human
Can you continue this poem for me?
  Star-gazers
"Yes, it was the mountain Echo"
"Nuns fret not at their convent's narrow room"
"'Beloved Vale!' I said, 'when I shall con'"
"How sweet it is, when mother Fancy rocks"
"Those words were uttered as in pensive mood"
"With how sad steps, O Moon, thou climb'st the sky"
"The world is too much with us; late and soon"
"With Ships the sea was sprinkled far and nigh"
"Where lies the Land to which yon Ship must go?"
"Methought I saw the footsteps of a throne"
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
"Brook! whose society the Poet seeks"
"There is a little unpretending Rill"
To Thomas Clarkson, on the final passing of the Bill for
The Mother's Return
"O Nightingale! thou surely art"
"Though narrow be that old Man's cares, and near"
In a Garden of the same
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
Composed while the Author was engaged in writing a
Composed at the same time and on the same occasion
"Advance--come forth from thy Tyrolean ground"
"Alas! what boots the long laborious quest"
On the final Submission of the Tyrolese
"The martial courage of a day is vain"
"And is it among rude untutored Dales"
"O'er the wide earth, on mountain and on plain"
"Hail, Zaragoza! If with unwet eye"
"Say, what is Honour?--'Tis the finest sense"
"Brave Schill! by death delivered, take thy flight"
"Call not the royal Swede unfortunate"
"Look now on that Adventurer who hath paid"
"Is there a power that can sustain and cheer"
Epitaphs translated from Chiabrera--
"Weep not, beloved Friends! nor let the air"
"Perhaps some needful service of the State"
"O Thou who movest onward with a mind"
"There never breathed a man who, when his life"
"True is it that Ambrosio Salinero"
"Destined to war from very infancy"
"O flower of all that springs from gentle blood"
"Not without heavy grief of heart did He"
"Pause, courteous Spirit!--Balbi supplicates"
"Ah! where is Palafox? Nor tongue nor pen"
"In due observance of an ancient rite"
Feelings of a noble Biscayan at one of those Funerals,
On a celebrated Event in Ancient History
Upon the same Event
"Avaunt all specious pliancy of mind"
"O'erweening Statesmen have full long relied"
Characteristics of a Child three years old
"The power of Armies is a visible thing"
"Here pause: the poet claims at least this praise"
Upon perusing the foregoing Epistle thirty years after its
composition
Upon the sight of a Beautiful Picture
Water-fowl
View from the Top of Black Comb
Written with a Slate Pencil on a Stone, on the side of the
_Star-gazers_--the lines on the Mountain Echo, those composed in
expectation of the death of Mr. Fox, and the _Ode, Intimations of
persuasion do now, in a far greater degree than formerly, attach
One of the "Poems of Sentiment and Reflection."--ED.
And shaped these pleasant walks by Emont's side,
Thou art a tool of honour in my hands;
I press thee, through the yielding soil, with pride.
Rare master has it been thy lot to know;
Long hast Thou served a man to reason true;
Whose life combines the best of high and low,
The labouring many and the resting few;
Health, meekness, ardour, quietness secure,
And industry of body and of mind;
And elegant enjoyments, that are pure
As nature is;--too pure to be refined.
Here often hast Thou heard the Poet sing
In concord with his river murmuring by;
Or in some silent field, while timid spring
Is yet uncheered by other minstrelsy.
Who shall inherit Thee when death has laid
Low in the darksome cell thine own dear lord?
A trophy nobler than a conqueror's sword.
If he be one that feels, with skill to part
False praise from true, or, greater from the less,
Thee will he welcome to his hand and heart,
Thou monument of peaceful happiness!
He will not dread with Thee a toilsome day--
Thee his loved servant, his inspiring mate!
And, when thou art past service, worn away,
No dull oblivious nook shall hide thy fate.
His thrift thy uselessness will never scorn;
An _heir-loom_ in his cottage wilt thou be:--
High will he hang thee up, well pleased to adorn
His rustic chimney with the last of Thee!
He was a man
Whom no one could have passed without remark.
One of the old race of Cumbrian "Statesmen"--men who owned, and
The following are extracts from letters of Wilkinson to Miss Mary
Health, quiet, meekness, ardour, hope secure,
More noble than the noblest Warrior's sword.
With Thee he will not dread a toilsome day,
His powerful Servant, his inspiring Mate!
Thee a surviving soul shall consecrate.
... and will adorn
Classed among the "Poems of Sentiment and Reflection."--ED.
Who is the happy Warrior? Who is he
That every man in arms should wish to be?
--It is the generous Spirit, who, when brought
Among the tasks of real life, hath wrought
Upon the plan that pleased his boyish thought:
Whose high endeavours are an inward light
That makes the path before him always bright:
Who, with a natural instinct to discern
What knowledge can perform, is diligent to learn;
Abides by this resolve, and stops not there,
But makes his moral being his prime care;
Who, doomed to go in company with Pain,
And Fear, and Bloodshed, miserable train!
Turns his necessity to glorious gain;
In face of these doth exercise a power
Which is our human nature's highest dower;
Controls them and subdues, transmutes, bereaves
Of their bad influence, and their good receives:
By objects, which might force the soul to abate
Her feeling, rendered more compassionate;
Is placable--because occasions rise
So often that demand such sacrifice;
More skilful in self-knowledge, even more pure,
As tempted more; more able to endure,
As more exposed to suffering and distress;
Thence, also, more alive to tenderness.
--'Tis he whose law is reason; who depends
Upon that law as on the best of friends;
Whence, in a state where men are tempted still
To evil for a guard against worse ill,
And what in quality or act is best
Doth seldom on a right foundation rest,
He labours good on good to fix, and owes
To virtue every triumph that he knows:
--Who, if he rise to station of command,
Rises by open means; and there will stand
On honourable terms, or else retire,
And in himself possess his own desire;
Who comprehends his trust, and to the same
Keeps faithful with a singleness of aim;
And therefore does not stoop, nor lie in wait
For wealth, or honours, or for worldly state;
Whom they must follow; on whose head must fall,
Like showers of manna, if they come at all:[A]
Whose powers shed round him in the common strife,
Or mild concerns of ordinary life,
A constant influence, a peculiar grace;
But who, if he be called upon to face
Some awful moment to which Heaven has joined
Great issues, good or bad for human kind,
Is happy as a Lover; and attired
With sudden brightness, like a Man inspired;
And, through the heat of conflict, keeps the law
In calmness made, and sees what he foresaw;
Or if an unexpected call succeed,
Come when it will, is equal to the need:
--He who, though thus endued as with a sense
And faculty for storm and turbulence,
Is yet a Soul whose master-bias leans
To homefelt pleasures and to gentle scenes;
Sweet images! which, wheresoe'er he be,
Are at his heart; and such fidelity
It is his darling passion to approve;
More brave for this, that he hath much to love:--
'Tis, finally, the Man, who, lifted high,
Conspicuous object in a Nation's eye,
Or left unthought-of in obscurity,--
Who, with a toward or untoward lot,
Prosperous or adverse, to his wish or not--
Plays, in the many games of life, that one
Where what he most doth value must be won:
Whom neither shape of danger can dismay,
Nor thought of tender happiness betray;
Who, not content that former worth stand fast,
Looks forward, persevering to the last,
From well to better, daily self-surpast:[B]
Who, whether praise of him must walk the earth
For ever, and to noble deeds give birth,
Or he must fall, to sleep without his fame,
And leave a dead unprofitable name--
Finds comfort in himself and in his cause;
And, while the mortal mist is gathering, draws
His breath in confidence of Heaven's applause:
This is the happy Warrior; this is He
That every Man in arms should wish to be.
He fixes good on good alone, ...
Or He must go to dust without his fame,
Or he must fall and sleep without his fame,
Nor Fame I slight, nor for her favours call;
She comes unlook'd for, if she comes at all.
And Carew's _Epistle to the Countess of Anglesie_ (ll. 57, 58)--
He chose not in the active stream to swim,
Nor hunted Honour, which yet hunted him.             ED.
For Knightes ever should be persevering,
To seeke honour without feintise or slouth,
Fro wele to better in all manner thinge.
CHAUCER--_The Floure and the Leafe_.--ED.
Ere the Brothers through the gateway
Issued forth with old and young,
To the Horn Sir Eustace pointed
Which for ages there had hung.
Horn it was which none could sound,
No one upon living ground,
Save He who came as rightful Heir
To Egremont's Domains and Castle fair.
Heirs from times of earliest record
Had the House of Lucie born,
Who of right had held the Lordship
Claimed by proof upon the Horn:
Each at the appointed hour
Tried the Horn,--it owned his power;
He was acknowledged: and the blast,
Which good Sir Eustace sounded, was the last.
With his lance Sir Eustace pointed,
And to Hubert thus said he,
"What I speak this Horn shall witness
For thy better memory.
Hear, then, and neglect me not!
At this time, and on this spot,
The words are uttered from my heart,
As my last earnest prayer ere we depart.
"On good service we are going
Life to risk by sea and land,
In which course if Christ our Saviour
Do my sinful soul demand,
Hither come thou back straightway,
Hubert, if alive that day;
Return, and sound the Horn, that we
May have a living House still left in thee!"
"Fear not," quickly answered Hubert;
"As I am thy Father's son,
What thou askest, noble Brother,
With God's favour shall be done."
So were both right well content:
Forth they from the Castle went,
And at the head of their Array
To Palestine the Brothers took their way.
Side by side they fought (the Lucies
Were a line for valour famed)
And where'er their strokes alighted,
There the Saracens were tamed.
Whence, then, could it come--the thought--
By what evil spirit brought?
Oh! can a brave Man wish to take
His Brother's life, for Lands' and Castle's sake?
"Sir!" the Ruffians said to Hubert,
"Deep he lies in Jordan flood."
Stricken by this ill assurance,
Pale and trembling Hubert stood.
"Take your earnings."--Oh! that I
Could have _seen_ my Brother die!
It was a pang that vexed him then;
And oft returned, again, and yet again.
Months passed on, and no Sir Eustace!
Nor of him were tidings heard.
Wherefore, bold as day, the Murderer
Back again to England steered.
To his Castle Hubert sped;
Nothing has he now to dread.
But silent and by stealth he came,
And at an hour which nobody could name.
None could tell if it were night-time,
Night or day, at even or morn;
No one's eye had seen him enter,
No one's ear had heard the Horn.
But bold Hubert lives in glee:
Months and years went smilingly;
With plenty was his table spread;
And bright the Lady is who shares his bed.
Likewise he had sons and daughters;
And, as good men do, he sate
At his board by these surrounded,
Flourishing in fair estate.
And while thus in open day
Once he sate, as old books say,
A blast was uttered from the Horn,
Where by the Castle-gate it hung forlorn.
'Tis the breath of good Sir Eustace!
He is come to claim his right:
Ancient castle, woods, and mountains
Hear the challenge with delight.
Hubert! though the blast be blown
He is helpless and alone:
Thou hast a dungeon, speak the word!
And there he may be lodged, and thou be Lord.
Speak!--astounded Hubert cannot;
And, if power to speak he had,
All are daunted, all the household
Smitten to the heart, and sad.
Living man, it must be he!
Thus Hubert thought in his dismay,
And by a postern-gate he slunk away.
Long, and long was he unheard of:
To his Brother then he came,
Made confession, asked forgiveness,
Asked it by a brother's name,
And by all the saints in heaven;
And of Eustace was forgiven:
Then in a convent went to hide
His melancholy head, and there he died.
But Sir Eustace, whom good angels
Had preserved from murderers' hands,
And from Pagan chains had rescued,
Lived with honour on his lands.
Sons he had, saw sons of theirs:
And through ages, heirs of heirs,
A long posterity renowned,
Sounded the Horn which they alone could sound.
"This Story is a Cumberland tradition; I have heard it also
related of the Hall of Hutton John, an antient residence of the
Huddlestones, in a sequestered Valley upon the River Dacor."
When the Brothers reach'd the gateway,
Eustace pointed with his lance
To the Horn which there was hanging;
Horn of the inheritance.
When the Brothers reached the gateway,
With their followers old and young,
To the Horn Sir Eustace pointed
That for ages there had hung.                         C.
Heirs from ages without record
Who of right had claim'd the Lordship
By the proof upon the Horn:
Claimed by proof ...                                  C.
From the Castle forth they went.
 _Italics_ were first used in 1815.
He has nothing ...
For the sound was heard by no one
Of the proclamation-horn.
... slipped away.                                    MS.
Classed among the "Poems founded on the Affections."--ED.
There is a change--and I am poor;
Your love hath been, nor long ago,
A fountain at my fond heart's door,
Whose only business was to flow;
And flow it did; not taking heed
Of its own bounty, or my need.
What happy moments did I count!
Blest was I then all bliss above!
Now, for that consecrated fount
Of murmuring, sparkling, living love,
What have I? shall I dare to tell?
A comfortless and hidden well.
A well of love--it may be deep--
I trust it is,--and never dry:
What matter? if the waters sleep
In silence and obscurity.
--Such change, and at the very door
Of my fond heart, hath made me poor.
"----_Pleasure is spread through the earth
In stray gifts to be claimed by whoever shall find._"
By their floating mill,
That lies dead and still,
Behold yon Prisoners three,
The Miller with two Dames, on the breast of the Thames!
The platform is small, but gives room for them all;
And they're dancing merrily.
From the shore come the notes
To their mill where it floats,
To their house and their mill tethered fast:
To the small wooden isle where, their work to beguile,
They from morning to even take whatever is given;--
And many a blithe day they have past.
In sight of the spires,
All alive with the fires
Of the sun going down to his rest,
In the broad open eye of the solitary sky,
They dance,--there are three, as jocund as free,
While they dance on the calm river's breast.
Man and Maidens wheel,
They themselves make the reel,
And their music's a prey which they seize;
It plays not for them,--what matter? 'tis theirs;
And if they had care, it has scattered their cares
While they dance, crying, "Long as ye please!"
They dance not for me,
Yet mine is their glee!
Thus pleasure is spread through the earth
In stray gifts to be claimed by whoever shall find;
Thus a rich loving-kindness, redundantly kind,
Moves all nature to gladness and mirth.
The showers of the spring
Rouse the birds, and they sing;
If the wind do but stir for his proper delight,
Each leaf, that and this, his neighbour will kiss;[A]
Each wave, one and t'other, speeds after his brother;
They are happy, for that is their right!
... with whatever be given;--
Full many a blithe day have past.                    MS.
The wind had no more strength than this,
That leisurely it blew,
To make one leaf the next to kiss
That closely by it grew.
An Orpheus! an Orpheus! yes, Faith may grow bold,
And take to herself all the wonders of old;--
Near the stately Pantheon you'll meet with the same
In the street that from Oxford hath borrowed its name.
His station is there; and he works on the crowd,
He sways them with harmony merry and loud;
He fills with his power all their hearts to the brim--
Was aught ever heard like his fiddle and him?
What an eager assembly! what an empire is this!
The weary have life, and the hungry have bliss;
The mourner is cheered, and the anxious have rest;
And the guilt-burthened soul is no longer opprest.
As the Moon brightens round her the clouds of the night,
So He, where he stands, is a centre of light;
It gleams on the face, there, of dusky-browed Jack,
And the pale-visaged Baker's, with basket on back.
That errand-bound 'Prentice was passing in haste--
What matter! he's caught--and his time runs to waste;
The Newsman is stopped, though he stops on the fret;
And the half-breathless Lamplighter--he's in the net!
The Porter sits down on the weight which he bore;
The Lass with her barrow wheels hither her store;--
If a thief could be here he might pilfer at ease;
She sees the Musician, 'tis all that she sees!
He stands, backed by the wall;--he abates not his din;
His hat gives him vigour, with boons dropping in,
From the old and the young, from the poorest; and there!
The one-pennied Boy has his penny to spare.
O blest are the hearers, and proud be the hand
Of the pleasure it spreads through so thankful a band;
I am glad for him, blind as he is!--all the while
If they speak 'tis to praise, and they praise with a smile.
That tall Man, a giant in bulk and in height,
Not an inch of his body is free from delight;
Can he keep himself still, if he would? oh, not he!
The music stirs in him like wind through a tree.
Mark that Cripple who leans on his crutch; like a tower
That long has leaned forward, leans hour after hour!--
That Mother, whose spirit in fetters is bound,
While she dandles the Babe in her arms to the sound.
Now, coaches and chariots! roar on like a stream;
Here are twenty souls happy as souls in a dream:
They are deaf to your murmurs--they care not for you,
Nor what ye are flying, nor what ye pursue!
Charles Lamb wrote to Wordsworth in 1815, "Your _Power of Music_
There's a Cripple ...
One of the "Poems of the Imagination."--ED.
What crowd is this? what have we here! we must not pass it by;
A Telescope upon its frame, and pointed to the sky:
Long is it as a barber's pole, or mast of little boat,
Some little pleasure skiff, that doth on Thames's waters float.
The Show-man chooses well his place, 'tis Leicester's busy
And is as happy in his night, for the heavens are blue and fair;
Calm, though impatient, is the crowd; each stands ready with
the fee,
And envies him that's looking;--what an insight must it be!
Yet, Show-man, where can lie the cause? Shall thy Implement have
blame,
A boaster, that when he is tried, fails, and is put to shame?
Or is it good as others are, and be their eyes in fault?
Their eyes, or minds? or, finally, is yon resplendent vault?
Is nothing of that radiant pomp so good as we have here?
Or gives a thing but small delight that never can be dear?
Or is it rather that Conceit rapacious is and strong,
And bounty never yields so much but it seems to do her wrong?
Or is it, that when human Souls a journey long have had
And are returned into themselves, they cannot but be sad?[A]
Or must we be constrained to think that these Spectators rude,
Poor in estate, of manners base, men of the multitude,
Does, then, a deep and earnest thought the blissful mind
employ
Of him who gazes, or has gazed? a grave and steady joy,
That doth reject all show of pride, admits no outward sign,
Because not of this noisy world, but silent and divine!
Whatever be the cause, 'tis sure that they who pry and pore
Seem to meet with little gain, seem less happy than before:
One after One they take their turn, nor have I one espied
That doth not slackly go away, as if dissatisfied.
Doubtless "observed" during the visit to London in April and May
What throng ...                                      MS.
... we cannot ...                                    MS.
Impatient till his moment comes-- ...
The text of 1840 returns to that of 1807.
... be ...                                           MS.
Do they betray us when they're seen? and ...
... cannot yield ...                                 MS.
Or is it but unwelcome thought! that these Spectators rude,
Poor in estate, of manners base, men of the multitude,
Or does some deep and earnest joy ...
Whate'er the cause may be, ...
Classed among the "Poems of the Imagination."--ED.
Yes, it was the mountain Echo,
Solitary, clear, profound,
Answering to the shouting Cuckoo,
Giving to her sound for sound!
Unsolicited reply
To a babbling wanderer sent;
Like her ordinary cry,
Like--but oh, how different!
Hears not also mortal Life?
Hear not we, unthinking Creatures!
Slaves of folly, love, or strife--
Voices of two different natures?
Have not _we_ too?--yes, we have
Answers, and we know not whence;
Echoes from beyond the grave,
Recognised intelligence!
Such rebounds our inward ear[A]
Catches sometimes from afar--
Listen, ponder, hold them dear;
For of God,--of God they are.
Small service is true service while it lasts;
Yes! full surely 'twas the Echo,
Solitary, clear, profound,
Answering to Thee, shouting Cuckoo!
Giving to thee Sound for Sound.
   Whence the Voice? from air or earth?
This the Cuckoo cannot tell;
But a startling sound had birth,
As the Bird must know full well;
Only in the edition of 1807.
Like the voice through earth and sky
By the restless Cuckoo sent;
 _Italics_ were first used in the edition of 1836.
Such within ourselves we hear
Oft-times, ours though sent from far;
Such rebounds our inward ear
Often catches from afar;--
Often as thy inward ear
Catches such rebounds, beware,--
Giddy Mortals! hold them dear;
The edition of 1832 returns to the text of 1807.
Nuns fret not at their convent's narrow room;
And hermits are contented with their cells;
And students with their pensive citadels;
Maids at the wheel, the weaver at his loom,
Sit blithe and happy; bees that soar for bloom,
High as the highest Peak of Furness-fells,
Will murmur by the hour in foxglove bells:
In truth the prison, unto which we doom
Ourselves, no prison is:[A] and hence for me,
In sundry moods,'twas pastime to be bound
Within the Sonnet's scanty plot of ground;
Pleased if some Souls (for such there needs must be)
Who have felt the weight of too much liberty,[B]
Should find brief solace there, as I have found.
Buonaparte. What the irregular sonnet written at school was it is
Calm is all nature as a resting wheel.
But on a copy of _An Evening Walk_ (1793 edition) Wordsworth
Stone walls do not a prison make,
Nor iron bars a cage;
Minds innocent and quiet take
That for a hermitage.                              ED.
Me this unchartered freedom tires.                   ED.
"By my half-kitchen and half-parlour fire."
I am not One who much or oft delight
To season my fireside with personal talk,--
Of friends, who live within an easy walk,
Or neighbours, daily, weekly, in my sight:
And, for my chance-acquaintance, ladies bright,
Sons, mothers, maidens withering on the stalk,[A]
These all wear out of me, like Forms, with chalk
Painted on rich men's floors, for one feast-night.
Better than such discourse doth silence long,
Long, barren silence, square with my desire;
To sit without emotion, hope, or aim,
In the loved presence of my cottage-fire,
And listen to the flapping of the flame,
Or kettle whispering its faint undersong.
"Yet life," you say, "is life; we have seen and see,
And with a living pleasure we describe;
And fits of sprightly malice do but bribe
The languid mind into activity.
Sound sense, and love itself, and mirth and glee
Are fostered by the comment and the gibe."
Even be it so: yet still among your tribe,
Our daily world's true Worldlings, rank not me!
Children are blest, and powerful; their world lies
More justly balanced; partly at their feet,
And part far from them:--sweetest melodies
Are those that are by distance made more sweet;[B]
Whose mind is but the mind of his own eyes,
He is a Slave; the meanest we can meet![C]
Wings have we,--and as far as we can go
We may find pleasure: wilderness and wood,
Blank ocean and mere sky, support that mood
Which with the lofty sanctifies the low.
Dreams, books, are each a world; and books, we know,
Are a substantial world, both pure and good:
Round these, with tendrils strong as flesh and blood,
Our pastime and our happiness will grow.
There find I personal themes, a plenteous store,
Matter wherein right voluble I am,
To which I listen with a ready ear;
Two shall be named, pre-eminently dear,--
The gentle Lady married to the Moor;[D]
And heavenly Una with her milk-white Lamb.
Nor can I not believe but that hereby
Great gains are mine; for thus I live remote
From evil-speaking; rancour, never sought,
Comes to me not; malignant truth, or lie.
Hence have I genial seasons, hence have I
Smooth passions, smooth discourse, and joyous thought:
And thus from day to day my little boat
Rocks in its harbour, lodging peaceably.
Blessings be with them--and eternal praise,
Who gave us nobler loves, and nobler cares--
The Poets, who on earth have made us heirs
Of truth and pure delight by heavenly lays!
Oh! might my name be numbered among theirs,
Then gladly would I end my mortal days.
my half-kitchen my half-parlour fire,
Blessings be with them--and eternal praise,
Who gave us nobler loves, and nobler cares--
The Poets, who on earth have made us heirs
Of truth and pure delight by heavenly lays!
suggestion of his friend, Principal Shairp.--ED.
By my half-kitchen my half-parlour fire,
There do I find a never-failing store
Of personal themes, and such as I love best;
Matter wherein right voluble I am:
Two will I mention, dearer than the rest;
I knew a maid,
A young enthusiast, who escaped these bonds;
Her eye was not the mistress of her heart.           ED.
Classed among the "Miscellaneous Sonnets."--ED.
Well may'st thou halt--and gaze with brightening eye!
The lovely Cottage in the guardian nook
Hath stirred thee deeply; with its own dear brook,
Its own small pasture, almost its own sky![A]
But covet not the Abode;--forbear to sigh,
As many do, repining while they look;
Intruders--who would tear from Nature's book
This precious leaf, with harsh impiety.
Think what the Home must be if it were thine,
Even thine, though few thy wants!--Roof, window, door,
The very flowers are sacred to the Poor,
The roses to the porch which they entwine:
Yea, all, that now enchants thee, from the day
On which it should be touched, would melt away.
Yes, there is holy pleasure in thine eye!
Sighing a wish to tear ...
This blissful leaf, with worst impiety.
... with harsh impiety.
... would melt, and melt away!
Where deep and low the hamlets lie
Beneath their little patch of sky
And little lot of stars.                             ED.
One of the "Miscellaneous Sonnets."--ED.
"Beloved Vale!" I said, "when I shall con
Those many records of my childish years,
Remembrance of myself and of my peers
Will press me down: to think of what is gone
Will be an awful thought, if life have one."
But, when into the Vale I came, no fears
Distressed me; from mine eyes escaped no tears;
Deep thought, or dread remembrance, had I none.
By doubts and thousand petty fancies crost
I stood, of simple shame the blushing Thrall;[A]
So narrow seemed the brooks, the fields so small!
A Juggler's balls old Time about him tossed;
I looked, I stared, I smiled, I laughed; and all
The weight of sadness was in wonder lost.
Distress'd me; I look'd round, I shed no tears;
... or awful vision, I had none.
By thousand petty fancies I was cross'd,
To see the Trees, which I had thought so tall,
Mere dwarfs; the Brooks so narrow, Fields so small.
Placed among the "Miscellaneous Sonnets."--ED.
How sweet it is, when mother Fancy rocks
The wayward brain, to saunter through a wood!
An old place, full of many a lovely brood,
Tall trees, green arbours, and ground-flowers in flocks;
And wild rose tip-toe upon hawthorn stocks,
Like a bold Girl, who plays her agile pranks
At Wakes and Fairs with wandering Mountebanks,--
When she stands cresting the Clown's head, and mocks
The crowd beneath her. Verily I think,
Such place to me is sometimes like a dream
Or map of the whole world: thoughts, link by link,
Enter through ears and eyesight, with such gleam
Of all things, that at last in fear I shrink,
And leap at once from the delicious stream.
Like to a bonny Lass, who plays her pranks
----"they are of the sky,
And from our earthly memory fade away."[A]
Placed among the "Miscellaneous Sonnets."--ED.
Those words were uttered as in pensive mood
We turned, departing from that solemn sight:
A contrast and reproach to gross delight,
And life's unspiritual pleasures daily wooed!
But now upon this thought I cannot brood;
It is unstable as a dream of night;
Nor will I praise a cloud, however bright,
Disparaging Man's gifts, and proper food.
Grove, isle, with every shape of sky-built dome,
Though clad in colours beautiful and pure,
Find in the heart of man no natural home:
The immortal Mind craves objects that endure:
These cleave to it; from these it cannot roam,
Nor they from it: their fellowship is secure.
... utter'd in a pensive mood.
Even while mine eyes were on ...
Mine eyes yet lingering on ...
A silent counter part of ...                         MS.
It is unstable, and deserts me quite;
The Grove, the sky-built Temple, and the Dome,
With how sad steps, O Moon, thou climb'st the sky,
"How silently, and with how wan a face!"[A]
Where art thou? Thou so often seen on high
Running among the clouds a Wood-nymph's race!
Unhappy Nuns, whose common breath's a sigh
Which they would stifle, move at such a pace!
The northern Wind, to call thee to the chase,
Must blow to-night his bugle horn. Had I
The power of Merlin, Goddess! this should be:
And all the stars, fast as the clouds were riven,
Should sally forth, to keep thee company,
Hurrying and sparkling through the clear blue heaven;
But, Cynthia! should to thee the palm be given,
Queen both for beauty and for majesty.
... Thou whom I have seen on high
And all the Stars, now shrouded up in heaven,
And the keen Stars, fast as the clouds were riven,
Should sally forth, an emulous Company,
The text of 1837 returns to that of 1807.
What strife would then be yours, fair Creatures, driv'n
Now up, now down, and sparkling in your glee!
Sparkling, and hurrying through the clear blue heaven;
All hurrying with thee through the clear blue heaven;
In that keen sport along the plain, of heaven;
... in emulous company
Sparkling, and hurrying through the clear blue heaven;
Hurrying and sparkling through the clear blue Heaven. C.
With emulous brightness through the clear blue Heaven.
One of the "Miscellaneous Sonnets."--ED.
The world is too much with us; late and soon,
Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers:
Little we see in Nature that is ours;
We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon!
