Delphi Complete Works of William Wordsworth

by William Wordsworth

  Toward my death with wind I steer and sail;

  For which upon the tenth night if thou fail

  With thy bright beams to guide me but one hour,

  My ship and me Charybdis will devour.

  As soon as he this song had thus sung through,

  He fell again into his sorrows old;

  And every night, as was his wont to do,

  Troilus stood the bright moon to behold; 130

  And all his trouble to the moon he told,

  And said; I wis, when thou art horn’d anew,

  I shall be glad if all the world be true.

  Thy horns were old as now upon that morrow,

  When hence did journey my bright Lady dear,

  That cause is of my torment and my sorrow;

  For which, oh, gentle Luna, bright and clear;

  For love of God, run fast above thy sphere;

  For when thy horns begin once more to spring,

  Then shall she come, that with her bliss may bring. 140

  The day is more, and longer every night

  Than they were wont to be—for he thought so;

  And that the sun did take his course not right,

  By longer way than he was wont to go;

  And said, I am in constant dread I trow,

  That Phaeton his son is yet alive,

  His too fond father’s car amiss to drive.

  Upon the walls fast also would he walk,

  To the end that he the Grecian host might see;

  And ever thus he to himself would talk:— 150

  Lo! yonder is my own bright Lady free;

  Or yonder is it that the tents must be;

  And thence does come this air which is so sweet,

  That in my soul I feel the joy of it.

  And certainly this wind, that more and more

  By moments thus increaseth in my face,

  Is of my Lady’s sighs heavy and sore;

  I prove it thus; for in no other space

  Of all this town, save only in this place,

  Feel I a wind, that soundeth so like pain; 160

  It saith, Alas, why severed are we twain?

  A weary while in pain he tosseth thus,

  Till fully past and gone was the ninth night;

  And ever at his side stood Pandarus,

  Who busily made use of all his might

  To comfort him, and make his heart more light;

  Giving him always hope, that she the morrow

  Of the tenth day will come, and end his sorrow.

  THE SAILOR’S MOTHER

  ONE morning (raw it was and wet—

  A foggy day in winter time)

  A Woman on the road I met,

  Not old, though something past her prime:

  Majestic in her person, tall and straight;

  And like a Roman matron’s was her mien and gait.

  The ancient spirit is not dead;

  Old times, thought I, are breathing there;

  Proud was I that my country bred

  Such strength, a dignity so fair:10

  She begged an alms, like one in poor estate;

  I looked at her again, nor did my pride abate.

  When from these lofty thoughts I woke,

  “What is it,” said I, “that you bear,

  Beneath the covert of your Cloak,

  Protected from this cold damp air?”

  She answered, soon as she the question heard,

  “A simple burthen, Sir, a little Singing-bird.”

  And, thus continuing, she said,

  “I had a Son, who many a day 20

  Sailed on the seas, but he is dead;

  In Denmark he was cast away:

  And I have travelled weary miles to see

  If aught which he had owned might still remain for me.

  “The bird and cage they both were his:

  ‘Twas my Son’s bird; and neat and trim

  He kept it: many voyages

  The singing-bird had gone with him;

  When last he sailed, he left the bird behind;

  From bodings, as might be, that hung upon his mind. 30

  “He to a fellow-lodger’s care

  Had left it, to be watched and fed,

  And pipe its song in safety;—there

  I found it when my Son was dead;

  And now, God help me for my little wit!

  I bear it with me, Sir;—he took so much delight in it.”

  1800.

  ALICE FELL

  OR, POVERTY

  THE post-boy drove with fierce career,

  For threatening clouds the moon had drowned;

  When, as we hurried on, my ear

  Was smitten with a startling sound.

  As if the wind blew many ways,

  I heard the sound,—and more and more;

  It seemed to follow with the chaise,

  And still I heard it as before.

  At length I to the boy called out;

  He stopped his horses at the word, 10

  But neither cry, nor voice, nor shout,

  Nor aught else like it, could be heard.

  The boy then smacked his whip, and fast

  The horses scampered through the rain;

  But, hearing soon upon the blast

  The cry, I bade him halt again.

  Forthwith alighting on the ground,

  “Whence comes,” said I, “this piteous moan?”

  And there a little Girl I found,

  Sitting behind the chaise, alone. 20

  “My cloak!” no other word she spake,

  But loud and bitterly she wept,

  As if her innocent heart would break;

  And down from off her seat she leapt.

  “What ails you, child?”—she sobbed “Look here!”

  I saw it in the wheel entangled,

  A weather-beaten rag as e’er

  From any garden scare-crow dangled.

  There, twisted between nave and spoke,

  It hung, nor could at once be freed; 30

  But our joint pains unloosed the cloak,

  A miserable rag indeed!

  “And whither are you going, child,

  To-night alone these lonesome ways?”

  “To Durham,” answered she, half wild—

  “Then come with me into the chaise.”

