Delphi Complete Works of William Wordsworth

by William Wordsworth

  Thou liest in Abraham’s bosom all the year;

  And worshipp’st at the Temple’s inner shrine,

  God being with thee when we know it not.

  TO THE MEMORY OF RAISLEY CALVERT

  Calvert! it must not be unheard by them

  Who may respect my name that I to thee

  Ow’d many years of early liberty.

  This care was thine when sickness did condemn

  Thy youth to hopeless wasting, root and stem:

  That I, if frugal and severe, might stray

  Where’er I liked; and finally array

  My temples with the Muse’s diadem.

  Hence, if in freedom I have lov’d the truth,

  If there be aught of pure, or good, or great,

  In my past verse; or shall be, in the lays

  Of higher mood, which now I meditate,

  It gladdens me, O worthy, short-lived Youth!

  To think how much of this will be thy praise.

  DEDICATED TO LIBERTY

  COMPOSED BY THE SEA-SIDE, near CALAIS,

  August, 1802.

  Fair Star of Evening, Splendor of the West,

  Star of my Country! on the horizon’s brink

  Thou hangest, stooping, as might seem, to sink

  On England’s bosom; yet well pleas’d to rest,

  Meanwhile, and be to her a glorious crest

  Conspicuous to the Nations. Thou, I think,

  Should’st be my Country’s emblem; and should’st wink,

  Bright Star! with laughter on her banners, drest

  In thy fresh beauty. There! that dusky spot

  Beneath thee, it is England; there it lies.

  Blessings be on you both! one hope, one lot,

  One life, one glory! I, with many a fear

  For my dear Country, many heartfelt sighs,

  Among Men who do not love her linger here.

  IS IT A REED THAT’S SHAKEN BY THE WIND

  CALAIS, August, 1802.

  Is it a Reed that’s shaken by the wind,

  Or what is it that ye go forth to see?

  Lords, Lawyers, Statesmen, Squires of low degree,

  Men known, and men unknown, Sick, Lame, and Blind,

  Post forward all, like Creatures of one kind,

  With first-fruit offerings crowd to bend the knee

  In France, before the new-born Majesty.

  ’Tis ever thus. Ye Men of prostrate mind!

  A seemly reverence may be paid to power;

  But that’s a loyal virtue, never sown

  In haste, nor springing with a transient shower:

  When truth, when sense, when liberty were flown

  What hardship had it been to wait an hour?

  Shame on you, feeble Heads, to slavery prone!

  TO A FRIEND, COMPOSED NEAR CALAIS

  On the Road leading to Ardres, August 7th, 1802.

  Jones! when from Calais southward you and I

  Travell’d on foot together; then this Way,

  Which I am pacing now, was like the May

  With festivals of new-born Liberty:

  A homeless sound of joy was in the Sky;

  The antiquated Earth, as one might say,

  Beat like the heart of Man: songs, garlands, play,

  Banners, and happy faces, far and nigh!

  And now, sole register that these things were,

  Two solitary greetings have I heard,

  ”Good morrow, Citizen!” a hollow word,

  As if a dead Man spake it! Yet despair

  I feel not: happy am I as a Bird:

  Fair seasons yet will come, and hopes as fair.

  I GRIEV’D FOR BUONAPARTE, WITH A VAIN

  I griev’d for Buonaparte, with a vain

  And an unthinking grief! the vital blood

  Of that Man’s mind what can it be? What food

  Fed his first hopes? What knowledge could He gain?

  ’Tis not in battles that from youth we train

  The Governor who must be wise and good,

  And temper with the sternness of the brain

  Thoughts motherly, and meek as womanhood.

  Wisdom doth live with children round her knees:

  Books, leisure, perfect freedom, and the talk

  Man holds with week-day man in the hourly walk

  Of the mind’s business: these are the degrees

  By which true Sway doth mount; this is the stalk

  True Power doth grow on; and her rights are these.

  FESTIVALS HAVE I SEEN THAT WERE NOT NAMES

  Calais. August 15th, 1802.

  Festivals have I seen that were not names:

  This is young Buonaparte’s natal day;

  And his is henceforth an established sway,

  Consul for life. With worship France proclaims

  Her approbation, and with pomps and games.

  Heaven grant that other Cities may be gay!

  Calais is not: and I have bent my way

  To the Sea-coast, noting that each man frames

  His business as he likes. Another time

  That was, when I was here long years ago:

  The senselessness of joy was then sublime!

  Happy is he, who, caring not for Pope,

  Consul, or King, can sound himself to know

  The destiny of Man, and live in hope.

  ON THE EXTINCTION OF THE VENETIAN REPUBLIC

  Once did She hold the gorgeous East in fee;

  And was the safeguard of the West: the worth

  Of Venice did not fall below her birth,

  Venice, the eldest Child of Liberty.

  She was a Maiden City, bright and free;

  No guile seduced, no force could violate;

  And when She took unto herself a Mate

  She must espouse the everlasting Sea.