This Sea that bares her bosom to the moon;
The winds that will be howling at all hours,
And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers;
For this, for every thing, we are out of tune;
It moves us not.--Great God! I'd rather be
A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn;
So might I, standing on this pleasant lea,[A]
Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn;
Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea;[B]
Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn.[C]
The ...                                              MS.
"A goodly pleasant lea."                             ED.
Of them the shepheard which hath charge in chief,
Is Triton, blowing loud his wreathed horne.          ED.
Placed among the "Miscellaneous Sonnets."--ED.
With Ships the sea was sprinkled far and nigh,[A]
Like stars in heaven, and joyously it showed;
Some lying fast at anchor in the road,
Some veering up and down, one knew not why.
A goodly Vessel did I then espy
Come like a giant from a haven broad;
And lustily along the bay she strode,
Her tackling rich, and of apparel high.[B]
This Ship was nought to me, nor I to her,
Yet I pursued her with a Lover's look;
This Ship to all the rest did I prefer:
When will she turn, and whither? She will brook
No tarrying; where She comes the winds must stir:
On went She, and due north her journey took.[C]
... sea with ships
The passage is as follows--
Her takelynge ryche, and of hye apparayle.
Skelton's _Bowge of Courte_, stanza vi.--ED.
Classed among the "Miscellaneous Sonnets."--ED.
Where lies the Land to which yon Ship must go?
Fresh as a lark mounting at break of day,
Festively she puts forth in trim array;
Is she for tropic suns, or polar snow?
What boots the inquiry?--Neither friend nor foe
She cares for; let her travel where she may,
She finds familiar names, a beaten way
Ever before her, and a wind to blow.
Yet still I ask, what haven is her mark?
And, almost as it was when ships were rare,
(From time to time, like Pilgrims, here and there
Crossing the waters) doubt, and something dark,
Of the old Sea some reverential fear,
Is with me at thy farewell, joyous Bark!
Festively she puts forth in trim array;
As vigorous as a Lark at break of day:
Placed among the "Miscellaneous Sonnets."--ED.
O gentle sleep! do they belong to thee,
These twinklings of oblivion? Thou dost love
To sit in meekness, like the brooding Dove,
A captive never wishing to be free.
This tiresome night, O Sleep! thou art to me
A Fly, that up and down himself doth shove
Upon a fretful rivulet, now above
Now on the water vexed with mockery.
I have no pain that calls for patience, no;[A]
Hence am I cross and peevish as a child:
Am pleased by fits to have thee for my foe,
Yet ever willing to be reconciled:
O gentle Creature! do not use me so,
But once and deeply let me be beguiled.
The text of 1827 returns to that of 1807.
The text of 1827 returns to that of 1807.
"Vixque tenet lacrymas; quia nil lacrymabile cernit."
One of the "Miscellaneous Sonnets."--ED.
Fond words have oft been spoken to thee, Sleep!
And thou hast had thy store of tenderest names;
The very sweetest, Fancy culls or frames,
When thankfulness of heart is strong and deep!
Dear Bosom-child we call thee, that dost steep
In rich reward all suffering; Balm that tames
All anguish; Saint that evil thoughts and aims
Takest away, and into souls dost creep,
Like to a breeze from heaven. Shall I alone,
I surely not a man ungently made,
Call thee worst Tyrant by which Flesh is crost?
Perverse, self-willed to own and to disown,
Mere slave of them who never for thee prayed,
Still last to come where thou art wanted most!
The very sweetest words that fancy frames
Classed among the "Miscellaneous Sonnets."--ED.
A flock of sheep that leisurely pass by,
One after one; the sound of rain, and bees
Murmuring; the fall of rivers, winds and seas,
Smooth fields, white sheets of water, and pure sky;
I have thought of all by turns, and yet do lie
Sleepless[A]! and soon the small birds' melodies
Must hear, first uttered from my orchard trees;
And the first cuckoo's melancholy cry.
Even thus last night, and two nights more, I lay,
And could not win thee, Sleep! by any stealth:
So do not let me wear to-night away:
Without Thee what is all the morning's wealth?
Come, blessed barrier between day and day,
Dear mother of fresh thoughts and joyous health!
_Midsummer Night's Dream_, act III. scene ii. l. 435.--ED.
I've thought of all by turns; and still I lie
By turns have all been thought of; yet I lie
I thought of all by turns, and yet I lie
I have thought ...
... between night and day,                           MS.
And more to lulle him in his slumber soft,
A trickling streame from high rock tumbling downe,
And ever-drizling raine upon the loft,
Mixt with a murmuring winde, much like the sowne
Of swarming Bees, did cast him in a swowne.          ED.
Classed among the "Miscellaneous Sonnets."--ED.
Calvert! it must not be unheard by them
Who may respect my name, that I to thee
Owed many years of early liberty.
This care was thine when sickness did condemn
Thy youth to hopeless wasting, root and stem--
That I, if frugal and severe, might stray
Where'er I liked; and finally array
My temples with the Muse's diadem.
Hence, if in freedom I have loved the truth;
If there be aught of pure, or good, or great,
In my past verse; or shall be, in the lays
Of higher mood, which now I meditate;--
It gladdens me, O worthy, short-lived, Youth!
To think how much of this will be thy praise.
Raisley Calvert was the son of R. Calvert, steward to the Duke of
One of the "Miscellaneous Sonnets."--ED.
Methought I saw the footsteps of a throne
Which mists and vapours from mine eyes did shroud--
Nor view of who might sit thereon allowed;
But all the steps and ground about were strown
With sights the ruefullest that flesh and bone
Ever put on; a miserable crowd,
Sick, hale, old, young, who cried before that cloud,
"Thou art our king, O Death! to thee we groan."
Those steps I clomb; the mists before me gave
Smooth way; and I beheld the face of one
Sleeping alone within a mossy cave,
With her face up to heaven; that seemed to have
Pleasing remembrance of a thought foregone;
A lovely Beauty in a summer grave!
Even so for me a Vision sanctified.
See the note to that sonnet.--ED.
I seem'd to mount those steps; the vapours gave
Those steps I mounted, as the vapours gave
... while the vapours gave
Those steps I clomb; the opening vapours gave
With which she speaks when storms are gone,
A mighty unison of streams!
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, even to pain deprest,
Importunate and heavy load![A]
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 great and good depart
What is it more than this--
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?
But when the Mighty pass away
Another year!--another deadly blow!
Another mighty Empire overthrown!
And We are left, or shall be left, alone;
The last that dare to struggle with the Foe.
'Tis well! from this day forward we shall know
That in ourselves our safety must be sought;
That by our own right hands it must be wrought;
That we must stand unpropped, or be laid low.
We shall exult, if they who rule the land
Be men who hold its many blessings dear,
Wise, upright, valiant; not a servile band,
Who are to judge of danger which they fear,
And honour which they do not understand.[A]
Napoleon won the battle of Jena on the 14th October 1806, entered
... knowledge ...                                    MS.
And honour which they do not understand.
One of the "Poems referring to the Period of Childhood."--ED.
What way does the Wind come? What way does he go?
He rides over the water, and over the snow,
Through wood, and through vale; and, o'er rocky height
Which the goat cannot climb, takes his sounding flight;
He tosses about in every bare tree,
As, if you look up, you plainly may see;
But how he will come, and whither he goes,
There's never a scholar in England knows.
He will suddenly stop in a cunning nook,
And ring a sharp 'larum;--but, if you should look,
There's nothing to see but a cushion of snow
Round as a pillow, and whiter than milk,
And softer than if it were covered with silk.
Sometimes he'll hide in the cave of a rock,
Then whistle as shrill as the buzzard cock;
--Yet seek him,--and what shall you find in the place?
Nothing but silence and empty space;
Save, in a corner, a heap of dry leaves,
That he's left, for a bed, to beggars or thieves!
As soon as 'tis daylight to-morrow, with me
You shall go to the orchard, and then you will see
That he has been there, and made a great rout,
And cracked the branches, and strewn them about;
Heaven grant that he spare but that one upright twig
That looked up at the sky so proud and big
All last summer, as well you know,
Studded with apples, a beautiful show!
Hark! over the roof he makes a pause,
And growls as if he would fix his claws
Right in the slates, and with a huge rattle
Drive them down, like men in a battle:
--But let him range round; he does us no harm,
We build up the fire, we're snug and warm;
Untouched by his breath see the candle shines bright,
And burns with a clear and steady light;
Books have we to read,--but that half-stifled knell,
Alas! tis the sound of the eight o'clock bell.
--Come now we'll to bed! and when we are there
He may work his own will, and what shall we care?
He may knock at the door,--we'll not let him in;
May drive at the windows,--we'll laugh at his din;
Let him seek his own home wherever it be;
Here's a _cozie_ warm house for Edward and me.
... --hush! that half-stifled knell,
Methinks 'tis the sound ...
One of the "Miscellaneous Sonnets."--ED.
Brook! whose society the Poet seeks,
Intent his wasted spirits to renew;
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,
Thee, and not thee thyself, I would not do
Like Grecian Artists, give thee human cheeks,
Channels for tears; no Naiad should'st thou be,--
Have neither limbs, feet, feathers, joints nor hairs:
It seems the Eternal Soul is clothed in thee
With purer robes than those of flesh and blood,
And hath bestowed on thee a safer good;
Unwearied joy, and life without its cares.
If I some type of thee did wish to view,
... a better good;
One of the "Miscellaneous Sonnets."--ED.
There is a little unpretending Rill
Of limpid water, humbler far than aught
That ever among Men or Naiads sought
Notice or name!--It quivers down the hill,
Furrowing its shallow way with dubious will;
Yet to my mind this scanty Stream is brought
Oftener than Ganges or the Nile; a thought
Of private recollection sweet and still!
Months perish with their moons; year treads on year;
But, faithful Emma! thou with me canst say
That, while ten thousand pleasures disappear,
And flies their memory fast almost as they,
The immortal Spirit of one happy day
Lingers beside that Rill, in vision clear.
told by both Mr. and Mrs. Wordsworth, as a fact in which I should
associated by the poet with 'the immortal spirit of one happy
house at Dovenest, and crossing beneath the road, enters the lake
There is a tiny water, neither rill,
Motionless well, nor running brook, nor aught        MS.
There is a noiseless water, neither rill,
Nor spring enclosed in sculptured stone, nor aught   MS.
There is a trickling water, neither rill,
Fountain inclosed, or rivulet, nor aught       MS. 1806.
... It trickles down the hill,
So feebly, just for love of power and will,
Yet to my mind the nameless thing is brought         MS.
... It totters down the hill,
So feebly, quite forlorn of power and will;
Yet nameless Thing it to my mind is brought          MS.
Oftener than mightiest Floods, whose path is wrought
Through wastes of sand, and forests dark and chill.
Do thou, even thou, O faithful Anna! say
Why this small Streamlet is to me so dear;
Thou know'st, that while enjoyments disappear
And sweet remembrances like flowers decay,
Lingers upon its marge, ...
For on that day, now seven years gone, when first
Two glad foot-travellers, through sun and shower
My Love and I came hither, while thanks burst
Out of our hearts ...
We from that blessed water slaked our thirst.        MS.
... hearts to God for that good hour,
Eating a traveller's meal in shady bower,
We ...                                               MS.
Coleorton_, beginning--
Beneath yon eastern ridge, the craggy bound,
Praised be the Art whose subtle power could stay.
composition of the poems are so difficult to determine.--ED.
One of the "Miscellaneous Sonnets."--ED.
Lady! the songs of Spring were in the grove
While I was shaping beds for winter flowers;
While I was planting green unfading bowers,
And shrubs--to hang upon the warm alcove,
And sheltering wall; and still, as Fancy wove
The dream, to time and nature's blended powers
I gave this paradise for winter hours,
A labyrinth, Lady! which your feet shall rove.
Yes! when the sun of life more feebly shines,
Becoming thoughts, I trust, of solemn gloom
Or of high gladness you shall hither bring;
And these perennial bowers and murmuring pines
Be gracious as the music and the bloom
And all the mighty ravishment of spring.
'In whose sight all things joy, _with ravishment_,
Attracted by thy beauty still to gaze'...."
High deeds, O Germans, are to come from you!
Thus in your books the record shall be found,
"A watchword was pronounced, a potent sound--
ARMINIUS![A]--all the people quaked like dew
Stirred by the breeze; they rose, a Nation, true,
True to herself--the mighty Germany,
She rose, and off at once the yoke she threw.
All power was given her in the dreadful trance;
Those new-born Kings she withered like a flame."[B]
--Woe to them all! but heaviest woe and shame
To that Bavarian who could first advance
His banner in accursed league with France,[C]
First open traitor to the German name!
... to her sacred name!
Two Voices are there; one is of the sea,
One of the mountains; each a mighty Voice:
In both from age to age thou didst rejoice,
They were thy chosen music, Liberty!
There came a Tyrant, and with holy glee
Thou fought'st against him; but hast vainly striven:
Thou from thy Alpine holds at length art driven,
Where not a torrent murmurs heard by thee.
Of one deep bliss thine ear hath been bereft:
Then cleave, O cleave to that which still is left;
For, high-souled Maid, what sorrow would it be
That Mountain floods should thunder as before,
And Ocean bellow from his rocky shore,
And neither awful Voice be heard by thee!
Coleorton in 1807--after the battles of Austerlitz and Jena, and
Clarkson! it was an obstinate hill to climb:
How toilsome--nay, how dire--it was, by thee
Is known; by none, perhaps, so feelingly:
But thou, who, starting in thy fervent prime,
Didst first lead forth that enterprise sublime,
Hast heard the constant Voice its charge repeat,
Which, out of thy young heart's oracular seat,
First roused thee.--O true yoke-fellow of Time,
Duty's intrepid liegeman, see, the palm
Is won, and by all Nations shall be worn!
The blood-stained Writing is for ever torn;
And thou henceforth wilt have a good man's calm,
A great man's happiness; thy zeal shall find
Repose at length, firm friend of human kind!
With unabating effort, see, ...
The bloody Writing is for ever torn,
And Thou henceforth shalt have ...
One of the "Poems referring to the Period of Childhood."--ED.
A month, sweet Little-ones, is past
Since your dear Mother went away,--
And she to-morrow will return;
To-morrow is the happy day.
O blessed tidings! thought of joy!
The eldest heard with steady glee;
Silent he stood; then laughed amain,--
And shouted, "Mother, come to me!"
Louder and louder did he shout,
With witless hope to bring her near;
"Nay, patience! patience, little boy!
Your tender mother cannot hear."
I told of hills, and far-off towns,
And long, long vales to travel through;--
He listens, puzzled, sore perplexed,
But he submits; what can he do?
No strife disturbs his sister's breast;
She wars not with the mystery
Of time and distance, night and day;
The bonds of our humanity.
Her joy is like an instinct, joy
Of kitten, bird, or summer fly;
She dances, runs without an aim,
She chatters in her ecstasy.
Her brother now takes up the note,
And echoes back his sister's glee;
They hug the infant in my arms,
As if to force his sympathy.
Then, settling into fond discourse,
We rested in the garden bower;
While sweetly shone the evening sun
In his departing hour.
We told o'er all that we had done,--
Our rambles by the swift brook's side
Far as the willow-skirted pool,
Where two fair swans together glide.
We talked of change, of winter gone,
Of green leaves on the hawthorn spray,
Of birds that build their nests and sing,
And all "since Mother went away!"
To her these tales they will repeat,
To her our new-born tribes will show,
The goslings green, the ass's colt,
The lambs that in the meadow go.
--But, see, the evening star comes forth!
To bed the children must depart;
A moment's heaviness they feel,
A sadness at the heart:
'Tis gone--and in a merry fit
They run up stairs in gamesome race;
I, too, infected by their mood,
I could have joined the wanton chase.
Five minutes past--and, O the change!
Asleep upon their beds they lie;
Their busy limbs in perfect rest,
And closed the sparkling eye.
month--Dorothy remaining at Coleorton, in charge of the children.
One of the "Poems of the Imagination."--ED.
Yet are they here the same unbroken knot
Of human Beings, in the self-same spot!
Men, women, children, yea the frame
Of the whole spectacle the same!
Only their fire seems bolder, yielding light,
Now deep and red, the colouring of night;
That on their Gipsy-faces falls,
Their bed of straw and blanket-walls.
--Twelve hours, twelve bounteous hours are gone, while I
Have been a traveller under open sky,
Much witnessing of change and cheer,
Yet as I left I find them here!
The weary Sun betook himself to rest;--
Then issued Vesper from the fulgent west,
Outshining like a visible God
The glorious path in which he trod.
And now, ascending, after one dark hour
And one night's diminution of her power,
Behold the mighty Moon! this way
She looks as if at them--but they
Regard not her:--oh better wrong and strife
(By nature transient) than this torpid life;
Life which the very stars reprove[A]
As on their silent tasks they move![B]
Yet, witness all that stirs in heaven or earth!
In scorn I speak not;--they are what their birth
And breeding suffer them to be;
Wild outcasts of society!
See S. T. Coleridge's criticism of this poem in his _Biographia
Regard not her:--oh better wrong and strife
Better vain deeds or evil than such life!
The silent Heavens have goings on;[C]
The stars have tasks--but these have none.
... wrong and strife,
(By nature transient) than such torpid life!
The silent Heavens have goings-on;
The stars have tasks--but these have none!
(By nature transient) than such torpid life;
Life which the very stars reprove
As on their silent tasks they move!
 The last four lines were added in 1820.
... the goings on
Of earth and sky.                                    ED.
One of the "Poems of the Imagination."--ED.
O Nightingale! thou surely art
A creature of a "fiery heart:"--[A]
These notes of thine--they pierce and pierce;
Tumultuous harmony and fierce!
Thou sing'st as if the God of wine
Had helped thee to a Valentine;[B]
A song in mockery and despite
Of shades, and dews, and silent night;
And steady bliss, and all the loves
Now sleeping in these peaceful groves.
I heard a Stock-dove sing or say
His homely tale, this very day;
His voice was buried among trees,
Yet to be come-at by the breeze:
He did not cease; but cooed--and cooed;
And somewhat pensively he wooed:
He sang of love, with quiet blending,
Slow to begin, and never ending;
Of serious faith, and inward glee;
That was the song--the song for me!
A Creature of ebullient heart:--
I heard the lusty Nightingale so sing,
That her clear voice made a loud rioting,
Echoing through all the green wood wide.             ED.
----"gives to airy nothing
A local habitation and a name."
Though narrow be that old Man's cares, and near,
The poor old Man is greater than he seems:
For he hath waking empire, wide as dreams;
An ample sovereignty of eye and ear.
Rich are his walks with supernatural cheer;
The region of his inner spirit teems
With vital sounds and monitory gleams
Of high astonishment and pleasing fear.
He the seven birds hath seen, that never part,
Seen the SEVEN WHISTLERS in their nightly rounds,
And counted them: and oftentimes will start--
For overhead are sweeping GABRIEL'S HOUNDS[A]
Doomed, with their impious Lord, the flying Hart
To chase for ever, on aerial grounds!
To bring all the poems referring to Coleorton together, so far as
"There is an old superstition, which it is not easy to get to the
supposed to be produced by the Seven Whistlers. What or who those
popularly believed to be witches, in others ghosts, in others
devils, while in the Midland Counties they are supposed to be
birds, either plovers or martins--some say swifts. In
Leicestershire it is deemed a bad omen to hear the Seven
Whistlers, and our old writers supply many passages illustrative
of the popular credulity. Spenser, in his _Faerie Queene_, book
The whistler shrill, that whoso hears doth die.
Sir Walter Scott, in _The Lady of the Lake_, names the bird with
which his character associated the cry--
And in the plover's shrilly strain
The signal whistlers heard again.
"When the colliers of Leicestershire are flush of money, we are
told, and indulge in a drinking bout, they sometimes hear the
warning voice of the Seven Whistlers, get sobered and frightened,
speaks of a countryman who
... the seven birds hath seen, that never part,
Seen the Seven Whistlers in their nightly rounds,
And counted them.
"A few years ago, during a thunderstorm which passed over
Leicestershire, and while vivid lightning was darting through the
doleful, affrighted cries as they passed, and keeping up for a
long time a continual whistling like that made by some kinds of
sea-birds. The number must have been immense, for the local
gentleman, conversing with a countryman on the following day,
asked him what kind of birds he supposed them to have been. The
man answered, 'They are what we call the Seven Whistlers,' and
added that 'whenever they are heard it is considered a sign of
some great calamity, and that the last time he had heard them was
In _Notes and Queries_ there are several allusions to this local
... the seven birds hath seen, that never part,
Seen the Seven Whistlers in their nightly rounds,
And counted them.
"'Your Excellency laughs at ghosts. But there is no lie about the
"'Who are the Seven Whistlers? and have you seen them yourself?'
"'Not seen, thank Heaven; but I have heard them plenty of times.
Some say they are the ghosts of children unbaptized, who are to
know no rest till the judgment day. Once last winter I was going
with donkeys and a mule to Caia. Just at the moment I stopped by
the river bank to tighten the mule's girth, I heard the accursed
whistlers coming down the wind along the river. I buried my head
"'What was the danger?'
"'If a man once sees them, heaven only knows what will not happen
"'I have seen them many times. I shot, or tried to shoot them!'
"'Holy Mother of God! you English are an awful people! You shot
"'Yes; we call them marecos (teal or widgeon) in our country, and
Clouds, lingering yet, extend in solid bars
Through the grey west; and lo! these waters, steeled
By breezeless air to smoothest polish, yield
A vivid repetition of the stars;
Jove, Venus, and the ruddy crest of Mars
Amid his fellows beauteously revealed
At happy distance from earth's groaning field,
Where ruthless mortals wage incessant wars.
Is it a mirror?--or the nether Sphere
Opening to view the abyss in which she feeds
Her own calm fires?--But list! a voice is near;
Great Pan himself low-whispering through the reeds,
"Be thankful, thou; for, if unholy deeds
Ravage the world, tranquillity is here!"
Eve's lingering clouds extend ...          MS. and 1819.
A bright re-duplication ...                          MS.
Opening a vast abyss, while fancy feeds
On the rich show? ...                                MS.
Opening its vast abyss, ...
Opening to view the abyss in which it feeds
Its own calm fires?-- ...
Included among the "Inscriptions."--ED.
The embowering rose, the acacia, and the pine,
Will not unwillingly their place resign;
If but the Cedar thrive that near them stands,
Planted by Beaumont's and by Wordsworth's hands.
One wooed the silent Art with studious pains:
These groves have heard the Other's pensive strains;
Devoted thus, their spirits did unite
By interchange of knowledge and delight.
May Nature's kindliest powers sustain the Tree,
And Love protect it from all injury!
And when its potent branches, wide out-thrown,
Darken the brow of this memorial Stone,
Here may some Painter sit in future days,
Some future Poet meditate his lays;
Not mindless of that distant age renowned
When Inspiration hovered o'er this ground,
The haunt of him who sang how spear and shield
In civil conflict met on Bosworth-field;
And of that famous Youth, full soon removed
From earth, perhaps by Shakspeare's self approved,
Fletcher's Associate, Jonson's Friend beloved.
who sang how spear and shield
In civil conflict met on Bosworth-field,
famous Youth, full soon removed
From earth,
In another letter written from Grasmere (probably in 1811) to Sir
On November 16, 1811, he wrote to him again, "I am glad that the
The text of 1827 returns to that of 1815.
   And to a favourite resting-place invite,
For coolness grateful and a sober light;
Classed by Wordsworth among his "Inscriptions."--ED.
Oft is the medal faithful to its trust
When temples, columns, towers, are laid in dust;
And 'tis a common ordinance of fate
That things obscure and small outlive the great:
Hence, when yon mansion and the flowery trim
Of this fair garden, and its alleys dim,
And all its stately trees, are passed away,
This little Niche, unconscious of decay,
Perchance may still survive. And be it known
That it was scooped within the living stone,--
Not by the sluggish and ungrateful pains
Of labourer plodding for his daily gains,
But by an industry that wrought in love;
With help from female hands, that proudly strove
To aid the work, what time these walks and bowers
Were shaped to cheer dark winter's lonely hours.
winter-garden. I am told that this is, in the present form of the
Oft is the medal faithful to its trust.
That it was fashioned in ...                         MS.
But by prompt hands of Pleasure and of Love,
Female and Male; that emulously strove               MS.
To shape the work, what time these walks and bowers
Were framed to cheer dark winter's lonely hours.
... bleak ...                                        MS.
One of the "Inscriptions."--ED.
Ye Lime-trees, ranged before this hallowed Urn,
Shoot forth with lively power at Spring's return;
And be not slow a stately growth to rear
Of pillars, branching off from year to year,
Till they have learned to frame a darksome aisle;--
That may recal to mind that awful Pile
Where Reynolds, 'mid our country's noblest dead,
In the last sanctity of fame is laid.
--There, though by right the excelling Painter sleep
Where Death and Glory a joint sabbath keep,
Yet not the less his Spirit would hold dear
Self-hidden praise, and Friendship's private tear:
Hence, on my patrimonial grounds, have I
Raised this frail tribute to his memory;
From youth a zealous follower of the Art
That he professed; attached to him in heart;
Admiring, loving, and with grief and pride
Feeling what England lost when Reynolds died.
The "awful Pile," where Reynolds lies, and where--
... Death and Glory a joint sabbath keep,
is, of course, Westminster Abbey.
"Had there been room at the end of the small avenue of lime-trees
"Ye lime-trees ranged around this hallowed urn,
Shoot forth with lively power at spring's return!
And be not slow a stately growth to rear,
Bending your docile boughs from year to year,
Till in a solemn concave they unite;
Like that Cathedral Dome beneath whose height
Reynolds, among our country's noble Dead,
In the last sanctity of fame is laid.
Here may some Painter sit in future days.
Some future poet meditate his lays!
Not mindless of that distant age, renowned,
When inspiration hovered o'er this ground,
The haunt of him who sang, how spear and shield
In civil conflict met on Bosworth field,
And of that famous youth (full soon removed
From earth!) by mighty Shakespeare's self approved,
Fletcher's associate, Jonson's friend beloved.
"The first couplet of the above, as it before stood, would have
appeared ludicrous, if the stone had remained after the trees
might have been gone. The couplet relating to the household
virtues did not accord with the painter and the poet; the former
being allegorical figures; the latter, living men."
inscriptions are printed in the text as they were carved at
Till ye have framed, at length, a darksome aisle,
Like a recess within that sacred pile
MS. letter to Sir George Beaumont, 1811.
Till they at length have framed a darksome Aisle;--
Like a recess within that awful Pile
Hence, an obscure Memorial, without blame,
In these domestic Grounds, may bear his name;
Unblamed this votive Urn may oft renew
Some mild sensations to his Genius due
From One--a humble Follower of the Art
Five lines instead of three in MS. letter to Sir George Beaumont,
One of the "Inscriptions."--ED.
Beneath yon eastern ridge, the craggy bound,
Rugged and high, of Charnwood's forest ground,
Stand yet, but, Stranger! hidden from thy view
The ivied Ruins of forlorn GRACE DIEU;
Erst a religious House, which day and night
With hymns resounded, and the chanted rite:
And when those rites had ceased, the Spot gave birth
To honourable Men of various worth:
There, on the margin of a streamlet wild,
Did Francis Beaumont sport, an eager child;
There, under shadow of the neighbouring rocks,
Sang youthful tales of shepherds and their flocks;
Unconscious prelude to heroic themes,
Heart-breaking tears, and melancholy dreams
Of slighted love, and scorn, and jealous rage,
With which his genius shook the buskined stage.
Communities are lost, and Empires die,
And things of holy use unhallowed lie;[A]
They perish;--but the Intellect can raise,
From airy words alone, a Pile that ne'er decays.
eastern ridge, the craggy bound,
Rugged and high,
refers probably to High Cadmon. The nunnery of Grace Dieu was a
hill."--Dorothy Wordsworth to Lady Beaumont, November 17, 1806.
Beneath yon eastern ridge, the craggy bound.
The thought of writing this inscription occurred to me many years
But, when the formal Mass had long been stilled,
And wise and mighty changes were fulfilled;
That Ground gave birth to men of various Parts
For Knightly Services and liberal Arts.
MS. letter to Lady Beaumont, 20th November, 1811.
With which his skill inspired ...                    MS.
But Truth and Intellectual Power can raise,
MS. letter to Lady Beaumont, 20th November, 1811.
Strait all that holy was unhallowed lies.
One of the "Poems of the Imagination."--ED.
