E-text prepared by Al Haines

SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH AND TENNYSON

Edited, with Introduction and Notes

by

PELHAM EDGAR, Ph.D.

Professor of English, Victoria Coll., Univ. of Toronto

Toronto
The Macmillan Company of Canada, Limited

1917

PREFACE

The poems contained in this volume are those required for Junior
Matriculation, Ontario 1918.

CONTENTS

Wordsworth

  Michael
  To the Daisy
  To the Cuckoo
  Nutting
  Influence of Natural Objects
  To the Rev. Dr. Wordsworth
  Elegiac Stanzas
  "It is Not to be Thought of"
  Written in London, September, 1802
  London, 1802
  "Dark and More Dark the Shades of Evening Fell"
  "Surprised by Joy—Impatient as the Wind"
  "Hail, Twilight, Sovereign of One Peaceful Hour"
  "I Thought of Thee, My Partner and My Guide"
  "Such Age, How Beautiful!"

Tennyson

  Oenone
  The Epic
  Morte d'Arthur
  The Brook
  In Memoriam

Wordsworth

  Biographical Sketch
  Chronological Table
  Appreciations
  References on Life and Works
  Notes

Tennyson

  Biographical Sketch
  Chronological Table
  Appreciations
  References on Life and Works
  Notes

WORDSWORTH

MICHAEL

A PASTORAL POEM

  If from the public way you turn your steps
  Up the tumultuous brook of Green-head Ghyll,
  You will suppose that with an upright path
  Your feet must struggle; in such bold ascent
  The pastoral mountains front you, face to face.
  But, courage! for around that boisterous brook
  The mountains have all opened out themselves,
  And made a hidden valley of their own.
  No habitation can be seen; but they
  Who journey thither find themselves alone 10
  With a few sheep, with rocks and stones, and kites
  That overhead are sailing in the sky.
  It is in truth an utter solitude;
  Nor should I have made mention of this Dell
  But for one object which you might pass by, 15
  Might see and notice not. Beside the brook
  Appears a straggling heap of unhewn stones,
  And to that simple object appertains
  A story,—unenriched with strange events,
  Yet not unfit, I deem, for the fireside, 20
  Or for the summer shade. It was the first
  Of those domestic tales that spake to me
  Of Shepherds, dwellers in the valleys, men
  Whom I already loved:—not verily
  For their own sakes, but for the fields and hills 25
  Where was their occupation and abode.
  And hence this Tale, while I was yet a Boy
  Careless of books, yet having felt the power
  Of Nature, by the gentle agency
  Of natural objects, led me on to feel 30
  For passions that were not my own, and think
  (At random and imperfectly indeed)
  On man, the heart of man, and human life.
  Therefore, although it be a history
  Homely and rude, I will relate the same 35
  For the delight of a few natural hearts;
  And, with yet fonder feeling, for the sake
  Of youthful Poets, who among these hills
  Will be my second self when I am gone.

  Upon the forest-side in Grasmere Vale 40
  There dwelt a Shepherd, Michael was his name;
  An old man, stout of heart, and strong of limb.
  His bodily frame had been from youth to age
  Of an unusual strength: his mind was keen,
  Intense, and frugal, apt for all affairs, 45
  And in his shepherd's calling he was prompt
  And watchful more than ordinary men.
  Hence had he learned the meaning of all winds,
  Of blasts of every tone; and oftentimes,
  When others heeded not, he heard the South 50
  Make subterraneous music, like the noise
  Of bagpipers on distant Highland hills.
  The Shepherd, at such warning, of his flock
  Bethought him, and he to himself would say,
  "The winds are now devising work for me!" 55
  And, truly, at all times, the storm, that drives
  The traveller to a shelter, summoned him
  Up to the mountains: he had been alone
  Amid the heart of many thousand mists,
  That came to him, and left him, on the heights. 60
  So lived he till his eightieth year was past.
  And grossly that man errs, who should suppose
  That the green valleys, and the streams and rocks,
  Were things indifferent to the Shepherd's thoughts.
  Fields, where with cheerful spirits he had breathed 65
  The common air; hills, which with vigorous step
  He had so often climbed; which had impressed
  So many incidents upon his mind
  Of hardship, skill or courage, joy or fear;
  Which, like a book, preserved the memory 70
  Of the dumb animals whom he had saved,
  Had fed or sheltered, linking to such acts
  The certainty of honorable gain;
  Those fields, those hills—what could they less?—had laid
  Strong hold on his affections, were to him 75
  A pleasurable feeling of blind love,
  The pleasure which there is in life itself.

  His days had not been passed in singleness.
  His Helpmate was a comely matron, old—
  Though younger than himself full twenty years. 80
  She was a woman of a stirring life,
  Whose heart was in her house: two wheels she had
  Of antique form; this large, for spinning wool;
  That small, for flax; and if one wheel had rest,
  It was because the other was at work. 85
  The Pair had but one inmate in their house,
  An only Child, who had been born to them
  When Michael, telling o'er his years, began
  To deem that he was old,—in shepherd's phrase,
  With one foot in the grave. This only Son, 90
  With two brave sheep-dogs tried in many a storm,
  The one of an inestimable worth,
  Made all their household. I may truly say
  That they were as a proverb in the vale
  For endless industry. When day was gone, 95
  And from their occupations out of doors
  The Son and Father were come home, even then
  Their labor did not cease; unless when all
  Turned to the cleanly supper board, and there,
  Each with a mess of pottage and skimmed milk, 100
  Sat round the basket piled with oaten cakes,
  And their plain home-made cheese. Yet when the meal
  Was ended, Luke (for so the Son was named)
  And his old Father both betook themselves
  To such convenient work as might employ 105
  Their hands by the fireside; perhaps to card
  Wool for the Housewife's spindle, or repair
  Some injury done to sickle, flail, or scythe,
  Or other implement of house or field.

