Delphi Complete Works of William Wordsworth
Page 47
Thy heart from its emasculating food;
The truth should now be better understood;
Old things have been unsettled; we have seen
Fair seed-time, better harvest might have been
But for thy trespasses; and, at this day,
If for Greece, Egypt, India, Africa,
Aught good were destined, Thou wouldst step between.
England! all nations in this charge agree:
But worse, more ignorant in love and hate,
Far, far more abject is thine Enemy:
Therefore the wise pray for thee, though the freight
Of thy offences be a heavy weight:
Oh grief! that Earth’s best hopes rest all with Thee!
WHEN, LOOKING ON THE PRESENT FACE OF THINGS
October, 1803.
When, looking on the present face of things,
I see one Man, of Men the meanest too!
Rais’d up to sway the World, to do, undo,
With mighty Nations for his Underlings,
The great events with which old story rings
Seem vain and hollow; I find nothing great;
Nothing is left which I can venerate;
So that almost a doubt within me springs
Of Providence, such emptiness at length
Seems at the heart of all things. But, great God!
I measure back the steps which I have trod,
And tremble, seeing, as I do, the strength
Of such poor Instruments, with thoughts sublime
I tremble at the sorrow of the time.
TO THE MEN OF KENT
October, 1803.
Vanguard of Liberty, ye Men of Kent,
Ye Children of a Soil that doth advance
It’s haughty brow against the coast of France,
Now is the time to prove your hardiment!
To France be words of invitation sent!
They from their Fields can see the countenance
Of your fierce war, may ken the glittering lance.
And hear you shouting forth your brave intent.
Left single, in bold parley, Ye, of yore,
Did from the Norman win a gallant wreath;
Confirm’d the charters that were yours before; —
No parleying now! In Britain is one breath;
We all are with you now from Shore to Shore: —
Ye Men of Kent, ‘tis Victory or Death!
SIX THOUSAND VETERANS PRACTIS’D IN WAR’S GAME
October, 1803.
Six thousand Veterans practis’d in War’s game,
Tried Men, at Killicranky were array’d
Against an equal Host that wore the Plaid,
Shepherds and Herdsmen. — Like a whirlwind came
The Highlanders, the slaughter spread like flame;
And Garry thundering down his mountain-road
Was stopp’d, and could not breathe beneath the load
Of the dead bodies. ‘Twas a day of shame
For them whom precept and the pedantry
Of cold mechanic battle do enslave.
Oh! for a single hour of that Dundee
Who on that day the word of onset gave!
Like conquest would the Men of England see;
And her Foes find a like inglorious Grave.
ANTICIPATION
October, 1803.
Shout, for a mighty Victory is won!
On British ground the Invaders are laid low;
The breath of Heaven has drifted them like snow,
And left them lying in the silent sun,
Never to rise again! — the work is done.
Come forth, ye Old Men, now in peaceful show
And greet your Sons! drums beat, and trumpets blow!
Make merry, Wives! ye little Children stun
Your Grandame’s ears with pleasure of your noise!
Clap, Infants, clap your hands! Divine must be
That triumph, when the very worst, the pain,
And even the prospect of our Brethren slain,
Hath something in it which the heart enjoys: —
In glory will they sleep and endless sanctity.
ANOTHER YEAR! — ANOTHER DEADLY BLOW
November, 1803.
Another year! — another deadly blow!
Another mighty Empire overthrown!
And we are left, or shall be left, alone;
The last that dares to struggle with the Foe.
’Tis well! from this day forward we shall know
That in ourselves our safety must be sought;
That by our own right hands it must be wrought,
That we must stand unpropp’d, or be laid low.
O Dastard whom such foretaste doth not chear!
We shall exult, if They who rule the land
Be Men who hold its many blessings dear,
Wise, upright, valiant; not a venal Band,
Who are to judge of danger which they fear,
And honour which they do not understand.
VOLUME II
ROB ROY’S GRAVE
The History of Rob Roy is sufficiently known; his Grave is near the head of Loch Ketterine, in one of those small Pin-fold-like Burial-grounds, of neglected and desolate appearance, which the Traveller meets with in the Highlands of Scotland.
A famous Man is Robin Hood,
The English Ballad-singer’s joy!
And Scotland has a Thief as good,
An Outlaw of as daring mood,
She has her brave ROB ROY!
Then clear the weeds from off his Grave,
And let us chaunt a passing Stave
In honour of that Hero brave!
Heaven gave Rob Roy a dauntless heart,
And wondrous length and strength of arm: 10
Nor craved he more to quell his Foes,
Or keep his Friends from harm.