High in the breathless Hall the Minstrel sate,
And Emont's murmur mingled with the Song.--
The words of ancient time I thus translate,
A festal strain that hath been silent long:--
"From town to town, from tower to tower,
The red rose is a gladsome flower.
Her thirty years of winter past,
The red rose is revived at last;
She lifts her head for endless spring,
For everlasting blossoming:[A]
Both roses flourish, red and white:
In love and sisterly delight
The two that were at strife are blended,
And all old troubles now are ended.--
Joy! joy to both! but most to her
Who is the flower of Lancaster!
Behold her how She smiles to-day
On this great throng, this bright array!
Fair greeting doth she send to all
From every corner of the hall;
But chiefly from above the board
Where sits in state our rightful Lord,
A Clifford to his own restored!
"They came with banner, spear, and shield;
And it was proved in Bosworth-field.
Not long the Avenger was withstood--
Earth helped him with the cry of blood:[B]
St George was for us, and the might
Of blessed Angels crowned the right.
Loud voice the Land has uttered forth,
We loudest in the faithful north:
Our fields rejoice, our mountains ring,
Our streams proclaim a welcoming;
Our strong-abodes and castles see
The glory of their loyalty.
"How glad is Skipton at this hour--
Though lonely, a deserted Tower;
Knight, squire, and yeoman, page and groom:
We have them at the feast of Brough'm.
How glad Pendragon--though the sleep
Of years be on her!--She shall reap
A taste of this great pleasure, viewing
As in a dream her own renewing.
Rejoiced is Brough, right glad I deem
Beside her little humble stream;
And she that keepeth watch and ward
Her statelier Eden's course to guard;
They both are happy at this hour,
Though each is but a lonely Tower:--
But here is perfect joy and pride
For one fair House by Emont's side,
This day, distinguished without peer
To see her Master and to cheer--
Him, and his Lady-mother dear!
"Oh! it was a time forlorn
When the fatherless was born--
Give her wings that she may fly,
Or she sees her infant die!
Swords that are with slaughter wild
Who will take them from the light?
--Yonder is a man in sight--
Yonder is a house--but where?
No, they must not enter there.
To the caves, and to the brooks,
To the clouds of heaven she looks;
She is speechless, but her eyes
Pray in ghostly agonies.
Blissful Mary, Mother mild,
Maid and Mother undefiled,
"Now Who is he that bounds with joy
On Carrock's side, a Shepherd-boy?
No thoughts hath he but thoughts that pass
Light as the wind along the grass.
Can this be He who hither came
In secret, like a smothered flame?
O'er whom such thankful tears were shed
For shelter, and a poor man's bread!
God loves the Child; and God hath willed
That those dear words should be fulfilled,
The Lady's words, when forced away
The last she to her Babe did say:
'My own, my own, thy Fellow-guest
I may not be; but rest thee, rest,
For lowly shepherd's life is best!'
"Alas! when evil men are strong
No life is good, no pleasure long.
The Boy must part from Mosedale's groves,
And leave Blencathara's rugged coves,[C]
And quit the flowers that summer brings[D]
To Glenderamakin's lofty springs;
Must vanish, and his careless cheer
Be turned to heaviness and fear.
--Give Sir Lancelot Threlkeld praise!
Hear it, good man, old in days!
Thou tree of covert and of rest
For this young Bird that is distrest;
Among thy branches safe he lay,
And he was free to sport and play,
When falcons were abroad for prey.
"A recreant harp, that sings of fear
And heaviness in Clifford's ear!
I said, when evil men are strong,
No life is good, no pleasure long,
A weak and cowardly untruth!
Our Clifford was a happy Youth,
And thankful through a weary time,
That brought him up to manhood's prime.
--Again he wanders forth at will,
And tends a flock from hill to hill:
His garb is humble; ne'er was seen
Such garb with such a noble mien;
Among the shepherd grooms no mate
Hath he, a Child of strength and state!
Yet lacks not friends for simple glee,
Nor yet for higher sympathy.
To his side the fallow-deer
Came, and rested without fear;
The eagle, lord of land and sea,
Stooped down to pay him fealty;[E]
And both the undying fish that swim
Through Bowscale-tarn did wait on him;[F]
The pair were servants of his eye
In their immortality;
And glancing, gleaming, dark or bright,
Moved to and fro, for his delight.
He knew the rocks which Angels haunt
Upon the mountains visitant;
He hath kenned them taking wing:
And into caves where Faeries sing
He hath entered; and been told
By Voices how men lived of old.
Among the heavens his eye can see
The face of thing that is to be;
And, if that men report him right,
His tongue could whisper words of might.
--Now another day is come,
Fitter hope, and nobler doom;
He hath thrown aside his crook,
And hath buried deep his book;
Armour rusting in his halls
On the blood of Clifford calls;--[G]
'Quell the Scot,' exclaims the Lance--
Bear me to the heart of France,
Is the longing of the Shield--
Tell thy name, thou trembling Field;
Field of death, where'er thou be,
Groan thou with our victory!
Happy day, and mighty hour,
When our Shepherd, in his power,
Mailed and horsed, with lance and sword,
To his ancestors restored
Like a re-appearing Star,
Like a glory from afar,
First shall head the flock of war!"
Alas! the impassioned minstrel did not know
How, by Heaven's grace, this Clifford's heart was framed:
How he, long forced in humble walks to go,
Was softened into feeling, soothed, and tamed.
Love had he found in huts where poor men lie;
His daily teachers had been woods and rills,
The silence that is in the starry sky,
The sleep that is among the lonely hills.
In him the savage virtue of the Race,
Revenge, and all ferocious thoughts were dead:
Nor did he change; but kept in lofty place
The wisdom which adversity had bred.
Glad were the vales, and every cottage-hearth;
The Shepherd-lord was honoured more and more;
And, ages after he was laid in earth,
"The good Lord Clifford" was the name he bore.
"Henry Lord Clifford, etc. etc., who is the subject of this Poem,
Field,[H] which John, Lord Clifford, as is known to the Reader of
of York who had fallen in the battle, 'in part of revenge' (say
thing temperate of himself in the heat of martial fury? chiefly,
when it was resolved not to leave any branch of the York line
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 Pembroke, who was laudably anxious to wipe away, as far as
could be, this stigma from the illustrious name to which she was
eighteen years of age: and for the small distance betwixt her
Children, see Austin Vincent in his book of Nobility, page 622,
the Army of Lancaster, before this time; and, therefore, would be
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
Cumberland, where the estate of his Father-in-law (Sir Lancelot
Threlkeld) lay. He was restored to his estate and honours in the
that there is a tradition current in the village of Threlkeld and
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 honourable 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
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
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."
_High in the breathless Hall the Minstrel sate,
And Emont's murmur mingled with the Song._
_Her thirty years of winter past,
The red rose is revived at last._
_Both roses flourish, red and white_,
_And it was proved in Bosworth-field._
_Not long the Avenger was withstood--
Earth helped him with the cry of blood._
_How glad is Skipton at this hour--
Though lonely, a deserted Tower._
_How glad Pendragon--though the sleep
Of years be on her!_
Let Uter Pendragon do what he can,
Eden will run where Eden ran.
_Rejoiced is Brough, right glad I deem
Beside her little humble stream._
_And she that keepeth watch and ward
Her statelier Eden's course to guard._
_One fair House by Emont's side._
_Him, and his Lady-mother dear!_
_Now Who is he that bounds with joy
On Carrock's side, a Shepherd-boy?_
Carrock-fell is three miles south-west from Castle Sowerby, in
_The Boy must part from Mosedale's groves,
And leave Blencathara's rugged coves._
There are many "Mosedales" in the English Lake District. The one
referred to here is to the north of Blencathara or Saddleback.
_And quit the flowers that summer brings
To Glenderamakin's lofty springs._
The river Glenderamakin rises in the lofty ground to the north of
_--Give Sir Lancelot Threlkeld praise!_
_Thou tree of covert and of rest
For this young Bird that is distrest._
And see, beyond that hamlet small,
The ruined towers of Threlkeld-hall,
Lurking in a double shade,
By trees and lingering twilight made!
There, at Blencathara's rugged feet,
Sir Lancelot gave a safe retreat
To noble Clifford; from annoy
Concealed the persecuted boy,
Well pleased in rustic garb to feed
His flock, and pipe on shepherd's reed
Among this multitude of hills,
Crags, woodlands, waterfalls, and rills.
_And both the undying fish that swim
Through Bowscale-tarn did wait on him._
_And into caves where Faeries sing
He hath entered._
_Alas! the impassioned minstrel did not know
How, by Heaven's grace, this Clifford's heart was framed:
How he, long forced in humble walks to go,
Was softened into feeling, soothed, and tamed._
Glenderamakin--that Wordsworth refers in the lines,
_Love had he found in huts where poor men lie;
His daily teachers had been woods and rills,
The silence that is in the starry sky,
The sleep that is among the lonely hills._
From Linton to long Addingham,
And all that Craven's coasts did till,
They with the lusty Clifford came.
when he, with spear and shield,
Rode full of years to Flodden-field.
He died in 1523, and was buried in the choir of Bolton Priory.
"The transitions and vicissitudes in this noble lyric I have
always thought rendered it one of the finest specimens of modern
subjective poetry which our age has seen. The ode commences in a
tone of high gratulation and festivity--a tone not only glad, but
restored to the home, the honours and estates of his ancestors.
Then it sinks and falls away to the remembrance of
tribulation--times of war and bloodshed, flight and terror, and
hiding away from the enemy--times of poverty and distress, when
the Clifford was brought, a little child, to the shelter of a
northern valley. After a while it emerges from those depths of
beautiful and impressive aspects of nature are brought into
relationship with the spirit of him, whose fortunes and character
and exalting it, whilst they keep it _pure and unspotted from the
himself back into the tide of stirring life and moving events.
All is to come over again, struggle and conflict, chances and
changes of war, victory and triumph, overthrow and desolation. I
know nothing, in lyric poetry, more beautiful or affecting than
the final transition from this part of the ode, with its rapid
metre, to the slow elegiac stanzas at the end, when, from the
warlike fervour and eagerness, the jubilant strain which has just
The text of 1820 returns to that of 1807.
Though she is but a lonely Tower!
Silent, deserted of her best,
Deserted, emptied of her best.                       MS.
To vacancy and silence left;
Of all her guardian sons bereft--
... on vale and hill:                                MS.
 1845. This line was previously three lines--
And a chearful company,
That learn'd of him submissive ways;
And comforted his private days.
A spirit-soothing company,
They moved about in open sight,
To and fro, for his delight.
... heard ...                                        MS.
Face of thing ...
And, if Men report him right,
He can whisper words of might.
He could whisper ...
And, if that men report him right,
He could whisper ...
Alas! the fervent Harper did not know
That for a tranquil Soul the Lay was framed,
Who, long compell'd in humble walks to go,
... of ...                                           MS.
That shall infuse Eternal Spring
And everlasting flourishing.                         ED.
Beaumont's line in _The Battle of Bosworth Field_ is--
The earth assists thee with the cry of blood.        ED.
They say, Lord Clifford is a savage man.             ED.
Dedication, which was not written till 1815.
succeeds. The heroine of the poem knows that her duty is not to
to abide
The shock, and finally secure
O'er pain and grief a triumph pure.
In trellised shed with clustering roses gay,[B]
And, MARY! oft beside our blazing fire,
When years of wedded life were as a day
Whose current answers to the heart's desire,
Did we together read in Spenser's Lay
How Una, sad of soul--in sad attire,
The gentle Una, of celestial birth,
To seek her Knight went wandering o'er the earth.
Ah, then, Beloved! pleasing was the smart,
And the tear precious in compassion shed
For Her, who, pierced by sorrow's thrilling dart,
Did meekly bear the pang unmerited;
Meek as that emblem of her lowly heart
The milk-white Lamb which in a line she led,--[C]
And faithful, loyal in her innocence,
Like the brave Lion slain in her defence.
Notes could we hear as of a faery shell
Attuned to words with sacred wisdom fraught;
Free Fancy prized each specious miracle,
And all its finer inspiration caught;
Till in the bosom of our rustic Cell,
We by a lamentable change were taught
That "bliss with mortal Man may not abide:"[D]
How nearly joy and sorrow are allied!
For us the stream of fiction ceased to flow,
For us the voice of melody was mute.
--But, as soft gales dissolve the dreary snow,
And give the timid herbage leave to shoot,
Heaven's breathing influence failed not to bestow
A timely promise of unlooked-for fruit,
Fair fruit of pleasure and serene content
From blossoms wild of fancies innocent.
It soothed us--it beguiled us--then, to hear
Once more of troubles wrought by magic spell;
And griefs whose aery motion comes not near
The pangs that tempt the Spirit to rebel:
Then, with mild Una in her sober cheer,
High over hill and low adown the dell
Again we wandered, willing to partake
All that she suffered for her dear Lord's sake.
Then, too, this Song _of mine_ once more could please,
Where anguish, strange as dreams of restless sleep,
Is tempered and allayed by sympathies
Aloft ascending, and descending deep,
Even to the inferior Kinds; whom forest-trees
Protect from beating sunbeams, and the sweep
Of the sharp winds;--fair Creatures!--to whom Heaven
A calm and sinless life, with love, hath given.
This tragic Story cheered us; for it speaks
Of female patience winning firm repose;
And, of the recompense that conscience seeks,
A bright, encouraging, example shows;
Needful when o'er wide realms the tempest breaks,
Needful amid life's ordinary woes;--
Hence, not for them unfitted who would bless
A happy hour with holier happiness.
He serves the Muses erringly and ill,
Whose aim is pleasure light and fugitive:
O, that my mind were equal to fulfil
The comprehensive mandate which they give--
Vain aspiration of an earnest will!
Yet in this moral Strain a power may live,
Beloved Wife! such solace to impart
As it hath yielded to thy tender heart.
"Action is transitory--a step, a blow,
The motion of a muscle--this way or that--
'Tis done; and in the after-vacancy
We wonder at ourselves like men betrayed:
Suffering is permanent, obscure and dark,
And has the nature of infinity.
Yet through that darkness (infinite though it seem
And irremovable) gracious openings lie,
By which the soul--with patient steps of thought
Now toiling, wafted now on wings of prayer--
May pass in hope, and, though from mortal bonds
Yet undelivered, rise with sure ascent
Even to the fountain-head of peace divine."[E]
"They that deny a God, destroy Man's nobility: for certainly Man
is of kinn to the Beast by his Body; and if he be not of kinn to
God by his Spirit, he is a base ignoble Creature. It destroys
likewise Magnanimity, and the raising of humane Nature: for take
an example of a Dogg, and mark what a generosity and courage he
assureth himself upon Divine protection and favour, gathereth a
force and faith which human Nature in itself could not obtain."
From Bolton's old monastic tower[G]
The bells ring loud with gladsome power;
The sun shines bright; the fields are gay
With people in their best array
Of stole and doublet, hood and scarf,
Along the banks of crystal Wharf,
Through the Vale retired and lowly,
Trooping to that summons holy.
And, up among the moorlands, see
What sprinklings of blithe company!
Of lasses and of shepherd grooms,
That down the steep hills force their way,
Like cattle through the budded brooms;
Path, or no path, what care they?
And thus in joyous mood they hie
To Bolton's mouldering Priory.[H]
What would they there!--full fifty years
That sumptuous Pile, with all its peers,
Too harshly hath been doomed to taste
The bitterness of wrong and waste:
Its courts are ravaged; but the tower
Is standing with a voice of power,[I]
That ancient voice which wont to call
To mass or some high festival;
And in the shattered fabric's heart
Remaineth one protected part;
A Chapel, like a wild-bird's nest,
Closely embowered and trimly drest;[J]
And thither young and old repair,
This Sabbath-day, for praise and prayer.
Fast the church-yard fills;--anon
Look again, and they all are gone;
The cluster round the porch, and the folk
Who sate in the shade of the Prior's Oak![K]
And scarcely have they disappeared
Ere the prelusive hymn is heard:--
With one consent the people rejoice,
Filling the church with a lofty voice!
They sing a service which they feel:
For 'tis the sunrise now of zeal;
Of a pure faith the vernal prime--
In great Eliza's golden time.
A moment ends the fervent din,
And all is hushed, without and within;
For though the priest, more tranquilly,
Recites the holy liturgy,
The only voice which you can hear
Is the river murmuring near.
--When soft!--the dusky trees between,
And down the path through the open green,
Where is no living thing to be seen;
And through yon gateway, where is found,
Beneath the arch with ivy bound,
Free entrance to the church-yard ground--
Comes gliding in with lovely gleam,
Comes gliding in serene and slow,
Soft and silent as a dream,
A solitary Doe!
White she is as lily of June,
And beauteous as the silver moon
When out of sight the clouds are driven
And she is left alone in heaven;
Or like a ship some gentle day
In sunshine sailing far away,
A glittering ship, that hath the plain
Of ocean for her own domain.
Lie silent in your graves, ye dead!
Lie quiet in your church-yard bed!
Ye living, tend your holy cares;
Ye multitude, pursue your prayers;
And blame not me if my heart and sight
Are occupied with one delight!
'Tis a work for sabbath hours
If I with this bright Creature go:
Whether she be of forest bowers,
From the bowers of earth below;
Or a Spirit for one day given,
A pledge of grace from purest heaven.
What harmonious pensive changes
Wait upon her as she ranges
Round and through this Pile of state
Overthrown and desolate!
Now a step or two her way
Leads through space of open day,
Where the enamoured sunny light
Brightens her that was so bright;[L]
Now doth a delicate shadow fall,
Falls upon her like a breath,
From some lofty arch or wall,
As she passes underneath:
Now some gloomy nook partakes
Of the glory that she makes,--
High-ribbed vault of stone, or cell,
With perfect cunning framed as well
Of stone, and ivy, and the spread
Of the elder's bushy head;
Some jealous and forbidding cell,
That doth the living stars repel,
And where no flower hath leave to dwell.
The presence of this wandering Doe
Fills many a damp obscure recess
With lustre of a saintly show;
And, reappearing, she no less
Sheds on the flowers that round her blow
A more than sunny liveliness.
But say, among these holy places,
Which thus assiduously she paces,
Comes she with a votary's task,
Rite to perform, or boon to ask?
Fair Pilgrim! harbours she a sense
Of sorrow, or of reverence?
Can she be grieved for quire or shrine,
Crushed as if by wrath divine?
For what survives of house where God
Was worshipped, or where Man abode;
For old magnificence undone;
Or for the gentler work begun
By Nature, softening and concealing,
And busy with a hand of healing?[M]
Mourns she for lordly chamber's hearth
That to the sapling ash gives birth;
For dormitory's length laid bare
Where the wild rose blossoms fair;[N]
Or altar, whence the cross was rent,
Now rich with mossy ornament?
--She sees a warrior carved in stone,
Among the thick weeds, stretched alone;[O]
A warrior, with his shield of pride
Cleaving humbly to his side,
And hands in resignation prest,
Palm to palm, on his tranquil breast;
As little she regards the sight
As a common creature might:
If she be doomed to inward care,
Or service, it must lie elsewhere.
--But hers are eyes serenely bright,
And on she moves--with pace how light!
Nor spares to stoop her head, and taste
The dewy turf with flowers bestrown;
And thus she fares, until at last
Beside the ridge of a grassy grave
In quietness she lays her down;
Gentle as a weary wave
Sinks, when the summer breeze hath died,
Against an anchored vessel's side;
Even so, without distress, doth she
Lie down in peace, and lovingly.
The day is placid in its going,
To a lingering motion bound,
Like the crystal stream now flowing
With its softest summer sound:
So the balmy minutes pass,
While this radiant Creature lies
Couched upon the dewy grass,
Pensively with downcast eyes.
--But now again the people raise
With awful cheer a voice of praise;
It is the last, the parting song;
And from the temple forth they throng,
And quickly spread themselves abroad,
While each pursues his several road.
But some--a variegated band
Of middle-aged, and old, and young,
And little children by the hand
Upon their leading mothers hung--
With mute obeisance gladly paid
Turn towards the spot, where, full in view,
The white Doe, to her service true,
Her sabbath couch has made.
It was a solitary mound;
Which two spears' length of level ground
Did from all other graves divide:
As if in some respect of pride;
Or melancholy's sickly mood,
Still shy of human neighbourhood;
Or guilt, that humbly would express
A penitential loneliness.
"Look, there she is, my Child! draw near;
She fears not, wherefore should we fear?
She means no harm;"--but still the Boy,
To whom the words were softly said,
Hung back, and smiled, and blushed for joy,
A shamed-faced blush of glowing red!
Again the Mother whispered low,
"Now you have seen the famous Doe;
From Rylstone she hath found her way
Over the hills this sabbath day;
Her work, whate'er it be, is done,
And she will depart when we are gone;
Thus doth she keep, from year to year,
Her sabbath morning, foul or fair."
Bright was the Creature, as in dreams
The Boy had seen her, yea, more bright;
But is she truly what she seems?
He asks with insecure delight,
Asks of himself, and doubts,--and still
The doubt returns against his will:
Though he, and all the standers-by,
Could tell a tragic history
Of facts divulged, wherein appear
Substantial motive, reason clear,
Why thus the milk-white Doe is found
Couchant beside that lonely mound;
And why she duly loves to pace
The circuit of this hallowed place.
Nor to the Child's inquiring mind
Is such perplexity confined:
For, spite of sober Truth that sees
A world of fixed remembrances
Which to this mystery belong,
If, undeceived, my skill can trace
The characters of every face,
There lack not strange delusion here,
Conjecture vague, and idle fear,
And superstitious fancies strong,
Which do the gentle Creature wrong.
That bearded, staff-supported Sire--
Who in his boyhood often fed
Full cheerily on convent-bread
And heard old tales by the convent-fire,
And to his grave will go with scars,
Relics of long and distant wars--
That Old Man, studious to expound
The spectacle, is mounting high
To days of dim antiquity;
When Lady Aaeliza mourned
Her Son,[P] and felt in her despair
The pang of unavailing prayer;
Her Son in Wharf's abysses drowned,
The noble Boy of Egremound.[Q]
From which affliction--when the grace
Of God had in her heart found place--
A pious structure, fair to see,
Rose up, this stately Priory!
The Lady's work;--but now laid low;
To the grief of her soul that doth come and go,
In the beautiful form of this innocent Doe:
Which, though seemingly doomed in its breast to sustain
A softened remembrance of sorrow and pain,
Is spotless, and holy, and gentle, and bright;
And glides o'er the earth like an angel of light.
Pass, pass who will, yon chantry door;[R]
Look down, and see a griesly sight;
A vault where the bodies are buried upright![S]
There, face by face, and hand by hand,
The Claphams and Mauleverers stand;
And, in his place, among son and sire,
Is John de Clapham, that fierce Esquire,
A valiant man, and a name of dread
In the ruthless wars of the White and Red;
Who dragged Earl Pembroke from Banbury church
And smote off his head on the stones of the porch!
Look down among them, if you dare;
Oft does the White Doe loiter there,
Prying into the darksome rent;
Nor can it be with good intent:
So thinks that Dame of haughty air,
Who hath a Page her book to hold,
And wears a frontlet edged with gold.
Harsh thoughts with her high mood agree--
Who counts among her ancestry
Earl Pembroke, slain so impiously!
That slender Youth, a scholar pale,
From Oxford come to his native vale,
He also hath his own conceit:
It is, thinks he, the gracious Fairy,
Who loved the Shepherd-lord to meet[T]
In his wanderings solitary:
Wild notes she in his hearing sang,
A song of Nature's hidden powers;
That whistled like the wind, and rang
Among the rocks and holly bowers.
'Twas said that She all shapes could wear;
And oftentimes before him stood,
Amid the trees of some thick wood,
In semblance of a lady fair;
And taught him signs, and showed him sights,
In Craven's dens, on Cumbrian heights;
When under cloud of fear he lay,
A shepherd clad in homely grey;
Nor left him at his later day.
And hence, when he, with spear and shield,
Rode full of years to Flodden-field,
His eye could see the hidden spring,
And how the current was to flow;
The fatal end of Scotland's King,
And all that hopeless overthrow.
But not in wars did he delight,
_This_ Clifford wished for worthier might;
Nor in broad pomp, or courtly state;
Him his own thoughts did elevate,--
Most happy in the shy recess
Of Barden's lowly quietness.[U]
And choice of studious friends had he
Of Bolton's dear fraternity;
Who, standing on this old church tower,
In many a calm propitious hour,
Perused, with him, the starry sky;
Or, in their cells, with him did pry
For other lore,--by keen desire
Urged to close toil with chemic fire;
In quest belike of transmutations
Rich as the mine's most bright creations.
But they and their good works are fled,
And all is now disquieted--
And peace is none, for living or dead!
Ah, pensive Scholar, think not so,
But look again at the radiant Doe!
What quiet watch she seems to keep,
Alone, beside that grassy heap!
Why mention other thoughts unmeet
For vision so composed and sweet?
While stand the people in a ring,
Gazing, doubting, questioning;
Yea, many overcome in spite
Of recollections clear and bright;
Which yet do unto some impart
An undisturbed repose of heart.
And all the assembly own a law
Of orderly respect and awe;
But see--they vanish one by one,
And last, the Doe herself is gone.
Harp! we have been full long beguiled
By vague thoughts, lured by fancies wild;
To which, with no reluctant strings,
Thou hast attuned thy murmurings;
And now before this Pile we stand
In solitude, and utter peace:
But, Harp! thy murmurs may not cease--
A Spirit, with his angelic wings,
In soft and breeze-like visitings,
Has touched thee--and a Spirit's hand:
A voice is with us--a command
To chant, in strains of heavenly glory,
A tale of tears, a mortal story!
The Harp in lowliness obeyed;
And first we sang of the green-wood shade
And a solitary Maid;
Beginning, where the song must end,
With her, and with her sylvan Friend;
The Friend, who stood before her sight,
Her only unextinguished light;
Her last companion in a dearth
Of love, upon a hopeless earth.
For She it was--this Maid, who wrought
Meekly, with foreboding thought,
In vermeil colours and in gold
An unblest work; which, standing by,
Her Father did with joy behold,--
Exulting in its imagery;
A Banner, fashioned to fulfil
Too perfectly his headstrong will:
For on this Banner had her hand
Embroidered (such her Sire's command)
The sacred Cross; and figured there
The five dear wounds our Lord did bear;
Full soon to be uplifted high,
And float in rueful company!
It was the time when England's Queen
Twelve years had reigned, a Sovereign dread;[V]
Nor yet the restless crown had been
Disturbed upon her virgin head;
But now the inly-working North
Was ripe to send its thousands forth,
A potent vassalage, to fight
In Percy's and in Neville's right,[W]
Two Earls fast leagued in discontent,
Who gave their wishes open vent;
And boldly urged a general plea,
The rites of ancient piety
To be triumphantly restored,
By the stern justice of the sword!
And that same Banner on whose breast
The blameless Lady had exprest
Memorials chosen to give life
And sunshine to a dangerous strife;
That Banner, waiting for the Call,
Stood quietly in Rylstone-hall.
It came; and Francis Norton said,
"O Father! rise not in this fray--
The hairs are white upon your head;
Dear Father, hear me when I say
It is for you too late a day!
Bethink you of your own good name:
A just and gracious queen have we,
A pure religion, and the claim
Of peace on our humanity.--
'Tis meet that I endure your scorn;
I am your son, your eldest born;
But not for lordship or for land,
My Father, do I clasp your knees;
The Banner touch not, stay your hand,
This multitude of men disband,
And live at home in blameless ease;
For these my brethren's sake, for me;
And, most of all, for Emily!"
Tumultuous noises filled the hall;
And scarcely could the Father hear
That name--pronounced with a dying fall--[X]
The name of his only Daughter dear,
As on the banner which stood near
He glanced a look of holy pride,
And his moist eyes were glorified;
Then did he seize the staff, and say:
"Thou, Richard, bear'st thy father's name,
Keep thou this ensign till the day
When I of thee require the same:
Thy place be on my better hand;--
And seven as true as thou, I see,
Will cleave to this good cause and me."
He spake, and eight brave sons straightway
All followed him, a gallant band!
Thus, with his sons, when forth he came
The sight was hailed with loud acclaim
And din of arms and minstrelsy,
From all his warlike tenantry,
All horsed and harnessed with him to ride,--
A voice to which the hills replied!
But Francis, in the vacant hall,
Stood silent under dreary weight,--
A phantasm, in which roof and wall
Shook, tottered, swam before his sight;
A phantasm like a dream of night!