  Down from the ceiling, by the chimney's edge, 110
  That in our ancient uncouth country style
  With huge and black projection overbrowed
  Large space beneath, as duly as the light
  Of day grew dim the Housewife hung a lamp;
  An agèd utensil, which had performed 115
  Service beyond all others of its kind.
  Early at evening did it burn,—and late,
  Surviving comrade of uncounted hours,
  Which, going by from year to year, had found,
  And left the couple neither gay perhaps 120
  Nor cheerful, yet with objects and with hopes,
  Living a life of eager industry.
  And now, when Luke had reached his eighteenth year,
  There by the light of this old lamp they sate,
  Father and Son, while far into the night 125
  The Housewife plied her own peculiar work,
  Making the cottage through the silent hours
  Murmur as with the sound of summer flies.
  This light was famous in its neighborhood,
  And was a public symbol of the life 130
  That thrifty Pair had lived. For, as it chanced;
  Their cottage on a plot of rising ground
  Stood single, with large prospect, north and south,
  High into Easedale, up to Dunmail-Raise,
  And westward to the village near the lake; 135
  And from this constant light, so regular,
  And so far seen, the House itself, by all
  Who dwelt within the limits of the vale,
  Both old and young, was named the EVENING STAR.

  Thus living on through such a length of years, 140
  The Shepherd, if he loved himself, must needs
  Have loved his Helpmate; but to Michael's heart
  This son of his old age was yet more dear—
  Less from instinctive tenderness, the same
  Fond spirit that blindly works in the blood of all— 145
  Than that a child, more than all other gifts
  That earth can offer to declining man,
  Brings hope with it, and forward-looking thoughts,
  And stirrings of inquietude, when they
  By tendency of nature needs must fail. 150
  Exceeding was the love he bare to him,
  His heart and his heart's joy! For oftentimes
  Old Michael, while he was a babe in arms,
  Had done him female service, not alone
  For pastime and delight, as is the use 155
  Of fathers, but with patient mind enforced
  To acts of tenderness; and he had rocked
  His cradle, as with a woman's gentle hand.
  And in a later time, ere yet the Boy
  Had put on boy's attire, did Michael love, 160
  Albeit of a stern, unbending mind,
  To have the Young-one in his sight, when he
  Wrought in the field, or on his shepherd's stool
  Sat with a fettered sheep before him stretched
  Under the large old oak, that near his door 165
  Stood single, and, from matchless depth of shade,
  Chosen for the shearer's covert from the sun,
  Thence in our rustic dialect was called
  The CLIPPING TREE, a name which yet it bears.
  There, while they two were sitting in the shade, 170
  With others round them, earnest all and blithe,
  Would Michael exercise his heart with looks
  Of fond correction and reproof bestowed
  Upon the Child, if he disturbed the sheep
  By catching at their legs, or with his shouts 175
  Scared them while they lay still beneath the shears.

  And when by Heaven's good grace the Boy grew up
  A healthy Lad, and carried in his cheek
  Two steady roses that were five years old;
  Then Michael from a winter coppice cut 180
  With his own hand a sapling, which he hooped
  With iron, making it throughout in all
  Due requisites a perfect shepherd's staff,
  And gave it to the Boy; wherewith equipped
  He as a watchman oftentimes was placed 185
  At gate or gap, to stem or turn the flock;
  And, to his office prematurely called,
  There stood the urchin, as you will divine,
  Something between a hindrance and a help;
  And for this cause not always, I believe, 190
  Receiving from his Father hire of praise;
  Though naught was left undone which staff, or voice,
  Or looks, or threatening gestures, could perform,

  But soon as Luke, full ten years old, could stand
  Against the mountain blasts; and to the heights, 195
  Not fearing toil, nor length of weary ways,
  He with his Father daily went, and they
  Were as companions, why should I relate
  That objects which the Shepherd loved before
  Were dearer now? that from the Boy there came 200
  Feelings and emanations,—things which were
  Light to the sun and music to the wind;
  And that the old Man's heart seemed born again?

  Thus in his Father's sight the boy grew up:
  And now, when he had reached his eighteenth year, 205
  He was his comfort and his daily hope.

  While in this sort the simple household lived
  From day to day, to Michael's ear there came
  Distressful tidings. Long before the time
  Of which I speak, the Shepherd had been bound 210
  In surety for his brother's son, a man
  Of an industrious life, and ample means;
  But unforeseen misfortunes suddenly
  Had pressed upon him; and old Michael now
  Was summoned to discharge the forfeiture, 215
  A grievous penalty, but little less
  Than half his substance. This unlooked-for claim,
  At the first hearing, for a moment took
  More hope out of his life than he supposed
  That any old man ever could have lost. 220
  As soon as he had armed himself with strength
  To look his trouble in the face, it seemed
  The Shepherd's sole resource to sell at once
  A portion of his patrimonial fields.
  Such was his first resolve; he thought again, 225
  And his heart failed him. "Isabel," said he,
  Two evenings after he had heard the news,
  "I have been toiling more than seventy years,
  And in the open sunshine of God's love
  Have we all lived; yet if these fields of ours 230
  Should pass into a stranger's hand, I think
  That I could not lie quiet in my grave.
  Our lot is a hard lot; the sun himself
  Has scarcely been more diligent than I;
  And I have lived to be a fool at last 235
  To my own family. An evil man
  That was, and made an evil choice, if he
  Were false to us; and if he were not false,
  There are ten thousand to whom loss like this
  Had been no sorrow. I forgive him;—but 240
  'Twere better to be dumb than to talk thus.

