The Poems of William Wordsworth Collected Reading Texts from
The Cornell Wordsworth
Edited by Jared Curtis In Three Volumes
A Complimentary Addendum
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An Addendum to The Poems of William Wordsworth Collected Reading Texts from
The Cornell Wordsworth Series In Three Volumes Edited by Jared Curtis
HEB ☼ Humanities-Ebooks, LLP
© Jared Curtis, 2012 The Author has asserted his right to be identified as the author of this Work in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. First published by Humanities-Ebooks, LLP, Tirril Hall, Tirril, Penrith CA10 2JE. Cover image, Sunburst over Martindale © Richard Gravil The reading texts of Wordsworth’s poems used in this volume are from the Cornell Wordsworth series, published by Cornell University Press, Sage House, 512 East State Street, Ithaca, NY 14850. Copyright © Cornell University. Volumes are available at: http://www.cornellpress.cornell.edu The Ebook versions of the three volumes in this edition or of all threee volumes in one ebook are available to private purchasers exclusively from http://www. humanities-ebooks.co.uk. The paperback versions are available from all booksellers but at a 33% discount exclusively from http://www.troubador.co.uk
Contents of this Addendum Preface An Evening Walk The Baker’s Cart A Fragment [A Night-Piece] Nutting The Ruined Cottage, MS.D Yew-Trees Odes, 1815–1817 Ode. The morning of the day appointed for a general thanksgiving. January 18, 1816. Ode. 1815. Ode. —1817. Vernal Ode Composed when a probability existed of our being obliged to quit Rydal Mount as a Residence (1826) Salisbury Plain and Guilt and Sorrow; Or, Incidents upon Salisbury Plain Salisbury Plain Guilt and Sorrow; or, Incidents upon Salisbury Plain Index of titles, first lines and series titles, Volumes I, II, III Introducing ‘The Cornell Wordsworth’ from HEB
8 9 23 25 27 33 49 51 52 60 65 69 74 81 82 101 126 174
The Poems of William Wordsworth Contents of the Three-Volume Edition Volume 1 Early Poems and Fragments, 1785–1797 An Evening Walk (1793) Descriptive Sketches (1793) Adventures on Salisbury Plain (1795–1799) The Borderers (1797) The Ruined Cottage and The Pedlar (1798, 1803–1804) The Ruined Cottage (1798) The Pedlar (1803–1804) Lyrical Ballads, and Other Poems, 1797–1800 Lyrical Ballads and Other Poems (1798) Lyrical Ballads and Other Poems, in Two Volumes (1800) Other Poems, 1798–1800 Peter Bell, a Tale (1799) The Prelude (1798–1799) Home at Grasmere (1800–1806) Poems, in Two Volumes, and Other Poems, 1800–1807 Poems, in Two Volumes (1807) Other Poems, 1800–1807
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Volume II The Prelude (1805–1806) Benjamin the Waggoner &c (1806) The Tuft of Primroses, with Other Late Poems for The Recluse (1808–1828) The Tuft of Primroses To the Clouds St. Paul’s Composed when a probability existed of our being obliged to quit Rydal Mount as a Residence
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An Addendum The Excursion (1808–1814) The Excursion (1814) 298 The Peasant’s Life 568 The Shepherd of Bield Crag 570 The White Doe of Rylstone; Or the Fate of the Nortons. A Poem (1808) 572 Translations of Chaucer and Virgil (1801–1831) Chaucer: The Prioress’s Tale 635 Chaucer: The Cuckoo and the Nightingale 643 Chaucer: Troilus and Cressida 654 Chaucer: The Manciple (from the Prologue) and his Tale 659 Virgil: Aeneid 667 Virgil: Georgics 751 Volume III Shorter Poems (1807–1820) The Prelude (1824–1829) Sonnet Series and Itinerary Poems (1820–1845) The River Duddon. A Series of Sonnets Ecclesiastical Sketches Memorials of a Tour on the Continent, 1820 Yarrow Revisited, and Other Poems, Composed (two excepted) during a Tour in Scotland, and on the English Border, in the Autumn of 1831 Sonnets Composed or Suggested during a tour in Scotland, in the Summer of 1833 Memorials of a Tour in Italy. 1837 Sonnets upon the Punishment of Death. In Series Sonnets Dedicated to Liberty and Order Last Poems (1821–1850)
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The Poems of William Wordsworth
Preface This addendum to The Poems of William Wordsworth (3 vols., Penrith, U.K.: Humanities-Ebooks, 2009) is intended to supply some of those poems and versions of poems that were omitted from the original work for lack of space. Readers have suggested some of the selections, while others were thought by the editor to be equally essential to a full view of the poet’s life work. As a group, though a necessarily accidental one, the poems span Wordsworth’s career from his earliest published work, An Evening Walk, to one of the latest, Guilt and Sorrow, which, not surprisingly, draws on some of the poet’s earliest writings, like The Vale of Esthwaite, and is a thorough remake of a poem completed in 1797 but never published, Adventures on Salisbury Plain. In between are blank verse descriptive poems like The Baker’s Cart and two early versions of Nutting; a lyric—two versions of A Night Piece; the 1799 version of the remarkable narrative poem, The Ruined Cottage, published by Wordsworth only as the first book of The Excursion (1814); two odes originally composed between 1815 and 1817 and reworked and expanded in later years to form four distinct poems; and the final version of Composed when a probability existed of our being obliged to quit Rydal Mount as a Residence (1826), which Wordsworth intended as an introduction to a new section of his “great philosophical poem,” The Recluse. Quintessentially the poet of close observation of his surroundings, Wordsworth also regarded his body of written work as an inner “landscape” and continually drew upon it for inspiration and re-visioning the world. For the convenience of purchasers of the three paperback volumes, a consolidated index to the three volumes is also included.
An Addendum
An Evening Walk In 1836 Wordsworth dated the composition of An Evening Walk, “1787, 8, & 9”; the earliest complete version was published in 1793, which is the one that appears in The Poems of William Wordsworth (vol. I, pp. 82–96). But he made significant additions to the poem in 1794, roughly doubling its length and transforming it from a solely descriptive poem to a dramatic and narrative one. This version he did not publish but instead incorporated much of its new material into the early stages of composing The Ruined Cottage. Setting An Evening Walk aside for two decades, he then assigned it—and its companion poem, Descriptive Sketches—to the “Poems Referring to the Period of Childhood” when he arranged his collected poems to follow “the course of human life” in Poems (1815). In preparing successive editions of his collected poems, Wordsworth continued to revise An Evening Walk, creating distinct versions in 1827, 1832, 1836, 1840, and 1845. Of these the 1836 version is the one to which he gave the most attention, as he worked through the text at least three times to establish the final shape and content of the poem. It is this version that is included here. The source for the reading text is An Evening Walk, edited by James Averill (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1984).
10 The Poems of William Wordsworth An Evening Walk Addressed to a Young Lady General Sketch of the Lakes—Author’s Regret of his youth passed amongst them—Short description of Noon—Cascade—Noon-tide Retreat—Precipice and sloping Lights—Face of Nature as the Sun declines—Mountain-farm, and the Cock—Slatequarry—Sunset—Superstition of the Country, connected with that moment—Swans—Female Beggar— Twilight Sounds—Western Lights—Spirits—Night— Moonlight—Hope—Night-sounds—Conclusion.
Far from my dearest Friend, ’tis mine to rove Through bare grey dell, high wood, and pastoral cove; Where Derwent rests, and listens to the roar That stuns the tremulous cliffs of high Lodore; Where peace to Grasmere’s lonely island leads, To willowy hedge-rows, and to emerald meads; Leads to her bridge, rude church, and cottaged grounds, Her rocky sheepwalks, and her woodland bounds; Where, undisturbed by winds, Winander sleeps ’Mid clustering isles, and holly-sprinkled steeps;
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WW’s general note to “Juvenile Pieces” (1820–1832) reads: “Of the Poems in this class, ‘The Evening Walk’ and ‘Descriptive Sketches’ were first published in 1793. They are reprinted with some unimportant alterations that were chiefly made very soon after their publication. It would have been easy to amend them, in many passages, both as to sentiment and expression, and I have not been altogether able to resist the temptation: but attempts of this kind are made at the risk of injuring those characteristic features, which after all, will be regarded as the principal recommendation of juvenile poems.” In 1836 WW added, “The above [note], which was written some time ago, scarcely applies to the Poem, ‘Descriptive Sketches,’ as it now stands. The corrections [to Descriptive Sketches], though numerous, are not, however, such as to prevent its retaining with propriety a place in the class of Juvenile Pieces.” In 1845, WW omitted the final sentence of his original note, retaining the addition of 1836. “These lines are only applicable to the middle part of that lake. Winander is Lake Windermere.” 1836
An Evening Walk 11 Where twilight glens endear my Esthwaite’s shore, And memory of departed pleasures, more. Fair scenes, erewhile, I taught, a happy child, The echoes of your rocks my carols wild: The spirit sought not then, in cherished sadness, A cloudy substitute for failing gladness. In youth’s keen eye the livelong day was bright, The sun at morning, and the stars at night, Alike, when first the bittern’s hollow bill Was heard, or woodcocks roamed the moonlight hill. In thoughtless gaiety I coursed the plain, And hope itself was all I knew of pain; For then, the inexperienced heart would beat At times, while young Content forsook her seat, And wild Impatience, pointing upward, showed, Through passes yet unreached, a brighter road. Alas! the idle tale of man is found Depicted in the dial’s moral round; Hope with reflection blends her social rays To gild the total tablet of his days; Yet still, the sport of some malignant power, He knows but from its shade the present hour. But why, ungrateful, dwell on idle pain? To show what pleasures yet to me remain, Say, will my Friend, with unreluctant ear, The history of a poet’s evening hear? When, in the south, the wan noon, brooding still, Breathed a pale steam around the glaring hill, And shades of deep-embattled clouds were seen, Spotting the northern cliffs with lights between; When crowding cattle, checked by rails that make
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“In the beginning of winter, these mountains are frequented by woodcocks, which in dark nights retire into the woods.” 1836
12 The Poems of William Wordsworth A fence far stretched into the shallow lake, Lashed the cool water with their restless tails, Or from high points of rock looked out for fanning gales; When school-boys stretched their length upon the green; And round the broad-spread oak, a glimmering scene, In the rough fern-clad park, the herded deer Shook the still-twinkling tail and glancing ear; When horses in the sunburnt intake stood, And vainly eyed below the tempting flood, Or tracked the passenger, in mute distress, With forward neck the closing gate to press— Then, while I wandered where the huddling rill Brightens with water-breaks the hollow ghyll As by enchantment, an obscure retreat Opened at once, and stayed my devious feet. While thick above the rill the branches close, In rocky basin its wild waves repose, Inverted shrubs, and moss of gloomy green, Cling from the rocks, with pale wood-weeds between; Save that aloft the subtle sunbeams shine On withered briars that o’er the crags recline; Sole light admitted here, a small cascade, Illumines with sparkling foam the impervious shade; Beyond, along the vista of the brook, Where antique roots its bustling course o’erlook, The eye reposes on a secret bridge Half grey, half shagged with ivy to its ridge; Whence hangs, in the cool shade, the listless swain Lingering behind his disappearing wain. —Did Sabine grace adorn my living line, Blandusia’s praise, wild stream, should yield to thine!
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“The word intake is local, and signifies a mountain-inclosure.” 1836 “Ghyll is also, I believe, a term confined to this country: ghyll, and dingle, have the same meaning.” 1836. Both words refer to a stream or small enclosed valley. “The reader who has made the tour of this country, will recognize, in this description, the features which characterize the lower waterfall in the grounds of Rydal.” 1836
An Evening Walk 13 Never shall ruthless minister of death ’Mid thy soft glooms the glittering steel unsheath; No goblets shall, for thee, be crowned with flowers, No kid with piteous outcry thrill thy bowers; The mystic shapes that by thy margin rove A more benignant sacrifice approve; A mind, that, in a calm angelic mood Of happy wisdom, meditating good, Beholds, of all from her high powers required, Much done, and much designed, and more desired,— Harmonious thoughts, a soul by truth refined, Entire affection for all human kind. —Sweet rill, farewell! To-morrow’s noon again Shall hide me, wooing long thy wildwood strain; But now the sun has gained his western road, And eve’s mild hour invites my steps abroad. While, near the midway cliff, the silvered kite In many a whistling circle wheels her flight; Slant watery lights, from parting clouds, apace Travel along the precipice’s base; Cheering its naked waste of scattered stone, By lichens grey, and scanty moss, o’ergrown; Where scarce the foxglove peeps, or thistle’s beard: And restless stone-chat, all day long, is heard. How pleasant, as the sun declines, to view The spacious landscape change in form and hue! Here, vanish, as in mist, before a flood Of bright obscurity, hill, lawn, and wood; There, objects, by the searching beams betrayed, Come forth, and here retire in purple shade; Even the white stems of birch, the cottage white, Soften their glare before the mellow light; The skiffs, at anchor where with umbrage wide
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14 The Poems of William Wordsworth Yon chestnuts half the latticed boat-house hide, Shed from their sides, that face the sun’s slant beam, Strong flakes of radiance on the tremulous stream: Raised by yon travelling flock, a dusty cloud Mounts from the road, and spreads its moving shroud; The shepherd, all involved in wreaths of fire, Now shows a shadowy speck, and now is lost entire. Into a gradual calm the breezes sink, A blue rim borders all the lake’s still brink: And now, on every side, the surface breaks Into blue spots, and slowly lengthening streaks; Here, plots of sparkling water tremble bright With thousand thousand twinkling points of light; There, waves that, hardly weltering, die away, Tip their smooth ridges with a softer ray; And now the whole wide lake in deep repose Is hushed, and like a burnished mirror glows, Save where, along the shady western marge, Coasts, with industrious oar, the charcoal barge. The sails are dropped, the poplar’s foliage sleeps, And insects clothe, like dust, the glassy deeps. Their panniered train a group of potters goad, Winding from side to side up the steep road; The peasant, from yon cliff of fearful edge Shot, down the headlong path darts with his sledge; Bright beams the lonely mountain-horse illume Feeding ’mid purple heath, “green rings,” and broom; While the sharp slope the slackened team confounds, Downward the ponderous timber-wain resounds; In foamy breaks the rill, with merry song, Dashed o’er the rough rock, lightly leaps along; From lonesome chapel at the mountain’s feet,
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“‘Vivid rings of green.’—greenwood’s poem on shooting.” 1836. See note to An Evening Walk (1793) in The Poems of William Wordsworth, vol. 1, p. 86.
An Evening Walk 15 Three humble bells their rustic chime repeat; Sounds from the water-side the hammered boat; And blasted quarry thunders, heard remote!
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Even here, amid the sweep of endless woods, Blue pomp of lakes, high cliffs, and falling floods, Not undelightful are the simplest charms, Found by the grassy door of mountain-farms. Sweetly ferocious, round his native walks, Pride of his sister-wives, the monarch stalks; Spur-clad his nervous feet, and firm his tread; A crest of purple tops the warrior’s head. Bright sparks his black and rolling eye-ball hurls Afar, his tail he closes and unfurls; On tiptoe reared, he strains his clarion throat, Threatened by faintly-answering farms remote: Again with his shrill voice the mountain rings, While, flapped with conscious pride, resound his wings!
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Where, mixed with graceful birch, the sombrous pine And yew-tree o’er the silver rocks recline; I love to mark the quarry’s moving trains, Dwarf panniered steeds, and men, and numerous wains: How busy all the enormous hive within, While Echo dallies with its various din! Some (hear you not their chisels’ clinking sound?) Toil, small as pigmies in the gulf profound; Some, dim between the lofty cliffs descried, O’erwalk the slender plank from side to side; These, by the pale-blue rocks that ceaseless ring, In airy baskets hanging, work and sing.
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“‘Dolcemente feroce.’—Tasso.—In this description of the cock, I remembered a spirited one of the same animal in L’Agriculture, ou Les Géorgiques Françoises, of M. Rossuet.” 1836. See note to An Evening Walk (1793) in The Poems of William Wordsworth, vol. 1, p. 86.
16 The Poems of William Wordsworth Just where a cloud above the mountain rears An edge all flame, the broadening sun appears; A long blue bar its ægis orb divides, And breaks the spreading of its golden tides; And now the sun has touched the purple steep Whose softened image penetrates the deep. ’Cross the calm lake’s blue shades the cliffs aspire, With towers and woods, a “prospect all on fire”; While coves and secret hollows, through a ray Of fainter gold, a purple gleam betray. Each slip of lawn the broken rocks between Shines in the light with more than earthly green. Deep yellow beams the scattered stems illume, Far in the level forest’s central gloom; Waving his hat, the shepherd, from the vale, Directs his winding dog the cliffs to scale,— The dog, loud barking, ’mid the glittering rocks, Hunts, where his master points, the intercepted flocks. Where oaks o’erhang the road the radiance shoots On tawny earth, wild weeds, and twisted roots; The druid-stones a burnished ring unfold; And all the babbling brooks are liquid gold; Sunk to a curve, the day-star lessens still, Gives one bright glance, and drops behind the hill.
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In these secluded vales, if village fame, Confirmed by silver hairs, belief may claim; When up the hills, as now, retired the light, Strange apparitions mocked the shepherd’s sight. The form appears of one that spurs his steed Midway along the hill with desperate speed; Unhurt pursues his lengthened flight, while all Attend, at every stretch, his headlong fall.
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“From Thomson.” 1836. See note to An Evening Walk (1793) in The Poems of William Wordsworth, vol. 1, p. 88.
An Evening Walk 17 Anon, appears a brave, a gorgeous show Of horsemen-shadows moving to and fro; At intervals imperial banners stream, And now the van reflects the solar beam; The rear through iron brown betrays a sullen gleam. While silent stands the admiring crowd below, Silent the visionary warriors go, Winding in ordered pomp their upward way Till the last banner of their long array Has disappeared, and every trace is fled Of splendour—save the beacon’s spiry head Tipt with eve’s latest gleam of burning red. Now, while the solemn evening shadows sail, On slowly-waving pinions, down the vale; And, fronting the bright west, yon oak entwines Its darkening boughs and leaves, in stronger lines; ’Tis pleasant near the tranquil lake to stray Where, winding on along some secret bay, The swan uplifts his chest, and backward flings His neck, a varying arch, between his towering wings: The eye that marks the gliding creature sees How graceful, pride can be, and how majestic, ease. While tender cares and mild domestic loves With furtive watch pursue her as she moves, The female with a meeker charm succeeds, And her brown little-ones around her leads, Nibbling the water lilies as they pass, Or playing wanton with the floating grass. She, in a mother’s care, her beauty’s pride Forgets, unwearied watching every side; She calls them near, and with affection sweet Alternately relieves their weary feet;
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“See a description of an appearance of this kind in Clark’s Survey of the Lakes, accompanied by vouchers of its veracity, that may amuse the reader.” 1836. See note to An Evening Walk (1793) in The Poems of William Wordsworth, vol. 1, p. 88.
18 The Poems of William Wordsworth Alternately they mount her back, and rest, Close by her mantling wings’ embraces prest. Long may they float upon this flood serene; Theirs be these holms untrodden, still, and green, Where leafy shades fence off the blustering gale, And breathes in peace the lily of the vale! Yon isle, which feels not even the milk-maid’s feet, Yet hears her song, “by distance made more sweet,” Yon isle conceals their home, their hut-like bower; Green water-rushes overspread the floor; Long grass and willows form the woven wall, And swings above the roof the poplar tall. Thence issuing often with unwieldy stalk, They crush with broad black feet their flowery walk; Or, from the neighbouring water, hear at morn The hound, the horse’s tread, and mellow horn; Involve their serpent-necks in changeful rings, Rolled wantonly between their slippery wings, Or, starting up with noise and rude delight, Force half upon the wave their cumbrous flight. Fair Swan! by all a mother’s joys caressed, Haply some wretch has eyed, and called thee blessed; When with her infants, from some shady seat By the lake’s edge, she rose—to face the noontide heat, Or taught their limbs along the dusty road A few short steps to totter with their load. I see her now, denied to lay her head, On cold blue nights, in hut or straw-built shed, Turn to a silent smile their sleepy cry, By pointing to the gliding moon on high: I hear, while in the forest depth, he sees The moon’s fixed gaze between the opening trees,
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The quotation is from William Collins, The Passions. An Ode for Music, l. 60.
An Evening Walk 19 In broken sounds her elder child demand, While toward the sky he lifts his pale bright hand. If, in that country, where he dwells afar, His father views that good, that kindly star; —Alas! All light is mute amid the gloom, The interlunar cavern, of the tomb. —When low-hung clouds each star of summer hide, And fireless are the vallies far and wide, Where the brook brawls along the public road Dark with bat-haunted ashes stretching broad, Oft has she taught them on her lap to lay The shining glow-worm; or, in heedless play, Toss it from hand to hand, disquieted; While others, not unseen, are free to shed Green unmolested light upon their mossy bed. Oh! when the sleety showers her path assail, And like a torrent roars the headstrong gale; No more her breath can thaw their fingers cold, Their frozen arms her neck no more can fold; Weak roof a cowering form two babes to shield, And faint the fire a dying heart can yield! Press the sad kiss, fond mother! vainly fears Thy flooded cheek to wet them with its tears; No tears can chill them, and no bosom warms, Thy breast their death-bed, coffined in thine arms! Sweet are the sounds that mingle from afar, Heard by calm lakes, as peeps the folding star, Where the duck dabbles ’mid the rustling sedge, And feeding pike starts from the water’s edge, Or the swan stirs the reeds, his neck and bill Wetting, that drip upon the water still; And heron, as resounds the trodden shore, Shoots upward, darting his long neck before.
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20 The Poems of William Wordsworth Now, with religious awe, the farewell light Blends with the solemn colouring of the night; ’Mid groves of clouds that crest the mountain’s brow, And round the west’s proud lodge their shadows throw, Like Una shining on her gloomy way, The half-seen form of Twilight roams astray; Shedding, through paly loop-holes mild and small, Gleams that upon the lake’s still bosom fall; Soft o’er the surface creep those lustres pale Tracking the motions of the fitful gale. With restless interchange at once the bright Wins on the shade, the shade upon the light. No favoured eye was e’er allowed to gaze On lovelier spectacle in faery days; When gentle Spirits urged a sportive chase, Brushing with lucid wands the water’s face; While music, stealing round the glimmering deeps, Charmed the tall circle of the enchanted steeps. —The lights are vanished from the watery plains: No wreck of all the pageantry remains. Unheeded night has overcome the vales: On the dark earth the wearied vision fails; The latest lingerer of the forest train, The lone black fir, forsakes the faded plain; Last evening sight, the cottage smoke, no more, Lost in the thickened darkness, glimmers hoar; And, towering from the sullen dark-brown mere, Like a black wall, the mountain-steeps appear. —Now o’er the soothed accordant heart we feel A sympathetic twilight slowly steal, And ever, as we fondly muse, we find The soft gloom deepening on the tranquil mind. Stay! pensive, sadly-pleasing visions, stay! Ah no! as fades the vale, they fade away:
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The 1836 text is alone in reading “spectacles”—probably a printer’s error. The reading “spectacle” is restored from 1815–32, 1840-48.
An Evening Walk 21 Yet still the tender, vacant gloom remains; Still the cold cheek its shuddering tear retains. The bird, who ceased, with fading light, to thread Silent the hedge or steamy rivulet’s bed, From his grey re-appearing tower shall soon Salute with gladsome note the rising moon, While with a hoary light she frosts the ground, And pours a deeper blue to Æther’s bound; Pleased, as she moves, her pomp of clouds to fold In robes of azure, fleecy-white, and gold. Above yon eastern hill, where darkness broods O’er all its vanished dells, and lawns, and woods; Where but a mass of shade the sight can trace, Even now she shows, half-veiled, her lovely face: Across the gloomy valley flings her light, Far to the western slopes with hamlets white; And gives, where woods the chequered upland strew, To the green corn of summer autumn’s hue. Thus Hope, first pouring from her blessed horn Her dawn, far lovelier than the moon’s own morn, ’Till higher mounted, strives in vain to cheer The weary hills, impervious, blackening near; —Yet does she still, undaunted, throw the while On darling spots remote her tempting smile. Even now she decks for me a distant scene, (For dark and broad the gulf of time between) Gilding that cottage with her fondest ray, (Sole bourn, sole wish, sole object of my way; How fair its lawns and sheltering woods appear! How sweet its streamlet murmurs in mine ear!) Where we, my Friend, to happy days shall rise, ’Till our small share of hardly-paining sighs (For sighs will ever trouble human breath)
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22 The Poems of William Wordsworth Creep hushed into the tranquil breast of death. But now the clear bright Moon her zenith gains, And, rimy without speck, extend the plains: The deepest cleft the mountain’s front displays Scarce hides a shadow from her searching rays; From the dark-blue faint silvery threads divide The hills, while gleams below the azure tide; Time softly treads; throughout the landscape breathes A peace enlivened, not disturbed, by wreaths Of charcoal-smoke, that o’er the fallen wood, Steal down the hill, and spread along the flood. The song of mountain-streams, unheard by day, Now hardly heard, beguiles my homeward way. Air listens, like the sleeping water, still, To catch the spiritual music of the hill, Broke only by the slow clock tolling deep, Or shout that wakes the ferry-man from sleep, The echoed hoof nearing the distant shore, The boat’s first motion—made with dashing oar; Sound of closed gate, across the water borne, Hurrying the timid hare through rustling corn; The sportive outcry of the mocking owl; And at long intervals the mill-dog’s howl; The distant forge’s swinging thump profound; Or yell, in the deep woods, of lonely hound. 1787, 8, & 9
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The Baker’s Cart 23
The Baker’s Cart Reflecting Wordsworth’s expanding interest in the men and women inhabiting the rural landscape—their struggles, their thoughts and feelings—the untitled fragment beginning “I have seen the Baker’s horse” unpacks from a momentary glimpse and brief utterance a life story of want and grief. The poem was composed in 1797. The source for the reading text is “The Ruined Cottage” and “The Pedlar,” edited by James Butler (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1979). [The Baker’s Cart] I have seen the Baker’s horse As he had been accustomed at your door Stop with the loaded wain, when o’er his head Smack went the whip, and you were left, as if You were not born to live, or there had been No bread in all the land. Five little ones, They at the rumbling of the distant wheels Had all come forth, and, ere the grove of birch Concealed the wain, into their wretched hut They all return’d. While in the road I stood Pursuing with involuntary look The wain now seen no longer, to my side [ ] came, a pitcher in her hand Filled from the spring; she saw what way my eyes Were turn’d, and in a low and fearful voice She said, “That waggon does not care for us.” The words were simple, but her look and voice Made up their meaning, and bespoke a mind Which being long neglected and denied The common food of hope was now become Sick and extravagant-by strong access Of momentary pangs driv’n to that state
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24 The Poems of William Wordsworth ln which all past experience melts away And the rebellious heart to its own will Fashions the laws of nature.
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A Night Piece 25
A Fragment [A Night-Piece] Composed at Alfoxden in 1798 as simply “A Fragment,” the poem lay unpublished until Wordsworth revised the first ten lines and included it in Poems (1815) as A Night-Piece. The source for both versions included here is “Lyrical Ballads,” and Other Poems, 1797–1800. edited by James Butler and Karen Green (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1992). A Fragment [A Night-Piece] The sky is overspread With a close veil of one continuous cloud All whitened by the moon, that just appears, A dim-seen orb, yet chequers not the ground With any shadow,—plant, or tower, or tree. At last, a pleasant gleam breaks forth at once, An instantaneous light; the musing [man] Who walks along with his eyes bent to earth Is startled. He looks about, the clouds are split Asunder, and above his head, he views The clear moon, and the glory of the heavens. There, in a black-blue vault she sails along, Followed by multitudes of stars, that small, And bright, and sharp, along the gloomy vault Drive as she drives. How fast they wheel away! Yet vanish not! The wind is in the trees, But they are silent; still they roll along Immeasurably distant, and the vault Built round by those white clouds, enormous clouds, Still deepens its interminable depth. At length the vision closes, and the mind Not undisturbed by the deep joy it feels,
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26 The Poems of William Wordsworth Which slowly settles into peaceful calm, Is left to muse upon the solemn scene. A Night Piece ——The sky is overcast With a continuous cloud of texture close, Heavy and wan, all whitened by the Moon, Which through that veil is indistinctly seen, A dull, contracted circle, yielding light So feebly spread that not a shadow falls, Chequering the ground, from rock, plant, tree, or tower. At length a pleasant instantaneous gleam Startles the pensive traveller while he treads His lonesome path, with unobserving eye Bent earthwards; he looks up—the clouds are split Asunder,—and above his head he sees The clear moon, and the glory of the heavens. There, in a black blue vault she sails along, Followed by multitudes of stars, that, small And sharp, and bright, along the dark abyss Drive as she drives;—how fast they wheel away, Yet vanish not!—the wind is in the tree, But they are silent;—still they roll along Immeasurably distant;—and the vault, Built round by those white clouds, enormous clouds, Still deepens its unfathomable depth. At length the Vision closes; and the mind, Not undisturbed by the delight it feels, Which slowly settles into peaceful calm, Is left to muse upon the solemn scene.
