Delphi Complete Works of William Wordsworth

by William Wordsworth

Mutual the victory, mutual the defeat!

  High was the trophy hung with pitiless pride; 10

  Say, rather, with that generous sympathy

  That wants not, even in rudest breasts, a seat;

  And, for this feeling’s sake, let no one chide

  Verse that would guard thy memory, HART’S-HORN TREE!

  XXII.

  FANCY AND TRADITION

  THE Lovers took within this ancient grove

  Their last embrace; beside those crystal springs

  The Hermit saw the Angel spread his wings

  For instant flight; the Sage in yon alcove

  Sate musing; on that hill the Bard would rove,

  Not mute, where now the linnet only sings:

  Thus everywhere to truth Tradition clings,

  Or Fancy localises Powers we love.

  Were only History licensed to take note

  Of things gone by, her meagre monuments 10

  Would ill suffice for persons and events:

  There is an ampler page for man to quote,

  A readier book of manifold contents,

  Studied alike in palace and in cot.

  XXIII.

  COUNTESS’S PILLAR

  WHILE the Poor gather round, till the end of time

  May this bright flower of Charity display

  Its bloom, unfolding at the appointed day;

  Flower than the loveliest of the vernal prime

  Lovelier—transplanted from heaven’s purest clime!

  “Charity never faileth:” on that creed,

  More than on written testament or deed,

  The pious Lady built with hope sublime.

  Alms on this stone to be dealt out, ‘for ever!’

  “LAUS DEO.” Many a Stranger passing by 10

  Has with that Parting mixed a filial sigh,

  Blest its humane Memorial’s fond endeavour;

  And, fastening on those lines an eye tear-glazed,

  Has ended, though no Clerk, with “God be praised!”

  XXIV.

  ROMAN ANTIQUITIES FROM THE ROMAN STATION AT OLD PENRITH

  HOW profitless the relics that we cull,

  Troubling the last holds of ambitious Rome,

  Unless they chasten fancies that presume

  Too high, or idle agitations lull!

  Of the world’s flatteries if the brain be full,

  To have no seat for thought were better doom,

  Like this old helmet, or the eyeless skull

  Of him who gloried in its nodding plume.

  Heaven out of view, our wishes what are they?

  Our fond regrets tenacious in their grasp? 10

  The Sage’s theory? the Poet’s lay?

  Mere Fibulae without a robe to clasp;

  Obsolete lamps, whose light no time recalls;

  Urns without ashes, tearless lacrymals!

  XXV.

  APOLOGY FOR THE FOREGOING POEMS

  NO more: the end is sudden and abrupt,

  Abrupt—as without preconceived design

  Was the beginning; yet the several Lays

  Have moved in order, to each other bound

  By a continuous and acknowledged tie

  Though unapparent—like those Shapes distinct

  That yet survive ensculptured on the walls

  Of palaces, or temples, ‘mid the wreck

  Of famed Persepolis; each following each,

  As might beseem a stately embassy, 10

  In set array; these bearing in their hands

  Ensign of civil power, weapon of war,

  Or gift to be presented at the throne

  Of the Great King; and others, as they go

  In priestly vest, with holy offerings charged,

  Or leading victims drest for sacrifice.

  Nor will the Power we serve, that sacred Power,

  The Spirit of humanity, disdain

  A ministration humble but sincere,

  That from a threshold loved by every Muse 20

  Its impulse took—that sorrow-stricken door,

  Whence, as a current from its fountain-head,

  Our thoughts have issued, and our feelings flowed,

  Receiving, willingly or not, fresh strength

  From kindred sources; while around us sighed

  (Life’s three first seasons having passed away)

  Leaf-scattering winds; and hoar-frost sprinklings fell

  (Foretaste of winter) on the moorland heights;

  And every day brought with it tidings new

  Of rash change, ominous for the public weal. 30

  Hence, if dejection has too oft encroached

  Upon that sweet and tender melancholy

  Which may itself be cherished and caressed

  More than enough; a fault so natural

  (Even with the young, the hopeful, or the gay)

  For prompt forgiveness will not sue in vain.

  XXVI.

  THE HIGHLAND BROACH

  IF to Tradition faith be due,

  And echoes from old verse speak true,

  Ere the meek Saint, Columba, bore

  Glad tidings to Iona’s shore,

  No common light of nature blessed

  The mountain region of the west,

  A land where gentle manners ruled

  O’er men in dauntless virtues schooled,

  That raised, for centuries, a bar

  Impervious to the tide of war:10

  Yet peaceful Arts did entrance gain

  Where haughty Force had striven in vain;

  And, ‘mid the works of skilful hands,

  By wanderers brought from foreign lands

  And various climes, was not unknown

  The clasp that fixed the Roman Gown;

  The Fibula, whose shape, I ween,

  Still in the Highland Broach is seen,

  The silver Broach of massy frame,

  Worn at the breast of some grave Dame 20

  On road or path, or at the door

  Of fern-thatched hut on heathy moor:

