William & Dorothy Wordsworth

by Gavin Herbertson

  Foreran the expected Power,

  Whose first-drawn breath, from bush and tree,

  Shakes off that pearly shower.

  All Nature welcomes Her whose sway

  Tempers the year’s extremes;

  Who scattereth lustres o’er noon-day,

  Like morning’s dewy gleams;

  While mellow warble, sprightly trill,

  The tremulous heart excite;

  And hums the balmy air to still

  The balance of delight.

  Time was, blest Power! when youths and maids

  At peep of dawn would rise,

  And wander forth in forest glades

  Thy birth to solemnize.

  Though mute the song—to grace the rite

  Untouched the hawthorn bough,

  Thy Spirit triumphs o’er the slight;

  Man changes, but not Thou!

  Thy feathered Lieges bill and wings

  In love’s disport employ;

  Warmed by thy influence, creeping things

  Awake to silent joy:

  Queen art thou still for each gay plant

  Where the slim wild deer roves;

  And served in depths where fishes haunt

  Their own mysterious groves.

  Cloud-piercing peak, and trackless heath,

  Instinctive homage pay;

  Nor wants the dim-lit cave a wreath

  To honour thee, sweet May!

  Where cities fanned by thy brisk airs

  Behold a smokeless sky,

  Their puniest flower-pot-nursling dares

  To open a bright eye.

  And if, on this thy natal morn,

  The pole, from which thy name

  Hath not departed, stands forlorn

  Of song and dance and game;

  Still from the village-green a vow

  Aspires to thee addrest,

  Wherever peace is on the brow,

  Or love within the breast.

  Yes! where Love nestles thou canst teach

  The soul to love the more;

  Hearts also shall thy lessons reach

  That never loved before.

  Stript is the haughty one of pride,

  The bashful freed from fear,

  While rising, like the ocean-tide,

  In flows the joyous year.

  Hush, feeble lyre! weak words refuse

  The service to prolong!

  To yon exulting thrush the Muse

  Entrusts the imperfect song;

  His voice shall chant, in accents clear,

  Throughout the live-long day,

  Till the first silver star appear,

  The sovereignty of May.

  Airey-Force Valley

  ———Not a breath of air

  Ruffles the bosom of this leafy glen.

  From the brook’s margin, wide around, the trees

  Are stedfast as the rocks; the brook itself,

  Old as the hills that feed it from afar,

  Doth rather deepen than disturb the calm

  Where all things else are still and motionless.

  And yet, even now, a little breeze, perchance

  Escaped from boisterous winds that rage without,

  Has entered, by the sturdy oaks unfelt,

  But to its gentle touch how sensitive

  Is the light ash! that, pendent from the brow

  Of yon dim cave, in seeming silence makes

  A soft eye-music of slow-waving boughs,

  Powerful almost as vocal harmony

  To stay the wanderer’s steps and soothe his thoughts.

  To the Clouds

  Army of Clouds! ye winged Hosts in troops

  Ascending from behind the motionless brow

  Of that tall rock, as from a hidden world,

  Oh whither with such eagerness of speed?

  What seek ye, or what shun ye? of the gale

  Companions, fear ye to be left behind,

  Or racing o’er your blue ethereal field

  Contend ye with each other? of the sea

  Children, thus post ye over vale and height

  To sink upon your’s mother’s lap—and rest?

  Or were ye rightlier hailed, when first mine eyes

  Beheld in your impetuous march the likeness

  Of a wide army pressing on to meet

  Or overtake some unknown enemy?—

  But your smooth motions suit a peaceful aim;

  And Fancy, not less aptly pleased, compares

  Your squadrons to an endless flight of birds

  Aerial, upon due migration bound

  To milder climes; or rather do ye urge

  In caravan your hasty pilgrimage

  To pause at last on more aspiring heights

  Than these, and utter your devotion there

  With thunderous voice? Or are ye jubilant,

  And would ye, tracking your proud lord the Sun,

  Be present at his setting; or the pomp

  Of Persian mornings would ye fill, and stand

  Poising your splendours high above the heads

  Of worshippers kneeling to their up-risen God?

  Whence, whence, ye Clouds! this eagerness of speed?

  Speak, silent creatures.—They are gone, are fled,

  Buried together in yon gloomy mass

  That loads the middle heaven; and clear and bright

  And vacant doth the region which they thronged

  Appear; a calm descent of sky conducting

  Down to the unapproachable abyss,

  Down to that hidden gulf from which they rose

  To vanish—fleet as days and months and years,

  Fleet as the generations of mankind,

  Power, glory, empire, as the world itself,

  The lingering world, when time hath ceased to be.