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Nutting 27
Nutting The version of Nutting that Wordsworth published in volume two of the second edition of Lyrical Ballads (1800) can be tracked through two earlier drafts composed probably between December 1798 and April 1799, certainly by June 1800. The first, from DC MS. 15, begins with an extended condemnation of wantonness towards the natural world that turns suddenly, in the final thirty lines, to the recollection of “the ragged boy” beating the branches of the hazel trees to collect the fallen nuts. In the second version, in DC MS. 16, Wordsworth omitted the memory of the ragged boy, creating instead a sustained tributes to “the Powers / That teach philosophy and good desires” and to his “beloved Maid.” These two poems should be compared to the published version, which appears in Poems of William Wordsworth, vol. I, pp. 435–436. The source for the versions included here is “Lyrical Ballads,” and Other Poems, 1797–1800, edited by James Butler and Karen Green (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1992). [Nutting] [Text in DC MS. 15]
Ah what a crash was that—with gentle hand Touch those fair hazels; my beloved Maid, Though tis a sight invisible to thee, From such rude intercourse the woods all shrink, As at the blowing of Astolpho’s horn. While in the cave we sat thou didst o’erflow With love even for the unsubstantial clouds And silent incorporeal colours spread Over the surface of the earth and sky. But had I met thee now with that keen look Half cruel in its eagerness, thy cheek Thus rich with a tempestuous bloom, in truth
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28 The Poems of William Wordsworth I might have half believed that I had pass’d A houseless being in a human shape, An enemy of nature, one who comes From regions far beyond the Indian hills. Come rest on this light bed of purple heath And let me see thee sink to a dream Of gentle thoughts till once again thine eye Be like the heart of love and happiness, Yet still as water when the winds are gone And no man can tell whither.— See those two stems Both stretched upon the ground, two brother trees That in one instant at the touch of spring Put forth their tender leaves, and for nine years, In the dark nights, have both together heard The driving storm— I would not strike a flower As many a man will strike his horse, at least If frozn the wantonness in which we play With things we love, or from a freak of [ ] Or from involuntary act of hand Or foot unruly with excess of life, It chanced that I ungently used a tuft [ ] or snapp’d the stem Of foxglove bending o’er his native rill, I should be loth to pass along my road With unreprov’d indifference, I would stop Self-question’d, asking wherefore that was done. For, seeing little worthy or sublime In what we blazon with the pompous names Of power and action, I was early taught To love those unassuming things that fill A silent station in this beauteous world. And dearest maiden, thou upon whose lap I rest my head, oh! do not deem that these Are idle sympathies. It seems a day, One of those heavenly days that cannot die,
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Nutting 29 When through the autumnal woods, a figure quaint, Equipp’d with wallet and with crooked stick They led me, and I follow’d in their steps, Trick’d out in proud disguise of beggar’s weeds, Put on for the occasion, by advice And exhortation of my frugal dame. Motley accoutrement! of power to smile At thorns, and brakes, and brambles, and, in truth, More ragged than need was. They led me far, Those guardian Spirits, into some near nook Unvisited, where not a broken bough Droop’d with its wither’d leaves, ungracious sign Of devastation, but the hazels rose Tall and erect, with milk-white clusters hung, A virgin scene! A little while I stood, Breathing with such suppression of the heart As Joy delights in; and with wise restraint Voluptuous, fearless of a rival, eyed The banquet, or beneath the trees I sate Among the flowers, and with the flowers I play’d; A temper known to those, who, after long And weary expectation, have been bless’d With sudden happiness beyond all hope. —Perhaps it was a bower beneath whose leaves The violets of five seasons reappear And fade, unseen by any human eye, Where faery water-breaks do murmur on For ever, and I saw the sparkling foam, And with my cheek upon the mossy stones That like a flock of sheep were fleec’d with moss I heard the murmur and the murmuring sound, In that sweet mood when pleasure loves to pay Tribute to ease, and, of its joy secure, The heart luxuriates with indifferent things, Wasting its kindliness on stocks and stones, And on the vacant air. Then up I rose,
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30 The Poems of William Wordsworth And dragg’d to earth both branch and bough, with crash And merciless ravage, and the shady nook Of hazels, and the green and mossy bower, Deform’d and sullied, patiently gave up Their quiet spirit; and unless I now Confound my present being with the past, Even then, when from the bower I turn’d away, Exulting, rich beyond the wealth of kingsI felt a sense of pain when I beheld The silent trees and the intruding sky. Then, dearest maiden, if I have not now The skill to be thy teacher, think of him, The ragged boy, and let his parting look Instruct. Move, sweet maid, along these shades In gentleness of heart.— With gentle hand Touch, for there is a spirit in the woods.
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Nutting 31 Nutting [Text in DC MS. 16] Ah! what a crash was that! with gentle hand Touch these fair hazels-My beloved Maid! Though ‘tis a sight invisible to thee, From such rude intercourse the woods all shrink As at the blowing of Astolpho’s horn.— Thou, Lucy, art a maiden “inland bred”, And thou hast “known some nurture”; but in truth If I had met thee here with that keen look Half cruel in its eagerness, those cheeks Thus [ ] flushed with a tempestuous bloom, I might have almost deem’d that I had pass’d A houseless being in a human shape, An enemy of nature, hither sent From regions far beyond the Indian hills.Come rest on this light bed of purple heath, And let me see thee sink into a dream Of gentle thoughts, protracted till thine eye Be calm as water when the winds are gone And no one can tell whither. See those stems Both stretch’d along the ground, two brother trees That in one instant at the touch of spring Put forth their tender leaves, and through nine years, In the dark nights, have both together heard The driving storm— Well! blessed be the Powers That teach philosophy and good desires In this their still Lyceum, hand of mine Wrought not this ruin—I am guiltless here. For, seeing little worthy or sublime In what we blazon with the pompous names Of power and action, I was early taught To look with feelings of fraternal love Upon those unassuming things which hold
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32 The Poems of William Wordsworth A silent station in this beauteous world. Ye gentle Stewards of a Poet’’s time! Ye Powers! without whose aid the idle man Would waste full half of the long summer’s day, Ye who, by virtue of this dome of leaves And its cool umbrage, make the forenoon walk, When July suns are blazing, to his verse Propitious, as a range o’er moonlight cliffs Above the breathing sea—And ye no less! Ye too, who with most necessary care Amid the concentration of your groves Restore the springs of his exhausted frame, And ye whose general ministry it is To interpose the covert of these shades, Even as a sleep, betwixt the heart of man And the uneasy world, ’twixt man himself, Not seldom, and his own unquiet heart, Oh! that I had a music and a voice Harmonious as your own, to tell the world What ye have done for me.
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The Ruined Cottage 33
The Ruined Cottage, MS.D The 1798 version of The Ruined Cottage (MS. B) appears on pp. 270–286 of The Poems of William Wordsworth, vol. 1. Almost immediately Wordsworth set to work revising it, and when he completed this version in 1799, he treated it as a final text, preserving it in fair copy in his sister’s hand. The manuscript (MS. D) includes material dating from 1799, 1801–1802, and—possibly—1809–1812. A later manuscript (MS. E, referred to in the note to l. 501 below), dating from 1803– 1804, is a revised fair copy of The Pedlar, the expanded version of the poem that traces the history of the Pedlar and includes his story of Margaret. For the manuscript sources of the reading text and editor’s commentary on its recovery, see “The Ruined Cottage” and “The Pedlar,” ed. James A. Butler (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1979). MS. D is one of Dorothy Wordsworth’s pocket notebooks (DC MS. 16). For the text of The Pedlar see The Poems of William Wordsworth, vol. 1, pp. 286–311. The Ruined Cottage Ist Part ’Twas summer and the sun was mounted high. Along the south the uplands feebly glared Through a pale steam, and all the northern downs In clearer air ascending shewed far off Their surfaces with shadows dappled o’er Of deep embattled clouds: far as the sight Could reach those many shadows lay in spots Determined and unmoved, with steady beams Of clear and pleasant sunshine interposed; Pleasant to him who on the soft cool moss Extends his careless limbs beside the root
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34 The Poems of William Wordsworth Of some huge oak whose aged branches make A twilight of their own, a dewy shade Where the wren warbles while the dreaming man, Half-conscious of that soothing melody, With side-long eye looks out upon the scene, By those impending branches made more soft, More soft and distant. Other lot was mine. Across a bare wide Common I had toiled With languid feet which by the slipp’ry ground Were baffled still, and when I stretched myself On the brown earth my limbs from very heat Could find no rest nor my weak arm disperse The insect host which gathered round my face And joined their murmurs to the tedious noise Of seeds of bursting gorse that crackled round. I rose and turned towards a group of trees Which midway in that level stood alone, And thither come at length, beneath a shade Of clustering elms that sprang from the same root I found a ruined house, four naked walls That stared upon each other. I looked round And near the door I saw an aged Man, Alone, and stretched upon the cottage bench; An iron-pointed staff lay at his side. With instantaneous joy I recognized That pride of nature and of lowly life, The venerable Armytage, a friend As dear to me as is the setting sun. Two days before We had been fellow-travellers. I knew That he was in this neighbourhood and now Delighted found him here in the cool shade. He lay, his pack of rustic merchandize Pillowing his head—I guess he had no thought Of his way-wandering life. His eyes were shut; The shadows of the breezy elms above
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The Ruined Cottage 35 Dappled his face. With thirsty heat oppress’d At length I hailed him, glad to see his hat Bedewed with water-drops, as if the brim Had newly scoop’d a running stream. He rose And pointing to a sun-flower bade me climb The [ ] wall where that same gaudy flower Looked out upon the road. It was a plot Of garden-ground, now wild, its matted weeds Marked with the steps of those whom as they pass’d, The goose-berry trees that shot in long lank slips, Or currants hanging from their leafless stems In scanty strings, had tempted to o’erleap The broken wall. Within that cheerless spot, Where two tall hedgerows of thick willow boughs Joined in a damp cold nook, I found a well Half-choked [with willow flowers and weeds.] I slaked my thirst and to the shady bench Returned, and while I stood unbonneted To catch the motion of the cooler air The old Man said, “I see around me here Things which you cannot see: we die, my Friend, Nor we alone, but that which each man loved And prized in his peculiar nook of earth Dies with him or is changed, and very soon Even of the good is no memorial left. The Poets in their elegies and songs Lamenting the departed call the groves, They call upon the hills and streams to mourn, And senseless rocks, nor idly; for they speak In these their invocations with a voice Obedient to the strong creative power Of human passion. Sympathies there are More tranquil, yet perhaps of kindred birth, That steal upon the meditative mind And grow with thought. Beside yon spring I stood
DW left a gap that WW filled in pencil.
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36 The Poems of William Wordsworth And eyed its waters till we seemed to feel One sadness, they and 1. For them a bond Of brotherhood is broken: time has been When every day the touch of human hand Disturbed their stillness, and they ministered To human comfort. When I stooped to drink, A spider’s web hung to the water’s edge, And on the wet and slimy foot-stone lay The useless fragment of a wooden bowl; It moved my very heart. The day has been When I could never pass this road but she Who lived within these walls, when I appeared, A daughter’s welcome gave me, and I loved her As my own child. O Sir! the good die first, And they whose hearts are dry as summer dust Burn to the socket. Many a passenger Has blessed poor Margaret for her gentle looks When she upheld the cool refreshment drawn From that forsaken spring, and no one came But he was welcome, no one went away But that it seemed she loved him. She is dead, The worm is on her cheek, and this poor hut, Stripp’d of its outward garb of houshold flowers, Of rose and sweet-briar, offers to the wind A cold bare wall whose earthy top is tricked With weeds and the rank spear-grass. She is dead, And nettles rot and adders sun themselves Where we have sate together while she nurs’d Her infant at her breast. The unshod Colt, The wandring heifer and the Potter’s ass, Find shelter now within the chimney-wall Where I have seen her evening hearth-stone blaze And through the window spread upon the road Its cheerful light.— You will forgive me, Sir, But often on this cottage do I muse As on a picture, till my wiser mind
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The Ruined Cottage 37 Sinks, yielding to the foolishness of grief. She had a husband, an industrious man, Sober and steady; I have heard her say That he was up and busy at his loom In summer ere the mower’s scythe had swept The dewy grass, and in the early spring Ere the last star had vanished. They who pass’d At evening, from behind the garden-fence Might hear his busy spade, which he would ply After his daily work till the day-light Vvas gone and every leaf and flower were lost In the dark hedges. So they pass’d their days In peace and comfort, and two pretty babes Were their best hope next to the God in Heaven. —You may remember, now some ten years gone, Two blighting seasons when the fields were left With half a harvest. It pleased heaven to add A worse affliction in the plague of war: A happy land was stricken to the heart; ’Twas a sad time of sorrow and distress: A wanderer among the cottages, I with my pack of winter raiment saw The hardships of that season: many rich Sunk down as in a dream among the poor, And of the poor did many cease to be, And their place knew them not. Meanwhile, abridg’d Of daily comforts, gladly reconciled To numerous self-denials, Margaret Went struggling on through those calamitous years With chearful hope: but ere the second autumn A fever seized her husband. In disease He lingered long, and when his strength returned He found the little he had stored to meet The hour of accident or crippling age Was all consumed. As I have said, ’twas now A time of trouble; shoals of artisans
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38 The Poems of William Wordsworth Were from their daily labour turned away To hang for bread on parish charity, They and their wives and children—happier far Could they have lived as do the little birds That peck along the hedges or the kite That makes her dwelling in the mountain rocks. Ill fared it now with Robert, he who dwelt In this poor cottage; at his door he stood And whistled many a snatch of merry tunes That had no mirth in them, or with his knife Carved uncouth figures on the heads of sticks, Then idly sought about through every nook Of house or garden any casual task Of use or ornament, and with a strange, Amusing but uneasy novelty He blended where he might the various tasks Of summer, autumn, winter, and of spring. But this endured not; his good-humour soon Became a weight in which no pleasure was, And poverty brought on a petted mood And a sore temper: day by day he drooped, And he would leave his home, and to the town Without an errand would he turn his steps Or wander here and there among the fields. One while he would speak lightly of his babes And with a cruel tongue: at other times He played with them wild freaks of merriment: And ’twas a piteous thing to see the looks Of the poor innocent children. ‘Every smile,’ Said Margaret to me here beneath these trees, ‘Made my heart bleed.’” At this the old Man paus’d And looking up to those enormous elms He said, ‘“Tis now the hour of deepest noon. At this still season of repose and peace, This hour when all things which are not at rest Are chearful, while this multitude of flies
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The Ruined Cottage 39 Fills all the air with happy melody, Why should a tear be in an old man’s eye? Why should we thus with an untoward mind And in the weakness of humanity From natural wisdom turn our hearts away, To natural comfort shut our eyes and ears, And feeding on disquiet thus disturb The calm of Nature with our restless thoughts?”
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40 The Poems of William Wordsworth Severe reproof, if we were men whose hearts Could hold vain dalliance with the misery Even of the dead, contented thence to draw A momentary pleasure never marked By reason, barren of all future good. But we have known that there is often found In mournful thoughts, and always might be found, A power to virtue friendly; were’t not so, I am a dreamer among men, indeed An idle dreamer. ’Tis a common tale, By moving accidents uncharactered, A tale of silent suffering, hardly clothed In bodily form, and to the grosser sense But ill adapted, scarcely palpable To him who does not think. But at your bidding I will proceed. While thus it fared with them To whom this cottage till that hapless year Had been a blessed home, it was my chance To travel in a country far remote. And glad I was when, halting by yon gate That leads from the green lane, again I saw These lofty elm-trees. Long I did not rest: With many pleasant thoughts I cheer’d my way O’er the flat common. At the door arrived, I knocked, and when I entered with the hope Of usual greeting, Margaret looked at me A little while, then turned her head away Speechless, and sitting down upon a chair Wept bitterly. I wist not what to do Or how to speak to her. Poor wretch! at last She rose from off her seat—and then, oh Sir! I cannot tell how she pronounced my name: With fervent love, and with a face of grief Unutterably helpless, and a look That seem’d to cling upon me, she enquir’d
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The Ruined Cottage 41 If I had seen her husband. As she spake A strange surprize and fear came to my heart, Nor had I power to answer ere she told That he had disappeared—just two months gone. He left his house; two wretched days had passed, And on the third by the first break of light, Within her casement full in view she saw A purse of gold. ‘I trembled at the sight,’ Said Margaret, ‘for I knew it was his hand That placed it there, and on that very day By one, a stranger, from my husband sent, The tidings came that he had joined a troop Of soldiers going to a distant land. He left me thus—Poor Man! he had not heart To take a farewell of me, and he feared That I should follow with my babes, and sink Beneath the misery of a soldier’s life.’ This tale did Margaret tell with many tears: And when she ended I had little power To give her comfort, and was glad to take Such words of hope from her own mouth as serv’d To cheer us both: but long we had not talked Ere we built up a pile of better thoughts, And with a brighter eye she looked around As if she had been shedding tears of joy. We parted. It was then the early spring; I left her busy with her garden tools; And well remember, o’er that fence she looked, And while I paced along the foot-way path Called out, and sent a blessing after me With tender chearfulness and with a voice That seemed the very sound of happy thoughts. I roved o’er many a hill and many a dale With this my weary load, in heat and cold, Through many a wood, and many an open ground, In sunshine or in shade, in wet or fair,
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42 The Poems of William Wordsworth Now blithe, now drooping, as it might befal, My best companions now the driving winds And now the ‘trotting brooks’ and whispering trees And now the music of my own sad steps, With many a short-lived thought that pass’d between And disappeared. I came this way again Towards the wane of summer, when the wheat Was yellow, and the soft and bladed grass Sprang up afresh and o’er the hay-field spread Its tender green. When I had reached the door I found that she was absent. In the shade Where now we sit I waited her return. Her cottage in its outward look appeared As chearful as before; in any shew Of neatness little changed, but that I thought The honeysuckle crowded round the door And from the wall hung down in heavier wreathes, And knots of worthless stone-crop started out Along the window’s edge, and grew like weeds Against the lower panes. I turned aside And stroll’d into her garden.— It was chang’d: The unprofitable bindweed spread his bells From side to side and with unwieldy wreaths Had dragg’d the rose from its sustaining wall And bent it down to earth; the border-tufts— Daisy and thrift and lowly camomile And thyme—had straggled out into the paths Which they were used to deck. Ere this an hour Was wasted. Back I turned my restless steps, And as I walked before the door it chanced A stranger passed, and guessing whom I sought He said that she was used to ramble far. The sun was sinking in the west, and now I sate with sad impatience. From within Her solitary infant cried aloud. The spot though fair seemed very desolate,
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The Ruined Cottage 43 The longer I remained more desolate. And, looking round, I saw the corner-stones, Till then unmark’d, on either side the door With dull red stains discoloured and stuck o’er With tufts and hairs of wool, as if the sheep That feed upon the commons thither came Familiarly and found a couching-place Even at her threshold.—The house-clock struck eight; I turned and saw her distant a few steps. Her face was pale and thin, her figure too Was chang’d. As she unlocked the door she said, ‘It grieves me you have waited here so long, But in good truth I’ve wandered much of late And sometimes, to my shame I speak, have need Of my best prayers to bring me back again.’ While on the board she spread our evening meal She told me she had lost her elder child, That he for months had been a serving-boy Apprenticed by the parish. ‘I perceive You look at me, and you have cause. Today I have been travelling far, and many days About the fields I wander, knowing this Only, that what I seek I cannot find. And so I waste my time: for I am changed; And to myself,’ said she, ‘have done much wrong, And to this helpless infant. I have slept Weeping, and weeping I have waked; my tears Have flow’d as if my body were not such As others are, and I could never die. But I am now in mind and in my heart More easy, and I hope,’ said she, ‘that heaven Will give me patience to endure the things Which I behold at home.’ It would have grieved Your very heart to see her. Sir, I feel The story linger in my heart. I fear ’Tis long and tedious, but my spirit clings
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44 The Poems of William Wordsworth To that poor woman: so familiarly Do I perceive her manner, and her look And presence, and so deeply do I feel Her goodness, that not seldom in my walks A momentary trance comes over me; And to myself I seem to muse on one By sorrow laid asleep or borne away, A human being destined to awake To human life, or something very near To human life, when he shall come again For whom she suffered. Sir, it would have griev’d Your very soul to see her: evermore Her eye-lids droop’d, her eyes were downward cast; And when she at her table gave me food She did not look at me. Her voice was low, Hey body was subdued. In every act Pertaining to her house-affairs appeared The careless stillness which a thinking mind Gives to an idle matter—still she sighed, But yet no motion of the breast was seen, No heaving of the heart. While by the fire We sate together, sighs came on my ear; I knew not how, and hardly whence they came. I took my staff, and when I kissed her babe The tears stood in her eyes. I left her then With the best hope and comfort I could give; She thanked me for my will, but for my hope It seemed she did not thank me. I returned And took my rounds along this road again Ere on its sunny bank the primrose flower Had chronicled the earliest day of spring. I found her sad and drooping; she had learn’d No tidings of her husband: if he lived She knew not that he lived; if he were dead She knew not he was dead. She seemed the same
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The Ruined Cottage 45 In person [ ] appearance, but her house Bespoke a sleepy hand of negligence; The floor was neither dry nor neat, the hearth Was comfortless [ ], The windows too were dim, and her few books, Which, one upon the other, heretofore Had been piled up against the corner-panes In seemly order, now with straggling leaves Lay scattered here and there, open or shut As they had chanced to fall. Her infant babe Had from its mother caught the trick of grief And sighed among its playthings. Once again I turned towards the garden-gate and saw More plainly still that poverty and grief Were now come nearer to her: the earth was hard, With weeds defaced and knots of withered grass; No ridges there appeared of clear black mould, No winter greenness; of her herbs and flowers It seemed the better part were gnawed away Or trampled on the earth; a chain of straw Which had been twisted round the tender stem Of a young apple-tree lay at its root; The bark was nibbled round by truant sheep. Margaret stood near, her infant in her arms, And seeing that my eye was on the tree She said, ‘I fear it will be dead and gone Ere Robert come again.’ Towards the house Together we returned, and she inquired If I had any hope. But for her Babe And for her little friendless Boy, she said, She had no wish to live, that she must die Of sorrow. Yet I saw the idle loom Still in its place. His sunday garments hung Upon the self-same nail, his very staff Stood undisturbed behind the door. And when I passed this way beaten by Autumn winds
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46 The Poems of William Wordsworth She told me that her little babe was dead And she was left alone. That very time, I yet remember, through the miry lane She walked with me a mile, when the bare trees Trickled with foggy damps, and in such sort That any heart had ached to hear her begg’d That wheresoe’er I went I still would ask For him whom she had lost. We parted then, Our final parting, for from that time forth Did many seasons pass ere I returned Into this tract again. Five tedious years She lingered in unquiet widowhood, A wife and widow. Needs must it have been A sore heart-wasting. I have heard, my friend, That in that broken arbour she would sit The idle length of half a sabbath day— There, where you see the toadstool’s lazy head— And when a dog passed by she still would quit The shade and look abroad. On this old Bench For hours she sate, and evermore her eye Was busy in the distance, shaping things Which made her heart beat quick. Seest thou that path? (The green-sward now has broken its grey line) There to and fro she paced through many a day Of the warm summer, from a belt of flax That girt her waist spinning the long-drawn thread With backward steps.— Yet ever as there passed A man whose garments shewed the Soldier’s red, Or crippled Mendicant in Sailor’s garb, The little child who sate to turn the wheel Ceased from his toil, and she with faltering voice, Expecting still to learn her husband’s fate, Made many a fond inquiry; and when they Whose presence gave no comfort were gone by, Her heart was still more sad. And by yon gate
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The Ruined Cottage 47 Which bars the traveller’s road she often stood And when a stranger horseman came, the latch Would lift, and in his face look wistfully, Most happy if from aught discovered there Of tender feeling she might dare repeat The same sad question. Meanwhile her poor hut Sunk to decay, for he was gone whose hand At the first nippings of October frost Closed up each chink and with fresh bands of straw Chequered the green-grown thatch. And so she lived Through the long winter, reckless and alone, Till this reft house by frost, and thaw, and rain Was sapped; and when she slept the nightly damps Did chill her breast, and in the stormy day Her tattered clothes were ruffled by the wind Even at the side of her own fire. Yet still She loved this wretched spot, nor would for worlds Have parted hence; and still that length of road And this rude bench one torturing hope endeared, Fast rooted at her heart, and here, my friend, In sickness she remained, and here she died, Last human tenant of these ruined walls.” The old Man ceased: he saw that I was mov’d; From that low Bench, rising instinctively, I turned aside in weakness, nor had power To thank him for the tale which he had told. I stood, and leaning o’er the garden-gate Reviewed that Woman’s suff’rings, and it seemed To comfort me while with a brother’s love I blessed her in the impotence of grief. At length [ ] the [ ] Fondly, and traced with milder interest That secret spirit of humanity Which, ’mid the calm oblivious tendencies
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Before erasures the line read “At length upon the hut I fix’d my eyes.” No insertion was made in MS. D, but MS. E reads, “At length towards the Cottage I return’d.”
48 The Poems of William Wordsworth Of nature, ’mid her plants, her weeds, and flowers, And silent overgrowings, still survived. The old man, seeing this, resumed and said, “My Friend, enough to sorrow have you given, The purposes of wisdom ask no more; Be wise and chearful, and no longer read The forms of things with an unworthy eye. She sleeps in the calm earth, and peace is here. I well remember that those very plumes, Those weeds, and the high spear-grass on that wall, By mist and silent rain-drops silver’d o’er, As once I passed did to my heart convey So still an image of tranquillity, So calm and still, and looked so beautiful Amid the uneasy thoughts which filled my mind, That what we feel of sorrow and despair From ruin and from change, and all the grief The passing shews of being leave behind, Appeared an idle dream that could not live Where meditation was. I turned away And walked along my road in happiness.” He ceased. By this the sun declining shot A slant and mellow radiance which began To fall upon us where beneath the trees We sate on that low bench, and now we felt, Admonished thus, the sweet hour coming on. A linnet warbled from those lofty elms, A thrush sang loud, and other melodies, At distance heard, peopled the milder air. The old man rose and hoisted up his load. Together casting then a farewell look Upon those silent walls, we left the shade And ere the stars were visible attained A rustic inn, our evening resting-place. The End
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Yew-Trees 49
Yew-Trees The two earlier versions of this poem appear in Poems of William Wordsworth, vol. I, pp. 747–748. Wordsworth visited Lorton Vale in the fall of 1804, the likely time of his composing the earliest version, “That vast Eugh-tree, Pride of Lorton Vale.” The second version, called simply “Ewtrees,” was composed between about June 1811 and December 1814, leading up to its publication in Poems (1815). The main substantial changes Wordsworth made in 1815 were to compress the opening four lines to three and to settle on the spelling of “Yew-tree”: 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. The text printed here is from the first Moxon edition of Poetical Works (1836). In that edition the text took its final form, including punctuation and capitalization. For the manuscripts and transcriptions of “—That vast eugh-tree, pride of Lorton Vale” and Ewtrees, see “Poems, in Two Volumes” and Other Poems, 1800–1807, edited by Jared Curtis (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1983; second printing with revisions, 1990). 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 loathe 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
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50 The Poems of William Wordsworth 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.
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Odes, 1815–1817 Wordsworth’s burst of odic expression after the defeat and abdication of Napoleon in 1814 included Ode. The Morning of the Day Appointed for a General Thanksgiving. January 18, 1816 and several shorter pieces. The original form of this composition is the version included in Poems of William Wordsworth, vol. III, pp. 82–92. Twenty-five years later he divided the 354-line poem into two separate odes of nearly equal length: Ode. The Morning of the Day Appointed for a General Thanksgiving. January 18, 1816 and Ode. 1815. The two poems, most of their content originally composed between January 18 and February 25, 1816, as sections of Thanksgiving Ode, took their present form between 1843 and 1845 and were published in Poems, 1845. The Horatian urge continued through April 1817, this time in celebration of fine spring days. Wordsworth first composed an untitled but clearly finished ode, “Forsake me not, Urania, but when Ev’n / Fades,” in four strophes (included in Poems of William Wordsworth, vol. III, pp. 113–115). Within the same month he transformed and expanded this poem as Ode.—1817, with the opening line, “Beneath the concave of an April sky,” and published it in The River Duddon, a Series of Sonnets; Vaudracour and Julia: and Other Poems and Poetical Works in 1820. In this second version Wordsworth adopted a distinctly more vatic style, assigning to a “Stranger”—who is “Fair as a gorgeous Fabric of the East / Suddenly raised by some Enchanter’s power”—the central invocation to “eternal Love and Power divine.” In 1827 a third form of the poem appeared, called Vernal Ode, with several new lines, again in 1836 with a dozen additional lines, and in 1845 with a few more changes. The second (1827) and third (1845) forms of the poem follow below. For manuscripts and transcriptions of these poems, as well as notes and variants, see Shorter Poems of William Wordsworth, 1807–1820, edited by Carl H. Ketcham (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1989).