  "When I began, my purpose was to speak
  Of remedies and of a cheerful hope.
  Our Luke shall leave us, Isabel; the land
  Shall not go from us, and it shall be free; 245
  He shall possess it, free as is the wind
  That passes over it. We have, thou know'st,
  Another kinsman; he will be our friend
  In this distress. He is a prosperous man,
  Thriving in trade; and Luke to him shall go, 250
  And with his kinsman's help and his own thrift
  He quickly will repair this loss, and then
  He may return to us. If here he stay,
  What can be done? Where every one is poor,
  What can be gained?"

  At this the old Man paused, 255
  And Isabel sat silent, for her mind
  Was busy, looking back into past times.
  There's Richard Bateman, thought she to herself,
  He was a parish-boy,—at the church-door
  They made a gathering for him, shillings, pence, 260
  And half-pennies, wherewith the neighbors bought
  A basket, which they filled with pedlar's wares;
  And, with his basket on his arm, the lad
  Went up to London, found a master there,
  Who, out of many, chose the trusty boy 265
  To go and overlook his merchandise
  Beyond the seas; where he grew wondrous rich,
  And left estates and moneys to the poor,
  And at his birthplace built a chapel, floored
  With marble, which he sent from foreign lands. 270
  These thoughts, and many others of like sort,
  Passed quickly through the mind of Isabel
  And her face brightened. The old Man was glad,
  And thus resumed: "Well, Isabel, this scheme,
  These two days, has been meat and drink to me. 275
  Far more than we have lost is left us yet.
  —We have enough—I wish indeed that I
  Were younger;—but this hope is a good hope.
  Make ready Luke's best garments, of the best
  Buy for him more, and let us send him forth 280
  To-morrow, or the next day, or to-night:
  —If he could go, the Boy should go to-night."

  Here Michael ceased, and to the fields went forth
  With a light heart. The Housewife for five days
  Was restless morn and night, and all day long 285
  Wrought on with her best fingers to prepare
  Things needful for the journey of her son.
  But Isabel was glad when Sunday came
  To stop her in her work; for, when she lay
  By Michael's side, she through the last two nights 290
  Heard him, how he was troubled in his sleep:
  And when they rose at morning she could see
  That all his hopes were gone. That day at noon
  She said to Luke, while they two by themselves
  Were sitting at the door, "Thou must not go: 295
  We have no other Child but thee to lose,
  None to remember—do not go away,
  For if thou leave thy Father he will die."
  The Youth made answer with a jocund voice;
  And Isabel, when she had told her fears, 300
  Recovered heart. That evening her best fare
  Did she bring forth, and all together sat
  Like happy people round a Christmas fire.

  With daylight Isabel resumed her work;
  And all the ensuing week the house appeared 305
  As cheerful as a grove in Spring: at length
  The expected letter from their kinsman came,
  With kind assurances that he would do
  His utmost for the welfare of the Boy;
  To which requests were added, that forthwith 310
  He might be sent to him. Ten times or more
  The letter was read over; Isabel
  Went forth to show it to the neighbors round;
  Nor was there at that time on English land
  A prouder heart than Luke's. When Isabel 315
  Had to her house returned, the old Man said,
  "He shall depart to-morrow." To this word
  The Housewife answered, talking much of things
  Which, if at such short notice he should go,
  Would surely be forgotten. But at length 320
  She gave consent, and Michael was at ease.
  Near the tumultuous brook of Green-head Ghyll,
  In that deep valley, Michael had designed
  To build a Sheep-fold; and, before he heard
  The tidings of his melancholy loss, 325
  For this same purpose he had gathered up
  A heap of stones, which by the streamlet's edge
  Lay thrown together, ready for the work.
  With Luke that evening thitherward he walked;
  And soon as they had reached the place he stopped, 330
  And thus the old man spake to him:—"My Son,
  To-morrow thou wilt leave me; with full heart
  I look upon thee, for thou art the same
  That wert a promise to me ere thy birth
  And all thy life hast been my daily joy. 335
  I will relate to thee some little part
  Of our two histories; 'twill do thee good
  When thou art from me, even if I should touch
  On things thou canst not know of.———After thou
  First cam'st into the world—as oft befalls 340
  To newborn infants—thou didst sleep away
  Two days, and blessings from thy Father's tongue
  Then fell upon thee. Day by day passed on,
  And still I loved thee with increasing love.
  Never to living ear came sweeter sounds 345
  Than when I heard thee by our own fireside
  First uttering, without words, a natural tune;
  While thou, a feeding babe, didst in thy joy
  Sing at thy Mother's breast. Month followed month,
  And in the open fields my life was passed, 350
  And on the mountains; else I think that thou
  Hadst been brought up upon thy Father's knees.
  But we were playmates, Luke; among these hills,
  As well thou knowest, in us the old and young
  Have played together, nor with me didst thou 355
  Lack any pleasure which a boy can know."
  Luke had a manly heart; but at these words
  He sobbed aloud. The old Man grasped his hand,
  And said, "Nay, do not take it so—I see
  That these are things of which I need not speak. 360
  —Even to the utmost I have been to thee
  A kind and a good Father; and herein
  I but repay a gift which I myself
  Received at others' hands; for, though now old
  Beyond the common life of man, I still 365
  Remember them who loved me in my youth.
  Both of them sleep together; here they lived,
  As all their Forefathers had done; and, when
  At length their time was come, they were not loath
  To give their bodies to the family mould. 370
  I wished that thou should'st live the life they lived;
  But 'tis a long time to look back, my Son,
  And see so little gain from threescore years.
  These fields were burthened when they came to me;
  Till I was forty years of age, not more 375
  Than half of my inheritance was mine.
  I toiled and toiled; God blessed me in my work,
  And till the three weeks past the land was free.
  —It looks as if it never could endure
  Another Master. Heaven forgive me, Luke, 380
  If I judge ill for thee, but it seems good
  That thou shouldst go."