Thus overwhelmed, and desolate,
He found his way to a postern-gate;
And, when he waked, his languid eye
Was on the calm and silent sky;
With air about him breathing sweet,
And earth's green grass beneath his feet;
Nor did he fail ere long to hear
A sound of military cheer,
Faint--but it reached that sheltered spot;
He heard, and it disturbed him not.
There stood he, leaning on a lance
Which he had grasped unknowingly,
Had blindly grasped in that strong trance,
That dimness of heart-agony;
There stood he, cleansed from the despair
And sorrow of his fruitless prayer.
The past he calmly hath reviewed:
But where will be the fortitude
Of this brave man, when he shall see
That Form beneath the spreading tree,
And know that it is Emily?
He saw her where in open view
She sate beneath the spreading yew--
Her head upon her lap, concealing
In solitude her bitter feeling:
"Might ever son _command_ a sire,
The act were justified to-day."
This to himself--and to the Maid,
Whom now he had approached, he said--
"Gone are they,--they have their desire;
And I with thee one hour will stay,
To give thee comfort if I may."
She heard, but looked not up, nor spake;
And sorrow moved him to partake
Her silence; then his thoughts turned round,
And fervent words a passage found.
"Gone are they, bravely, though misled;
With a dear Father at their head!
The Sons obey a natural lord;
The Father had given solemn word
To noble Percy; and a force
Still stronger, bends him to his course.
This said, our tears to-day may fall
As at an innocent funeral.
In deep and awful channel runs
This sympathy of Sire and Sons;
Untried our Brothers have been loved
With heart by simple nature moved;
And now their faithfulness is proved:
For faithful we must call them, bearing
That soul of conscientious daring.
--There were they all in circle--there
John with a sword that will not fail,
And Marmaduke in fearless mail,
And those bright Twins were side by side;
And there, by fresh hopes beautified,
Stood He, whose arm yet lacks the power
Of man, our youngest, fairest flower!
I, by the right of eldest born,
And in a second father's place,
Presumed to grapple with their scorn,
And meet their pity face to face;
Yea, trusting in God's holy aid,
I to my Father knelt and prayed;
And one, the pensive Marmaduke,
Methought, was yielding inwardly,
And would have laid his purpose by,
But for a glance of his Father's eye,
Which I myself could scarcely brook.
"Then be we, each and all, forgiven!
Thou, chiefly thou, my Sister dear,
Whose pangs are registered in heaven--
The stifled sigh, the hidden tear,
And smiles, that dared to take their place,
Meek filial smiles, upon thy face,
As that unhallowed Banner grew
Beneath a loving old Man's view.
Thy part is done--thy painful part;
Be thou then satisfied in heart!
A further, though far easier, task
Than thine hath been, my duties ask;
With theirs my efforts cannot blend,
I cannot for such cause contend;
Their aims I utterly forswear;
But I in body will be there.
Unarmed and naked will I go,
Be at their side, come weal or woe:
On kind occasions I may wait,
See, hear, obstruct, or mitigate.
Bare breast I take and an empty hand."--[Y]
Therewith he threw away the lance,
Which he had grasped in that strong trance;
Spurned it, like something that would stand
Between him and the pure intent
Of love on which his soul was bent.
"For thee, for thee, is left the sense
Of trial past without offence
To God or man; such innocence,
Such consolation, and the excess
Of an unmerited distress;
In that thy very strength must lie.
--O Sister, I could prophesy!
The time is come that rings the knell
Of all we loved, and loved so well:
Hope nothing, if I thus may speak
To thee, a woman, and thence weak:
Hope nothing, I repeat; for we
Are doomed to perish utterly:
'Tis meet that thou with me divide
The thought while I am by thy side,
Acknowledging a grace in this,
A comfort in the dark abyss.
But look not for me when I am gone,
And be no farther wrought upon:
Farewell all wishes, all debate,
All prayers for this cause, or for that!
Weep, if that aid thee; but depend
Upon no help of outward friend;
Espouse thy doom at once, and cleave
To fortitude without reprieve.
For we must fall, both we and ours--
This Mansion and these pleasant bowers,
Walks, pools, and arbours, homestead, hall--
Our fate is theirs, will reach them all;[Z]
The young horse must forsake his manger,
And learn to glory in a Stranger;
The hawk forget his perch; the hound
Be parted from his ancient ground:
The blast will sweep us all away--
One desolation, one decay!
And even this Creature!" which words saying,
He pointed to a lovely Doe,
A few steps distant, feeding, straying;
Fair creature, and more white than snow!
"Even she will to her peaceful woods
Return, and to her murmuring floods,
And be in heart and soul the same
She was before she hither came;
Ere she had learned to love us all,
Herself beloved in Rylstone-hall.
--But thou, my Sister, doomed to be
The last leaf on a blasted tree;
If not in vain we breathed the breath
Together of a purer faith;
If hand in hand we have been led,
And thou, (O happy thought this day!)
Not seldom foremost in the way;
If on one thought our minds have fed,
And we have in one meaning read;
If, when at home our private weal
Hath suffered from the shock of zeal,
Together we have learned to prize
Forbearance and self-sacrifice;
If we like combatants have fared,
And for this issue been prepared;
If thou art beautiful, and youth
And thought endue thee with all truth--
Be strong;--be worthy of the grace
Of God, and fill thy destined place:
A Soul, by force of sorrows high,
Uplifted to the purest sky
Of undisturbed humanity!"
He ended,--or she heard no more;
He led her from the yew-tree shade,
And at the mansion's silent door,
He kissed the consecrated Maid;
And down the valley then pursued,
Alone, the armed Multitude.
Now joy for you who from the towers
Of Brancepeth look in doubt and fear,[AA]
Telling melancholy hours!
Proclaim it, let your Masters hear
That Norton with his band is near!
The watchmen from their station high
Pronounced the word,--and the Earls descry,
Well-pleased, the armed Company
Marching down the banks of Were.
Said fearless Norton to the pair
Gone forth to greet him on the plain
"This meeting, noble Lords! looks fair,
I bring with me a goodly train;
Their hearts are with you: hill and dale
Have helped us: Ure we crossed, and Swale,
And horse and harness followed--see
The best part of their Yeomanry!
--Stand forth, my Sons!--these eight are mine,
Whom to this service I commend;
Which way soe'er our fate incline,
These will be faithful to the end;
They are my all"--voice failed him here--
"My all save one, a Daughter dear!
Whom I have left, Love's mildest birth,
The meekest Child on this blessed earth.
I had--but these are by my side,
These Eight, and this is a day of pride!
The time is ripe. With festive din
Lo! how the people are flocking in,--
Like hungry fowl to the feeder's hand
When snow lies heavy upon the land."
He spake bare truth; for far and near
From every side came noisy swarms
Of Peasants in their homely gear;
And, mixed with these, to Brancepeth came
Grave Gentry of estate and name,
And Captains known for worth in arms;
And prayed the Earls in self-defence
To rise, and prove their innocence.--
"Rise, noble Earls, put forth your might
For holy Church, and the People's right!"
The Norton fixed, at this demand,
His eye upon Northumberland,
And said; "The Minds of Men will own
No loyal rest while England's Crown
Remains without an Heir, the bait
Of strife and factions desperate;
Who, paying deadly hate in kind
Through all things else, in this can find
A mutual hope, a common mind;
And plot, and pant to overwhelm
All ancient honour in the realm.
--Brave Earls! to whose heroic veins
Our noblest blood is given in trust,
To you a suffering State complains,
And ye must raise her from the dust.
With wishes of still bolder scope
On you we look, with dearest hope;
Even for our Altars--for the prize
In Heaven, of life that never dies;
For the old and holy Church we mourn,
And must in joy to her return.
Behold!"--and from his Son whose stand
Was on his right, from that guardian hand
He took the Banner, and unfurled
The precious folds--"behold," said he,
"The ransom of a sinful world;
Let this your preservation be;
The wounds of hands and feet and side,
And the sacred Cross on which Jesus died!
--This bring I from an ancient hearth,
These Records wrought in pledge of love
By hands of no ignoble birth,
A Maid o'er whom the blessed Dove
Vouchsafed in gentleness to brood
While she the holy work pursued."
From all the listeners that stood round,
"Plant it,--by this we live or die."
The Norton ceased not for that sound,
But said; "The prayer which ye have heard,
Much injured Earls! by these preferred,
Is offered to the Saints, the sigh
Of tens of thousands, secretly."
"Uplift it!" cried once more the Band,
And then a thoughtful pause ensued:
"Uplift it!" said Northumberland--
Whereat, from all the multitude
Who saw the Banner reared on high
In all its dread emblazonry,
A voice of uttermost joy brake out:
The transport was rolled down the river of Were,
And Durham, the time-honoured Durham, did hear,
And the towers of Saint Cuthbert were stirred by the shout![BB]
Now was the North in arms:--they shine
In warlike trim from Tweed to Tyne,
At Percy's voice: and Neville sees
His Followers gathering in from Tees,
From Were, and all the little rills
Concealed among the forked hills--
Seven hundred Knights, Retainers all
Of Neville, at their Master's call
Had sate together in Raby Hall![CC]
Such strength that Earldom held of yore;
Nor wanted at this time rich store
Of well-appointed chivalry.
--Not both the sleepy lance to wield,
And greet the old paternal shield,
They heard the summons;--and, furthermore,
Horsemen and Foot of each degree,
Unbound by pledge of fealty,
Appeared, with free and open hate
Of novelties in Church and State;
night, burgher, yeoman, and esquire;
And Romish priest, in priest's attire.
And thus, in arms, a zealous Band
Proceeding under joint command,
To Durham first their course they bear;
And in Saint Cuthbert's ancient seat
Sang mass,--and tore the book of prayer,--
And trod the bible beneath their feet.
Thence marching southward smooth and free
"They mustered their host at Wetherby,
Full sixteen thousand fair to see;"[DD]
But none for beauty and for worth
Like those eight Sons--who, in a ring,
(Ripe men, or blooming in life's spring)
Each with a lance, erect and tall,
A falchion, and a buckler small,
Stood by their Sire, on Clifford-moor,[EE]
To guard the Standard which he bore.
On foot they girt their Father round;
And so will keep the appointed ground
Where'er their march: no steed will he
Henceforth bestride;--triumphantly,
He stands upon the grassy sod,
Trusting himself to the earth, and God.
Rare sight to embolden and inspire!
Proud was the field of Sons and Sire;
Of him the most; and, sooth to say,
No shape of man in all the array
So graced the sunshine of that day.
The monumental pomp of age
Was with this goodly Personage;
A stature undepressed in size,
Unbent, which rather seemed to rise,
In open victory o'er the weight
Of seventy years, to loftier height;
Magnific limbs of withered state;
A face to fear and venerate;
Eyes dark and strong; and on his head
Bright locks of silver hair, thick spread,
Which a brown morion half-concealed,
Light as a hunter's of the field;
And thus, with girdle round his waist,
Whereon the Banner-staff might rest
At need, he stood, advancing high
The glittering, floating Pageantry.
Who sees him?--thousands see, and One
With unparticipated gaze;
Who, 'mong those thousands, friend hath none,
And treads in solitary ways.
He, following wheresoe'er he might,
Hath watched the Banner from afar,
As shepherds watch a lonely star,
Or mariners the distant light
That guides them through a stormy night.
And now, upon a chosen plot
Of rising ground, yon heathy spot!
He takes alone his far-off stand,
With breast unmailed, unweaponed hand.
Bold is his aspect; but his eye
Is pregnant with anxiety,
While, like a tutelary Power,
He there stands fixed from hour to hour:
Yet sometimes in more humble guise,
Upon the turf-clad height he lies
Stretched, herdsman-like, as if to bask
In sunshine were his only task,
Or by his mantle's help to find
A shelter from the nipping wind:
And thus, with short oblivion blest,
His weary spirits gather rest.
Again he lifts his eyes; and lo!
The pageant glancing to and fro;
And hope is wakened by the sight,
He thence may learn, ere fall of night,
Which way the tide is doomed to flow.
To London were the Chieftains bent;
But what avails the bold intent?
A Royal army is gone forth
They march with Dudley at their head,
And, in seven days' space, will to York be led!--
Can such a mighty Host be raised
Thus suddenly, and brought so near?
The Earls upon each other gazed,
And Neville's cheek grew pale with fear;
For, with a high and valiant name,
He bore a heart of timid frame;
And bold if both had been, yet they
"Against so many may not stay."[FF]
Back therefore will they hie to seize
A strong Hold on the banks of Tees;
There wait a favourable hour,
Until Lord Dacre with his power
From Naworth come;[GG] and Howard's aid
Be with them openly displayed.
While through the Host, from man to man,
A rumour of this purpose ran,
The Standard trusting to the care
Of him who heretofore did bear
That charge, impatient Norton sought
The Chieftains to unfold his thought,
And thus abruptly spake;--"We yield
(And can it be?) an unfought field!--
How oft has strength, the strength of heaven,
To few triumphantly been given!
Still do our very children boast
Of mitred Thurston--what a Host
He conquered![HH]--Saw we not the Plain
(And flying shall behold again)
Where faith was proved?--while to battle moved
That bore it, compassed round by a bold
Fraternity of Barons old;
And with those grey-haired champions stood,
Under the saintly ensigns three,
The infant Heir of Mowbray's blood--
All confident of victory!--
Shall Percy blush, then, for his name?
Must Westmoreland be asked with shame
Whose were the numbers, where the loss,
In that other day of Neville's Cross?[II]
When the Prior of Durham with holy hand
Raised, as the Vision gave command,
Saint Cuthbert's Relic--far and near
Kenned on the point of a lofty spear;
While the Monks prayed in Maiden's Bower
To God descending in his power.
Less would not at our need be due
To us, who war against the Untrue;--
The delegates of Heaven we rise,
Convoked the impious to chastise:
We, we, the sanctities of old
Would re-establish and uphold:
Be warned"--His zeal the Chiefs confounded,
But word was given, and the trumpet sounded:
Back through the melancholy Host
Went Norton, and resumed his post.
Alas! thought he, and have I borne
This Banner raised with joyful pride,
This hope of all posterity,
By those dread symbols sanctified;
Thus to become at once the scorn
Of babbling winds as they go by,
A spot of shame to the sun's bright eye,
To the light clouds a mockery!
--"Even these poor eight of mine would stem"--
Half to himself, and half to them
He spake--"would stem, or quell, a force
Ten times their number, man and horse;
This by their own unaided might,
Without their father in their sight,
Without the Cause for which they fight;
A Cause, which on a needful day
Would breed us thousands brave as they."
--So speaking, he his reverend head
Raised towards that Imagery once more:
But the familiar prospect shed
Despondency unfelt before:
A shock of intimations vain,
Dismay, and superstitious pain,
Fell on him, with the sudden thought
Of her by whom the work was wrought:--
Oh wherefore was her countenance bright
With love divine and gentle light?
She would not, could not, disobey,
But her Faith leaned another way.
Ill tears she wept; I saw them fall,
I overheard her as she spake
Sad words to that mute Animal,
The White Doe, in the hawthorn brake;
She steeped, but not for Jesu's sake,
This Cross in tears: by her, and One
Unworthier far we are undone--
Her recreant Brother--he prevailed
Over that tender Spirit--assailed
Too oft alas! by her whose head
In the cold grave hath long been laid:
She first, in reason's dawn beguiled
Her docile, unsuspecting Child:
Far back--far back my mind must go
To reach the well-spring of this woe!
While thus he brooded, music sweet
Of border tunes was played to cheer
The footsteps of a quick retreat;
But Norton lingered in the rear,
Stung with sharp thoughts; and ere the last
From his distracted brain was cast,
Before his Father, Francis stood,
And spake in firm and earnest mood.
"Though here I bend a suppliant knee
In reverence, and unarmed, I bear
In your indignant thoughts my share;
Am grieved this backward march to see
So careless and disorderly.
I scorn your Chiefs--men who would lead,
And yet want courage at their need:
Then look at them with open eyes!
Deserve they further sacrifice?--
If--when they shrink, nor dare oppose
In open field their gathering foes,
(And fast, from this decisive day,
Yon multitude must melt away;)
If now I ask a grace not claimed
While ground was left for hope; unblamed
Be an endeavour that can do
No injury to them or you.
My Father! I would help to find
A place of shelter, till the rage
Of cruel men do like the wind
Exhaust itself and sink to rest;
Be Brother now to Brother joined!
Admit me in the equipage
Of your misfortunes, that at least,
Whatever fate remain behind,
I may bear witness in my breast
To your nobility of mind!"
"Thou Enemy, my bane and blight!
Oh! bold to fight the Coward's fight
Against all good"--but why declare,
At length, the issue of a prayer
Which love had prompted, yielding scope
Too free to one bright moment's hope?
Suffice it that the Son, who strove
With fruitless effort to allay
That passion, prudently gave way;
Nor did he turn aside to prove
His Brothers' wisdom or their love--
But calmly from the spot withdrew;
His best endeavours to renew,
Should e'er a kindlier time ensue.
'Tis night: in silence looking down,
The Moon, from cloudless ether, sees
A Camp, and a beleaguered Town,
And Castle like a stately crown
On the steep rocks of winding Tees;--
And southward far, with moor between,
Hill-top, and flood, and forest green,
The bright Moon sees that valley small
Where Rylstone's old sequestered Hall
A venerable image yields
Of quiet to the neighbouring fields;
While from one pillared chimney breathes
The smoke, and mounts in silver wreaths.
--The courts are hushed;--for timely sleep
The grey-hounds to their kennel creep;
The peacock in the broad ash tree
Aloft is roosted for the night,
He who in proud prosperity
Of colours manifold and bright
Walked round, affronting the daylight;
And higher still, above the bower
Where he is perched, from yon lone Tower
The hall-clock in the clear moonshine
With glittering finger points at nine.
Ah! who could think that sadness here
Hath any sway? or pain, or fear?
A soft and lulling sound is heard
Of streams inaudible by day;[JJ]
The garden pool's dark surface, stirred
By the night insects in their play,
Breaks into dimples small and bright;
A thousand, thousand rings of light
That shape themselves and disappear
Almost as soon as seen:--and lo!
Not distant far, the milk-white Doe--
The same who quietly was feeding
On the green herb, and nothing heeding,
When Francis, uttering to the Maid
His last words in the yew-tree shade,
Involved whate'er by love was brought
Out of his heart, or crossed his thought,
Or chance presented to his eye,
In one sad sweep of destiny--
The same fair Creature, who hath found
Her way into forbidden ground;
Where now--within this spacious plot
For pleasure made, a goodly spot,
With lawns and beds of flowers, and shades
Of trellis-work in long arcades,
And cirque and crescent framed by wall
Of close-clipt foliage green and tall,
Converging walks, and fountains gay,
And terraces in trim array--
Beneath yon cypress spiring high,
With pine and cedar spreading wide
Their darksome boughs on either side,
In open moonlight doth she lie;
Happy as others of her kind,
That, far from human neighbourhood,
Range unrestricted as the wind,
Through park, or chase, or savage wood.
But see the consecrated Maid
Emerging from a cedar shade
To open moonshine, where the Doe
Beneath the cypress-spire is laid;
Like a patch of April snow--
Upon a bed of herbage green,
Lingering in a woody glade
Or behind a rocky screen--
Lonely relic! which, if seen
By the shepherd, is passed by
With an inattentive eye.
Nor more regard doth She bestow
Upon the uncomplaining Doe
Now couched at ease, though oft this day
Not unperplexed nor free from pain,
When she had tried, and tried in vain,
Approaching in her gentle way,
To win some look of love, or gain
Encouragement to sport or play;
Attempts which still the heart-sick Maid
Rejected, or with slight repaid.
Yet Emily is soothed;--the breeze
Came fraught with kindly sympathies.
As she approached yon rustic Shed
Hung with late-flowering woodbine, spread
Along the walls and overhead,
The fragrance of the breathing flowers
Revived a memory of those hours
When here, in this remote alcove,
(While from the pendent woodbine came
Like odours, sweet as if the same)
A fondly-anxious Mother strove
To teach her salutary fears
And mysteries above her years.
Yes, she is soothed: an Image faint,
And yet not faint--a presence bright
Returns to her--that blessed Saint
Who with mild looks and language mild
Instructed here her darling Child,
While yet a prattler on the knee,
To worship in simplicity
The invisible God, and take for guide
The faith reformed and purified.
'Tis flown--the Vision, and the sense
Of that beguiling influence;
"But oh! thou Angel from above,
Mute Spirit of maternal love,
That stood'st before my eyes, more clear
Than ghosts are fabled to appear
Sent upon embassies of fear;
As thou thy presence hast to me
Vouchsafed, in radiant ministry
Descend on Francis; nor forbear
To greet him with a voice, and say;--
'If hope be a rejected stay,
Do thou, my Christian Son, beware
Of that most lamentable snare,
The self-reliance of despair!'"
Then from within the embowered retreat
Where she had found a grateful seat
Perturbed she issues. She will go!
Herself will follow to the war,
And clasp her Father's knees;--ah, no!
She meets the insuperable bar,
The injunction by her Brother laid;
His parting charge--but ill obeyed--
That interdicted all debate,
All prayer for this cause or for that;
All efforts that would turn aside
The headstrong current of their fate:
_Her duty is to stand and wait_;[KK]
In resignation to abide
--She feels it, and her pangs are checked.
But now, as silently she paced
The turf, and thought by thought was chased,
Came One who, with sedate respect,
Approached, and, greeting her, thus spake;
"An old man's privilege I take:
Dark is the time--a woeful day!
Dear daughter of affliction, say
How can I serve you? point the way."
"Rights have you, and may well be bold:
You with my Father have grown old
In friendship--strive--for his sake go--
Turn from us all the coming woe:
This would I beg; but on my mind
A passive stillness is enjoined.
On you, if room for mortal aid
Be left, is no restriction laid;
You not forbidden to recline
With hope upon the Will divine."
"Hope," said the old Man, "must abide
With all of us, whate'er betide.
In Craven's Wilds is many a den,
To shelter persecuted men:[LL]
Far under ground is many a cave,
Where they might lie as in the grave,
Until this storm hath ceased to rave:
Or let them cross the River Tweed,
And be at once from peril freed!"
"Ah tempt me not!" she faintly sighed;
"I will not counsel nor exhort,
With my condition satisfied;
But you, at least, may make report
Of what befals;--be this your task--
This may be done;--'tis all I ask!"
She spake--and from the Lady's sight
The Sire, unconscious of his age,
Departed promptly as a Page
Bound on some errand of delight.
--The noble Francis--wise as brave,
Thought he, may want not skill to save.
With hopes in tenderness concealed,
Unarmed he followed to the field;
Him will I seek: the insurgent Powers
Are now besieging Barnard's Towers,--[MM]
"Grant that the Moon which shines this night
May guide them in a prudent flight!"
But quick the turns of chance and change,
And knowledge has a narrow range;
Whence idle fears, and needless pain,
And wishes blind, and efforts vain.--
The Moon may shine, but cannot be
Their guide in flight--already she
Hath witnessed their captivity.
She saw the desperate assault
Upon that hostile castle made;--
But dark and dismal is the vault
Where Norton and his sons are laid!
Disastrous issue!--he had said
"This night yon faithless Towers must yield,
Or we for ever quit the field.
--Neville is utterly dismayed,
For promise fails of Howard's aid;
And Dacre to our call replies
That _he_ is unprepared to rise.
My heart is sick;--this weary pause
Must needs be fatal to our cause.
The breach is open--on the wall,
This night,--the Banner shall be planted!"
--'Twas done: his Sons were with him--all;
They belt him round with hearts undaunted
And others follow;--Sire and Son
Leap down into the court;--"'Tis won"--
They shout aloud--but Heaven decreed
That with their joyful shout should close
The triumph of a desperate deed
Which struck with terror friends and foes!
The friend shrinks back--the foe recoils
From Norton and his filial band;
But they, now caught within the toils,
Against a thousand cannot stand;--
The foe from numbers courage drew,
And overpowered that gallant few.
"A rescue for the Standard!" cried
The Father from within the walls;
But, see, the sacred Standard falls!--
Confusion through the Camp spread wide:
Some fled; and some their fears detained:
But ere the Moon had sunk to rest
In her pale chambers of the west,
Of that rash levy nought remained.
High on a point of rugged ground
Among the wastes of Rylstone Fell
Above the loftiest ridge or mound
Where foresters or shepherds dwell,
An edifice of warlike frame
Stands single--Norton Tower its name--[NN]
It fronts all quarters, and looks round
O'er path and road, and plain and dell,
Dark moor, and gleam of pool and stream
Upon a prospect without bound.
The summit of this bold ascent--
Though bleak and bare, and seldom free
As Pendle-hill or Pennygent
From wind, or frost, or vapours wet--
Had often heard the sound of glee
When there the youthful Nortons met,
To practice games and archery:
How proud and happy they! the crowd
Of Lookers-on how pleased and proud!
And from the scorching noon-tide sun,
From showers, or when the prize was won,
They to the Tower withdrew, and there
Would mirth run round, with generous fare;
And the stern old Lord of Rylstone-hall,
Was happiest, proudest, of them all!
But now, his Child, with anguish pale,
Upon the height walks to and fro;
'Tis well that she hath heard the tale,
Received the bitterness of woe:
For she _had_ hoped, had hoped and feared,
Such rights did feeble nature claim;
And oft her steps had hither steered,
Though not unconscious of self-blame;
For she her brother's charge revered,
His farewell words; and by the same,
Yea by her brother's very name,
Had, in her solitude, been cheered.
Beside the lonely watch-tower stood
That grey-haired Man of gentle blood,
Who with her Father had grown old
In friendship; rival hunters they,
And fellow warriors in their day:
To Rylstone he the tidings brought;
Then on this height the Maid had sought,
And, gently as he could, had told
The end of that dire Tragedy,
Which it had been his lot to see.
To him the Lady turned; "You said
That Francis lives, _he_ is not dead?"
"Your noble brother hath been spared;
To take his life they have not dared;
On him and on his high endeavour
The light of praise shall shine for ever!
Nor did he (such Heaven's will) in vain
His solitary course maintain;
Not vainly struggled in the might
Of duty, seeing with clear sight;
He was their comfort to the last,
Their joy till every pang was past.
"I witnessed when to York they came--
What, Lady, if their feet were tied;
They might deserve a good Man's blame;
But marks of infamy and shame--
These were their triumph, these their pride;
Nor wanted 'mid the pressing crowd
Deep feeling, that found utterance loud,
'Lo, Francis comes,' there were who cried,
'A Prisoner once, but now set free!
'Tis well, for he the worst defied
Through force of natural piety;
He rose not in this quarrel, he,
For concord's sake and England's good,
Suit to his Brothers often made
With tears, and of his Father prayed--
And when he had in vain withstood
Their purpose--then did he divide,
He parted from them; but at their side
Now walks in unanimity.
Then peace to cruelty and scorn,
While to the prison they are borne,
Peace, peace to all indignity!'
"And so in Prison were they laid--
Oh hear me, hear me, gentle Maid,
For I am come with power to bless,
By scattering gleams, through your distress,
Of a redeeming happiness.
Me did a reverent pity move
And privilege of ancient love;
And, in your service, making bold,
Entrance I gained to that strong-hold.
"Your Father gave me cordial greeting;
But to his purposes, that burned
Within him, instantly returned:
He was commanding and entreating,
And said--'We need not stop, my Son!
Thoughts press, and time is hurrying on'--
And so to Francis he renewed
His words, more calmly thus pursued.
"'Might this our enterprise have sped,
Change wide and deep the Land had seen,
A renovation from the dead,
A spring-tide of immortal green:
The darksome altars would have blazed
Like stars when clouds are rolled away;
Salvation to all eyes that gazed,
Once more the Rood had been upraised
To spread its arms, and stand for aye.
Then, then--had I survived to see
New life in Bolton Priory;
The voice restored, the eye of Truth
Re-opened that inspired my youth;
To see her in her pomp arrayed--
This Banner (for such vow I made)
Should on the consecrated breast
Of that same Temple have found rest:
I would myself have hung it high,
Fit offering of glad victory!
"'A shadow of such thought remains
To cheer this sad and pensive time;
A solemn fancy yet sustains
One feeble Being--bids me climb
Even to the last--one effort more
To attest my Faith, if not restore.
"'Hear then,' said he, 'while I impart,
My Son, the last wish of my heart.
The Banner strive thou to regain;
And, if the endeavour prove not vain,
Bear it--to whom if not to thee
Shall I this lonely thought consign?--
And lay it on Saint Mary's shrine;
To wither in the sun and breeze
'Mid those decaying sanctities.