  But the winds roar, shaking the rooted trees,

  And see! a bright precursor to a train

  Perchance as numerous, overpeers the rock

  That sullenly refuses to partake

  Of the wild impulse. From a fount of life

  Invisible, the long procession moves

  Luminous or gloomy, welcome to the vale

  Which they are entering, welcome to mine eye

  That sees them, to my soul that owns in them,

  And in the bosom of the firmament

  O’er which they move, wherein they are contained,

  A type of her capacious self and all

  Her restless progeny.

  A humble walk

  Here is my body doomed to tread, this path,

  A little hoary line and faintly traced,

  Work, shall we call it, of the shepherd’s foot

  Or of his flock?—joint vestige of them both.

  I pace it unrepining, for my thoughts

  Admit no bondage and my words have wings.

  Where is the Orphean lyre, or Druid harp,

  To accompany the verse? The mountain blast

  Shall be our ‘hand’ of music; he shall sweep

  The rocks, and quivering trees, and billowy lake,

  And search the fibres of the caves, and they

  Shall answer, for our song is of the Clouds

  And the wind loves them; and the gentle gales—

  Which by their aid re-clothe the naked lawn

  With annual verdure, and revive the woods,

  And moisten the parched lips of thirsty flowers—

  Love them; and every idle breeze of air

  Bends to the favourite burthen. Moon and stars

  Keep their most solemn vigils when the
Clouds

  Watch also, shifting peaceably their place

  Like bands of ministering Spirits, or when they lie,

  As if some Protean art the change had wrought,

  In listless quiet o’er the ethereal deep

  Scattered, a Cyclades of various shapes

  And all degrees of beauty. O ye Lightnings!

  Ye are their perilous offspring; and the Sun—

  Source inexhaustible of life and joy,

  And type of man’s far-darting reason, therefore

  In old time worshipped as the god of verse,

  A blazing intellectual deity—

  Loves his own glory in their looks, and showers

  Upon that unsubstantial brotherhood

  Visions with all but beatific light

  Enriched—too transient were they not renewed

  From age to age, and did not, while we gaze

  In silent rapture, credulous desire

  Nourish the hope that memory lacks not power

  To keep the treasure unimpaired. Vain thought!

  Yet why repine, created as we are

  For joy and rest, albeit to find them only

  Lodged in the bosom of eternal things?

  On the Projected Kendal and Windermere Railway

  Is then no nook of English ground secure

  From rash assault? Schemes of retirement sown

  In youth, and ’mid the busy world kept pure

  As when their earliest flowers of hope were blown,

  Must perish;—how can they this blight endure?

  And must he too the ruthless change bemoan

  Who scorns a false utilitarian lure

  ’Mid his paternal fields at random thrown?

  Baffle the threat, bright Scene, from Orresthead

  Given to the pausing traveller’s rapturous glance:

  Plead for thy peace, thou beautiful romance

  Of nature; and, if human hearts be dead,

  Speak, passing winds; ye torrents, with your strong

  And constant voice, protest against the wrong.

  Glad Sight Wherever New With Old

  Glad sight wherever new with old

  Is joined through some dear homeborn tie;

  The life of all that we behold

  Depends upon that mystery.

  Vain is the glory of the sky,

  The beauty vain of field and grove,

  Unless, while with admiring eye

  We gaze, we also learn to love.

  So Fair, so Sweet, Withal so Sensitive

  SO fair, so sweet, withal so sensitive,

  Would that the little Flowers were born to live,

  Conscious of half the pleasure which they give;

  That to this mountain-daisy’s self were known

  The beauty of its star-shaped shadow, thrown

  On the smooth surface of this naked stone!

  And what if hence a bold desire should mount

  High as the Sun, that he could take account

  Of all that issues from his glorious fount!

  So might he ken how by his sovereign aid

  These delicate companionships are made;

  And how he rules the pomp of light and shade;

  And were the Sister-power that shines by night

  So privileged, what a countenance of delight

  Would through the clouds break forth on human sight!

  Fond fancies! wheresoe’er shall turn thine eye

  On earth, air, ocean, or the starry sky,

  Converse with Nature in pure sympathy;

  All vain desires, all lawless wishes quelled,

  Be Thou to love and praise alike impelled,

  Whatever boon is granted or withheld.