  At this the old Man paused;
  Then, pointing to the stones near which they stood,
  Thus, after a short silence, he resumed:
  "This was a work for us; and now, my Son, 385
  It is a work for me. But, lay one stone,—
  Here, lay it for me, Luke, with thine own hands.
  Nay, Boy, be of good hope; we both may live
  To see a better day. At eighty-four
  I still am strong and hale;—do thou thy part; 390
  I will do mine.—I will begin again
  With many tasks that were resigned to thee;
  Up to the heights, and in among the storms,
  Will I without thee go again, and do
  All works which I was wont to do alone, 395
  Before I knew thy face. Heaven bless thee, Boy!
  Thy heart these two weeks has been beating fast
  With many hopes; it should be so—yes, yes,—
  I knew that thou couldst never have a wish
  To leave me, Luke; thou hast been bound to me 400
  Only by links of love: when thou art gone
  What will be left to us!—But I forget
  My purposes. Lay now the corner-stone,
  As I requested; and hereafter, Luke,
  When thou art gone away, should evil men 405
  Be thy companions, think of me, my Son,
  And of this moment; hither turn thy thoughts,
  And God will strengthen thee: amid all fear
  And all temptation, Luke, I pray that thou
  May'st bear in mind the life thy Fathers lived, 410
  Who, being innocent, did for that cause
  Bestir them in good deeds. Now, fare thee well—
  When thou return'st, thou in this place wilt see
  A work which is not here: a covenant
  'Twill be between us; but, whatever fate 415
  Befall thee, I shall love thee to the last,
  And bear thy memory with me to the grave."

  The Shepherd ended here; and Luke stooped down,
  And, as his Father had requested, laid
  The first stone of the Sheep-fold. At the sight 420
  The old Man's grief broke from him; to his heart
  He pressed his Son, he kissed him and wept;
  And to the house together they returned.
  —Hushed was that House in peace, or seeming peace,
  Ere the night fell:—with morrow's dawn the Boy 425
  Began his journey, and when he had reached
  The public way, he put on a bold face;
  And all the neighbors, as he passed their doors,
  Came forth with wishes and with farewell prayers,
  That followed him till he was out of sight. 430

  A good report did from their Kinsman come,
  Of Luke and his well doing: and the Boy
  Wrote loving letters, full of wondrous news,
  Which, as the Housewife phrased it, were throughout
  "The prettiest letters that were ever seen." 435
  Both parents read them with rejoicing hearts.
  So, many months passed on; and once again
  The Shepherd went about his daily work
  With confident and cheerful thoughts; and now
  Sometimes when he could find a leisure hour 440
  He to that valley took his way, and there
  Wrought at the Sheep-fold. Meantime Luke began
  To slacken in his duty; and, at length,
  He in the dissolute city gave himself
  To evil courses: ignominy and shame 445
  Fell on him, so that he was driven at last
  To seek a hiding place beyond the seas.

  There is a comfort in the strength of love;
  'Twill make a thing endurable, which else
  Would overset the brain, or break the heart: 450
  I have conversed with more than one who well
  Remember the old Man, and what he was
  Years after he had heard this heavy news.
  His bodily frame had been from youth to age
  Of an unusual strength. Among the rocks 455
  He went, and still looked up to sun and cloud,
  And listened to the wind; and, as before,
  Performed all kinds of labor for his sheep,
  And for the land, his small inheritance.
  And to that hollow dell from time to time 460
  Did he repair, to build the Fold of which
  His flock had need. 'Tis not forgotten yet
  The pity which was then in every heart
  For the old Man—and 'tis believed by all
  That many and many a day he thither went, 465
  And never lifted up a single stone.

  There by the Sheep-fold, sometimes was he seen
  Sitting alone, or with his faithful Dog,
  Then old, beside him, lying at his feet.
  The length of full seven years, from time to time 570
  He at the building of this Sheep-fold wrought,
  And left the work unfinished when he died.
  Three years, or little more, did Isabel
  Survive her Husband; at her death the estate
  Was sold, and went into a stranger's hand. 475
  The Cottage which was named the EVENING STAR
  Is gone,—the ploughshare has been through the ground
  On which it stood; great changes have been wrought
  In all the neighborhood:—yet the oak is left,
  That grew beside their door; and the remains 480
  Of the unfinished Sheep-fold may be seen
  Beside the boisterous brook of Green-head Ghyll.
2. GREEN-HEAD GHYLL. Near Dove Cottage, Wordsworth's home at Grasmere.

GHYLL. A short, steep, and narrow valley with a stream running through it.

5. THE PASTORAL MOUNTAINS. In Professor Knight's Life of Wordsworth are found fragments which the poet intended for Michael and which were recovered from Dorothy Wordsworth's manuscript book. Among these are the following lines, which as Professor Dowden suggests, are given as Wordsworth's answer to the question, "What feeling for external nature had such a man as Michael?" The lines, which correspond to lines 62-77 of the poem, are as follows;

  "No doubt if you in terms direct had asked
  Whether beloved the mountains, true it is
  That with blunt repetition of your words
  He might have stared at you, and said that they
  Were frightful to behold, but had you then
  Discoursed with him . . . . . . . .
  Of his own business and the goings on
  Of earth and sky, then truly had you seen
  That in his thoughts there were obscurities,
  Wonder and admiration, things that wrought
  Not less than a religion of his heart."

