That call'd the wanderer home, and home to rest. That tear proclaims-in thee each virtue dwells, And bright will shine in misery's midnight hour; As the soft star of dewy evening tells 11 What radiant fires were drown'd by day's malignant pow'r, That only wait the darkness of the night To cheer the wand'ring wretch with hospitable light. AXIOLOGUS. SONNET. Sent in MS. by Dorothy Wordsworth to Miss Pollard in a letter dated Forncett, May 6, 1792. "It is only valuable to me," she writes, "because the lane which gave birth to it was the favourite evening walk of my dear William and me." First printed in Professor Knight's ed. of "Poet. Works," vol. iv. p. 23. -ED. SWEET was the walk along the narrow lane 5 10 And Childhood, seeming still more busy, took THE BIRTH OF LOVE. Translated from some French stanzas signed "Anon" in "Poems by Francis Wrangham, M.A.," 1795; the translation being signed Wordsworth."-ED. WHEN Love was born of heavenly line, What dire intrigues disturbed Cythera's joy! Till VENUS cried, "A mother's heart is mine; But, infant as he was, the child In that divine embrace enchanted lay; And, by the beauty of the vase beguil'd, Forgot the beverage-and pin'd away. "And must my offspring languish in my sight?' (Alive to all a mother's pain, The Queen of Beauty thus her court address'd) "No: Let the most discreet of all my train Receive him to her breast: Think all, he is the God of young delight." Then TENDERNESS with CANDOUR join'd, 5 10 15 But none of those fair Graces brought Wherewith to nurse the child-and still he pin'd. Some fond hearts to COMPLIANCE seem'd inclin'd; But she had surely spoil'd the boy: And sad experience forbade a thought On the wild Goddess of VOLUPTUOUS Joy. 21 Long undecided lay th' important choice, child 25 Pronounced the name of HOPE:-The conscious Stretched forth his little arms and smil'd. Tis said ENJOYMENT (who averr'd Jealous that HOPE had been preferr'd 30 Laid snares to make the babe her own. Of INNOCENCE the garb she took, The blushing mien and downcast look; And HOPE (what has not HOPE believ'd!) 85 It happen'd that, to sleep inclin'd, 40 The Goddess then her lap with sweetmeats fill'd And gave, in handfuls gave, the treacherous store: A wild delirium first the infant thrill'd; But soon upon her breast he sunk-to wake no more. 45 THE CONVICT. Published in " Lyrical Ballads," 1798, and omitted after 1798.—ED. THE glory of evening was spread through the west; -On the slope of a mountain I stood, While the joy that precedes the calm season of rest Rang loud through the meadow and wood. "And must we then part from a dwelling so fair? In the pain of my spirit I said, And with a deep sadness I turned, to repair The thick-ribbed walls that o'ershadow the gate 6 10 I pause; and at length, through the glimmering His black matted hair on his shoulder is bent, And deep is the sigh of his breath, And with stedfast dejection his eyes are intent 15 On the fetters that link him to death. "Tis sorrow enough on that visage to gaze, That body dismiss'd from his care; Yet my fancy has pierced to his heart, and pour trays More terrible images there. 20 His bones are consumed, and his life-blood is dried, With wishes the past to undo; And his crime, through the pains that o'erwhelm him, descried, Still blackens and grows on his view. 26 When from the dark synod, or blood-reeking field, But if grief, self-consumed, in oblivion would doze, 'Mid tumult and uproar this man must repose; In the comfortless vault of disease. 30 When his fetters at night have so press'd on his limbs, That the weight can no longer be borne, If, while a half-slumber his memory bedims, 35 The wretch on his pallet should turn, While the jail-mastiff howls at the dull clanking chain, From the roots of his hair there shall start A thousand sharp punctures of cold-sweating pain, And terror shall leap at his heart. 40 But now he half-raises his deep-sunken eye, The silence of sorrow it seems to supply, "Poor victim! no idle intruder has stood 45 With o'erweening complacence our state to com pare, But one, whose first wish is the wish to be good, Is come as a brother thy sorrows to share. "At thy name though compassion her nature resign, Though in virtue's proud mouth thy report be a stain, My care, if the arm of the mighty were mine, 50 Would plant thee where yet thou might'st blossom again." ANDREW JONES. Published in "Lyrical Ballads," 1800, 1802, 1805, and in " Poems," 1815; afterwards omitted.-ED. I HATE that Andrew Jones: he'll breed I said not this, because he loves For this poor crawling helpless wretch Inch-thick the dust lay on the ground It chanc'd that Andrew pass'd that way 5 "Would, with its rattling music, come," 1815; and so also in last verse.-ED. |