Wordsworth

by Gavin Herbertson

  A happy Eglantine!”

  VI

  What more he said I cannot tell,

  The Torrent down the rocky dell

  Came thundering loud and fast;

  I listened, nor aught else could hear;

  The Briar quaked—and much I fear

  Those accents were his last.

  Song for the Wandering Jew

  Though the torrents from their fountains

  Roar down many a craggy steep,

  Yet they find among the mountains

  Resting-places calm and deep.

  Clouds that love through air to hasten,

  Ere the storm its fury stills,

  Helmet-like themselves will fasten

  On the heads of towering hills.

  What, if through the frozen centre

  Of the Alps the Chamois bound,

  Yet he has a home to enter

  In some nook of chosen ground:

  And the Sea-horse, though the ocean

  Yield him no domestic cave,

  Slumbers without sense of motion,

  Couched upon the rocking wave.

  If on windy days the Raven

  Gambol like a dancing skiff,

  Not the less she loves her haven

  In the bosom of the cliff.

  The fleet Ostrich, till day closes,

  Vagrant over desert sands,

  Brooding on her eggs reposes

  When chill night that care demands.

  Day and night my toils redouble,

  Never nearer to the goal;

  Night and day, I feel the trouble

  Of the Wanderer in my soul.

  Lines Written with a Slate Pencil upon a Stone

  Stranger! this hillock of mis-shapen stones

  Is not a Ruin spared or made by time,

  Nor, as perchance thou rashly deem’st, the Cairn

  Of some old British Chief: ’tis nothing more

  Than the rude embryo of a little Dome

  Or Pleasure-house, once destined to be built

  Among the birch-trees of this rocky isle.

  But, as it chanced, Sir William having learned

  That from the shore a full-grown man might wade,

  And make himself a freeman of this spot

  At any hour he chose, the prudent Knight

  Desisted, and the quarry and the mound

  Are monuments of his unfinished task.

  The block on which these lines are traced, perhaps,

  Was once selected as the corner-stone

  Of that intended Pile, which would have been

  Some quaint odd plaything of elaborate skill,

  So that, I guess, the linnet and the thrush,

  And other little builders who dwell here,

  Had wondered at the work. But blame him not,

  For old Sir William was a gentle Knight,

  Bred in this vale, to which he appertained

  With all his ancestry. Then peace to him,

  And for the outrage which he had devised

  Entire forgiveness!—But if thou art one

  On fire with thy impatience to become

  An inmate of these mountains,—if, disturbed

  By beautiful conceptions, thou hast hewn

  Out of the quiet rock the elements

  Of thy trim Mansion destined soon to blaze

  In snow white splendour,—think again; and, taught

  By old Sir William and his quarry, leave

  Thy fragments to the bramble and the rose;

  There let the vernal slow warm sun himself,

  And let the redbreast hop from stone to stone.

  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,

  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.

  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?

  Their Thomas in Finland,

  And Russia far inland?

  The bird, that by some name or other

  All men who know thee call their brother,

  The darling of children and men?

  Could Father Adam open his eyes

  And see this sight beneath the skies,

  He’d wish to close them again.

  —If the Butterfly knew but his friend,

  Hither his flight he would bend;

  And find his way to me,

  Under the branches of the tree:

  In and out, he darts about;

  Can this be the bird, to man so good,

  That, after their bewildering,

  Covered with leaves the little children,

  So painfully in the wood?

  What ailed thee, Robin, that thou could’st pursue

  A beautiful creature,

  That is gentle by nature?

  Beneath the summer sky

  From flower to flower let him fly;

  ’Tis all that he wishes to do.

  The cheerer Thou of our in-door sadness,

  He is the friend of our summer gladness:

  What hinders, then, that ye should be

  Playmates in the sunny weather,

  And fly about in the air together!

  His beautiful wings in crimson are drest,

  A crimson as bright as thine own:

  Would’st thou be happy in thy nest,

  O pious Bird! whom man loves best,

  Love him, or leave him alone!

  It is a Beauteous Evening, Calm and Free

  It is a beauteous evening, calm and free,

  The holy time is quiet as a Nun

  Breathless with adoration; the broad sun

  Is sinking down in its tranquility;

  The gentleness of heaven broods o’er the Sea;

  Listen! the mighty Being is awake,

  And doth with his eternal motion make

  A sound like thunder—everlastingly.

  Dear child! dear Girl! that walkest with me here,

  If thou appear untouched by solemn thought,

  Thy nature is not therefore less divine:

  Thou liest in Abraham’s bosom all the year;

  And worshipp’st at the Temple’s inner shrine,

  God being with thee when we know it not.

  Composed After a Journey Across the Hambleton Hills

  Dark and more dark the shades of evening fell;

  The wished-for point was reached—but at an hour

  When little could be gained from that rich dower

  Of prospect, whereof many thousands tell.