17. In Dorothy Wordsworth's Journal for October 11, 1800, we read: "After dinner, we walked up Greenhead Gill in search of a sheepfold. . . The sheepfold is falling away. It is built in the form of a heart unequally divided."

48. THE MEANING OF ALL WINDS. This is not a figurative Statement. Michael knows by experience whether the sound and direction of the wind forebode storm or fair weather,—precisely the practical kind of knowledge which a herdsman should possess.

51. SUBTERRANEOUS. The meaning of this word has given rise to discussion. "Subterraneous" cannot here be literally employed, unless it refer to the sound of the wind in hollow places, and beneath overhanging crags.

51-52. LIKE THE NOISE, etc. Is there a special appropriateness in the use of a Scottish simile? What is the general character of the similes throughout the poem?

56-77. Wordsworth never attributes to Michael the subtler and more philosophical sensations which he himself derived from nature. Such poems as The Prelude or The Excursion contain many elevated passages on the influence of nature, which would have been exceedingly inappropriate here.

115. Scan this line.

121. NOR CHEERFUL. The epithet seems not well chosen in view of the fact that all the circumstances of their life breathe a spirit of quiet cheerfulness. Surely the light (129-131) was a symbol of cheer.

126. PECULIAR WORK. Bring out the force of the epithet.

134. EASEDALE. Near Grasmere. DUNMAIL-RAISE. The pass leading from Grasmere to Keswick. RAISE. A provincial word meaning "an ascent."

139. THE EVENING STAR. This name was actually given to a neighboring house.

143-152. The love of Michael for Luke is inwrought with his love for his home and for the land which surrounds it. These he desires at his death to hand down unencumbered to his son. "I have attempted," Wordsworth wrote to Poole, "to give a picture of a man of strong mind and lively sensibility, agitated by two of the most powerful affections of the human heart—the parental affection and the love of property, landed property, including the feelings of inheritance, home and personal and family independence."

145. Scan this line.

169. THE CLIPPING TREE. Clipping is the word used in the North of England for shearing. (Wordsworth's note, 1800).

182. Notice the entire absence of pause at the end of the line. Point out other instances of run-on lines (enjambement).

259. PARISH-BOY. Depending on charity.

268-270. Wordsworth added the following note on these lines: "The story alluded to here is well known in the country. The chapel is called Ing's Chapel; and is on the right hand side of the road leading from Kendal to Ambleside."

283. AND TO THE FIELDS WENT FORTH Observe the inconsistency. The conversation took place in the evening. See l. 327.

284f. WITH A LIGHT HEART. Michael's growing misgivings are subtly represented in the following lines, and the renewal of his hopes.

367-368. These lines forcibly show how tenaciously Michael's feelings were rooted in the soil of his home. Hence the extreme pathos of the situation.

388. Observe the dramatic force of this line.

393-396. What unconscious poetry there is in the old man's words!

420. Scan this line.

445. Scan this line.

466. Matthew Arnold commenting on this line says; "The right sort of verse to choose from Wordsworth, if we are to seize his true and most characteristic form of expression, is a line like this from Michael: 'And never lifted up a single stone.' There is nothing subtle in it, no heightening, no study of poetic style strictly so called, at all; yet it is an expression of the highest and most truly expressive kind."

467f. Note the noble simplicity and pathos of these closing lines. There is a reserved force of pent-up pathos here, which without effort reaches the height of dramatic effectiveness.

TO THE DAISY

  Bright Flower! whose home is everywhere,
  Bold in maternal Nature's care,
  And all the long year through the heir
    Of joy and sorrow,
  Methinks that there abides in thee 5
  Some concord with humanity,
  Given to no other flower I see
    The forest thorough!

  Is it that Man is soon deprest?
  A thoughtless Thing! who, once unblest, 10
  Does little on his memory rest,
    Or on his reason,
  And Thou would'st teach him how to find
  A shelter under every wind,
  A hope for times that are unkind, 15
    And every season?

  Thou wander'st the wide world about,
  Uncheck'd by pride or scrupulous doubt,
  With friends to greet thee, or without,
    Yet pleased and wilting; 20
  Meek, yielding to the occasion's call,
  And all things suffering from all,
  Thy function apostolical
    In peace fulfilling.

8. THOROUGH. This is by derivation the correct form of the modern word "through." A.S. thurh, M.E. thuruh. The use of "thorough" is now purely adjectival, except in archaic or poetic speech.

24. APOSTOLICAL. The stanza in which this word occurs was omitted in 1827 and 1832, because the expression was censured as almost profane. Wordsworth in his dictated note to Miss Fenwick has the following: "The word [apostolical] is adopted with reference to its derivation, implying something sent out on a mission; and assuredly this little flower, especially when the subject of verse, may be regarded, in its humble degree, as administering both to moral and spiritual purposes."

TO THE CUCKOO

  O blithe 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, 5
  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, 10
  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, 15
  A voice, a mystery;

  The same whom in my schoolboy days
  I listened to; that Cry
  Which made me look a thousand ways
  In bush, and tree, and sky. 20

  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; 25
  Can lie upon the plain
  And listen, till I do beget
  That golden time again.

  O blessèd Bird! the earth we pace
  Again appears to be 30
  An unsubstantial, faery place;
  That is fit home for Thee!

1. O BLITHE NEW-COMER. The Cuckoo is migratory, and appears in England in the early spring. Compare Solitary Reaper, l. 16.