There let at least the gift be laid,
The testimony there displayed;
Bold proof that with no selfish aim,
But for lost Faith and Christ's dear name,
I helmeted a brow though white,
And took a place in all men's sight;
Yea offered up this noble Brood,
This fair unrivalled Brotherhood,
And turned away from thee, my Son!
And left--but be the rest unsaid,
The name untouched, the tear unshed;--
My wish is known, and I have done:
Now promise, grant this one request,
This dying prayer, and be thou blest!'
"Then Francis answered--'Trust thy Son,
For, with God's will, it shall be done!'--
"The pledge obtained, the solemn word
Thus scarcely given, a noise was heard,
And Officers appeared in state
To lead the prisoners to their fate.
They rose, oh! wherefore should I fear
To tell, or, Lady, you to hear?
They rose--embraces none were given--
They stood like trees when earth and heaven
Are calm; they knew each other's worth,
And reverently the Band went forth.
They met, when they had reached the door,
One with profane and harsh intent
Placed there--that he might go before
And, with that rueful Banner borne
Aloft in sign of taunting scorn,
Conduct them to their punishment:
So cruel Sussex, unrestrained
By human feeling, had ordained.
The unhappy Banner Francis saw,
And, with a look of calm command
Inspiring universal awe,
He took it from the soldier's hand;
And all the people that stood round
Confirmed the deed in peace profound.
--High transport did the Father shed
Upon his Son--and they were led,
Led on, and yielded up their breath;
Together died, a happy death!--
But Francis, soon as he had braved
That insult, and the Banner saved,
Athwart the unresisting tide
Of the spectators occupied
In admiration or dismay,
Bore instantly his Charge away."
These things, which thus had in the sight
And hearing passed of Him who stood
With Emily, on the Watch-tower height,
In Rylstone's woeful neighbourhood,
He told; and oftentimes with voice
Of power to comfort or rejoice;
For deepest sorrows that aspire,
Go high, no transport ever higher.
"Yes--God is rich in mercy," said
The old Man to the silent Maid,
"Yet, Lady! shines, through this black night,
One star of aspect heavenly bright;
Your Brother lives--he lives--is come
Perhaps already to his home;
Then let us leave this dreary place."
She yielded, and with gentle pace,
Though without one uplifted look,
To Rylstone-hall her way she took.
Why comes not Francis?--From the doleful City
He fled,--and, in his flight, could hear
The death-sounds of the Minster-bell:
That sullen stroke pronounced farewell
To Marmaduke, cut off from pity!
To Ambrose that! and then a knell
For him, the sweet half-opened Flower!
For all--all dying in one hour!
--Why comes not Francis? Thoughts of love
Should bear him to his Sister dear
With the fleet motion of a dove;
Yea, like a heavenly messenger
Of speediest wing, should he appear.
Why comes he not?--for westward fast
Along the plain of York he past;
Reckless of what impels or leads,
Unchecked he hurries on;--nor heeds
The sorrow, through the Villages,
Spread by triumphant cruelties
Of vengeful military force,
And punishment without remorse.
He marked not, heard not, as he fled;
All but the suffering heart was dead
For him abandoned to blank awe,
To vacancy, and horror strong:
And the first object which he saw,
With conscious sight, as he swept along--
It was the Banner in his hand!
He felt--and made a sudden stand.
He looked about like one betrayed:
What hath he done? what promise made?
Oh weak, weak moment! to what end
Can such a vain oblation tend,
Carrying this instrument of woe,
And find, find any where, a right
To excuse him in his Country's sight?
No; will not all men deem the change
A downward course, perverse and strange?
Here is it;--but how? when? must she,
The unoffending Emily,
Again this piteous object see?
Such conflict long did he maintain,
Nor liberty nor rest could gain:
His own life into danger brought
By this sad burden--even that thought,
Exciting self-suspicion strong,
Swayed the brave man to his wrong.
And how--unless it were the sense
Of all-disposing Providence,
Its will unquestionably shown--
How has the Banner clung so fast
To a palsied, and unconscious hand;
Clung to the hand to which it passed
Without impediment? And why
But that Heaven's purpose might be known,
Doth now no hindrance meet his eye,
No intervention, to withstand
Fulfilment of a Father's prayer
Breathed to a Son forgiven, and blest
When all resentments were at rest,
And life in death laid the heart bare?--
Then, like a spectre sweeping by,
Rushed through his mind the prophecy
Of utter desolation made
To Emily in the yew-tree shade:
He sighed, submitting will and power
To the stern embrace of that grasping hour.
"No choice is left, the deed is mine--
Dead are they, dead!--and I will go,
And, for their sakes, come weal or woe,
Will lay the Relic on the shrine."
So forward with a steady will
He went, and traversed plain and hill;
And up the vale of Wharf his way
Pursued;--and, at the dawn of day,
Attained a summit whence his eyes
Could see the Tower of Bolton rise.
There Francis for a moment's space
Made halt--but hark! a noise behind
Of horsemen at an eager pace!
He heard, and with misgiving mind.
--'Tis Sir George Bowes who leads the Band:
They come, by cruel Sussex sent;
Who, when the Nortons from the hand
Of death had drunk their punishment,
Bethought him, angry and ashamed,
How Francis, with the Banner claimed
As his own charge, had disappeared,
By all the standers-by revered.
His whole bold carriage (which had quelled
Thus far the Opposer, and repelled
All censure, enterprise so bright
That even bad men had vainly striven
Against that overcoming light)
Was then reviewed, and prompt word given,
That to what place soever fled
He should be seized, alive or dead.
The troop of horse have gained the height
Where Francis stood in open sight.
They hem him round--"Behold the proof,"
They cried, "the Ensign in his hand!
_He_ did not arm, he walked aloof!
For why?--to save his Father's land;--
Worst Traitor of them all is he,
A Traitor dark and cowardly!"
"I am no Traitor," Francis said,
"Though this unhappy freight I bear;
And must not part with. But beware;--
Err not, by hasty zeal misled,
Nor do a suffering Spirit wrong,
Whose self-reproaches are too strong!"
At this he from the beaten road
Retreated towards a brake of thorn,
That like a place of vantage showed;
And there stood bravely, though forlorn.
In self-defence with warlike brow
He stood,--nor weaponless was now;
He from a Soldier's hand had snatched
A spear,--and, so protected, watched
The Assailants, turning round and round;
But from behind with treacherous wound
A Spearman brought him to the ground.
The guardian lance, as Francis fell,
Dropped from him; but his other hand
The Banner clenched; till, from out the Band,
One, the most eager for the prize,
Rushed in; and--while, O grief to tell!
A glimmering sense still left, with eyes
Unclosed the noble Francis lay--
Seized it, as hunters seize their prey;
But not before the warm life-blood
Had tinged more deeply, as it flowed,
The wounds the broidered Banner showed,
Thy fatal work, O Maiden, innocent as good!
Proudly the Horsemen bore away
The Standard; and where Francis lay
There was he left alone, unwept,
And for two days unnoticed slept.
For at that time bewildering fear
Possessed the country, far and near;
But, on the third day, passing by
Espied the uncovered Corse; the Man
Shrunk as he recognised the face,
And to the nearest homesteads ran
And called the people to the place.
--How desolate is Rylstone-hall!
This was the instant thought of all;
And if the lonely Lady there
Should be; to her they cannot bear
This weight of anguish and despair.
So, when upon sad thoughts had prest
Thoughts sadder still, they deemed it best
That, if the Priest should yield assent
And no one hinder their intent,
Then, they, for Christian pity's sake,
In holy ground a grave would make;
And straightway buried he should be
In the Church-yard of the Priory.
Apart, some little space, was made
The grave where Francis must be laid.
In no confusion or neglect
This did they,--but in pure respect
That he was born of gentle blood;
And that there was no neighbourhood
Of kindred for him in that ground:
So to the Church-yard they are bound,
Bearing the body on a bier;
And psalms they sing--a holy sound
That hill and vale with sadness hear.
But Emily hath raised her head,
And is again disquieted;
She must behold!--so many gone,
Where is the solitary One?
And forth from Rylstone-hall stepped she,
To seek her Brother forth she went,
And tremblingly her course she bent
Toward Bolton's ruined Priory.
She comes, and in the vale hath heard
The funeral dirge;--she sees the knot
Of people, sees them in one spot--
And darting like a wounded bird
She reached the grave, and with her breast
Upon the ground received the rest,--
The consummation, the whole ruth
And sorrow of this final truth!
"Powers there are
That touch each other to the quick--in modes
Which the gross world no sense hath to perceive,
No soul to dream of."[OO]
Thou Spirit, whose angelic hand
Was to the harp a strong command,
Called the submissive strings to wake
In glory for this Maiden's sake,
Say, Spirit! whither hath she fled
To hide her poor afflicted head?
What mighty forest in its gloom
Enfolds her?--is a rifted tomb
Within the wilderness her seat?
Some island which the wild waves beat--
Is that the Sufferer's last retreat?
Or some aspiring rock, that shrouds
Its perilous front in mists and clouds?
High-climbing rock, low sunless dale,
Sea, desert, what do these avail?
Oh take her anguish and her fears
Into a deep recess of years!
'Tis done;--despoil and desolation
O'er Rylstone's fair domain have blown;[PP]
Pools, terraces, and walks are sown
With weeds; the bowers are overthrown,
Or have given way to slow mutation,
While, in their ancient habitation
The Norton name hath been unknown.
The lordly Mansion of its pride
Is stripped; the ravage hath spread wide
Through park and field, a perishing
That mocks the gladness of the Spring!
And, with this silent gloom agreeing,
Appears a joyless human Being,
Of aspect such as if the waste
Were under her dominion placed.
Upon a primrose bank, her throne
Of quietness, she sits alone;
Among the ruins of a wood,
Erewhile a covert bright and green,
And where full many a brave tree stood,
That used to spread its boughs, and ring
With the sweet bird's carolling.
Behold her, like a virgin Queen,
Neglecting in imperial state
These outward images of fate,
And carrying inward a serene
And perfect sway, through many a thought
Of chance and change, that hath been brought
To the subjection of a holy,
Though stern and rigorous, melancholy!
The like authority, with grace
Of awfulness, is in her face,--
There hath she fixed it; yet it seems
To o'ershadow by no native right
That face, which cannot lose the gleams,
Lose utterly the tender gleams,
Of gentleness and meek delight,
And loving-kindness ever bright:
Such is her sovereign mien:--her dress
(A vest with woollen cincture tied,
A hood of mountain-wool undyed)
Is homely,--fashioned to express
A wandering Pilgrim's humbleness.
And she _hath_ wandered, long and far,
Beneath the light of sun and star;
Hath roamed in trouble and in grief,
Driven forward like a withered leaf,
Yea like a ship at random blown
To distant places and unknown.
But now she dares to seek a haven
Among her native wilds of Craven;
Hath seen again her Father's roof,
And put her fortitude to proof;
The mighty sorrow hath been borne,
And she is thoroughly forlorn:
Her soul doth in itself stand fast,
Sustained by memory of the past
And strength of Reason; held above
The infirmities of mortal love;
Undaunted, lofty, calm, and stable,
And awfully impenetrable.
And so--beneath a mouldered tree,
A self-surviving leafless oak
By unregarded age from stroke
Of ravage saved--sate Emily.
There did she rest, with head reclined,
Herself most like a stately flower,
(Such have I seen) whom chance of birth
Hath separated from its kind,
To live and die in a shady bower,
Single on the gladsome earth.
When, with a noise like distant thunder,
A troop of deer came sweeping by;
And, suddenly, behold a wonder!
For One, among those rushing deer,
A single One, in mid career
Hath stopped, and fixed her large full eye
A Doe most beautiful, clear-white,
A radiant creature, silver-bright!
Thus checked, a little while it stayed;
A little thoughtful pause it made;
And then advanced with stealth-like pace,
Drew softly near her, and more near--
Looked round--but saw no cause for fear;
So to her feet the Creature came,
And laid its head upon her knee,
And looked into the Lady's face,
A look of pure benignity,
And fond unclouded memory.
It is, thought Emily, the same,
The very Doe of other years!--
The pleading look the Lady viewed,
And, by her gushing thoughts subdued,
She melted into tears--
A flood of tears, that flowed apace,
Upon the happy Creature's face.
Oh, moment ever blest! O Pair
Beloved of Heaven, Heaven's chosen care,
This was for you a precious greeting;
And may it prove a fruitful meeting!
Joined are they, and the sylvan Doe
Can she depart? can she forego
The Lady, once her playful peer,
And now her sainted Mistress dear?
And will not Emily receive
This lovely chronicler of things
Long past, delights and sorrowings?
Lone Sufferer! will not she believe
The promise in that speaking face;
And welcome, as a gift of grace,
The saddest thought the Creature brings?
That day, the first of a re-union
Which was to teem with high communion,
That day of balmy April weather,
They tarried in the wood together.
And when, ere fall of evening dew,
She from her sylvan haunt withdrew,
The White Doe tracked with faithful pace
The Lady to her dwelling-place;
That nook where, on paternal ground,
A habitation she had found,
The Master of whose humble board
Once owned her Father for his Lord;
A hut, by tufted trees defended,
Where Rylstone brook with Wharf is blended.[QQ]
When Emily by morning light
Went forth, the Doe stood there in sight.
She shrunk:--with one frail shock of pain
Received and followed by a prayer,
She saw the Creature once again;
Shun will she not, she feels, will bear;--
But, wheresoever she looked round,
All now was trouble-haunted ground;
And therefore now she deems it good
Once more this restless neighbourhood
To leave. Unwooed, yet unforbidden,
The White Doe followed up the vale,
Up to another cottage, hidden
In the deep fork of Amerdale;[RR]
And there may Emily restore
Herself, in spots unseen before.
--Why tell of mossy rock, or tree,
By lurking Dernbrook's pathless side,[SS]
Haunts of a strengthening amity
That calmed her, cheered, and fortified?
For she hath ventured now to read
Of time, and place, and thought, and deed--
Endless history that lies
In her silent Follower's eyes;
Who with a power like human reason
Discerns the favourable season,
Skilled to approach or to retire,--
From looks conceiving her desire;
From look, deportment, voice, or mien,
That vary to the heart within.
If she too passionately wreathed
Her arms, or over-deeply breathed,
Walked quick or slowly, every mood
In its degree was understood;
Then well may their accord be true,
And kindliest intercourse ensue.
--Oh! surely 'twas a gentle rousing
When she by sudden glimpse espied
The White Doe on the mountain browsing,
Or in the meadow wandered wide!
How pleased, when down the Straggler sank
Beside her, on some sunny bank!
How soothed, when in thick bower enclosed,
They, like a nested pair, reposed!
Fair Vision! when it crossed the Maid
Within some rocky cavern laid,
The dark cave's portal gliding by,
White as whitest cloud on high
Floating through the azure sky.
--What now is left for pain or fear?
That Presence, dearer and more dear,
While they, side by side, were straying,
And the shepherd's pipe was playing,
Did now a very gladness yield
At morning to the dewy field,
And with a deeper peace endued
The hour of moonlight solitude.
With her Companion, in such frame
Of mind, to Rylstone back she came;
And, ranging through the wasted groves,
Received the memory of old loves,
Undisturbed and undistrest,
Into a soul which now was blest
With a soft spring-day of holy,
Mild, and grateful, melancholy:
Not sunless gloom or unenlightened,
But by tender fancies brightened.
When the bells of Rylstone played
Their sabbath music--"=God us ayde!="[TT]
That was the sound they seemed to speak;
Inscriptive legend which I ween
May on those holy bells be seen,
That legend and her Grandsire's name;
And oftentimes the Lady meek
Had in her childhood read the same;
Words which she slighted at that day;
But now, when such sad change was wrought,
And of that lonely name she thought,
The bells of Rylstone seemed to say,
While she sate listening in the shade,
With vocal music, "=God us ayde;="
And all the hills were glad to bear
Their part in this effectual prayer.
Nor lacked she Reason's firmest power;
But with the White Doe at her side
Up would she climb to Norton Tower,
And thence look round her far and wide,
Her fate there measuring;--all is stilled,--
The weak One hath subdued her heart;
Behold the prophecy fulfilled,
Fulfilled, and she sustains her part!
But here her Brother's words have failed;
Here hath a milder doom prevailed;
That she, of him and all bereft,
Hath yet this faithful Partner left;
This one Associate that disproves
His words, remains for her, and loves.
If tears are shed, they do not fall
For loss of him--for one, or all;
Yet, sometimes, sometimes doth she weep
Moved gently in her soul's soft sleep;
A few tears down her cheek descend
For this her last and living Friend.
Bless, tender Hearts, their mutual lot,
And bless for both this savage spot;
Which Emily doth sacred hold
For reasons dear and manifold--
Here hath she, here before her sight,
Close to the summit of this height,
The grassy rock-encircled Pound[UU]
In which the Creature first was found.
So beautiful the timid Thrall
(A spotless Youngling white as foam)
Her youngest Brother brought it home;
The youngest, then a lusty boy,
Bore it, or led, to Rylstone-hall
With heart brimful of pride and joy!
But most to Bolton's sacred Pile,
On favouring nights, she loved to go;
There ranged through cloister, court, and aisle,
Attended by the soft-paced Doe;
Nor feared she in the still moonshine
To look upon Saint Mary's shrine;[VV]
Nor on the lonely turf that showed
Where Francis slept in his last abode.
For that she came; there oft she sate
Forlorn, but not disconsolate:
And, when she from the abyss returned
Of thought, she neither shrunk nor mourned;
Was happy that she lived to greet
Her mute Companion as it lay
In love and pity at her feet;
How happy in its turn to meet
The recognition! the mild glance
Beamed from that gracious countenance;
Communication, like the ray
Of a new morning, to the nature
And prospects of the inferior Creature!
A mortal Song we sing, by dower
Encouraged of celestial power;
Power which the viewless Spirit shed
By whom we were first visited;
Whose voice we heard, whose hand and wings
Swept like a breeze the conscious strings,
When, left in solitude, erewhile
We stood before this ruined Pile,
And, quitting unsubstantial dreams,
Sang in this Presence kindred themes;
Distress and desolation spread
Through human hearts, and pleasure dead,--
Dead--but to live again on earth,
A second and yet nobler birth;
Dire overthrow, and yet how high
The re-ascent in sanctity!
From fair to fairer; day by day
A more divine and loftier way!
Even such this blessed Pilgrim trod,
By sorrow lifted towards her God;
Uplifted to the purest sky
Of undisturbed mortality.
Her own thoughts loved she; and could bend
A dear look to her lowly Friend;
There stopped; her thirst was satisfied
With what this innocent spring supplied:
Her sanction inwardly she bore,
And stood apart from human cares:
But to the world returned no more,
Although with no unwilling mind
Help did she give at need, and joined
The Wharfdale peasants in their prayers.
At length, thus faintly, faintly tied
To earth, she was set free, and died.
Thy soul, exalted Emily,
Maid of the blasted family,
Rose to the God from whom it came!
--In Rylstone Church her mortal frame
Was buried by her Mother's side.
Most glorious sunset! and a ray
Survives--the twilight of this day--
In that fair Creature whom the fields
Support, and whom the forest shields;
Who, having filled a holy place,
Partakes, in her degree, Heaven's grace;
And bears a memory and a mind
Raised far above the law of kind;[WW]
Haunting the spots with lonely cheer
Which her dear Mistress once held dear:
Loves most what Emily loved most--
The enclosure of this church-yard ground;
Here wanders like a gliding ghost,
And every sabbath here is found;
Comes with the people when the bells
Are heard among the moorland dells,
Finds entrance through yon arch, where way
Lies open on the sabbath-day;
Here walks amid the mournful waste
Of prostrate altars, shrines defaced,
And floors encumbered with rich show
Of fret-work imagery laid low;
Paces softly, or makes halt,
By fractured cell, or tomb, or vault;
By plate of monumental brass
Dim-gleaming among weeds and grass,
And sculptured Forms of Warriors brave:
But chiefly by that single grave,
That one sequestered hillock green,
The pensive visitant is seen.
There doth the gentle Creature lie
With those adversities unmoved;
Calm spectacle, by earth and sky
In their benignity approved!
And aye, methinks, this hoary Pile,
Subdued by outrage and decay,
Looks down upon her with a smile,
A gracious smile, that seems to say--
"Thou, thou art not a Child of Time,
"The Poem of _The White Doe of Rylstone_ is founded on a local
tradition, and on the Ballad in Percy's Collection, entitled _The
time,' not long after the Dissolution, 'a White Doe, say the aged
pilgrimage from Rylstone over the fells of Bolton, and was
constantly found in the Abbey Church-yard during divine service;
after the close of which she returned home as regularly as the
Nortons, distinguished in that ill-advised and unfortunate
Insurrection, which led me to connect with this tradition the
principal circumstances of their fate, as recorded in the Ballad
which I have thought it proper to annex.
"The subject of this ballad is the great Northern Insurrection in
"There had not long before been a secret negociation entered into
England, and the Duke of Norfolk, a nobleman of excellent
England, they all consented to it, provided it should prove
agreeable to Queen Elizabeth. The Earl of Leicester (Elizabeth's
favourite) undertook to break the matter to her, but before he
could find an opportunity, the affair had come to her ears by
other hands, and she was thrown into a violent flame. The Duke of
their appearance at court. It is said that the Earl of
that a party of his enemies were come to seize his person. The
standards, declaring their intent was to restore the ancient
Religion, to get the succession of the crown firmly settled, and
to prevent the destruction of the ancient nobility, etc. Their
Marmaduke, and Thomas, are expressly named by Camden),
distinguished himself on this occasion. Having entered Durham,
they tore the Bible, etc., and caused mass to be said there; they
mustered their men.... The two Earls, who spent their large
estates in hospitality, and were extremely beloved on that
account, were masters of little ready money; the E. of
Northumberland bringing with him only 8000 crowns, and the E. of
Westmoreland nothing at all, for the subsistence of their forces,
still kept up his resolution, and was master of the field till
December 13, when the Earl of Sussex, accompanied with Lord
Hunsden and others, having marched out of York at the head of a
large body of forces, and being followed by a still larger army
under the command of Ambrose Dudley, Earl of Warwick, the
insurgents retreated northward towards the borders, and there
dismissing their followers, made their escape into Scotland.
Though this insurrection had been suppressed with so little
regular trial. The former of these caused at Durham sixty-three
constables to be hanged at once. And the latter made his boast,
that for sixty miles in length, and forty in breadth, betwixt
cruelties practised in the West after Monmouth's rebellion.
"Such is the account collected from Stow, Speed, Camden, Guthrie,
following Ballad, apparently the production of some northern
"Listen, lively lordings all,
Lithe and listen unto mee,
And I will sing of a noble earle,
The noblest earle in the north countrie.
Earle Percy is into his garden gone,
And after him walks his fair leddie:
I heard a bird sing in mine ear,
That I must either fight, or flee.
Now heaven forefend, my dearest lord,
That ever such harm should hap to thee:
But goe to London to the court,
And fair fall truth and honestie.
Now nay, now nay, my ladye gay,
Alas! thy counsell suits not mee;
Mine enemies prevail so fast,
That at the court I may not bee.
O goe to the court yet, good my lord,
And take thy gallant men with thee;
If any dare to do you wrong,
Then your warrant they may bee.
Now nay, now nay, thou ladye faire,
The court is full of subtiltie:
And if I goe to the court, ladye,
Never more I may thee see.
Yet goe to the court, my lord, she sayes,
And I myselfe will ryde wi' thee:
At court then for my dearest lord,
His faithful borrowe I will bee.
Now nay, now nay, my ladye deare;
Far lever had I lose my life,
Than leave among my cruell foes
My love in jeopardy and strife.
But come thou hither, my little foot-page,
Come thou hither unto mee,
To Maister Norton thou must goe
In all the haste that ever may bee.
Commend me to that gentleman,
And beare this letter here fro mee;
And say that earnestly I praye,
He will ryde in my companie.
One while the little foot-page went,
And another while he ran;
Untill he came to his journey's end,
The little foot-page never blan.
When to that gentleman he came,
Down he kneeled on his knee;
And took the letter betwixt his hands,
And lett the gentleman it see.
And when the letter it was redd,
Affore that goodlye companie,
I wis if you the truthe wold know,
There was many a weeping eye.
He sayd, Come thither, Christopher Norton,
A gallant youth thou seem'st to bee;
What dost thou counsell me, my sonne,
Now that good earle's in jeopardy?
Father, my counselle's fair and free;
That erle he is a noble lord,
And whatsoever to him you hight,
I would not have you breake your word.
Gramercy, Christopher, my sonne,
Thy counsell well it liketh mee,
And if we speed and 'scape with life,
Well advanced shalt thou bee.
Come you hither, my nine good sonnes,
Gallant men I trowe you bee:
How many of you, my children deare,
Will stand by that good erle and mee?
Eight of them did answer make,
Eight of them spake hastilie,
O Father, till the day we dye
We'll stand by that good erle and thee.
Gramercy, now, my children deare,
You shew yourselves right bold and brave,
And whethersoe'er I live or dye,
A father's blessing you shall have.
But what say'st thou, O Francis Norton,
Thou art mine eldest sonne and heire:
Somewhat lies brooding in thy breast;
Whatever it bee, to mee declare.
Father, you are an aged man,
Your head is white, your beard is gray;
It were a shame at these your years
For you to ryse in such a fray.
Now fye upon thee, coward Francis,
Thou never learned'st this of mee;
When thou wert young and tender of age,
Why did I make soe much of thee?
But, father, I will wend with you,
Unarm'd and naked will I bee;
And he that strikes against the crowne,
Ever an ill death may he dee.
Then rose that reverend gentleman,
And with him came a goodlye band
To join with the brave Earle Percy,
And all the flower o' Northumberland.
With them the noble Nevill came,
The erle of Westmoreland was hee;
At Wetherbye they mustered their host,
Thirteen thousand fair to see.
Lord Westmorland his ancyent raisde,
The Dun Bull he rays'd on hye,
And three Dogs with golden collars
Were there set out most royallye.
Erle Percy there his ancyent spread,
The Halfe Moone shining all soe faire;
The Nortons ancyent had the Crosse,
And the five wounds our Lord did beare.
Then Sir George Bowes he straitwaye rose,
After them some spoile to make:
Those noble erles turned back againe,
And aye they vowed that knight to take.
That baron he to his castle fled,
To Barnard castle then fled hee.
The uttermost walles were eathe to win.
The earles have wonne them presentlie.
The uttermost walles were lime and bricke;
But though they won them soon anone,
Long ere they wan their innermost walles,
For they were cut in rocke and stone.
Then news unto leeve London came
In all the speed that ever might bee,
And word is brought to our royall queene
Of the rysing in the North countrie.
Her grace she turned her round about,
And like a royall queene shee swore,
I will ordayne them such a breakfast,
As never was in the North before.
Shee caused thirty thousand men be rays'd,
With horse and harneis faire to see;
She caused thirty thousand men be raised
To take the earles i' th' North countrie.
Wi' them the false Erle Warwicke went,
Untill they to York castle came
I wiss they never stint ne blan.
Now spred thy ancyent, Westmoreland,
Thy dun Bull faine would we spye:
And thou, the Erle of Northumberland,
Now rayse thy Halfe Moone on hye.
But the dun bulle is fled and gone,
And the halfe moone vanished away:
The Erles, though they were brave and bold,
Against soe many could not stay.
Thee, Norton, wi' thine eight good sonnes,
They doomed to dye, alas! for ruth!
Thy reverend lockes thee could not save,
Nor them their faire and blooming youthe.
Wi' them full many a gallant wight
They cruellye bereav'd of life:
And many a child made fatherlesse,
And widowed many a tender wife.
"'Bolton Priory,' says Dr. Whitaker in his excellent book--_The
History and Antiquities of the Deanery of Craven_--'stands upon a
of picturesque effect.
"'Opposite to the East window of the Priory Church, the river
upon a few rich pastures, a moderate reach of the river,
sufficiently tranquil to form a mirror to the sun, and the
bounding hills beyond, neither too near nor too lofty to exclude,
landscape is not only found here, but in its proper place. In
front, and immediately under the eye, is a smooth expanse of
park-like enclosure, spotted with native elm, ash, etc. of the
finest growth: on the right a skirting oak wood, with jutting
Barden Fell contrasted with the warmth, fertility, and luxuriant
foliage of the valley below.
"'About half a mile above Bolton the Valley closes, and either
side of the Wharf is overhung by solemn woods, from which huge
perpendicular masses of grey rock jut out at intervals.