  Insensible to all relief

  Sat the poor girl, and forth did send 40

  Sob after sob, as if her grief

  Could never, never have an end.

  “My child, in Durham do you dwell?”

  She checked herself in her distress,

  And said, “My name is Alice Fell;

  I’m fatherless and motherless.

  “And I to Durham, Sir, belong.”

  Again, as if the thought would choke

  Her very heart, her grief grew strong;

  And all was for her tattered cloak! 50

  The chaise drove on; our journey’s end

  Was nigh; and, sitting by my side,

  As if she had lost her only friend

  She wept, nor would be pacified.

  Up to the tavern-door we post;

  Of Alice and her grief I told;

  And I gave money to the host,

  To buy a new cloak for the old.

  “And let it be of duffil grey,

  As warm a cloak as man can sell!”60

  Proud creature was she the next day,

  The little orphan, Alice Fell!

  1801.

  BEGGARS

  SHE had a tall man’s height or more;

  Her face from summer’s noontide heat

  No bonnet shaded, but she wore

  A mantle, to her very feet

  Descending with a graceful flow,

  And on her head a cap as white as new-fallen snow.

  Her skin was of Egyptian brown:

  Haughty, as if her eye had seen

  Its own light to a distance thrown,

  She towered, fit
person for a Queen 10

  To lead those ancient Amazonian files;

  Or ruling Bandit’s wife among the Grecian isles.

  Advancing, forth she stretched her hand

  And begged an alms with doleful plea

  That ceased not; on our English land

  Such woes, I knew, could never be;

  And yet a boon I gave her, for the creature

  Was beautiful to see—a weed of glorious feature.

  I left her, and pursued my way;

  And soon before me did espy 20

  A pair of little Boys at play,

  Chasing a crimson butterfly;

  The taller followed with his hat in hand,

  Wreathed round with yellow flowers the gayest of the land.

  The other wore a rimless crown

  With leaves of laurel stuck about;

  And, while both followed up and down,

  Each whooping with a merry shout,

  In their fraternal features I could trace

  Unquestionable lines of that wild Suppliant’s face. 30

  Yet ‘they’, so blithe of heart, seemed fit

  For finest tasks of earth or air:

  Wings let them have, and they might flit

  Precursors to Aurora’s car,

  Scattering fresh flowers; though happier far, I ween,

  To hunt their fluttering game o’er rock and level green.

  They dart across my path—but lo,

  Each ready with a plaintive whine!

  Said I, “not half an hour ago

  Your Mother has had alms of mine.”40

  “That cannot be,” one answered—”she is dead:”—

  I looked reproof—they saw—but neither hung his head.

  “She has been dead, Sir, many a day.”—

  “Hush, boys! you’re telling me a lie;

  It was your Mother, as I say!”

  And, in the twinkling of an eye,

  “Come! Come!” cried one, and without more ado,

  Off to some other play the joyous Vagrants flew!

  1802.

  TO A BUTTERFLY

  STAY near me—do not take thy flight!

  A little longer stay in sight!

  Much converse do I find in thee,

  Historian of my infancy!

  Float near me; do not yet depart!

  Dead times revive in thee:

  Thou bring’st, gay creature as thou art!

  A solemn image to my heart,

  My father’s family!

  Oh! pleasant, pleasant were the days, 10

  The time, when, in our childish plays,

  My sister Emmeline and I

  Together chased the butterfly!

  A very hunter did I rush

  Upon the prey:—with leaps and springs

  I followed on from brake to bush;

  But she, God love her, feared to brush

  The dust from off its wings.

  1801.

  THE EMIGRANT MOTHER

  ONCE in a lonely hamlet I sojourned

  In which a Lady driven from France did dwell;

  The big and lesser griefs with which she mourned,

  In friendship she to me would often tell.

  This Lady, dwelling upon British ground,

  Where she was childless, daily would repair

  To a poor neighbouring cottage; as I found,

  For sake of a young Child whose home was there.

  Once having seen her clasp with fond embrace

  This Child, I chanted to myself a lay,

  Endeavouring, in our English tongue, to trace

  Such things as she unto the Babe might say:

  And thus, from what I heard and knew, or guessed,

  My song the workings of her heart expressed.

  I

  “Dear Babe, thou daughter of another,

  One moment let me be thy mother!

  An infant’s face and looks are thine,

  And sure a mother’s heart is mine:

  Thy own dear mother’s far away,

  At labour in the harvest field:

  Thy little sister is at play;—

  What warmth, what comfort would it yield

  To my poor heart, if thou wouldst be

  One little hour a child to me!

  II

  “Across the waters I am come,

  And I have left a babe at home:

  A long, long way of land and sea!

  Come to me—I’m no enemy:

  I am the same who at thy side

  Sate yesterday, and made a nest

  For thee, sweet Baby!—thou hast tried,

  Thou know’st the pillow of my breast;

  Good, good art thou:—alas! to me

  Far more than I can be to thee.

