one dear nook

  Unvisited, where not a broken bough

  Droop’d with its wither’d leaves, ungracious sign

  Of devastation, but the hazels rose

  Tall and erect, with milk-white clusters hung,

  A virgin scene! — A little while I stood,

  Breathing with such suppression of the heart

  As joy delights in; and with wise restraint

  Voluptuous, fearless of a rival, eyed

  The banquet, or beneath the trees I sate

  Among the flowers, and with the flowers I play’d;

  A temper known to those, who, after long

  And weary expectation, have been bless’d

  With sudden happiness beyond all hope. —

  — Perhaps it was a bower beneath whose leaves

  The violets of five seasons re-appear

  And fade, unseen by any human eye,

  Where fairy water-breaks do murmur on

  For ever, and I saw the sparkling foam,

  And with my cheek on one of those green stones

  That, fleec’d with moss, beneath the shady trees,

  Lay round me scatter’d like a flock of sheep,

  I heard the murmur and the murmuring sound,

  In that sweet mood when pleasure loves to pay

  Tribute to ease, and, of its joy secure

  The heart luxuriates with indifferent things,

  Wasting its kindliness on stocks and stones,

  And on the vacant air. Then up I rose,

  And dragg’d to earth
both branch and bough, with crash

  And merciless ravage; and the shady nook

  Of hazels, and the green and mossy bower

  Deform’d and sullied, patiently gave up

  Their quiet being: and unless I now

  Confound my present feelings with the past,

  Even then, when, from the bower I turn’d away,

  Exulting, rich beyond the wealth of kings

  I felt a sense of pain when I beheld

  The silent trees and the intruding sky. —

  Then, dearest Maiden! move along these shades

  In gentleness of heart with gentle hand

  Touch, — for there is a Spirit in the woods.

  Three years she grew in sun and shower,

  Then Nature said, “A lovelier flower

  On earth was never sown;

  This Child I to myself will take,

  She shall be mine, and I will make

  A Lady of my own.”

  Myself will to my darling be

  Both law and impulse, and with me

  The Girl in rock and plain,

  In earth and heaven, in glade and bower,

  Shall feel an overseeing power

  To kindle or restrain.

  She shall be sportive as the fawn

  That wild with glee across the lawn

  Or up the mountain springs,

  And hers shall be the breathing balm,

  And hers the silence and the calm

  Of mute insensate things.

  The floating clouds their state shall lend

  To her, for her the willow bend,

  Nor shall she fail to see

  Even in the motions of the storm

  A beauty that shall mould her form

  By silent sympathy.

  The stars of midnight shall be dear

  To her, and she shall lean her ear

  In many a secret place

  Where rivulets dance their wayward round,

  And beauty born of murmuring sound

  Shall pass into her face.

  And vital feelings of delight

  Shall rear her form to stately height,

  Her virgin bosom swell,

  Such thoughts to Lucy I will give

  While she and I together live

  Here in this happy dell.

  Thus Nature spake — The work was done —

  How soon my Lucy’s race was run!

  She died and left to me

  This heath, this calm and quiet scene,

  The memory of what has been,

  And never more will be.

  The Pet-Lamb, A Pastoral.

  The dew was falling fast, the stars began to blink;

  I heard a voice, it said, Drink, pretty Creature, drink!

  And, looking o’er the hedge, before me I espied;

  A snow-white mountain Lamb with a Maiden at its side.

  No other sheep were near, the Lamb was all alone,

  And by a slender cord was tether’d to a stone;

  With one knee on the grass did the little Maiden kneel,

  While to that Mountain Lamb she gave its evening meal.

  The Lamb while from her hand he thus his supper took

  Seem’d to feast with head and ears, and his tail with pleasure shook.

  ”Drink, pretty Creature, drink,” she said in such a tone

  That I almost receiv’d her heart into my own.

  ’Twas little Barbara Lewthwaite, a Child of beauty rare;

  I watch’d them with delight, they were a lovely pair.

  And now with empty Can the Maiden turn’d away,

  But ere ten yards were gone her footsteps did she stay.

  Towards the Lamb she look’d, and from that shady place

  I unobserv’d could see the workings of her face:

  If Nature to her tongue could measur’d numbers bring

  Thus, thought I, to her Lamb that little Maid would sing.

  What ails thee, Young One? What? Why pull so at thy cord?

  Is it not well with thee? Well both for bed and board?

  Thy plot of grass is soft, and green as grass can be.

  Rest little Young One, rest; what is’t that aileth thee?

  What is it thou would’st seek? What is wanting to thy heart?

  Thy limbs are they not strong? And beautiful thou art:

  This grass is tender grass, these flowers they have no peer,

  And that green corn all day is rustling in thy ears.

  If the Sun is shining hot, do but stretch thy woollen chain,

  This beech is standing by, its covert thou can’st gain,

  For rain and mountain storms the like thou need’st not fear,

  The rain and storm are things which scarcely can come here.