52 The Poems of William Wordsworth Ode. the morning of the day appointed for a general thanksgiving. january 18, 1816.
I.
Hail, orient Conqueror of gloomy Night! Thou that canst shed the bliss of gratitude On hearts howe’er insensible or rude; Whether thy punctual visitations smite The haughty towers where monarchs dwell; Or thou, impartial Sun, with presence bright Cheer’st the low threshold of the peasant’s cell! Not unrejoiced I see thee climb the sky In naked splendour, clear from mist or haze, Or cloud approaching to divert the rays, Which even in deepest winter testify Thy power and majesty, Dazzling the vision that presumes to gaze. —Well does thine aspect usher in this Day; As aptly suits therewith that modest pace Submitted to the chains That bind thee to the path which God ordains That thou shalt trace, Till, with the heavens and earth, thou pass away! Nor less, the stillness of these frosty plains, Their utter stillness, and the silent grace Of yon ethereal summits white with snow, (Whose tranquil pomp and spotless purity Report of storms gone by To us who tread below) Do with the service of this Day accord. —Divinest Object which the uplifted eye Of mortal man is suffered to behold; Thou, who upon those snow-clad Heights has poured
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Odes, 1815–1817 53 Meek lustre, nor forget’st the humble Vale; Thou who dost warm Earth’s universal mould, And for thy bounty wert not unadored By pious men of old; Once more, heart-cheering Sun, I bid thee hail! Bright be thy course to-day, let not this promise fail!
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II.
’Mid the deep quiet of this morning hour, All nature seems to hear me while I speak, By feelings urged that do not vainly seek Apt language, ready as the tuneful notes That stream in blithe succession from the throats Of birds, in leafy bower, Warbling a farewell to a vernal shower. —There is a radiant though a short-lived flame, That burns for Poets in the dawning east; And oft my soul hath kindled at the same, When the captivity of sleep had ceased; But He who fixed immoveably the frame Of the round world, and built, by laws as strong, A solid refuge for distress— The towers of righteousness; He knows that from a holier altar came The quickening spark of this day’s sacrifice; Knows that the source is nobler whence doth rise The current of this matin song; That deeper far it lies Than aught dependent on the fickle skies.
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III.
Have we not conquered?—by the vengeful sword? Ah no, by dint of Magnanimity; That curbed the baser passions, and left free A loyal band to follow their liege Lord
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54 The Poems of William Wordsworth Clear-sighted Honour, and his staid Compeers, Along a track of most unnatural years; In execution of heroic deeds Whose memory, spotless as the crystal beads Of morning dew upon the untrodden meads, Shall live enrolled above the starry spheres. He, who in concert with an earthly string Of Britain’s acts would sing, He with enraptured voice will tell Of One whose spirit no reverse could quell; Of One that the failing never failed— Who paints how Britain struggled and prevailed Shall represent her labouring with an eye Of circumspect humanity; Shall show her clothed with strength and skill, All martial duties to fulfil; Firm as a rock in stationary fight; In motion rapid as the lightning’s gleam; Fierce as a flood-gate bursting at mid night To rouse the wicked from their giddy dream— Woe, woe to all that face her in the field! Appalled she may not be, and cannot yield.
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IV.
And thus is missed the sole true glory That can belong to human story! At which they only shall arrive Who through the abyss of weakness dive. The very humblest are too proud of heart; And one brief day is rightly set apart For Him who lifteth up and layeth low; For that Almighty God to whom we owe, Say not that we have vanquished—but that we survive.
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Odes, 1815–1817 55 V.
How dreadful the dominion of the impure! Why should the Song be tardy to proclaim That less than power unbounded could not tame That soul of Evil—which, from hell let loose, Had filled the astonished world with such abuse As boundless patience only could endure? —Wide-wasted regions—cities wrapt in flame— Who sees, may lift a streaming eye To Heaven;—who never saw, may heave a sigh; But the foundation of our nature shakes, And with an infinite pain the spirit aches, When desolated countries, towns on fire, Are but the avowed attire Of warfare waged with desperate mind Against the life of virtue in mankind; Assaulting without ruth The citadels of truth; While the fair gardens of civility, By ignorance defaced, By violence laid waste, Perish without reprieve for flower or tree!
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A crouching purpose—a distracted will— Opposed to hopes that battened upon scorn, And to desires whose ever-waxing horn Not all the light of earthly power could fill; Opposed to dark, deep plots of patient skill, And to celerities of lawless force; Which, spurning God, had flung away remorse— What could they gain but shadows of redress? —So bad proceeded propagating worse; And discipline was passion’s dire excess. Widens the fatal web, its lines extend,
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56 The Poems of William Wordsworth And deadlier poisons in the chalice blend. When will your trials teach you to be wise? —O prostrate Lands, consult your agonies!
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No more—the guilt is banished, And, with the guilt, the shame is fled; And, with the guilt and shame, the Woe hath vanished, Shaking the dust and ashes from her head! —No more—these lingerings of distress Sully the limpid stream of thankfulness. What robe can Gratitude employ So seemly as the radiant vest of Joy? What steps so suitable as those that move In prompt obedience to spontaneous measures Of glory, and felicity, and love, Surrendering the whole heart to sacred pleasures?
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VIII.
O Britain! dearer far than life is dear, If one there be 140 Of all thy progeny Who can forget thy prowess, never more Be that ungrateful Son allowed to hear Thy green leaves rustle or thy torrents roar. As springs the lion from his den, 145 As from a forest-brake Upstarts a glistering snake, The bold Arch-despot re-appeared;—again Wide Europe heaves, impatient to be cast, With all her armèd Powers, 150 On that offensive soil, like waves upon a thousand shores. The trumpet blew a universal blast! But Thou art foremost in the field:—there stand: Receive the triumph destined to thy hand!
Odes, 1815–1817 57 All States have glorified themselves;—their claims Are weighed by Providence, in balance even; And now, in preference to the mightiest names, To Thee the exterminating sword is given. Dread mark of approbation, justly gained! Exalted office, worthily sustained!
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Preserve, O Lord! within our hearts The memory of thy favour, That else insensibly departs, And loses its sweet savour! Lodge it within us!—as the power of light Lives inexhaustibly in precious gems, Fixed on the front of Eastern diadems, So shine our thankfulness for ever bright! What offering, what transcendent monument Shall our sincerity to Thee present? —Not work of hands; but trophies that may reach To highest Heaven—the labour of the Soul; That builds, as thy unerring precepts teach, Upon the internal conquests made by each, Her hope of lasting glory for the whole. Yet will not heaven disown nor earth gainsay The outward service of this day; Whether the worshippers entreat Forgiveness from God’s mercy-seat; Or thanks and praises to His throne ascend That He has brought our warfare to an end, And that we need no second victory!— Ha! what a ghastly sight for man to see; And to the heavenly saints in peace who dwell, For a brief moment, terrible; But, to thy sovereign penetration, fair, Before whom all things are, that were,
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58 The Poems of William Wordsworth All judgments that have been, or e’er shall be; Links in the chain of thy tranquillity! Along the bosom of this favoured Nation, Breathe Thou, this day, a vital undulation! Let all who do this land inherit Be conscious of thy moving spirit! Oh, ’tis a goodly Ordinance,—the sight, Though sprung from bleeding war, is one of pure delight; Bless Thou the hour, or ere the hour arrive, When a whole people shall kneel down in prayer, And, at one moment, in one rapture, strive With lip and heart to tell their gratitude For thy protecting care, Their solemn joy—praising the Eternal Lord For tyranny subdued, And for the sway of equity renewed, For liberty confirmed, and peace restored!
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But hark—the summons!—down the placid lake Floats the soft cadence of the church-tower bells; Bright shines the Sun, as if his beams would wake The tender insects sleeping in their cells; Bright shines the Sun—and not a breeze to shake The drops that tip the melting icicles. O, enter now his temple gate! Inviting words—perchance already flung (As the crowd press devoutly down the aisle Of some old Minster’s venerable pile) From voices into zealous passion stung, While the tubed engine feels the inspiring blast, And has begun—its clouds of sound to cast Forth towards empyreal Heaven, As if the fretted roof were riven. Us, humbler ceremonies now await;
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Odes, 1815–1817 59 But in the bosom, with devout respect The banner of our joy we will erect, And strength of love our souls shall elevate: For to a few collected in his name, Their heavenly Father will incline an ear Gracious to service hallowed by its aim;— Awake! the majesty of God revere! Go—and with foreheads meekly bowed Present your prayers—go—and rejoice aloud— The Holy One will hear! And what, ’mid silence deep, with faith sincere, Ye, in your low and undisturbed estate, Shall simply feel and purely meditate— Of warnings—from the unprecedented might, Which, in our time, the impious have disclosed; And of more arduous duties thence imposed Upon the future advocates of right; Of mysteries revealed, And judgments unrepealed, Of earthly revolution, And final retribution,— To his omniscience will appear An offering not unworthy to find place, On this high Day of Thanks, before the Throne of Grace!
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60 The Poems of William Wordsworth Ode. 1815.
I.
Imagination—ne’er before content, But aye ascending, restless in her pride From all that martial feats could yield To her desires, or to her hopes present— Stooped to the Victory, on that Belgic field, Achieved, this closing deed magnificent, And with the embrace was satisfied. —Fly, ministers of Fame, With every help that ye from earth and heaven may claim! Bear through the world these tidings of delight! —Hours, Days, and Months, have borne them in the sigh Of mortals, hurrying like a sudden shower That landward stretches from the sea, The morning’s splendours to devour; But this swift travel scorns the company Of irksome change, or threats from saddening power. —The shock is given—the Adversaries bleed— Lo, Justice triumphs! Earth is freed! Joyful annunciation!—it went forth— It pierced the caverns of the sluggish North— It found no barrier on the ridge Of Andes—frozen gulphs became its bridge— The vast Pacific gladdens with the freight— Upon the Lakes of Asia ’tis bestowed— The Arabian desert shapes a willing road Across her burning breast, For this refreshing incense from the West!— —Where snakes and lions breed, Where towns and cities thick as stars appear,
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Odes, 1815–1817 61 Wherever fruits are gathered, and where’er The upturned soil receives the hopeful seed— While the Sun rules, and cross the shades of night— The unwearied arrow hath pursued its flight! The eyes of good men thankfully give heed, And in its sparkling progress read Of virtue crowned with glory’s deathless meed: Tyrants exult to hear of kingdoms won, And slaves are pleased to learn that mighty feats are done; Even the proud Realm, from whose distracted borders This messenger of good was launched in air, France, humbled France, amid her wild disorders, Feels, and hereafter shall the truth declare, That she too lacks not reason to rejoice, And utter England’s name with sadly-plausive voice.
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II.
O genuine glory, pure renown! And well might it beseem that mighty Town Into whose bosom earth’s best treasures flow, To whom all persecuted men retreat; If a new Temple lift her votive brow High on the shore of silver Thames—to greet The peaceful guest advancing from afar. Bright be the Fabric, as a star Fresh risen, and beautiful within!—there meet Dependence infinite, proportion just; A Pile that Grace approves, and Time can trust With his most sacred wealth, heroic dust. III.
But if the valiant of this land In reverential modesty demand, That all observance, due to them, be paid Where their serene progenitors are laid;
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62 The Poems of William Wordsworth Kings, warriors, high-souled poets, saint-like sages, England’s illustrious sons of long, long ages; Be it not unordained that solemn rites, Within the circuit of those Gothic walls, Shall be performed at pregnant intervals; Commemoration holy that unites The living generations with the dead; By the deep soul-moving sense Of religious eloquence,— By visual pomp, and by the tie Of sweet and threatening harmony; Soft notes, awful as the omen Of destructive tempests coming, And escaping from that sadness Into elevated gladness; While the white-robed choir attendant, Under mouldering banners pendant, Provoke all potent symphonies to raise Songs of victory and praise, For them who bravely stood unhurt, or bled With medicable wounds, or found their graves Upon the battle field, or under ocean’s waves; Or were conducted home in single state, And long procession—there to lie, Where their sons’ sons, and all posterity, Unheard by them, their deeds shall celebrate!
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IV.
Nor will the God of peace and love Such martial service disapprove. He guides the Pestilence—the cloud Of locusts travels on his breath; The region that in hope was ploughed His drought consumes, his mildew taints with death; He springs the hushed Volcano’s mine,
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Odes, 1815–1817 63 He puts the Earthquake on her still design, Darkens the sun, hath bade the forest sink, And, drinking towns and cities, still can drink Cities and towns—’tis Thou—the work is Thine!— The fierce Tornado sleeps within thy courts— He hears the word—he flies— And navies perish in their ports; For Thou art angry with thine enemies! For these, and mourning for our errors, And sins, that point their terrors, We bow our heads before Thee, and we laud And magnify thy name, Almighty God! But Man is thy most awful instrument, In working out a pure intent; Thou cloth’st the wicked in their dazzling mail, And for thy righteous purpose they prevail; Thine arm from peril guards the coasts Of them who in thy laws delight: Thy presence turns the scale of doubtful fight, Tremendous God of battles, Lord of Hosts!
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V.
Forbear:—to Thee— Father and Judge of all, with fervent tongue But in a gentler strain Of contemplation, by no sense of wrong, (Too quick and keen) incited to disdain Of pity pleading from the heart in vain— To Thee—To Thee— Just God of christianised Humanity Shall praises be poured forth, and thanks ascend, That thou hast brought our warfare to an end, And that we need no second victory! Blest, above measure blest, If on thy love our Land her hopes shall rest,
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64 The Poems of William Wordsworth And all the Nations labour to fulfil Thy law, and live henceforth in peace, in pure good will.
Odes, 1815–1817 65 Ode. —1817. Beneath the concave of an April sky, When all the fields with freshest green were dight, Appeared, in presence of that spiritual eye That aids or supersedes our grosser sight, The form and rich habiliments of One Whose countenance bore resemblance to the sun, When it reveals, in evening majesty, Features half lost amid their own pure light. Poised in the middle region of the air He hung,—then floated with angelic ease, Softening that bright effulgence by degrees, Until he reached a rock, of summit bare, Where oft the vent’rous Heifer drinks the summer breeze. Upon the apex of that lofty cone Alighted, there the Stranger stood alone; Fair as a gorgeous Fabric of the East Suddenly raised by some Enchanter’s power, Where nothing was; and firm as some old Tower Of Britain’s realm, whose leafy crest Waves high, embellish’d by a gleaming shower!
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II.
Beneath the shadow of his purple wings Rested a golden Harp;—he touch’d the strings; And, after prelude of unearthly sound Poured through the echoing hills around, He sang, “No wintry desolations, Scorching blight, or noxious dew, Affect my native habitations; Buried in glory, far beyond the scope Of man’s enquiring gaze, and imaged to his hope (Alas, how faintly!) in the hue Profound of night’s ethereal blue;
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And in the aspect of each radiant orb;— Some fix’d, some wandering with no timid curb; But wandering orb and fix’d, to mortal eye, Blended in absolute serenity, And free from semblance of decline;— So wills eternal Love and Power divine.
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“And what if his presiding breath Impart a sympathetic motion Unto the gates of life and death, Throughout the bounds of earth and ocean; Though all that feeds on nether air, Howe’er magnificent or fair, Grows but to perish, and entrust Its ruins to their kindred dust; Yet, by the Almighty’s ever-during care, Her procreant vigils Nature keeps Amid the unfathomable deeps; And saves the peopled fields of earth From dread of emptiness or dearth. Thus, in their stations, lifting tow’rd the sky The foliag’d head in cloud-like majesty, The shadow-casting race of Trees survive: Thus, in the train of Spring, arrive Sweet Flowers;—what living eye hath viewed Their myriads?—endlessly renewed, Wherever strikes the sun’s glad ray; Where’er the joyous waters stray; Wherever sportive zephyrs bend Their course, or genial showers descend! Rejoice, O men! the very Angels quit Their mansions unsusceptible of change, Amid your pleasant bowers to sit, And through your sweet vicissitudes to range!”
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Odes, 1815–1817 67 IV.
O, nursed at happy distance from the cares Of a too-anxious world, mild pastoral Muse! That, to the sparkling crown Urania wears, And to her sister Clio’s laurel wreath, Prefer’st a garland cull’d from purple heath, Or blooming thicket moist with morning dews; Was such bright Spectacle vouchsafed to me? And was it granted to the simple ear Of thy contented Votary Such melody to hear! Him rather suits it, side by side with thee, Wrapped in a fit of pleasing indolence, While thy tired lute hangs on the hawthorn tree, To lie and listen, till oer-drowsed sense Sinks, hardly conscious of the influence, To the soft murmur of the vagrant Bee. —A slender sound! yet hoary Time Doth, to the Soul exalt it with the chime Of all his years;—a company Of ages coming, ages gone; Nations from before them sweeping— Regions in destruction steeping;— But every awful note in unison With that faint utterance, which tells Of treasure sucked from buds and bells, For the pure keeping of those waxen cells; Where She, a statist prudent to confer Upon the public weal; a warrior bold,— Radiant all over with unburnished gold, And armed with living spear for mortal fight; A cunning forager That spreads no waste;—a social builder, one In whom all busy offices unite With all fine functions that afford delight, Safe through the winter storm in quiet dwells!
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68 The Poems of William Wordsworth V.
And is She brought within the power Of vision?—o’er this tempting flower Hovering until the petals stay Her flight, and take its voice away? Observe each wing—a tiny van!— The structure of her laden thigh; How fragile!—yet of ancestry Mysteriously remote and high; High as the imperial front of man, The roseate bloom on woman’s cheek; The soaring eagle’s curved beak; The white plumes of the floating swan; Old as the tyger’s paws, the lion’s mane Ere shaken by that mood of stern disdain At which the desart trembles.—Humming Bee! Thy sting was needless then, perchance unknown; The seeds of malice were not sown; All creatures met in peace, from fierceness free, And no pride blended with their dignity. —Tears had not broken from their source; Nor anguish strayed from her Tartarian den: The golden years maintained a course Not undiversified, though smooth and even; We were not mocked with glimpse and shadow then; Bright Seraphs mixed familiarly with men; And earth and stars composed a universal heaven!
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Odes, 1815–1817 69 Vernal Ode Rerum Natura tota est nusquam magis quam in minimis. —PLIN. “Nat. Hist.” I.
Beneath the concave of an April sky, When all the fields with freshest green were dight, Appeared, in presence of the spiritual eye That aids or supersedes our grosser sight, The form and rich habiliments of One Whose countenance bore resemblance to the sun, When it reveals, in evening majesty, Features half lost amid their own pure light. Poised like a weary cloud, in middle air He hung,—then floated with angelic ease (Softening that bright effulgence by degrees) Till he had reached a summit sharp and bare, Where oft the venturous heifer drinks the noontide breeze. Upon the apex of that lofty cone Alighted, there the Stranger stood alone; Fair as a gorgeous Fabric of the east Suddenly raised by some enchanter’s power, Where nothing was; and firm as some old Tower Of Britain’s realm, whose leafy crest Waves high, embellished by a gleaming shower!
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II.
Beneath the shadow of his purple wings Rested a golden harp;—he touched the strings; And, after prelude of unearthly sound Poured through the echoing hills around, He sang— “No wintry desolations, Scorching blight or noxious dew, Affect my native habitations;
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70 The Poems of William Wordsworth Buried in glory, far beyond the scope Of man’s inquiring gaze, but to his hope Imaged, though faintly, in the hue Profound of night’s ethereal blue; And in the aspect of each radiant orb;— Some fixed, some wandering with no timid curb: But wandering star and fixed, to mortal eye, Blended in absolute serenity, And free from semblance of decline;— Fresh as if Evening brought their natal hour, Her darkness splendour gave, her silence power To testify of Love and Grace divine.
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III.
“What if those bright fires Shine subject to decay, Sons haply of extinguished sires, Themselves to lose their light, or pass away Like clouds before the wind, Be thanks poured out to Him whose hand bestows, Nightly, on human kind That vision of endurance and repose. —And though to every draught of vital breath Renewed throughout the bounds of earth or ocean, The melancholy gates of Death Respond with sympathetic motion; Though all that feeds on nether air, Howe’er magnificent or fair, Grows but to perish, and entrust Its ruins to their kindred dust; Yet, by the Almighty’s ever-during care, Her procreant vigils Nature keeps Amid the unfathomable deeps; And saves the peopled fields of earth From dread of emptiness or dearth.
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Odes, 1815–1817 71 Thus, in their stations, lifting tow’rd the sky The foliaged head in cloud-like majesty, The shadow-casting race of trees survive: Thus, in the train of Spring, arrive Sweet flowers;—what living eye hath viewed Their myriads?—endlessly renewed, Wherever strikes the sun’s glad ray; Where’er the subtle waters stray; Wherever sportive breezes bend Their course, or genial showers descend! Mortals, rejoice! the very Angels quit Their mansions unsusceptible of change, Amid your pleasant bowers to sit, And through your sweet vicissitudes to range!”
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Oh, nursed at happy distance from the cares Of a too-anxious world, mild pastoral Muse! That, to the sparkling crown Urania wears, And to her sister Clio’s laurel wreath, Prefer’st a garland culled from purple heath, Or blooming thicket moist with morning dews; Was such bright Spectacle vouchsafed to me? And was it granted to the simple ear Of thy contented Votary Such melody to hear! Him rather suits it, side by side with thee, Wrapped in a fit of pleasing indolence, While thy tired lute hangs on the hawthorn-tree, To lie and listen—till o’er-drowsed sense Sinks, hardly conscious of the influence— To the soft murmur of the vagrant Bee. —A slender sound! yet hoary Time Doth to the Soul exalt it with the chime Of all his years;—a company
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72 The Poems of William Wordsworth Of ages coming, ages gone; (Nations from before them sweeping, Regions in destruction steeping,) But every awful note in unison With that faint utterance, which tells Of treasure sucked from buds and bells, For the pure keeping of those waxen cells; Where She—a statist prudent to confer Upon the common weal; a warrior bold, Radiant all over with unburnished gold, And armed with living spear for mortal fight; A cunning forager That spreads no waste; a social builder; one In whom all busy offices unite With all fine functions that afford delight— Safe through the winter storm in quiet dwells!
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And is She brought within the power Of vision?—o’er this tempting flower Hovering until the petals stay Her flight, and take its voice away!— Observe each wing!—a tiny van! The structure of her laden thigh, How fragile! yet of ancestry Mysteriously remote and high; High as the imperial front of man; The roseate bloom on woman’s cheek; The soaring eagle’s curved beak; The white plumes of the floating swan; Old as the tiger’s paw, the lion’s mane Ere shaken by that mood of stern disdain At which the desert trembles.—Humming Bee! Thy sting was needless then, perchance unknown, The seeds of malice were not sown;
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Odes, 1815–1817 73 All creatures met in peace, from fierceness free, And no pride blended with their dignity. —Tears had not broken from their source; Nor Anguish strayed from her Tartarean den; The golden years maintained a course Not undiversified though smooth and even; We were not mocked with glimpse and shadow then, Bright Seraphs mixed familiarly with men; And earth and stars composed a universal heaven!
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Composed when a probability existed of our being obliged to quit Rydal Mount as a Residence (1826) Facing a forced removal from his home of nearly two decades to accommodate a relative of its owner, Wordsworth began a poem in which he bid farewell to his favorite spring, Nab Well, in late December 1825 (see The Poems of William Wordsworth, vol. II, pp. 294–297, and ‘The Tuft of Primroses’ with Other Late Poems for the ‘Recluse,’ edited by Joseph F. Kishel, Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1986). By the end of the year he had expanded the first effort to a 200-line poem, Composed when a probability existed of our being obliged to quit Rydal Mount as a Residence, celebrating the spring lying a few yards above Rydal Mount. Wordsworth, probably echoing a long-standing Coleridgean scheme, regarded his poem as an “introduction to a portion of The Recluse,” telling Henry Crabb Robinson that this “portion” was to present “a poetical view of water as an element in the composition of our globe” (Robinson on Books, ed. Morley, I, 339). In the three long sections, the lines on Narcissus, those on the muses, and the long section on Joan of Arc and her vision at “the Fountain of the Fairies,” Wordsworth tried to stretch the original lines on the “well” of imagination that served to appease the grief of losing a home to include, through the device of the inspirational powers of water, the broader concerns of ancient myth and recent political history.
