Forget the glories he hath known, And that imperial palace whence he
Behold the Child among his new-born blisses,
A six years' Darling of a pigmy size ! See, where 'mid work of his own hand he lies,
Fretted by sallies of his mother's kisses, With light upon him from his father's eyes!
See, at his feet, some little plan or chart,
Some fragment from his dream of human life,
Shaped by himself with newly-learned art;
A wedding or a festival,
A mourning or a funeral;
And this hath now his heart, And unto this he frames his song: Then will he fit his tongue
To dialogues of business, love, or strife; But it will not be long
Ere this be thrown aside,
And with new joy and pride The little Actor cons another part; Filling from time to time his "humorous stage"
With all the Persons, down to palsied Age,
That Life brings with her in her equipage;
As if his whole vocation Were endless imitation.
Thou little Child, yet glorious in the might
Of heaven-born freedom on thy being's height,
Why with such earnest pains dost thou provoke
The years to bring the inevitable yoke, Thus blindly with thy blessedness at strife?
Full soon thy Soul shall have her earthly freight,
And custom lie upon thee with a weight,
Heavy as frost, and deep almost as life!
O joy that in our embers
Is something that doth live, That nature yet remembers What was so fugitive!
The thought of our past years, in me doth breed
Perpetual benediction: not indeed For that which is most worthy to be blest-
Delight and liberty, the simple creed Of Childhood, whether busy or at rest, With new-fledged hope still fluttering in his breast:-
Not for these I raise
The song of thanks and praise; But for those obstinate questionings Of sense and outward things, Fallings from us, vanishings; Blank misgivings of a Creature Moving about in worlds not realized, High instincts before which our mortal Nature
Did tremble like a guilty Thing surprised:
But for those first affections.
Those shadowy recollections, Which, be they what they may, Are yet the fountain light of all our day, Are yet a master light of all our seeing; Uphold us, cherish, and have power to make
Our noisy years seem moments in the being
Of the eternal Silence: truths that wake,
TO THE CUCKOO
O BLITIE New-comer! I have heard, I hear thee and rejoice.
O Cuckoo! shall I call thee Bird, Or but a wandering Voice? While I am lying on the grass Thy twofold shout I hear, From hill to hill it seems to pass, At once far off, and near.
Though babbling only to the Vale, Of sunshine and of flowers, Thou bringest unto me a tale Of visionary hours.
Thrice welcome, darling of the Spring! Even yet thou art to me
No bird, but an invisible thing, A voice, a mystery;
The same whom in my school-boy days I listened to; that Cry
Which made me look a thousand ways In bush, and tree, and sky.
To seek thee did I often rove Through woods and on the green; And thou wert still a hope, a love; Still longed for, never seen.
And I can listen to thee yet; Can lie upon the plain And listen, till I do beget That golden time again.
O blessed Bird! the earth we pace Again appears to be
An unsubstantial, faery place; That is fit home for Thee!
Written at Town-end, Grasmere. The germ of this poem was four lines composed as a part of the verses on the Highland Girl. Though beginning in this way, it was written from my heart. as is sufficiently obvious. (Wordsworth.)
SHE was a Phantom of delight
When first she gleamed upon my sight;
A lovely Apparition sent To be a moment's ornament; Her eyes as stars of Twilight fair; Like Twilight's, too, her dusky hair; But all things else about her drawn From May-time and the cheerful Dawn; A dancing Shape, an Image gay, To haunt, to startle, and way-lay.
I saw her upon nearer view, A Spirit, yet a Woman too! Her household motions light and free, And steps of virgin-liberty:
A countenance in which did meet Sweet records, promises as sweet; A Creature not too bright or good For human nature's daily food; For transient sorrows, simple wiles, Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears and smiles.
And now I see with eye serene The very pulse of the machine; A Being breathing thoughtful breath, A Traveller between life and death; The reason firm, the temperate will, Endurance, foresight, strength, and skill;
A perfect Woman, nobly planned, To warn, to comfort, and command; And yet a Spirit still, and bright With something of angelic light. 1804. 1807.
I WANDERED LONELY AS A
Written at Town-end, Grasmere. The Daf. fodils grew and still grow on the margin of Ullswater, and probably may be seen to this day as beautiful in the month of March, nodding their golden heads beside the dancing and foaming waves. (Wordsworth.)
I WANDERED lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o'er vales and hills, When all at once I saw a crowd, A host, of golden daffodils; Beside the lake, beneath the trees, Fluttering and dancing in the breeze. Continuous as the stars that shine And twinkle on the milky way, They stretched in never-ending line Along the margin of a bay: Ten thousand saw I at a glance, Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.