I HAV HEARD. i.e., in my youth.

3. SHALL I CALL THEE BIRD? Compare Shelley.

         Hail to thee, blithe spirit!
         Bird thou never wert.
                     To a Skylark.

4. A WANDERING VOICE? Lacking substantial existence.

6. TWOFOLD SHOUT. Twofold, because consisting of a double note. Compare Wordsworth's sonnet, To the Cuckoo, l. 4:

"With its twin notes inseparably paired."

Wordsworth employs the word "shout" in several of his Cuckoo descriptions. See The Excursion, ii. l. 346-348 and vii. l. 408; also the following from 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.

NUTTING

  ———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 5
  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, 10
  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, 15
  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, 20
  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 25
  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 30
  The violets of five seasons reappear
  And fade, unseen by any human eye;
  Where fairy water-breaks do murmur on
  Forever; and I saw the sparkling foam,
  And, with my cheek on one of those green stones 35
  That, fleeced with moss, under the shady trees,
  Lay round 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, 40
  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 45
  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 50
  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 55
  Touch,—for there is a spirit in the woods.

5. OUR COTTAGE THRESHOLD. "The house at which I was boarded during the time I was at school." (Wordsworth's note, 1800). The school was the Hawkshead School.

9. TRICKED OUT=dressed. The verb "to trick"="to dress" is derived probably from the noun, "trick" in the sense of 'a dexterous artifice,' 'a touch.' See "Century Dictionary."

CAST-OFF WEEDS=cast-off clothes. Wordsworth originally wrote 'of
Beggar's weeds.' What prompted him to change the expression?

10. FOR THAT SERVICE. i.e., for nutting.

12-13. OF POWER TO SMILE AT THORNS=able to defy, etc. Not because of their strength, but because so ragged that additional rents were of small account.

21. VIRGIN=unmarred, undevastated.

31. Explain the line. Notice the poetical way in which the poet conveys the idea of solitude, (l. 30-32).

33. FAIRY WATER-BREAKS=wavelets, ripples. Cf.:—

         Many a silvery water-break
         Above the golden gravel.
                         Tennyson, The Brook.

36. FLEECED WITH MOSS. Suggest a reason why the term "fleeced" has peculiar appropriateness here.

39-40. Paraphrase these lines to bring out their meaning.

43-48. THEN UP I ROSE. Contrast this active exuberant pleasure not unmixed with pain with the passive meditative joy that the preceding lines express.

47-48. PATIENTLY GAVE UP THEIR QUIET BEING. Notice the attribution of life to inanimate nature. Wordsworth constantly held that there was a mind and all the attributes of mind in nature. Cf. l. 56, "for there is a spirit in the woods."

53. AND SAW THE INTRUDING SKY. Bring out the force of this passage.

54. THEN, DEAREST MAIDEN. This is a reference to the poet's Sister, Dorothy Wordsworth.

56. FOR THERE IS A SPIRIT IN THE WOODS. Cf. Tintern Abbey, 101 f.

      A motion and a spirit that impels
      All thinking things, all objects of all thought,
      And rolls through all things.

INFLUENCE OF NATURAL OBJECTS

  Wisdom and Spirit of the universe!
  Thou Soul, that art the Eternity of thought!
  And giv'st to forms and images a breath
  And everlasting motion! not in vain,
  By day or starlight, thus from my first dawn 5
  Of childhood didst thou intertwine for me
  The passions that build up our human soul;
  Not with the mean and vulgar works of Man:
  But with high objects, with enduring things,
  With life and nature: purifying thus 10
  The elements of feeling and of thought,
  And sanctifying by such discipline
  Both pain and fear,—until we recognize
  A grandeur in the beatings of the heart.

  Nor was this fellowship vouchsafed to me 15
  With stinted kindness. In November days,
  When vapors rolling down the valleys made
  A lonely scene more lonesome; among woods
  At noon; and 'mid the calm of summer nights,
  When, by the margin of the trembling lake, 20
  Beneath the gloomy hills, homeward I went
  In solitude, such intercourse was mine:
  Mine was it in the fields both day and night,
  And by the waters, all the summer long.
  And in the frosty season, when the sun 25
  Was set, and, visible for many a mile,
  The cottage windows through the twilight blazed,
  I heeded not the summons: happy time
  It was indeed for all of us; for me
  It was a time of rapture! Clear and loud 30
  The village clock tolled six—I wheeled about,
  Proud and exulting like an untired horse,
  That cares not for his home,—All shod with steel
  We hissed along the polished ice, in games
  Confederate, imitative of the chase 35
  And woodland pleasures,—the resounding horn,
  The pack loud-chiming, and the hunted hare.
  So through the darkness and the cold we flew,
  And not a voice was idle; with the din
  Smitten, the precipices rang aloud; 40
  The leafless trees and every icy crag
  Tinkled like iron; while far-distant hills
  Into the tumult sent an alien sound
  Of melancholy, not unnoticed, while the stars,
  Eastward, were sparkling clear, and in the west 45
  The orange sky of evening died away.

  Not seldom from the uproar I retired
  Into a silent bay, or sportively
  Glanced sideway, leaving the tumultuous throng,
  To cut across the reflex of a star; 50
  Image, that, flying still before me, gleamed
  Upon the glassy plain; and oftentimes,
  When we had given our bodies to the wind,
  And all the shadowy banks on either side
  Came sweeping through the darkness, spinning still 55
  The rapid line of motion, then at once
  Have I, reclining back upon my heels,
  Stopped short, yet still the solitary cliffs
  Wheeled by me—even as if the earth had rolled
  With visible motion her diurnal round! 60
  Behind me did they stretch in solemn train,
  Feebler and feebler, and I stood and watched
  Till all was tranquil as a summer sea.

