Delphi Complete Works of William Wordsworth

by William Wordsworth

  ANSWER

  “Stranger, ‘tis no act of courage

  Which aloft thou dost discern;

  No bold ‘bird’ gone forth to forage

  ‘Mid the tempest stern; 20

  But such mockery as the nations

  See, when public perturbations

  Lift men from their native stations

  Like yon TUFT OF FERN;

  “Such it is; the aspiring creature

  Soaring on undaunted wing,

  (So you fancied) is by nature

  A dull helpless thing,

  Dry and withered, light and yellow;—

  ‘That’ to be the tempest’s fellow! 30

  Wait—and you shall see how hollow

  Its endeavouring!”

  1817.

  THE PASS OF KIRKSTONE

  I

  WITHIN the mind strong fancies work.

  A deep delight the bosom thrills

  Oft as I pass along the fork

  Of these fraternal hills:

  Where, save the rugged road, we find

  No appanage of human kind,

  Nor hint of man; if stone or rock

  Seem not his handywork to mock

  By something cognizably shaped;

  Mockery—or model roughly hewn,

  And left as if by earthquake strewn,

  Or from the Flood escaped:

  Altars for Druid service fit;

  (But where no fire was ever lit,

  Unless the glow-worm to the skies

  Thence offer nightly sacrifice)

  Wrinkled Egyptian monument;

  Green moss-grown tower; or hoary tent;

  Tents of a camp that never shall be razed—

  On which four thousand years have gazed!

  II

  Ye plough-shares sparkling on the slopes!

  Ye snow-white lambs that trip

  Imprisoned ‘mid the formal props

  Of restless ownership!

  Ye trees, that may to-morrow fall

  To feed the insatiate Prodigal!

  Lawns, houses, chattels, groves, and fields,

  All that the fertile valley shields;

  Wages of folly—baits of crime,

  Of life’s uneasy game the stake,

  Playthings that keep the eyes awake

  Of drowsy, dotard Time;—

  O care! O guilt!—O vales and plains,

  Here, ‘mid his own unvexed domains,

  A Genius dwells, that can subdue

  At once all memory of You,—

  Most potent when mists veil the sky,

  Mists that distort and magnify;

  While the coarse rushes, to the sweeping breeze,

  Sigh forth their ancient melodies!

  III

  List to those shriller notes!—’that’ march

  Perchance was on the blast,

  When, through this Height’s inverted arch,

  Rome’s earliest legion passed!

  —They saw, adventurously impelled,

  And older eyes than theirs beheld,

  This block—and yon, whose church-like frame

  Gives to this savage Pass its name.

  Aspiring Road! that lov’st to hide

  Thy daring in a vapoury bourn,

  Not seldom may the hour return

  When thou shalt be my guide:

  And I (as all men may find cause,

  When life is at a weary pause,

  And they have panted up the hill

  Of duty with reluctant will)

  Be thankful, even though tired and faint,

  For the rich bounties of constraint;

  Whence oft invigorating transports flow

  That choice lacked courage to bestow!

  IV

  My Soul was grateful for delight

  That wore a threatening brow;

  A veil is lifted—can she slight

  The scene that opens now?

  Though habitation none appear,

  The greenness tells, man must be there;

  The shelter—that the perspective

  Is of the clime in which we live;

  Where Toil pursues his daily round;

  Where Pity sheds sweet tears—and Love,

  In woodbine bower or birchen grove,

  Inflicts his tender wound.

  —Who comes not hither ne’er shall know

  How beautiful the world below;

  Nor can he guess how lightly leaps

  The brook adown the rocky steeps.

  Farewell, thou desolate Domain!

  Hope, pointing to the cultured plain,

  Carols like a shepherd-boy;

  And who is she?—Can that be Joy!

  Who, with a sunbeam for her guide,

  Smoothly skims the meadows wide;

  While Faith, from yonder opening cloud,

  To hill and vale proclaims aloud,

  “Whate’er the weak may dread, the wicked dare,

  Thy lot, O Man, is good, thy portion, fair!”

  1817.

  LAMENT OF MARY QUEEN OF SCOTS ON THE EVE OF A NEW YEAR

  I

  SMILE of the Moon!—for so I name

  That silent greeting from above;

  A gentle flash of light that came

  From her whom drooping captives love;

  Or art thou of still higher birth?

  Thou that didst part the clouds of earth,

  My torpor to reprove!

  II

  Bright boon of pitying Heaven!—alas,

  I may not trust thy placid cheer!

  Pondering that Time to-night will pass

  The threshold of another year;

  For years to me are sad and dull;

  My very moments are too full

  Of hopelessness and fear.

  III

  And yet, the soul-awakening gleam,

  That struck perchance the farthest cone

  Of Scotland’s rocky wilds, did seem

  To visit me, and me alone;

  Me, unapproached by any friend,

  Save those who to my sorrows lend

  Tears due unto their own.

  IV

  To-night the church-tower bells will ring

  Through these wild realms a festive peal;

  To the new year a welcoming;

  A tuneful offering for the weal

  Of happy millions lulled in sleep;

  While I am forced to watch and weep,

  By wounds that may not heal.

