Delphi Complete Works of William Wordsworth

by William Wordsworth

  From the shore come the notes

  To their Mill where it floats,

  To their House and their Mill tether’d fast;

  To the small wooden isle where their work to beguile 10

  They from morning to even take whatever is given; —

  And many a blithe day they have past.

  In sight of the Spires

  All alive with the fires

  Of the Sun going down to his rest,

  In the broad open eye of the solitary sky,

  They dance, — there are three, as jocund as free,

  While they dance on the calm river’s breast.

  Man and Maidens wheel,

  They themselves make the Reel, 20

  And their Music’s a prey which they seize;

  It plays not for them, — what matter! ‘tis their’s;

  And if they had care it has scattered their cares,

  While they dance, crying, “Long as ye please!”

  They dance not for me,

  Yet mine is their glee!

  Thus pleasure is spread through the earth

  In stray gifts to be claim’d by whoever shall find;

  Thus a rich loving-kindness, redundantly kind,

  Moves all nature to gladness and mirth. 30

  The Showers of the Spring

  Rouze the Birds and they sing;

  If the Wind do but stir for his proper delight,

  Each Leaf, that and this, his neighbour will kiss,

  Each Wave, one and t’other, speeds after his Brother;

  They are happy, for that is their right!

  STAR GAZERS

  What crowd is this? what have we here! we must not pass it by;

  A Telescope upon its frame, and pointed to the sky:

  Long is it as a Barber’s Poll, or Mast of little Boat,

  Some little Pleasure-Skiff, that doth on Thames’s waters float.

  The Show-man chuses well his place, ‘tis Leicester’s busy Square;

  And he’s as happy in his night, for the heavens are blue and fair;

  Calm, though impatient is the Crowd; Each is ready with the fee,

  And envies him that’s looking — what an insight must it be!

  Yet, Show-man, where can lie the cause? Shall thy Implement have

  blame,

  A Boaster, that when he is tried, fails, and is put to shame? 10

  Or is it good as others are, and be their eyes in fault?

  Their eyes, or minds? or, finally, is this resplendent Vault?

  Is nothing of that radiant pomp so good as we have here?

  Or gives a thing but small delight that never can be dear?

  The silver Moon with all her Vales, and Hills of mightiest fame,

  Do they betray us when they’re seen? and are they but a name?

  Or is it rather that Conceit rapacious is and strong,

  And bounty never yields so much but it seems to do her wrong?

  Or is it, that when human Souls a journey long have had,

  And are returned into themselves, they cannot but be sad? 20

  Or must we be constrain’d to think that these Spectators rude,

  Poor in estate, of manners base, men of the multitude,

  Have souls which never yet have ris’n, and therefore prostrate lie?

  No, no, this cannot be — Men thirst for power and majesty!

  Does, then, a deep and earnest thought the blissful mind employ

  Of him who gazes, or has gazed? a grave and steady joy,

  That doth reject all shew of pride, admits no outward sign,

  Because not of this noisy world, but silent and divine!

  Whatever be the cause, ‘tis sure that they who pry & pore

  Seem to meet with little gain, seem less happy than before: 30

  One after One they take their turns, nor have I one espied

  That doth not slackly go away, as if dissatisfied.

  POWER OF MUSIC

  An Orpheus! An Orpheus! — yes, Faith may grow bold,

  And take to herself all the wonders of old; —

  Near the stately Pantheon you’ll meet with the same,

  In the street that from Oxford hath borrowed its name.

  His station is there; — and he works on the crowd,

  He sways them with harmony merry and loud;

  He fills with his power all their hearts to the brim —

  Was aught ever heard like his fiddle and him!

  What an eager assembly! what an empire is this!

  The weary have life and the hungry have bliss; 10

  The mourner is cheared, and the anxious have rest;

  And the guilt-burthened Soul is no longer opprest.

  As the Moon brightens round her the clouds of the night,

  So he where he stands is a center of light;

  It gleams on the face, there, of dusky-faced Jack,

  And the pale-visaged Baker’s, with basket on back.

  That errand-bound ‘Prentice was passing in haste —

  What matter! he’s caught — and his time runs to waste —

  The News-man is stopped, though he stops on the fret,

  And the half-breathless Lamp-lighter he’s in the net! 20

  The Porter sits down on the weight which he bore;

  The Lass with her barrow wheels hither her store; —

  If a Thief could be here he might pilfer at ease;

  She sees the Musician, ‘tis all that she sees!

  He stands, back’d by the Wall; — he abates not his din;

  His hat gives him vigour, with boons dropping in,

  From the Old and the Young, from the Poorest; and there!

  The one-pennied Boy has his penny to spare.

  O blest are the Hearers and proud be the Hand

  Of the pleasure it spreads through so thankful a Band; 30

  I am glad for him, blind as he is! — all the while

  If they speak ‘tis to praise, and they praise with a smile.

  That tall Man, a Giant in bulk and in height,

  Not an inch of his body is free from delight;

  Can he keep himself still, if he would? oh, not he!