1-14. In what other poems does Wordsworth describe "the education of nature?"

8. Nature's teaching is never sordid nor mercenary, but always purifying and ennobling.

10. PURIFYING, also SANCTIFYING (l. 12), refer to "Soul" (l. 2).

12-14. Human cares are lightened in proportion to our power of sympathising with nature. The very beatings of our heart acquire a certain grandeur from the fact that they are a process of nature and linked thus to the general life of things. It is possible that "beatings of the heart" may figuratively represent the mere play of the emotions, and thus have a bearing upon the words "pain and fear" in line 13.

15. FELLOWSHIP. Communion with nature in her varying aspects as described in the following lines.

31. VILLAGE CLOCK. The village was Hawkshead.

35. CONFEDERATE. Qualifies "we," or "games." Point out the different shades of meaning for each agreement.

42. TINKLED LIKE IRON. "When very many are skating together, the sounds and the noises give an impulse to the icy trees, and the woods all round the lake tinkle." S. T. Coleridge in The Friend, ii, 325 (1818).

42-44. The keenness of Wordsworth's sense perceptions was very remarkable. His susceptibility to impressions of sound is well illustrated in this passage, which closes (l. 43-46) with a color picture of striking beauty and appropriateness.

50. REFLEX=reflection. Cf.:

        Like the reflex of the moon
        Seen in a wave under green leaves.
                   Shelley, Prometheus Unbound, iii, 4.

In later editions Wordsworth altered these lines as follows:

To cut across the image. 1809. To cross the bright reflection. 1820.

54-60. The effect of rapid motion is admirably described. The spinning effect which Wordsworth evidently has in mind we have all noticed in the fields which seem to revolve when viewed from a swiftly moving: train. However, a skater from the low level of a stream would see only the fringe of trees sweep past him. The darkness and the height of the banks would not permit him to see the relatively motionless objects in the distance in either hand.

57-58. This method of stopping short upon one's heels might prove disastrous.

58-60. The effect of motion persists after the motion has ceased.

62 63. The apparent motion of the cliffs grows feebler by degrees until "all was tranquil as a summer sea." In The [Transcriber's note: the rest of this footnote is missing from the original book because of a printing error.]

TO THE REV. DR. WORDSWORTH

(WITH THE SONNETS TO THE RIVER DUDDON, AND OTHER POEMS IN THIS COLLECTION, 1820).

  The minstrels played their Christmas tune
  To-night beneath my cottage-eaves;
  While, smitten by a lofty moon,
  The encircling laurels, thick with leaves,
  Gave back a rich and dazzling sheen, 5
  That overpowered their natural green.

  Through hill and valley every breeze
  Had sunk to rest with folded wings;
  Keen was the air, but could not freeze,
  Nor check, the music of the strings; 10
  So stout and hardy were the band
  That scraped the chords with strenuous hand:

  And who but listened?—till was paid
  Respect to every Inmate's claim:
  The greeting given, the music played, 15
  In honor of each household name,
  Duly pronounced with lusty call,
  And "Merry Christmas" wished to all!

  O Brother! I revere the choice
  That took thee from thy native hills; 20
  And it is given thee to rejoice:
  Though public care full often tills
  (Heaven only witness of the toil)
  A barren and ungrateful soil.

  Yet, would that Thou, with me and mine, 25
  Hadst heard this never-failing rite;
  And seen on other faces shine
  A true revival of the light
  Which Nature and these rustic Powers,
  In simple childhood, spread through ours! 30

  For pleasure hath not ceased to wait
  On these expected annual rounds;
  Whether the rich man's sumptuous gate
  Call forth the unelaborate sounds,
  Or they are offered at the door 35
  That guards the lowliest of the poor.

  How touching, when, at midnight, sweep
  Snow-muffled winds, and all is dark
  To hear—and sink again-to sleep
  Or, at an earlier call, to mark, 40
  By blazing fire, the still suspense
  Of self-complacent innocence;

  The mutual nod,—the grave disguise
  Of hearts with gladness brimming o'er;
  And some unbidden tears that rise 45
  For names once heard, and heard no more;
  Tears brightened by the serenade
  For infant in the cradle laid.

  Ah! not for emerald fields alone,
  With ambient streams more pure and bright 50
  Than fabled Cytherea's zone
  Glittering before the Thunderer's sight,
  Is to my heart of hearts endeared
  The ground where we were born and reared!

  Hail, ancient Manners! sure defence, 55
  Where they survive, of wholesome laws;
  Remnants of love whose modest sense
  Thus into narrow room withdraws;
  Hail, Usages of pristine mould,
  And ye that guard them, Mountains old! 60

  Bear with me, Brother! quench the thought
  That slights this passion, or condemns;
  If thee fond Fancy ever brought
  From the proud margin of the Thames,
  And Lambeth's venerable towers, 65
  To humbler streams, and greener bowers.

  Yes, they can make, who fail to fill
  Short leisure even in busiest days;
  Moments, to cast a look behind,
  And profit by those kindly rays 70
  That through the clouds do sometimes steal,
  And all the far-off past reveal.

  Hence, while the imperial City's din
  Beats frequent on thy satiate ear,
  A pleased attention I may win 75
  To agitations less severe,
  That neither overwhelm nor cloy,
  But fill the hollow vale with joy!

