Delphi Complete Works of William Wordsworth

by William Wordsworth

  Watch over her, I pray—sustain her—

  SEVERAL OF THE BAND (eagerly). Captain!

  MAR. No more of that; in silence hear my doom:

  A hermitage has furnished fit relief

  To some offenders: other penitents,

  Less patient in their wretchedness, have fallen,

  Like the old Roman, on their own sword’s point.

  They had their choice: a wanderer ‘must I’ go,

  The Spectre of that innocent Man, my guide.

  No human ear shall ever hear me speak;

  No human dwelling ever give me food,

  Or sleep, or rest: but, over waste and wild,

  In search of nothing, that this earth can give,

  But expiation, will I wander on—

  A Man by pain and thought compelled to live,

  Yet loathing life—till anger is appeased

  In Heaven, and Mercy gives me leave to die.

  1795-96.

  THE REVERIE OF POOR SUSAN

  AT the corner of Wood Street, when daylight appears,

  Hangs a Thrush that sings loud, it has sung for three years:

  Poor Susan has passed by the spot, and has heard

  In the silence of morning the song of the Bird.

  Tis a note of enchantment; what ails her? She sees

  A mountain ascending, a vision of trees;

  Bright volumes of vapour through Lothbury glide,

  And a river flows on through the vale of Cheapside.

  Green pastures she views in the midst of the dale,

  Down which she so often has tripped with her pail; 10

  And a single small cottage, a nest like a dove’s,

  The one only dwelling on earth that she loves.

  She looks, and her heart is in heaven: but they fade,

  The mist and the river, the hill and the shade:

  The stream will not flow, and the hill will not rise,

  And the colours have all passed away from her eyes!

  1797.

  THE BIRTH OF LOVE

  WHEN Love was born of heavenly line,

  What dire intrigues disturbed Cythera’s joy!

  Till Venus cried, “A mother’s heart is mine;

  None but myself shall nurse my boy,”

  But, infant as he was, the child

  In that divine embrace enchanted lay;

  And, by the beauty of the vase beguiled,

  Forgot the beverage—and pined away.

  “And must my offspring languish in my sight?”

  (Alive to all a mother’s pain, 10

  The Queen of Beauty thus her court addressed)

  “No: Let the most discreet of all my train

  Receive him to her breast:

  Think all, he is the God of young delight.”

  Then TENDERNESS with CANDOUR joined,

  And GAIETY the charming office sought;

  Nor even DELICACY stayed behind:

  But none of those fair Graces brought

  Wherewith to nurse the child—and still he pined.

  Some fond hearts to COMPLIANCE seemed inclined; 20

  But she had surely spoiled the boy:

  And sad experience forbade a thought

  On the wild Goddess of VOLUPTUOUS JOY.

  Long undecided lay th’ important choice,

  Till of the beauteous court, at length, a voice

  Pronounced the name of HOPE:—The conscious child

  Stretched forth his little arms, and smiled.

  ‘Tis said ENJOYMENT (who averred

  The charge belonged to her alone)

  Jealous that HOPE had been preferred 30

  Laid snares to make the babe her own.

  Of INNOCENCE the garb she took,

  The blushing mien and downcast look;

  And came her services to proffer:

  And HOPE (what has not Hope believed!)

  By that seducing air deceived,

  Accepted of the offer.

  It happened that, to sleep inclined,

  Deluded HOPE: for one short hour

  To that false INNOCENCE’S power 40

  Her little charge consigned.

  The Goddess then her lap with sweetmeats filled

  And gave, in handfuls gave, the treacherous store:

  A wild delirium first the infant thrilled;

  But soon upon her breast he sunk—to wake no more.

  1795.

  A NIGHT-PIECE

  ——THE sky is overcast

  With a continuous cloud of texture close,

  Heavy and wan, all whitened by the Moon,

  Which through that veil is indistinctly seen,

  A dull, contracted circle, yielding light

  So feebly spread, that not a shadow falls,

  Chequering the ground—from rock, plant, tree, or tower.

  At length a pleasant instantaneous gleam

  Startles the pensive traveller while he treads

  His lonesome path, with unobserving eye 10

  Bent earthwards; he looks up—the clouds are split

  Asunder,—and above his head he sees

  The clear Moon, and the glory of the heavens.

  There, in a black-blue vault she sails along,

  Followed by multitudes of stars, that, small

  And sharp, and bright, along the dark abyss

  Drive as she drives: how fast they wheel away,

  Yet vanish not!—the wind is in the tree,

  But they are silent;—still they roll along

  Immeasurably distant; and the vault, 20

  Built round by those white clouds, enormous clouds,

  Still deepens its unfathomable depth.

  At length the Vision closes; and the mind,

  Not undisturbed by the delight it feels,

  Which slowly settles into peaceful calm,

  Is left to muse upon the solemn scene.

