Wordsworth (2 page)

Upon a leaf the Glow-worm did I lay,

To bear it with me through the stormy night:

And, as before, it shone without dismay;

Albeit putting forth a fainter light.

When to the Dwelling of my Love I came,

I went into the Orchard quietly;

And left the Glow-worm, blessing it by name,

Laid safely by itself, beneath a Tree.

The whole next day, I hoped, and hoped with fear;

At night the Glow-worm shone beneath the Tree:

I led my Lucy to the spot, ‘Look here!’

Oh! joy it was for her, and joy for me!

               The Sun has long been set:

               The Stars are out by twos and threes;

               The little Birds are piping yet

               Among the bushes and the trees;

There’s a Cuckoo, and one or two thrushes;

               And a noise of wind that rushes,

               With a noise of water that gushes;

               And the Cuckoo’s sovereign cry

               Fills all the hollow of the sky!

               Who would go ‘parading’

               In London, and ‘masquerading’,

               On such a night of June?

               With that beautiful soft half-moon,

               And all these innocent blisses,

               On such a night as this is!

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!

Blessed was I then all bliss above!

Now, for this 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.

                         It seems a day

(I speak of one from many singled out)

One of those heavenly days that cannot die;

When, in the eagerness of boyish hope,

I left our cottage-threshold, sallying forth

With a huge wallet o’er my shoulders slung,

A nutting-crook in hand; and turned my steps

Toward some far-distant wood, a Figure quaint,

Tricked out in proud disguise of cast-off weeds

Which for that service had been husbanded,

By exhortation of my frugal Dame –

Motley accoutrement, of power to smile

At thorns, and brakes, and brambles, – and, in truth,

More ragged than need was! O’er pathless rocks,

Through beds of matted fern, and tangled thickets,

Forcing my way, I came to one dear nook

Unvisited, where not a broken bough

Drooped with its withered leaves, ungracious sign

Of devastation; but the hazels rose

Tall and erect, with tempting clusters hung,

A virgin scene! – A little while I stood,

Breathing with such suppression of the heart

As joy delights in; and, with wise restraint

Voluptuous, fearless of a rival, eyed

The banquet; – or beneath the trees I sate

Among the flowers, and with the flowers I played;

A temper known to those who, after long

And weary expectation, have been blest

With sudden happiness beyond all hope.

Perhaps it was a bower beneath whose leaves

The violets of five seasons re-appear

And fade, unseen by any human eye;

Where fairy water-breaks do murmur on

For ever; and I saw the sparkling foam,

And – with my cheek on one of those green stones

That, fleeced with moss, under the shady trees,

Lay around me, scattered like a flock of sheep –

I heard the murmur and the murmuring sound,

In that sweet mood when pleasure loves to pay

Tribute to ease; and, of its joy secure,

The heart luxuriates with indifferent things,

Wasting its kindliness on stocks and stones,

And on the vacant air. Then up I rose,

And dragged to earth both branch and bough, with crash

And merciless ravage: and the shady nook

Of hazels, and the green and mossy bower,

Deformed and sullied, patiently gave up

Their quiet being: and, unless I now

Confound my present feelings with the past,

Ere from the mutilated bower I turned

Exulting, rich beyond the wealth of kings,

I felt a sense of pain when I beheld

The silent trees, and saw the intruding sky. –

Then, dearest Maiden, move along these shades

In gentleness of heart; with gentle hand

Touch – for there is a spirit in the woods.

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

Which to this day stands single, in the midst

Of its own darkness, as it stood of yore:

Not loth to furnish weapons for the bands

Of Umfraville or Percy ere they marched

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

And drew their sounding bows at Azincour,

Perhaps at earlier Crecy, or Poictiers.

Of vast circumference and gloom profound

This solitary Tree! a living thing

Produced too slowly ever to decay;

Of form and aspect too magnificent

To be destroyed. But worthier still of note

Are those fraternal Four of Borrowdale,

Joined in one solemn and capacious grove;

Huge trunks! and each particular trunk a growth

Of intertwisted fibres serpentine

Up-coiling, and inveterately convolved;

Nor uninformed with Phantasy, and looks

That threaten the profane; – a pillared shade,

Upon whose grassless floor of red-brown hue,

By sheddings from the pining umbrage tinged

Perennially – beneath whose sable roof

Of boughs, as if for festal purpose, decked

With unrejoicing berries – ghostly Shapes

May meet at noontide; Fear and trembling Hope,

Silence and Foresight; Death the Skeleton

And Time the Shadow; – there to celebrate,

As in a natural temple scattered o’er

With altars undisturbed of mossy stone,

United worship; or in mute repose

To lie, and listen to the mountain flood

Murmuring from Glaramara’s inmost caves.