Yet was Rob Roy as wise as brave;
Forgive me if the phrase be strong; —
Poet worthy of Rob Roy
Must scorn a timid song.
Say, then, that he was wise as brave;
As wise in thought as bold in deed:
For in the principles of things
He sought his moral creed. 20
Said generous Rob, “What need of Books?
Burn all the Statutes and their shelves:
They stir us up against our Kind;
And worse, against Ourselves.”
”We have a passion, make a law,
Too false to guide us or controul!
And for the law itself we fight
In bitterness of soul.”
”And, puzzled, blinded thus, we lose
Distinctions that are plain and few: 30
These find I graven on my heart:
That tells me what to do.”
”The Creatures see of flood and field,
And those that travel on the wind!
With them no strife can last; they live
In peace, and peace of mind.”
”For why? — because the good old Rule
Sufficeth them, the simple Plan,
That they should take who have the power,
And they should keep who can.” 40
”A lesson which is quickly learn’d,
A signal this which all can see!
Thus nothing here provokes the Strong
To wanton cruelty.”
”All freakishness of mind is check’d;
He tam’d, who foolishly aspires;
While to the measure of his might
Each fashions his desires.”
”All Kinds, and Creatures, stand and fall
By strength of prowess or of wit: 50
Tis God’s appointment who must sway,
And who is to submit.”
”Since then,” said Robin, “right is plain,
And longest life is but a day;
To have my ends, maintain my rights,
I’ll take the shortest way
.”
And thus among these rocks he liv’d,
Through summer’s heat and winter’s snow:
The Eagle, he was Lord above,
And Rob was Lord below. 60
So was it — would, at least, have been
But through untowardness of fate:
For Polity was then too strong;
He came an age too late,
Or shall we say an age too soon?
For, were the bold Man living now,
How might he flourish in his pride,
With buds on every bough!
Then rents and Factors, rights of chace,
Sheriffs, and Lairds and their domains 70
Would all have seem’d but paltry things,
Not worth a moment’s pains.
Rob Roy had never linger’d here,
To these few meagre Vales confin’d;
But thought how wide the world, the times
How fairly to his mind!
And to his Sword he would have said,
”Do Thou my sovereign will enact
From land to land through half the earth!
Judge thou of law and fact!” 80
”Tis fit that we should do our part;
Becoming, that mankind should learn
That we are not to be surpass’d
In fatherly concern.”
”Of old things all are over old,
Of good things none are good enough: —
We’ll shew that we can help to frame
A world of other stuff.”
”I, too, will have my Kings that take
From me the sign of life and death: 90
Kingdoms shall shift about, like clouds,
Obedient to my breath.”
And, if the word had been fulfill’d,
As might have been, then, thought of joy!
France would have had her present Boast;
And we our brave Rob Roy!
Oh! say not so; compare them not;
I would not wrong thee, Champion brave!
Would wrong thee no where; least of all
Here standing by thy Grave. 100
For Thou, although with some wild thoughts,
Wild Chieftain of a Savage Clan!
Hadst this to boast of; thou didst love
The liberty of Man.
And, had it been thy lot to live
With us who now behold the light,
Thou would’st have nobly stirr’d thyself,
And battled for the Right.
For Robin was the poor Man’s stay
The poor man’s heart, the poor man’s hand; 110
And all the oppress’d, who wanted strength,
Had Robin’s to command.
Bear witness many a pensive sigh
Of thoughtful Herdsman when he strays
Alone upon Loch Veol’s Heights,
And by Loch Lomond’s Braes!
And, far and near, through vale and hill,
Are faces that attest the same;
And kindle, like a fire new stirr’d,
At sound of ROB ROY’s name. 120
THE SOLITARY REAPER
Behold her, single in the field,
Yon solitary Highland Lass!
Reaping and singing by herself;
Stop here, or gently pass!
Alone she cuts, and binds the grain,
And sings a melancholy strain;
O listen! for the Vale profound
Is overflowing with the sound.
No Nightingale did ever chaunt
So sweetly to reposing bands 10
Of Travellers in some shady haunt,
Among Arabian Sands:
No sweeter voice was ever heard
In spring-time from the Cuckoo-bird,
Breaking the silence of the seas
Among the farthest Hebrides.
Will no one tell me what she sings?
Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow
For old, unhappy, far-off things,
And battles long ago: 20
Or is it some more humble lay,
Familiar matter of today?
Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain,
That has been, and may be again!
Whate’er the theme, the Maiden sung
As if her song could have no ending;
I saw her singing at her work,
And o’er the sickle bending;
I listen’d till I had my fill;
And, as I mounted up the hill, 30
The music in my heart I bore,
Long after it was heard no more.