The waves beside them danced; but they
Out-did the sparkling waves in glee: A poet could not but be gay,
THE AFFLICTION OF MARGARET Written at Town-end, Grasmere. This was taken from the case of a poor widow who lived in the town of Penrith. Her sorrow was well known to Mrs. Wordsworth, to my Sister, and, I believe, to the whole town. She kept a shop, and when she saw a stranger passing by, she was in the habit of going out into the street to enquire of him after her son. (Wordsworth.) WHERE art thou, my beloved Son, Where art thou, worse to me than dead? Oh find me, prosperous or undone! Or, if the grave be now thy bed, Why am I ignorant of the same, That I may rest, and neither blame Nor sorrow may attend thy name?
Seven years, alas! to have received No tidings of an only child; To have despaired, have hoped, believed, And been for evermore beguiled; Sometimes with thoughts of very bliss! I catch at them, and then I miss ; Was ever darkness like to this?
He was among the prime in worth, An object beauteous to behold; Well born, well bred; I sent him forth Ingenuous, innocent, and bold: If things ensued that wanted grace, As hath been said, they were not base; And never blush was on my face.
Ah! little doth the young one dream. When full of play and childish cares, What power is in his wildest scream, Heard by his mother unawares! He knows it not, he cannot guess: Years to a mother bring distress; But do not make her love the less.
Neglect me! no, I suffered long From that ill thought; and, being blind, Said, "Pride shall help me in my wrong; Kind mother have I been, as kind As ever breathed:" and that is true; I've wet my path with tears like dew, Weeping for him when no one knew.
My Son, if thou be humbled, poor, Hopeless of honor and of gain, Oh! do not dread thy mother's door; Think not of me with grief and pain: I now can see with better eyes; And worldly grandeur I despise, And fortune with her gifts and lies.
Alas! the fowls of heaven have wings, And blasts of heaven will aid their flight; They mount-how short a voyage brings The wanderers back to their delight! Chains tie us down by land and sea; And wishes, vain as mine, may be All that is left to comfort thee.
Perhaps some dungeon hears thee groan, Maimed, mangled by inhuman men; Or thou upon a desert thrown Inheritest the lion's den;
Or hast been summoned to the deep, Thou, thou and all thy mates, to keep An incommunicable sleep.
I look for ghosts; but none will force Their way to me: 'tis falsely said That there was ever intercourse Between the living and the dead; For, surely, then I should have sight Of him I wait for day and night, With love and longings infinite.
My apprehensions come in crowds; I dread the rustling of the grass; The very shadows of the clouds Have power to shake me as they pass: I question things and do not find One that will answer to my mind; And all the world appears unkind.
Beyond participation lie
My troubles, and beyond relief: If any chance to heave a sigh, They pity me, and not my grief. Then come to me, my Son, or send Some tidings that my woes may end; I have no other earthly friend!
STERN Daughter of the Voice of God! O Duty! if that name thou love Who art a light to guide, a rod To check the erring, and reprove; Thou, who art victory and law When empty terrors overawe: From vain temptations dost set free: And calm'st the weary strife of frail humanity!
There are who ask not if thine eye Be on them; who, in love and truth, Where no misgiving is, rely Upon the genial sense of youth: Glad Hearts! without reproach or blot Who do thy work, and know it not: Oh! if through confidence misplaced They fail, thy saving arms, dread Power! around them cast.
Serene will be our days and bright, And happy will our nature be, When love is an unerring light, And joy its own security.
And they a blissful course may hold Even now, who, not unwisely bold, Live in the spirit of this creed; Yet seek thy firm support, according to their need.
I, loving freedom, and untried, No sport of every random gust, Yet being to myself a guide, Too blindly have reposed my trust: And oft, when in my heart was heard Thy timely mandate, I deferred The task, in smoother walks to stray; But thee I now would
Through no disturbance of my soul, Or strong compunction in me wrought, I supplicate for thy control; But in the quietness of thought:
Me this unchartered freedom tires;
I feel the weight of chance-desires :
My hopes no more must change their
I long for a repose that ever is the
Stern Lawgiver! yet thou dost wear The Godhead's most benignant grace; Nor know we anything so fair As is the smile upon thy face: Flowers laugh before thee on their beds And fragrance in thy footing treads; Thou dost preserve the stars from wrong; And the most ancient heavens, through Thee, are fresh and strong.
To humbler functions, awful Power! I call thee: I myself commend Unto thy guidance from this hour; Oh, let my weakness have an end! Give unto me, made lowly wise The spirit of self-sacrifice; The confidence of reason give:
And in the light of truth thy Bondman 1805. 1807.
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