Verses on Nab Well 75 Composed when a probability existed of our being obliged to quit Rydal Mount as a Residence The doubt to which a wavering hope had clung Is fled; we must depart, willing or not, Sky-piercing Hills! must bid farewell to you And all that Ye look down upon with pride, With tenderness embosom; to your paths, And pleasant dwellings, to familiar trees And wild flowers known as well as if our hands Had tended them: and O pellucid Spring! Insensibly the foretaste of this parting Hath ruled my steps, and seals me to thy side, Mindful that Thou (ah wherefore by my Muse So long unthanked) hast cheared a simple board With beverage pure as ever fixed the choice Of Hermit, dubious where to scoop his Cell; Which Persian Kings might envy; and thy meek And gentle aspect oft has ministered To finer uses. They for me must cease; Days will pass on, the year, if years be given, Fade,—and the moralizing mind derive No lesson from the presence of a Power By the inconstant nature we inherit Unmatched in delicate beneficence; For neither unremitting rains avail To swell Thee into voice; nor longest drought Thy bounty stints, nor can thy beauty mar, Beauty not therefore wanting change to stir The fancy, pleased by spectacles unlooked for. Not yet, perchance, translucent Spring! had tolled The Norman curfew bell when human hands First offered help that the deficient rock Might overarch Thee, from pernicious heat Defended, and appropriate to Man’s need. Such ties will not be severed: but, when We
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76 The Poems of William Wordsworth Are gone, what summer Loiterer with regard Inquisitive, thy countenance will peruse, Pleased to detect the dimpling stir of life, The breathing faculty with which thou yield’st (Tho’ a mere goblet to the careless eye) Boons inexhaustible? Who, hurrying on With a step quickened by November’s cold, Shall pause, the skill admiring that can work Upon thy chance-defilements—withered twigs That, lodged within thy chrystal depths, seem bright As if they from a silver tree had fallen— And oaken leaves that, driven by whirling blasts, Sunk down, and lay immersed in dead repose For Time’s invisible tooth to prey upon— Unsightly objects and uncoveted, Till thou with crystal bead-drops didst encrust Their skeletons turned to brilliant ornaments. But, from thy bosom, should some venturous hand Abstract those gleaming relics, and uplift them, However gently, toward the vulgar air, At once their tender brightness disappears, Leaving the Intermeddler to upbraid His folly. —Thus (I feel it while I speak) Thus, with the fibres of these thoughts it fares; And oh! how much, of all that love creates Or beautifies, like changes undergoes, Suffers like loss when drawn out of the Soul, Its silent laboratory! Words should say (Could they depict the marvels of thy cell) How often I have marked a plumy fern From the live rock with grace inimitable Bending its apex toward a paler self Reflected all in perfect lineaments— Shadow and substance kissing point to point In mutual stillness; or, if some faint breeze Entering the Cell gave restlessness to one,
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Verses on Nab Well 77 The other, glassed in thy unruffled breast, Partook of every motion, met, retired, And met again, such playful sympathy, Such delicate caress as in the shape Of this green Plant had aptly recompensed, For baffled lips and disappointed arms And hopeless pangs, the Spirit of that Youth, The fair Narcissus, by some pitying God Changed to a crimson Flower, when he, whose pride Provoked a retribution too severe, Had pined; upon his watery Duplicate Wasting that love the Nymphs implored in vain. Thus while my Fancy wanders, Thou, clear Spring— Moved (shall I say?) like a dear friend who meets A parting moment with her loveliest look And seemingly her happiest, look so fair It frustrates its own purpose, and recalls The grieved One whom it meant to send away— Dost tempt me by disclosure exquisite To linger, bending over Thee; for now, What witchcraft, mild Enchantress, may with thine Compare! thy earthy bed a moment past Palpable unto sight as the dry ground, Eludes perception, not by rippling air Concealed, nor through effect of some impure Upstirring; but, abstracted by a charm Of thy own cunning, earth mysteriously From under thee hath vanished, and slant beams, The silent inquest of a western sun, Assisting, lucid Well-Spring! Thou revealest Communion without check of herbs and flowers, And the vault’s hoary sides to which they cling, Imaged in downward shew; the flowrets, herbs— These not of earthly texture, and the Vault Not there diminutive, but, through a scale Of vision less and less distinct, descending
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78 The Poems of William Wordsworth To gloom impenetrable. So (if Truths The highest condescend to be set forth By processes minute) even so—when thought Wins help from something greater than herself— Is the firm basis of habitual sense Supplanted, not for treacherous vacancy And blank dissociation from a world We love, but that the Residues of flesh, Mirrored, yet not too strictly, may refine To Spirit; for the idealizing Soul Time wear the features of Eternity; And Nature deepen into Nature’s God. Millions of Kneeling Hindoos at this day Bow to the watery Element, adored In their vast Stream, and if an age hath been (As Books and haply votive Altars vouch) When British Floods were worshipped, some faint trace Of that Idolatry, through Monkish rites Transmitted far as living memory, Might wait on Thee, a silent monitor, On Thee, bright Spring, a bashful little One, Yet to the measure of thy promises True, as the mightiest; upon Thee, sequestered For meditation, nor inopportune For social interest such as I have shared.— Peace to the sober Matron who shall dip Her pitcher here at early dawn, by me No longer greeted—to the tottering Sire, For whom like service, now and then his choice, Relieves the tedious holiday of age, Thoughts raised above the Earth while here he sits Feeding on sunshine—to the blushing Girl Who here forgets her errand, nothing loth To be waylaid by her Betrothed, peace And pleasure sobered down to happiness! But should these Hills be ranged by One whose Soul,
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Verses on Nab Well 79 Scorning love-whispers, shrinks from love itself As Fancy’s snare for female vanity, Here may the Aspirant find a trysting place For loftier intercourse. The Muses, crowned With wreaths that have not faded to this hour, Sprung from high Jove, of sage Mnemosyne Enamoured, so the fable runs; but they Certes were self-taught Damsels, scattered Births Of many a Grecian Vale, who sought not praise And heedless ever of Listeners, warbled out Their own emotions, given to mountain air In notes which mountain echoes would take up Boldly and bear away to softer life; Hence deified as Sisters they were bound Together in a never-dying choir; Who, with their Hippocrene and grottoed fount Of Castaly, attest that woman’s heart Was in the limpid age of this stained World The most assured seat of fine ecstasy, And new-born Waters deemed the happiest source Of Inspiration for the conscious lyre. Lured by the crystal element in times Stormy and fierce, the Maid of Arc withdrew From human converse to frequent alone The Fountain of the Fairies. What to her, Smooth summer dreams, old favours of the place, Pageants and revels of blithe Elves—to her Whose country groaned under a foreign scourge? She pondered murmurs that attuned her ear For the reception of far other sounds Than their too happy minstrelsy,—a Voice Reached her with supernatural mandates charged, More awful than the chambers of dark earth Have virtue to send forth. Upon the marge Of the benignant fountain, while she stood Gazing intensely, the translucent lymph
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80 The Poems of William Wordsworth Darkened beneath the shadow of her thoughts As if swift clouds swept over it, or caught War’s tincture, mid the forest green and still, Turned into blood before her heart-sick eye. Erelong, forsaking all her natural haunts, All her accustomed offices and cares Relinquishing, but treasuring every law And grace of feminine humanity, The chosen Rustic urged a war-like Steed Toward the beleagured City, in the might Of prophesy, accoutred to fulfil, At the sword’s point, visions conceived in love. The cloud of Rooks descending through mid air Softens its evening uproar towards a close Near and more near; for this protracted strain A warning not unwelcome. Fare thee well! Emblem of equanimity and truth, Farewell!—if thy composure be not ours, Yet as Thou still when we are gone wilt keep Thy living chaplet of fresh flowers and fern, Cherished in shade though peeped at by the sun; So shall our bosoms feel a covert growth Of grateful recollections, tribute due To thy obscure and modest attributes, To thee clear Spring, and all-sustaining Heaven! 1826
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Salisbury Plain (1793–1794) and Guilt and Sorrow; Or, Incidents upon Salisbury Plain (1842) A narrative poem composed in the span from 1793 through 1799 bore two titles in its progress through two distinct versions. The first, called simply Salisbury Plain (1793–1794) and surviving in revised fair copy, is the more radical of the two in chastising England’s leadership for its sins of commission and omission against her own people, particularly the poor. Heavily revising and expanding the poem over the next two years, Wordsworth retitled it Adventures on Salisbury Plain to reflect his shift from rhetorical argument to dramatic presentation of his characters caught in personal tragedy. This second version is included in The Poems of William Wordsworth, vol. I, pp. 123–151, as is also The Female Vagrant, which Wordsworth had excised from the manuscript of the first version and published separately in Lyrical Ballads (1798; see Poems, pp. 314–322). Though he attempted to publish the revised Adventures around the turn of the century, he did not succeed. In 1841 he took the poem up again and published it in Poems, Chiefly of Early and Late Years in April 1842 as Guilt and Sorrow; Or, Incidents upon Salisbury Plain. For the manuscripts of the three versions and for insight into the composition and features of all three poems, see The Salisbury Plain Poems of William Wordsworth, edited by Stephen Gill (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1975; second printing, 1991). Especially useful are Gill’s discussion in the shifts in emphasis with each new version and his notation of Wordsworth’s use of Miltonic and Spenserian compounds and other expression in the early versions, much of which he then weeded out in the final version. See also, Stephen Gill, Wordsworth’s Revisitings (2011), which acknowledges Guilt as Sorrow as poem with its own integrity addressed to the age of Elizabeth Gaskell’s Mary Barton.
82 The Poems of William Wordsworth Salisbury Plain 1
Hard is the life when naked and unhouzed And wasted by the long day’s fruitless pains, The hungry savage, ’mid deep forests, rouzed By storms, lies down at night on unknown plains And lifts his head in fear, while famished trains Of boars along the crashing forests prowl, And heard in darkness, as the rushing rains Put out his watch-fire, bears contending growl And round his fenceless bed gaunt wolves in armies howl.
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Yet is he strong to suffer, and his mind Encounters all his evils unsubdued; For happier days since at the breast he pined He never knew, and when by foes pursued With life he scarce has reached the fortress rude, While with the war-song’s peal the valleys shake, What in those wild assemblies has he viewed But men who all of his hard lot partake, Repose in the same fear, to the same toil awake?
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The thoughts which bow the kindly spirits down And break the springs of joy, their deadly weight Derive from memory of pleasures flown Which haunts us in some sad reverse of fate, Or from reflection on the state Of those who on the couch of Affluence rest By laughing Fortune’s sparkling cup elate, While we of comfort reft, by pain depressed, No other pillow know than Penury’s iron breast.
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Hence where Refinement’s genial influence calls The soft affections from their wintry sleep And the sweet tear of Love and Friendship falls The willing heart in tender joy to steep, When men in various vessels roam the deep Of social life, and turns of chance prevail Various and sad, how many thousands weep Beset with foes more fierce than e’er assail The savage without home in winter’s keenest gale.
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The troubled west was red with stormy fire, O’er Sarum’s plain the traveller with a sigh Measured each painful step, the distant spire That fixed at every turn his backward eye Was lost, tho’ still he turned, in the blank sky. By thirst and hunger pressed he gazed around And scarce could any trace of man descry, Save wastes of corn that stretched without a bound, But where the sower dwelt was nowhere to be found.
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No shade was there, no meads of pleasant green, No brook to wet his lips or soothe his ear, Huge piles of corn-stack here and there were seen But thence no smoke upwreathed his sight to cheer; And see the homeward shepherd dim appear Far off—He stops his feeble voice to strain; No sound replies but winds that whistling near Sweep the thin grass and passing, wildly plain; Or desert lark that pours on high a wasted strain.
“Sarum” is Salisbury.
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Long had each slope he mounted seemed to hide Some cottage whither his tired feet might turn, But now, all hope resigned, in tears he eyed The crows in blackening eddies homeward borne, Then sought, in vain, a shepherd’s lowly thorn Or hovel from the storm to shield his head. On as he passed more wild and more forlorn And vacant the huge plain around him spread; Ah me! the wet cold ground must be his only bed.
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Hurtle the rattling clouds together piled By fiercer gales, and soon the storm must break. He stood the only creature in the wild On whom the elements their rage could wreak, Save that the bustard of those limits bleak, Shy tenant, seeing there a mortal wight At that dread hour, outsent a mournful shriek And half upon the ground, with strange affright, Forced hard against the wind a thick unwieldy flight.
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The Sun unheeded sunk, while on a mound He stands beholding with astonished gaze, Frequent upon the deep entrenched ground, Strange marks of mighty arms of former days, Then looking up at distance he surveys What seems an antique castle spreading wide. Hoary and naked are its walls and raise Their brow sublime; while to those walls he hied A voice as from a tomb in hollow accents cried:
A large bird once common in England.
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“Oh from that mountain-pile avert thy face Whate’er betide at this tremendous hour. To hell’s most cursed sprites the baleful place Belongs, upreared by their magic power. Though mixed with flame rush down the crazing shower And o’er thy naked bed the thunder roll Fly ere the fiends their prey unwares devour Or grinning, on thy endless tortures scowl Till very madness seem a mercy to thy soul.
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“For oft at dead of night, when dreadful fire Reveals that powerful circle’s reddening stones, ’Mid priests and spectres grim and idols dire, Far heard the great flame utters human moans, Then all is hushed: again the desert groans, A dismal light its farthest bounds illumes, While warrior spectres of gigantic bones, Forth-issuing from a thousand rifted tombs, Wheel on their fiery steeds amid the infernal glooms.”
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The voice was from beneath but face or form He saw not, mocked as by a hideous dream. Three hours he wildered through the watery storm No moon to open the black clouds and stream From narrow gulph profound one friendly beam; No watch-dog howled from shepherd’s homely shed. Once did the lightning’s pale abortive beam Disclose a naked guide-post’s double head, Sole object where he stood had day its radiance.
The circle of stones is Stonehenge.
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86 The Poems of William Wordsworth 13
’Twas dark and waste as ocean’s shipless flood Roaring with storms beneath night’s starless gloom. [ ] Where the wet gypsey in her straw-built home Warmed her wet limbs by fire of fern and broom. Nor transient meteor burst upon his sight Nor taper glimmered dim from sick man’s room. Along the moor no line of mournful light From lamp of lonely toll-gate streamed athwart the night.
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At length, deep hid in clouds, the moon arose And spread a sickly glare. With flight unwilled, Worn out and wasted, wishing the repose Of death, he came where, antient vows fulfilled, Kind pious hands did to the Virgin build A lonely Spital, the belated swain From the night-terrors of that waste to shield. But there no human being could remain And now the walls are named the dead house of the plain.
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Till then as if his terror dogged his road He fled, and often backward cast his face; And when the ambiguous gloom that ruin shewed How glad he was at length to find a place That bore of human hands the chearing trace: Here shall he rest till Morn her eye unclose. Ah me! that last of hopes is fled apace; For, entering in, his hair in horror rose To hear a voice that seemed to mourn in sorrow’s throes.
“Spital” is a house for the indigent; here it is a shelter for travelers.
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It was the voice of one that sleeping mourned, A human voice! and soon his terrors fled; At dusk a female wanderer hither turned And found a comfortless half-sheltered bed. The moon a wan dead light around her shed; He waked her and at once her spirits fail Thrill’d by the poignant dart of sudden dread, For of that ruin she had heard a tale That might with a child’s fears the stoutest heart assail.
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Had heard of one who forced from storms to shroud Felt the loose walls of this decayed retreat Rock to his horse’s neighings shrill and loud, While the ground rang by ceaseless pawing beat, Till on a stone that sparkled to his feet Struck and still struck again the troubled horse. The man half raised that stone by pain and sweat, Half raised; for well his arm might lose its force Disclosing the grim head of a new murdered corse.
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Such tales of the lone Spital she had learned, And when that shape with eyes in sleep half-drowned By the moon’s sullen lamp she scarce discerned, Cold stony horror all her senses bound. But he to her low words of chearing sound Addressed. With joy she heard such greeting kind And much they conversed of that desert ground, Which seemed to those of other worlds consigned Whose voices still they heard as paused the hollow wind.
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The Woman told that through a hollow deep As on she journeyed, far from spring or bower, An old man beckoning from the naked steep Came tottering sidelong down to ask the hour; There never clock was heard from steeple tower. From the wide corn the plundering crows to scare He held a rusty gun. In sun and shower, Old as he was, alone he lingered there, His hungry meal too scant for dog that meal to share.
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Much of the wonders of that boundless heath He spoke, and of a swain who far astray Reached unawares a height and saw beneath Gigantic beings ranged in dread array. Such beings thwarting oft the traveller’s way With shield and stone-ax stride across the wold, Or, throned on that dread circle’s summit gray Of mountains hung in air, their state unfold, And like a thousand Gods mysterious council hold.
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And oft a night-fire mounting to the clouds Reveals the desert and with dismal red Clothes the black bodies of encircling crowds. It is the sacrificial altar fed With living men. How deep it groans—the dead Thrilled in their yawning tombs their helms uprear; The sword that slept beneath the warriour’s head Thunders in fiery air: red arms appear Uplifted thro’ the gloom and shake the rattling spear.
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Not thus where clear moons spread their pleasing light. —Long bearded forms with wands uplifted shew To vast assemblies, while each breath of night Is hushed, the living fires that bright and slow Rounding th’aetherial field in order go. Then as they trace with awe their various files All figured on the mystic plain below, Still prelude of sweet sounds the moon beguiles And charmed for many a league the hoary desart smiles.
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While thus they talk the churlish storms relent; And round those broken walls the dying wind In feeble murmurs told his rage was spent. With sober sympathy and tranquil mind Gently the Woman gan her wounds unbind. Might Beauty charm the canker worm of pain The rose on her sweet cheek had ne’er declined: Moved she not once the prime of Keswick’s plain While Hope and Love and Joy composed her smiling train?
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Like swans, twin swans, that when on the sweet brink Of Derwent’s stream the south winds hardly blow, ’Mid Derwent’s water-lillies swell and sink In union, rose her sister breasts of snow, (Fair emblem of two lovers’ hearts that know No separate impulse) or like infants played, Like infants strangers yet to pain and woe. Unwearied Hope to tend their motions made Long Vigils, and Delight her cheek between them laid.
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And are ye spread ye glittering dews of youth For this,—that Frost may gall the tender flower In Joy’s fair breast with more untimely tooth? Unhappy man! thy sole delightful hour Flies first; it is thy miserable dower Only to taste of joy that thou may’st pine A loss, which rolling suns shall ne’er restore. New suns roll on and scatter as they shine No second spring, but pain, till death release thee, thine.
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“By Derwent’s side my father’s cottage stood,” The mourner thus her artless story told. “A little flock and what the finny flood Supplied, to him were more than mines of gold. Light was my sleep; my days in transport rolled: With thoughtless joy I stretched along the shore My parent’s nets, or watched, when from the fold High o’er the cliffs I led his fleecy store, A dizzy depth below! his boat and twinkling oar.
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“Can I forget my seat beneath the thorn, My garden stored with peas and mint and thyme, And rose and lilly for the sabbath morn; The church-inviting bell’s delightful chime, The merriment and song at shearing time, My hen’s rich nest with long grass overgrown, The cowslip gathering at the morning prime, The hazel copse with teeming clusters brown, [ ]
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“Can I forget the casement where I fed The red-breast when the fields were whitened o’er, My snowy kerchiefs on the hawthorn spread My humming wheel and glittering table store, The well-known knocking at the evening door, The hunted slipper and the blinded game, The dance that loudly beat the merry floor, The ballad chaunted round the brightening flame While down the ravaged hills the storm unheeded came?
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“The suns of eighteen summers danced along Joyous as in the pleasant morn of May. At last by cruel chance and wilful wrong My father’s substance fell into decay. Oppression trampled on his tresses grey: His little range of water was denied; Even to the bed where his old body lay His all was seized; and weeping side by side Turned out on the cold winds, alone we wandered wide.
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“Can I forget that miserable hour When from the last hill-top my sire surveyed, Peering above the trees, the steeple-tower That on his marriage-day sweet music made? 265 There at my birth my mother’s bones were laid And there, till then, he hoped his own might rest. Bidding me trust in God he stood and prayed: I could not pray, by human grief oppressed, Viewing our glimmering cot through tears that never ceased. 270
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“There was a youth whose tender voice and eye Might add fresh happiness to happiest days. At uprise of the sun when he was by The birds prolonged with joy their choicest lays, The soft pipe warbled out a wilder maze, The silent moon of evening, hung above, Showered through the waving lime-trees mellower rays; Warm was the breath of night: his voice of love Charmed the rude winds to sleep by river, field, or grove.
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“His father bid him to a distant town To ply remote from groves the artist’s trade. What tears of bitter grief till then unknown, What tender vows our last sad kiss delayed! To him our steps we turned, by hope upstayed. Oh with what bliss upon his neck I wept; And her whom he had loved in joy, he said, He well could love in grief: his faith he kept, And sheltered from the winds once more my father slept.
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“Four years each day with daily bread was blessed, By constant toil and constant prayer supplied. Three lovely infants lay within my breast And often viewing their sweet smiles I sighed And knew not why. My happy father died Just as the children’s meal began to fail. For War the nations to the field defied. The loom stood still; unwatched, the idle gale Wooed in deserted shrouds the unregarding sail.
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“How changed at once! for Labor’s chearful hum Silence and Fear, and Misery’s weeping train. But soon with proud parade the noisy drum Beat round to sweep the streets of want and pain. My husband’s arms now only served to strain Me and his children hungering in his view. He could not beg: my prayers and tears were vain; To join those miserable men he flew. We reached the western world a poor devoted crew.
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“Oh dreadful price of being! to resign All that is dear in being; better far In Want’s most lonely cave till death to pine Unseen, unheard, unwatched by any star. Better before proud Fortune’s sumptuous car Obvious our dying bodies to obtrude, Than dog-like wading at the heels of War Protract a cursed existence with the brood That lap, their very nourishment, their brother’s blood.
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“The pains and plagues that on our heads came down, Disease and Famine, Agony and Fear, In wood or wilderness, in camp or town, It would thy brain unsettle even to hear. All perished, all in one remorseless year, Husband and children one by one, by sword And scourge of fiery fever: every tear Dried up, despairing, desolate, on board A British ship I waked as from a trance restored.”
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Here paused she of all present thought forlorn, Living once more those hours that sealed her doom. Meanwhile he looked and saw the smiling morn All unconcerned with their unrest resume Her progress through the brightening eastern gloom. Oh when shall such fair hours their gleams bestow To bid the grave its opening clouds illume? Fled each fierce blast and hellish fiend, and lo! Day fresh from ocean wave uprears his lovely brow.
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“Oh come,” he said, “come after weary night So ruinous far other scene to view.” So forth she came and eastward look’d. The sight O’er her moist eyes meek dawn of gladness threw That tinged with faint red smile her faded hue. Not lovelier did the morning star appear Parting the lucid mist and bathed in dew, The whilst her comrade to her pensive chear Tempered sweet words of hope and the lark warbled near.
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They looked and saw a lengthening road and wain Descending a bare slope not far remote. The downs all glistered dropt with freshening rain; The carman whistled loud with chearful note; The cock scarce heard at distance sounds his throat; But town or farm or hamlet none they viewed, Only were told there stood a lonely cot Full two miles distant. Then, while they pursued Their journey, her sad tale the mourner thus renewed.
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“Peaceful as this immeasurable plain By these extended beams of dawn impressed, In the calm sunshine slept the glittering main. The very ocean has its hour of rest Ungranted to the human mourner’s breast. Remote from man and storms of mortal care, With wings which did the world of waves invest, The Spirit of God diffused through balmy air Quiet that might have healed, if aught could heal, Despair.
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“Ah! how unlike each smell, each sight and sound That late the stupor of my spirit broke. Of noysome hospitals the groan profound, The mine’s dire earthquake, the bomb’s thunder stroke; Heart sickening Famine’s grim despairing look; The midnight flames in thundering deluge spread; The stormed town’s expiring shriek that woke Far round the griesly phantoms of the dead, And pale with ghastly light the victor’s human head.
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“Some mighty gulf of separation passed I seemed transported to another world: A dream resigned with pain when from the mast The impatient mariner the sail unfurled, And whistling called the wind that hardly curled The silent seas. The pleasant thoughts of home With tears his weather-beaten cheek impearled: For me, farthest from earthly port to roam Was best; my only wish to shun where man might come.
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96 The Poems of William Wordsworth 43
“And oft, robbed of my perfect mind, I thought At last my feet a resting-place had found. ‘Here will I weep in peace,’ so Fancy wrought, ‘Roaming the illimitable waters round, Here gaze, of every friend but Death disowned, All day, my ready tomb the ocean flood.’ To break my dream the vessel reached its bound And homeless near a thousand homes I stood, And near a thousand tables pined and wanted food.
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“Three years a wanderer round my native coast My eyes have watched yon sun declining tend Down to the land where hope to me was lost; And now across this waste my steps I bend: Oh! tell me whither, for no earthly friend Have I, no house in prospect but the tomb.” She ceased. The city’s distant spires ascend Like flames which far and wide the west illume, Scattering from out the sky the rear of night’s thin gloom.
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Along the fiery east the Sun, a show More gorgeous still! pursued his proud career. But human sufferings and that tale of woe Had dimmed the traveller’s eye with Pity’s tear, And in the youthful mourner’s doom severe He half forgot the terrors of the night, Striving with counsel sweet her soul to chear, Her soul for ever widowed of delight. He too had withered young in sorrow’s deadly blight.
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Salisbury Plain 97 46
But now from a hill summit down they look Where through a narrow valley’s pleasant scene A wreath of vapour tracked a winding brook Babbling through groves and lawns and meads of green. A smoking cottage peeped the trees between, 410 The woods resound the linnet’s amorous lays, And melancholy lowings intervene Of scattered herds that in the meadows graze, While through the furrowed grass the merry milkmaid strays. 47
Adieu ye friendless hope-forsaken pair! Yet friendless ere ye take your several road, Enter that lowly cot and ye shall share Comforts by prouder mansions unbestowed. For you yon milkmaid bears her brimming load, For you the board is piled with homely bread, And think that life is like this desart broad, Where all the happiest find is but a shed And a green spot ’mid wastes interminably spread.
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Though from huge wickers paled with circling fire No longer horrid shrieks and dying cries To ears of Dæmon-Gods in peals aspire, To Dæmon-Gods a human sacrifice; Though Treachery her sword no longer dyes In the cold blood of Truce, still, reason’s ray, What does it more than while the tempests rise, With starless glooms and sounds of loud dismay, Reveal with still-born glimpse the terrors of our way?
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98 The Poems of William Wordsworth 49
For proof, if man thou lovest, turn thy eye On realms which least the cup of Misery taste. For want how many men and children die? How many at Oppression’s portal placed Receive the scanty dole she cannot waste, And bless, as she has taught, her hand benign? How many by inhuman toil debased, Abject, obscure, and brute to earth incline Unrespited, forlorn of every spark divine?
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Nor only is the walk of private life Unblessed by Justice and the kindly train Of Peace and Truth, while Injury and Strife, Outrage and deadly Hate usurp their reign; From the pale line to either frozen main The nations, though at home in bonds they drink The dregs of wretchedness, for empire strain, And crushed by their own fetters helpless sink, Move their galled limbs in fear and eye each silent link.
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Lo! where the Sun exulting in his might In haste the fiery top of Andes scales And flings deep silent floods of purple light Down to the sea through long Peruvian vales, At once a thousand streams and gentle gales Start from their slumber breathing scent and song. But now no joy of man or woman hails That star as once, ere with him came the throng Of Furies and grim Death by Avarice lashed along.
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Salisbury Plain 99 52
Oh that a slave who on his naked knees Weeps tears of fear at Superstition’s nod, Should rise a monster Tyrant and o’er seas And mountains stretch so far his cruel rod To bruise meek nature in her lone abode. Is it for this the planet of the pole Sends through the storms its stedfast light abroad? Through storms we ride with Misery to her goal: Nor star nor needle know the tempests of the soul.
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How changed that paradise, those happy bounds Where once through his own groves the Hindoo strayed; No more the voice of jocund toil resounds Along the crowded banyan’s high arcade.
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Lines 473–504 are missing. 57
How weak the solace such fond thoughts afford, When with untimely stroke the virtuous bleed. Say, rulers of the nations, from the sword Can ought but murder, pain, and tears proceed? Oh! what can war but endless war still breed? Or whence but from the labours of the sage Can poor benighted mortals gain the meed Of happiness and virtue, how assuage But by his gentle words their self-consuming rage?
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Insensate they who think, at Wisdom’s porch That Exile, Terror, Bonds, and Force may stand: That Truth with human blood can feed her torch,
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100 The Poems of William Wordsworth And Justice balance with her gory hand Scales whose dire weights of human heads demand A Nero’s arm. Must Law with iron scourge Still torture crimes that grew a monstrous band 520 Formed by his care, and still his victims urge, With voice that breathes despair, to death’s tremendous verge? Lines 523–539 are missing. Who fierce on kingly crowns hurled his own lightning blaze. 540 61
Heroes of Truth pursue your march, uptear Th’Oppressor’s dungeon from its deepest base; High o’er the towers of Pride undaunted rear Resistless in your might the herculean mace Of Reason; let foul Error’s monster race Dragged from their dens start at the light with pain And die; pursue your toils, till not a trace Be left on earth of Superstition’s reign, Save that eternal pile which frowns on Sarum’s plain.
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Guilt and Sorrow 101
Guilt and Sorrow; or, Incidents upon Salisbury Plain I
A TRAVELLER on the skirt of Sarum’s Plain Pursued his vagrant way, with feet half bare; Stooping his gait, but not as if to gain Help from the staff he bore; for mien and air Were hardy, though his cheek seemed worn with care Both of the time to come, and time long fled: Down fell in straggling locks his thin grey hair; A coat he wore of military red But faded, and stuck o’er with many a patch and shred.
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While thus he journeyed, step by step led on, He saw and passed a stately inn, full sure That welcome in such house for him was none. No board inscribed the needy to allure Hung there, no bush proclaimed to old and poor And desolate, “Here you will find a friend!” The pendent grapes glittered above the door;— On he must pace, perchance ’till night descend, Where’er the dreary roads their bare white lines extend.
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The gathering clouds grow red with stormy fire, In streaks diverging wide and mounting high; That inn he long had passed; the distant spire, Which oft as he looked back had fixed his eye,
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102 The Poems of William Wordsworth Was lost, though still he looked, in the blank sky. Perplexed and comfortless he gazed around, And scarce could any trace of man descry, Save cornfields stretched and stretching without bound; But where the sower dwelt was nowhere to be found.
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No tree was there, no meadow’s pleasant green, No brook to wet his lip or soothe his ear; Long files of corn-stacks here and there were seen, But not one dwelling-place his heart to cheer. Some labourer, thought he, may perchance be near; And so he sent a feeble shout—in vain; No voice made answer, he could only hear Winds rustling over plots of unripe grain, Or whistling thro’ thin grass along the unfurrowed plain.
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Long had he fancied each successive slope Concealed some cottage, whither he might turn And rest; but now along heaven’s darkening cope The crows rushed by in eddies, homeward borne. Thus warned he sought some shepherd’s spreading thorn Or hovel from the storm to shield his head, But sought in vain; for now, all wild, forlorn, And vacant, a huge waste around him spread; The wet cold ground, he feared, must be his only bed.
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And be it so—for to the chill night shower And the sharp wind his head he oft hath bared; A Sailor he, who many a wretched hour Hath told; for, landing after labour hard, Three years endured in hope of just reward,
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Guilt and Sorrow 103 He to an armed fleet was forced away By seamen, who perhaps themselves had shared Like fate; was hurried off, a helpless prey, ’Gainst all that in his heart, or theirs perhaps, said nay. VII
For years the work of carnage did not cease, And death’s dire aspect daily he surveyed, Death’s minister; then came his glad release, And hope returned, and pleasure fondly made Her dwelling in his dreams. By Fancy’s aid The happy husband flies, his arms to throw Round his wife’s neck; the prize of victory laid In her full lap, he sees such sweet tears flow As if thenceforth nor pain nor trouble she could know.
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Vain hope! For fraud took all that he had earned. The lion roars and gluts his tawny brood Even in the desert’s heart; but he, returned, Bears not to those he loves their needful food. His home approaching, but in such a mood That from his sight his children might have run. He met a traveller, robbed him, shed his blood; And when the miserable work was done He fled, a vagrant since, the murderer’s fate to shun.
