CLXXIII

TO VALCLUSA.

WHAT though, Valclusa, the fond bard be fled

That wooed his fair in thy sequestered bowers,
Long loved her living, long bemoaned her dead,
And hung her visionary shrine with flowers?
What though no more he teach thy shades to mourn
The hapless chances that to love belong,

As erst, when drooping o'er her turf forlorn,
He charmed wild Echo with his plaintive song?
Yet still, enamoured of the tender tale,
Pale Passion haunts thy grove's romantic gloom,
Yet still soft music breathes in every gale,
Still undecayed the fairy-garlands bloom,
Still heavenly incense fills each fragrant vale,
Still Petrarch's Genius weeps o'er Laura's tomb.

THOMAS
RUSSELL

1762-1788

CLXXIV

SUPPOSED TO BE WRITTEN AT LEMNOS.

ΟΝ

N this lone isle, whose rugged rocks affright
The cautious pilot, ten revolving years

Great Pæan's son, unwonted erst to tears,

Wept o'er his wound: alike each rolling light

Of heaven he watched, and blamed its lingering flight;
By day the sea-mew screaming round his cave
Drove slumber from his eyes; the chiding wave
And savage howlings chased his dreams by night.
Hope still was his in each low breeze that sighed
Through his rude grot he heard a coming oar,
In each white cloud a coming sail he spied;
Nor seldom listened to the fancied roar

Of Oeta's torrents, or the hoarser tide

That parts famed Trachis from the Euboic shore.

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH 1770-1850

I

CLXXV

PERSONAL TALK.

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,
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;
Whose mind is but the mind of his own eyes,
He is a Slave; the meanest we can meet!

CLXXVII

3

WINGS have we,-and as far as we can go

WINGS

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;

And heavenly Una with her milk-white Lamb.

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH

1770-1850

CLXXVIII

OR can I not believe but that hereby

NOR

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.

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH

1770-1850

CLXXIX

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.

CLXXX

ADMONITION.

'ES, there is holy pleasure in thine eye!-

YES,

The lovely Cottage in the guardian nook Hath stirred thee deeply; with its own dear brook,

Its own small pasture, almost its own sky!

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!

CLXXXI

THERE is a little unpretending Rill

Of limpid water, hambler 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.

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH

1770-1850

CLXXXII

UPON THE SIGHT OF A BEAUTIFUL PICTURE,

PAINTED BY SIR G. H. BEAUMONT, BART

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,
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.