  And what if she had seen those glories fade,

  Those titles vanish, and that strength decay,

  Yet shall some tribute of regret be paid

  When her long life hath reach’d its final day:

  Men are we, and must grieve when even the Shade

  Of that which once was great is pass’d away.

  THE KING OF SWEDEN

  The Voice of Song from distant lands shall call

  To that great King; shall hail the crowned Youth

  Who, taking counsel of unbending Truth,

  By one example hath set forth to all

  How they with dignity may stand; or fall,

  If fall they must. Now, whither doth it tend?

  And what to him and his shall be the end?

  That thought is one which neither can appal

  Nor chear him; for the illustrious Swede hath done

  The thing which ought to be: He stands above

  All consequences: work he hath begun

  Of fortitude, and piety, and love,

  Which all his glorious Ancestors approve:

  The Heroes bless him, him their rightful Son.

  TO TOUSSAINT L’OUVERTURE

  Toussaint, the most unhappy Man of Men!

  Whether the rural Milk-maid by her Cow

  Sing in thy hearing, or thou liest now

  Alone in some deep dungeon’s earless den,

  O miserable chieftain! where and when

  Wilt thou find patience? Yet die not; do thou

  Wear rather in thy bonds a chearful brow:

  Though fallen Thyself, never to rise again,

  Live, and take comfort. Thou hast left behind

  Powers that will work for thee; air, earth, and skies;

  There’s not a breathing of the common wind

  That will forget thee; thou hast great allies;

  Thy friends are exultations, agonies,

  And love, and Man’s unconquerable mind.

  WE HAD A FELLOW-PASSENGER WHO CAME

  September 1st, 1802.

  We had a fellow-Passenger who came

  From Calais with us, gaudy in array,

&
nbsp; A Negro Woman like a Lady gay,

  Yet silent as a woman fearing blame;

  Dejected, meek, yea pitiably tame,

  She sate, from notice turning not away,

  But on our proffer’d kindness still did lay

  A weight of languid speech, or at the same

  Was silent, motionless in eyes and face.

  She was a Negro Woman driv’n from France,

  Rejected like all others of that race,

  Not one of whom may now find footing there;

  This the poor Out-cast did to us declare,

  Nor murmur’d at the unfeeling Ordinance.

  COMPOSED IN THE VALLEY, near DOVER, On the Day of landing.

  DEAR FELLOW TRAVELLER! HERE WE ARE ONCE MORE

  Dear fellow Traveller! here we are once more.

  The Cock that crows, the Smoke that curls, that sound

  Of Bells, those Boys that in yon meadow-ground

  In white sleev’d shirts are playing by the score,

  And even this little River’s gentle roar,

  All, all are English. Oft have I look’d round

  With joy in Kent’s green vales; but never found

  Myself so satisfied in heart before.

  Europe is yet in Bonds; but let that pass,

  Thought for another moment. Thou art free

  My Country! and ‘tis joy enough and pride

  For one hour’s perfect bliss, to tread the grass

  Of England once again, and hear and see,

  With such a dear Companion at my side.

  INLAND, WITHIN A HOLLOW VALE, I STOOD

  September, 1802.

  Inland, within a hollow Vale, I stood,

  And saw, while sea was calm and air was clear,

  The Coast of France, the Coast of France how near!

  Drawn almost into frightful neighbourhood.

  I shrunk, for verily the barrier flood

  Was like a Lake, or River bright and fair,

  A span of waters; yet what power is there!

  What mightiness for evil and for good!

  Even so doth God protect us if we be

  Virtuous and wise: Winds blow, and Waters roll,

  Strength to the brave, and Power, and Deity,

  Yet in themselves are nothing! One decree

  Spake laws to them, and said that by the Soul

  Only the Nations shall be great and free.

  THOUGHT OF A BRITON ON THE SUBJUGATION OF SWITZERLAND

  Two Voices are there; one is of the Sea,

  One of the Mountains; each a mighty Voice:

  In both from age to age Thou didst rejoice,

  They were thy chosen Music, Liberty!

  There came a Tyrant, and with holy glee

  Thou fought’st against Him; but hast vainly striven;

  Thou from thy Alpine Holds at length art driven,

  Where not a torrent murmurs heard by thee.

  Of one deep bliss thine ear hath been bereft:

  Then cleave, O cleave to that which still is left!

  For, high-soul’d Maid, what sorrow would it be

  That mountain Floods should thunder as before,

  And Ocean bellow from his rocky shore,

  And neither awful Voice be heard by thee!

  O FRIEND! I KNOW NOT WHICH WAY I MUST LOOK

  Written in London, September, 1802.

  O Friend! I know not which way I must look

  For comfort, being, as I am, opprest,

  To think that now our Life is only drest

  For shew; mean handywork of craftsman, cook,

  Or groom! We must run glittering like a Brook

  In the open sunshine, or we are unblest:

  The wealthiest man among us is the best:

  No grandeur now in nature or in book

  Delights us. Rapine, avarice, expence,

  This is idolatry; and these we adore:

  Plain living and high thinking are no more:

  The homely beauty of the good old cause

  Is gone; our peace, our fearful innocence,

  And pure religion breathing household laws.