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From that day forth no place to him could be So lonely, but that thence might come a pang Brought from without to inward misery. Now, as he plodded on, with sullen clang A sound of chains along the desert rang; He looked, and saw upon a gibbet high
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104 The Poems of William Wordsworth A human body that in irons swang, Uplifted by the tempest whirling by; And, hovering, round it often did a raven fly.
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It was a spectacle which none might view, In spot so savage, but with shuddering pain; Nor only did for him at once renew All he had feared from man, but roused a train Of the mind’s phantoms, horrible as vain. The stones, as if to cover him from day, Rolled at his back along the living plain; He fell, and without sense or motion lay; But, when the trance was gone, rose and pursued his way.
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As one whose brain demoniac phrensy fires Owes to the fit in which his soul hath tossed Profounder quiet, when the fit retires, Even so the dire phantasma which had crossed His sense, in sudden vacancy quite lost, Left his mind still as a deep evening stream. Nor, if accosted now, in thought engrossed, Moody, or inly troubled, would he seem To traveller who might talk of any casual theme.
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Hurtle the clouds in deeper darkness piled, Gone is the raven timely rest to seek; He seemed the only creature in the wild On whom the elements their rage might wreak; Save that the bustard, of those regions bleak
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WW’s Note 1842: ‘From a short MS. poem read to me when an undergraduate, by my schoolfellow and friend, Charles Farish, long since deceased. The verses were by a brother of his, a man of promising genius, who died young.’
Guilt and Sorrow 105 Shy tenant, seeing by the uncertain light A man there wandering, gave a mournful shriek, And half upon the ground, with strange affright, Forced hard against the wind a thick unwieldy flight.
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All, all was cheerless to the horizon’s bound; The weary eye—which, wheresoe’er it strays, Marks nothing but the red sun’s setting round, Or on the earth strange lines, in former days Left by gigantic arms—at length surveys What seems an antique castle spreading wide; Hoary and naked are its walls, and raise Their brow sublime: in shelter there to bide He turned, while rain poured down smoking on every side.
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Pile of Stone-henge! So proud to hint yet keep Thy secrets, thou that lov’st to stand and hear The Plain resounding to the whirlwind’s sweep, Inmate of lonesome Nature’s endless year; Even if thou saw’st the giant wicker rear For sacrifice its throngs of living men, Before thy face did ever wretch appear, Who in his heart had groaned with deadlier pain Than he who now at night-fall treads thy bare domain!
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Within that fabric of mysterious form, Winds met in conflict, each by turns supreme; And, from its perilous shelter driven, through storm And rain he wildered on, no moon to stream From gulf of parting clouds one friendly beam, Nor any friendly sound his footsteps led;
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106 The Poems of William Wordsworth Once did the lightning’s faint disastrous gleam Disclose a naked guide-post’s double head, Sight which tho’ lost at once a gleam of pleasure shed.
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No swinging sign-board creaked from cottage elm To stay his steps with faintness overcome; ‘Twas dark and void as ocean’s watery realm Roaring with storms beneath night’s starless gloom; No gipsy cowered o’er fire of furze or broom; No labourer watched his red kiln glaring bright, Nor taper glimmered dim from sick man’s room; Along the waste no line of mournful light From lamp of lonely toll-gate streamed athwart the night.
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At length, though hid in clouds, the moon arose; 145 The downs were visible—and now revealed A structure stands, which two bare slopes enclose. It was a spot, where, ancient vows fulfilled, Kind pious hands did to the Virgin build A lonely Spital, the belated swain 150 From the night terrors of that waste to shield: But there no human being could remain, And now the walls are named the “Dead House” of the plain. XVIII
Though he had little cause to love the abode Of man, or covet sight of mortal face, Yet when faint beams of light that ruin showed, How glad he was at length to find some trace Of human shelter in that dreary place. Till to his flock the early shepherd goes, Here shall much-needed sleep his frame embrace.
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Guilt and Sorrow 107 In a dry nook where fern the floor bestrows He lays his stiffened limbs,—his eyes begin to close; XIX
When hearing a deep sigh, that seemed to come From one who mourned in sleep, he raised his head, And saw a woman in the naked room Outstretched, and turning on a restless bed: The moon a wan dead light around her shed. He waked her—spake in tone that would not fail, He hoped, to calm her mind; but ill he sped, For of that ruin she had heard a tale Which now with freezing thoughts did all her powers assail;
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Had heard of one who, forced from storms to shroud, Felt the loose walls of this decayed Retreat Rock to incessant neighings shrill and loud, While his horse pawed the floor with furious heat; Till on a stone, that sparkled to his feet, Struck, and still struck again, the troubled horse: The man half raised the stone with pain and sweat, Half raised, for well his arm might lose its force Disclosing the grim head of a late-murdered corse.
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Such tale of this lone mansion she had learned And, when that shape, with eyes in sleep half drowned, By the moon’s sullen lamp she first discerned, Cold stony horror all her senses bound. Her he addressed in words of cheering sound; Recovering heart, like answer did she make; And well it was that, of the corse there found, In converse that ensued she nothing spake;
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108 The Poems of William Wordsworth She knew not what dire pangs in him such tale could wake. XXII
But soon his voice and words of kind intent Banished that dismal thought; and now the wind In fainter howlings told its rage was spent: Meanwhile discourse ensued of various kind, Which by degrees a confidence of mind And mutual interest failed not to create. And, to a natural sympathy resigned, In that forsaken building where they sate The Woman thus retraced her own untoward fate.
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“By Derwent’s side my father dwelt—a man Of virtuous life, by pious parents bred; And I believe that, soon as I began To lisp, he made me kneel beside my bed, And in his hearing there my prayers I said: And afterwards, by my good father taught, I read, and loved the books in which I read; For books in every neighbouring house I sought, And nothing to my mind a sweeter pleasure brought.
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“A little croft we owned—a plot of corn, A garden stored with peas, and mint, and thyme, And flowers for posies, oft on Sunday morn Plucked while the church bells rang their earliest chime. Can I forget our freaks at shearing time! My hen’s rich nest through long grass scarce espied; The cowslip-gathering in June’s dewy prime; The swans that with white chests upreared in pride Rushing and racing came to meet me at the water-side!
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Guilt and Sorrow 109 XXV
“The staff I well remember which upbore The bending body of my active sire; His seat beneath the honied sycamore Where the bees hummed, and chair by winter fire; 220 When market-morning came, the neat attire With which, though bent on haste, myself I decked; Our watchful house-dog, that would tease and tire The stranger till its barking-fit I checked; The red-breast, known for years, which at my casement pecked. 225 XXVI
“The suns of twenty summers danced along,— Too little marked how fast they rolled away: But, through severe mischance and cruel wrong, My father’s substance fell into decay: We toiled and struggled, hoping for a day When Fortune would put on a kinder look; But vain were wishes, efforts vain as they; He from his old hereditary nook Must part; the summons came;—our final leave we took.
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“It was indeed a miserable hour When, from the last hill-top, my sire surveyed, Peering above the trees, the steeple tower That on his marriage day sweet music made! Tilt then, he hoped his bones might there be laid Close by my mother in their native bowers: Bidding me trust in God, he stood and prayed;— I could not pray:—through tears that fell in showers Glimmered our dear-loved home, alas! No longer ours!
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The reading in 1836 is “summer”—which makes good sense, but both the MS. and the printed text from 1845 through 1849 read “summons.”
110 The Poems of William Wordsworth XXVIII
“There was a Youth whom I had loved so long, That when I loved him not I cannot say: ‘Mid the green mountains many a thoughtless song We two had sung, like gladsome birds in May; When we began to tire of childish play, We seemed still more and more to prize each other; We talked of marriage and our marriage day; And I in truth did love him like a brother, For never could I hope to meet with such another.
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“Two years were passed since to a distant town He had repaired to ply a gainful trade: What tears of bitter grief, till then unknown! What tender vows, our last sad kiss delayed! To him we turned:—we had no other aid: Like one revived, upon his neck I wept; And her whom he had loved in joy, he said, He well could love in grief; his faith he kept; And in a quiet home once more my father slept.
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“We lived in peace and comfort; and were blest With daily bread, by constant toil supplied. Three lovely babes had lain upon my breast; And often, viewing their sweet smiles, I sighed, 265 And knew not why. My happy father died, When threatened war reduced the children’s meal: Thrice happy! That for him the grave could hide The empty loom, cold hearth, and silent wheel, And tears that flowed for ills which patience might not heal. 270
Guilt and Sorrow 111 XXXI
“’Twas a hard change; an evil time was come; We had no hope, and no relief could gain: But soon, with proud parade, the noisy drum Beat round to clear the streets of want and pain. My husband’s arms now only served to strain Me and his children hungering in his view; In such dismay my prayers and tears were vain: To join those miserable men he flew, And now to the sea-coast, with numbers more, we drew.
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“There were we long neglected, and we bore Much sorrow ere the fleet its anchor weighed; Green fields before us, and our native shore, We breathed a pestilential air, that made Ravage for which no knell was heard. We prayed For our departure; wished and wished—nor knew, ‘Mid that long sickness and those hopes delayed, That happier days we never more must view. The parting signal streamed—at last the land withdrew.
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“But the calm summer season now was past. On as we drove, the equinoctial deep Ran mountains high before the howling blast, And many perished in the whirlwind’s sweep. We gazed with terror on their gloomy sleep, Untaught that soon such anguish must ensue, Our hopes such harvest of affliction reap, That we the mercy of the waves should rue: We reached the western world, a poor devoted crew.
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112 The Poems of William Wordsworth XXXIV
“The pains and plagues that on our heads came down, Disease and famine, agony and fear, In wood or wilderness, in camp or town, It would unman the firmest heart to hear. All perished—all in one remorseless year, Husband and children! One by one, by sword And ravenous plague, all perished: every tear Dried up, despairing, desolate, on board A British ship I waked, as from a trance restored.”
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Here paused she of all present thought forlorn, Nor voice nor sound, that moment’s pain expressed, Yet Nature, with excess of grief o’erborne, From her full eyes their watery load released. He too was mute; and, ere her weeping ceased, He rose, and to the ruin’s portal went, And saw the dawn opening the silvery east With rays of promise, north and southward sent; And soon with crimson fire kindled the firmament.
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“O come,” he cried, “come, after weary night Of such rough storm, this happy change to view.” So forth she came, and eastward looked; the sight Over her brow like dawn of gladness threw; Upon her cheek, to which its youthful hue Seemed to return, dried the last lingering tear, And from her grateful heart a fresh one drew: The whilst her comrade to her pensive cheer Tempered fit words of hope; and the lark warbled near.
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Guilt and Sorrow 113 XXXVII
They looked and saw a lengthening road, and wain That rang down a bare slope not far remote: The barrows glistered bright with drops of rain, Whistled the waggoner with merry note, The cock far off sounded his clarion throat; But town, or farm, or hamlet, none they viewed, Only were told there stood a lonely cot A long mile thence. While thither they pursued Their way, the Woman thus her mournful tale renewed.
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“Peaceful as this immeasurable plain Is now, by beams of dawning light imprest, In the calm sunshine slept the glittering main; The very ocean hath its hour of rest. I too forgot the heavings of my breast. How quiet round me ship and ocean were! As quiet all within me. I was blest, And looked, and fed upon the silent air Until it seemed to bring a joy to my despair.
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Ah! How unlike those late terrific sleeps, And groans that rage of racking famine spoke; The unburied dead that lay in festering heaps, The breathing pestilence that rose like smoke, The shriek that from the distant battle broke, The mine’s dire earthquake, and the pallid host Driven by the bomb’s incessant thunderstroke To loathsome vaults, where heart-sick anguish tossed, Hope died, and fear itself in agony was lost!
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114 The Poems of William Wordsworth XL
Some mighty gulf of separation past, I seemed transported to another world; A thought resigned with pain, when from the mast The impatient mariner the sail unfurled, And, whistling, called the wind that hardly curled The silent sea. From the sweet thoughts of home And from all hope I was for ever hurled. For me—farthest from earthly port to roam Was best, could I but shun the spot where man might come.
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And oft I thought (my fancy was so strong) That I, at last, a resting-place had found; “Here will I dwell,” said I, “my whole life long, Roaming the illimitable waters round; Here will I live, of all but heaven disowned, And end my days upon the peaceful flood.”— To break my dream the vessel reached its bound; And homeless near a thousand homes I stood, And near a thousand tables pined and wanted food.
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No help I sought, in sorrow turned adrift Was hopeless, as if cast on some bare rock; Nor morsel to my mouth that day did lift, Nor raised my hand at any door to knock. I lay where, with his drowsy mates, the cock From the cross-timber of an out-house hung: Dismally tolled, that night, the city clock! At morn my sick heart hunger scarcely stung, Nor to the beggar’s language could I fit my tongue.
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Guilt and Sorrow 115 XLIII
So passed a second day; and, when the third Was come, I tried in vain the crowd’s resort. —In deep despair, by frightful wishes stirred, Near the sea-side I reached a ruined fort; There, pains which nature could no more support, With blindness linked, did on my vitals fall; And, after many interruptions short Of hideous sense, I sank, nor step could crawl: Unsought for was the help that did my life recall.
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Borne to a hospital, I lay with brain Drowsy and weak, and shattered memory; I heard my neighbours in their beds complain 390 Of many things which never troubled me— Of feet still bustling round with busy glee, Of looks where common kindness had no part, Of service done with cold formality, Fretting the fever round the languid heart, 395 And groans which, as they said, might make a dead man start. XLV
“These things just served to stir the slumbering sense, Nor pain nor pity in my bosom raised. With strength did memory return; and, thence Dismissed, again on open day I gazed, At houses, men, and common light, amazed. The lanes I sought, and, as the sun retired, Came where beneath the trees a faggot blazed, The travellers saw me weep, my fate inquired, And gave me food—and rest, more welcome, more desired.
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116 The Poems of William Wordsworth XLVI
“Rough potters seemed they, trading soberly With panniered asses driven from door to door; But life of happier sort set forth to me, And other joys my fancy to allure— The bag-pipe dinning on the midnight moor In barn uplighted; and companions boon, Well met from far with revelry secure Among the forest glades, while jocund June Rolled fast along the sky his warm and genial moon.
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“But ill they suited me—those journeys dark O’er moor and mountain, midnight theft to hatch! To charm the surly house-dog’s faithful bark, Or hang on tip-toe at the lifted latch. The gloomy lantern, and the dim blue match, The black disguise, the warning whistle shrill, And ear still busy on its nightly watch, Were not for me, brought up in nothing ill: Besides, on griefs so fresh my thoughts were brooding still.
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“What could I do, unaided and unblest? My father! Gone was every friend of thine: And kindred of dead husband are at best Small help; and, after marriage such as mine, With little kindness would to me incline. Nor was I then for toil or service fit; My deep-drawn sighs no effort could confine; In open air forgetful would I sit Whole hours, with idle arms in moping sorrow knit.
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Guilt and Sorrow 117 XLIX
“The roads I paced, I loitered through the fields; Contentedly, yet sometimes self-accused. Trusted my life to what chance bounty yields, Now coldly given, now utterly refused. The ground I for my bed have often used: But what afflicts my peace with keenest ruth, Is that I have my inner self abused, Foregone the home delight of constant truth, And clear and open soul, so prized in fearless youth.
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“Through tears the rising sun I oft have viewed, Through tears have seen him towards that world descend Where my poor heart lost all its fortitude: Three years a wanderer now my course I bend— Oh! Tell me whither—for no earthly friend Have I.”—She ceased, and weeping turned away; As if because her tale was at an end, She wept; because she had no more to say Of that perpetual weight which on her spirit lay.
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True sympathy the Sailor’s looks expressed, His looks—for pondering he was mute the while. Of social Order’s care for wretchedness, Of Time’s sure help to calm and reconcile, Joy’s second spring and Hope’s long-treasured smile, ‘Twas not for ‘him’ to speak—a man so tried. Yet, to relieve her heart, in friendly style Proverbial words of comfort he applied, And not in vain, while they went pacing side by side.
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118 The Poems of William Wordsworth LII
Ere long, from heaps of turf, before their sight, Together smoking in the sun’s slant beam, Rise various wreaths that into one unite Which high and higher mounts with silver gleam: Fair spectacle, —-but instantly a scream Thence bursting shrill did all remark prevent; They paused, and heard a hoarser voice blaspheme, And female cries. Their course they thither bent, And met a man who foamed with anger vehement,
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A woman stood with quivering lips and pale, And, pointing to a little child that lay Stretched on the ground, began a piteous tale; How in a simple freak of thoughtless play He had provoked his father, who straightway, As if each blow were deadlier than the last, Struck the poor innocent. Pallid with dismay The Soldier’s Widow heard and stood aghast; And stern looks on the man her grey-haired Comrade cast.
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His voice with indignation rising high Such further deed in manhood’s name forbade; The peasant, wild in passion, made reply With bitter insult and revilings sad; Asked him in scorn what business there he had; What kind of plunder he was hunting now; The gallows would one day of him be glad;— Though inward anguish damped the Sailor’s brow, Yet calm he seemed as thoughts so poignant would allow.
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Guilt and Sorrow 119 LV
Softly he stroked the child, who lay outstretched With face to earth; and, as the boy turned round His battered head, a groan the Sailor fetched As if he saw—there and upon that ground— Strange repetition of the deadly wound He had himself inflicted. Through his brain At once the griding iron passage found; Deluge of tender thoughts then rushed amain, Nor could his sunken eyes the starting tear restrain.
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LVI
Within himself he said—What hearts have we! The blessing this a father gives his child! Yet happy thou, poor boy! Compared with me, Suffering not doing ill—fate far more mild. The stranger’s looks and tears of wrath beguiled The father, and relenting thoughts awoke; He kissed his son—so all was reconciled. Then, with a voice which inward trouble broke Ere to his lips it came, the Sailor them bespoke.
500
LVII
“Bad is the world, and hard is the world’s law Even for the man who wears the warmest fleece; Much need have ye that time more closely draw The bond of nature, all unkindness cease, And that among so few there still be peace: Else can ye hope but with such numerous foes Your pains shall ever with your years increase?”— While from his heart the appropriate lesson flows, A correspondent calm stole gently o’er his woes.
505
510
“To gride” is to pierce with a weapon (“iron”), a word used by both Spenser and Milton.
120 The Poems of William Wordsworth LVIII
Forthwith the pair passed on; and down they look Into a narrow valley’s pleasant scene Where wreaths of vapour tracked a winding brook, That babbled on through groves and meadows green; A low-roofed house peeped out the trees between; The dripping groves resound with cheerful lays, And melancholy lowings intervene Of scattered herds, that in the meadow graze, Some amid lingering shade, some touched by the sun’s rays.
515
520
LIX
They saw and heard, and, winding with the road, Down a thick wood, they dropt into the vale; Comfort, by prouder mansions unbestowed, Their wearied frames, she hoped, would soon regale. Erelong they reached that cottage in the dale: It was a rustic inn;—the board was spread, The milk-maid followed with her brimming pail, And lustily the master carved the bread, Kindly the housewife pressed, and they in comfort fed.
525
530
LX
Their breakfast done, the pair, though loth, must part; Wanderers whose course no longer now agrees. She rose and bade farewell! And, while her heart Struggled with tears nor could its sorrow ease, She left him there; for, clustering round his knees, With his oak-staff the cottage children played; And soon she reached a spot o’erhung with trees And banks of ragged earth; beneath the shade Across the pebbly road a little runnel strayed.
535
540
Guilt and Sorrow 121 LXI
A cart and horse beside the rivulet stood; Chequering the canvass roof the sunbeams shone. She saw the carman bend to scoop the flood As the wain fronted her,—wherein lay one, A pale-faced Woman, in disease far gone. The carman wet her lips as well behoved; Bed under her lean body there was none, Though even to die near one she most had loved She could not of herself those wasted limbs have moved.
545
LXII
The Soldier’s Widow learned with honest pain And homefelt force of sympathy sincere, Why thus that worn-out wretch must there sustain The jolting road and morning air severe. The wain pursued its way; and following near In pure compassion she her steps retraced Far as the cottage. “A sad sight is here,” She cried aloud; and forth ran out in haste The friends whom she had left but a few minutes past.
550
555
LXIII
While to the door with eager speed they ran, From her bare straw the Woman half upraised Her bony visage—gaunt and deadly wan; No pity asking, on the group she gazed With a dim eye, distracted and amazed; Then sank upon her straw with feeble moan. Fervently cried the housewife—“God be praised, I have a house that I can call my own; Nor shall she perish there, untended and alone!”
560
565
122 The Poems of William Wordsworth LXIV
So in they bear her to the chimney seat, And busily, though yet with fear, untie Her garments, and, to warm her icy feet And chafe her temples, careful hands apply. Nature reviving, with a deep-drawn sigh She strove, and not in vain, her head to rear; Then said—“I thank you all; if I must die, The God in heaven my prayers for you will hear; Till now I did not think my end had been so near.
570
575
LXV
“Barred every comfort labour could procure, Suffering what no endurance could assuage, I was compelled to seek my father’s door, Though loth to be a burthen on his age. But sickness stopped me in an early stage Of my sad journey; and within the wain They placed me—there to end life’s pilgrimage, Unless beneath your roof I may remain; For I shall never see my father’s door again.
580
585
LXVI
“My life, Heaven knows, hath long been burthensome; But, if I have not meekly suffered, meek May my end be! Soon will this voice be dumb: Should child of mine e’er wander hither, speak Of me, say that the worm is on my cheek.— Torn from our hut, that stood beside the sea Near Portland lighthouse in a lonesome creek, My husband served in sad captivity On shipboard, bound till peace or death should set him free.
590
Guilt and Sorrow 123 LXVII
“A sailor’s wife I knew a widow’s cares, Yet two sweet little ones partook my bed; Hope cheered my dreams, and to my daily prayers Our heavenly Father granted each day’s bread; Till one was found by stroke of violence dead, Whose body near our cottage chanced to lie; A dire suspicion drove us from our shed; In vain to find a friendly face we try, Nor could we live together those poor boys and I;
595
600
LXVIII
“For evil tongues made oath how on that day My husband lurked about the neighbourhood; Now he had fled, and whither none could say, And ‘he’ had done the deed in the dark wood— Near his own home!—but he was mild and good; Never on earth was gentler creature seen; He’d not have robbed the raven of its food. My husband’s lovingkindness stood between Me and all worldly harms and wrongs however keen.”
605
610
LXIX
Alas! The thing she told with labouring breath The Sailor knew too well. That wickedness His hand had wrought; and when, in the hour of death, He saw his Wife’s lips move his name to bless With her last words, unable to suppress His anguish, with his heart he ceased to strive; And, weeping loud in this extreme distress, He cried—“Do pity me! That thou shouldst live I neither ask nor wish—forgive me, but forgive!”
615
620
124 The Poems of William Wordsworth LXX
To tell the change that Voice within her wrought Nature by sign or sound made no essay; A sudden joy surprised expiring thought, And every mortal pang dissolved away. Borne gently to a bed, in death she lay; Yet still while over her the husband bent, A look was in her face which seemed to say, “Be blest; by sight of thee from heaven was sent Peace to my parting soul, the fullness of content.”
625
630
LXXI
‘She’ slept in peace,—his pulses throbbed and stopped, Breathless he gazed upon her face,—then took Her hand in his, and raised it, but both dropped, When on his own he cast a rueful look. His ears were never silent; sleep forsook His burning eyelids stretched and stiff as lead; All night from time to time under him shook The floor as he lay shuddering on his bed; And I groaned aloud, “O God, that I were dead!”
635
LXXII
The Soldier’s Widow lingered in the cot, And, when he rose, he thanked her pious care Through which his Wife, to that kind shelter brought, Died in his arms; and with those thanks a prayer He breathed for her, and for that merciful pair. The corse interred, not one hour he remained Beneath their roof, but to the open air A burthen, now with fortitude sustained, He bore within a breast where dreadful quiet reigned.
640
645
Guilt and Sorrow 125 LXXIII
Confirmed of purpose, fearlessly prepared For act and suffering, to the city straight He journeyed, and forthwith his crime declared: “And from your doom,” he added, “now I wait, Nor let it linger long, the murderer’s fate.” Not ineffectual was that piteous claim: “O welcome sentence which will end though late,” He said, “the pangs that to my conscience came Out of that deed. My trust, Saviour! Is in thy name!”
650
655
LXXIV
His fate was pitied. Him in iron case (Reader, forgive the intolerable thought) They hung not:—no one on ‘his’ form or face Could gaze, as on a show by idlers sought; No kindred sufferer, to his death-place brought By lawless curiosity or chance, When into storm the evening sky is wrought, Upon his swinging corse an eye can glance, And drop, as he once dropped, in miserable trance.
660
665
1793–4.
When WW published this poem in Poems Chiefly of Early and Late Years in 1842, he printed the date of original composition of the poem (see Salisbury Plain, above).
