Books: Poems In Two Volumes, Vol. 2
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William Wordsworth >> Poems In Two Volumes, Vol. 2
Glad were the Vales, and every cottage hearth;
The Shepherd Lord was honour'd more and more:
And, ages after he was laid in earth,
"The Good Lord Clifford" was the name he bore.
_LINES_,
Composed at GRASMERE, during a walk, one Evening, after
a stormy day, the Author having just read in a Newspaper
that the dissolution of MR. FOX was hourly expected.
Loud is the Vale! the Voice is up
With which she speaks when storms are gone,
A mighty Unison of streams!
Of all her Voices, One!
Loud is the Vale;--this inland Depth
In peace is roaring like the Sea;
Yon Star upon the mountain-top
Is listening quietly.
Sad was I, ev'n to pain depress'd,
Importunate and heavy load! 10
The Comforter hath found me here,
Upon this lonely road;
And many thousands now are sad,
Wait the fulfilment of their fear;
For He must die who is their Stay,
Their Glory disappear.
A Power is passing from the earth
To breathless Nature's dark abyss;
But when the Mighty pass away
What is it more than this, 20
That Man, who is from God sent forth,
Doth yet again to God return?--
Such ebb and flow must ever be,
Then wherefore should we mourn?
_ELEGIAC STANZAS_,
Suggested by a Picture of PEELE CASTLE, in a Storm,
_painted_ BY SIR GEORGE BEAUMONT.
I was thy Neighbour once, thou rugged Pile!
Four summer weeks I dwelt in sight of thee:
I saw thee every day; and all the while
Thy Form was sleeping on a glassy sea.
So pure the sky, so quiet was the air!
So like, so very like, was day to day!
Whene'er I look'd, thy Image still was there;
It trembled, but it never pass'd away.
How perfect was the calm! it seem'd no sleep;
No mood, which season takes away, or brings: 10
I could have fancied that the mighty Deep
Was even the gentlest of all gentle Things.
Ah! THEN, if mine had been the Painter's hand,
To express what then I saw; and add the gleam,
The light that never was, on sea or land,
The consecration, and the Poet's dream;
I would have planted thee, thou hoary Pile!
Amid a world how different from this!
Beside a sea that could not cease to smile;
On tranquil land, beneath a sky of bliss: 20
Thou shouldst have seem'd a treasure-house, a mine
Of peaceful years; a chronicle of heaven:--
Of all the sunbeams that did ever shine
The very sweetest had to thee been given.
A Picture had it been of lasting ease,
Elysian quiet, without toil or strife;
No motion but the moving tide, a breeze,
Or merely silent Nature's breathing life.
Such, in the fond delusion of my heart,
Such Picture would I at that time have made: 30
And seen the soul of truth in every part;
A faith, a trust, that could not be betray'd.
So once it would have been,--'tis so no more;
I have submitted to a new controul:
A power is gone, which nothing can restore;
A deep distress hath humaniz'd my Soul.
Not for a moment could I now behold
A smiling sea and be what I have been:
The feeling of my loss will ne'er be old;
This, which I know, I speak with mind serene. 40
Then, Beaumont, Friend! who would have been the Friend,
If he had lived, of Him whom I deplore,
This Work of thine I blame not, but commend;
This sea in anger, and that dismal shore.
Oh 'tis a passionate Work!--yet wise and well;
Well chosen is the spirit that is here;
That Hulk which labours in the deadly swell,
This rueful sky, this pageantry of fear!
And this huge Castle, standing here sublime,
I love to see the look with which it braves, 50
Cased in the unfeeling armour of old time,
The light'ning, the fierce wind, and trampling waves.
Farewell, farewell the Heart that lives alone,
Hous'd in a dream, at distance from the Kind!
Such happiness, wherever it be known,
Is to be pitied; for 'tis surely blind.
But welcome fortitude, and patient chear,
And frequent sights of what is to be born!
Such sights, or worse, as are before me here.--
Not without hope we suffer and we mourn. 60
ODE.
_Paulo majora canamus_.
_ODE_.
There was a time when meadow, grove, and stream,
The earth, and every common sight,
To me did seem
Apparell'd in celestial light,
The glory and the freshness of a dream.
It is not now as it has been of yore;--
Turn wheresoe'er I may,
By night or day,
The things which I have seen I now can see no more.