  Yet did the glowing west with marvellous power

  Salute us; there stood Indian citadel,

  Te
mple of Greece, and minster with its tower

  Substantially expressed—a place for bell

  Or clock to toll from! Many a tempting isle,

  With groves that never were imagined, lay

  ’Mid seas how steadfast! objects all for the eye

  Of silent rapture; but we felt the while

  We should forget them; they are of the sky,

  And from our earthly memory fade away.

  The Sun Has Long Been Set

  The sun has long been set,

  The stars are out by twos and threes,

  The little birds are piping yet

  Among the bushes and trees;

  There’s a cuckoo, and one or two thrushes,

  And a far-off wind that rushes,

  And a sound of water that gushes,

  And the cuckoo’s sovereign cry

  Fills all the hollow of the sky.

  Who would go “parading”

  In London, “and masquerading,”

  On such a night of June

  With that beautiful soft half-moon,

  And all these innocent blisses?

  On such a night as this is!

  Yew-Trees

  There is a Yew-tree, pride of Lorton Vale,

  Which to this day stands single, in the midst

  Of its own darkness, as it stood of yore:

  Not loth to furnish weapons for the bands

  Of Umfraville or Percy ere they marched

  To Scotland’s heaths; or those that crossed the sea

  And drew their sounding bows at Azincour,

  Perhaps at earlier Crecy, or Poictiers.

  Of vast circumference and gloom profound

  This solitary Tree! a living thing

  Produced too slowly ever to decay;

  Of form and aspect too magnificent

  To be destroyed. But worthier still of note

  Are those fraternal Four of Borrowdale,

  Joined in one solemn and capacious grove;

  Huge trunks! and each particular trunk a growth

  Of intertwisted fibres serpentine

  Up-coiling, and inveterately convolved;

  Nor uninformed with Phantasy, and looks

  That threaten the profane;—a pillared shade,

  Upon whose grassless floor of red-brown hue,

  By sheddings from the pining umbrage tinged

  Perennially—beneath whose sable roof

  Of boughs, as if for festal purpose, decked

  With unrejoicing berries—ghostly Shapes

  May meet at noontide; Fear and trembling Hope,

  Silence and Foresight; Death the Skeleton

  And Time the Shadow;—there to celebrate,

  As in a natural temple scattered o’er

  With altars undisturbed of mossy stone,

  United worship; or in mute repose

  To lie, and listen to the mountain flood

  Murmuring from Glaramara’s inmost caves.

  Dorothy Wordsworth

  From Recollections of a Tour Made in Scotland, A.D. 1803

  First Week.

  William and I parted from Mary on Sunday afternoon, August 14th, 1803; and William, Coleridge, and I left Keswick on Monday morning, the 15th, at twenty minutes after eleven o’clock. The day was very hot; we walked up the hills, and along all the rough road, which made our walking half the day’s journey. Travelled under the foot of Carrock, a mountain covered with stones on the lower part; above, it is very rocky, but sheep pasture there; we saw several where there seemed to be no grass to tempt them. Passed the foot of Grisdale and Mosedale, both pastoral valleys, narrow, and soon terminating in the mountains—green, with scattered trees and houses, and each a beautiful stream. At Grisdale our horse backed upon a steep bank where the road was not fenced, just above a pretty mill at the foot of the valley; and we had a second threatening of a disaster in crossing a narrow bridge between the two dales; but this was not the fault of either man or horse. Slept at Mr. Younghusband’s public-house, Hesket Newmarket. In the evening walked to Caldbeck Falls, a delicious spot in which to breathe out a summer’s day—limestone rocks, hanging trees, pools, and waterbreaks—caves and caldrons which have been honoured with fairy names, and no doubt continue in the fancy of the neighbourhood to resound with fairy revels.