126 The Poems of William Wordsworth
Index of titles, first lines and series titles Volumes I, II, III A barking sound the Shepherd hears A Book came forth of late called, “Peter Bell;” A bright-haired company of youthful Slaves A dark plume fetch me from yon blasted Yew A famous Man is Robin Hood A few bold Patriots, Reliques of the Fight A fig for your languages, German and Norse A flock of sheep that leisurely pass by A genial hearth, a hospitable board A German Haggis––from Receipt A little onward lend thy guiding hand A love-lorn Maid, at some far-distant time A Manciple there was, one of a Temple A narrow girdle of rough stones and crags A pen—to register; a key— A Pilgrim, when the summer day A plain Youth, Lady, and a simple Lover A pleasant music floats along the Mere A Poet!—He hath put his heart to school A point of life between my Parents’ dust A prized memorial this slight work may prove A Rock there is whose homely front A Roman Master stands on Grecian ground A sad and lovely face, with upturn’d eyes A simple child, dear brother Jim A slumber did my spirit seal A Stream, to mingle with your favourite Dee A sudden conflict rises from the swell A Traveller on the skirt of Sarum’s Plain A trouble, not of clouds, or weeping rain A voice, from long-expectant thousands sent A volant Tribe of Bards on earth are found A weight of awe not easy to be borne A whirl-blast from behind the hill A winged Goddess, clothed in vesture wrought
I.591 III.138 III.374 III.356 I.652 III.15 I.440 I.631 III.405 III.571 III.107 III.358 II.659 I.458 III.577 III.132 I.736 III.381 III.755 III.490 III.737 III.656 III.34 III.737 I.332 I.401 III.582 III.415 I.123 III.473 III.403 III.570 III.510 I.420 III.429
Index to the Three Volumes 127 A Winter’s Evening— Fragment of an Ode to winter I.21 A youth too certain of his power to wade III.495 Abruptly paused the Strife;—the field throughout III.432 Abuse of Monastic Power III.390 Acquittal of the Bishops III.403 Address from the Spirit of Cockermouth Castle III.491 Address to Kilchurn Castle upon Loch Awe III.604 Address to my Infant Daughter, On being reminded, that she was a month old, on that day I.744 Address to the Ocean I.70 Address to the Sons of Burns after visiting their Father’s Grave. (August 14th, 1803.) I.664 Addressed to ———, on the longest day III.117 Adieu ye lays that fancy’s flow’rs adorn I.35 Adieu, Rydalian Laurels! that have grown III.488 Admonition (“Yes, there is holy pleasure in thine eye!”) I.693 Advance—come forth from thy Tyrolean ground III.22 Adventures on Salisbury Plain I.123 Aeneid, Book I II.667 Aeneid, Book II II.696 Aeneid, Book III II.727 Aeneid, Book IV, Lines 688–692 II.750 Aeneid, Book VIII, Lines 337–366 II.750 Aerial Rock—whose solitary brow III.82 Affections lose their objects; Time brings forth III.771 Affliction of Margaret —— of ——, The I.606 Afflictions of England III.400 After Landing—the Valley of Dover. Nov. 1820. III.457 After Leaving Italy III.550 After reading a luscious scene of the above—The Wonder explained III.571 After Visiting the Field of Waterloo III.429 After-thought III.466 AGE! twine thy brows with fresh spring flowers! I.659 Ah! have you seen a bird of sweetest tone I.20 Ah me! the lowliest children of the spring I.50 Ah, think how one compelled for life to abide III.559 Ah, when the Frame, round which in love we clung III. 377 Ah! where is Palafox? Nor tongue nor pen III.18 Ah why deceive ourselves! by no mere fit III.549, 565
128 The Poems of William Wordsworth Aid, glorious Martyrs, from your fields of light Airey-force Valley Aix-la-Chapelle Alas! what boots the long, laborious quest Alcæus to Sappho Alfred Alice Fell All breathed in silence, and intensely gaz’d All by the moonlight river side All praise the Likeness by thy skill portrayed Along the mazes of this song I go Ambition, following down this far-famed slope American Tradition Amid a fertile region green with wood Amid the dark control of lawless sway Amid the smoke of cities did you pass Amid this dance of objects sadness steals Among a grave fraternity of Monks Among all lovely things my Love had been Among the dwellers in the silent fields Among the dwellings framed by birds Among the mountains were we nursed, loved stream! Among the Ruins of a Convent in the Apennines An age hath been when Earth was proud An Orpheus! An Orpheus!—yes, Faith may grow bold Anacreon Imitated And has the Sun his flaming Chariot driv’n And I will bear my vengeful blade And is it among rude untutored Dales And is this—Yarrow?—This the Stream And not in vain embodied to the sight And shall,” the Pontiff asks, “profaneness flow And sweet it is to see in summer time And thus a Structure potent to enchain And what is Penance with her knotted thong And what melodious sounds at times prevail! And will you leave me thus alone Andrew Jones Anecdote for Fathers, shewing how the art of lying may be taught
III.396 III.715 III.430 III.21 I.479 III.380 I.622 II.696 I.492 III.738 I.746 III.449 III.355 III.480 III.12 I.455 III.431 III.708 I.615 III.760 III.684 III.490 III.548 III.116 I.687 I.14 I.11 I.50 III.21 III.62 III.386 III.382 I.749 III.413 III.390 III.387 I.18 I.417 I.330
Index to the Three Volumes 129 Animal Tranquillity and Decay (see Old Man Travelling) Another year!—another deadly blow! I.651 Anticipation. October, 1803 I.651 Apology (“No more: the end is sudden and abrupt”) III.483 Apology (“Nor scorn the aid which Fancy oft doth lend”) III.376 Apology (“Not utterly unworthy to endure”) III.393 Apology (“The formal World relaxes her cold chain”) III.560 Archbishop Chicheley to Henry V III.389 Are souls then nothing? Must at length the die I.735 Are States oppress’d afflicted and degraded III.595 Armenian Lady’s Love, The III.657 Arms, and the Man I sing, the first who bore II.667 Army of clouds, what would ye? Flight of Clouds II.292 Around a wild and woody hill III.434 Arran! a single-crested Teneriffe III.499 Art, Nature, Love here claim united praise III.739 Art thou a Statesman, in the van I.448 Art thou the Bird whom Man loves best I.594 Artegal and Elidure— III.71 As faith thus sanctified the warrior’s crest III.422 As indignation mastered grief, my tongue III.551 As leaves are to the tree whereon they grow III.550 As leaves are to the tree whereon they grow III.566 As often as I murmur here III.642 As star that shines dependent upon star III.405 As the cold aspect of a sunless way III.111 As the fresh wine the poet pours I.49 As, when a storm hath ceased, the birds regain III.371 As with the stream our voyage we pursue III.384 Aspects of Christianity in America III.420 At Albano III.538 At Bala-Sala, Isle of Man. (Supposed to be Written by a Friend of the Author.) III.497 At Bologna, in Remembrance of the Late Insurrections III.549, 565 At Dover III.468 At early dawn,—or rather when the air III.135 At Florence III.546 At Florence.—From M. Angelo (“Eternal Lord! eased of a cumbrous load”) III.548
130 The Poems of William Wordsworth At Florence.—From Michael Angelo (“Rapt above earth by power of one fair face”) III.547 At Furness Abbey (“Here, where, of havoc tired and rash undoing”)III.746 At Furness Abbey (“Well have yon Railway Labourers to this ground”) III.769 At last this loitering day of June II.250 At Rome (“Is this, ye Gods, the Capitolian Hill?”) III.535 At Rome (“They—who have seen the noble Roman’s scorn”) III.537 At Rome.—Regrets.—In Allusion to Niebuhr and other Modern Historians III.536 At Sea off the Isle of Man III.493 At the Convent of Camaldoli III.543 At the corner of Wood Street, when daylight appears I.414 At the Eremite or Upper Convent of Camaldoli III.544 At the Grave of Burns. 1803 III.724 At Tyndrum III.477 At Vallombrosa III.545 Author’s Voyage down the Rhine (Thirty Years Ago) III.431 Avaunt all specious pliancy of mind III.32 Avaunt this oeconomic rage! III.701 avaunt! with tenfold pleasure I.23 Avon (A Feeder of the Annan), The III.481 Avon—a precious, an immortal name! III.481 Baptism III.416 Barberry-Tree, The I.728 Bard of the Fleece, whose skilful Genius made III.41 Be this the chosen site—the virgin sod III.409 Beaumont! it was thy wish that I should rear I.720 Beauty and Moonlight. An Ode Fragment I.17 Before I see another day I.368 Before the Picture of the Baptist, by Raphael, in the Gallery at Florence III.547 Before the world had past her time of youth III.557 Beggars I.619 Begone, thou fond presumptuous Elf I.402 Beguiled into forgetfulness of care III.704 Behold a Pupil of the Monkish gown III.380 Behold her, single in the field I.656 Beloved Vale!” I said, “when I shall con I.636 Beneath this thorn when I was young I.74
Index to the Three Volumes 131 Beneath yon eastern Ridge, the craggy Bound Benjamin the Waggoner Between two sister moorland rills Bishops and Priests, blessèd are ye, if deep Black Demons hovering o’er his mitred head Black Stones of Iona, The Blandusian spring than glass more brightly clear Blest be the Church, that, watching o’er the needs Blest is this Isle—our native Land Blest Statesman He, whose Mind’s unselfish will Blind Highland Boy, The. (A Tale told by the Fire-side.) Bold words affirmed, in days when faith was strong Borderers, The Bothwell Castle Brave Schill! by death delivered, take thy flight Bright Flower, whose home is every where! Broken in fortune, but in mind entire Brook, that hast been my solace days and weeks Brothers, The Brownie, The Bruges (“Bruges I saw attired with golden light”) Bruges (“The Spirit of Antiquity, enshrined”) Bruges I saw attired with golden light But cease my Soul ah! cease to pry But hark! the Curfew tolls! and lo! the night But here no cannon thunders to the gale But liberty, and triumphs on the Main But, to outweigh all harm, the sacred Book But, to remote Northumbria’s royal Hall But what if One, thro’ grove or flowery mead But whence came they who for the Saviour Lord By a blest Husband guided, Mary came By a Retired Mariner. (A Friend of the Author.) By antique Fancy trimmed—tho’ lowly, bred By Art’s bold privilege Warrior and War-horse stand By chain yet stronger must the Soul be tied By Derwent’s side my Father’s cottage stood By Moscow self–devoted to a blaze By playful smiles, (alas too oft By such examples moved to unbought pains
III.45 II.250 I.451 III.423 III.384 III.503 I.60 III.416 III.573 III.562 I.676 III.493 I.151 III.480 III.20 I.690 III.497 I.721 I.384 III.479 III.428 III.428 III.428 I.38 I.21 III.362 III.409 III.394 III.374 III.378 III.419 III.679 III.496 III.438 III.746 III.417 I.314 III.571 III.747 III.379
132 The Poems of William Wordsworth By the Sea-Shore, Isle of Man III.495 By the Sea-Side III.691 By the Side of Rydal Mere III.688 By their floating Mill I.684 By vain affections unenthralled III.586 Calais, August 15th, 1802 I.641 Calais, August, 1802 I.639 Call not the royal Swede unfortunate III.19 Calm as an under current—strong to draw III.404 Calm is all nature as a resting wheel I.635 Calm is the fragrant air, and loth to lose III.686 Calvert! it must not be unheard by them I.638 Camoëns, he the accomplished and the good III.569 Can aught survive to linger in the veins III.380 Can Lubbock fail to make a good M.P. III.683 Cantata del Metastasio I.740 Cantata, From Metastasio I.738 Canute III.381 Captivity III.111 Carved, Mathew, with a master’s skill I.483 Casual Incitement III.374 Catechizing III.406 Cathedrals, &c. III.410 Cave of Staffa (“Thanks for the lessons of this Spot—fit school”) III.501 Cave of Staffa (“We saw, but surely, in the motley crowd”) III.500 Cave of Staffa (“Ye shadowy Beings, that have rights and claims”) III.501 Cenotaph III.586 Change me, some God, into that breathing rose! III.352 Character, In the Antithetical Manner, A I.450 Character of the Happy Warrior I.600 Characteristics of a Child three Years old III.49 Charles the Second III.402 Chatsworth! thy stately mansion, and the pride III.678 Child of loud-throated War! the mountain Stream III.604 Child of the clouds! remote from every taint III.349 Childless Father, The I.441 Church of San Salvador, seen from the Lake of Lugano, The III.439 Church to be Erected III.409 Cistertian Monastery III.385 Clarkson! it was an obstinate Hill to climb I.694
Index to the Three Volumes 133 Clerical Integrity III.403 Coldly we spake. The Saxons, overpowered III.419 Column Intended by Buonaparte for a Triumphal Edifice in Milan, The III.449 Come gentle Sleep, Death’s image tho’ thou art III.736 Come thou in robe of darkest blue” [To Melpomene] I.41 Come ye—who, if (which Heaven avert!) the Land I.743 Commination Service, The III.425 Companion! by whose buoyant Spirit cheered III.524 Companion to the Foregoing [Love Lies Bleeding] III.703 Complacent Fictions were they, yet the same III.536 Complaint, A I.699 Complaint of a Forsaken Indian Woman, The I.368 Composed after a Journey across the Hamilton Hills, Yorkshire I.630 Composed after Reading a Newspaper of the Day III.475 Composed after Reading a Newspaper of the Day III.561 Composed among the Ruins of a Castle in North Wales III.582 Composed at Cora Linn, in sight of Wallace’s tower III.54 Composed at the Same Time, and on the Same Occasion [Cintra] III.18 Composed by the Sea-shore III.693 Composed by the Sea-side, near Calais, August, 1802 I.639 Composed during one of the most awful of the late Storms, Feb. 1819 III.136 Composed in one of the Catholic Cantons of Switzerland III.466 Composed in one of the Valleys of Westmoreland, on Easter Sunday III.53 Composed in Recollection of the Expedition of the French into Russia, February 1816 III.97 Composed in Roslin Chapel, During a Storm III.473 Composed in the Glen of Loch Etive III.475 Composed in the Valley, Near Dover, On the Day of landing I.644 Composed on May-morning, 1838 III.553 Composed on the Banks of a Rocky Stream III.135 Composed on the Eve of the Marriage of a Friend, in the Vale of Grasmere III.48 Composed on the same Morning (“Life with yon Lambs, like day, is just begun”) III.735 Composed upon Westminster Bridge, Sept. 3, 1803 (“Earth has not any thing to shew more fair”) I.635 Composed when a probability existed of our being obliged to quit Rydal Mount as a Residence II.294
134 The Poems of William Wordsworth Composed while the Author was Engaged in Writing a Tract, Occasioned by the Convention of Cintra,1808 III.17 Concluded (“As leaves are to the tree whereon they grow”) III.550 Concluded (“Long-favoured England! be not thou misled”) III.564, 566 Conclusion (“I thought of Thee, my partner and my guide”) III.363 Conclusion (“If these brief Records, by the Muses’ art”) III.603 Conclusion (“Most sweet it is with unuplifted eyes”) III.509 Conclusion (“Why sleeps the future, as a snake enrolled”) III.412 Conclusion (“Yes, though He well may tremble at the sound”) III.560 Concluded.—American Episcopacy III.421 Conclusion. 1811 III.34 Confirmation III.416 Confirmation Continued III.416 Congratulation III.408 Conjectures III.368 Continued (“And what melodious sounds at times prevail!”) III.387 Continued (“As indignation mastered grief, my tongue”) III.551 Continued (“Complacent Fictions were they, yet the same”) III.536 Continued (“From Rite and Ordinance abused they fled”) III.420 Continued (“Hard task! exclaim the undisciplined, to lean”) III.549, 566 Continued (“Methinks that to some vacant Hermitage”) III.378 Continued (“Mine ear has rung, my spirits sunk subdued”) III.409 Continued (“The world forsaken, all its busy cares”) III.544 Continued (“They dreamt not of a perishable home”) III.411 Continued (“Who ponders National events shall find”) III.563 Continued (“Yet some, Noviciates of the cloistral shade”) III.392 Contrast, The III.584 Conversion III.376 Convict, The I.370 Corruptions of the Higher Clergy III.390 Could I the priest’s consent have gained I.480 Council of Clermont, The III.382 Countess’s Pillar III.482 Cranmer III.396 Critics, right honourable Bard! decree III.571 Crusaders III.387 Crusades III.383 Cuckoo and the Nightingale, The; Translation of Chaucer’s II.643 Cuckoo at Laverna. may 25th, 1837, The III.540
Index to the Three Volumes 135 Cuckoo-clock, The Danish Conquests Darkness surrounds us; seeking, we are lost Days passed—and Monte Calvo would not clear Days undefiled by luxury or sloth Dear Child of Nature, let them rail! Dear fellow—Traveller! here we are once more Dear Fellow-Travellers! think not that the Muse Dear Native Brooks your ways have I pursu’d Dear native Regions, I foretell Dear Reliques! from a pit of vilest mold Dear to the Loves, and to the Graces vowed Death a Dirge Death of the Starling, The Decay of Piety Dedication (“Dear Fellow-Travellers! think not that the Muse”) Deep is the lamentation! Not alone Degenerate Douglas! oh, the unworthy Lord! Deign Sovereign Mistress! to accept a Lay Departed Child! I could forget thee once Departing Summer hath assumed Departure from the Vale of Grasmere. August 1803 Deplorable his lot who tills the ground Description of a dying storm Descriptive Sketches Desire we past illusions to recall? Despond who will—I heard a voice exclaim Desponding Father! mark this altered bough Destined to war from very infancy Desultory Stanzas Devotional Incitements Dion Dirge Dirge Sung by a Minstrel Discourse was deemed Man’s noblest attribute Dishonoured Rock and Ruin! that, by law Dissensions. Dissolution of the Monasteries Distractions
III.741 III.381 III.370 III.538 III.565 I.684 I.644 III.427 I.735 III.65 III.101 III.492 I.45 I.16 III.568 III.427 III.394 I.664 III.772 III.49 III.139 III.36 III.418 I.39 I.97 III.494 III.498 III.709 III.26 III.462 III.680 III.102 I.483 I.45 III.774 III.476 III.372 III.391 III.398
136 The Poems of William Wordsworth Distressful gift! this Book receives I.757 Dog—An Idyllium, The I.22 Dogmatic Teachers, of the snow-white fur! III.135 Dont wake little Enoch III.571 Doomed as we are our native dust III.466 Doubling and doubling with laborious walk III.478 Down a swift Stream, thus far, a bold design III.415 Dread hour! when upheaved by war’s sulphurous blast III.441 Driven in by Autumn’s sharpening air III.712 Druid Temple III.413 Druidical Excommunication III.369 Dunolly Eagle, The III.500 Eagle and the Dove, The III.759 Eagles, Composed at Dunollie Castle in the Bay of Oban III.476 Earl of Breadalbane’s Ruined Mansion, and Family Burial-Place, near Killin, The III.477 Earth has not any thing to shew more fair I.635 Ecclesiastical Sketches III.368 Echo, upon the Gemmi III.451 Eclipse of the Sun, 1820, The III.445 Eden! till now thy beauty had I viewed III.505 Edward Signing the Warrant for the Execution of Joan of Kent III.395 Edward VI III.395 Effusion in Presence of the Painted Tower of Tell, at Altorf III.465 Effusion, in the pleasure-ground on the banks of the Bran, near Dunkeld III.58 Egyptian Maid, The; or, the romance of the water lily. III.630 Ejaculation III.412 Ejaculation at the Grave of Burns I.721 Elegiac Musings in the Grounds of Coleorton Hall, the Seat of the Late Sir George Beaumont, Bart. III.677 Elegiac Stanzas (“Lulled by the sound of pastoral bells”) III.454 Elegiac Stanzas. 1824 III.586 Elegiac Stanzas, composed in the churchyard of Grasmere III.13 Elegiac Stanzas, Suggested by a Picture of Peele Castle, in a Storm, Painted by Sir George Beaumont I.709 Elegiac Verses, February 1816 III.92 Elegiac Verses in Memory of my Brother, John Wordsworth I.755 Elegies Written for John Wordsworth I.750 Elegy written in the same place upon the same occasion I.480
Index to the Three Volumes 137 Elizabeth Ellen Irwin, Or the Braes of Kirtle Emigrant French Clergy Eminent Reformers Emperors and Kings, how oft have Temples rung Engelberg England! the time is come when thou shouldst wean English Reformers in Exile Enlightened Teacher, gladly from thy hand Enough! for see, with dim association Enough of climbing toil!—Ambition treads Enough of garlands, of the Arcadian crook Enough of rose-bud lips, and eyes Epigrams on Byron’s Cain Epistle to Sir George Howland Beaumont, Bart. From the South-west Coast of Cumberland,—1811 Epitaph (“By a blest Husband guided, Mary came”) Epitaph in the Chapel-yard of Langdale, Westmoreland Epitaphs Translated from Chiabrera Ere we had reach’d the wish’d-for place, night fell Ere with cold beads of midnight dew Ere yet our course was graced with social trees Eternal Lord! eased of a cumbrous load Ethereal Minstrel! Pilgrim of the sky! Eve’s lingering clouds extend in solid bars Even as a dragon’s eye that feels the stress Even so for me a Vision sanctified Even while I speak, the sacred roofs of France Evening Sonnets Evening Sounds Evening Voluntaries Evening Walk, An Ewtrees Excursion, The; being a Portion of The Recluse, a Poem Excuse is needless when with love sincere Expostulation and Reply Extempore Effusion upon the Death of James Hogg Extract from the conclusion of a poem, composed upon leaving school Extract from the Strangers bookStation Winandermere
III.397 I.398 III.417 III.397 III.70 III.437 I.649 III.397 III.763 III.388 III.123 III.477 III.643 III.571 III.37 III.679 III.747 III.23 I.630 III.591 III.351 III.548 III.590 III.12 III.48 III.729 III.417 I.48 I.39 III.686 I.82 I.748 II.298 III.602 I.365 III.723 III.65 III.609
138 The Poems of William Wordsworth Extracts from The Vale of Esthwaite Fact, and an Imagination, A; Or, Canute and Alfred Faëry Chasm, The Failing impartial measure to dispense Fair Ellen Irwin, when she sate Fair is the Swan, whose majesty—prevailing Fair Lady! can I sing of flowers Fair Land! Thee all men greet with joy; how few Fair Prime of life! were it enough to gild Fair Star of Evening, Splendor of the West Fairy skill Fall of the Aar—Handec, The Fallen, and diffus’d into a shapeless heap Fame tells of Groves—from England far away— Fancy and Tradition Fancy, who leads the pastimes of the glad Far from [ ] Grasmere’s lake serene Far from my dearest friend, ’tis mine to rove Farewell Lines (“High bliss is only for a higher state”) Farewell, thou little Nook of mountain ground Farmer of Tilsbury Vale, The. A Character Father! to God himself we cannot give Fear hath a hundred eyes that all agree February 1816 Feel for the wrongs to universal ken Feelings of a Noble Biscayan at one of these funerals 1810 Feelings of the Tyrolese Female Vagrant The Festivals have I seen that were not names Fidelity Filial Piety First Floweret of the year is that which shows Fish-women Fit retribution, by the moral code Five years have passed; five summers, with the length Flattered with promise of escape Flower Garden, A Flowers Flowers on the Top of the Pillars at the Entrance of the Cave
I.35 III.100 III.353 III.734 I.398 III.102 III.758 III.550 III.594 I.639 III.712 III.435 III.366 III.143 III.505 III.588 III.37 I.82 III.609 I.736 I.476 III.418 III.399 III.80 III.567 III.31 III.20 I.314 I.641 I.591 III.612 III.577 III.427 III.558 I.372 III.683 III.578 III.351 III.502
Index to the Three Volumes 139 Fly, some kind Spirit, fly to Grasmere Vale! I.743 Fond words have oft been spoken to thee, Sleep! I.632 For action born, existing to be tried III.540 For ever hallowed be this morning fair III.374 For gentlest uses, oft-times Nature takes III.437 For Lubbock vote—no legislative Hack III.682 For thirst of power that Heaven disowns III.775 For what contend the wise? for nothing less III.413 Forbear to deem the Chronicler unwise III.537 Force of Prayer, The; Or the Founding of Bolton Priory. A Tradition.II.633 Foregoing Subject Resumed, The [Lines Suggested by a Portrait] III.708 Foresight, Or the Charge of a Child to his younger Companion I.698 Forgive, illustrious Country! these deep sighs III.539 Forms of Prayer at Sea III.425 Forsake me not, Urania, but when Ev’n III.113 Forsaken, The I.726 Fort Fuentes—at the Head of the Lake of Como III.441 Forth from a jutting ridge, around whose base III.769 Forth rushed, from Envy sprung and Self-conceit III.735 Fountain, The. A Conversation I.432 Four fiery steeds impatient of the rein III.610 Fragment, A (“Between two sister moorland rills”) I.451 French, and the Spanish Guerillas, The III.32 From Bolton’s old monastic tower II.575 From early youth I ploughed the restless Main III.496 From false assumption rose, and fondly hail’d III.422 From little down to least—in due degree III.406 From low to high doth dissolution climb III.407 From Rite and Ordinance abused they fled III.420 From Stirling Castle we had seen I.665 From the Alban Hills, looking towards Rome III.539 From the Baptismal hour, thro’ weal and woe III.425 From the dark chambers of dejection freed III.64 From the fierce aspect of this River throwing III.436 From the Greek I.50 From the Italian of Michael Angelo (“Yes! hope may with my strong desire keep pace”) I.633 From the Pier’s head, musing—and with increase III.468 From the Same (“No mortal object did these eyes behold”) I.634
140 The Poems of William Wordsworth From the Same. To the Supreme Being (“The prayers I make will then be sweet indeed”) From this deep chasm—where quivering sun-beams play Funeral Service General View of the Troubles of the Reformation Genius of Raphael! if thy wings Gentle Zephyr Georgics, Book IV, Lines 511–515 Giordano, verily thy Pencil’s skill Gipsies Glad sight wherever new with old Glad Tidings Gleaner, The. (Suggested by a Picture.) Glen-almain, or the Narrow Glen Glory to God! and to the Power who came Go back to antique Ages, if thine eyes Go, faithful Portrait! and where long hath knelt Gold and Silver Fishes, in a Vase Goody Blake, and Harry Gill, A True Story Gordale Grace Darling Grant, that by this unsparing Hurricane Grateful is Sleep, my life in stone bound fast Grateful is Sleep; more grateful still to be Grave-stone upon the Floor in the Cloisters of Worcester Cathedral, A Great Men have been among us; hands that penn’d Green Linnet, The Greenock Greta, what fearful listening! when huge stones Greyhound Ballad Grief, thou hast lost an ever ready Friend Grieve for the Man who hither came bereft Gunpowder Plot Had this effulgence disappeared Hail to the fields—with Dwellings sprinkled o’er Hail Twilight,—sovereign of one peaceful hour! Hail, universal Source of pure delight! Hail, Virgin Queen! o’er many an envious bar
I.634 III.355 III.425 III.396 III.641 I.739 II.751 III.774 I.672 III.760 III.374 III.616 I.658 III.412 III.594 III.682 III.667 I.322 III.135 III.760 III.394 III.737 III.736 III.613 I.646 I.682 III.504 III.489 I.72 III.47 III.543 III.399 III.124 III.354 III.48 III.82 III.397
Index to the Three Volumes 141 Hail, Zaragoza! If with unwet eye Happy the feeling from the bosom thrown Hard task! exclaim the undisciplined, to lean Hark! ’tis the Thrush, undaunted, undeprest Harp! couldst thou venture, on thy boldest string Hart’s-Horn Tree, near Penrith Hart-leap Well Hast thou seen, with train incessant Hast thou then survived Haydon! let worthier judges praise the skill He who defers his work from day to day Her eyes are wild, her head is bare Her only Pilot the soft breeze the Boat Here let us rest—here, where the gentle beams Here M. ————sleep[s] who liv’d a patriarch’s days Here Man more purely lives, less oft doth fall Here on their knees men swore: the stones were black Here pause: the Poet claims at least this praise Here stood an Oak, that long had borne affixed Here, where, of havoc tired and rash undoing High bliss is only for a higher state High deeds, O Germans, are to come from you! High in the breathless Hall the Minstrel sate High is our calling, Friend!—Creative Art High o’er the silver Rocks I rov’d High on a broad unfertile tract of forest-skirted Down High on her speculative Tower Highland Broach, The Highland Hut Hint from the Mountains for Certain Political Aspirants Hints for the Fancy His Descendants His simple truths did Andrew glean Hoarse sound the swoln and angry floods Hôffer Holy and heavenly Spirits as they were Home at Grasmere Homeward we turn. Isle of Columba’s Cell Hope
III.18 III.602
III.549, 566 III.733 III.400 III.482 I.377 III.127 I.744 III.679 III.701 I.346 III.608 III.122 I.23 III.385 III.503 III.34 III.482 III.746 III.609 I.694 I.703 III.80 I.17 III.743 III.445 III.484 III.478 III.126 III.354 III.380 I.403 I.42 III.23 III.398 I.558 III.504 I.41
142 The Poems of William Wordsworth Hope rules a land for ever green Hope smiled when your nativity was cast Hopes what are they?—Beads of morning Horace To Apollo Horn of Egremont Castle, The How art thou named? In search of what strange land How beautiful the Queen of Night, on high How beautiful your presence, how benign How beautiful, when up a lofty height How blest the Maid whose heart—yet free How clear, how keen, how marvellously bright How disappeared he?” Ask the newt and toad How fast the Marian death-list is unrolled! How long will ye round me be roaring How profitless the relics that we cull How rich that forehead’s calm expanse! How rich the wave, in front, imprest How shall I paint thee?—Be this naked stone How soon—alas! did Man, created pure— How sweet at Eve’s still hour the song How sweet in Life’s tear-glistering morn How sweet it is, when mother Fancy rocks How sweet, when crimson colors dart Humanity, delighting to behold Humanity. (Written in the Year 1829.) Hunger, and sultry heat, and nipping blast Hymn for the Boatmen, as they Approach the Rapids, under the Castle of Heidelberg I am not One who much or oft delight I bring, ye little noisy crew! I dropped my pen;—and listened to the wind I find it written of Simonides I griev’d for Buonaparte, with a vain I hate that Andrew Jones: he’ll breed I have a boy of five years old I have been here in the Moon-light I heard (alas, ’twas only in a dream) I heard a thousand blended notes I know an aged Man constrained to dwell