  But delicate of yore its mould,

  And the material finest gold;

  As might beseem the fairest Fair,

  Whether she graced a royal chair,

  Or shed, within a vaulted hall,

  No fancied lustre on the wall

  Where shields of mighty heroes hung,

  While Fingal heard what Ossian sung. 30

  The heroic Age expired—it slept

  Deep in its tomb:—the bramble crept

  O’er Fingal’s hearth; the grassy sod

  Grew on the floors his sons had trod:

  Malvina! where art thou? Their state

  The noblest-born must abdicate;

  The fairest, while with fire and sword

  Come Spoilers—horde impelling horde,

  Must walk the sorrowing mountains, drest

  By ruder hands in homelier vest. 40

  Yet still the female bosom lent,

  And loved to borrow, ornament;

  Still was its inner world a place

  Reached by the dews of heavenly grace;

  Still pity to this last retreat

  Clove fondly; to his favourite seat

  Love wound his way by soft approach,

  Beneath a massier Highland Broach.

  When alternations came of rage

  Yet fiercer, in a darker age; 50

  And feuds, where, clan encountering clan,

  The weaker perished to a man;

  For maid and mother, when despair

  Might else have triumphed, baffling prayer,

  One small possession lacked not power,

  Provided in a calmer hour,

  To meet such need as might befall—

  Roof, raiment, bread, or burial:

  For woman, even of tears bereft,

  The hidden silver Broach was left. 60

  As generations come and go

  Their arts, their customs, ebb and flow;

  Fate, f
ortune, sweep strong powers away,

  And feeble, of themselves, decay;

  What poor abodes the heir-loom hide,

  In which the castle once took pride!

  Tokens, once kept as boasted wealth,

  If saved at all, are saved by stealth.

  Lo! ships, from seas by nature barred,

  Mount along ways by man prepared; 70

  And in far-stretching vales, whose streams

  Seek other seas, their canvas gleams.

  Lo! busy towns spring up, on coasts

  Thronged yesterday by airy ghosts;

  Soon, like a lingering star forlorn

  Among the novelties of morn,

  While young delights on old encroach,

  Will vanish the last Highland Broach.

  But when, from out their viewless bed,

  Like vapours, years have rolled and spread; 80

  And this poor verse, and worthier lays,

  Shall yield no light of love or praise;

  Then, by the spade, or cleaving plough,

  Or torrent from the mountain’s brow,

  Or whirlwind, reckless what his might

  Entombs, or forces into light;

  Blind Chance, a volunteer ally,

  That oft befriends Antiquity,

  And clears Oblivion from reproach,

  May render back the Highland Broach. 90

  DEVOTIONAL INCITEMENTS

  “Not to the earth confined,

  Ascend to heaven.”

  WHERE will they stop, those breathing Powers,

  The Spirits of the new-born flowers?

  They wander with the breeze, they wind

  Where’er the streams a passage find;

  Up from their native ground they rise

  In mute aerial harmonies;

  From humble violet—modest thyme—

  Exhaled, the essential odours climb,

  As if no space below the sky

  Their subtle flight could satisfy:10

  Heaven will not tax our thoughts with pride

  If like ambition be ‘their’ guide.

  Roused by this kindliest of May-showers,

  The spirit-quickener of the flowers,

  That with moist virtue softly cleaves

  The buds, and freshens the young leaves,

  The birds pour forth their souls in notes

  Of rapture from a thousand throats—

  Here checked by too impetuous haste,

  While there the music runs to waste, 20

  With bounty more and more enlarged,

  Till the whole air is overcharged;

  Give ear, O Man! to their appeal

  And thirst for no inferior zeal,

  Thou, who canst ‘think’, as well as feel.

  Mount from the earth; aspire! aspire!

  So pleads the town’s cathedral quire,

  In strains that from their solemn height

  Sink, to attain a loftier flight;

  While incense from the altar breathes 30

  Rich fragrance in embodied wreaths;

  Or, flung from swinging censer, shrouds

  The taper-lights, and curls in clouds

  Around angelic Forms, the still

  Creation of the painter’s skill,

  That on the service wait concealed

  One moment, and the next revealed

  —Cast off your bonds, awake, arise,

  And for no transient ecstasies!

  What else can mean the visual plea 40

  Of still or moving imagery—

  The iterated summons loud,

  Not wasted on the attendant crowd,

  Nor wholly lost upon the throng

  Hurrying the busy streets along?

  Alas! the sanctities combined

  By art to unsensualise the mind,

  Decay and languish; or, as creeds

  And humours change, are spurned like weeds:

  The priests are from their altars thrust; 50

  Temples are levelled with the dust;

  And solemn rites and awful forms

  Founder amid fanatic storms.

  Yet evermore, through years renewed

  In undisturbed vicissitude

  Of seasons balancing their flight

  On the swift wings of day and night,

  Kind Nature keeps a heavenly door

  Wide open for the scattered Poor.

