Delphi Complete Works of William Wordsworth

by William Wordsworth

  Before me in my endless way.

  MEMORIALS OF A TOUR IN SCOTLAND, 1803 VIII.

  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

  More welcome notes to weary bands 10

  Of travellers in some shady haunt,

  Among Arabian sands:

  A voice so thrilling ne’er was 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 to-day?

  Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain,

  That has been, and may be again?

  Whate’er the theme, the Maiden sang

  As if her song could have no ending;

  I saw her singing at her work,

  And o’er the sickle bending;—

  I listened, motionless and still;

  And, as I mounted up the hill 30

  The music in my heart I bore,

  Long after it was heard no more.

  MEMORIALS OF A TOUR IN SCOTLAND, 1803 IX.

  ADDRESS TO KILCHURN CASTLE, UPON LOCH AWE

  CHILD of loud-throated War! the mountain Stream

  Roars in thy hearing; but thy hour of rest

  Is come, and thou art silent in thy age;

  Save when the wind sweeps by and sounds are caught

  Ambiguous, neither wholly thine nor theirs.

  Oh! there is life that breathes not; Powers there are

  That touch each other to the quick in modes

  Which the gross world no sense hath to perceive,

  No soul to dream of. What art Thou, from care

  Cast off—abandoned by thy rugged Sire, 10

  Nor by soft Peace adopted; though, in place

  And in dimension, such that thou might’st seem

  But a mere footstool to yon sovereign Lord,

  Huge Cruachan, (a thing that meaner hills

  Might crush, nor know that it had suffered harm;)

  Yet he, not loth, in favour of thy claims

  To reverence, suspends his own; submitting

  All that the God of Nature hath conferred,

  All that he holds in common with the stars,

  To the memorial majesty of Time 20

  Impersonated in thy calm decay!

  Take, then, thy seat, Vicegerent unreproved!

  Now, while a farewell gleam of evening light

  Is fondly lingering on thy shattered front,

  Do thou, in turn, be paramount; and rule

  Over the pomp and beauty of a scene

  Whose mountains, torrents, lake, and woods, unite

  To pay thee homage; and with these are joined,

  In willing admiration and respect,

  Two Hearts, which in thy presence might be called 30

  Youthful as Spring.—Shade of departed Power,

  Skeleton of unfleshed humanity,

  The chronicle were welcome that should call

  Into the compass of distinct regard

  The toils and struggles of thy infant years!

  Yon foaming flood seems motionless as ice;

  Its dizzy turbulence eludes the eye,

  Frozen by distance; so, majestic Pile,

  To the perception of this Age, appear

  Thy fierce beginnings, softened and subdued 40

  And quieted in character—the strife,

  The pride, the fury uncontrollable,

  Lost on the aerial heights of the Crusades!

  MEMORIALS OF A TOUR IN SCOTLAND, 1803 X.

  ROB ROY’S GRAVE

  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 chant 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;—

  A 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 control!

  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 that is quickly learned,

  A signal this which all can see!

  Thus nothing here provokes the strong

  To wanton cruelty.

  “All freakishness of mind is checked;

  He tamed, 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, the rule of 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 lived,

  Through summer heat and winter 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 chase,

  Sheriffs, and lairds and their domains, 70

  Would all have seemed but paltry things,

  Not worth a moment’s pains.

  Rob Roy had never lingered here,

  To these few meagre Vales confined;

  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 surpassed

  In fatherly concern.

  “Of old things all are over old,

  Of good things none are good enough:—

  We’ll show 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 fulfilled,

  As ‘might’ have been, then, thought of joy!

  France would have had her present Boast,

  And we our own Rob Roy!

  Oh! say not so; compare them not;

  I would not wrong thee, Champion brave!

  Would wrong thee nowhere; 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 stirred thyself,

  And battled for the Right.

  For thou wert still the poor man’s stay,

  The poor man’s heart, the poor man’s hand; 110

  And all the oppressed, who wanted strength,

  Had thine at their 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;

  The proud heart flashing through the eyes,

  At sound of ROB ROY’S name. 120

  MEMORIALS OF A TOUR IN SCOTLAND, 1803 XI.

  SONNET COMPOSED AT —— CASTLE

  DEGENERATE Douglas! oh, the unworthy Lord!

  Whom mere despite of heart could so far please,

  And love of havoc, (for with such disease

  Fame taxes him,) that he could send forth word

  To level with the dust a noble horde,

  A brotherhood of venerable Trees,

  Leaving an ancient dome, and towers like these,

  Beggared and outraged!—Many hearts deplored

  The fate of those old Trees; and oft with pain

  The traveller, at this day, will stop and gaze 10

  On wrongs, which Nature scarcely seems to heed:

  For sheltered places, bosoms, nooks, and bays,

  And the pure mountains, and the gentle Tweed,

  And the green silent pastures, yet remain.

  1803.

  MEMORIALS OF A TOUR IN SCOTLAND, 1803 XII.