               – The sky is overcast

With a continuous cloud of texture close,

Heavy and wan, all whitened by the Moon,

Which through that veil is indistinctly seen,

A dull, contracted circle, yielding light

So feebly spread, that not a shadow falls,

Chequering the ground – from rock, plant, tree, or tower.

At length a pleasant instantaneous gleam

Startles the pensive traveller while he treads

His lonesome path, with unobserving eye

Bent earthwards; he looks up – the clouds are split

Asunder, – and above his head he sees

The clear Moon, and the glory of the heavens.

There, in a black-blue vault she sails along,

Followed by multitudes of stars, that, small

And sharp, and bright, along the dark abyss

Drive as she drives: how fast they wheel away,

Yet vanish not! the wind is in the tree,

But they are silent; – still they roll along

Immeasurably distant; and the vault,

Built round by those white clouds, enormous clouds,

Still deepens its unfathomable depth.

At length the Vision closes; and the mind,

Not undisturbed by the delight it feels,

Which slowly settles into peaceful calm,

Is left to muse upon the solemn scene.

’Why, William, on that old grey stone,

Thus for the length of half a day,

Why, William, sit you thus alone,

And dream your time away?

’Where are your books? – that light bequeathed

To Beings else forlorn and blind!

Up! up! and drink the spirit breathed

From dead men to their kind.

‘You look round on your Mother Earth,

As if she for no purpose bore you;

As if you were her first-born birth,

And none had lived before you!’

One morning thus, by Esthwaite lake,

When life was sweet, I knew not why,

To me my good friend Matthew spake,

And thus I made reply:

’The eye – it cannot choose but see;

We cannot bid the ear be still;

Our bodies feel, where’er they be,

Against or with our will.

’Nor less I deem that there are Powers

Which of themselves our minds impress;

That we can feed this mind of ours

In a wise passiveness.

’Think you, ’mid all this mighty sum

Of things for ever speaking,

That nothing of itself will come,

But we must still be seeking?

‘– Then ask not wherefore, here, alone,

Conversing as I may,

I sit upon this old grey stone,

And dream my time away.’

Up! up! my Friend, and quit your books;

Or surely you’ll grow double:

Up! up! my Friend, and clear your looks;

Why all this toil and trouble?

The sun, above the mountain’s head,

A freshening lustre mellow

Through all the long green fields has spread,

His first sweet evening yellow.

Books! ’tis a dull and endless strife:

Come, hear the woodland linnet,

How sweet his music! on my life,

There’s more of wisdom in it.

And hark! how blithe the throstle sings!

He, too, is no mean preacher:

Come forth into the light of things,

Let Nature be your Teacher.

She has a world of ready wealth,

Our minds and hearts to bless –

Spontaneous wisdom breathed by health,

Truth breathed by cheerfulness.

One impulse from a vernal wood

May teach you more of man,

Of moral evil and of good,

Than all the sages can.

Sweet is the lore which Nature brings;

Our meddling intellect

Mis-shapes the beauteous forms of things: –

We murder to dissect.

Enough of Science and of Art;

Close up those barren leaves;

Come forth, and bring with you a heart

That watches and receives.

Behold her, single in the field,

Yon solitary Highland Lass!

Reaping and singing by herself;

Stop here, or gently pass!

Alone she cuts and binds the grain,

And sings a melancholy strain;

O listen! for the Vale profound

Is overflowing with the sound.

No Nightingale did ever chaunt

More welcome notes to weary bands

Of travellers in some shady haunt,

Among Arabian sands:

A voice so thrilling ne’er was heard

In spring-time from the Cuckoo-bird,

Breaking the silence of the seas

Among the farthest Hebrides.

Will no one tell me what she sings? –

Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow

For old, unhappy, far-off things,

And battles long ago:

Or is it some more humble lay,

Familiar matter of today?

Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain,

That has been, and may be again?

Whate’er the theme, the Maiden sang

As if her song could have no ending;

I saw her singing at her work,

And o’er the sickle bending; –

I listened, motionless and still;

And, as I mounted up the hill,

The music in my heart I bore,

Long after it was heard no more.

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;

Like the voice through earth and sky

By the restless Cuckoo 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,

Recognized intelligence?

Such within ourselves we hear

Oft-times, ours though sent from far;

Listen, ponder, hold them dear;

For of God, of God they are!

It is the first mild day of March:

Each minute sweeter than before,

The red-breast sings from the tall larch

That stands beside our door.

There is a blessing in the air,

Which seems a sense of joy to yield

To the bare trees, and mountains bare,

And grass in the green field.

My Sister! (’tis a wish of mine)

Now that our morning meal is done,

Make haste, your morning task resign;

Come forth and feel the sun.