  III

  “Here, little Darling, dost thou lie;

  An infant thou, a mother I!

  Mine wilt thou be, thou hast no fears;

  Mine art thou—spite of these my tears.

  Alas! before I left the spot,

  My baby and its dwelling-place;

  The nurse said to me, ‘Tears should not

  Be shed upon an infant’s face,

  It was unlucky’—no, no, no;

  No truth is in them who say so!

  IV

  “My own dear Little-one will sigh,

  Sweet Babe! and they will let him die.

  ‘He pines,’ they’ll say, ‘it is his doom,

  And you may see his hour is come.’

  Oh! had he but thy cheerful smiles,

  Limbs stout as thine, and lips as gay,

  Thy looks, thy cunning, and thy wiles,

  And countenance like a summer’s day,

  They would have hopes of him;—and then

  I should behold his face again!

  V

  “‘Tis gone—like dreams that we forget;

  There was a smile or two—yet—yet

  I can remember them, I see

  The smiles, worth all the world to me.

  Dear Baby! I must lay thee down;

  Thou troublest me with strange alarms;

  Smiles hast thou, bright ones of thy own;

  I cannot keep thee in my arms;

  For they confound me;—where—where is

  That last, that sweetest smile of his?

  VI

  “Oh! how I love thee!—we will stay

  Together here this one half day.

  My sister’s child, who bears my name,

  From France to sheltering England came;

  She with her mother crossed the sea;

  The babe and mother near me dwell:

  Yet does my yearning heart to thee

  Turn rather, though I love her well:

  Rest, little Stranger, rest thee here!

  Never was any child more dear!

  VII

  “—I cannot help it; ill intent

  I’ve none, my pretty Innocent!

  I weep—I know they do thee wrong,

  These tears—and my poor idle tongue.

  Oh, what a kiss was that! my cheek

  How cold it is! but thou art good;

  Thine eyes are on me—they would speak,

  I think, to help me if they could.

  Blessings upon that soft, warm face,

  My heart again is in its place!

  VIII

  “While thou art mine, my little Love,

  This cannot be a sorrowful grove;

  Contentment, hope, and mother’s glee,

  I seem to find them all in thee:

  Here’s grass to play with, here are flowers;

  I’ll call thee by my darling’s name;

  Thou hast, I think, a look of ours,

  Thy features seem to me the same;

  His little sister thou shalt be;

  And, when once more my home I see,

  I’ll tell him many tales of Thee.”

  1802.

  MY HEART LEAPS UP WHEN I BEHOLD

&nb
sp; My heart leaps up when I behold

  A rainbow in the sky:

  So was it when my life began;

  So is it now I am a man;

  So be it when I shall grow old,

  Or let me die!

  The Child is father of the Man;

  I could wish my days to be

  Bound each to each by natural piety.

  1802.

  AMONG ALL LOVELY THINGS MY LOVE HAD BEEN

  AMONG all lovely things my Love had been;

  Had noted well the stars, all flowers that grew

  About her home; but she had never seen

  A glow-worm, never one, and this I knew.

  While riding near her home one stormy night

  A single glow-worm did I chance to espy;

  I gave a fervent welcome to the sight,

  And from my horse I leapt; great joy had I.

  Upon a leaf the glow-worm did I lay,

  To bear it with me through the stormy night: 10

  And, as before, it shone without dismay;

  Albeit putting forth a fainter light.

  When to the dwelling of my Love I came,

  I went into the orchard quietly;

  And left the glow-worm, blessing it by name,

  Laid safely by itself, beneath a tree.

  The whole next day, I hoped, and hoped with fear;

  At night the glow-worm shone beneath the tree;

  I led my Lucy to the spot, “Look here,”

  Oh! joy it was for her, and joy for me! 20

  1802.

  WRITTEN IN MARCH WHILE RESTING ON THE BRIDGE AT THE FOOT OF BROTHER’S WATER.

  THE Cock is crowing,

  The stream is flowing,

  The small birds twitter,

  The lake doth glitter,

  The green field sleeps in the sun;

  The oldest and youngest

  Are at work with the strongest;

  The cattle are grazing,

  Their heads never raising;

  There are forty feeding like one! 10

  Like an army defeated

  The snow hath retreated,

  And now doth fare ill

  On the top of the bare hill;

  The ploughboy is whooping—anon—anon:

  There’s joy in the mountains;

  There’s life in the fountains;

  Small clouds are sailing,

  Blue sky prevailing;

  The rain is over and gone! 20

  1801.

  THE REDBREAST CHASING THE BUTTERFLY

  ART thou the bird whom Man loves best,

  The pious bird with the scarlet breast,

  Our little English Robin;

  The bird that comes about our doors

  When Autumn-winds are sobbing?

  Art thou the Peter of Norway Boors?