STEPPING WESTWARD
While my Fellow-traveller and I were walking by the side of Loch Ketterine, one fine evening after sun-set, in our road to a Hut where in the course of our Tour we had been hospitably entertained some weeks before, we met, in one of the loneliest parts of that solitary region, two well dressed Women, one of whom said to us, by way of greeting, “What you are stepping westward?”
”What you are stepping westward?” — ”Yea.”
— ’Twould be a wildish destiny,
If we, who thus together roam
In a strange Land, and far from home,
Were in this place the guests of Chance:
Yet who would stop, or fear to advance,
Though home or shelter he had none,
With such a Sky to lead him on?
The dewy ground was dark and cold;
Behind, all gloomy to behold; 10
And stepping westward seem’d to be
A kind of heavenly destiny;
I liked the greeting; ‘twas a sound
Of something without place or bound;
And seem’d to give me spiritual right
To travel through that region bright.
The voice was soft, and she who spake
Was walking by her native Lake:
The salutation had to me
The very sound of courtesy: 20
It’s power was felt; and while my eye
Was fixed upon the glowing sky,
The echo of the voice enwrought
A human sweetness with the thought
Of travelling through the world that lay
Before me in my endless way.
GLEN-ALMAIN OR THE NARROW GLEN
In this still place, remote from men,
Sleeps Ossian, in the NARROW GLEN;
In this still place, where murmurs on
But one meek Streamlet, only one:
He sang of battles, and the breath
Of stormy war, and violent death;
And should, methinks, when all was past,
Have rightfully been laid at last
Where rocks were sudely heap’d, and rent
As by a spirit turbulent; 10
Where sights were rough, and sounds were wild,
And every thing unreconciled;
In some complaining, dim retreat,
For fear and melancholy meet;
But this is calm; there cannot be
A more entire tranquillity.
Does then the Bard sleep here indeed?
Or is it but a groundless creed?
What matters it? I blame them not
Whose Fancy in this lonely Spot 20
Was moved; and in this way express’d
Their notion of it’s perfect rest.
A Convent, even a hermit’s Cell
Would break the silence of this Dell:
It is not quiet, is not ease;
But something deeper far than these:
The separation that is here
Is of the grave; and of austere
And happy feelings of the dead:
And, therefore, was it rightly said 30
That Ossian, last of all his race!
Lies buried in this lonely place.
THE MATRON OF JEDBOROUGH AND HER HUSBAND
At Jedborough we went into private Lodgings for a few days; and the following Verses were called forth by the ch
aracter, and domestic situation, of our Hostess.
Age! twine thy brows with fresh spring flowers!
And call a train of laughing Hours;
And bid them dance, and bid them sing;
And Thou, too, mingle in the Ring!
Take to thy heart a new delight;
If not, make merry in despite!
For there is one who scorns thy power.
— But dance! for under Jedborough Tower
There liveth in the prime of glee,
A Woman, whose years are seventy-three, 10
And She will dance and sing with thee!
Nay! start not at that Figure — there!
Him who is rooted to his chair!
Look at him — look again! for He
Hath long been of thy Family.
With legs that move not, if they can,
And useless arms, a Trunk of Man,
He sits, and with a vacant eye;
A Sight to make a Stranger sigh!
Deaf, drooping, that is now his doom: 20
His world is in this single room:
Is this a place for mirth and cheer?
Can merry-making enter here?
The joyous Woman is the Mate
Of Him in that forlorn estate!
He breathes a subterraneous damp,
But bright as Vesper shines her lamp:
He is as mute as Jedborough Tower;
She jocund as it was of yore,
With all it’s bravery on; in times, 30
When, all alive with merry chimes,
Upon a sun-bright morn of May,
It rouz’d the Vale to Holiday.
I praise thee, Matron! and thy due
Is praise; heroic praise, and true!
With admiration I behold
Thy gladness unsubdued and bold:
Thy looks, thy gestures, all present
The picture of a life well-spent:
This do I see; and something more; 40
A strength unthought of heretofore!
Delighted am I for thy sake;
And yet a higher joy partake.
Our Human-nature throws away
It’s second Twilight, and looks gay:
A Land of promise and of pride
Unfolding, wide as life is wide.
Ah! see her helpless Charge! enclos’d
Within himself, as seems; compos’d;
To fear of loss, and hope of gain, 50
The strife of happiness and pain,
Utterly dead! yet, in the guise
Of little Infants, when their eyes
Begin to follow to and fro
The persons that before them go,
He tracks her motions, quick or slow.