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"It is no Spirit who from heaven hath flown"
Composed 1803.—Published 1807
[Written at Town-end, Grasmere. I remember the instant my sister S. H.,
called me to the window of our Cottage, saying, "Look how beautiful is
yon star! It has the sky all to itself." I composed the verses
immediately.—I. F.]
This was No. XIII. of "Moods of my own Mind," in the edition of 1807. It
was afterwards included among the "Poems of the Imagination."—Ed.
The Poem
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| It is no Spirit who from heaven hath flown, And is descending on his embassy; Nor Traveller gone from earth the heavens to espy! 'Tis Hesperus—there he stands with glittering crown, First admonition that the sun is down! For yet it is broad day-light: clouds pass by; A few are near him still—and now the sky, He hath it to himself—'tis all his own. O most ambitious Star! an inquest wrought Within me when I recognised thy light; A moment I was startled at the sight: And, while I gazed, there came to me a thought That I might step beyond my natural race As thou seem'st now to do; might one day trace Some ground not mine; and, strong her strength above, My Soul, an Apparition in the place, Tread there with steps that no one shall reprove! Contents 1803 Main Contents |
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The text of 1836 returns to that of 1807.
Professor Dowden directs attention to the relation between
these lines and the poem beginning "If thou indeed derive thy light from
Heaven."—Ed.
Memorials of a Tour in Scotland
1803
These poems were first collected, under the above title, in the edition
of 1827. In 1807, nine of them—viz. Rob Roy's Grave, The Solitary
Reaper, Stepping Westward, Glen Almain, or, The Narrow Glen, The Matron
of Jedborough and her Husband, To a Highland Girl, Sonnet, To the Sons
of Burns after visiting the Grave of their Father, Yarrow
Unvisited,—were printed under the title, "Poems written during a Tour
in Scotland." This group begins the second volume of the edition of that
year. But in 1815 and 1820—when Wordsworth began to arrange his poems
in groups—they were distributed with the rest of the series in the
several artificial sections. Although some were composed after the Tour
was finished—and the order in which Wordsworth placed them is not the
order of the Scotch Tour itself—it is advisable to keep to his own
method of arrangement in dealing with this particular group, for the
same reason that we retain it in such a series as the Duddon
Sonnets.—Ed.
Departure from the Vale of Grasmere. (August, 1803)A
Composed 1811.—Published 1827
[Mr. Coleridge, my sister, and myself started together from Town-end to
make a tour in Scotland. Poor Coleridge was at that time in bad spirits,
and somewhat too much in love with his own dejection; and he departed
from us, as is recorded in my Sister's Journal, soon after we left Loch
Lomond. The verses that stand foremost among these Memorials were not
actually written for the occasion, but transplanted from my Epistle to
Sir George Beaumont.—I. F.]
The Poem
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| The gentlest Shade that walked Elysian plains Might sometimes covet dissoluble chains; Even for the tenants of the zone that lies Beyond the stars, celestial Paradise, Methinks 'twould heighten joy, to overleap At will the crystal battlements, and peep Into some other region, though less fair, To see how things are made and managed there. Change for the worse might please, incursion bold Into the tracts of darkness and of cold; O'er Limbo lake with aëry flight to steer, And on the verge of Chaos hang in fear. Such animation often do I find, Power in my breast, wings growing in my mind, Then, when some rock or hill is overpast, Perchance without one look behind me cast, Some barrier with which Nature, from the birth Of things, has fenced this fairest spot on earth. O pleasant transit, Grasmere! to resign Such happy fields, abodes so calm as thine; Not like an outcast with himself at strife; The slave of business, time, or care for life, But moved by choice; or, if constrained in part, Yet still with Nature's freedom at the heart;— To cull contentment upon wildest shores, And luxuries extract from bleakest moors; With prompt embrace all beauty to enfold, And having rights in all that we behold. —Then why these lingering steps?—A bright adieu, For a brief absence, proves that love is true; Ne'er can the way be irksome or forlorn That winds into itself for sweet return. Note Contents 1803 Main Contents |
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This first poem referring to the Scottish Tour of 1803, was
not actually written till 1811. It originally formed the opening
paragraph of the 'Epistle to Sir George Beaumont'. Wordsworth himself
dated it 1804. It is every way desirable that it should introduce the
series of poems referring to the Tour of 1803.—Ed.