"'This sequestered scene was almost inaccessible till of late,
that ridings have been cut on both sides of the River, and the
most interesting points laid open by judicious thinnings in the
the Wharf itself is nearly lost in a deep cleft in the rock, and
lively, irregular, and impetuous.
"'The cleft mentioned above is the tremendous STRID. This chasm,
being incapable of receiving the winter floods, has formed, on
either side, a broad strand of naked gritstone full of
rock-basons, or "pots of the Linn," which bear witness to the
restless impetuosity of so many Northern torrents. But, if here
Wharf is lost to the eye, it amply repays another sense by its
deep and solemn roar, like "the Voice of the angry Spirit of the
Waters," heard far above and beneath, amidst the silence of the
surrounding woods.
so from the recollections which they excite.'"
"Wordsworth has just completed a most masterly poem upon the fate
"... In my reperusals of the poem, it seemed always to strike on
my feeling as well as judgment, that if there were any serious
defect, it consisted in a disproportion of the Accidents to the
spiritual Incidents; and, closely connected with this,--if it be
not indeed the same,--that Emily is indeed talked of, and once
appears, but neither speaks nor acts, in all the first
three-fourths of the poem. Then, as the outward interest of the
poem is in favour of the old man's religious feelings, and the
the present anguish of my spirits) to be able to express it at
all, that three-fourths of the work is everything rather _than_
Emily; and then, the last--almost a separate and doubtless an
exquisite poem--wholly _of_ Emily. The whole of the rest, and the
not only comparatively heavy, but to me quite obscure as to
Francis's motives. On the few, to whom, within my acquaintance,
the poem has been read, either by yourself or me (I have, I
believe, read it only at the Beaumonts'), it produced the same
effect.
"Now I have conceived two little incidents, the introduction of
_business_ with the _action_ of the tale. But after my receipt of
and that what I deemed a harmonizing would disgust you as a
_materialization_ of the plan, and appear to you like
insensibility to the power of the history in the mind. Not that I
pain, and a temporary offence, from the want of sympathy of
certainly not dishonourable to such as feel poetry their calling
appears to me to become a foible only when the poet denies, or is
opposed to yours, from the heat and bustle of these disgusting
lectures."
.       .       .       .       .
"From most of these causes I was suffering, so as not to allow me
which had been formed in calmness and on long reflection. Then I
received your sister's letter, stating the wish that I would give
point out the things to be corrected, which--as they could be of
no great consequence--you might do in a day or two, and the
publication of the poem--for the immediacy of which she expressed
_alteranda_ did appear to me very few and trifling. From your
that I disliked in the books, after the two first, as there would
felt them exactly as I did--namely, as interrupting the spirit of
"MY DEAR SCOTT--Thank you for the interesting particulars about
Lone Sufferer! will not she believe
The promise in that speaking face,
And take this gift of Heaven with grace?
with the additional thought conveyed in the version of 1837--
Lone Sufferer! will not she believe
The promise in that speaking face;
And welcome, as a gift of grace,
The saddest thought the Creature brings?
imperfections had crept in which gave the style a feebleness of
character."
_... Bolton's mouldering Priory._
Is standing with a voice of power,_
_And in the shattered fabric's heart
Remaineth one protected part;
A Chapel, like a wild-bird's nest,
Closely embowered and trimly drest._
"The chief relic of the Priory is the church, the nave of which
church is in complete ruin. The lower walls of the choir are
Trans-Norman, and must have been built immediately after (if not
before) the removal from Embsay. The upper walls and windows (the
English, and decorated; and the original west front remains with
an elaborate Perpendicular front of excellent design, intended as
"'One protected part
In the shattered fabric's heart,'
vault, in which, according to tradition, the Claphams of Beamsley
"'Pass, pass who will, yon chantry door;
Look down, and see a griesly sight;
A vault where the bodies are buried upright!
There, face by face, and hand by hand,
The Claphams and Mauleverers stand.'
"Whitaker, however, could never see this 'griesly sight' through
exception of the lower walls of the choir. The transepts had
eastern aisles. The north transept is nearly perfect: the south
Transitional Norman arcade. Some portions of tomb-slabs remain in
_... the shy recess
Of Barden's lowly quietness._
Compare the poem _The Force of Prayer, or the Founding of Bolton
Priory_, p. 204. Whitaker writes thus of the district of Upper
_It was the time when England's Queen
Twelve years had reigned, a Sovereign dread;_
_But now the inly-working North
Was ripe to send its thousands forth,
A potent vassalage, to fight
In Percy's and in Neville's right_, etc.
"The incidents on which the _White Doe_ is founded belong to the
year 1569, the twelfth of Queen Elizabeth.
"It is well known that as soon as Queen Mary of Scotland was
Elizabeth. Abroad, the Catholic world was collecting all its
strength to crush the heretical island. The bigot Pope, Pius V.,
with the dark intriguer, Philip II. of Spain, and the savage Duke
"At home, a secret negotiation for a marriage between Queen Mary
and the Duke of Norfolk had received the approval of many of the
of Northumberland, and Neville, Earl of Westmoreland, immediately
secret communications with Mary, and longing to see the old faith
"On receiving the summons, Northumberland at once withdrew to
Brancepeth Castle, a stronghold of the Earl of Westmoreland.
Straightway all their vassals rose, and gathered round the two
great earls. The whole of the North was in arms. A proclamation
went forth that they intended to restore the ancient religion, to
all the strength of the Yorkshire dales, and, among others, by a
gentleman of ancient name, Richard Norton, accompanied by eight
brave sons. He came bearing the common banner, called the Banner
Bible, caused mass to be said in the cathedral, and then set
forward as for York. Changing their purpose on the way, they
which were left to the vengeance of the enemy, while they
themselves sought refuge in Scotland. Northumberland, after a
exile in Flanders, the last of the ancient house of the Nevilles,
_For we must fall, both we and ours--
This Mansion and these pleasant bowers,
Walks, pools, and arbours, homestead, hall--
Our fate is theirs, will reach them all._
_Until Lord Dacre with his power
From Naworth come; and Howard's aid
Be with them openly displayed._
_... mitred Thurston--what a Host
_... while to battle moved
The Battle of the Standard was fought in 1137.
"One gleam of national glory broke the darkness of the time. King
north; baron and freeman gathered at York round Archbishop
Thurstan, and marched to the field of Northallerton to await the
foe. The sacred banners of St. Cuthbert of Durham, St. Peter of
York, St. John of Beverley, and St. Wilfrid of Ripon, hung from a
complete; the fierce hordes dashed in vain against the close
English ranks around the Standard, and the whole army fled in
confusion to Carlisle." (J. R. Green's _Short History of the
_High on a point of rugged ground
Among the wastes of Rylstone Fell
Above the loftiest ridge or mound
Where foresters or shepherds dwell,
An edifice of warlike frame
Stands single--Norton Tower its name--
It fronts all quarters, and looks round
O'er path and road, and plain and dell,
Dark moor, and gleam of pool and stream
Upon a prospect without bound._
the tower to the edge of a deep glen, whence a ditch runs to
another ravine. This was once a pond, used by the Nortons for
that the Cliffords had no right to hunt therein. The Cliffords
eventually became lords of all the Norton lands here."
In January 1816, Wordsworth wrote thus to his friend Archdeacon
"Of _The White Doe_ I have little to say, but that I hope it will
less than the apotheosis of the animal who gives the first of the
pervades, and is intended to harmonise, the whole. Throughout
objects (the banner, for instance) derive their influence, not
from properties inherent in them, not from what they _are_
actually in themselves, but from such as are _bestowed_ upon them
these objects. Thus the poetry, if there be any in the work,
adjuration, that she would fulfil her destiny, and become a soul,
"'By force of sorrows high
Uplifted to the purest sky
Of undisturbed mortality.'
"'He kissed the consecrated Maid;'
And to bring back this to the reader, I repeated the epithet."
... born of heavenly birth,
... of the crystal Wharf,
A rural Chapel, neatly drest,
In covert like a little nest;
And faith and hope are in their prime,
And right across the verdant sod
Towards the very house of God;
Inserted in the editions of 1815 to 1832.
Is through ...
... she no less
To the open day gives blessedness.
The altar, whence the cross was rent,
Now rich with mossy ornament,--
The dormitory's length laid bare,
Where the wild-rose blossoms fair;
And sapling ash, whose place of birth
Is that lordly chamber's hearth?
Or dormitory's length ...
Methinks she passeth by the sight,
And in this way she fares, till at last
Like the river in its flowing;
Can there be a softer sound?
--When now again the people rear
A voice of praise, with awful chear!
Turn, with obeisance gladly paid,
Towards the spot, where, full in view,
The lovely Doe of whitest hue,
This whisper soft repeats what he
Had known from early infancy.
In the editions of 1815 to 1832 the paragraph begins with these
lines.
Who in his youth had often fed
And lately hath brought home the scars
Gathered in long and distant wars--
... when God's grace
At length had in her heart found place,
Well may her thoughts be harsh; for she
Numbers among her ancestry
... through strong desire
Searching the earth with chemic fire:
 These two lines were added in the edition of 1837.
By busy dreams, and fancies wild;
Thou hast breeze-like visitings;
For a Spirit with angel wings
Hath touched thee, ...
A Spirit, with angelic wings,
In soft and breeze-like visitings,
Has touched thee-- ...
A Spirit, with his angelic wings,                     C.
... --'twas She who wrought
... one that did fulfil
... (such was the command)
To be by force of arms renewed;
Glad prospect for the multitude!
To be triumphantly restored;
By the dread justice of the sword!
Loud noise was in the crowded hall,
... which had a dying fall,
Then seized the staff, and thus did say:
Forth when Sire and Sons appeared
A gratulating shout was reared,
And, when he waked at length, his eye
Oh! hide them from each other, hide,
Kind Heaven, this pair severely tried!
Inserted in the editions of 1815 to 1832.
How could he chuse but shrink or sigh?
He shrunk, and muttered inwardly,
Inserted in the editions of 1815 to 1832.
He paused, her silence to partake,
And long it was before he spake:
Then, all at once, his thoughts turned round,
... were beloved,
 This line was added in 1837.
I, in the right ...
Thee, chiefly thee, ...
The last leaf which by heaven's decree
Must hang upon a blasted tree;
Now joy for you and sudden chear,
Ye Watchmen upon Brancepeth Towers;
Looking forth in doubt and fear,
Forthwith the armed Company
... the mildest birth,
With tumult and indignant rout
Inserted in the editions of 1815 to 1832.
Came Foot and Horse-men of each degree,
But none for undisputed worth
Like those eight Sons--embosoming
Determined thoughts--who, in a ring
The text of 1837 returns to that of 1815.
 This line was added in 1837.
  In youthful beauty flourishing,
Inserted in the editions of 1815 and 1820.
--With feet that firmly pressed the ground
They stood, and girt their Father round;
Such was his choice,--no Steed will he
He stood upon the verdant sod,
He takes this day ...
Stretched out upon the ground he lies,--
As if it were his only task
Like Herdsman in the sun to bask,
And Neville was opprest with fear;
For, though he bore a valiant name,
His heart was of a timid frame,
And therefore will retreat to seize
--How often hath the strength of heaven
... on the sacred wain,
On which the grey-haired Barons stood,
And the infant Heir of Mowbray's blood.
Beneath the saintly Ensigns three,
Their confidence and victory!
Stood confident of victory!
When, as the Vision gave command,
The Prior of Durham with holy hand
Saint Cuthbert's Relic did uprear
Upon the point of a lofty spear,
And God descended in his power,
While the Monks prayed in Maiden's Bower.
--The Chiefs were by his zeal confounded,
... raised so joyfully,
 This line was added in 1837.
--So speaking, he upraised his head
Towards that Imagery once more;
She did in passiveness obey,
Her Brother was it who assailed
Her tender spirit and prevailed.
Her other Parent, too, whose head
From reason's earliest dawn beguiled
The docile, unsuspecting Child:
... music sweet
Was played to chear them in retreat;
But Norton lingered in the rear:
Thought followed thought--and ere the last
Of that unhappy train was past,
Before him Francis did appear.
"Now when 'tis not your aim to oppose,"
Said he, "in open field your Foes;
Now that from this decisive day
Your multitude must melt away,
An unarmed Man may come unblamed;
To ask a grace, that was not claimed
Long as your hopes were high, he now
May hither bring a fearless brow;
When his discountenance can do
No injury,--may come to you.
Though in your cause no part I bear,
Your indignation I can share;
Am grieved this backward march to see,
How careless and disorderly!
I scorn your Chieftains, Men who lead,
And yet want courage at their need;
Then look at them with open eyes!
Deserve they further sacrifice?
At length, the issue of this prayer?
Or how, from his depression raised,
The Father on his Son had gazed;
Suffice it that the Son gave way,
Nor strove that passion to allay,
The like endeavours
From cloudless ether looking down,
The Moon, this tranquil evening, sees
... with moors between,
Hill-tops, and floods, and forests green,
The silver smoke, and mounts in wreaths.
The same fair Creature which was nigh
Feeding in tranquillity,
When Francis uttered to the Maid
... who was nigh
But where at this still hour is she,
The consecrated Emily?
Even while I speak, behold the Maid
Emerging from the cedar shade
 In the editions of 1815 to 1832, the paragraph ends with
Yet the meek Creature was not free,
Erewhile, from some perplexity:
For thrice hath she approached, this day,
The thought-bewildered Emily;
Endeavouring, in her gentle way,
Some smile or look of love to gain,--
Encouragement to sport or play;
Attempts which by the unhappy Maid
Have all been slighted or gainsaid.
--O welcome to the viewless breeze!
'Tis fraught with acceptable feeling,
And instantaneous sympathies
Into the Sufferer's bosom stealing;--
Ere she hath reached yon rustic Shed
Yet is she soothed: the viewless breeze
Comes fraught with kindlier sympathies:
Ere she hath reached yon rustic Shed
Ere she had reached ...
... --'tis that bless'd Saint
Descend on Francis:--through the air
Of this sad earth to him repair,
Speak to him with a voice, and say,
"That he must cast despair away!"
 _Italics_ and capitals were first used in the edition of 1820.
--She knows, she feels it, and is cheared;
At least her present pangs are checked.
--And now an ancient Man appeared,
Approaching her with grave respect.
Down the smooth walk which then she trod
He paced along the silent sod,
And greeting her thus gently spake,
In friendship;--go--from him--from me--
Strive to avert this misery.
--If prudence offer help or aid,
On _you_ is no restriction laid;
"Hope," said the Sufferer's zealous Friend,
"Must not forsake us till the end.--
... may have the skill ...
Their flight the fair Moon may not see;
For, from mid-heaven, already she
 _Italics_ were first used in 1837.
... to the cause.
They shout aloud--but Heaven decreed
Another close
To that brave deed
Which struck ...
... and as seldom free
And from the heat of the noon-tide sun,
They to the Watch-tower did repair,
Commodious Pleasure-house! and there
He was the proudest ...
Dead are they, they were doomed to die;
The Sons and Father all are dead,
All dead save One; and Emily
No more shall seek this Watch-tower high,
To look far forth with anxious eye,--
She is relieved from hope and dread,
Though suffering in extremity.
Inserted only in the edition of 1815.
 _Italics_ were first used in 1820.
 1837. In the editions of 1815-32 the following passage took the
place of this line:--
She turned to him, who with his eye
Was watching her while on the height
She sate, or wandered restlessly,
O'erburdened by her sorrow's weight;
To him who this dire news had told,
And now beside the Mourner stood;
Then on this place the Maid had sought:
And told, as gently as could be,
The end of that sad Tragedy,
 These two lines were added in 1827.
... the people cried,
For sake of ...
He rose not in this quarrel, he
His Father and his Brothers wooed,
Both for their own and Country's good,
To rest in peace--he did divide,
To scatter gleams ...
... of ancient love,
But most, compassion for your fate,
Lady! for your forlorn estate,
Me did these move, and I made bold,
And entrance gained to that strong-hold.
... of ancient love;
And, in your service, I made bold--
And entrance gained to that strong-hold.
... 'We need not stop, my Son!
But I will end what is begun;
'Tis matter which I do not fear
To entrust to any living ear.'
Then Francis answered fervently,
"If God so will, the same shall be."
Immediately, this solemn word
... had reached the door,
The Banner which a Soldier bore,
One marshalled thus with base intent
That he in scorn might go before,
And, holding up this monument,
... that were round
This insult, and the Banner saved,
That moment, from among the tide
Bore unobserved ...
"Yet, yet in this affliction," said
The old Man to the silent Maid,
"Yet, Lady! heaven is good--the night
Shews yet a Star which is most bright;
Why comes not Francis?--Joyful chear
In that parental gratulation,
And glow of righteous indignation,
Went with him from the doleful City:--
He fled--yet in his flight could hear
The death-sound of the Minster-bell;
With motion fleet as winged Dove;
... as a winged Dove;
An Angel-guest, should he appear.
Along the plain of York he passed;
The Banner-staff was in his hand,
The Imagery concealed from sight,
And cross the expanse, in open flight,
Reckless of what impels or leads,
Unchecked he hurries on;--nor heeds
The sorrow of the Villages;
From the triumphant cruelties
Spread by triumphant cruelties
The sorrow through the Villages,
And punishment without remorse,
Unchecked he journies--under law
Of inward occupation strong;
And the first ...
... did he maintain
Within himself, and found no rest;
Calm liberty he could not gain;
And yet the service was unblest.
Raised self-suspicion which was strong,
Swaying the brave Man to his wrong:
Of all-disposing Providence,
Its will intelligibly shewn,
Finds he the Banner in his hand,
Without a thought to such intent,
Or conscious effort of his own?
And no obstruction to prevent
His Father's wish and last command!
And, thus beset, he heaved a sigh;
Remembering his own prophecy
Of utter desolation, made
To Emily in the yew-tree shade:
He sighed, submitting to the power,
The might of that prophetic hour.
... and, on the second day,
He reached a summit whence his eyes
How Francis had the Banner claimed,
And with that charge had disappeared;
Behold the Ensign in his hand!
... freight I bear;
It weakens me, my heart hath bled
Till it is weak--but you beware,
... with a Warrior's brow
... had snatched
A spear,--and with his eyes he watched
Their motions, turning round and round:--
His weaker hand the Banner held;
And straight by savage zeal impelled
Forth rushed a Pikeman, as if he,
Not without harsh indignity,
Would seize the same:--instinctively--
To smite the Offender--with his lance
Did Francis from the brake advance;
But, from behind, a treacherous wound
Unfeeling, brought him to the ground,
A mortal stroke:--oh, grief to tell!
Thus, thus, the noble Francis fell:
There did he lie of breath forsaken;
The Banner from his grasp was taken,
And borne exultingly away;
And the Body was left on the ground where it lay.  1815.
But not before the warm life-blood
Had tinged with searching overflow,
More deeply tinged the embroidered show
Of His whose side was pierced upon the Rood!
The text of 1837 is otherwise identical with the final version of
 These two lines were added in 1837.
Two days, as many nights, he slept
Alone, unnoticed, and unwept;
For at that time distress and fear
Possessed the Country far and near;
The third day, One, who chanced to pass,
Beheld him stretched upon the grass.
A gentle Forester was he,
And he had heard that by a Train
Of Horsemen Francis had been slain.
Much was he troubled--for the Man
Hath recognized his pallid face;
And to the nearest Huts he ran,
And called the People to the place.
--How desolate is Rylstone-hall!
Such was the instant thought of all;
And if the lonely Lady there
Should be, this sight she cannot bear!
Such thought the Forester express'd,
And all were swayed, and deemed it best
That, if the Priest should yield assent
And join himself to their intent,
That straightway ...
... on a bier
In decency and humble chear;
And psalms are sung with holy sound.
And psalms they sung--a holy sound
That hill and vale with sadness hear.
The walks and pools neglect hath sown
There seated, may this Maid be seen,
For, of that band of rushing Deer,
... and more near,
Stopped once again;--but, as no trace
Was found of any thing to fear,
Even to her feet the Creature came,
For both a bounteous, fruitful meeting.
And take this gift of Heaven with grace?
 This line was added in 1837.
Did she behold--saw once again;
So doth the Sufferer deem it good
Even once again this neighbourhood
The text of 1837 returns to that of 1815.
Did now a very gladness yield
At morning to the dewy field,
While they side by side were straying,
And the Shepherd's pipe was playing;
Mild, delicious melancholy:
Up doth she climb to Norton Tower,
And thence looks round her far and wide.
Her fate there measures,--all is stilled,--
The feeble hath subdued her heart;
This single Creature ...
So beautiful the spotless Thrall,
(A lovely Youngling white as foam,)
That it was brought to Rylstone-hall;
Her youngest Brother led it home,
The youngest, then a lusty Boy,
Brought home the prize--and with what joy!
Nor did she fear in the still moonshine
... in still moonshine
For that she came; there oft and long
She sate in meditation strong:
And by her, in a line, a milkewhite lambe she lad.   ED.
That blisse may not abide in state of mortall men.   ED.
_"Weak is the will of Man, his judgement blind;
Remembrance persecutes, and Hope betrays;
Heavy is woe;--and joy, for human kind,
A mournful thing, so transient is the blaze!"--
Thus might he paint our lot of mortal days
Who wants the glorious faculty, assigned
To elevate the more-than-reasoning Mind,
And colour life's dark cloud with orient rays.
Imagination is that sacred power,
Imagination lofty and refined:
'Tis her's to pluck the amaranthine Flower
Of Faith, and round the Sufferer's temples bind
Wreaths that endure affliction's heaviest shower,
And do not shrink from sorrow's keenest wind._       ED.
This note is quoted from Whitaker.--ED.
A soothing spirit follows in the way
That Nature takes, her counter-work pursuing.        ED.
This quotation is from Dr. Whitaker's _History of the Deanery of
extinguished by habits of peace.
situation is most accurately described as
the shy recess
Of Barden's lowly quietness.                         ED.
That strain again! it had a dying fall.              ED.
But, father, I will wend with you,
Unarm'd and naked will I bee.                      ED.
The lines are--
At Wetherbye they mustered their host,
Thirteen thousand fair to see.                     ED.
The line referred to is--
Against soe many could not stay.                     ED.
The song of mountain-streams, unheard by day,
Now hardly heard, beguiles my homeward way.
The little rills, and waters numberless,
Inaudible by daylight.
And Wordsworth's sonnet beginning--
The unremitting voice of nightly streams
That wastes so oft, we think, its tuneful powers.
They also serve who only stand and wait.             ED.
Included among the "Poems of Sentiment and Reflection."--ED.
"=What is good for a bootless bene?="
With these dark words begins my Tale;
And their meaning is, whence can comfort spring
When Prayer is of no avail?
"=What is good for a bootless bene?="
The Falconer to the Lady said;
And she made answer "ENDLESS SORROW!"
For she knew that her Son was dead.
She knew it by the Falconer's words,
And from the look of the Falconer's eye;
And from the love which was in her soul
For her youthful Romilly.
--Young Romilly through Barden woods
Is ranging high and low;
And holds a greyhound in a leash,
To let slip upon buck or doe.
The pair have reached that fearful chasm,
How tempting to bestride!
For lordly Wharf is there pent in
With rocks on either side.
The striding-place is called THE STRID,
A name which it took of yore:
A thousand years hath it borne that name,
And shall a thousand more.
And hither is young Romilly come,
And what may now forbid
That he, perhaps for the hundredth time,
Shall bound across THE STRID?
He sprang in glee,--for what cared he
That the river was strong, and the rocks were steep?--
But the greyhound in the leash hung back,
And checked him in his leap.
The Boy is in the arms of Wharf,
And strangled by a merciless force;
For never more was young Romilly seen
Till he rose a lifeless corse.
Now there is stillness in the vale,
And long, unspeaking, sorrow:
Wharf shall be to pitying hearts
A name more sad than Yarrow.
If for a lover the Lady wept,
A solace she might borrow
From death, and from the passion of death:--
Old Wharf might heal her sorrow.
She weeps not for the wedding-day
Which was to be to-morrow:
Her hope was a further-looking hope,
And hers is a mother's sorrow.
He was a tree that stood alone,
And proudly did its branches wave;
And the root of this delightful tree
Was in her husband's grave!
Long, long in darkness did she sit,
And her first words were, "Let there be
In Bolton, on the field of Wharf,
A stately Priory!"
The stately Priory was reared;[C]
And Wharf, as he moved along,
To matins joined a mournful voice,
Nor failed at even-song.
And the Lady prayed in heaviness
That looked not for relief!
But slowly did her succour come,
And a patience to her grief.
Oh! there is never sorrow of heart
That shall lack a timely end,
If but to God we turn, and ask
Of Him to be our friend![D]
"_What is good for a bootless bene?_"
The Lady answer'd, "_endless sorrow_."
_Her_ words are plain; but the Falconer's words
Are a path that is dark to travel thorough.
These words I bring from the Banks of Wharf,
Dark words to front an ancient tale:
And their meaning is, whence can comfort spring
When prayer is of no avail?
"What is good for a bootless bene?"
The Falconer to the Lady said,
And she made answer as ye have heard,
For she knew that her Son was dead.
She knew it from the Falconer's words
And from the look of the Falconer's eye,
And from the love that was in her heart
For her youthful Romelli.
Young Romelli to the Woods is gone,
And who doth on his steps attend?
He hath a greyhound in a leash,
A chosen forest Friend.
And they have reach'd that famous Chasm
Where he who dares may stride
Across the River Wharf, pent in
With rocks on either side.
And that striding place is call'd THE STRID,
A name which it took of yore;
A thousand years hath it borne that name,
And shall a thousand more.
And thither is young Romelli come;
And what may now forbid
That He, perhaps for the hundredth time,
Shall bound across the Strid?
He sprang in glee; for what cared he
That the River was strong, and the Rocks were steep?
But the greyhound in the Leash hung back
And check'd him in his leap.
The Boy is in the arms of Wharf,
And strangled with a merciless force;
For never more was young Romelli seen,
Till he was a lifeless corse.
Now is there stillness in the vale
And long unspeaking sorrow,
Wharf has buried fonder hopes
Than e'er were drown'd in Yarrow.[E]
If for a Lover the Lady wept
A comfort she might borrow
From death, and from the passion of death;
Old Wharf might heal her sorrow.
She weeps not for the Wedding-day
That was to be to-morrow,[F]
Her hope was a farther-looking hope
And hers is a Mother's sorrow.
Oh was he not a comely tree?
And proudly did his branches wave;
And the Root of this delightful Tree
Is in her Husband's grave.
Long, long in darkness did she sit,
And her first word was, "Let there be
A stately Priory."
And the stately Priory was rear'd,
And Wharf as he moved along,
To Matins joined a mournful voice,
Nor fail'd at Even-song.
And the Lady pray'd in heaviness
That wish'd not for relief;
But slowly did her succour come,
And a patience to her grief.
Oh! there is never sorrow of heart
That shall lack a timely end,
If but to God we turn, and ask
"Say, what remains when Hope is fled?"
She answered, "endless weeping!"
Now is there ...
The text of 1837 returns to that of 1815.
This sonnet was included among those "dedicated to Liberty."--ED.
Not 'mid the World's vain objects that enslave
The free-born Soul--that World whose vaunted skill
In selfish interest perverts the will,
Whose factions lead astray the wise and brave--
Not there; but in dark wood and rocky cave,
And hollow vale which foaming torrents fill
With omnipresent murmur as they rave
Down their steep beds, that never shall be still:
Here, mighty Nature! in this school sublime
I weigh the hopes and fears of suffering Spain;
For her consult the auguries of time,
And through the human heart explore my way;
And look and listen--gathering, whence I may,
Triumph, and thoughts no bondage can restrain.
One of the "Sonnets dedicated to Liberty."--ED.
I dropped my pen; and listened to the Wind
That sang of trees up-torn and vessels tost--
A midnight harmony; and wholly lost
To the general sense of men by chains confined
Of business, care, or pleasure; or resigned
To timely sleep. Thought I, the impassioned strain,
Which, without aid of numbers, I sustain,
Like acceptation from the World will find.
Yet some with apprehensive ear shall drink
A dirge devoutly breathed o'er sorrows past;
And to the attendant promise will give heed--
The prophecy,--like that of this wild blast,
Which, while it makes the heart with sadness shrink,
Tells also of bright calms that shall succeed.
The poems belonging to the years 1809 and 1810 were mainly
Of mortal parents is the Hero born
By whom the undaunted Tyrolese are led?
Or is it Tell's great Spirit, from the dead
Returned to animate an age forlorn?
