Not for a moment could I now behold serene. Then, Beaumont, Friend! who would have been the Friend, If he had lived, of Him whom I deplore, This work of thine I blame not, but commend; This sea in anger, and that dismal shore. O'tis a passionate Work!-yet wise and well, Well chosen in the spirit that is here; That Hulk which labors in the deadly swell, This rueful sky, this pageantry of fear! And this huge Castle, standing here sublime, I love to see the look with which it braves. Cased in the unfeeling armor of old time, The lightning, the fierce wind, and trampling waves. Farewell, farewell the heart that lives alone, Housed in a dream, at distance from the Which at no season fade, Thou, while thy babes around thee cling Shalt show us how divine a thing A Woman may be made. Thy thoughts and feelings shall not die But an old age serene and bright, 1801? February 11, 1802. FRENCH REVOLUTION AS IT APPEARED TO ENTHUSIASTS AT ITS COMMENCEMENT An extract from the long poem of my own poetical education. It was first published by Coleridge in his "Friend," which is the reason of its having had a place in every edition of my poems since. (Wordsworth.) From The Prelude, Bk. XI. OH! pleasant exercise of hope and joy! For mighty were the auxiliars which then stood Upon our side, we who were strong in love! Bliss was it in that dawn to be alive, But to be young was very heaven!Oh! times, In which the meagre, stale, forbidding Their ministers,--who in lordly wise had stirred Among the grandest objects of the sense, And dealt with whatsoever they found there As if they had within some lurking right To wield it ;-they, too, who, of gentle mood. Had watched all gentle motions, and to these Had fitted their own thoughts, schemers more mild, And in the region of their peaceful selves; Now was it that both found, the meek and lofty Did both find, helpers to their heart's desire, And stuff at hand, plastic as they could wish; Were called upon to exercise their skill, But in the very world, which is the world Of all of us,-the place where in the end We find our happiness, or not at all! 1804. October 26, 1809. CHARACTER OF THE HAPPY WARRIOR Suggested in part by an event which all England was lamenting-the death of Lord Nelsonand in part by the personal loss, which he still felt so keenly, his brother John's removal. On the 4th of February, 1806, Southey wrote thus to Sir Walter Scott: .. Wordsworth was with me last week; he has been of late more employed in correcting his poems than in writting others; but one piece he has written, upon the ideal character of a soldier, than which I have never seen anything more full of meaning and sound thought. The subject was suggested by Nelson's most glorious death.. (Knight, Life of Wordsworth, II, 46-7.) WHO is the happy Warrior? Who is he That every man in arms should wish to be? -It is the generous Spirit, who, when Keeps faithful with a singleness of aim; And therefore does not stoop, nor lie in wait For wealth, or honors, or for worldly state; Whom they must follow; on whose head must fall, Like showers of manna, if they come at all: 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, YES, IT WAS THE MOUNTAIN ECHO 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; Hears not also mortal Life? Have not we too?-yes, we have Such rebounds our inward ear 1806. 1807. NUNS FRET NOT AT THEIR CON VENT'S NARROW ROOM In the cottage, Town-end, Grasmere, one after. noon in 1801, my sister read to me the Sonnets of Milton. I had long been well acquainted with thea, but I was particularly struck on that occa sion with the dignified simplicity and majestic harmony that runs through most of them.—in character so totally different from the Italian, and still more so from Shakspeare's fine Sonnets. I took fire, if I may be allowed to say so, and produced three Sonnets the same afternoon, the first I ever wrote except an irregular one at school. Of these three, the only one I distinctly remember is-"I grieved for Buonaparte." One was never written down: the third, which was, I believe, preserved, I cannot particularize. (Wordsworth.) 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: 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, Should find brief solace there, as I have found. 1806 1807. PERSONAL TALK I 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 neighbors, daily, weekly, in my sight: And, for my chance-acquaintance, ladies bright, Sons, mothers, maidens withering on the stalk, These all wear out of me, like Forms, with chalk Fainted 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. II "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 THE WORLD IS TOO MUCH WITH US 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 sor. did boon! The 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 everything, 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, Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn; Have sight of Proteus rising from the NOVEMBER, 1806 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. O dastard whom such foretaste doth not cheer! 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 honor which they do not understand. 1806. 1807. |