  Rest, little Young One, rest; thou hast forgot the day

  When my Father found thee first in places far away:

  Many flocks are on the hills, but thou wert own’d by none,

  And thy Mother from thy side for evermore was gone.

  He took thee in his arms, and in pity brought thee home,

  A blessed day for thee! then whither would’st thou roam?

  A faithful nurse thou hast, the dam that did thee yean

  Upon the mountain tops no kinder could have been.

  Thou know’st that twice a day I have brought thee in this Can

  Fresh water from the brook as clear as ever ran;

  And twice in the day when the ground is wet with dew

  I bring thee draughts of milk, warm milk it is and new.

  Thy limbs will shortly be twice as stout as they are now,

  Then I’ll yoke thee to my cart like a pony in the plough,

  My playmate thou shalt be, and when the wind is cold

  Our hearth shall be thy bed, our house shall be thy fold.

  It will not, will not rest! — poor Creature can it be

  That ‘tis thy Mother’s heart which is working so in thee?

  Things that I know not of belike to thee are dear,

  And dreams of things which thou can’st neither see nor hear.

  Alas, the mountain tops that look so green and fair!

  I’ve heard of fearful winds and darkness that come there,

  The little brooks, that seem all pastime and all play,

  When they are angry, roar like lions for their prey.

  Here thou needst not dread the raven in the sky,

  He will not come to thee, our Cottage is hard by,

  Night and day thou art safe as living thing can be,

  Be happy then and rest, what is’t that aileth thee?

  As homeward through the lane I went with lazy feet,

  This song to myself did I oftentimes repeat,

  And it seem’d as I retrac’d the ballad line by line

  That but half of it was hers, and one half of it was mine.

  Again, and once again did I repeat the song,

  ”Nay” said I, “more than half to the Damsel must belong,

  For she look’d with such a look, and she spake with such a tone,

  That I almost receiv’d her heart into my own.”

  WRITTEN IN GERMANY, ON ONE OF THE COLDEST DAYS OF THE CENTURY.

  I must apprize the Reader that the stoves in North Germany generally have the impression of a galloping Horse upon them, this being part of the Brunswick Arms.

  A fig for your languages, German and Norse,

  Let me have the song of the Kettle,

  And the tongs and the poker, instead of that horse

  That gallops away with such fury and force

  On this dreary dull plate of black metal.

  Our earth is no doubt made of excellent stuff,

  But her pulses beat slower and slower.

  The weather in Forty was cutting and rough,

  And then, as Heaven knows, the glass stood low enough,

  And now it is four degrees lower.

  Here’s a Fly, a disconsolate creature, perhaps


  A child of the field, or the grove,

  And sorrow for him! this dull treacherous heat

  Has seduc’d the poor fool from his winter retreat,

  And he creeps to the edge of my stove.

  Alas! how he fumbles about the domains

  Which this comfortless oven environ,

  He cannot find out in what track he must crawl

  Now back to the tiles, and now back to the hall,

  And now on the brink of the iron.

  Stock-still there he stands like a traveller bemaz’d,

  The best of his skill he has tried;

  His feelers methinks I can see him put forth

  To the East and the West, and the South and the North,

  But he finds neither guide-post nor guide.

  See! his spindles sink under him, foot, leg and thigh,

  His eyesight and hearing are lost,

  Between life and death his blood freezes and thaws,

  And his two pretty pinions of blue dusky gauze

  Are glued to his sides by the frost.

  No Brother, no Friend has he near him, while I

  Can draw warmth from the cheek of my Love,

  As blest and as glad in this desolate gloom,

  As if green summer grass were the floor of my room,

  And woodbines were hanging above.

  Yet, God is my witness, thou small helpless Thing,

  Thy life I would gladly sustain

  Till summer comes up from the South, and with crowds

  Of thy brethren a march thou should’st sound through the clouds,

  And back to the forests again.

  THE CHILDLESS FATHER.

  Up, Timothy, up with your Staff and away!

  Not a soul in the village this morning will stay;

  The Hare has just started from Hamilton’s grounds,

  And Skiddaw is glad with the cry of the hounds.

  — Of coats and of jackets both grey, scarlet, and green,

  On the slopes of the pastures all colours were seen,

  With their comely blue aprons and caps white as snow,

  The girls on the hills made a holiday show.

  The bason of box-wood, just six months before,

  Had stood on the table at Timothy’s door,

  A Coffin through Timothy’s threshold had pass’d,

  One Child did it bear and that Child was his last.

  Now fast up the dell came the noise and the fray,

  The horse and the horn, and the hark! hark! away!

  Old Timothy took up his Staff, and he shut

  With a leisurely motion the door of his hut.

  Perhaps to himself at that moment he said,

  ”The key I must take, for my Ellen is dead”

  But of this in my ears not a word did he speak,

  And he went to the chase with a tear on his cheek.