He comes like Phoebus through the gates of morn
When dreary darkness is discomfited,
Yet mark his modest state! upon his head,
That simple crest, a heron's plume, is worn.
O Liberty! they stagger at the shock
From van to rear--and with one mind would flee,
But half their host is buried:--rock on rock
Descends:--beneath this godlike Warrior, see!
Hills, torrents, woods, embodied to bemock
The Tyrant, and confound his cruelty.
A Heron's feather for a crest is worn.
... at the shock;
The Murderers are aghast; they strive to flee
And half their Host is buried:-- ...
Advance--come forth from thy Tyrolean ground,
Dear Liberty! stern Nymph of soul untamed;
Sweet Nymph, O rightly of the mountains named!
Through the long chain of Alps from mound to mound
And o'er the eternal snows, like Echo, bound;
Like Echo, when the hunter train at dawn
Have roused her from her sleep: and forest-lawn,
Cliffs, woods and caves, her viewless steps resound
And babble of her pastime!--On, dread Power!
With such invisible motion speed thy flight,
Through hanging clouds, from craggy height to height,
Through the green vales and through the herdsman's bower--
That all the Alps may gladden in thy might,
assistant
Sure, a continuation for this poem could be:
  Here, there, and in all places at one hour.
The Land we from our fathers had in trust,
And to our children will transmit, or die:
This is our maxim, this our piety;
And God and Nature say that it is just.
That which we _would_ perform in arms--we must!
We read the dictate in the infant's eye;
In the wife's smile; and in the placid sky;
And, at our feet, amid the silent dust
Of them that were before us.--Sing aloud
Old songs, the precious music of the heart!
Give, herds and flocks, your voices to the wind!
While we go forth, a self-devoted crowd,
With weapons grasped in fearless hands, to assert
Our virtue, and to vindicate mankind.
With weapons in the fearless hand,
Alas! what boots the long laborious quest
Of moral prudence, sought through good and ill;
Or pains abstruse--to elevate the will,
And lead us on to that transcendent rest
Where every passion shall the sway attest
Of Reason, seated on her sovereign hill;
What is it but a vain and curious skill,
If sapient Germany must lie deprest,
Beneath the brutal sword?--Her haughty Schools
Shall blush; and may not we with sorrow say,
A few strong instincts and a few plain rules,
Among the herdsmen of the Alps, have wrought
More for mankind at this unhappy day
Than all the pride of intellect and thought?
It was a _moral_ end for which they fought;
Else how, when mighty Thrones were put to shame,
Could they, poor Shepherds, have preserved an aim,
A resolution, or enlivening thought?
Nor hath that moral good been _vainly_ sought;
For in their magnanimity and fame
Powers have they left, an impulse, and a claim
Which neither can be overturned nor bought.
Sleep, Warriors, sleep! among your hills repose!
We know that ye, beneath the stern control
Of awful prudence, keep the unvanquished soul:
And when, impatient of her guilt and woes,
Europe breaks forth; then, Shepherds! shall ye rise
For perfect triumph o'er your Enemies.
The martial courage of a day is vain,
An empty noise of death the battle's roar,
If vital hope be wanting to restore,
Or fortitude be wanting to sustain,
Armies or kingdoms. We have heard a strain
Of triumph, how the labouring Danube bore
A weight of hostile corses: drenched with gore
Were the wide fields, the hamlets heaped with slain.
Yet see (the mighty tumult overpast)
Austria a Daughter of her Throne hath sold!
And her Tyrolean Champion we behold
Murdered, like one ashore by shipwreck cast,
Murdered without relief. Oh! blind as bold,
To think that such assurance can stand fast!
supremacy at sea. For years the English were the only
representatives of freedom in Europe. At last it seemed that two
fortunate allies arose to join their cause--the insurgents in
Spain and in the little land of Tyrol. No wonder then that now
British poets sympathised with the victors at the hill of Isel,
and praised their courage and their leaders, and at last, when
they were overcome by superior forces, laid the laurel wreath of
tragic heroism on their graves.
"Thirty or forty years before, English poets would scarcely have
one-sidedness both in politics and in art, so that their
smooth-running verses neither sought nor found a response even in
Ballads' were the first to strike out a new path. Although
differing considerably from one another in other respects, they
agreed in their opposition to the conventionality of the old
"Wordsworth lived in a simple little house on the romantic lake
of Grasmere, in the heart of the mountains of Westmoreland. He
studied more in his walks over heath and field than in books, and
take a warm interest in the herdsmen of the Alps.
"But the Tyrolese inspired him with still greater interest on
itself into the empire of Napoleon. From this moment he took his
place on the side of the enemies of France, and particularly on
the side of the Tyrolese, since they had never lost the natural
simplicity of their habits, and had regained the hereditary
freedom, of which they had been deprived, with the sword. Thus
arose the curious paradox, that a republican poet glorified
spontaneously the cause of an exceedingly monarchical and
conservative country.
"Wordsworth gave vent to his enthusiasm in six sonnets, which, as
Tyrolese poet Alois Weissenbach. In the first three sonnets the
splendour of the Alpine world, which he knew from his journeys in
features which he has introduced certainly show more ideal fancy
than knowledge of detail; but it was not his purpose to compose a
universities with unnecessary severity; but this does not prove
hotbeds of the wildest metaphysics and political dreams. The
events of the year 1813 would probably induce Wordsworth to view
of circumstances. But in this case we must not simply impute all
the blame to the poet; for as we see from the diary of his friend
wish to impute to Austria the sins of ill-advised diplomacy."
The following are Herr Brandl's German translations of five of
Wordsworth's sonnets:--
Von Sterblichen geboren sei der Held,
Der den Tirolern todeskuehn gebeut?
Ist etwa Tell's Geist aus der Ewigkeit
Gekehrt, zu wecken die verlor'ne Welt?
Er kommt wie Phoebus aus dem Morgenzelt,
Wenn sich die Finsterniss der Nacht zerstreut,
Und doch, wie schlicht! Ein Falkenschweif nur dreut
Von seinem Hut und fuellt sein Wappenfeld.
O Freiheit! Wie der Feind erbebt in Ruecken
Und Front und gerne floeh' in ~einer~ Fluth,
Waer' er nicht halb bedeckt von Felsenstuecken,
Gewaelzt von dieses Kaempfers Goettermuth!
Geeint sind Berg, Wald, Wildbach, zu erdruecken
Hohnlachend den Tyrann und seine Wuth.
Freiheit, ersteig aus deinem Heimatsland
Tirol! du Maedchen ernst und unzaehmbar
Und lieblich doch, der Berge Kind fuerwahr!
Ein Echo zwischen Fels und Alpenwand.
Und ueber Gletschern bist du festgebannt;
Vom Schlaf' aufscheucht, dass Berg und Wald und Au
Und Hoehle droehnen, wo's unsichtbar stand,
Sein Spiel verkuendend. So urploetzlich strahl',
Du hehre Macht, hervor im Siegeslauf
Durch Almenhuetten, durch das gruene Thal;
In dir dann jauchzen alle Alpen auf
Hier, dort und ueberall mit ~einem~ Mal!
"Das Land ist uns vertraut vom Ahngeschlecht:
So sei's vererbt--und kost' es auch das Leben--
Den Kindern: das ist Pflicht und fromm und eben;
Natur und Gott, sie nennen es gerecht.
Wir ~muessen~ thun, was moeglich, im Gefecht:
Sieh' dies Gebot im Kindesauge leben,
Von Frauenlippen, aus dem Aether schweben;
Ihr Vaeter selbst aus Grabesmoder sprecht
Es laut empor.--So kling' in Sangesbraus
Der alten Lieder herzliche Musik!
Ein opferwillig' Haeuflein zieh'n wir aus,
Der Tugend treu, die Menschheit zu befreien."
Was nuetzt, ach! langes sittenkluges Streiten,
Das man aus "gut" und "boese" presst mit Mueh';
Was dummer Fleiss, zu hoeh'n die Energie
Und zu transcendentaler Ruh' zu leiten,
Dass jede Leidenschaft sich lasse reiten
Ist das nicht seltsam eitle Theorie,
Wenn Deutschland trotz so viel Spitzfindigkeiten
Dem rohen Schwert erliegt? Erroethen sollen
Die hohen Schulen! Muessen wir nicht sagen:
Mehr wussten wenig Regeln, starkes Wollen
Durch schlichte Alpenhirten auszufuehren
Fuer's Menschenwohl in diesen Unglueckstagen,
Als alles stolze Metaphysiciren?
Auf die schliessliche Unterwerfung der Tiroler.
Ist einer ~guten~ Sache galt ihr Schlagen;
Wie haetten bei der Throne Niederfahrt
Sonst sie, die armen Schaefer, sich bewahrt
Begeisternd hohen Sinn und kraeftig Wagen?
Auch hat ihr Kampf fuer's Gute Frucht getragen:
Weckt nicht ihr Ruhm, die grosse Denkungsart
Auch uns den Muth, mit Rechtsgefuehl gepaart,
Der nicht zu kaufen ist, nicht zu zernagen?
Schlaft, Kaempfer! Unter euren Bergen ruht!
Dem strengsten Richter kann es nicht entgehen:
Nie kannte euer ~Herz~ das Retiriren.
Und bricht in hoechster Pein und Rachewuth
Europa los, so sollt ihr auferstehen,
~Ganz~ ueber euern Feind zu triumphiren!
This and the remaining sonnets of 1809 were placed among those
"dedicated to Liberty."--ED.
And is it among rude untutored Dales,
There, and there only, that the heart is true?
And, rising to repel or to subdue,
Is it by rocks and woods that man prevails?
Ah no! though Nature's dread protection fails,
There is a bulwark in the soul. This knew
Iberian Burghers when the sword they drew
In Zaragoza, naked to the gales
Of fiercely-breathing war. The truth was felt
By Palafox, and many a brave compeer,
Like him of noble birth and noble mind;
By ladies, meek-eyed women without fear;
And wanderers of the street, to whom is dealt
The bread which without industry they find.
O'er the wide earth, on mountain and on plain,
Dwells in the affections and the soul of man
A Godhead, like the universal PAN;[B]
But more exalted, with a brighter train:
And shall his bounty be dispensed in vain,
Showered equally on city and on field,
And neither hope nor stedfast promise yield
In these usurping times of fear and pain?
Such doom awaits us. Nay, forbid it Heaven!
We know the arduous strife, the eternal laws
To which the triumph of all good is given,
High sacrifice, and labour without pause,
Even to the death:--else wherefore should the eye
Of man converse with immortality?
In _The Friend_ (edition 1812), the following footnote occurs--
Knit with the graces and the hours in dance,
Led on the eternal spring.--MILTON."                 ED.
Hail, Zaragoza! If with unwet eye
We can approach, thy sorrow to behold,
Yet is the heart not pitiless nor cold;
Such spectacle demands not tear or sigh.
These desolate remains are trophies high
Of more than martial courage in the breast
Of peaceful civic virtue:[A] they attest
Thy matchless worth to all posterity.
Blood flowed before thy sight without remorse;
Disease consumed thy vitals; War upheaved
The ground beneath thee with volcanic force:
Dread trials! yet encountered and sustained
Till not a wreck of help or hope remained,
And law was from necessity received.[B]
 The word "necessity" was _italicised_ in the editions of 1815 to
In 1837 Wordsworth put it thus, "In this Sonnet I am under some
Say, what is Honour?--'Tis the finest sense
Of _justice_ which the human mind can frame,
Intent each lurking frailty to disclaim,
And guard the way of life from all offence
Suffered or done. When lawless violence
Invades a Realm, so pressed that in the scale
Of perilous war her weightiest armies fail,
Honour is hopeful elevation,--whence
Glory, and triumph. Yet with politic skill
Endangered States may yield to terms unjust;
Stoop their proud heads, but not unto the dust--
A Foe's most favourite purpose to fulfil:
Happy occasions oft by self-mistrust
Are forfeited; but infamy doth kill.
A Kingdom doth assault, and in the scale
Brave Schill! by death delivered, take thy flight
From Prussia's timid region. Go, and rest
With heroes, 'mid the islands of the Blest,
Or in the fields of empyrean light.
A meteor wert thou crossing a dark night:
Yet shall thy name, conspicuous and sublime,
Stand in the spacious firmament of time,
Fixed as a star: such glory is thy right.
Alas! it may not be: for earthly fame
Is Fortune's frail dependant; yet their lives
A Judge, who, as man claims by merit, gives;
To whose all-pondering mind a noble aim,
Faithfully kept, is as a noble deed;
In whose pure sight all virtue doth succeed.
... in a darksome night:
Call not the royal Swede unfortunate,
Who never did to Fortune bend the knee;
Who slighted fear; rejected steadfastly
Temptation; and whose kingly name and state
Have "perished by his choice, and not his fate!"
Hence lives He, to his inner self endeared;
And hence, wherever virtue is revered,
He sits a more exalted Potentate,
Throned in the hearts of men. Should Heaven ordain
That this great Servant of a righteous cause
Must still have sad or vexing thoughts to endure,
Yet may a sympathizing spirit pause,
Admonished by these truths, and quench all pain
In thankful joy and gratulation pure.
The Voice of song from distant lands shall call.
Look now on that Adventurer who hath paid
His vows to Fortune; who, in cruel slight
Of virtuous hope, of liberty, and right,
Hath followed wheresoe'er a way was made
By the blind Goddess,--ruthless, undismayed;
And so hath gained at length a prosperous height,
Round which the elements of worldly might
Beneath his haughty feet, like clouds, are laid.
O joyless power that stands by lawless force!
Curses are _his_ dire portion, scorn, and hate,
Internal darkness and unquiet breath;
And, if old judgments keep their sacred course,
Him from that height shall Heaven precipitate
By violent and ignominious death.
Is there a power that can sustain and cheer
The captive chieftain, by a tyrant's doom,
Forced to descend into his destined tomb--
A dungeon dark! where he must waste the year,
And lie cut off from all his heart holds dear;
What time his injured country is a stage
Whereon deliberate Valour and the rage
Of righteous Vengeance side by side appear,
Filling from morn to night the heroic scene
With deeds of hope and everlasting praise:--
Say can he think of this with mind serene
And silent fetters? Yes, if visions bright
Shine on his soul, reflected from the days
When he himself was tried in open light.
invigorated and chastened into a purer and more thoughtful
Forced to descend alive into his tomb,
Weep not, beloved Friends! nor let the air
For me with sighs be troubled. Not from life
Have I been taken; this is genuine life
And this alone--the life which now I live
In peace eternal; where desire and joy
Together move in fellowship without end.--
Francesco Ceni willed that, after death,
His tombstone thus should speak for him. And surely
Small cause there is for that fond wish of ours
Long to continue in this world; a world
That keeps not faith, nor yet can point a hope
To good, whereof itself is destitute.
Francesco Ceni after death enjoined
That thus his tomb should speak for him ...
Perhaps some needful service of the State
Drew TITUS from the depth of studious bowers,
And doomed him to contend in faithless courts,
Where gold determines between right and wrong.
Yet did at length his loyalty of heart,
And his pure native genius, lead him back
To wait upon the bright and gracious Muses,
Whom he had early loved. And not in vain
Such course he held! Bologna's learned schools
Were gladdened by the Sage's voice, and hung
With fondness on those sweet Nestorian strains.
There pleasure crowned his days; and all his thoughts
A roseate fragrance breathed.[B]--O human life,
That never art secure from dolorous change!
Behold a high injunction suddenly
To Arno's side hath brought him, and he charmed
A Tuscan audience: but full soon was called
To the perpetual silence of the grave.
Mourn, Italy, the loss of him who stood
A Champion stedfast and invincible,
To quell the rage of literary War!
There did he live content; and all his thoughts
Were blithe as vernal flowers.--
To Arno's side conducts him,
Erano tutti rose.
O Thou who movest onward with a mind
Intent upon thy way, pause, though in haste!
'Twill be no fruitless moment. I was born
Within Savona's walls, of gentle blood.
On Tiber's banks my youth was dedicate
To sacred studies; and the Roman Shepherd
Gave to my charge Urbino's numerous flock.
Well did I watch, much laboured, nor had power
To escape from many and strange indignities;
Was smitten by the great ones of the world,
But did not fall; for Virtue braves all shocks,
Upon herself resting immoveably.
Me did a kindlier fortune then invite
To serve the glorious Henry, King of France,
And in his hands I saw a high reward
Stretched out for my acceptance,--but Death came.
Now, Reader, learn from this my fate, how false,
How treacherous to her promise, is the world;
And trust in God--to whose eternal doom
Must bend the sceptred Potentates of earth.
There never breathed a man who, when his life
Was closing, might not of that life relate
Toils long and hard.--The warrior will report
Of wounds, and bright swords flashing in the field,
And blast of trumpets. He who hath been doomed
To bow his forehead in the courts of kings,
Will tell of fraud and never-ceasing hate,
Envy and heart-inquietude, derived
From intricate cabals of treacherous friends.
I, who on shipboard lived from earliest youth,
Could represent the countenance horrible
Of the vexed waters, and the indignant rage
Of Auster and Booetes. Fifty years
Over the well-steered galleys did I rule:--
From huge Pelorus to the Atlantic pillars,
Rises no mountain to mine eyes unknown;
And the broad gulfs I traversed oft and oft:
Of every cloud which in the heavens might stir
I knew the force; and hence the rough sea's pride
Availed not to my Vessel's overthrow.
What noble pomp and frequent have not I
On regal decks beheld! yet in the end
I learned that one poor moment can suffice
To equalise the lofty and the low.
We sail the sea of life--a _Calm_ One finds,
And One a _Tempest_--and, the voyage o'er,
Death is the quiet haven of us all.
If more of my condition ye would know,
Savona was my birth-place, and I sprang
Of noble parents: seventy years and three
Lived I--then yielded to a slow disease.
True is it that Ambrosio Salinero
With an untoward fate was long involved
In odious litigation; and full long,
Fate harder still! had he to endure assaults
Of racking malady. And true it is
That not the less a frank courageous heart
And buoyant spirit triumphed over pain;
And he was strong to follow in the steps
Of the fair Muses. Not a covert path
Leads to the dear Parnassian forest's shade,
That might from him be hidden; not a track
Mounts to pellucid Hippocrene, but he
Had traced its windings.--This Savona knows,
Yet no sepulchral honours to her Son
She paid, for in our age the heart is ruled
Only by gold. And now a simple stone
Inscribed with this memorial here is raised
By his bereft, his lonely, Chiabrera.
Think not, O Passenger! who read'st the lines
That an exceeding love hath dazzled me;
No--he was One whose memory ought to spread
Where'er Permessus bears an honoured name,
And live as long as its pure stream shall flow.[A]
Destined to war from very infancy
Was I, Roberto Dati, and I took
In Malta the white symbol of the Cross:
Nor in life's vigorous season did I shun
Hazard or toil; among the sands was seen
Of Libya; and not seldom, on the banks
Of wide Hungarian Danube, 'twas my lot
To hear the sanguinary trumpet sounded.
So lived I, and repined not at such fate:
This only grieves me, for it seems a wrong,
That stripped of arms I to my end am brought
On the soft down of my paternal home.
Yet haply Arno shall be spared all cause
To blush for me. Thou, loiter not nor halt
In thy appointed way, and bear in mind
How fleeting and how frail is human life!
O flower of all that springs from gentle blood,
And all that generous nurture breeds to make
Youth amiable; O friend so true of soul
To fair Aglaia; by what envy moved,
Lelius! has death cut short thy brilliant day
In its sweet opening? and what dire mishap
Has from Savona torn her best delight?
For thee she mourns, nor e'er will cease to mourn;
And, should the out-pourings of her eyes suffice not
For her heart's grief, she will entreat Sebeto
Not to withhold his bounteous aid, Sebeto
Who saw thee, on his margin, yield to death,
In the chaste arms of thy beloved Love!
What profit riches? what does youth avail?
Dust are our hopes;--I, weeping bitterly,
Penned these sad lines, nor can forbear to pray
That every gentle Spirit hither led
May read them not without some bitter tears.
Not without heavy grief of heart did He
On whom the duty fell (for at that time
The father sojourned in a distant land)
Deposit in the hollow of this tomb
A brother's Child, most tenderly beloved!
FRANCESCO was the name the Youth had borne,
POZZOBONNELLI his illustrious house;
And, when beneath this stone the Corse was laid,
The eyes of all Savona streamed with tears.
Alas! the twentieth April of his life
Had scarcely flowered: and at this early time,
By genuine virtue he inspired a hope
That greatly cheered his country: to his kin
He promised comfort; and the flattering thoughts
His friends had in their fondness entertained,[B]
He suffered not to languish or decay.
Now is there not good reason to break forth
Into a passionate lament?--O Soul!
Short while a Pilgrim in our nether world,
Do thou enjoy the calm empyreal air;
And round this earthly tomb let roses rise,
An everlasting spring! in memory
Of that delightful fragrance which was once
From thy mild manners quietly exhaled.
... e degli amici
Non lasciava languire i bei pensieri.--W. W. 1815.
Pause, courteous Spirit!--Balbi supplicates
That Thou, with no reluctant voice, for him
Here laid in mortal darkness, wouldst prefer
A prayer to the Redeemer of the world.
This to the dead by sacred right belongs;
All else is nothing.--Did occasion suit
To tell his worth, the marble of this tomb
Would ill suffice: for Plato's lore sublime,
And all the wisdom of the Stagyrite,
Enriched and beautified his studious mind:
With Archimedes also he conversed
As with a chosen friend; nor did he leave
Those laureat wreaths ungathered which the Nymphs
Twine near their loved Permessus.--Finally,
Himself above each lower thought uplifting,
His ears he closed to listen to the songs
Which Sion's Kings did consecrate of old;
And his Permessus found on Lebanon.
A blessed Man! who of protracted days
Made not, as thousands do, a vulgar sleep;
But truly did _He_ live his life. Urbino,
Take pride in him!--O Passenger, farewell!
And fixed his Pindus upon Lebanon.
Ah! where is Palafox? Nor tongue nor pen
Reports of him, his dwelling or his grave!
Does yet the unheard-of vessel ride the wave?
Or is she swallowed up, remote from ken
Of pitying human-nature? Once again
Methinks that we shall hail thee, Champion brave,
Redeemed to baffle that imperial Slave,
And through all Europe cheer desponding men
With new-born hope. Unbounded is the might
Of martyrdom, and fortitude, and right.
Hark, how thy Country triumphs!--Smilingly
The Eternal looks upon her sword that gleams,
Like his own lightning, over mountains high,
On rampart, and the banks of all her streams.
In due observance of an ancient rite,
The rude Biscayans, when their children lie
Dead in the sinless time of infancy,
Attire the peaceful corse in vestments white;
And, in like sign of cloudless triumph bright,
They bind the unoffending creature's brows
With happy garlands of the pure white rose:
Then do a festal company unite
In choral song; and, while the uplifted cross
Of Jesus goes before, the child is borne
Uncovered to his grave: 'tis closed,--her loss
The Mother _then_ mourns, as she needs must mourn;
But soon, through Christian faith, is grief subdued;
And joy returns, to brighten fortitude.
Uncovered to his grave.--Her piteous loss
The lonesome Mother cannot chuse but mourn;
Yet soon by Christian faith is grief subdued,
And joy attends upon her fortitude.
Or joy returns to brighten fortitude.
Yet, yet, Biscayans! we must meet our Foes
With firmer soul, yet labour to regain
Our ancient freedom; else 'twere worse than vain
To gather round the bier these festal shows.
A garland fashioned of the pure white rose
Becomes not one whose father is a slave:
Oh, bear the infant covered to his grave!
These venerable mountains now enclose
A people sunk in apathy and fear.
If this endure, farewell, for us, all good!
The awful light of heavenly innocence
Will fail to illuminate the infant's bier;
And guilt and shame, from which is no defence,
Descend on all that issues from our blood.
A Roman Master stands on Grecian ground,
And to the people at the Isthmian Games
Assembled, He, by a herald's voice, proclaims
THE LIBERTY OF GREECE:--the words rebound
Until all voices in one voice are drowned;
Glad acclamation by which air was rent!
And birds, high flying in the element,
Dropped to the earth, astonished at the sound!
Yet were the thoughtful grieved; and still that voice
Haunts, with sad echoes, musing Fancy's ear:
Ah! that a _Conqueror's_ words should be so dear:
Ah! that a _boon_ could shed such rapturous joys!
A gift of that which is not to be given
By all the blended powers of Earth and Heaven.
He, by his Herald's voice, aloud proclaims
The text of 1840 returns to that of 1815.
The text of 1840 returns to that of 1815.
... at the sound!
--A melancholy Echo of that noise
Doth sometimes hang on musing Fancy's ear:
The text of 1837 returns to that of 1815.
When, far and wide, swift as the beams of morn
The tidings passed of servitude repealed,
And of that joy which shook the Isthmian Field,
The rough Aetolians smiled with bitter scorn.
"'Tis known," cried they, "that he, who would adorn
His envied temples with the Isthmian crown,
Must either win, through effort of his own,
The prize, or be content to see it worn
By more deserving brows.--Yet so ye prop,
Sons of the brave who fought at Marathon,
Your feeble spirits! Greece her head hath bowed,
As if the wreath of liberty thereon
Would fix itself as smoothly as a cloud,
Which, at Jove's will, descends on Pelion's top."
Cynoscephalae, where the Macedonian army was routed, the Aetolian
Oak of Guernica! Tree of holier power
Than that which in Dodona did enshrine
(So faith too fondly deemed) a voice divine
Heard from the depths of its aerial bower--
How canst thou flourish at this blighting hour?
What hope, what joy can sunshine bring to thee,
Or the soft breezes from the Atlantic sea,
The dews of morn, or April's tender shower?
Stroke merciful and welcome would that be
Which should extend thy branches on the ground,
If never more within their shady round
Those lofty-minded Lawgivers shall meet,
Peasant and lord, in their appointed seat,
Guardians of Biscay's ancient liberty.
We can endure that He should waste our lands,
Despoil our temples, and by sword and flame
Return us to the dust from which we came;
Such food a Tyrant's appetite demands:
And we can brook the thought that by his hands
Spain may be overpowered, and he possess,
For his delight, a solemn wilderness
Where all the brave lie dead. But, when of bands
Which he will break for us he dares to speak,
Of benefits, and of a future day
When our enlightened minds shall bless his sway;
_Then_, the strained heart of fortitude proves weak;
Our groans, our blushes, our pale cheeks declare
That he has power to inflict what we lack strength to bear.
Let rather Roman come again,
In all the bonds we ever bore,
We grieved, we sighed, we wept, _we never blushed before_."
Avaunt all specious pliancy of mind
In men of low degree, all smooth pretence!
I better like a blunt indifference,
And self-respecting slowness, disinclined
To win me at first sight: and be there joined
Patience and temperance with this high reserve,
Honour that knows the path and will not swerve;
Affections, which, if put to proof, are kind;
And piety towards God. Such men of old
Were England's native growth; and, throughout Spain,
(Thanks to high God) forests of such remain:
Then for that Country let our hopes be bold;
For matched with these shall policy prove vain,
Her arts, her strength, her iron, and her gold.
Forests of such do at this day remain;
O'erweening Statesmen have full long relied
On fleets and armies, and external wealth:
But from _within_ proceeds a Nation's health;
Which shall not fail, though poor men cleave with pride
To the paternal floor; or turn aside,
In the thronged city, from the walks of gain,
As being all unworthy to detain
A Soul by contemplation sanctified.
There are who cannot languish in this strife,
Spaniards of every rank, by whom the good
Of such high course was felt and understood;
Who to their Country's cause have bound a life
Erewhile, by solemn consecration, given
To labour, and to prayer, to nature, and to heaven.[A]
sentiment of these two last lines is taken.--W. W. 1815.
Hunger, and sultry heat, and nipping blast
From bleak hill-top, and length of march by night
Through heavy swamp, or over snow-clad height--
These hardships ill-sustained, these dangers past,
The roving Spanish Bands are reached at last,
Charged, and dispersed like foam: but as a flight
Of scattered quails by signs do reunite,
So these,--and, heard of once again, are chased
With combinations of long-practised art
And newly-kindled hope; but they are fled--
Gone are they, viewless as the buried dead:
Where now?--Their sword is at the Foeman's heart!
And thus from year to year his walk they thwart,
And hang like dreams around his guilty bed.
One of the "Poems founded on the Affections."--ED.
Departed Child! I could forget thee once
Though at my bosom nursed; this woeful gain
Thy dissolution brings, that in my soul
Is present and perpetually abides
A shadow, never, never to be displaced
By the returning substance, seen or touched,
Seen by mine eyes, or clasped in my embrace.