  The music stirs in him like wind through a tree.

  There’s a Cripple who leans on his Crutch; like a Tower

  That long has lean’d forward, leans hour after hour! —

  Mother, whose Spirit in fetters is bound,

  While she dandles the babe in her arms to the sound. 40

  Now, Coaches and Chariots, roar on like a stream;

  Here are twenty souls happy as Souls in a dream:

  They are deaf to your murmurs — they care not for you,

  Nor what ye are flying, or what ye pursue!

  TO THE DAISY

  The two following Poems were overflowings of the mind in

  composing the one which stands first in the first Volume.

  With little here to do or see

  Of things that in the great world be,

  Sweet Daisy! oft I talk to thee,

  For thou art worthy,

  Thou unassuming Common-place

  Of Nature, with that homely face,

  And yet with something of a grace,

  Which Love makes for thee!

  Oft do I sit by thee at ease,

  And weave a web of similies, 10

  Loose types of Things through all degrees,

  Thoughts of thy raising:

  And many a fond and idle name

  I give to thee, for praise or blame,

  As is the humour of the game,

  While I am gazing.

  A Nun demure of lowly port,

  Or sprightly Maiden of Love’s Court,

  In thy simplicity the sport

  Of all temptations; 20

  A Queen in crown of rubies drest,

  A Starveling in a scanty vest,

  Are all, as seem to suit thee best,

  Thy appellations.

  A little Cyclops, with one eye
>
  Staring to threaten and defy,

  That thought comes next — and instantly

  The freak is over,

  The shape will vanish, and behold!

  A silver Shield with boss of gold, 30

  That spreads itself, some Faery bold

  In fight to cover.

  I see thee glittering from afar; —

  And then thou art a pretty Star,

  Not quite so fair as many are

  In heaven above thee!

  Yet, like a star, with glittering crest,

  Self-poised in air thou seem’st to rest; —

  May peace come never to his nest,

  Who shall reprove thee! 40

  Sweet Flower! for by that name at last,

  When all my reveries are past,

  I call thee, and to that cleave fast,

  Sweet silent Creature!

  That breath’st with me in sun and air,

  Do thou, as thou art wont, repair

  My heart with gladness, and a share

  Of thy meek nature!

  TO THE SAME FLOWER

  Bright Flower, whose home is every where!

  A Pilgrim bold in Nature’s care,

  And all the long year through the heir

  Of joy or sorrow,

  Methinks that there abides in thee

  Some concord with humanity,

  Given to no other Flower I see

  The forest thorough!

  Is it that Man is soon deprest?

  A thoughtless Thing! who, once unblest, 10

  Does little on his memory rest,

  Or on his reason,

  And Thou would’st teach him how to find

  A shelter under every wind.

  A hope for times that are unkind

  And every season?

  Thou wander’st the wide world about,

  Uncheck’d by pride or scrupulous doubt,

  With friends to greet thee, or without,

  Yet pleased and willing; 20

  Meek, yielding to the occasion’s call,

  And all things suffering from all,

  Thy function apostolical

  In peace fulfilling.

  INCIDENT CHARACTERISTIC OF A FAVOURITE DOG, WHICH BELONGED TO A FRIEND OF THE AUTHOR

  On his morning rounds the Master

  Goes to learn how all things fare;

  Searches pasture after pasture,

  Sheep and Cattle eyes with care;

  And, for silence or for talk,

  He hath Comrades in his walk;

  Four Dogs, each pair of different breed,

  Distinguished two for scent, and two for speed.

  See, a Hare before him started!

  — Off they fly in earnest chace; 10

  Every Dog is eager-hearted,

  All the four are in the race!

  And the Hare whom they pursue

  Hath an instinct what to do;

  Her hope is near: no turn she makes;

  But, like an arrow, to the River takes.

  Deep the River was, and crusted

  Thinly by a one night’s frost;

  But the nimble Hare hath trusted

  To the ice, and safely crost; 20

  She hath crost, and without heed

  All are following at full speed,

  When, lo! the ice, so thinly spread,

  Breaks — and the Greyhound, DART, is over head!

  Better fate have PRINCE and SWALLOW —

  See them cleaving to the sport!

  Music has no heart to follow,

  Little Music, she stops short.

  She hath neither wish nor heart.

  Her’s is now another part: 30

  A loving Creature she, and brave!

  And doth her best her struggling Friend to save.

  From the brink her paws she stretches,

  Very hands as you would say!

  And afflicting moans she fetches,

  As he breaks the ice away.

  For herself she hath no fears,

  Him alone she sees and hears,

  Makes efforts and complainings; nor gives o’er

  Until her Fellow sunk, and reappear’d no more. 40

  TRIBUTE TO THE MEMORY OF THE SAME DOG

  Lie here sequester’d: — be this little mound

  For ever thine, and be it holy ground!

  Lie here, without a record of thy worth,

  Beneath the covering of the common earth!

  It is not from unwillingness to praise,

  Or want of love, that here no Stone we raise;

  More thou deserv’st; but this Man gives to Man,

  Brother to Brother, this is all we can.

