And whom the curious Painter doth pursue
Through rocky passes, among flowery creeks,
And tracks thee dancing down thy water-breaks;
If wish were mine some type of thee to view,
Type, and not thee thyself, I would not do
Like Grecian Artists, give thee human cheeks,
Channels for tears; no Naiad shouldst thou be,—
Have neither limbs, feet, feathers, joints nor hairs:
It seems th' Eternal Soul is clothed in thee
With purer robes than those of flesh and blood,
And hath bestow'd on thee a safer good;
Unwearied joy, and life without its cares.
COMPOSED UPON WESTMINSTER BRIDGE, SEPT. 3, 1802.
EARTH has not any thing to show more fair:
Dull would he be of soul who could pass by
A sight so touching in its majesty:
This City now doth, like a garment, wear
The beauty of the morning; silent, bare,
Ships, towers, domes, theatres, and temples lie
Open unto the fields, and to the sky;
All bright and glittering in the smokeless air.
Never did Sun more beautifully steep,
In his first splendour, valley, rock, or hill;
Ne'er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep!
The river glideth at his own sweet will:
Dear God! the very houses seem asleep;
And all that mighty heart is lying still!
THEY call'd Thee MERRY ENGLAND, in old time:
A happy people won for thee that name
With envy heard in many a distant clime;
And, spite of change, for me thou keep'st the same
Endearing title, a responsive chime
To the heart's fond belief; though some there are
Whose sterner judgments deem that word a snare
For inattentive Fancy, like the lime
That foolish birds are caught with. Can, I ask,
This face of rural beauty be a mask
For discontent, and poverty, and crime?
These spreading towns a cloak for lawless will?
Forbid it, Heaven!-and MERRY ENGLAND still
Shall be thy rightful name, in prose and rhyme!
OXFORD, MAY 30, 1820.
YE sacred Nurseries of blooming Youth,
In whose collegiate shelter England's Flowers
Expand, enjoying through their vernal hours
The air of liberty, the light of truth;
Much have ye suffer'd from Time's gnawing tooth:
Yet, O ye spires of Oxford! domes and towers!
Gardens and groves! your presence overpowers
The soberness of reason; till, in sooth,
Transform'd, and rushing on a bold exchange,
I slight my own beloved Cam, to range
Where silver Isis leads my stripling feet;
Pace the long avenue, or glide adown
The stream-like windings of that glorious street,—
An eager Novice robed in fluttering gown!
SHAME on this faithless heart! that could allow
Such transport, though but for a moment's space;
Not while to aid the spirit of the place-
The crescent Moon clove with its glittering prow
The clouds, or night-bird sang from shady bough;
But in plain daylight:-She, too, at my side,
Who, with her heart's experience satisfied,
Maintains inviolate its slightest vow! 6
Sweet Fancy, other gifts must I receive;
Proofs of a higher sovereignty I claim:
Take from her brow the withering flowers of eve,
And to that brow life's morning wreath restore;
Let her be comprehended in the frame
Of these illusions, or they please no more.
A PARSONAGE IN OXFORDSHIRE.
WHERE holy ground begins, unhallow'd ends,
Is mark'd by no distinguishable line;
The turf unites, the pathways intertwine;
And, wheresoe'er the stealing footstep tends,
Garden, and that domain where kindred, friends,
6 Referring to the poet's wife, who accompanied him on his visit to Oxford at this time. In what follows, the poet checks his Fancy, which had almost transformed him into a youthful student, and recalls it to the matter-of-fact blessings of his wedded life. His home, and the treasures it contained, were indeed a perennial spring of inspiration to him: there his great, simple, earnest mind had many of its best and happiest kindlings.
7 Where the Rev. Robert Jones, the poet's old college friend and fellow-traveller among the Alps, resided many years. Wordsworth has the following in reference to him: "This excellent person, one of my carliest and dearest friends, died in the year 1835. We were undergraduates together of the same year, at the same college; and companions in many a delightful ramble through his own romantic country of North Wales. Our long friendship was never subject to a moment's interruption."
And neighbours rest together, here confound
Their several features, mingled like the sound
Of many waters, or as evening blends
With shady night. Soft airs, from shrub and flower,
Waft fragrant greetings to each silent grave;
And while those lofty poplars gently wave
Their tops, between them comes and goes a sky
Bright as the glimpses of eternity
To saints accorded in their mortal hour.
MPOSED AMONG THE RUINS OF A CASTLE IN NORTH WALES.
THROUGH shatter'd galleries, 'mid roofless halls,
Wandering with timid footsteps oft betray'd,
The Stranger sighs, nor scruples to upbraid
Old Time, though he, gentlest among the Thralls
Of Destiny, upon these wounds hath laid
His lenient touches, soft as light that falls,
From the wan Moon, upon the towers and walls,
Light deepening the profoundest sleep of shade.