Note:
The following is from Dorothy Wordsworth's Recollections of a Tour made
in Scotland:
"William and I parted from Mary on Sunday afternoon, August 14th, 1803; and William, Coleridge, and I left Keswick on Monday morning, the 15th."
Ed.
At the Grave of Burns, 1803. Seven Years after his Death
Composed 1803A.—Published 1842
[For illustration, see my Sister's Journal. It may be proper to add that
the second of these pieces, though felt at the time, was not composed
till many years after.—I. F.]
The Poem
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| I shiver, Spirit fierce and bold, At thought of what I now behold: As vapours breathed from dungeons cold Strike pleasure dead, So sadness comes from out the mould Where Burns is laid. And have I then thy bones so near, And thou forbidden to appear? As if it were thyself that's here I shrink with pain; And both my wishes and my fear Alike are vain. Off weight—nor press on weight!—away Dark thoughts!—they came, but not to stay; With chastened feelings would I pay The tribute due To him, and aught that hides his clay From mortal view. Fresh as the flower, whose modest worth He sang, his genius "glinted" forth, Rose like a star that touching earth, For so it seems, Doth glorify its humble birth With matchless beams. The piercing eye, the thoughtful brow, The struggling heart, where be they now?— Full soon the Aspirant of the plough, The prompt, the brave, Slept, with the obscurest, in the low And silent grave. I mourned with thousands, but as one More deeply grieved, for He was gone Whose light I hailed when first it shone, And showed my youth How Verse may build a princely throne On humble truth. Alas! where'er the current tends, Regret pursues and with it blends,— Huge Criffel's hoary top ascends By Skiddaw seen,— Neighbours we were, and loving friends We might have been; True friends though diversely inclined; But heart with heart and mind with mind, Where the main fibres are entwined, Through Nature's skill, May even by contraries be joined More closely still. The tear will start, and let it flow; Thou "poor Inhabitant below," At this dread moment—even so— Might we together Have sate and talked where gowans blow, Or on wild heather. What treasures would have then been placed Within my reach; of knowledge graced By fancy what a rich repast! But why go on?— Oh! spare to sweep, thou mournful blast, His grave grass-grown. There, too, a Son, his joy and pride, (Not three weeks past the Stripling died,) Lies gathered to his Father's side, Soul-moving sight! Yet one to which is not denied Some sad delight. For he is safe, a quiet bed Hath early found among the dead, Harboured where none can be misled, Wronged, or distrest; And surely here it may be said That such are blest. And oh for Thee, by pitying grace Checked oft-times in a devious race, May He who halloweth the place Where Man is laid Receive thy Spirit in the embrace For which it prayed! Sighing I turned away; but ere Night fell I heard, or seemed to hear, Music that sorrow comes not near, A ritual hymn, Chanted in love that casts out fear By Seraphim. Note Contents 1803 Main Contents |
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| 1845 | |
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1842 |
It is dated thus by Wordsworth himself on three occasions,
and the year of its composition is also indicated in the title of the
poem.—Ed.
Compare Burns's poem To a Mountain Daisy, l. 15.—Ed.
See Burns's A Bard's Epitaph, l. 19.—Ed.
Compare The Tomb of Burns, by William Watson, 1895.—Ed.
Criffel.—Ed.
Annandale.—Ed.
See in his poem the Ode to Ruin.—Ed.