  1798.

  WE ARE SEVEN

  ——A SIMPLE Child,

  That lightly draws its breath,

  And feels its life in every limb,

  What should it know of death?

  I met a little cottage Girl:

  She was eight years old, she said;

  Her hair was thick with many a curl

  That clustered round her head.

  She had a rustic, woodland air,

  And she was wildly clad: 10

  Her eyes were fair, and very fair;

  —Her beauty made me glad.

  “Sisters and brothers, little Maid,

  How many may you be?”

  “How many? Seven in all,” she said

  And wondering looked at me.

  “And where are they? I pray you tell.”

  She answered, “Seven are we;

  And two of us at Conway dwell,

  And two are gone to sea. 20

  “Two of us in the church-yard lie,

  My sister and my brother;

  And, in the church-yard cottage, I

  Dwell near them with my mother.”

  “You say that two at Conway dwell,

  And two are gone to sea,

  Yet ye are seven!—I pray you tell,

  Sweet Maid, how this may be.”

  Then did the little Maid reply,

  “Seven boys and girls are we; 30

  Two of us in the church-yard lie,

  Beneath the church-yard tree.”

  “You run about, my little Maid,

  Your limbs they are alive;

  If two are in the church-yard laid,

  Then ye are only five.”

  “Their graves are green, they may be seen,”

  The little Maid replied,

  “Twelve steps or more from my mother’s door,

  And they are side by side. 40

  “My stockings there I often knit,

  My kerchief there I hem;

  And there upon the ground I sit,

  And sing a song to them.

  “And often after sunset
, Sir,

  When it is light and fair,

  I take my little porringer,

  And eat my supper there.

  “The first that died was sister Jane;

  In bed she moaning lay, 50

  Till God released her of her pain;

  And then she went away.

  “So in the church-yard she was laid;

  And, when the grass was dry,

  Together round her grave we played,

  My brother John and I.

  “And when the ground was white with snow,

  And I could run and slide,

  My brother John was forced to go,

  And he lies by her side.”60

  “How many are you, then,” said I,

  “If they two are in heaven?”

  Quick was the little Maid’s reply,

  “O Master! we are seven.”

  “But they are dead; those two are dead!

  Their spirits are in heaven!”

  ‘Twas throwing words away; for still

  The little Maid would have her will,

  And said, “Nay, we are seven!”

  1798.

  ANECDOTE FOR FATHERS

  I HAVE a boy of five years old;

  His face is fair and fresh to see;

  His limbs are cast in beauty’s mould,

  And dearly he loves me.

  One morn we strolled on our dry walk,

  Our quiet home all full in view,

  And held such intermitted talk

  As we are wont to do.

  My thoughts on former pleasures ran;

  I thought of Kilve’s delightful shore, 10

  Our pleasant home when spring began,

  A long, long year before.

  A day it was when I could bear

  Some fond regrets to entertain;

  With so much happiness to spare,

  I could not feel a pain.

  The green earth echoed to the feet

  Of lambs that bounded through the glade,

  From shade to sunshine, and as fleet

  From sunshine back to shade. 20

  Birds warbled round me—and each trace

  Of inward sadness had its charm;

  Kilve, thought I, was a favoured place,

  And so is Liswyn farm.

  My boy beside me tripped, so slim

  And graceful in his rustic dress!

  And, as we talked, I questioned him,

  In very idleness.

  “Now tell me, had you rather be,”

  I said, and took him by the arm, 30

  “On Kilve’s smooth shore, by the green sea,

  Or here at Liswyn farm?”

  In careless mood he looked at me,

  While still I held him by the arm,

  And said, “At Kilve I’d rather be

  Than here at Liswyn farm.”

  “Now, little Edward, say why so:

  My little Edward, tell me why.”—

  “I cannot tell, I do not know.”—

  “Why, this is strange,” said I; 40

  “For, here are woods, hills smooth and warm:

  There surely must some reason be

  Why you would change sweet Liswyn farm

  For Kilve by the green sea.”

  At this, my boy hung down his head,

  He blushed with shame, nor made reply;

  And three times to the child I said,

  “Why, Edward, tell me why?”

  His head he raised—there was in sight,

  It caught his eye, he saw it plain— 50

  Upon the house-top, glittering bright,

  A broad and gilded vane.

  Then did the boy his tongue unlock,

  And eased his mind with this reply:

  “At Kilve there was no weather-cock;

  And that’s the reason why.”

  O dearest, dearest boy! my heart

  For better lore would seldom yearn,

  Could I but teach the hundredth part

  Of what from thee I learn. 60

  1798.

  THE THORN

  I

  “THERE is a Thorn—it looks so old,

  In truth, you’d find it hard to say

  How it could ever have been young,

  It looks so old and grey.