The Rainbow comes and goes, 10
And lovely is the Rose,
The Moon doth with delight
Look round her when the heavens are bare;
Waters on a starry night
Are beautiful and fair;
The sunshine is a glorious birth;
But yet I know, where'er I go,
That there hath pass'd away a glory from the earth.
Now, while the Birds thus sing a joyous song,
And while the young Lambs bound 20
As to the tabor's sound,
To me alone there came a thought of grief:
A timely utterance gave that thought relief,
And I again am strong.
The Cataracts blow their trumpets from the steep,
No more shall grief of mine the season wrong;
I hear the Echoes through the mountains throng,
The Winds come to me from the fields of sleep,
And all the earth is gay,
Land and sea 30
Give themselves up to jollity,
And with the heart of May
Doth every Beast keep holiday,
Thou Child of Joy
Shout round me, let me hear thy shouts, thou happy Shepherd Boy!
Ye blessed Creatures, I have heard the call
Ye to each other make; I see
The heavens laugh with you in your jubilee;
My heart is at your festival,
My head hath it's coronal, 40
The fullness of your bliss, I feel--I feel it all.
Oh evil day! if I were sullen
While the Earth herself is adorning,
This sweet May-morning,
And the Children are pulling,
On every side,
In a thousand vallies far and wide,
Fresh flowers; while the sun shines warm,
And the Babe leaps up on his mother's arm:--
I hear, I hear, with joy I hear! 50
--But there's a Tree, of many one,
A single Field which I have look'd upon,
Both of them speak of something that is gone:
The Pansy at my feet
Doth the same tale repeat:
Whither is fled the visionary gleam?
Where is it now, the glory and the dream?
Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting:
The Soul that rises with us, our life's Star,
Hath had elsewhere it's setting, 60
And cometh from afar:
Not in entire forgetfulness,
And not in utter nakedness,
But trailing clouds of glory do we come
From God, who is our home;
Heaven lies about us in our infancy!
Shades of the prison-house begin to close
Upon the growing Boy,
But He beholds the light, and whence it flows,
He sees it in his joy; 70
The Youth, who daily farther from the East
Must travel, still is Nature's Priest,
And by the vision splendid
Is on his way attended;
At length the Man perceives it die away,
And fade into the light of common day.
Earth fills her lap with pleasures of her own;
Yearnings she hath in her own natural kind,
And, even with something of a Mother's mind,
And no unworthy aim, 80
The homely Nurse doth all she can
To make her Foster-child, her Inmate Man,
Forget the glories he hath known,
And that imperial palace whence he came.
Behold the Child among his new-born blisses,
A four year's Darling of a pigmy size!
See, where mid work of his own hand he lies,
Fretted by sallies of his Mother's kisses,
With light upon him from his Father's eyes!
See, at his feet, some little plan or chart, 90
Some fragment from his dream of human life,
Shap'd by himself with newly-learned art;
A wedding or a festival,
A mourning or a funeral;
And this hath now his heart,
And unto this he frames his song:
Then will he fit his tongue
To dialogues of business, love, or strife;
But it will not be long
Ere this be thrown aside, 100
And with new joy and pride
The little Actor cons another part,
Filling from time to time his "humourous stage"
With all the Persons, down to palsied Age,
That Life brings with her in her Equipage;
As if his whole vocation
Were endless imitation.
Thou, whose exterior semblance doth belie
Thy Soul's immensity;
Thou best Philosopher, who yet dost keep 110
Thy heritage, thou Eye among the blind,
That, deaf and silent, read'st the eternal deep,
Haunted for ever by the eternal mind,--
Mighty Prophet! Seer blest!
On whom those truths do rest,
Which we are toiling all our lives to find;
Thou, over whom thy Immortality
Broods like the Day, a Master o'er a Slave,
A Presence which is not to be put by;
To whom the grave 120
Is but a lonely bed without the sense or sight
Of day or the warm light,
A place of thought where we in waiting lie;
Thou little Child, yet glorious in the might
Of untam'd pleasures, on thy Being's height,
Why with such earnest pains dost thou provoke
The Years to bring the inevitable yoke,
Thus blindly with thy blessedness at strife?
Full soon thy Soul shall have her earthly freight,
And custom lie upon thee with a weight, 130
Heavy as frost, and deep almost as life!
O joy! that in our embers
Is something that doth live,
That nature yet remembers
What was so fugitive!