  MILTON! THOU SHOULD’ST BE LIVING AT THIS HOUR

  London, 1802.

  Milton! thou should’st be living at this hour:

  England hath need of thee: she is a fen

  Of stagnant waters: altar, sword and pen,

  Fireside, the heroic wealth of hall and bower,

  Have forfeited their ancient English dower

  Of inward happiness. We are selfish men;

  Oh! raise us up, return to us again;

  And give us manners, virtue, freedom, power.

  Thy soul was like a Star and dwelt apart:

  Thou hadst a voice whose sound was like the sea;

  Pure as the naked heavens, majestic, free,

  So didst thou travel on life’s common way,

  In chearful godliness; and yet thy heart

  The lowliest duties on itself did lay.

  GREAT MEN HAVE BEEN AMONG US

  Great Men have been among us; hands that penn’d

  And tongues that utter’d wisdom, better none:

  The later Sydney, Marvel, Harrington,

  Young Vane, and others who call’d Milton Friend.

  These Moralists could act and comprehend:

  They knew how genuine glory was put on;

  Taught us how rightfully a nation shone

  In splendor: what strength was, that would not bend

  But in magnanimous meekness. France, ‘tis strange,

  Hath brought forth no such souls as we had then.

  Perpetual emptiness! unceasing change!

  No single Volume paramount, no code,

  No master spirit, no determined road;

  But equally a want of Books and Men!

  IT IS NOT TO BE THOUGHT OF THAT THE FLOOD

  It is not to be thought of that the Flood

  Of British freedom, which to the open Sea

  Of the world’s praise from dark antiquity

  Hath flowed, “with pomp of waters, unwithstood,”

  Road by which all might come and go that would,

  And bear out freights of worth to foreign lands;

  That this most famous Stream in Bogs and Sands

  Should perish; and to evil and to good

  Be lost for ever. In our Halls is hung

  Armoury of the invincible Knights of old:

  We must be free or die, who speak the tongue

  That Shakespeare spake; the faith and morals hold

  Which Milton held. In every thing we are sprung

  Of Earth’s first blood, have titles manifold.

  WHEN I HAVE BORNE IN MEMORY WHAT HAS TAMED

  When I have borne in memory what has tamed

  Great Nations, how ennobling thoughts depart

  When Men change Swords for Ledgers, and desert

  The Student’s bower for gold, some fears unnamed

  I had, my Country! am I to be blamed?

  But, when I think of Thee, and what Thou art,

  Verily, in the bottom of my heart,

  Of those unfilial fears I am ashamed.

  But dearly must we prize thee; we who find

  In thee a bulwark of the cause of men;

  And I by my affection was beguiled.

  What wonder, if a Poet, now and then,

  Among the many movements of his mind,

  Felt for thee as a Lover or a Child.

  ONE MIGHT BELIEVE THAT NATURAL MISERIES

  October, 1803.

  One might believe that natural miseries

  Had blasted France, and made of it a land

  Unfit for Men; and that in one great Band

  Her Sons were bursting forth, to dwell at ease.

  But ‘tis a chosen soil, where sun and breeze

  Shed gentle favors; rural works are there;

  And ordinary business without care;

  Spot rich in all things that can soothe and please!
<
br />   How piteous then that there should be such dearth

  Of knowledge; that whole myriads should unite

  To work against themselves such fell despite:

  Should come in phrenzy and in drunken mirth,

  Impatient to put out the only light

  Of Liberty that yet remains on Earth!

  THERE IS A BONDAGE WHICH IS WORSE TO BEAR

  There is a bondage which is worse to bear

  Than his who breathes, by roof, and floor, and wall,

  Pent in, a Tyrant’s solitary Thrall:

  ’Tis his who walks about in the open air,

  One of a Nation who, henceforth, must wear

  Their fetters in their Souls. For who could be,

  Who, even the best, in such condition, free

  From self-reproach, reproach which he must share

  With Human Nature? Never be it ours

  To see the Sun how brightly it will shine,

  And know that noble Feelings, manly Powers,

  Instead of gathering strength must droop and pine,

  And Earth with all her pleasant fruits and flowers

  Fade, and participate in Man’s decline.

  THESE TIMES TOUCH MONEY’D WORLDLINGS WITH DISMAY

  October, 1803.

  These times touch money’d Worldlings with dismay:

  Even rich men, brave by nature, taint the air

  With words of apprehension and despair:

  While tens of thousands, thinking on the affray,

  Men unto whom sufficient for the day

  And minds not stinted or untill’d are given,

  Sound, healthy Children of the God of Heaven,

  Are cheerful as the rising Sun in May.

  What do we gather hence but firmer faith

  That every gift of noble origin

  Is breathed upon by Hope’s perpetual breath;

  That virtue and the faculties within

  Are vital, and that riches are akin

  To fear, to change, to cowardice, and death!

  ENGLAND! THE TIME IS COME WHEN THOU SHOULDST WEAN

  England! the time is come when thou shouldst wean