  Yet they to whom thy virtues made thee dear

  Shall find thee through all changes of the year: 10

  This Oak points out thy grave; the silent Tree

  Will gladly stand a monument of thee.

  I pray’d for thee, and that thy end were past;

  And willingly have laid thee here at last:

  For thou hadst liv’d, till every thing that chears

  In thee had yielded to the weight of years;

  Extreme old age had wasted thee away,

  And left thee but a glimmering of the day;

  Thy ears were deaf; and feeble were thy knees, —

  saw thee stagger in the summer breeze, 20

  Too weak to stand against its sportive breath,

  And ready for the gentlest stroke of death.

  It came, and we were glad; yet tears were shed;

  Both Man and Woman wept when Thou wert dead;

  Not only for a thousand thoughts that were,

  Old household thoughts, in which thou hadst thy share;

  But for some precious boons vouchsafed to thee,

  Found scarcely any where in like degree!

  For love, that comes to all; the holy sense,

  Best gift of God, in thee was most intense; 30

  A chain of heart, a feeling of the mind,

  A tender sympathy, which did thee bind

  Not only to us Men, but to thy Kind:

  Yea, for thy Fellow-brutes in thee we saw

  The soul of Love, Love’s intellectual law: —

  Hence, if we wept, it was not done in shame;

  Our tears from passion and from reason came,

  And, therefore, shalt thou be an honoured name!

  SONNET: ADMONITION

  (Intended more particularly for the Perusal of those who may have

  happened to be enamoured of some beautiful Place of Retreat, in

  the Country of the Lakes.)

  Yes, there is holy pleasure in thine eye!

  — The lovely Cottage in the guardian nook

  Hath stirr’d thee deeply; with its own dear brook,

  Its own small pasture, almost its own sky!

  But covet not th’ Abode — oh! do not sigh,

  As many do, repining while they look,

  Sighing a wish to tear from Nature’s Book

  This blissful leaf, with worst impiety.

  Think what the home would be if it were thine,

  Even thine, though few thy wants! — Roof, window, door,

  The very flowers are sacred to the Poor,

  The roses to the porch which they entwine:

  Yea, all, that now enchants thee, from the day

  On which it should be touch’d, would melt, and melt away!

  SONNET. THOUGH NARROW BE THAT OLD MAN’S CARES

  … “gives to airy nothing

  A local habitation and a name.”

  Though narrow be that Old Man’s cares, and near

  The poor Old Man is greater than he seems:

  For he hath waking empire, wide as dreams;

  An ample sovereignty of eye and ear.

  Rich are his walks with supernatural chear;

  The region of his inner spirit teems

  With vital sounds, and monitory gleams

  Of high astonishment and plea
sing fear.

  He the seven birds hath seen that never part,

  Seen the SEVEN WHISTLERS in their nightly rounds,

  And counted them: and oftentimes will start —

  For overhead are sweeping GABRIEL’S HOUNDS,

  Doom’d, with their impious Lord, the flying Hart

  To chase for ever, on aerial grounds.

  SONNET. HIGH DEEDS, O GERMANS, ARE TO COME FROM YOU!

  A PROPHECY.

  Feb. 1807.

  High deeds, O Germans, are to come from you!

  Thus in your Books the record shall be found,

  ”A Watchword was pronounced, a potent sound,

  ARMINIUS! — all the people quaked like dew

  Stirr’d by the breeze — they rose, a Nation, true,

  True to itself — the mighty Germany,

  She of the Danube and the Northern sea,

  She rose, — and off at once the yoke she threw.

  All power was given her in the dreadful trance —

  Those new-born Kings she wither’d like a flame.”

  — Woe to them all! but heaviest woe and shame

  To that Bavarian, who did first advance

  His banner in accursed league with France,

  First open Traitor to her sacred name!

  SONNET: CLARKSON! IT WAS AN OBSTINATE HILL TO CLIMB

  TO THOMAS CLARKSON,

  On the final passing of the Bill for the Abolition of the Slave

  Trade, March, 1807.

  Clarkson! it was an obstinate Hill to climb;

  How toilsome, nay how dire it was, by Thee

  Is known, — by none, perhaps, so feelingly;

  But Thou, who, starting in thy fervent prime,

  Didst first lead forth this pilgrimage sublime,

  Hast heard the constant Voice its charge repeat,

  Which, out of thy young heart’s oracular seat,

  First roused thee. — O true yoke-fellow of Time

  With unabating effort, see, the palm

  Is won, and by all Nations shall be worn!

  The bloody Writing is for ever torn,

  And Thou henceforth shalt have a good Man’s calm,

  A great Man’s happiness; thy zeal shall find

  Repose at length, firm Friend of human kind!

  Once in a lonely Hamlet I sojourn’d

  In which a Lady driv’n from France did dwell;

  The big and lesser griefs, with which she mourn’d,

  In friendship she to me would often tell.

  This Lady, dwelling upon English ground,

  Where she was childless, daily did repair