  Where flower-breathed incense to the skies 60

  Is wafted in mute harmonies;

  And ground fresh-cloven by the plough

  Is fragrant with a humbler vow;

  Where birds and brooks from leafy dells

  Chime forth unwearied canticles,

  And vapours magnify and spread

  The glory of the sun’s bright head—

  Still constant in her worship, still

  Conforming to the eternal Will,

  Whether men sow or reap the fields, 70

  Divine monition Nature yields,

  That not by bread alone we live,

  Or what a hand of flesh can give;

  That every day should leave some part

  Free for a sabbath of the heart:

  So shall the seventh be truly blest,

  From morn to eve, with hallowed rest.

  1832.

  CALM IS THE FRAGRANT AIR

  CALM is the fragrant air, and loth to lose

  Day’s grateful warmth, tho’ moist with falling dews.

  Look for the stars, you’ll say that there are none;

  Look up a second time, and, one by one,

  You mark them twinkling out with silvery light,

  And wonder how they could elude the sight!

  The birds, of late so noisy in their bowers,

  Warbled a while with faint and fainter powers,

  But now are silent as the dim-seen flowers:

  Nor does the village Church-clock’s iron tone 10

  The time’s and season’s influence disown;

  Nine beats distinctly to each other bound

  In drowsy sequence—how unlike the sound

  That, in rough winter, oft inflicts a fear

  On fireside listeners, doubting what they hear!

  The shepherd, bent on rising with the sun,

  Had closed his door before the day was done,

  And now with thankful heart to bed doth creep,

  And joins his little children in their sleep.

  The bat, lured forth where trees the lane o’ershade, 20

  Flits and reflits along the close arcade;

  The busy dor-hawk chases the white moth

  With burring note, which Industry and Sloth

  Might both be pleased with, for it suits them both.

  A stream is heard—I see it not, but know

  By its soft music whence the waters flow:

  Wheels and the tread of hoofs are heard no more;

  One boat there was, but it will touch the shore

  With the next dipping of its slackened oar;

  Faint sound, that, for the gayest of the gay, 30

  Might give to serious thought a moment’s sway,

  As a last token of man’s toilsome day!

  1832.

  RURAL ILLUSIONS

  SYLPH was it? or a Bird more bright

  Than those of fabulous stock?

  A second darted by;—and lo!

  Another of the flock,

  Through sunshine flitting from the bough

  To nestle in the rock.

  Transient deception! a gay freak

  Of April’s mimicries!

  Those brilliant strangers, hailed with joy

  Among the budding trees, 10

  Proved last year’s leaves, pushed from the spray

  To frolic on the breeze.

  Maternal Flora! show thy face,

  And let thy hand be seen,

  Thy hand here sprinkling tiny flowers,

  That, as they touch the green,

  Take root (so seems it) an
d look up

  In honour of their Queen.

  Yet, sooth, those little starry specks,

  That not in vain aspired 20

  To be confounded with live growths,

  Most dainty, most admired,

  Were only blossoms dropt from twigs

  Of their own offspring tired.

  Not such the World’s illusive shows;

  ‘Her’ wingless flutterings,

  Her blossoms which, though shed, outbrave

  The floweret as it springs,

  For the undeceived, smile as they may,

  Are melancholy things: 30

  But gentle Nature plays her part

  With ever-varying wiles,

  And transient feignings with plain truth

  So well she reconciles,

  That those fond Idlers most are pleased

  Whom oftenest she beguiles.

  1832.

  LOVING AND LIKING

  IRREGULAR VERSES ADDRESSED TO A CHILD (BY MY SISTER)

  THERE’S more in words than I can teach:

  Yet listen, Child!—I would not preach;

  But only give some plain directions

  To guide your speech and your affections.

  Say not you ‘love’ a roasted fowl,

  But you may love a screaming owl.

  And, if you can, the unwieldy toad

  That crawls from his secure abode

  Within the mossy garden wall

  When evening dews begin to fall. 10

  Oh mark the beauty of his eye:

  What wonders in that circle lie!

  So clear, so bright, our fathers said

  He wears a jewel in his head!

  And when, upon some showery day,

  Into a path or public way

  A frog leaps out from bordering grass,

  Startling the timid as they pass,

  Do you observe him, and endeavour

  To take the intruder into favour; 20

  Learning from him to find a reason

  For a light heart in a dull season.

  And you may love him in the pool,

  That is for him a happy school,

  In which he swims as taught by nature,

  Fit pattern for a human creature,

  Glancing amid the water bright,

  And sending upward sparkling light.

  Nor blush if o’er your heart be stealing

  A love for things that have no feeling: 30

  The spring’s first rose by you espied,

  May fill your breast with joyful pride;

  And you may love the strawberry-flower,

  And love the strawberry in its bower;

  But when the fruit, so often praised

  For beauty, to your lip is raised,

  Say not you ‘love’ the delicate treat,