  V

  Born all too high, by wedlock raised

  Still higher—to be cast thus low!

  Would that mine eyes had never gazed

  On aught of more ambitious show

  Than the sweet flowerets of the fields

  —It is my royal state that yields

  This bitterness of woe.

  VI

  Yet how?—for I, if there be truth

  In the world’s voice, was passing fair;

  And beauty, for confiding youth,

  Those shocks of passion can prepare

  That kill the bloom before its time;

  And blanch, without the owner’s crime,

  The most resplendent hair.

  VII

  Unblest distinction! showered on me

  To bind a lingering life in chains:

  All that could quit my grasp, or flee,

  Is gone;—but not the subtle stains

  Fixed in the spirit; for even here

  Can I be proud that jealous fear

  Of what I was remains.

  VIII

  A Woman rules my prison’s key;

  A sister Queen, against the bent

  Of law and holiest sympathy,

  Detains me, doubtful of the event;

  Great God, who feel’st for my distress,

  My thoughts are all that I possess,

  O keep them innocent!

  IX

  Farewell desire of human aid,

  Which abject mo
rtals vainly court!

  By friends deceived, by foes betrayed,

  Of fears the prey, of hopes the sport;

  Nought but the world-redeeming Cross

  Is able to supply my loss,

  My burthen to support.

  X

  Hark! the death-note of the year

  Sounded by the castle-clock!

  From her sunk eyes a stagnant tear

  Stole forth, unsettled by the shock;

  But oft the woods renewed their green,

  Ere the tired head of Scotland’s Queen

  Reposed upon the block!

  1817.

  SEQUEL TO THE BEGGARS, 1802

  COMPOSED MANY YEARS AFTER

  WHERE are they now, those wanton Boys?

  For whose free range the daedal earth

  Was filled with animated toys,

  And implements of frolic mirth;

  With tools for ready wit to guide;

  And ornaments of seemlier pride,

  More fresh, more bright, than princes wear;

  For what one moment flung aside,

  Another could repair;

  What good or evil have they seen 10

  Since I their pastime witnessed here,

  Their daring wiles, their sportive cheer?

  I ask—but all is dark between!

  They met me in a genial hour,

  When universal nature breathed

  As with the breath of one sweet flower,—

  A time to overrule the power

  Of discontent, and check the birth

  Of thoughts with better thoughts at strife,

  The most familiar bane of life 20

  Since parting Innocence bequeathed

  Mortality to Earth!

  Soft clouds, the whitest of the year,

  Sailed through the sky—the brooks ran clear;

  The lambs from rock to rock were bounding;

  With songs the budded groves resounding;

  And to my heart are still endeared

  The thoughts with which it then was cheered;

  The faith which saw that gladsome pair

  Walk through the fire with unsinged hair. 30

  Or, if such faith must needs deceive—

  Then, Spirits of beauty and of grace,

  Associates in that eager chase;

  Ye, who within the blameless mind

  Your favourite seat of empire find—

  Kind Spirits! may we not believe

  That they, so happy and so fair

  Through your sweet influence, and the care

  Of pitying Heaven, at least were free

  From touch of ‘deadly’ injury? 40

  Destined whate’er their earthly doom,

  For mercy and immortal bloom!

  1817.

  THE PILGRIM’S DREAM

  OR, THE STAR AND THE GLOW-WORM

  A PILGRIM, when the summer day

  Had closed upon his weary way,

  A lodging begged beneath a castle’s roof;

  But him the haughty Warder spurned;

  And from the gate the Pilgrim turned,

  To seek such covert as the field

  Or heath-besprinkled copse might yield,

  Or lofty wood, shower-proof.

  He paced along; and, pensively,

  Halting beneath a shady tree, 10

  Whose moss-grown root might serve for couch or seat,

  Fixed on a Star his upward eye;

  Then, from the tenant of the sky

  He turned, and watched with kindred look,

  A Glow-worm, in a dusky nook,

  Apparent at his feet.

  The murmur of a neighbouring stream

  Induced a soft and slumbrous dream,

  A pregnant dream, within whose shadowy bounds

  He recognised the earth-born Star, 20

  And ‘That’ which glittered from afar;

  And (strange to witness!) from the frame

  Of the ethereal Orb, there came

  Intelligible sounds.

  Much did it taunt the humble Light

  That now, when day was fled, and night

  Hushed the dark earth, fast closing weary eyes,

  A very reptile could presume

  To show her taper in the gloom,

  As if in rivalship with One 30

  Who sate a ruler on his throne

  Erected in the skies.

  “Exalted Star!” the Worm replied,

  “Abate this unbecoming pride,

  Or with a less uneasy lustre shine;

  Thou shrink’st as momently thy rays

  Are mastered by the breathing haze;

  While neither mist, nor thickest cloud

  That shapes in heaven its murky shroud,

  Hath power to injure mine. 40

  But not for this do I aspire

  To match the spark of local fire,

  That at my will burns on the dewy lawn,

  With thy acknowledged glories;—No!