Christopher Wordsworth was born at Cockermouth in Cumberland on June 9th, 1774. He received his early education at Hawkshead Grammar School and in 1792 entered Trinity College, Cambridge, as a pensioner. He graduated in 1796 with high honours in mathematics, and in 1798 was elected a fellow of his college. He took his M.A. degree in 1799 and was awarded the degree of Doctor of Divinity in 1810. While at Cambridge Christopher had been tutor to Viscount Canterbury, who introduced him to his father, at that time Bishop of Norwich. Through the good offices of the Bishop he was appointed to the rectory of Ashby, Norfolk, and thus, with prospects settled, he was enabled to marry. On the appointment of the Bishop of Norwich to the Archbishopric of Canterbury he was appointed domestic chaplain to the Archbishop. Subsequently in 1816 he was appointed rector of St. Mary's, Lambeth, the living he held at the time the poem in the text was written.

In 1820 Christopher was made Master of Trinity College, Cambridge, a position he held until his resignation in 1841. He died at Buxted on February 2nd, 1846. "He was an earnest and deeply religious man; in some respects a high churchman of the old school, but with sympathy for whatever was good and noble in others. In politics he was a staunch Conservative."

15. THE GREETING GIVEN, THE MUSIC PLAYED. Till the greeting had been given and the music played.

17. Attributive to "name" (l. 16.)

18. Explain the construction of "wished."

50. AMBIENT=winding.

51. CYTHEREA'S ZONE. The goddess Venus was named Cytherea because she was supposed to have been born of the foam of the sea near Cythera, an island off the coast of the Peloponnesus. Venus was the goddess of love, and her power over the heart was strengthened by the marvellous zone or girdle she wore.

52. THE THUNDERER. The reference is to Jupiter, who is generally represented as seated upon a golden or ivory throne holding in one hand the thunderbolts, and in the other a sceptre of cypress.

55-60. Suggest how this stanza is characteristic of Wordsworth.

65. LAMBETH'S VENERABLE TOWERS. Lambeth Palace, the official residence of the Archbishop of Canterbury, is on the Thames. Wordsworth's brother Christopher, afterwards Master of Trinity College, was then (1820) Rector of Lambeth.

ELEGIAC STANZAS

SUGGESTED BY A PICTURE OF PEELE CASTLE, IN A STORM, PAINTED BY SIR GEORGE BEAUMONT.

  I was thy neighbor once, thou rugged Pile!
  Four summer weeks I dwelt in sight of thee:
  I saw thee every day; and all the while
  Thy Form was sleeping on a glassy sea.

  So pure the sky, so quiet was the air! 5
  So like, so very like, was day to day!
  Whene'er I looked, thy Image still was there;
  It trembled, but it never passed away.

  How perfect was the calm! it seemed no sleep;
  No mood, which season takes away, or brings: 10
  I could have fancied that the mighty Deep
  Was even the gentlest, of all gentle Things.

  Ah! THEN, if mine had been the Painter's hand,
  To express what then I saw; and add the gleam,
  The light that never was. On sea or land, 15
  The consecration, and the Poet's dream;

  I would have planted thee, thou hoary Pile,
  Amid a world how different from this!
  Beside a sea that could not cease to smile;
  On tranquil land, beneath a sky of bliss. 20

  Thou shouldst have seemed a treasure-house divine
  Of peaceful years; a chronicle of heaven;—
  Of all the sunbeams that did ever shine
  The very sweetest had to thee been given.

  A Picture had it been of lasting ease, 25
  Elysian quiet, without toil or strife;
  No motion but the moving tide, a breeze,
  Or merely silent Nature's breathing life.

  Such, in the fond illusion of my heart,
  Such Picture would I at that time have made: 30
  And seen the soul of truth in every part,
  A steadfast peace that might not be betrayed.

  So once it would have been,—'tis so no more;
  I have submitted to a new control:
  A power is gone, which nothing can restore; 35
  A deep distress hath humanized my Soul.

  Not for a moment could I now behold
  A smiling sea, and be what I have been:
  The feeling of my loss will ne'er be old;
  This, which I know, I speak with mind serene. 40

  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, 45
  Well chosen is 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, 50
  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 Kind!
  Such happiness, wherever it be known, 55
  Is to be pitied: for 'tis surely blind.

  But welcome fortitude, and patient cheer,
  And frequent sights of what is to be borne!
  Such sights, or worse, as are before me here.—
  Not without hope we suffer and we mourn. 60

2. FOUR SUMMER WEEKS. In 1794 Wordsworth spent part of a summer vacation at the house of his cousin, Mr. Barker, at Rampside, a village near Peele Castle.

6-7. Shelley has twice imitated these lines. Compare:—

        Within the surface of Time's fleeting river
          Its wrinkled Image lies, as then it lay
        Immovably unquiet, and for ever
          It trembles, but it cannot pass away.
                          Ode to Liberty, vi.

also the following:

        Within the surface of the fleeting river
          The wrinkled image of the city lay,
        Immovably unquiet, and for ever
          It trembles, but it never fades away.
                          Evening.

9-10. The calm was so complete that it did not seem a transient mood of the sea, a passing sleep.

13-16. Compare with the above original reading of 1807 (restored after 1827) the lines which Wordsworth substituted in 1820 and 1827.

          Ah! THEN, if mine had been the Painter's hand,
          To express what then I saw; and add a gleam,
          The lustre, known to neither sea nor land,
          But borrowed from the youthful Poet's dream.

35-36. A POWER IS GONE—SOUL. The reference is to the death at sea of his brother Captain John Wordsworth. The poet can no longer see things wholly idealized. His brother's death has revealed to him, however, the ennobling virtue of grief. Thus a personal loss is converted into human gain. Note especially in this connection l. 35 and ll. 53-60.

54. FROM THE KIND. From our fellow-beings.