The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Poetical Works of William Wordsworth, Volume IV (of 8), by William Wordsworth

Who is the happy Warrior? Who is he
That [1] every man in arms should wish to be?
—It is the generous Spirit, who, when brought
Among the tasks of real life, hath wrought
Upon the plan that pleased his boyish [2] thought: 5
Whose high endeavours are an inward light
That makes [3] the path before him always bright:
Who, with a natural instinct to discern
What knowledge can perform, is diligent to learn;
Abides by this resolve, and stops not there, 10
But makes his moral being his prime care;
Who, doomed to go in company with Pain,
And Fear, and Bloodshed, miserable train!
Turns his necessity to glorious gain;
In face of these doth exercise a power 15
Which is our human nature's highest dower;
Controls them and subdues, transmutes, bereaves
Of their bad influence, and their good receives:
By objects, which might force the soul to abate
Her feeling, rendered more compassionate; 20
Is placable—because occasions rise
So often that demand such sacrifice;
More skilful in self-knowledge, even more pure,
As tempted more; more able to endure,
As more exposed to suffering and distress; 25
Thence, also, more alive to tenderness.
—'Tis he whose law is reason; who depends
Upon that law as on the best of friends;
Whence, in a state where men are tempted still
To evil for a guard against worse ill, 30
And what in quality or act is best
Doth seldom on a right foundation rest,
He labours good on good to fix,[4] and owes
To virtue every triumph that he knows:
—Who, if he rise to station of command, 35
Rises by open means; and there will stand
On honourable terms, or else retire,
And in himself possess his own desire;
Who comprehends his trust, and to the same
Keeps faithful with a singleness of aim; 40
And therefore does not stoop, nor lie in wait
For wealth, or honours, or for worldly state;
Whom they must follow; on whose head must fall,
Like showers of manna, if they come at all:[A]
Whose powers shed round him in the common strife,
Or mild concerns of ordinary life, 46
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, 50
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, 55
Come when it will, is equal to the need:
—He who, though thus endued as with a sense
And faculty for storm and turbulence,
Is yet a Soul whose master-bias leans
To homefelt pleasures and to gentle scenes; 60
Sweet images! which, wheresoe'er he be,
Are at his heart; and such fidelity
It is his darling passion to approve;
More brave for this, that he hath much to love:—
'Tis, finally, the Man, who, lifted high, 65
Conspicuous object in a Nation's eye,
Or left unthought-of in obscurity,—
Who, with a toward or untoward lot,
Prosperous or adverse, to his wish or not—
Plays, in the many games of life, that one 70
Where what he most doth value must be won:
Whom neither shape of danger can dismay,
Nor thought of tender happiness betray;
Who, not content that former worth stand fast,
Looks forward, persevering to the last, 75
From well to better, daily self-surpast:[B]
Who, whether praise of him must walk the earth
For ever, and to noble deeds give birth,
Or he must fall, to sleep without his fame,[5]
And leave a dead unprofitable name— 80
Finds comfort in himself and in his cause;
And, while the mortal mist is gathering, draws
His breath in confidence of Heaven's applause:
This is the happy Warrior; this is He
That [6] every Man in arms should wish to be. 85

The following note was appended by Wordsworth in the edition of 1807. "The above Verses were written soon after tidings had been received of the Death of Lord Nelson, which event directed the Author's thoughts to the subject. His respect for the memory of his great fellow-countryman induces him to mention this; though he is well aware that the Verses must suffer from any connection in the Reader's mind with a Name so illustrious."

This note would seem to warrant our removing the date of the composition of the poem from 1806 to 1805; since Lord Nelson died at the battle of Trafalgar, on the 21st of October 1805. On the other hand, Wordsworth himself gave the date 1806; and the "soon after" of the above note may perhaps be stretched to include two months and a half. In writing to Sir George Beaumont on the 11th of February 1806, and enclosing a copy of these verses, he says, "they were written several weeks ago." Southey, writing to Sir Walter Scott, from Keswick, on the 4th of February 1806, says, "Wordsworth was with me last week; he has of late been more employed in correcting his poems than in writing 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, though having no reference to it. He had some thoughts of sending it to The Courier, in which case you will easily recognise his hand." (The Life and Correspondence of Robert Southey, vol. iii. p. 19.) As it is impossible to decide with accuracy, in the absence of more definite data, I follow the poet's own statement, and assign it to the year 1806.

Wordsworth tells us that features in the character, both of Lord Nelson and of his own brother John, are delineated in this poem. Mr. William Davies writes to me, "He might very well have set the name of Cuthbert, Lord Collingwood, Nelson's contemporary, at the head of the poem, as embodying its spirit and lofty rule of life."—Ed.

THE HORN OF EGREMONT CASTLE

Ere the Brothers through the gateway
Issued forth with old and young,
To the Horn Sir Eustace pointed
Which for ages there had hung.[1]
Horn it was which none could sound, 5
No one upon living ground,
Save He who came as rightful Heir
To Egremont's Domains and Castle fair.