The thought of our past years in me doth breed
Perpetual benedictions: not indeed
For that which is most worthy to be blest;
Delight and liberty, the simple creed
Of Childhood, whether fluttering or at rest, 140
With new-born hope for ever in his breast:--
Not for these I raise
The song of thanks and praise;
But for those obstinate questionings
Of sense and outward things,
Fallings from us, vanishings;
Blank misgivings of a Creature
Moving about in worlds not realiz'd,
High instincts, before which our mortal Nature
Did tremble like a guilty Thing surpriz'd: 150
But for those first affections,
Those shadowy recollections,
Which, be they what they may,
Are yet the fountain light of all our day,
Are yet a master light of all our seeing;
Uphold us, cherish us, and make
Our noisy years seem moments in the being
Of the eternal Silence: truths that wake,
To perish never;
Which neither listlessness, nor mad endeavour, 160
Nor Man nor Boy,
Nor all that is at enmity with joy,
Can utterly abolish or destroy!
Hence, in a season of calm weather,
Though inland far we be,
Our Souls have sight of that immortal sea
Which brought us hither,
Can in a moment travel thither,
And see the Children sport upon the shore,
And hear the mighty waters rolling evermore. 170
Then, sing ye Birds, sing, sing a joyous song!
And let the young Lambs bound
As to the tabor's sound!
We in thought will join your throng,
Ye that pipe and ye that play,
Ye that through your hearts to day
Feel the gladness of the May!
What though the radiance which was once so bright
Be now for ever taken from my sight,
Though nothing can bring back the hour 180
Of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower;
We will grieve not, rather find
Strength in what remains behind,
In the primal sympathy
Which having been must ever be,
In the soothing thoughts that spring
Out of human suffering,
In the faith that looks through death,
In years that bring the philosophic mind.
And oh ye Fountains, Meadows, Hills, and Groves, 190
Think not of any severing of our loves!
Yet in my heart of hearts I feel your might;
I only have relinquish'd one delight
To live beneath your more habitual sway.
I love the Brooks which down their channels fret,
Even more than when I tripp'd lightly as they;
The innocent brightness of a new-born Day
Is lovely yet;
The Clouds that gather round the setting sun
Do take a sober colouring from an eye 200
That hath kept watch o'er man's mortality;
Another race hath been, and other palms are won.
Thanks to the human heart by which we live,
Thanks to its tenderness, its joys, and fears,
To me the meanest flower that blows can give
Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears.
_NOTES to the SECOND VOLUME_.
_NOTES_.
NOTE I.
PAGE 4 (177); line 2.--"And wondrous length and strength of arm."
The people of the neighbourhood of Loch Ketterine, in order to prove
the extraordinary length of their Hero's arm, tell you that
"he could garter his Tartan Stockings below the knee when standing
upright." According to their account he was a tremendous Swordsman;
after having sought all occasions of proving his prowess, he was
never conquered but once, and this not till he was an Old Man.
NOTE II.
PAGE 11 (185).--_The solitary Reaper_. This Poem was suggested by a
beautiful sentence in a MS Tour in Scotland written by a Friend, the
last line being taken from it _verbatim_.
NOTE III.
PAGE 65 (239).--THE BLIND HIGHLAND BOY. The incident upon which
this Poem is founded was related to me by an eye witness.
NOTE IV.
PAGE 106 (280); line 10.--"Seen the Seven Whistlers, &c." Both these
superstitions are prevalent in the midland Counties of England: that
of "Gabriel's Hounds" appears to be very general over Europe; being
the same as the one upon which the German Poet, Burger, has founded
his Ballad of the Wild Huntsman.
NOTE V.
PAGE 128 (302).--_Song, at the Feast of Brougham Castle_. Henry Lord
Clifford, &c. &c., who is the subject of this Poem, was the son of
John, Lord Clifford, who was slain at Towton Field, which John, Lord
Clifford, as is known to the Reader of English History, was the
person who after the battle of Wakefield slew, in the pursuit, the
young Earl of Rutland, Son of the Duke of York who had fallen in the
battle, "in part of revenge" (say the Authors of the History of
Cumberland and Westmorland); "for the Earl's Father had slain his."
A deed which worthily blemished the author (saith Speed); But who, as
he adds, "dare promise any thing temperate of himself in the heat of
martial fury? chiefly, when it was resolved not to leave any branch
of the York line standing; for so one maketh this Lord to speak."