III.613 III.502 III.128 I.49 I.603 III.583 III.773 III.377 III.730 III.447 III.81 III.479 III.414 I.70 III.483 III.578 I.363 III.350 III.421 I.37 I.40 I.629 I.479 III.97 III.673 III.32 III.432 I.699 I.483 III.18 I.734 I.640 I.417 I.330 I.727 III.108 I.334 III.770
Index to the Three Volumes 143 I listen—but no faculty of mine I marvel how Nature could ever find space I met Louisa in the shade I only look’d for pain and grief I rose while yet the cattle, heat-opprest I saw a Mother’s eye intensely bent I saw an aged Beggar in my walk I saw far off the dark top of a Pine I saw the figure of a lovely Maid I shiver, Spirit fierce and bold I shiver, Spirit fierce and bold I the while I thought of Thee, my partner and my guide I travell’d among unknown Men I wandered lonely as a Cloud I was thy Neighbour once, thou rugged Pile! I watch, and long have watch’d, with calm regret I, who descended with glad step to chase I will be that fond Mother I’ve watch’d you now a full half hour Idiot Boy, The Idle Shepherd-boys, Or Dungeon-gill Force, A Pastoral, The If from the public way you turn your steps If grief dismiss me not to them that rest If Life were slumber on a bed of down If money I lack If Nature, for a favorite Child If the whole weight of what we think and feel If there be Prophets on whose spirits rest If these brief Records, by the Muses’ art If this great world of joy and pain If thou in the dear love of some one friend If Thou indeed derive thy light from Heaven If to Tradition faith be due If with old love of you, dear Hills! I share Illustrated Books and Newspapers Illustration Imaginative Regrets Imitation of Juvenal, Satire VIII
III.439 I.450 I.590 I.752 III.360 III.416 I.442 III.535 III.401 III.724 I.721 I.42 III.363 I.616 I.670 I.709 III.82 III.368 I.740 I.675 I.349 I.409 I.461 I.52 III.519 III.130 I.429 III.593 III.368 III.603 III.683 I.414 III.52 III.484 III.553 III.774 III.399 III.394 I.60
144 The Poems of William Wordsworth Immured in Bothwell’s Towers, at times the Brave III.480 In a Carriage, upon the Banks of the Rhine III.431 In a Garden of the same III.45 In a smooth croft of Lorton’s pleasant Vale I.748 In Allusion to Various Recent Histories and Notices of the French Revolution III.563 In Brugès town is many a street III.467 In desultory walk through orchard grounds III.752 In distant countries I have been I.343 In due observance of an ancient rite III.30 In Evening tints of joy [array’d] I.37 In Lombardy III.550 In my mind’s eye a Temple, like a cloud III.606 In Sight of the Town of Cockermouth III.490 In the Cathedral at Cologne III.430 In the Channel, between the Coast of Cumberland and the Isle of Man III.493 In the Frith of Clyde, Ailsa Crag. (July 17, 1833.) III.498 In the Grounds of Coleorton, the Seat of Sir George Beaumont, Bart. Leicestershire III.43 In the Sound of Mull III.476 In the sweet shire of Cardigan I.327 In these fair Vales hath many a Tree III.676 In this still place, remote from men I.658 In trellis’d shed with clustering roses gay II.573 In youth from rock to rock I went I.588 Incident at Brugès III.467 Incident, Characteristic of a favourite Dog, which belonged to a Friend of the Author I.690 Indignation of a High-minded Spaniard. 1810 III.32 Indulgent Muse, if Thou the labour share III.126 Infant M——— M———, The III.585 Influence Abused III.381 Inland, within a hollow Vale, I stood I.644 Inmate of a mountain Dwelling III.106 Inscribed upon a rock III.127 Inscription (“The massy Ways, carried across these Heights”) III.592 Inscription for a Monument in Crosthwaite Church, in the Vale of Keswick III.763
Index to the Three Volumes 145 Inscription for a National Monument in Commemoration of the Battle of Waterloo III.79 Inscription for a seat by the pathway side ascending to Windy Brow I.55 Inscription for a Seat in the Groves of Coleorton III.45 Inscription for the House (an Outhouse) on the Island at Grasmere I.415 Inscription for the Spot where the Hermitage stood on St. Herbert’s Island, Derwent-water I.414 Inscription Intended for a Stone in the Grounds of Rydal Mount III.676 Inscriptions, supposed to be found in, and near, a hermit’s cell III.127 Inside of King’s College Chapel, Cambridge III.411 Intent on gathering wool from hedge and brake III.758 Interdict, An III.384 Intrepid sons of Albion!—not by you III.79 Introduction (“I, who descended with glad step to chase”) III.368 Iona. (Upon Landing.) III.503 Is Death, when evil against good has fought III.556 Is it a Reed that’s shaken by the wind I.639 Is then no nook of English ground secure III.764 Is then the final page before me spread III.462 Is there a Power that can sustain and cheer III.20 Is this, ye Gods, the Capitolian Hill? III.535 Isle of Man III.495 It is a beauteous Evening, calm and free I.637 It is no Spirit who from Heaven hath flown I.675 It is not to be thought of that the Flood I.646 It is the first mild day of March I.326 It seems a day, / One of those heavenly days which cannot die I.435 It was a moral end for which they fought III.23 It was an April morning: fresh and clear I.454 Italian Itinerant, and the Swiss Goatherd, The III.442 Jesu! bless our slender Boat III.432 Jewish Family, A III.641 Jones! when from Calais southward you and I I.640 Journey Renewed III.360 June, 1820 (“Fame tells of Groves—from England far away—”) III.143 Jung-Frau—and the Rhine at Shauffhausen, The III.434 Just as the blowing thorn began I.480 Just as those final words were penned, the sun broke out in power III.743 Keep for the Young the empassioned smile III.457
146 The Poems of William Wordsworth King of Sweden, The Kitten and the Falling Leaves, The Labourer’s Noon-day Hymn, The Lady! a Pen, perhaps, with thy regard Lady! I rifled a Parnassian Cave Lady! the songs of Spring were in the grove Lament for Bion (from Moschus) Lament of Mary Queen of Scots, on the Eve of a New Year Lament! for Dioclesian’s fiery sword Lance, shield, and sword relinquished—at his side Laodamia Last night, without a voice, this Vision spake Last of the Flock, The Last Supper, by Leonardo da Vinci, in the Refectory of the Convent of Maria Della Grazia—Milan, The Late on a breezy vernal eve Latimer and Ridley Latitudinarianism Laud Laura, farewell my Laura! Let more ambitious Poets take the heart Let other Bards of Angels sing Let thy wheelbarrow alone Let us quit the leafy Arbour Liberty (Sequel to the Above [Gold and Silver Fishes].) Lie here sequester’d:—be this little mound Life with yon Lambs, like day, is just begun Like a shipwreck’d Sailor tost Lines Composed at Grasmere Lines left upon a seat in a Yew-tree which Stands near the Lake of Esthwaite, on a desolate part of the shore, yet commanding a beautiful prospect. Lines on Milton Lines on the Bicentenary of Hawkshead School Lines on the Expected Invasion. 1803 Lines Suggested by a Portrait from the Pencil of F. Stone Lines written a few miles above Tintern Abbey, On revisiting the banks of the Wye during a tour, July 13, 1798 Lines written at a small distance from my house, and sent by my
I.642 I.609 III.702 III.709 III.141 I.636 I.50 III.109 III.370 III.378 III.66 III.401 I.343 III.445 I.728 III.414 III.402 III.400 I.738 III.747 III.580 I.416 III.117 III.669 I.692 III.735 III.694 I.708 I.312 I.52 I.11 I.743 III.704 I.372
Index to the Three Volumes 147 little boy to the person to whom they are addressed I.326 Lines written in early spring I.334 Lines Written in the Album of the Countess of ———. Nov. 5, 1834 III.709 Lines written near Richmond, upon the Thames, at Evening I.363 Lines Written with a Slate pencil upon a Stone, the largest of a heap lying near a deserted Quarry upon one of the Islands at Rydale I.428 List! the bell-Sprite stuns my ears I.45 List! the death-bell stuns mine ears I.45 List, the winds of March are blowing III.697 List—’twas the Cuckoo.—O with what delight III.540 List, ye who pass by Lyulph’s Tower III.513 Liturgy, The III.406 Lo! in the burning West, the craggy nape III.456 Lo! where she stands fixed in a saint-like trance III.737 Lo! where the Moon along the sky III.729 Local Recollection on the Heights near Hockheim III.432 London, 1802 I.646 Lone Flower, hemmed in with snows and white as they III.135 Long-favoured England! be not thou misled III.564 Long has the dew been dried on tree and lawn III.538 Lonsdale! it were unworthy of a Guest III.508 Look, five blue eggs are gleaming there! I.673 Look now on that Adventurer who hath paid III.19 Lord of the Vale! astounding Flood! III.54 Loud is the Vale! the Voice is up I.708 Louisa I.590 Love Lies Bleeding III.703 Loving she is, and tractable, though wild III.49 Lowther! in thy majestic Pile are seen III.508 Lucy Gray I.407 Lulled by the sound of pastoral bells III.454 Lyre! though such power do in thy magic live III.751 Lyrical Ballads, and Other Poems I.312 Mad Mother, The I.346 Malham Cove III.134 Man’s life is like a Sparrow, mighty King! III.375 Manciple, The (from the Prologue) and his Tale; Translation of Chaucer’s II.659
148 The Poems of William Wordsworth Manciple’s Tale, The
Mark the concentred Hazels that enclose Marriage Ceremony, The Mary Queen of Scots (Landing at the Mouth of the Derwent, Workington) Maternal Grief Mathew Elegies Matron of Jedborough and Her Husband, The Meek Virgin Mother, more benign melancholy joy Melts into silent shades the Youth, discrowned Memorial, Memorials of a Tour in Italy Memorials of a Tour on the Continent, 1820 Memory Men of the Western World! in Fate’s dark book Men, who have ceased to reverence, soon defy Mercy and Love have met thee on thy road Methinks that I could trip o’er heaviest soil Methinks that to some vacant Hermitage Methinks ’twere no unprecedented feat Methought I saw the footsteps of a throne Michael Angelo in reply to the passage upon his statue of Night sleeping Michael, A Pastoral Poem Mid-noon is past;—upon the sultry mead Milton! thou should’st be living at this hour Mine ear has rung, my spirits sunk subdued Miserrimus!” and neither name nor date Missions and Travels Modern Athens, The Monastery of Old Bangor Monastic Domes! following my downward way Monastic Voluptuousness Monks, and Schoolmen Monument Commonly Called Long Meg and Her Daughters, near the River Eden, The Monument of Mrs. Howard, (By Nollekins,) in Wetheral Church, near Corby, on the Banks of the Eden
II.660 III.11 III.423 III.492 III.49 I.480 I.659 III.437 I.35 III.413 III.434 III.524 III.427 III.577 III.564 III.398 III.369 III.397 III.378 III.359 I.636 III.737 I.461 III.359 I.646 III.409 III.613 III.379 III.487 III.373 III.408 III.391 III.386 III.510 III.506
Index to the Three Volumes 149 Moods of My Own Mind More may not be by human Art exprest Morning Exercise, A Most sweet it is with unuplifted eyes Mother! whose virgin bosom was uncrost Motions and Means, on land and sea at war Motto intended for Poems on the naming of Places Musings Near Aquapendente Mutability My frame hath often trembled with delight My heart leaps up when I behold My Lesbia let us love and live My Lord and Lady Darlington Nay, Traveller! rest. This lonely yew-tree stands Near Anio’s stream, I spied a gentle Dove Near Rome, in Sight of St. Peter’s Near the Lake of Thrasymene Near the Same Lake Near the spring of the hermitage Never enlivened with the liveliest ray New Church Yard New Churches Next morning Troilus began to clear Night Thought, A No fiction was it of the antique age No more: the end is sudden and abrupt No mortal object did these eyes behold No record tells of lance opposed to lance No whimsy of the purse is here Nor can Imagination quit the shores Nor scorn the aid which Fancy oft doth lend Nor shall the eternal roll of praise reject Nor unregarded may I pass thee by Nor wants the cause the panic-striking aid Norman Boy, The Norman Conquest, The Not a breath of air / Ruffles the bosom of this leafy glen Not envying shades which haply yet may throw Not hurled precipitous from steep to steep
I.667 III.739 III.588 III.509 III.393 III.507 I.726 III.524 III.407 III.357 I.669 I.16 III.610 I.312 III.538 III.538 III.539 III.540 III.129 III.703 III.410 III.409 II.654 III.729 III.353 III.483 I.634 III.361 I.749 III.387 III.376 III.403 II.570 III.372 III.743 III.382 III.715 III.349 III.362
150 The Poems of William Wordsworth Not in the lucid intervals of life Not in the mines beyond the western main Not (like his great compeers) indignantly Not Love, nor War, nor the tumultuous swell Not ’mid the World’s vain objects that enslave Not pangs of grief for lenient time too keen Not sedentary all: there are who roam Not seldom, clad in radiant vest Not so that Pair whose youthful spirits dance Not the whole warbling grove in concert heard Not to the clouds, not to the cliff, he flew Not to the object specially designed Not utterly unworthy to endure Not without heavy grief of heart did He November 1, 1815 November, 1806 November, 1813 November, 1836 Now hollow sounding all around I hear Now that a Parthenon ascends, to crown Now that all hearts are glad, all faces bright Now that Astrology is out of date Now that the farewell tear is dried Now we are tired of boisterous joy Now when the Gods had crush’d the Asian State Now when the primrose makes a splendid show Nun’s Well, Brigham Nunnery Nuns fret not at their Convent’s narrow room Nutting O blithe New-comer! I have heard O dearer far than light and life are dear O flower of all that springs from gentle blood O Fools that we were, we had land which we sold O for a dirge! But why complain? O, for a kindling touch of that pure flame O for the help of Angels to complete O Friend! I know not which way I must look O gentle Sleep! do they belong to thee
III.687 III.509 III.433 III.568 III.17 III.496 III.379 III.130 III.353 III.606 III.500 III.556 III.393 III.24 III.81 I.651 III.52 III.729 I.39 III.487 III.52 III.683 III.442 I.676 II.727 III.740 III.491 III.507 I.628 I.435 I.674 III.583 III.29 I.727 III.586 III.80 III.430 I.645 I.631
Index to the Three Volumes 151 O Lelius, beauteous flower of gentleness III.28 O Lord, our Lord! how wonderously (quoth she) II.635 O mountain Stream! the Shepherd and his Cot I.633 O Mountain Stream! the Shepherd and his Cot III.355 O Nightingale! thou surely art I.668 O there is blessing in this gentle Breeze III.144 O Thou who movest onward with a mind III.28 O Thou! whose fancies from afar are brought I.614 O’er the wide earth, on mountain and on plain III.22 O’erweening Statesmen have full long relied III.31 Oak and the Broom, A Pastoral, The I.403 Oak of Guernica! Tree of holier power III.30 Oak of Guernica, The III.30 Obligations of Civil to Religious Liberty III.404 Occasioned by the Same Battle. February 1816 III.79 October, 1803 (“Six thousand Veterans practis’d in War’s game”) I.650 October, 1803 (“These times touch money’d Worldlings with dismay”) I.648 October, 1803 (“When, looking on the present face of things”) I.649 October, 1803 I.647 ODE (“There was a time when meadow, grove, and stream”) I.712 Ode (“Who rises on the banks of Seine”) III.98 Ode.—1817 III.113 Ode (from Horace) I.60 Ode to Duty I.617 Ode, composed in January 1816 III.93 Ode, Composed on May Morning III.595 Ode, Composed upon an Evening of Extraordinary Splendor and Beauty III.124 Ode, Performed in the Senate-house, Cambridge, on the Sixth of July, M.DCCC.XLVII. At the first Commencement after the Installation of His Royal Highness The Prince Albert, Chancellor of the University. Installation Ode. III.775 Ode. The morning of the day appointed for a general thanksgiving. January 18, 1816 III.82 Ode. The Pass of Kirkstone III.120 Ode, to Lycoris, May, 1817 III.116 Of mortal Parents is the Hero born III.23 Oft had I heard of Lucy Gray I.407
152 The Poems of William Wordsworth Oft have I caught from fitful breeze III.510 Oft have I seen, ere Time had ploughed my cheek III.568 Oft is the Medal faithful to its trust III.45 Oft, through thy fair domains, illustrious Peer! II.298 Oh! bless’d all bliss above I.740 Oh Life! without thy chequered scene III.466 Oh now that the genius of Bewick were mine I.418 Oh there is blessing in this gentle breeze II.11 Oh thou whose fixed, bewildered eye I.57 Oh what a Wreck! how changed in mien and speech! III.732 Oh! what’s the matter? what’s the matter? I.322 Old Abbeys III.408 Old Cumberland Beggar, A Description, The I.442 Old Man Travelling I.367 On a Celebrated Event in Ancient History III.34 On a Nursery piece of the same, by a Scottish Bard— III.571 On a Portrait of the Duke of Wellington, upon the Field of Waterloo, by Haydon III.746 On an Event in Col: Evans’s redoubted performances in Spain III.729 On Approaching the Staub-Bach, Lauterbrunnen III.435 On Being Stranded near the Harbour of Boulogne III.456 On Cain a Mystery dedicated to Sir Walter Scott III.571 On Entering Douglas Bay, Isle of Man III.494 On Hearing the “Ranz Des Vaches” on the Top of the Pass of St. Gothard III.439 On his morning rounds the Master I.690 On, loitering Muse!—The swift Stream chides us—on! III.354 On Man, on Nature, and on Human Life II.300 On Religion’s holy hill I.52 On Revisiting Dunolly Castle III.499 On Seeing a Needlecase in the Form of a Harp, the Work of E. M. S. III.607 On seeing some Tourists of the Lakes pass by reading; a practise very common. I.722 On the Banks of a Rocky Stream III.776 On the death of an unfortunate Lady. I.20 On the Death of His Late Majesty III.141 On the Departure of Sir Walter Scott from Abbotsford, for Naples III.472 On the Disinterment of the Remains of the Duke D’enghien III.101
Index to the Three Volumes 153 On the Extinction of the Venetian Republic I.641 On the Final Submission of the Tyrolese III.23 On the Frith of Clyde. (In a Steam-Boat.) III.499 On the Lake of Brientz III.436 On the Power of Sound III.623 On the Same Occasion (“When in the antique age of bow and spear”) III.575 On the same Subject (“Though I beheld at first with blank surprise”) III.738 On the Sight of a Manse in the South of Scotland III.473 On tiptoe forward as I lean’d aghast I.44 On to Iona!—What can she afford III.502 Once did She hold the gorgeous East in fee I.641 Once I could hail (howe’er serene the sky) III.600 Once in a lonely Hamlet I sojourn’d I.695 Once more I welcome Thee, and Thou, fair Plant II.274 Once more the Church is seized with sudden fear III.389 Once on the brow of yonder Hill I stopped I.558 Once on the top of Tynwald’s formal mound III.497 One might believe that natural miseries I.647 One morning (raw it was and wet I.595 One who was suffering tumult in his soul III.136 Open Prospect III.354 Open your Gates ye everlasting Piles! III.410 Orchard Pathway, The I.587 Orchard Pathway, to and fro I.587 Orlando, who great length of time had been I.740 Other Benefits III.386 Other Influences III.377 Our bodily life, some plead, that life the shrine III.558 Our Lady of the Snow III.437 Our walk was far among the antient trees I.461 Outstretching flame-ward his upbraided hand III.396 Oxford, May 30, 1820 (“Shame on this faithless heart! that could allow”) III.142 Oxford, May 30, 1820 (“Ye sacred Nurseries of blooming Youth!”) III.142 Pansies, Lilies, Kingcups, Daisies I.597 Papal Abuses III.384 Papal Dominion III.385
154 The Poems of William Wordsworth Parsonage in Oxfordshire, A Part fenced by man, part by a rugged steep Pastor and Patriot! at whose bidding rise Pastoral Character Patriotic Sympathies Patriots informed with Apostolic light Paulinus Pause, courteous Spirit!—Balbi supplicates Pause, Traveller! whosoe’er thou be Peasant’s Life, The Pedlar, The Pelion and Ossa flourish side by side Pellucid Spring! unknown beyond the verge People! your chains are severing link by link People! your chains are severing link by link Perhaps some needful service of the State Persecution of the Scottish Convenanters Persecution Persuasion Peter Bell, a Tale Pet-lamb, A Pastoral, The Picture of Daniel in the Lion’s Den, at Hamilton Palace Pilgrim Fathers, The Pilgrim’s Dream, or, the Star and the Glow-worm, The Pillar of Trajan, The Pine of Monte Mario at Rome, The Pity (“Now too while o’er the heart we feel”) Pity (“What tho’ my griefs must never flow”) Pity mourn in plaintive tone Placard for a Poll bearing an Old Shirt Place of Burial in the South of Scotland, A Places of Worship Plain of Donnerdale, The Plea for Authors, A. May, 1838 Plea for the Historian Pleasures newly found are sweet Poems Composed during a Tour, Chiefly on Foot Poems, in Two Volumes Poems on the Naming of Places
III.569 III.473 III.492 III.405 III.401 III.421 III.374 III.25 III.127 II.568 I.286 I.720 II.294 III.475 III.561 III.27 III.414 III.370 III.375 I.487 I.438 III.480 III.420 III.132 III.551 III.535 I.36 I.35 I.16 III.130 III.473 III.405 III.357 III.734 III.537 I.599 I.619 I.587 I.453
Index to the Three Volumes 155 Poems Written During a Tour in Scotland I.652 Poet and the Caged Turtledove, The III.642 Poet to his Grandchild, A. (Sequel to the Foregoing.) III.736 Poet’s Epitaph, A I.448 Point at Issue, The III.413 Poor Robin III.740 Poor Susan I.414 Portentous change when History can appear III.563 Power of Music I.687 Praised be the Art whose subtle power could stay III.35 Praised be the Rivers, from their mountain-springs III.419 Preface [to The Excursion] II.298 Prefatory Sonnet (“Nuns fret not at their Convent’s narrow room”) I.628 Prelude (“In desultory walk through orchard grounds”) III.752 Prelude, The (1798–1799) I.530 Prelude, The (1805–1806) II.11 Prelude, The (1824–1839) III.144 Presentiments III.665 Presentiments! they judge not right III.665 Press’d with conflicting thoughts of love and fear II.291 Primitive Saxon Clergy III.377 Primrose of the Rock, The III.656 Prioress’s Tale, The; Translation of Chaucer’s II.635 Prithee gentle Lady list III.602 Processions, Suggested on a Sabbath Morning in the Vale of Chamouny III.451 Prologue to The Affliction of Mary —— of ——(written for the Lyrical Ballads) I.718 Prompt transformation works the novel lore III.376 Protest against the Ballot. 1838 III.735 Proud were ye, Mountains, when, in times of old III.765 Pure element of waters! wheresoe’er III.134 Pursued by Hate, debarred from friendly care III.400 Queen and Negress chaste and fair! III.570 Queen of the stars!—so gentle, so benign III.718 Question and Answer III.683 Ranging the Heights of Scawfell or Black-coom III.493 Rapt above earth by power of one fair face III.547 Realms quake by turns: proud Arbitress of grace III.384
156 The Poems of William Wordsworth Recollection of the Portrait of King Henry Eighth, Trinity Lodge, Cambridge Record we too, with just and faithful pen Recovery Redbreast and the Butterfly, The Redbreast, The. (Suggested in a Westmoreland Cottage.) Redoubted King, of courage leonine Reflections Regrets Reluctant call it was; the rite delayed Remembering how thou didst beguile Reproof Resolution and Independence Rest and Be Thankful, at the Head of Glencoe Rest, rest, perturbed Earth! Resting-place, The Retired Marine Officer, Isle of Man, The Retirement Return (“A dark plume fetch me from yon blasted Yew”) Return, Content! for fondly I pursued Revival of Popery Reynolds come thy pencil prove Richard I Rid of a vexing and a heavy load Rise!—they have risen: of brave Aneurin ask River Duddon, a series of Sonnets, The River Eden, Cumberland, The Rob Roy’s Grave Roman Antiquities Discovered, at Bishopstone, Herefordshire Roman Antiquities. (From the Roman Station at Old Penrith.) Rotha, my Spiritual Child! this head was grey Rude is this Edifice, and Thou hast seen Ruined Cottage, The. A Poem Rural Architecture Rural Ceremony Rural Illusions Russian Fugitive, The Ruth Sacheverell
III.569 III.386 III.371 I.594 III.712 III.383 III.394 III.407 III.561 I.481 III.378 I.624 III.478 III.92 III.359 III.496 III.593 III.356 III.360 III.413 I.14 III.383 I.722 III.372 III.349 III.505 I.652 III.611 III.483 III.581 I.415 I.270 I.448 III.406 III.663 III.643 I.421 III.415
Index to the Three Volumes 157 Sacrament III.417 Sacred Religion, “mother of form and fear,” III.356 Sad thoughts, avaunt!—the fervour of the year III.359 Said red-ribbon’d Evans III.733 Said Secrecy to Cowardice and Fraud III.562 Sailor’s Mother, The I.595 Saints III.392 Same Subject, The (“Not so that Pair whose youthful spirits dance”)III.353 Same Subject, The [“The lovely Nun (submissive but more meek”] III.392 Same, The (“Holy and heavenly Spirits as they were”) III.398 Same, The (“What awful pèrspective! while from our sight”) III.411 Saxon Conquest III.372 Saxon Monasteries, and Lights and Shades of the Religion III.379 Say, what is Honour?—Tis the finest sense III.17 Say, ye far-travelled clouds, far-seeing hills III.473 Scattering, like Birds escaped the Fowler’s net III.397 Scene in Venice III.384 Scene III.436 Scenery Between Namur and Liege III.429 Scenes I.39 Scorn not the Sonnet; Critic, you have frowned III.605 Screams round the Arch-druid’s brow the Seamew—white III.369 Seathwaite Chapel III.356 Seclusion III.378 See the Condemned alone within his cell III.559 See what gay wild flowers deck this earth-built Cot III.478 See, where his difficult way that Old Man wins III.550 Seek who will delight in fable III.765 Sentiments of Affection for inanimate Nature I.37 September 1st, 1802 I.643 September, 1802 I.644 September 1815 III.81 September, 1819 III.138 Septimi, Gades I.57 Septimius and Acme I.51 Septimius thus his [ ] love addressed I.51 Sequel to the Foregoing [Beggars] composed many years after III.111 Sequel to the Norman Boy III.743 Serving no haughty Muse, my hands have here III.732
158 The Poems of William Wordsworth Seven Daughters had Lord Archibald Seven Sisters, Or the Solitude of Binnorie, The Shame on this faithless heart! that could allow She dwelt among th’ untrodden ways She had a tall Man’s height, or more She was a Phantom of delight She wept.—Life’s purple tide began to flow Sheep-washing Shepherd of Bield Crag, The Shipwreck of the Soul Shout, for a mighty Victory is won! Show me the noblest Youth of present time Shun not this Rite, neglected, yea abhorred Sigh no more Ladies, sigh no more Simon Lee, The Old Huntsman, with an incident in which he was concerned Since risen from ocean, ocean to defy Six months to six years added, He remain’d Six thousand Veterans practis’d in War’s game Sky-Prospect—From the Plain of France Small Celandine, The (“There is a Flower, the Lesser Celandine”) Small service is true service while it lasts Smile of the Moon—for so I name So fair, so sweet, withal so sensitive Soft as a cloud is yon blue Ridge—the Mere Sole listener, Duddon! to the breeze that play’d Solitary Reaper, The Some minds have room alone for pageant stories Somnambulist, The Son of my buried Son, while thus thy hand Song (“She dwelt among th’ untrodden ways”) Song, at the Feast of Brougham Castle Song for the Spinning Wheel Founded upon a Belief Prevalent among the Pastoral Vales of Westmorland Song for the Wandering Jew Sonnet (“The Stars are Mansions built by Nature’s hand”) Sonnet. (Composed at —— Castle.) Sonnet. A Prophecy. Feb. 1807 Sonnet. September 25th, 1803
I.612 I.612 III.142 I.401 I.619 I.593 I.21 III.359 II.570 I.47 I.651 III.617 III.425 III.746 I.327 III.498 III.52 I.650 III.456 I.671 III.704 III.109 III.764 III.689 III.351 I.656 I.726 III.513 III.736 I.401 I.703 III.46 I.420 III.115 I.664 I.694 I.743
Index to the Three Volumes 159 Sonnet on Milton III.12 Sonnet, on seeing a tuft of snowdrops in a storm III.136 Sonnet, on seeing Miss Helen Maria Williams weep at a Tale of Distress I.21 Sonnet, on the detraction which followed the publication of a certain poem III.138 Sonnet on the Projected Kendal and Windermere Railway III.764 Sonnet, on the same occasion. February 1816 III.98 Sonnet, To Thomas Clarkson, On the final passing of the Bill for the Abolition of the Slave Trade, March, 1807 I.694 Sonnet written by Mr ——— immediately after the death of his Wife I.21 Sonnets Composed or Suggested during a tour in Scotland, in the Summer of 1833. III.488 Sonnets Dedicated to Liberty and Order III.561 Sonnets Dedicated to Liberty I.639 Sonnets, suggested by Mr. W. Westall’s views of the caves, &c. in Yorkshire III.134 Sonnets upon the Punishment of Death. In Series III.555 Soon did the Almighty Giver of all rest III.754 Source of the Danube, The III.433 Spade! with which Wilkinson hath till’d his Lands I.702 Spanish Guerillas. 1811 III.33 Sparrow’s Nest, The I.673 Sponsors III.418 St. Catherine of Ledbury III.611 St. Paul’s II.291 Stanzas, Composed in the Semplon Pass III.450 Stanzas on the Power of Sound III.623 Stanzas Suggested in a Steam-Boat off St. Bees’ Heads, on the Coast of Cumberland III.518 Stanzas written in my Pocket copy of the Castle of Indolence I.732 Star Gazers I.686 Stay, bold Adventurer; rest awhile thy limbs III.42 Stay, little cheerful Robin! stay III.755 Stay near me—do not take thy flight! I.667 Steamboats, Viaducts, and Railways III.507 Stepping Westward I.657 Stepping-stones, The III.352 Stern Daughter of the Voice of God! I.617