  Yet, thus upbraided, I may show

  What favours do attend me here,

  Till, like thyself, I disappear

  Before the purple dawn.”

  When this in modest guise was said,

  Across the welkin seemed to spread 50

  A boding sound—for aught but sleep unfit!

  Hills quaked, the rivers backward ran;

  That Star, so proud of late, looked wan;

  And reeled with visionary stir

  In the blue depth, like Lucifer

  Cast headlong to the pit!

  Fire raged: and, when the spangled floor

  Of ancient ether was no more,

  New heavens succeeded, by the dream brought forth:

  And all the happy Souls that rode 60

  Transfigured through that fresh abode,

  Had heretofore, in humble trust,

  Shone meekly ‘mid their native dust,

  The Glow-worms of the earth!

  This knowledge, from an Angel’s voice

  Proceeding, made the heart rejoice

  Of Him who slept upon the open lea:

  Waking at morn he murmured not;

  And, till life’s journey closed, the spot

  Was to the Pilgrim’s soul endeared, 70

  Where by that dream he had been cheered

  Beneath the shady tree.

  1818.

  INSCRIPTIONS SUPPOSED TO BE FOUND IN AND NEAR A HERMIT’S CELL, 1818, I

  HOPES what are they?—Beads of morning

  Strung on slender blades of grass;

  Or a spider’s web adorning

  In a strait and treacherous pass.

  What are fears but voices airy?

  Whispering harm where harm is not;

  And deluding the unwary

  Till the fatal bolt is shot!

  What is glory?—in the socket

  See how dying tapers fare! 10

  What is pride?—a whizzing rocket

  That would emulate a star.

  What is friendship?—do not trust her,

  Nor the vows which she has made;

  Diamonds dart their brightest lustre

  From a palsy-shaken head.

  What is truth?—a staff rejected;

  Duty?—an unwelcome clog;

  Joy?—a moon by fits reflected

  In a swamp or watery bog; 20

  Bright, as if through ether steering,

  To the Traveller’s eye it shone:

  He hath hailed it re-appearing—

  And as quickly it is gone;

  Such is Joy—as quickly hidden,

  Or mis-shapen to the sight,

  And by sullen weeds forbidden

  To resume its native light.

  What is youth?—a dancing billow,

  (Winds behind, and rocks before!)30

  Age?—a drooping, tottering willow

  On a flat and lazy shore.

  What is peace?—when pain is over,

  And love ceases to rebel,
>
  Let the last faint sigh discover

  That precedes the passing knell!

  INSCRIPTIONS SUPPOSED TO BE FOUND IN AND NEAR A HERMIT’S CELL, 1818, II

  INSCRIBED UPON A ROCK

  PAUSE, Traveller! whosoe’er thou be

  Whom chance may lead to this retreat,

  Where silence yields reluctantly

  Even to the fleecy straggler’s bleat;

  Give voice to what my hand shall trace,

  And fear not lest an idle sound

  Of words unsuited to the place

  Disturb its solitude profound.

  I saw this Rock, while vernal air

  Blew softly o’er the russet heath, 10

  Uphold a Monument as fair

  As church or abbey furnisheth.

  Unsullied did it meet the day,

  Like marble, white, like ether, pure;

  As if, beneath, some hero lay,

  Honoured with costliest sepulture.

  My fancy kindled as I gazed;

  And, ever as the sun shone forth,

  The flattered structure glistened, blazed,

  And seemed the proudest thing on earth. 20

  But frost had reared the gorgeous Pile

  Unsound as those which Fortune builds—

  To undermine with secret guile,

  Sapped by the very beam that gilds.

  And, while I gazed, with sudden shock

  Fell the whole Fabric to the ground;

  And naked left this dripping Rock,

  With shapeless ruin spread around!

  INSCRIPTIONS SUPPOSED TO BE FOUND IN AND NEAR A HERMIT’S CELL, 1818, III

  HAST thou seen, with flash incessant,

  Bubbles gliding under ice,

  Bodied forth and evanescent,

  No one knows by what device?

  Such are thoughts!—A wind-swept meadow

  Mimicking a troubled sea,

  Such is life; and death a shadow

  From the rock eternity!

  INSCRIPTIONS SUPPOSED TO BE FOUND IN AND NEAR A HERMIT’S CELL, 1818, IV

  NEAR THE SPRING OF THE HERMITAGE

  TROUBLED long with warring notions

  Long impatient of thy rod,

  I resign my soul’s emotions

  Unto Thee, mysterious God!

  What avails the kindly shelter

  Yielded by this craggy rent,

  If my spirit toss and welter

  On the waves of discontent?

  Parching Summer hath no warrant

  To consume this crystal Well; 10

  Rains, that make each rill a torrent,

  Neither sully it nor swell.

  Thus, dishonouring not her station,

  Would my Life present to Thee,

  Gracious God, the pure oblation

  Of divine tranquillity!

  INSCRIPTIONS SUPPOSED TO BE FOUND IN AND NEAR A HERMIT’S CELL, 1818, V