Absence and death how differ they! and how
Shall I admit that nothing can restore
What one short sigh so easily removed?--
Death, life, and sleep, reality and thought,
Assist me, God, their boundaries to know,
O teach me calm submission to thy Will!
The Child she mourned had overstepped the pale
Of Infancy, but still did breathe the air
That sanctifies its confines, and partook
Reflected beams of that celestial light[A]
To all the Little-ones on sinful earth
Not unvouchsafed--a light that warmed and cheered
Those several qualities of heart and mind
Which, in her own blest nature, rooted deep,
Daily before the Mother's watchful eye,
And not hers only, their peculiar charms
Unfolded,--beauty, for its present self,
And for its promises to future years,
With not unfrequent rapture fondly hailed.
Have you espied upon a dewy lawn
A pair of Leverets each provoking each
To a continuance of their fearless sport,
Two separate Creatures in their several gifts
Abounding, but so fashioned that, in all
That Nature prompts them to display, their looks,
Their starts of motion and their fits of rest,
An undistinguishable style appears
And character of gladness, as if Spring
Lodged in their innocent bosoms, and the spirit
Of the rejoicing morning were their own?
Such union, in the lovely Girl maintained
And her twin Brother, had the parent seen,
Ere, pouncing like a ravenous bird of prey,
Death in a moment parted them, and left
The Mother, in her turns of anguish, worse
Than desolate; for oft-times from the sound
Of the survivor's sweetest voice (dear child,
He knew it not) and from his happiest looks,
Did she extract the food of self-reproach,
As one that lived ungrateful for the stay
By Heaven afforded to uphold her maimed
And tottering spirit. And full oft the Boy,
Now first acquainted with distress and grief,
Shrunk from his Mother's presence, shunned with fear
Her sad approach, and stole away to find,
In his known haunts of joy where'er he might,
A more congenial object. But, as time
Softened her pangs and reconciled the child
To what he saw, he gradually returned,
Like a scared Bird encouraged to renew
A broken intercourse; and, while his eyes
Were yet with pensive fear and gentle awe
Turned upon her who bore him, she would stoop
To imprint a kiss that lacked not power to spread
Faint colour over both their pallid cheeks,
And stilled his tremulous lip. Thus they were calmed
And cheered; and now together breathe fresh air
In open fields; and when the glare of day
Is gone, and twilight to the Mother's wish
Befriends the observance, readily they join
In walks whose boundary is the lost One's grave,
Which he with flowers hath planted, finding there
Amusement, where the Mother does not miss
Dear consolation, kneeling on the turf
In prayer, yet blending with that solemn rite
Of pious faith the vanities of grief;
For such, by pitying Angels and by Spirits
Transferred to regions upon which the clouds
Of our weak nature rest not, must be deemed
Those willing tears, and unforbidden sighs,
And all those tokens of a cherished sorrow,
Which, soothed and sweetened by the grace of Heaven
As now it is, seems to her own fond heart,
Immortal as the love that gave it being.
Catherine, the _Epistle to Sir George Beaumont, Bart., from the
Loving she is, and tractable, though wild;
And Innocence hath privilege in her
To dignify arch looks and laughing eyes;
And feats of cunning; and the pretty round
Of trespasses, affected to provoke
Mock-chastisement and partnership in play.
Not less if unattended and alone
Than when both young and old sit gathered round
And take delight in its activity;
Even so this happy Creature of herself
Is all-sufficient; solitude to her
Is blithe society, who fills the air
With gladness and involuntary songs.
Light are her sallies as the tripping fawn's
Forth-startled from the fern where she lay couched;
Unthought-of, unexpected, as the stir
Of the soft breeze ruffling the meadow-flowers,
Or from before it chasing wantonly
The many-coloured images imprest
Upon the bosom of a placid lake.
On February 28, 1810, Dorothy Wordsworth wrote to Lady Beaumont,
"Catherine is the only funny child in the family; the rest of the
Classed among the "Sonnets dedicated to Liberty."--ED.
They seek, are sought; to daily battle led,
Shrink not, though far outnumbered by their Foes,
For they have learnt to open and to close
The ridges of grim war;[A] and at their head
Are captains such as erst their country bred
Or fostered, self-supported chiefs,--like those
Whom hardy Rome was fearful to oppose;
Whose desperate shock the Carthaginian fled.
In One who lived unknown a shepherd's life
Redoubted Viriatus breathes again;[B]
And Mina, nourished in the studious shade,[C]
With that great Leader[D] vies, who, sick of strife
And bloodshed, longed in quiet to be laid
In some green island of the western main.
and when to close
The ridges of grim war.                              ED.
One of the "Sonnets dedicated to Liberty."
The power of Armies is a visible thing,[A]
Formal, and circumscribed in time and space;
But who the limits of that power shall trace
Which a brave People into light can bring
Or hide, at will,--for freedom combating
By just revenge inflamed? No foot may chase,
No eye can follow, to a fatal place
That power, that spirit, whether on the wing
Like the strong wind, or sleeping like the wind
Within its awful caves.--From year to year
Springs this indigenous produce far and near;
No craft this subtle element can bind,
Rising like water from the soil, to find
In every nook a lip that it may cheer.
... can trace
 The word "fatal" was _italicised_ in the editions of 1815-43.
Here pause: the poet claims at least this praise,
That virtuous Liberty hath been the scope
Of his pure song, which did not shrink from hope
In the worst moment of these evil days;
From hope, the paramount _duty_ that Heaven lays,
For its own honour, on man's suffering heart.[A]
Never may from our souls one truth depart--
That an accursed thing it is to gaze
On prosperous tyrants with a dazzled eye;
Nor--touched with due abhorrence of _their_ guilt
For whose dire ends tears flow, and blood is spilt,
And justice labours in extremity--
Forget thy weakness, upon which is built,
O wretched man, the throne of tyranny!
 The word "accursed" was _italicised_ in the editions of 1815-43.
We live by Admiration, Hope, and Love,
beginning--
You behold,
High on the breast of yon dark mountain, dark
With stony barrenness, a shining speck.--J. C.)[B]
The dog which we met with soon after our starting belonged to Mr.
Included among the "Miscellaneous Poems."--ED.
Far from our home by Grasmere's quiet Lake,
From the Vale's peace which all her fields partake,
Here on the bleakest point of Cumbria's shore
We sojourn stunned by Ocean's ceaseless roar;
While, day by day, grim neighbour! huge Black Comb
Frowns deepening visibly his native gloom,
Unless, perchance rejecting in despite
What on the Plain _we_ have of warmth and light,
In his own storms he hides himself from sight.
Rough is the time; and thoughts, that would be free
From heaviness, oft fly, dear Friend, to thee;
Turn from a spot where neither sheltered road
Nor hedge-row screen invites my steps abroad;
Where one poor Plane-tree, having as it might
Attained a stature twice a tall man's height,
Hopeless of further growth, and brown and sere
Through half the summer, stands with top cut sheer,
Like an unshifting weathercock which proves
How cold the quarter that the wind best loves,
Or like a Centinel that, evermore
Darkening the window, ill defends the door
Of this unfinished house--a Fortress bare,
Where strength has been the Builder's only care;
Whose rugged walls may still for years demand
The final polish of the Plasterer's hand.
--This Dwelling's Inmate more than three weeks' space
And oft a Prisoner in the cheerless place,
I--of whose touch the fiddle would complain,
Whose breath would labour at the flute in vain,
In music all unversed, nor blessed with skill
A bridge to copy, or to paint a mill,
Tired of my books, a scanty company!
And tired of listening to the boisterous sea--
Pace between door and window muttering rhyme,
An old resource to cheat a froward time!
Though these dull hours (mine is it, or their shame?)
Would tempt me to renounce that humble aim.
--But if there be a Muse who, free to take
Her seat upon Olympus, doth forsake
Those heights (like Phoebus when his golden locks
He veiled, attendant on Thessalian flocks)
And, in disguise, a Milkmaid with her pail
Trips down the pathways of some winding dale;
Or, like a Mermaid, warbles on the shores
To fishers mending nets beside their doors;
Or, Pilgrim-like, on forest moss reclined,
Gives plaintive ditties to the heedless wind,
Or listens to its play among the boughs
Above her head and so forgets her vows--
If such a Visitant of Earth there be
And she would deign this day to smile on me
And aid my verse, content with local bounds
Of natural beauty and life's daily rounds,
Thoughts, chances, sights, or doings, which we tell
Without reserve to those whom we love well--
Then haply, Beaumont! words in current clear
Will flow, and on a welcome page appear
Duly before thy sight, unless they perish here.
What shall I treat of? News from Mona's Isle?
Such have we, but unvaried in its style;
No tales of Runagates fresh landed, whence
And wherefore fugitive or on what pretence;
Of feasts, or scandal, eddying like the wind
Most restlessly alive when most confined.
Ask not of me, whose tongue can best appease
The mighty tumults of the HOUSE OF KEYS;
The last year's cup whose Ram or Heifer gained,
What slopes are planted, or what mosses drained:
An eye of fancy only can I cast
On that proud pageant now at hand or past,
When full five hundred boats in trim array,
With nets and sails outspread and streamers gay,
And chanted hymns and stiller voice of prayer,
For the old Manx-harvest to the Deep repair,
Soon as the herring-shoals at distance shine
Like beds of moonlight shifting on the brine.
Mona from our Abode is daily seen,
But with a wilderness of waves between;
And by conjecture only can we speak
Of aught transacted there in bay or creek;
No tidings reach us thence from town or field,
Only faint news her mountain sunbeams yield,
And some we gather from the misty air,
And some the hovering clouds, our telegraph, declare.
But these poetic mysteries I withhold;
For Fancy hath her fits both hot and cold,
And should the colder fit with You be on
When You might read, my credit would be gone.
Let more substantial themes the pen engage,
And nearer interests culled from the opening stage
Of our migration.--Ere the welcome dawn
Had from the east her silver star withdrawn,
The Wain stood ready, at our Cottage-door,
Thoughtfully freighted with a various store;
And long or ere the uprising of the Sun
O'er dew-damped dust our journey was begun,
A needful journey, under favouring skies,
Through peopled Vales; yet something in the guise
Of those old Patriarchs when from well to well
They roamed through Wastes where now the tented Arabs
dwell.
Say first, to whom did we the charge confide,
Who promptly undertook the Wain to guide
Up many a sharply-twining road and down,
And over many a wide hill's craggy crown,
Through the quick turns of many a hollow nook,
And the rough bed of many an unbridged brook?
A blooming Lass--who in her better hand
Bore a light switch, her sceptre of command
When, yet a slender Girl, she often led,
Skilful and bold, the horse and burthened _sled_[D]
From the peat-yielding Moss on Gowdar's head.
What could go wrong with such a Charioteer
For goods and chattels, or those Infants dear,
A Pair who smilingly sat side by side,
Our hope confirming that the salt-sea tide,
Whose free embraces we were bound to seek,
Would their lost strength restore and freshen the pale cheek?
Such hope did either Parent entertain
Pacing behind along the silent lane.
Blithe hopes and happy musings soon took flight,
For lo! an uncouth melancholy sight--
On a green bank a creature stood forlorn
Just half protruded to the light of morn,
Its hinder part concealed by hedge-row thorn.
The Figure called to mind a beast of prey
Stript of its frightful powers by slow decay,
And, though no longer upon rapine bent,
Dim memory keeping of its old intent.
We started, looked again with anxious eyes,
And in that griesly object recognise
The Curate's Dog--his long-tried friend, for they,
As well we knew, together had grown grey.
The Master died, his drooping servant's grief
Found at the Widow's feet some sad relief;
Yet still he lived in pining discontent,
Sadness which no indulgence could prevent;
Hence whole day wanderings, broken nightly sleeps
And lonesome watch that out of doors he keeps;
Not oftentimes, I trust, as we, poor brute!
Espied him on his legs sustained, blank, mute,
And of all visible motion destitute,
So that the very heaving of his breath
Seemed stopt, though by some other power than death.
Long as we gazed upon the form and face,
A mild domestic pity kept its place,
Unscared by thronging fancies of strange hue
That haunted us in spite of what we knew.
Even now I sometimes think of him as lost
In second-sight appearances, or crost
By spectral shapes of guilt, or to the ground,
On which he stood, by spells unnatural bound,
Like a gaunt shaggy Porter forced to wait
In days of old romance at Archimago's gate.
Advancing Summer, Nature's law fulfilled,
The choristers in every grove had stilled;
But we, we lacked not music of our own,
For lightsome Fanny had thus early thrown,
Mid the gay prattle of those infant tongues,
Some notes prelusive, from the round of songs
With which, more zealous than the liveliest bird
That in wild Arden's brakes was ever heard,
Her work and her work's partners she can cheer,
The whole day long, and all days of the year.
Thus gladdened from our own dear Vale we pass
And soon approach Diana's Looking-glass!
To Loughrigg-tarn, round, clear, and bright as heaven,
Such name Italian fancy would have given,
Ere on its banks the few grey cabins rose
That yet disturb not its concealed repose
More than the feeblest wind that idly blows.
Ah, Beaumont! when an opening in the road
Stopped me at once by charm of what it showed,
The encircling region vividly exprest
Within the mirror's depth, a world at rest--
Sky streaked with purple, grove and craggy _bield_,[E]
And the smooth green of many a pendent field,
And, quieted and soothed, a torrent small,
A little daring would-be waterfall,
One chimney smoking and its azure wreath,
Associate all in the calm Pool beneath,
With here and there a faint imperfect gleam
Of water-lilies veiled in misty steam--
What wonder at this hour of stillness deep,
A shadowy link 'tween wakefulness and sleep,
When Nature's self, amid such blending, seems
To render visible her own soft dreams,
If, mixed with what appeared of rock, lawn, wood,
Fondly embosomed in the tranquil flood,
A glimpse I caught of that Abode, by Thee
Designed to rise in humble privacy,
A lowly Dwelling, here to be outspread,
Like a small Hamlet, with its bashful head
Half hid in native trees. Alas 'tis not,
Nor ever was; I sighed, and left the spot
Unconscious of its own untoward lot,
And thought in silence, with regret too keen,
Of unexperienced joys that might have been;
Of neighbourhood and intermingling arts,
And golden summer days uniting cheerful hearts.
But time, irrevocable time, is flown,
And let us utter thanks for blessings sown
And reaped--what hath been, and what is, our own.
Not far we travelled ere a shout of glee,
Startling us all, dispersed my reverie;
Such shout as many a sportive echo meeting
Oft-times from Alpine _chalets_ sends a greeting.
Whence the blithe hail? behold a Peasant stand
On high, a kerchief waving in her hand!
Not unexpectant that by early day
Our little Band would thrid this mountain way,
Before her cottage on the bright hill side
She hath advanced with hope to be descried.
Right gladly answering signals we displayed,
Moving along a tract of morning shade,
And vocal wishes sent of like good will
To our kind Friend high on the sunny hill--
Luminous region, fair as if the prime
Were tempting all astir to look aloft or climb;
Only the centre of the shining cot
With door left open makes a gloomy spot,
Emblem of those dark corners sometimes found
Within the happiest breast on earthly ground.
Rich prospect left behind of stream and vale,
And mountain-tops, a barren ridge we scale;
Descend and reach, in Yewdale's depths, a plain
With haycocks studded, striped with yellowing grain--
An area level as a Lake and spread
Under a rock too steep for man to tread,
Where sheltered from the north and bleak north-west
Aloft the Raven hangs a visible nest,
Fearless of all assaults that would her brood molest.
Hot sunbeams fill the steaming vale; but hark,
At our approach, a jealous watch-dog's bark,
Noise that brings forth no liveried Page of state,
But the whole household, that our coming wait.
With Young and Old warm greetings we exchange,
And jocund smiles, and toward the lowly Grange
Press forward by the teasing dogs unscared.
Entering, we find the morning meal prepared:
So down we sit, though not till each had cast
Pleased looks around the delicate repast--
Rich cream, and snow-white eggs fresh from the nest,
With amber honey from the mountain's breast;
Strawberries from lane or woodland, offering wild
Of children's industry, in hillocks piled;
Cakes for the nonce, and butter fit to lie
Upon a lordly dish; frank hospitality
Where simple art with bounteous nature vied,
And cottage comfort shunned not seemly pride.
Kind Hostess! Handmaid also of the feast,
If thou be lovelier than the kindling East,
Words by thy presence unrestrained may speak
Of a perpetual dawn from brow and cheek
Instinct with light whose sweetest promise lies,
Never retiring, in thy large dark eyes,
Dark but to every gentle feeling true,
As if their lustre flowed from ether's purest blue.
Let me not ask what tears may have been wept
By those bright eyes, what weary vigils kept,
Beside that hearth what sighs may have been heaved
For wounds inflicted, nor what toil relieved
By fortitude and patience, and the grace
Of heaven in pity visiting the place.
Not unadvisedly those secret springs
I leave unsearched: enough that memory clings,
Here as elsewhere, to notices that make
Their own significance for hearts awake,
To rural incidents, whose genial powers
Filled with delight three summer morning hours.
More could my pen report of grave or gay
That through our gipsy travel cheered the way;
But, bursting forth above the waves, the Sun
Laughs at my pains, and seems to say, "Be done."
Yet, Beaumont, thou wilt not, I trust, reprove
This humble offering made by Truth to Love,
Nor chide the Muse that stooped to break a spell
Which might have else been on me yet:--
Or stedfast Centinel ...
Until the Vale she quitted, and their door
Was closed, to which she will return no more;
But first old Faithful to a neighbour's care
Was given in charge; nor lacked he dainty fare,
And in the chimney nook was free to lie
And doze, or, if his hour were come, to die.
Inserted only in the edition of 1842.
 The phrase "for the nonce" was _italicised_ in 1842.
Included among the "Miscellaneous Poems."--ED.
Soon did the Almighty Giver of all rest
Take those dear young Ones to a fearless nest;
And in Death's arms has long reposed the Friend
For whom this simple Register was penned.
Thanks to the moth that spared it for our eyes;
And Strangers even the slighted Scroll may prize,
Moved by the touch of kindred sympathies.
For--save the calm, repentance sheds o'er strife
Raised by remembrances of misused life,
The light from past endeavours purely willed
And by Heaven's favour happily fulfilled;
Save hope that we, yet bound to Earth, may share
The joys of the Departed--what so fair
As blameless pleasure, not without some tears,
Reviewed through Love's transparent veil of years?[A]
The mighty tumults of the HOUSE OF KEYS;
The Isle of Man has a constitution of its own, independent of the
Lieutenant-Governor and Council constitute the Upper House. All
legislative measures must be first considered and passed by both
Mona from our Abode is daily seen,
But with a wilderness of waves between;
"This is like most others, a bleak and treeless coast, but
abounding in corn fields, and with a noble beach, which is
delightful either for walking or riding. The Isle of Man is right
invisible, its appearance has afforded us great amusement. One
afternoon above the whole length of it was stretched a body of
clouds, shaped and coloured like a magnificent grove in winter,
when whitened with snow and illuminated, by the morning sun,
which, having melted the snow in part, has intermingled black
were changing their shapes and positions every moment. But this
line of clouds was immovably attached to the island, and
manifestly took their shape from the influence of its mountains.
There appeared to be just span enough of sky to allow the hand to
noticeable for more than the space of half an hour."
The gentlest Shade that walked Elysian plains,
Up many a sharply-twining road and down,
And over many a wide hill's craggy crown,
Through the quick turns of many a hollow nook,
And the rough bed of many an unbridged brook.
Like a gaunt shaggy Porter forced to wait
In days of old romance at Archimago's gate.
See Spenser's _Faerie Queene_, book i. canto i. stanza 8.
... the liveliest bird
That in wild Arden's brakes was ever heard.
Compare _As you like it_, act II. scene 5.
And soon approach Diana's Looking-glass!
To Loughrigg-tarn, etc.
See the note appended by Wordsworth to the sequel to this poem.
A glimpse I caught of that Abode, by Thee
Designed to rise in humble privacy.
... behold a Peasant stand
On high, a kerchief waving in her hand!
See the Fenwick note preceding the poem.
... a barren ridge we scale;
Descend and reach, in Yewdale's depths, a plain.
Under a rock too steep for man to tread,
Where sheltered from the north and bleak north-west
Aloft the Raven hangs a visible nest,
Fearless of all assaults that would her brood molest.
Oh! when I have hung
Above the raven's nest, by knots of grass
And half-inch fissures in the slippery rock
But ill sustained, etc.
... toward the lowly Grange
Press forward,
In connection with Loughrigg Tarn, compare the note to the poem
beginning--
So fair, so sweet, withal so sensitive,
"The appropriate calm of blest eternity."
Praised be the Art whose subtle power could stay
Yon cloud, and fix it in that glorious shape;
Nor would permit the thin smoke to escape,[A]
Nor those bright sunbeams to forsake the day;
Which stopped that band of travellers on their way,
Ere they were lost within the shady wood;
And showed the Bark upon the glassy flood
For ever anchored in her sheltering bay.
Soul-soothing Art! whom Morning, Noon-tide, Even,
Do serve with all their changeful pageantry;
Thou, with ambition modest yet sublime,
Here, for the sight of mortal man, hast given
To one brief moment caught from fleeting time
The appropriate calm of blest eternity,[B]
In the letter written to Sir George Beaumont from Bootle, in
Choose a firm cloud before it fall, and in it
Catch, ere she change, the Cynthia of this minute.   ED.
Elysian quiet, without toil or strife.               ED.
Bard of the Fleece, whose skilful genius made
That work a living landscape fair and bright;
Nor hallowed less with musical delight
Than those soft scenes through which thy childhood strayed,
Those southern tracts of Cambria, deep embayed,
With green hills fenced, with ocean's murmur lull'd;[A]
Though hasty Fame hath many a chaplet culled
For worthless brows, while in the pensive shade
Of cold neglect she leaves thy head ungraced,
Yet pure and powerful minds, hearts meek and still,
A grateful few, shall love thy modest Lay,
Long as the shepherd's bleating flock shall stray
O'er naked Snowdon's wide aerial waste;
Long as the thrush shall pipe on Grongar Hill!
that soft tract
Of Cambria, deep-embayed, Dimetian land,
By green hills fenced, by ocean's murmur lulled.
It will be observed that Wordsworth quotes this last line of Dyer
By green hills fenced, by ...
One of the "Poems of the Fancy."--ED.
Swiftly turn the murmuring wheel!
Night has brought the welcome hour,
When the weary fingers feel
Help, as if from faery power;
Dewy night o'ershades the ground;
Turn the swift wheel round and round!
Now, beneath the starry sky,
Couch the widely-scattered sheep;--
Ply the pleasant labour, ply!
For the spindle, while they sleep,
Runs with speed more smooth and fine,
Gathering up a trustier line.
Short-lived likings may be bred
By a glance from fickle eyes;
But true love is like the thread
Which the kindly wool supplies,
When the flocks are all at rest
Sleeping on the mountain's breast.
With a motion smooth and fine
Runs with motion smooth and fine,
Classed among the "Miscellaneous Sonnets."--ED.
What need of clamorous bells, or ribands gay,
These humble nuptials to proclaim or grace?
Angels of love, look down upon the place;
Shed on the chosen vale a sun-bright day!
Yet no proud gladness would the Bride display
Even for such promise:--serious is her face,
Modest her mien; and she, whose thoughts keep pace
With gentleness, in that becoming way
Will thank you. Faultless does the Maid appear;
No disproportion in her soul, no strife:
But, when the closer view of wedded life
Hath shown that nothing human can be clear
From frailty, for that insight may the Wife
To her indulgent Lord become more dear.
Even for such omen would the Bride display
No mirthful gladness:--
"Let me be allowed the aid of verse to describe the evolutions
Placed among the "Poems of the Imagination."--ED.
Mark how the feathered tenants of the flood,
With grace of motion that might scarcely seem[B]
Inferior to angelical, prolong
Their curious pastime! shaping in mid air
(And sometimes with ambitious wing that soars
High as the level of the mountain-tops)
A circuit ampler than the lake beneath--
Their own domain; but ever, while intent
On tracing and retracing that large round,
Their jubilant activity evolves
Hundreds of curves and circlets, to and fro,
Upward and downward, progress intricate
Yet unperplexed, as if one spirit swayed
Their indefatigable flight. 'Tis done--
Ten times, or more, I fancied it had ceased;
But lo! the vanished company again
Ascending; they approach--I hear their wings,
Faint, faint at first; and then an eager sound,
Past in a moment--and as faint again!
They tempt the sun to sport amid their plumes;
They tempt the water, or the gleaming ice,
To show them a fair image; 'tis themselves,
Their own fair forms, upon the glimmering plain,
Painted more soft and fair as they descend
Almost to touch;--then up again aloft,
Up with a sally and a flash of speed,
As if they scorned both resting-place and rest!
See the note to the previous year, 1812.--ED.
Beaumont_, lived sometime under its shadow.--I. F.]
This Height a ministering Angel might select:
For from the summit of BLACK COMB (dread name
Derived from clouds and storms!) the amplest range
Of unobstructed prospect may be seen
That British ground commands:--low dusky tracts,
Where Trent is nursed, far southward! Cambrian hills
To the south-west, a multitudinous show;
And, in a line of eye-sight linked with these,
The hoary peaks of Scotland that give birth
To Tiviot's stream, to Annan, Tweed, and Clyde:--
Crowding the quarter whence the sun comes forth
Gigantic mountains rough with crags; beneath,
Right at the imperial station's western base
Main ocean, breaking audibly, and stretched
Far into silent regions blue and pale;--
And visibly engirding Mona's Isle
That, as we left the plain, before our sight
Stood like a lofty mount, uplifting slowly
(Above the convex of the watery globe)
Into clear view the cultured fields that streak
Her habitable shores, but now appears
A dwindled object, and submits to lie
At the spectator's feet.--Yon azure ridge,
Is it a perishable cloud? Or there
Do we behold the line of Erin's coast?[A]
Land sometimes by the roving shepherd-swain
(Like the bright confines of another world)
Not doubtfully perceived.--Look homeward now!
In depth, in height, in circuit, how serene
The spectacle, how pure!--Of Nature's works,
In earth, and air, and earth-embracing sea,
A revelation infinite it seems;
Display august of man's inheritance,
Of Britain's calm felicity and power![B]
Close by the sea, lone sentinel,
Black Comb his forward station keeps;
He breaks the sea's tumultuous swell,
And ponders o'er the level deeps.                    ED.
Included among the "Inscriptions."--ED.
Stay, bold Adventurer; rest awhile thy limbs
On this commodious Seat! for much remains
Of hard ascent before thou reach the top
Of this huge Eminence,--from blackness named,
And, to far-travelled storms of sea and land,
A favourite spot of tournament and war!
But thee may no such boisterous visitants
Molest; may gentle breezes fan thy brow;
And neither cloud conceal, nor misty air
Bedim, the grand terraqueous spectacle,
From centre to circumference, unveiled!
Know, if thou grudge not to prolong thy rest,
That on the summit whither thou art bound,
A geographic Labourer pitched his tent,
With books supplied and instruments of art,
To measure height and distance; lonely task,
Week after week pursued!--To him was given
Full many a glimpse (but sparingly bestowed
On timid man) of Nature's processes
Upon the exalted hills. He made report
That once, while there he plied his studious work
Within that canvass Dwelling, colours, lines,
And the whole surface of the out-spread map,
Became invisible: for all around
Had darkness fallen--unthreatened, unproclaimed--
As if the golden day itself had been
Extinguished in a moment; total gloom,
In which he sate alone, with unclosed eyes,
Upon the blinded mountain's silent top!
Within that canvass Dwelling, suddenly
The many-coloured map before his eyes
Included among the "Sonnets dedicated to Liberty."--ED.
Now that all hearts are glad, all faces bright,
Our aged Sovereign sits, to the ebb and flow
Of states and kingdoms, to their joy or woe,
Insensible. He sits deprived of sight,
And lamentably wrapped in twofold night,
Whom no weak hopes deceived; whose mind ensued,
Through perilous war, with regal fortitude,
Peace that should claim respect from lawless Might.
Dread King of Kings, vouchsafe a ray divine
To his forlorn condition! let thy grace
Upon his inner soul in mercy shine;
Permit his heart to kindle, and to embrace
(Though it were only for a moment's space)
The triumphs of this hour; for they are THINE!
The text of 1840 returns to that of 1815.
_Printed by_ R. & R. CLARK, LIMITED, _Edinburgh_.