  Not higher than a two years’ child

  It stands erect, this aged Thorn;

  No leaves it has, no prickly points;

  It is a mass of knotted joints,

  A wretched thing forlorn.

  It stands erect, and like a stone

  With lichens is it overgrown.

  II

  “Like rock or stone, it is o’ergrown,

  With lichens to the very top,

  And hung with heavy tufts of moss,

  A melancholy crop:

  Up from the earth these mosses creep,

  And this poor Thorn they clasp it round

  So close, you’d say that they are bent

  With plain and manifest intent

  To drag it to the ground;

  And all have joined in one endeavour

  To bury this poor Thorn for ever.

  III

  “High on a mountain’s highest ridge,

  Where oft the stormy winter gale

  Cuts like a scythe, while through the clouds

  It sweeps from vale to vale;

  Not five yards from the mountain path,

  This Thorn you on your left espy;

  And to the left, three yards beyond,

  You see a little muddy pond

  Of water—never dry

  Though but of compass small, and bare

  To thirsty suns and parching air.

  IV

  “And, close beside this aged Thorn,

  There is a fresh and lovely sight,

  A beauteous heap, a hill of moss,

  Just half a foot in height.

  All lovely colours there you see,

  All colours that were ever seen;

  And mossy network too is there,

  As if by hand of lady fair

  The work had woven been;

  And cups, the darlings of the eye,

  So deep is their vermilion dye.

  V

  “Ah me! what lovely tints are there

  Of olive green and scarlet bright,

  In spikes, in branches, and in stars,

  Green, red, and pearly white!

  This heap of earth o’ergrown with moss,

  Which close beside the Thorn you see,

  So fresh in all its beauteous dyes,

  Is like an infant’s grave in size,

  As like as like can be:

  But never, never any where,

  An infant’s grave was half so fair.

  VI

  “Now would you see this aged Thorn,

  This pond, and beauteous hill of moss,

  You must take care and choose your time

  The mountain when to cross.

  For oft there sits between the heap

  So like an infant’s grave in size,

  And that same pond of which I spoke,

  A Woman in a scarlet cloak,

  And to herself she cries,

  ‘Oh misery! oh misery!

  Oh woe is me! oh misery!’

  VII

  “At all times of the day and night

  This wretched Woman thither goes;

  And she is known to every star,

  And every wind that blows;

  And there, beside the Thorn, she sits

  When the blue daylight’s in the skies,

  And when the whirlwind’s on the hill,

  Or frosty air is keen and still,

  And to herself she cries,

  ‘Oh misery! oh misery!

  Oh woe is me! oh misery!’“

  VIII

  “Now wherefore, thus, by day and night,

  In rain, in tempest, and in snow,

  Thus to the dreary mountain-top

  D
oes this poor Woman go?

  And why sits she beside the Thorn

  When the blue daylight’s in the sky

  Or when the whirlwind’s on the hill,

  Or frosty air is keen and still,

  And wherefore does she cry?—

  O wherefore? wherefore? tell me why

  Does she repeat that doleful cry?”

  IX

  “I cannot tell; I wish I could;

  For the true reason no one knows:

  But would you gladly view the spot,

  The spot to which she goes;

  The hillock like an infant’s grave,

  The pond—and Thorn, so old and grey;

  Pass by her door—’tis seldom shut—

  And, if you see her in her hut—

  Then to the spot away!

  I never heard of such as dare

  Approach the spot when she is there.”

  X

  “But wherefore to the mountain-top

  Can this unhappy Woman go?

  Whatever star is in the skies,

  Whatever wind may blow?”

  “Full twenty years are past and gone

  Since she (her name is Martha Ray)

  Gave with a maiden’s true good-will

  Her company to Stephen Hill;

  And she was blithe and gay,

  While friends and kindred all approved

  Of him whom tenderly she loved.

  XI

  “And they had fixed the wedding day,

  The morning that must wed them both;

  But Stephen to another Maid

  Had sworn another oath;

  And, with this other Maid, to church

  Unthinking Stephen went—

  Poor Martha! on that woeful day

  A pang of pitiless dismay

  Into her soul was sent;

  A fire was kindled in her breast,

  Which might not burn itself to rest.

  XII

  “They say, full six months after this,

  While yet the summer leaves were green,

  She to the mountain-top would go,

  And there was often seen.

  What could she seek?—or wish to hide?

  Her state to any eye was plain;

  She was with child, and she was mad;

  Yet often was she sober sad

  From her exceeding pain.

  O guilty Father—would that death

  Had saved him from that breach of faith!

  XIII

  Sad case for such a brain to hold

  Communion with a stirring child!

  Sad case, as you may think, for one

  Who had a brain so wild!

  Last Christmas-eve we talked of this,

  And grey-haired Wilfred of the glen

  Held that the unborn infant wrought

  About its mother’s heart, and brought

  Her senses back again:

  And, when at last her time drew near,