Note:
The following is an extract from Dorothy Wordsworth's Journal of the
Tour in Scotland:
"Thursday, August 18th.— Went to the churchyard where Burns is buried. A bookseller accompanied us. He showed us the outside of Burns's house, where he had lived the last three years of his life, and where he died. It has a mean appearance, and is in a bye situation, whitewashed.... Went on to visit his grave. He lies at a corner of the churchyard, and his second son, Francis Wallace, beside him. There is no stone to mark the spot; but a hundred guineas have been collected, to be expended on some sort of monument.We looked at the grave with melancholy and painful reflections, repeating to each other his own verses.'There,' said the bookseller, pointing to a pompous monument, 'there lies Mr. Such-a-one. I have forgotten his name. A remarkably clever man; he was an attorney, and hardly ever lost a cause he undertook. Burns made many a lampoon upon him, and there they rest, as you see.'"I cannot take leave of the country which we passed through to-day without mentioning that we saw the Cumberland Mountains, within half-a-mile of Ellisland, Burns's house, the last view we had of them. Drayton has prettily described the connection which this neighbourhood has with ours when he makes Skiddaw say:'Is there a man whose judgment clear,
Can others teach the way to steer,
Yet runs himself life's mad career,
Wild as the wave?
Here let him pause, and through a tear
Survey this grave.
The poor Inhabitant below
Was quick to learn, and wise to know,
And keenly felt the friendly glow,
And softer flame;
But thoughtless follies laid him low
And stained his name.'"These lines recurred to William's memory, and we talked of Burns, and of the prospect he must have had, perhaps from his own door, of Skiddaw and his companions, including ourselves in the fancy, that we might have been personally known to each other, and he have looked upon those objects with more pleasure for our sakes."
Ed.
Thoughts suggested the Day following, on the Banks of Nith, near the Poet's Residence
Composed 1803.A—Published 1842
The Poem
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| Too frail to keep the lofty vow That must have followed when his brow Was wreathed—"The Vision" tells us how— With holly spray, He faultered, drifted to and fro, And passed away. Well might such thoughts, dear Sister, throng Our minds when, lingering all too long, Over the grave of Burns we hung In social grief— Indulged as if it were a wrong To seek relief. But, leaving each unquiet theme Where gentlest judgments may misdeem, And prompt to welcome every gleam Of good and fair, Let us beside this limpid Stream Breathe hopeful air. Enough of sorrow, wreck, and blight; Think rather of those moments bright When to the consciousness of right His course was true, When Wisdom prospered in his sight And virtue grew. Yes, freely let our hearts expand, Freely as in youth's season bland, When side by side, his Book in hand, We wont to stray, Our pleasure varying at command Of each sweet Lay. How oft inspired must he have trod These pathways, yon far-stretching road! There lurks his home; in that Abode, With mirth elate, Or in his nobly-pensive mood, The Rustic sate. Proud thoughts that Image overawes, Before it humbly let us pause, And ask of Nature, from what cause And by what rules She trained her Burns to win applause That shames the Schools. Through busiest street and loneliest glen Are felt the flashes of his pen; He rules mid winter snows, and when Bees fill their hives; Deep in the general heart of men His power survives. What need of fields in some far clime Where Heroes, Sages, Bards sublime, And all that fetched the flowing rhyme From genuine springs, Shall dwell together till old Time Folds up his wings? Sweet Mercy! to the gates of Heaven This Minstrel lead, his sins forgiven; The rueful conflict, the heart riven With vain endeavour, And memory of Earth's bitter leaven, Effaced for ever. But why to Him confine the prayer, When kindred thoughts and yearnings bear On the frail heart the purest share With all that live?— The best of what we do and are, Just God, forgive! Note Contents 1803 Main Contents |
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Though "suggested" on "the day following," these stanzas
were not written then; but "many years after." They must, however, find
a place in the "Memorials" of this 1803 Tour in Scotland.—Ed.
Burns's poem, thus named.—Ed.