This, no doubt, I would observe by the bye, was an action
sufficiently in the vindictive spirit of the times, and yet not
altogether so bad as represented; for the Earl was no child, as
some writers would have him, but able to bear arms, being sixteen or
seventeen years of age, as is evident from this (say the Memoirs of
the Countess of Pembroke, who was laudably anxious to wipe away, as
far as could be, this stigma from the illustrious name to which she
was born); that he was the next Child to King Edward the Fourth,
which his mother had by Richard Duke of York, and that King was then
eighteen years of age: and for the small distance betwixt her
Children, see Austin Vincent in his book of Nobility, page 622,
where he writes of them all. It may further be observed, that Lord
Clifford, who was then himself only twenty-five years of age, had
been a leading Man and Commander, two or three years together in the
Army of Lancaster, before this time; and, therefore, would be less
likely to think that the Earl of Rutland might be entitled to mercy
from his youth.--But, independent of this act, at best a cruel and
savage one, the Family of Clifford had done enough to draw upon them
the vehement hatred of the House of York: so that after the Battle
of Towton there was no hope for them but in flight and concealment.
Henry, the subject of the Poem, was deprived of his estate and
honours during the space of twenty-four years; all which time he
lived as a shepherd in Yorkshire, or in Cumberland, where the estate
of his Father-in-law (Sir Lancelot Threlkeld) lay. He was restored
to his estate and honours in the first year of Henry the Seventh. It
is recorded that, "when called to parliament, he behaved nobly and
wisely; but otherwise came seldom to London or the Court; and rather
delighted to live in the country, where he repaired several of his
Castles, which had gone to decay during the late troubles." Thus far
is chiefly collected from Nicholson and Burn; and I can add, from my
own knowledge, that there is a tradition current in the village of
Threlkeld and its neighbourhood, his principal retreat, that, in the
course of his shepherd life, he had acquired great astronomical
knowledge. I cannot conclude this note without adding a word upon
the subject of those numerous and noble feudal Edifices, spoken of
in the Poem, the ruins of some of which are, at this day, so great an
ornament to that interesting country. The Cliffords had always been
distinguished for an honorable pride in these Castles; and we have
seen that after the wars of York and Lancaster they were rebuilt; in
the civil Wars of Charles the First, they were again laid waste, and
again restored almost to their former magnificence by the celebrated
Lady Anne Clifford, Countess of Pembroke, &c. &c. Not more than 25
years after this was done, when the Estates of Clifford had passed
into the family of Tufton, three of these Castles, namely Brough,
Brougham, and Pendragon, were demolished, and the timber and other
materials sold by Thomas Earl of Thanet. We will hope that, when
this order was issued, the Earl had not consulted the text of Isaiah,
58th Chap. 12th Verse, to which the inscription placed over the
gate of Pendragon Castle, by the Countess of Pembroke (I believe his
Grandmother) at the time she repaired that structure, refers the
reader. "_And they that shall be of thee shall build the old waste
places; thou shalt raise up the foundations of many generations, and
thou shalt be called the repairer of the breach_, _the restorer of
paths to dwell in_." The Earl of Thanet, the present possessor of
the Estates, with a due respect for the memory of his ancestors, and
a proper sense of the value and beauty of these remains of antiquity,
has (I am told) given orders that they shall be preserved from all
depredations.
NOTE VI.
PAGE 130 (304); line 2.--"Earth helped him with the cry of blood."
This line is from The Battle of Bosworth Field by Sir John Beaumont
(Brother to the Dramatist), whose poems are written with so much
spirit, elegance, and harmony, that it is supposed, as the Book is
very scarce, a new edition of it would be acceptable to Scholars and
Men of taste, and, accordingly, it is in contemplation to give one.
NOTE VII.
PAGE 135 (309); line 15.--
"And both the undying Fish that swim
Through Bowscale-Tarn," &c.
It is imagined by the people of the Country that there are two
immortal Fish, Inhabitants of this Tarn, which lies in the mountains
not far from Threlkeld.--Blencathara, mentioned before, is the old
and proper name of the mountain vulgarly called Saddle-back.
NOTE VIII.
PAGE 136 (310); lines 17 and 18.--
"Armour rusting in his Halls
On the blood of Clifford calls."
The martial character of the Cliffords is well known to the readers
of English History; but it may not be improper here to say, by way of
comment on these lines and what follows, that, besides several
others who perished in the same manner, the four immediate
Progenitors of the person in whose hearing this is supposed to be
spoken, all died in the Field.
NOTE IX.
PAGE 140 (314).--
"Importunate and heavy load!"
* * * * *
_'Importuna e grave salma_.'
--MICHAEL ANGELO.
END OF THE SECOND VOLUME.