160 The Poems of William Wordsworth Strange fits of passion I have known I.400 Strange visitation! at Jemima’s lip III.592 Stranger, ’tis a sight of pleasure III.126 Stranger, this hillock of mishapen stones I.428 Stretched on the dying Mother’s lap, lies dead III.506 Struggle of the Britons against the Barbarians III.372 Such age how beautiful! O Lady bright III.591 Such contrast, in whatever track we move III.400 Such fruitless questions may not long beguile III.355 Suggested by a beautiful ruin upon one of the islands of Loch Lo mond, a place chosen for the retreat of a solitary individual, from whom this habitation acquired the name of The Brownie’s Cell III.55 Suggested by a Picture of the Bird of Paradise III.750 Suggested by a View from an Eminence in Inglewood Forest III.481 Suggested by the View of Lancaster Castle (On the Road from the South) III.555 Supposed Address to the Same, 1810 III.30 Surprized by joy—impatient as the Wind III.49 Sweet Flower! belike one day to have I.750 Sweet Highland Girl, a very shower I.662 Sweet is the holiness of Youth”—so felt III.395 Sweet was the Walk along the narrow Lane I.48 Swiftly turn the murmuring wheel! III.46 Sylph was it? or a Bird more bright III.663 Tables Turned, The I.366 Take, cradled Nursling of the mountain, take III.350 Tale of Peter Bell I.492 Tax not the royal Saint with vain expense III.411 Tell me, ye Zephyrs! that unfold III.578 Temptations from Roman Refinements III.371 Tenderly do we feel by Nature’s law III.555 Thanks for the lessons of this Spot—fit school III.501 Thanksgiving after Childbirth III.424 That gloomy cave, that gothic nich III.643 That happy gleam of vernal eyes III.616 That heresies should strike (if truth be scanned III.372 That is work which I am rueing— I.698 That vast eugh-tree, pride of Lorton Vale I.747 That way look, my Infant, lo! I.609
Index to the Three Volumes 161 The Ball whizzed by—it grazed his ear The Baptist might have been ordain’d to cry The Bard, whose soul is meek as dawning day The barren wife all sad in mind The captive Bird was gone;—to cliff or moor The cattle crowding round this beverage clear The cock is crowing The confidence of Youth our only Art The Crescent-moon, the Star of Love The Danish Conqueror, on his royal chair The dew was falling fast, the stars began to blink The embowering Rose, the Acacia, and the Pine The encircling ground, in native turf array’d The fairest, brightest hues of ether fade The feudal Keep, the bastions of Cohorn The floods are roused, and will not soon be weary The forest huge of ancient Caledon The formal World relaxes her cold chain The gallant Youth, who may have gained The gentlest Poet, with free thoughts endowed The gentlest Shade that walked Elysian Plains The glory of evening was spread through the west The God of Love—ah benedicite! The hour-bell sounds and I must go The Imperial Consort of the Fairy King The imperial Stature, the colossal stride The Kirk of Ulpha to the Pilgrim’s eye The Knight had ridden down from Wensley Moor The Lady whom you here behold The Land we from our Fathers had in trust The leaves that rustled on this oak-crowned hill The Linnet’s warble, sinking towards a close The little hedge-row birds The lovely Nun (submissive but more meek The Lovers took within this ancient grove The martial courage of a day is vain— The massy Ways, carried across these Heights The May is come again:—how sweet The Minstrels played their Christmas tune
III.729 III.547 III.79 I.72 III.499 III.491 I.669 III.431 III.747 III.100 I.438 III.43 III.410 III.47 III.494 III.507 III.481 III.560 III.469 III.750 III.36 I.370 II.643 I.70 III.366 III.569 III.362 I.377 III.601 III.20 III.690 III.688 I.367 III.392 III.505 III.33 III.592 I.682 III.363
162 The Poems of William Wordsworth The moaning owl shall soon The most alluring clouds that mount the sky The old inventive Poets, had they seen The oppression of the tumult—wrath and scorn— The peace which Others seek they find The Pibroch’s note, discountenanced or mute The ploughboy by his gingling wane The Post-boy drove with fierce career The power of Armies is a visible thing The prayers I make will then be sweet indeed The rains at length have ceas’d, the winds are still’d The Roman Consul doomed his sons to die The Sabbath bells renew the inviting peal The Scottish Broom on Bird-nest brae The Sheep-boy whistled loud, and lo! The Shepherd, looking eastward, softly said The soaring Lark is blest as proud The Spirit of Antiquity, enshrined The Star that comes at close of day to shine The Stars are Mansions built by Nature’s hand The struggling Rill insensibly is grown The Sun has long been set The sun is couched, the sea-fowl gone to rest The sun is dead—ye heard the curfew toll The Sun, that seemed so mildly to retire The Swallow, that hath lost The sylvan slopes with corn-clad fields The taper turn’ d from blue to red The tears of man in various measure gush The torrent’s yelling Spectre, seen The Turban’d Race are poured in thickening swarms The unremitting voice of nightly streams The valley rings with mirth and joy The Vested Priest before the Altar stands The Virgin Mountain, wearing like a Queen The Virgin Mountain, wearing like a Queen The Voice of Song from distant lands shall call The western clouds a deepening gloom display The wind is now thy organist;—a clank
I.42 III.758 III.357 III.373 I.726 III.474 I.39 I.622 III.34 I.634 I.759 III.556 III.424 III.131 I.755 III.11 III.667 III.428 III.740 III.115 III.352 I.668, III.692 III.691 I.21 III.691 I.739 III.138 I.39 III.395 I.41 III.383 III.616 I.409 III.423 III.399 I.642 I.54 III.473
Index to the Three Volumes 163 The woman-hearted Confessor prepares The world forsaken, all its busy cares The world is too much with us; late and soon The Young-ones gathered in from hill and dale Then did dire forms and ghastly faces float There are no colours in the fairest sky There is a bondage which is worse to bear There is a change—and I am poor There is a Flower, the Lesser Celandine There is a law severe of penury There is a pleasure in poetic pains There is a thorn; it looks so old There is a trickling water, neither rill There is an Eminence,—of these our hills There never breathed a man who when his life There!” said a Stripling, pointing with meet pride There was a Boy, ye knew him well, ye Cliffs There was a roaring in the wind all night There was a time when meadow, grove, and stream There’s an old man in London, the prime of old men There’s George Fisher, Charles Fleming, and Reginald Shore There’s not a nook within this solemn Pass There’s something in a flying horse These chairs they have no words to utter These times touch money’d Worldlings with dismay These Tourists, Heaven preserve us! needs must live These Vales were saddened with no common gloom These who gave earliest notice, as the Lark These words were utter’d in a pensive mood They called Thee merry England, in old time They dreamt not of a perishable home They seek, are sought; to daily battle led They—who have seen the noble Roman’s scorn This Book, which strives to express in tuneful sound This Height a ministering Angel might select This is the spot:—how mildly does the Sun This Land of Rainbows, spanning glens whose walls This Lawn, &c. This Lawn, a carpet all alive
III.382 III.544 I.637 III.416 I.47 III.403 I.648 I.699 I.671 I.485 III.606 I.335 I.720 I.458 III.25 III.504 I.383 I.624 I.712 I.476 I.448 III.474 I.487 I.731 I.648 I.384 III.573 III.388 I.630 III.489 III.411 III.33 III.537 I.718 III.42 I.485 III.475 III.664 III.664
164 The Poems of William Wordsworth Tho’ searching damps and many an envious flaw Thorn, The Those breathing Tokens of your kind regard Those old credulities, to nature dear Those silver clouds collected round the sun Thou look’st upon me, and dost fondly think Thou sacred Pile! whose turrets rise Thou who with youthful vigour rich, and light Though I beheld at first with blank surprise Though joy attend thee orient at the birth Though many suns have risen and set Though narrow be that Old Man’s cares, and near Though Pulpits and the Desk may fail Though the bold wings of Poesy affect Though the torrents from their fountains Though to give timely warning and deter Thought of a Briton on the Subjugation of Switzerland Thought on the Seasons Thoughts Suggested the Day Following on the Banks of Nith, near the Poet’s Residence Threats come which no submission may assuage Three Cottage Girls, The Three Graves, The Three years she grew in sun and shower Throned in the Sun’s descending car Through Cumbrian wilds, in many a mountain cove Through shattered galleries, ’mid roofless halls Thus far I write to please my Friend Thus is the storm abated by the craft Thy functions are etherial Tinker, The Tis eight o’clock,—a clear March night Tis gone—with old belief and dream Tis He whose yester-evening’s high disdain Tis said that to the brow of yon fair hill Tis said, fantastic Ocean doth enfold Tis said, that some have died for love To ——— (“From the dark chambers of dejection freed”) To ——— (“Happy the feeling from the bosom thrown”)
III.445 I.335 III.669 III.536 III.137 III.491 III.439 I.56 III.738 III.479 III.597 I.693 III.748 III.750 I.420 III.558 I.645 III.683 III.727 III.391 III.447 I.74 I.436 III.693 III.70 III.582 III.571 III.389 III.623 I.718 I.349 III.748 III.734 III.615 III.427 I.412 III.64 III.602
Index to the Three Volumes 165 To ——— (“If these brief Records, by the Muses’ art”) To ——— (“Let other Bards of Angels sing”) To ——— (“Look at the fate of summer Flowers”) To ——— (“O dearer far than light and life are dear”) To ——— (“Such age how beautiful! O Lady bright”) To ——— (“Those silver clouds collected round the sun”) To ——— (“Wait, prithee, wait!” this answer Lesbia threw) To ———, on her first ascent to the summit of Helvellyn To ———, upon the birth of her first-born child, March, 1833 To ———. With a selection from the poems of Anne, Countess of Winchelsea; and extracts of similar character from other writers; the whole transcribed by a female friend To a Butterfly (“I’ve watch’d you now a full half hour”) To a Butterfly (“Stay near me—do not take thy flight!”) To a Friend, Composed near Calais, on the Road leading to Ardres, August 7th, 1802 To a Friend (On the Banks of the Derwent) To a good Man of most dear memory To a Highland Girl. (At Inversneyde, upon Loch Lomond.) To a Lady, in Answer to a Request that I would write her a Poem upon Some Drawings that she had made of Flowers in the Island of Madeira To a Painter To a Redbreast—(In Sickness) To a Sexton To a Sky-lark (“Ethereal Minstrel! Pilgrim of the sky!”) To a Sky-lark (“Up with me! up with me into the clouds!”) To a Snow-drop, appearing very early in the Season To a Young Lady, Who had been reproached for taking long Walks in the Country To an Octogenarian To appease the Gods; or public thanks to yield To B. R. Haydon, Esq. On Seeing his Picture of Napoleon Buonaparte on the Island of St. Helena To barren heath, and quaking fen To Cordelia M——, Hallsteads, Ullswater To Enterprize To H. C., Six Years Old To Henry Crabb Robinson
III.603 III.580 III.581 III.583 III.591 III.137 III.612 III.106 III.694 III.141 I.675 I.667 I.640 III.492 III.719 I.662 III.758 III.738 III.755 I.416 III.590 I.620 III.135 I.684 III.771 III.451 III.679 III.55 III.509 III.457 I.614 III.524
166 The Poems of William Wordsworth To Joanna I.455 To kneeling Worshippers no earthly floor III.425 To Lucca Giordano III.774 To M. H. (“Our walk was far among the antient trees”) I.461 To mark the white smoke rising slow I.37 To May III.597 To Melpomene I.41 To public notice, with reluctance strong III.71 To R. B. Haydon, Esq. III.80 To Rotha Q ——— III.581 To S. H. III.602 To Sleep (“A flock of sheep that leisurely pass by”) I.631 To Sleep (“Fond words have oft been spoken to thee, Sleep!”) I.632 To Sleep (“O gentle Sleep! do they belong to thee”) I.631 To the——— (“Lady! the songs of Spring were in the grove”) I.636 To the Author’s Portrait III.682 To the Clouds II.292 To the Cuckoo (“Not the whole warbling grove in concert heard”) III.606 To the Cuckoo (“O blithe New-comer! I have heard”) I.674 To the Daisy (“In youth from rock to rock I went”) I.588 To the Daisy (“Sweet Flower! belike one day to have”) I.750 To the Daisy (“With little here to do or see”) I.688 To the Earl of Lonsdale III.508 To the grove, the meadow, the well I.739 To the Lady ———, On Seeing the Foundation Preparing for the Erection of ——— Chapel, Westmoreland III.573 To the Lady E. B. and the Hon. Miss P. III.582 To the Memory of Raisley Calvert I.638 To the Men of Kent. October, 1803 I.650 To the Moon. (Composed by the Sea-Side,—on the Coast of Cumberland.) III.716 To the Moon. (Rydal.) III.718 To the Pennsylvanians III.565 To the Planet Venus, an Evening Star. Composed at Loch Lomond III.479 To the Planet Venus, upon its Approximation (as an Evening Star) to the Earth, January 1838 III.731 To the Poet, Dyer III.41 To the Rev. Christopher Wordsworth, D.D., Master of Harrow School, after the Perusal of his Theophilus Anglicanus, recently published III.763
Index to the Three Volumes 167 To the Rev. Dr. W—— III.363 To the Right Honorable William, Earl of Lonsdale, K. G. &c. &c. II.298 To the River Derwent III.490 To the River Duddon (“O mountain Stream! the Shepherd and his Cot”) I.633 To the River Greta, near Keswick III.489 To the Same (“Enough of climbing toil!—Ambition treads”) III.123 To the Same (“Here let us rest—here, where the gentle beams”) III.122 To the Same Flower (“Bright Flower, whose home is every where!”) I.690 To the Same Flower (“Pleasures newly found are sweet”) I.599 To the Small Celandine (“Pansies, Lilies, Kingcups, Daisies”) I.597 To the Spade of a Friend I.702 To the Torrent at the Devil’s Bridge, North Wales III.583 To the Utilitarians III.701 To the Yoke he bends, / Receives the chain from Nature’s conquering hand II.568 To Toussaint L’Ouverture I.643 Too frail to keep the lofty vow III.727 Torquato Tasso rests within this Tomb III.29 Torrent I.41 Toussaint, the most unhappy Man of Men! I.643 Town of Schwytz, The III.438 Tracks let me follow far from human-kind III.435 Tradition of Darley Dale, Derbyshire, A III.615 Tradition III.358 Tradition, be thou mute! Oblivion, throw III.476 Tranquillity! the sovereign aim wert thou III.506 Translation (“When Love was born of race divine”) I.53 Translation from Ariosto, Orlando Furioso I.740 Translation from Michelangelo. Fragment I.749 Translation of the Bible III.394 Translation of the Sestet of a Sonnet by Tasso III.569 Translations from Metastasio I.738 Translations of Chaucer and Virgil II.635 Transubstantiation III.388 Travelling I.485 Trepidation of the Druids III.369 Triad, The III.617 Tributary Stream III.357
168 The Poems of William Wordsworth Tribute to the Memory of the Same Dog I.692 Troilus and Cresida, Translation of Chaucer’s II.654 Trosachs, The III.474 Troubled long with warring notions III.129 Troubles of Charles the First III.400 True is it that Ambrosio Salinero III.23 Tuft of Primroses, The II.274 Twas summer—and the sun was mounted high I.286, 270; II.308 Two April Mornings, The I.430 Two Thieves, Or the last Stage of Avarice, The I.418 Two Voices are there; one is of the Sea I.645 Tynwald Hill III.497 Uncertainty III.370 Under the shadow of a stately Pile III.546 Ungrateful Country, if thou e’er forget III.404 Unless to Peter’s Chair the viewless wind III.385 Unquiet Childhood here by special grace III.585 Untouched through all severity of cold III.612 Up, Timothy, up with your Staff and away! I.441 Up to the throne of God is borne III.702 Up! up! my friend, and clear your looks I.366 Up with me! up with me into the clouds! I.620 Upon a Portrait III.740 Upon Perusing the Foregoing Epistle Thirty Years after its Composition III.754 Upon Seeing a Coloured Drawing of the Bird of Paradise in an Album III.714 Upon the Late General Fast. March, 1832 III.561 Upon the Same Event III.35 Upon the Same Occasion III.139 Upon the Sight of a Beautiful Picture III.35 Upon the sight of the Portrait of a female Friend.— III.739 Upon those lips, those placid lips, I look III.739 Urged by Ambition, who with subtlest skill III.381 Vale of Esthwaite, The I.23 Valedictory Sonnet III.732 Vallombrosa! I longed in thy shadiest wood III.450 Vallombrosa—I longed in thy shadiest wood III.545 Vanguard of Liberty, ye Men of Kent I.650
Index to the Three Volumes 169 Various Extracts from The vale of Esthwaite A Poem. Written at Hawkshead in the Spring and Summer 1787 I.35 Vaudois, The III.419 View from the Top of Black Comb III.42 Virgil’s Aeneid, Translation of II.667 Virgin, The III.393 Visitation of the Sick III.424 Wait, prithee, wait!” this answer Lesbia threw III.612 Waldenses III.388 Walton’s Book of “Lives” III.403 Wanderer! that stoop’st so low, and com’st so near III.716 Wansfell! this Household has a favoured lot III.759 Ward of the Law!—dread Shadow of a King! III.141 Warning, a Sequel to the Foregoing, The. March, 1833 III.697 Wars of York and Lancaster III.389 Was it for this / That one, the fairest of all rivers, loved I.530 Was it to disenchant, and to undo III.430 Was the aim frustrated by force or guile III.134 Watch, and be firm! for soul-subduing vice III.371 Waterfall and the Eglantine, The I.402 We Are Seven I.332 We can endure that He should waste our lands III.32 We gaze, not sad to think that we must die III.740 We had a fellow-Passenger who came I.643 We have not passed into a doleful City III.504 We saw, but surely, in the motley crowd III.500 We talk’d with open heart, and tongue I.432 We walk’d along, while bright and red I.430 Weak is the will of Man, his judgement blind II.572; III.53 Weep not, beloved Friends! nor let the air III.27 Well have yon Railway Labourers to this ground III.769 Well sang the bard who called the Grave, in strains III.477 Well worthy to be magnified are they III.420 Were there, below, a spot of holy ground I.97 Westmoreland Girl, The III.765 What! Adam’s eldest Son in this sweet strain! III.571 What aim had they, the Pair of Monks, in size III.544 What aspect bore the Man who roved or fled III.352 What awful pèrspective! while from our sight III.411
170 The Poems of William Wordsworth What Beast in wilderness or cultured field What Beast of Chase hath broken from the cover? What boots it, * *, that thy princely blood What crowd is this? what have we here! we must not pass it by What from the social chain can tear What! He—who, mid the kindred throng What heavenly smiles! O Lady mine” What is good for a bootless bene? What know we of the Blest above What lovelier home could gentle Fancy chuse? What mischief cleaves to unsubdued regret What need of clamorous bells, or ribbands gay What strong allurement draws, what spirit guides What though the Accused, upon his own appeal What though the Italian pencil wrought not here What waste in the labour of Chariot and Steed! What you are stepping westward?” — “Yea.” When Alpine Vales threw forth a suppliant cry When, far and wide, swift as the beams of morn When first, descending from the moorlands When first I journey’d hither, to a home When haughty expectations prostrate lie When here with Carthage Rome to conflict came When human touch, as monkish books attest When I have borne in memory what has tamed When in the antique age of bow and spear When, looking on the present face of things When Love was born of race divine When Philoctetes in the Lemnian Isle When Phoebus took delight on earth to dwell When Ruth was left half desolate When Severn’s sweeping Flood had overthrown When slow from pensive twilight’s latest gleams When the Brothers reach’d the gateway When the soft hand of sleep had closed the latch Whence that low voice?—A whisper from the heart Where are they now, those wanton Boys? Where art thou, my beloved Son Where be the noisy followers of the game
III.389 III.451 I.60 I.686 I.40 III.58 III.759 II.633 III.436 III.429 III.693 III.48 III.731 III.673 III.465 I.722 I.657 III.414 III.35 III.723 I.723 III.136 III.539 III.611 I.647 III.576 I.649 I.53 III.593 II.660 I.421 III.754 I.48 I.603 III.93 III.358 III.111 I.606 III.457
Index to the Three Volumes 171 Where be the Temples which in Britain’s Isle Where holy ground begins—unhallowed ends Where lies the Land to which yon Ship must go Where lies the truth? has Man, in wisdom’s creed Where long and deeply hath been fixed the root Where Towers are crushed, and unforbidden weeds Where were ye nymphs when the remorseless deep Where will they stop, those breathing Powers While beams of orient light shoot wide and high While flowing Rivers yield a blameless sport While from the purpling east departs While Merlin paced the Cornish sands While not a leaf seems faded,—while the fields While poring Antiquarians search the ground While the Poor gather round, till the end of time While they, her Playmates once, light-hearted tread White Doe of Rylstone, The; Or the Fate of the Nortons Who but is pleased to watch the moon on high Who comes with rapture greeted, and caress’d Who fancied what a pretty sight Who is the happy Warrior? Who is he Who leads a happy life Who ponders National events shall find Who rashly strove thy Image to portray? Who rises on the banks of Seine Who swerves from innocence, who makes divorce Who weeps for Strangers?—Many wept Why art thou silent! Is thy love a plant Why cast ye back upon the Gallic shore Why, Minstrel, these untuneful murmurings— Why should the Enthusiast, journeying through this Isle Why should we weep or mourn, Angelic boy Why sleeps the future, as a snake enrolled Why stand we gazing on the sparkling Brine Why, William, on that old grey stone Wicliffe Widow on Windermere Side, The Wild Duck’s Nest, The William the Third
III.71 III.569 I.629 III.773 III.423 III.551 I.22 III.680 III.759 III.366 III.595 III.630 III.81 III.611 III.482 III.590 II.572 III.773 III.402 I.671 I.600 I.718 III.563 III.714 III.98 III.361 III.13 III.676 III.456 III.588 III.489 III.770 III.412 III.495 I.365 III.389 III.730 III.366 III.404
172 The Poems of William Wordsworth Wishing-gate, The III.613 Wishing-gate Destroyed, The III.748 With a Small Present III.737 With copious eulogy in prose or rhyme III.677 With each recurrence of this glorious morn III.53 With earnest look, to every voyager III.503 With how sad steps, O Moon, thou climb’st the sky I.621 With little here to do or see I.688 With sacrifice, before the rising morn III.66 With Ships the sea was sprinkled far and nigh I.632 With smiles each happy face was overspread III.406 Within her gilded cage confined III.584 Within the mind strong fancies work III.120 Woe to the Crown that doth the Cowl obey! III.381 Woe to you, Prelates! rioting in ease III.390 Woman! the Power who left his throne on high III.424 Would that our scrupulous Sires had dared to leave III.407 Wouldst Thou be gathered to Christ’s chosen flock III.731 Wouldst thou be taught, when sleep has taken flight III.741 Wren’s Nest, A III.684 Written at the Request of Sir George Beaumont, Bart. and in his Name, for an Urn, placed by him at the Termination of a newly-planted Avenue, in the same Grounds III.44 Written in a Blank Leaf of Macpherson’s Ossian III.510 Written in an Album III.704 Written in Germany, On one of the coldest days of the Century I.440 Written in London, September, 1802 I.645 Written in March, While resting on the Bridge at the Foot of Brother’s Water I.669 Written in Mrs. Field’s AlbumOpposite a Pen-and-ink Sketch in the Manner of a Rembrandt Etching done by Edmund Field III.643 Written in very early Youth (“Calm is all nature as a resting wheel”) I.635 Written, November 13,1814, on a blank leaf in a Copy of the Author’s Poem The Excursion, upon hearing of the death of the late Vicar of Kendal III.71 Written upon a Blank Leaf in “The Complete Angler” III.366 Written upon a fly leaf in the Copy of the Author’s Poems which was sent to her Majesty Queen Victoria III.772 Written with a Slate-pencil, on a Stone, on the Side of the Mountain of Black Comb III.42
Index to the Three Volumes 173 Yarrow Revisited Yarrow Revisited, and Other Poems . . . 1831 Yarrow Unvisited Yarrow Visited, September, 1814 Ye Apennines! with all your fertile vales Ye brood of conscience—Spectres! that frequent Ye Lime-trees, ranged before this hallowed Urn Ye now are panting up life’s hill! Ye sacred Nurseries of blooming Youth! Ye shadowy Beings, that have rights and claims Ye Storms, resound the praises of your King! Ye, too, must fly before a chasing hand Ye trees! whose slender roots entwine Ye vales and hills whose beauty hither drew Ye who with buoyant spirits blessed Yes! full surely ’twas the Echo Yes, if the intensities of hope and fear Yes! hope may with my strong desire keep pace Yes, there is holy pleasure in thine eye! Yes! thou art fair, yet be not moved Yes, though He well may tremble at the sound Yet are they here?—the same unbroken knot Yet more,—round many a Convent’s blazing fire Yet some, Noviciates of the cloistral shade Yet Truth is keenly sought for, and the wind Yet, yet, Biscayans, we must meet our Foes [Yew Trees] Yon hamlet far across the vale You call it, “Love lies bleeding,”—so you may You have heard “a Spanish Lady Young England—what is then become of Old 1810 (“Ah! where is Palafox? Nor tongue nor pen”) 1810 (“O’erweening Statesmen have full long relied”) 1811 (“They seek, are sought; to daily battle led”) Ebook users may search all three volumes simultaneously
III.469 III.469 I.665 III.62 III.524 III.557 III.44 I.664 III.142 III.501 III.98 III.392 III.548 III.763 I.55 I.701 III.406 I.633 I.693 III.768 III.560 I.672 III.391 III.392 III.402 III.31 I.748 I.41 III.703 III.658 III.567 III.18 III.31 III.34
Introducing ‘The Cornell Wordsworth’ from HEB Published in the years 1975 to 2007 the 21 volumes of ‘The Cornell Wordsworth’ have set the scholarly standard for Wordsworth’s texts, yet few students or general readers, and only a minority of scholars, are likely to own these costly library editions. Now, in The Poems of William Wordsworth: Collected Reading Texts from the Cornell Wordsworth (3 vols), Jared Curtis has collected the reading texts from all 21 volumes, making the poetry available to students, teachers and general readers in the form the poet gave it when first published or first completed. At the same time, Professor Curtis has compiled an essential tool for the scholarly user of the 21 volumes of the Cornell Wordsworth, a Supplement which contains a unified index to titles and first lines for the entire series, a guide to the hundreds of manuscripts treated in the twenty-one volumes, and a comprehensive list of the contents of Wordsworth’s many lifetime editions, together with tabulated errata and appendices. The Poems of William Wordsworth Volume 1 784 pages. Demy-Octavo Including Early Poems and Fragments, Lyrical Ballads, and Poems, in Two Volumes. Ebook: 978-1-84760-085-1. Paperback: 978-1-84760-089-9 The Poems of William Wordsworth Volume 2 784 pages. Demy-Octavo Including The Prelude (1805–1806), The Excursion, and Translations from Chaucer and Virgil. Ebook: 978-1-84760-086-8. Paperback: 978-1-84760-090-5 The Poems of William Wordsworth Volume 3 828 pages. Demy-Octavo Including Shorter Poems (1807–1820), The Prelude (1824–1829) and Last Poems.
Ebook: 978-1-84760-087-5. Paperback: 978-1-84760-091-2 The Cornell Wordsworth: A Supplement 448 pages, Royal Octavo. Ebook: 978-1-84760-088-2, Hardback: 978-1-84760-092-9
How to buy these Volumes
The 3 volumes of The Poems of William Wordsworth: Collected Reading Texts from The Cornell Wordsworth and The Cornell Wordsworth: A Supplement are available as follows: As Personal Ebooks Direct from http://www.Humanities-Ebooks.co.uk As Library Ebooks From MyiLibrary, EBSCO and Ebrary As Printed Books Direct from http://www.Troubador.co.uk at a substantial discount Or from any high street or online bookseller at retail prices
Romanticism from Humanities-Ebooks All titles in PDF; simpler ones also in ePub John Beer, Coleridge the Visionary John Beer, Blake’s Humanism Richard Gravil, Wordsworth and Helen Maria Williams; or, the Perils of Sensibility † Richard Gravil and Molly Lefebure, eds, The Coleridge Connection: Essays for Thomas McFarland Simon Hull, ed., The British Periodical Text, 1796–1832 W. J. B. Owen, Understanding The Prelude Pamela Perkins, ed., Francis Jeffrey: Unpublished Tours.† The Fenwick Notes of William Wordsworth, edited by Jared Curtis, revised and corrected † The Prose Works of William Wordsworth, Volume 1, edited by W. J. B. Owen and Jane Worthington Smyser † Wordsworth’s Convention of Cintra, a Bicentennial Critical Edition, edited by W. J. B Owen, with a critical symposium by Simon Bainbridge, David Bromwich, Richard Gravil, Timothy Michael and Patrick Vincent † Wordsworth’s Political Writings, edited by W. J. B. Owen and Jane Worthington Smyser. †
Some other Literary Titles John K. Hale, Milton as Multilingual Keith Sagar, D. H. Lawrence: Poet † Irene Wiltshire, ed. Letters of Elizabeth Gaskell’s Daughters [in preparation] † † Also available in paperback, †† in hardback http://www.humanities-ebooks.co.uk all available to libraries from MyiLibrary.com, EBSCO, Ebrary