Relic of Kings! Wreck of forgotten wars,
To winds abandon'd and the prying stars,
Time loves Thee! at his call the seasons twine
Luxuriant wreaths around thy forehead hoar;
And, though past pomp no changes can restore,
A soothing recompense, his gift, is thine!
- FROM MICHAEL ANGELO.
RAPT above Earth by power of one fair face,
Hers in whose sway alone my heart delights,
I mingle with the blest on those pure heights
Where Man, yet mortal, rarely finds a place.
With Him who made the Work that Work accords
So well, that by its help and through His grace
I raise my thoughts, inform my deeds and words,
Clasping her beauty in my soul's embrace.
Thus, if from two fair eyes mine cannot turn,
I feel how in their presence doth abide
Light which to God is both the way and guide;
And, kindling at their lustre, if I burn,
My noble fire emits the joyful ray
That through the realms of glory shines for aye.
AT FLORENCE. FROM MICHAEL ANGELO.
ETERNAL Lord! eased of a cumbrous load,
And loosen'd from the world, I turn to Thee;
Chun like a chattan'd hank the storm and flee
To Thy protection for a safe abode.
The crown of thorns, hands pierced upon the tree,
The meek, benign, and lacerated face,
To a sincere repentance promise grace,
To the sad soul give hope of pardon free.
With justice mark not Thou, O Light divine!
My fault, nor hear it with Thy sacred ear;
Neither put forth that way Thy arm severe;
Wash with thy blood my sins; thereto incline
More readily the more my years require
Help, and forgiveness speedy and entire.
SEE, where his difficult way that Old Man wins
Bent by a load of Mulberry leaves! Most hard
Appears his lot, to the small Worm's compared,
For whom his toil with early day begins.
Acknowledging no task-master, at will
(As if her labour and her case were twins)
She seems to work, at pleasure to lie still;
And softly sleeps within the thread she spins.
So fare they, the man serving as her Slave.
Ere long their fates do each to each conform:
Both pass into new being,- but the Worm,
Transfigured, sinks into a hopeless grave;
His volant Spirit will, he trusts, ascend
To bliss unbounded, glory without end.
UNQUIET Childhood here by special grace
Forgets her nature, opening like a flower
That neither feeds nor wastes its vital power
In painful struggles. Months each other chase,
And nought untunes that Infant's voice; no trace
Of fretful temper sullies her pure cheek;
Prompt, lively, self-sufficing, yet so meek
That one enrapt with gazing on her face
(Which even the placid innocence of death
Could scarcely make more placid, heaven more bright)
Might learn to picture, for the eye of faith,
The Virgin, as she shone with kindred light;
A nursling couch'd upon her mother's knee,
Beneath some shady palm of Galilee.
8 This infant was Mary Monkhouse, the only daughter of Wordsworth's friend and cousin, Thomas Monkhouse.
IN HER SEVENTIETH YEAR.
SUCH age how beautiful! O Lady bright,
Whose mortal lineaments seem all refined
By favouring Nature and a saintly Mind
To something purer and more exquisite
Than flesh and blood; whene'er thou meet'st my sight,
When I behold thy blanch'd unwither'd cheek,
Thy temples fringed with locks of gleaming white,
And head that droops because the soul is meek,
Thee with the welcome Snowdrop I compare;
That child of Winter, prompting thoughts that climb
From desolation toward the genial prime;
Or with the Moon conquering earth's misty air,
And filling more and more with crystal light
As pensive Evening deepens into night.
ROTHA, my Spritual Child! this head was grey
When at the sacred font for thee I stood;
Pledged till thou reach the verge of womanhood,
And shalt become thy own sufficient stay:
Too late, I feel, sweet Orphan! was the day
For steadfast hope the contract to fulfil;
Yet shall my blessing hover o'er thee still,
Embodied in the music of this Lav
Breathed forth beside the peaceful mountain Stream
Whose murmur soothed thy languid Mother's ear
After her throes, this Stream of name more dear
Since thou dost bear it;1-a memorial theme
For others; for thy future self, a spell
To summon fancies out of Time's dark cell.
WHY art thou silent? Is thy love a plant
Of such weak fibre that the treacherous air
Of absence withers what was once so fair?
Is there no debt to pay, no boon to grant?
Yet have my thoughts for thee been vigilant,
Bound to thy service with unceasing care,
The mind's least generous wish a mendicant
For nought but what thy happiness could spare.
Speak, though this soft warm heart, once free to hold
A thousand tender pleasures, thine and mine,
ady Fitzgerald, as described to the poet by Lady Beaumont.
he river Rotha, which flows into Windermere from the Lakes of Grasmere and
-The child was the daughter of Mr. Edward Quillinan, who after the death
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