  YARROW UNVISITED

  FROM Stirling castle we had seen

  The mazy Forth unravelled;

  Had trod the banks of Clyde, and Tay,

  And with the Tweed had travelled;

  And when we came to Clovenford,

  Then said my “winsome Marrow,”

  “Whate’er betide, we’ll turn aside,

  And see the Braes of Yarrow.”

  “Let Yarrow folk, ‘frae’ Selkirk town,

  Who have been buying, selling, 10

  Go back to Yarrow, ‘tis their own;

  Each maiden to her dwelling!

  On Yarrow’s banks let herons feed,

  Hares couch, and rabbits burrow!

  But we will downward with the Tweed,

  Nor turn aside to Yarrow.

  “There’s Galla Water, Leader Haughs,

  Both lying right before us;

  And Dryborough, where with chiming Tweed

  The lintwhites sing in chorus; 20

  There’s pleasant Tiviot-dale, a land

  Made blithe with plough and harrow:

  Why throw away a needful day

  To go in search of Yarrow?

  “What’s Yarrow but a river bare,

  That glides the dark hills under?

  There are a thousand such elsewhere

  As worthy of your wonder.”

  —Strange words they seemed of slight and scorn

  My True-love sighed for sorrow; 30

  And looked me in the face, to think

  I thus could speak of Yarrow!

  “Oh! green,” said I, “are Yarrow’s holms,

  And sweet is Yarrow flowing!

  Fair hangs the apple frae the rock,

  But we will leave it growing.

  O’er hilly path, and open Strath,

  We’ll wander Scotland thorough;

  But, though so near, we will not turn

  Into the dale of Yarrow. 40

  “Let beeves and home-bred kine partake

  The sweets of Burn-mill meadow;

  The swan on still St. Mary’s Lake

  Float double, swan and shadow!

  We will not see them; will not go,

  To-day, nor yet to-morrow,

  Enough if in our hearts we know

  There’s such a place as Yarrow.

  “Be Yarrow stream unseen, unknown!

  It must, or we shall rue it:50

  We have a vision of our own;

  Ah! why should we undo it?

  The treasured dreams of times long past,

  We’ll keep them, winsome Marrow!

  For when we’re there, although ‘tis fair,

  ‘Twill be another Yarrow!

  “If Care with freezing years should come,

  And wandering seem but folly,—

  Should we be loth to stir from home,

  And yet be melancholy; 60

  Should life be dull, and spirits low,

  ‘Twill soothe us in our sorrow,

  That earth has something yet to show,

  The bonny holms of Yarrow!”

  MEMORIALS OF A TOUR IN SCOTLAND, 1803 XIII.

  THE MATRON OF JEDBOROUGH AND HER HUSBAND

  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

  That there is One who scorns thy power:—

  But dance! for under Jedborough Tower,

  A Matron dwells who, though she bears

  The weight of more than seventy years,

  Lives in the light of youthful glee, 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 mirthful 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 its bravery on; in times 30

  When all alive with merry chimes,

  Upon a sun-bright morn of May,

  It roused 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

  T
he 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

  Its second twilight, and looks gay;

  A land of promise and of pride

  Unfolding, wide as life is wide.

  Ah! see her helpless Charge! enclosed

  Within himself it seems, composed;

  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,

  Her buoyant spirit can prevail

  Where common cheerfulness would fail;

  She strikes upon him with the heat

  Of July suns; he feels it sweet; 60

  An animal delight though dim!

  ‘Tis all that now remains for him!

  The more I looked, I wondered more—

  And, while I scanned them o’er and o’er,

  Some inward trouble suddenly

  Broke from the Matron’s strong black eye—

  A remnant of uneasy light,

  A flash of something over-bright!

  Nor long this mystery did detain

  My thoughts;—she told in pensive strain 70

  That she had borne a heavy yoke,

  Been stricken by a twofold stroke;

  Ill health of body; and had pined

  Beneath worse ailments of the mind.

  So be it!—but let praise ascend

  To Him who is our lord and friend!

  Who from disease and suffering

  Hath called for thee a second spring;

  Repaid thee for that sore distress

  By no untimely joyousness; 80

  Which makes of thine a blissful state;

  And cheers thy melancholy Mate!

  MEMORIALS OF A TOUR IN SCOTLAND, 1803 XIV.

  “FLY, SOME KIND HARBINGER, TO GRASMERE-DALE!”

  FLY, some kind Harbinger, to Grasmere-dale!

  Say that we come, and come by this day’s light;

  Fly upon swiftest wing round field and height,

  But chiefly let one Cottage hear the tale;

  There let a mystery of joy prevail,

  The kitten frolic, like a gamesome sprite,

  And Rover whine, as at a second sight

  Of near-approaching good that shall not fail:

  And from that Infant’s face let joy appear;

  Yea, let our Mary’s one companion child— 10

  That hath her six weeks’ solitude beguiled

  With intimations manifold and dear,

  While we have wandered over wood and wild—