Heirs from times of earliest record [2]
Had the House of Lucie born, 10
Who of right had held the Lordship
Claimed by proof upon the Horn:[3]
Each at the appointed hour
Tried the Horn,—it owned his power;
He was acknowledged: and the blast, 15
Which good Sir Eustace sounded, was the last.

With his lance Sir Eustace pointed,
And to Hubert thus said he,
"What I speak this Horn shall witness
For thy better memory. 20
Hear, then, and neglect me not!
At this time, and on this spot,
The words are uttered from my heart,
As my last earnest prayer ere we depart.

"On good service we are going 25
Life to risk by sea and land,
In which course if Christ our Saviour
Do my sinful soul demand,
Hither come thou back straightway,
Hubert, if alive that day; 30
Return, and sound the Horn, that we
May have a living House still left in thee!"

"Fear not," quickly answered Hubert;
"As I am thy Father's son,
What thou askest, noble Brother, 35
With God's favour shall be done."
So were both right well content:
Forth they from the Castle went,[4]
And at the head of their Array
To Palestine the Brothers took their way. 40

Side by side they fought (the Lucies
Were a line for valour famed)
And where'er their strokes alighted,
There the Saracens were tamed.
Whence, then, could it come—the thought— 45
By what evil spirit brought?
Oh! can a brave Man wish to take
His Brother's life, for Lands' and Castle's sake?

"Sir!" the Ruffians said to Hubert,
"Deep he lies in Jordan flood." 50
Stricken by this ill assurance,
Pale and trembling Hubert stood.
"Take your earnings."—Oh! that I
Could have seen[5] my Brother die!
It was a pang that vexed him then; 55
And oft returned, again, and yet again.

Months passed on, and no Sir Eustace!
Nor of him were tidings heard.
Wherefore, bold as day, the Murderer
Back again to England steered. 60
To his Castle Hubert sped;
Nothing has he [6] now to dread.
But silent and by stealth he came,
And at an hour which nobody could name.

None could tell if it were night-time, 65
Night or day, at even or morn;
No one's eye had seen him enter,
No one's ear had heard the Horn.[7]
But bold Hubert lives in glee:
Months and years went smilingly; 70
With plenty was his table spread;
And bright the Lady is who shares his bed.

Likewise he had sons and daughters;
And, as good men do, he sate
At his board by these surrounded, 75
Flourishing in fair estate.
And while thus in open day
Once he sate, as old books say,
A blast was uttered from the Horn,
Where by the Castle-gate it hung forlorn. 80

'Tis the breath of good Sir Eustace!
He is come to claim his right:
Ancient castle, woods, and mountains
Hear the challenge with delight.
Hubert! though the blast be blown 85
He is helpless and alone:
Thou hast a dungeon, speak the word!
And there he may be lodged, and thou be Lord.

Speak!—astounded Hubert cannot;
And, if power to speak he had, 90
All are daunted, all the household
Smitten to the heart, and sad.
'Tis Sir Eustace; if it be
Living man, it must be he!
Thus Hubert thought in his dismay, 95
And by a postern-gate he slunk away.[8]

Long, and long was he unheard of:
To his Brother then he came,
Made confession, asked forgiveness,
Asked it by a brother's name, 100
And by all the saints in heaven;
And of Eustace was forgiven:
Then in a convent went to hide
His melancholy head, and there he died.

But Sir Eustace, whom good angels 105
Had preserved from murderers' hands,
And from Pagan chains had rescued,
Lived with honour on his lands.
Sons he had, saw sons of theirs:
And through ages, heirs of heirs, 110
A long posterity renowned,
Sounded the Horn which they alone could sound.

The following note is appended to this poem in the edition of 1807, and in those of 1836 to 1850:—

"This Story is a Cumberland tradition; I have heard it also related of the Hall of Hutton John, an antient residence of the Huddlestones, in a sequestered Valley upon the River Dacor."

Egremont Castle, to which this Cumberland tradition was transferred, is close to the town of Egremont, an ancient borough on the river Ehen, not far from St. Bees. The castle was founded about the beginning of the twelfth century, by William, brother of Ranulph de Meschines, who bestowed on William the whole of the extensive barony of Copeland. The gateway of the castle is vaulted with semi-circular arches, and defended by a strong tower. Westward from the castle area is an ascent to three narrow gates, standing in a line, and close together. These communicated with the outworks, each being defended by a portcullis. Beyond the gates is an artificial mound, seventy-eight feet above the moat; and on this stood an ancient circular tower. (See a description of the castle in Britton and Brayley's Cumberland.) The river Dacor, or Dacre, referred to in Wordsworth's note, joins the Emont a short way below Ullswater; and the hall of Hutton John, which in the reign of Edward III. belonged to the barony of Graystock, passed in the time of Elizabeth to the Huddlestones. The famous Catholic father, John Huddlestone, chaplain to Charles II. and James II., was of this family.

In the edition of 1815, there is the following footnote to the title of the poem:—"This Poem and the Ballad which follows it" (it was that of Goody Blake and Harry Gill), "as they rather refer to the imagination than are produced by it, would not have been placed here" (i.e. among the "Poems of the Imagination"), "but to avoid a needless multiplication of the Classes."