  Tuesday, August 16th.—Passed Rose Castle upon the Caldew, an ancient building of red stone with sloping gardens, an ivied gateway, velvet lawns, old garden walls, trim flower-borders with stately and luxuriant flowers. We walked up to the house and stood some minutes watching the swallows that flew about restlessly, and flung their shadows upon the sunbright walls of the old building; the shadows glanced and twinkled, interchanged and crossed each other, expanded and shrunk up, appeared and disappeared every instant; as I observed to William and Coleridge, seeming more like living things than the birds themselves. Dined at Carlisle; the town in a bustle with the assizes; so many strange faces known in former times and recognised, that it half seemed as if I ought to know them all, and, together with the noise, the fine ladies, etc., they put me into confusion. This day Hatfield was condemned I stood at the door of the gaoler’s house, where he was; William entered the house, and Coleridge saw him; I fell into conversation with a debtor, who told me in a dry way that he was ‘far over-learned,’ and another man observed to William that we might learn from Hatfield’s fate ‘not to meddle with pen and ink.’ We gave a shilling to my companion, whom we found out to be a friend of the family, a fellow-sailor with my brother John ‘in Captain Wordsworth’s ship.’ Walked upon the city walls, which are broken down in places and crumbling away, and most disgusting from filth. The city and neighbourhood of Carlisle disappointed me; the banks of the river quite flat, and, though the holms are rich, there is not much beauty in the vale from the want of trees—at least to the eye of a person coming from England, and, I scarcely know how, but to me the holms had not a natural look; there was something townish in their appearance, a dulness in their strong deep green. To Longtown—not very interesting, except from the long views over the flat country; the road rough, chiefly newly mended. Reached Longtown after sunset, a town of brick houses belonging chiefly to the Graham family. Being in the form of a cross and not long, it had been better called Crosstown. There are several shops, and it is not a very small place; but I could not meet with a silver thimble, and bought a halfpenny brass one. Slept at the Graham’s Arms, a large inn. Here, as everywhere else, the people seemed utterly insensible of the enormity of Hatfield’s offences; the ostler told William that he was quite a gentleman, paid every one genteelly, etc. etc. He and ‘Mary’ had walked together to Gretna Green; a heavy rain came on when they were there; a returned chaise happened to pass, and the driver would have taken them up; but ‘Mr. Hope’s’ carriage was to be sent for; he did not choose to accept the chaise-driver’s offer.

  Wednesday, August 17th.—Left Longtown after breakfast. About half-a-mile from the town a guide-post and two roads, to Edinburgh and Glasgow; we took the left-hand road, to Glasgow. Here saw a specimen of the luxuriance of the heath-plant, as it grows in Scotland; it was in the enclosed plantations—perhaps sheltered by them. These plantations appeared to be not well grown for their age; the trees were stunted. Afterwards the road, treeless, over a peat-moss common—the Solway Moss; here and there an earth-built hut with its peat stack, a scanty growing willow hedge round the kailgarth, perhaps the cow pasturing near,—a little lass watching it,—the dreary waste cheered by the endless singing of larks.

  We enter Scotland by crossing the river Sark; on the Scotch side of the bridge the ground is unenclosed pasturage; it was very green, and scattered over with that yellow flowered plant which we call grunsel; the hills heave and swell prettily enough; cattle feeding; a few corn fields near the river. At the top of the hill opposite is Springfield, a village
built by Sir William Maxwell—a dull uniformity in the houses, as is usual when all built at one time, or belonging to one individual, each just big enough for two people to live in, and in which a family, large or small as it may happen, is crammed. There the marriages are performed. Further on, though almost contiguous, is Gretna Green, upon a hill and among trees. This sounds well, but it is a dreary place; the stone houses dirty and miserable, with broken windows. There is a pleasant view from the churchyard over Solway Firth to the Cumberland mountains. Dined at Annan. On our left as we travelled along appeared the Solway Firth and the mountains beyond, but the near country dreary. Those houses by the roadside which are built of stone are comfortless and dirty; but we peeped into a clay ‘biggin’ that was very ‘canny,’ and I daresay will be as warm as a swallow’s nest in winter. The town of Annan made me think of France and Germany; many of the houses large and gloomy, the size of them outrunning the comforts. One thing which was like Germany pleased me: the shopkeepers express their calling by some device or painting; bread-bakers have biscuits, loaves, cakes painted on their window-shutters; blacksmiths horses’ shoes, iron tools, etc. etc.; and so on through all trades.

  Reached Dumfries at about nine o’clock—market-day; met crowds of people on the road, and every one had a smile for us and our car .… The inn was a large house, and tolerably comfortable; Mr. Rogers and his sister, whom we had seen at our own cottage at Grasmere a few days before, had arrived there that same afternoon on their way to the Highlands; but we did not see them till the next morning, and only for about a quarter of an hour.

  Thursday, August 18th.—Went to the churchyard where Burns is buried. A bookseller accompanied us. He showed us the outside of Burns’s house, where he had lived the last three years of his life, and where he died. It has a mean appearance, and is in a bye situation, whitewashed; dirty about the doors, as almost all Scotch houses are; flowering plants in the windows.

  Went on to visit his grave. He lies at a corner of the churchyard, and his second son, Francis Wallace, beside him. There is no stone to mark the spot; but a hundred guineas have been collected, to be expended on some sort of monument. ‘There,’ said the bookseller, pointing to a pompous monument, ‘there lies Mr. Such-a-one’—I have forgotten his name,—‘a remarkably clever man; he was an attorney, and hardly ever lost a cause he undertook. Burns made many a lampoon upon him, and there they rest, as you see.’ We looked at the grave with melancholy and painful reflections, repeating to each other his own verses:—