The text of 1807 underwent no change until 1845. But—as is shown by the notes in the late Lord Coleridge's copy of the edition of 1836—the alterations subsequently adopted in 1845 were made in the interval between these years.—Ed.

A COMPLAINT

There is a change—and I am poor;
Your love hath been, nor long ago,
A fountain at my fond heart's door,
Whose only business was to flow;
And flow it did; not taking heed 5
Of its own bounty, or my need.

What happy moments did I count!
Blest was I then all bliss above!
Now, for that [1] consecrated fount
Of murmuring, sparkling, living love, 10
What have I? shall I dare to tell?
A comfortless and hidden well.

A well of love—it may be deep—
I trust it is,—and never dry:
What matter? if the waters sleep 15
In silence and obscurity.
—Such change, and at the very door
Of my fond heart, hath made me poor.

It is highly probable that the friend was S. T. Coleridge. See the Life of Wordsworth (1889), vol. ii. pp. 166, 167.—Ed.

STRAY PLEASURES

By their floating mill,
That [1] lies dead and still,
Behold yon Prisoners three,
The Miller with two Dames, on the breast of the Thames!
The platform is small, but gives room [2] for them all; 5
And they're dancing merrily.

From the shore come the notes
To their mill where it floats,
To their house and their mill tethered fast:
To the small wooden isle where, their work to beguile, 10
They from morning to even take whatever is given;—
And many a blithe day they have past.[3]

In sight of the spires,
All alive with the fires
Of the sun going down to his rest, 15
In the broad open eye of the solitary sky,
They dance,—there are three, as jocund as free,
While they dance on the calm river's breast.

Man and Maidens wheel,
They themselves make the reel, 20
And their music's a prey which they seize;
It plays not for them,—what matter? 'tis theirs;
And if they had care, it has scattered their cares
While they dance, crying, "Long as ye please!"

They dance not for me,25
Yet mine is their glee!
Thus pleasure is spread through the earth
In stray gifts to be claimed by whoever shall find;
Thus a rich loving-kindness, redundantly kind,
Moves all nature to gladness and mirth. 30

The showers of the spring
Rouse the birds, and they sing;
If the wind do but stir for his proper delight,
Each leaf, that and this, his neighbour will kiss;[A]
Each wave, one and t'other, speeds after his brother; 35
They are happy, for that is their right!

Wordsworth went up to London in April 1806, where he stayed two months. It was, doubtless, on that occasion that these lines were written. The year mentioned in the Fenwick note is incorrect. It was in 1790 that Wordsworth crossed France with his friend Jones.—Ed.

POWER OF MUSIC

An Orpheus! an Orpheus! yes, Faith may grow bold,
And take to herself all the wonders of old;—
Near the stately Pantheon you'll meet with the same
In the street that from Oxford hath borrowed its name.

His station is there; and he works on the crowd, 5
He sways them with harmony merry and loud;
He fills with his power all their hearts to the brim—
Was aught ever heard like his fiddle and him?

What an eager assembly! what an empire is this!
The weary have life, and the hungry have bliss; 10
The mourner is cheered, and the anxious have rest;
And the guilt-burthened soul is no longer opprest.

As the Moon brightens round her the clouds of the night,
So He, where he stands, is a centre of light;
It gleams on the face, there, of dusky-browed [1] Jack, 15
And the pale-visaged Baker's, with basket on back.

That errand-bound 'Prentice was passing in haste—
What matter! he's caught—and his time runs to waste;
The Newsman is stopped, though he stops on the fret;
And the half-breathless Lamplighter—he's in the net! 20

The Porter sits down on the weight which he bore;
The Lass with her barrow wheels hither her store;[2]—
If a thief could be here he might pilfer at ease;
She sees the Musician, 'tis all that she sees! 24

He stands, backed by the wall;—he abates not his din;
His hat gives him vigour, with boons dropping in,
From the old and the young, from the poorest; and there!
The one-pennied Boy has his penny to spare.

O blest are the hearers, and proud be the hand 29
Of the pleasure it spreads through so thankful a band;
I am glad for him, blind as he is!—all the while
If they speak 'tis to praise, and they praise with a smile.

That tall Man, a giant in bulk and in height,
Not an inch of his body is free from delight;
Can he keep himself still, if he would? oh, not he! 35
The music stirs in him like wind through a tree.

Mark that Cripple [3] who leans on his crutch; like a tower
That long has leaned forward, leans hour after hour!—
That Mother,[4] whose spirit in fetters is bound,
While she dandles the Babe in her arms to the sound. 40

Now, coaches and chariots! roar on like a stream;
Here are twenty souls happy as souls in a dream:
They are deaf to your murmurs—they care not for you,
Nor what ye are flying, nor [5] what ye pursue!

This must be assigned to the same London visit, in the spring of 1806, referred to in the note to the previous poem.

Charles Lamb wrote to Wordsworth in 1815, "Your Power of Music reminded me of his" (Bourne's) "poem of The Ballad Singer in the Seven Dials."—Ed.

THE HORN OF EGREMONT CASTLE

A COMPLAINT

STRAY PLEASURES

POWER OF MUSIC

STAR-GAZERS