Hope rules a land for ever green:
All powers that serve the bright-eyed Queen
Are confident and gay;
Clouds at her bidding disappear;
Points she to aught?—the bliss draws near, 5
And Fancy smooths the way.
Not such the land of Wishes—there
Dwell fruitless day-dreams, lawless prayer,
And thoughts with things at strife;
Yet how forlorn, should ye depart, 10
Ye superstitions of the heart,
How poor, were human life!
When magic lore abjured its might,
Ye did not forfeit one dear right,
One tender claim abate; 15
Witness this symbol of your sway,
Surviving near the public way,
The rustic Wishing-gate!
Inquire not if the faery race
Shed kindly influence on the place, 20
Ere northward they retired;
If here a warrior left a spell,
Panting for glory as he fell;
Or here a saint expired.
Enough that all around is fair, 25
Composed with Nature's finest care,
And in her fondest love—
Peace to embosom and content—
To overawe the turbulent,
The selfish to reprove. 30
Yea![547] even the Stranger from afar,
Reclining on this moss-grown bar,
Unknowing, and unknown,
The infection of the ground partakes,
Longing for his Belov'd—who makes 35
All happiness her own.
Then why should conscious Spirits fear
The mystic stirrings that are here,
The ancient faith disclaim?
The local Genius ne'er befriends 40
Desires whose course in folly ends,
Whose just reward is shame.
Smile if thou wilt, but not in scorn,
If some, by ceaseless pains outworn,
Here crave an easier lot; 45
If some have thirsted to renew
A broken vow, or bind a true,
With firmer, holier knot.
And not in vain, when thoughts are cast
Upon the irrevocable past, 50
Some Penitent sincere
May for a worthier future sigh,
While trickles from his downcast eye
No unavailing tear.
The Worldling, pining to be freed 55
From turmoil, who would turn or speed
The current of his fate,
Might stop before this favoured scene,
At Nature's call, nor blush to lean
Upon the Wishing-gate. 60
The Sage, who feels how blind, how weak
Is man, though loth such help to seek,
Yet, passing, here might pause,
And thirst[548] for insight to allay
Misgiving, while the crimson day 65
In quietness withdraws;
Or when the church-clock's knell profound[549]
To Time's first step across the bound
Of midnight makes reply;
Time pressing on with starry crest, 70
To filial sleep upon the breast
Of dread eternity.

The Wishing-gate was first published in The Keepsake in 1829, and next in the 1832 edition of the Poems.—Ed.

FOOTNOTES:

[546] Having been told, upon what I thought good authority, that this gate had been destroyed, and the opening where it hung walled up, I gave vent immediately to my feelings in these stanzas. But going to the place some time after, I found, with much delight, my old favourite unmolested.—W. W. 1832.

"The same triumphant power attributed to the Wishing-gate is fancifully attributed to an image of St. Bridget in the ruined Franciscan convent at Adare." (Mr. Aubrey de Vere.)

[547] 1832.

Yes! even ... 1829.

[548] 1836.

And yearn ... 1829.

[549] Grasmere Church.—Ed.


THE WISHING-GATE DESTROYED

Composed 1828.—Published 1842

One of the "Poems of the Imagination."—Ed.

'Tis gone—with old belief and dream
That round it clung, and tempting scheme
Released from fear and doubt;
And the bright landscape too must lie,
By this blank wall, from every eye, 5
Relentlessly shut out.
Bear witness ye who seldom passed
That opening—but a look ye cast
Upon the lake below,
What spirit-stirring power it gained 10
From faith which here was entertained,
Though reason might say no.
Blest is that ground, where, o'er the springs
Of history, Glory claps her wings,
Fame sheds the exulting tear; 15
Yet earth is wide, and many a nook
Unheard of is, like this, a book
For modest meanings dear.
It was in sooth a happy thought
That grafted, on so fair a spot, 20
So confident a token
Of coming good;—the charm is fled;
Indulgent centuries spun a thread,
Which one harsh day has broken.
Alas! for him who gave the word; 25
Could he no sympathy afford,
Derived from earth or heaven,
To hearts so oft by hope betrayed;
Their very wishes wanted aid
Which here was freely given? 30
Where, for the love-lorn maiden's wound,
Will now so readily be found
A balm of expectation?
Anxious for far-off children, where
Shall mothers breathe a like sweet air 35
Of home-felt consolation?
And not unfelt will prove the loss
'Mid trivial care and petty cross
And each day's shallow grief;
Though the most easily beguiled 40
Were oft among the first that smiled
At their own fond belief.
If still the reckless change we mourn,
A reconciling thought may turn
To harm that might lurk here, 45
Ere judgment prompted from within
Fit aims, with courage to begin,
And strength to persevere.
Not Fortune's slave is Man: our state
Enjoins, while firm resolves await 50
On wishes just and wise,
That strenuous action follow both,
And life be one perpetual growth
Of heaven-ward enterprise.
So taught, so trained, we boldly face 55
All accidents of time and place;
Whatever props may fail,
Trust in that sovereign law can spread
New glory o'er the mountain's head,
Fresh beauty through the vale. 60
That truth informing mind and heart,
The simplest cottager may part,
Ungrieved, with charm and spell;
And yet, lost Wishing-gate, to thee
The voice of grateful memory 65
Shall bid a kind farewell!

A gate—though not the "moss-grown bar" of 1828—still stands at the old place, where Wordsworth tells us one had stood "time out of mind;" so that a "blank wall" does not now shut out the "bright landscape," at the old, and classic, spot. Long may this gate stand, defying wind and weather!—Ed.


A JEWISH FAMILY

(IN A SMALL VALLEY OPPOSITE ST. GOAR, UPON THE RHINE)

Composed 1828.—Published 1835

[Coleridge, my daughter, and I, in 1828, passed a fortnight upon the banks of the Rhine, principally under the hospitable roof of Mr. Aders of Gotesburg, but two days of the time we spent at St. Goar in rambles among the neighbouring valleys. It was at St. Goar that I saw the Jewish family here described. Though exceedingly poor, and in rags, they were not less beautiful than I have endeavoured to make them appear. We had taken a little dinner with us in a basket, and invited them to partake of it, which the mother refused to do, both for herself and children, saying it was with them a fast-day; adding, diffidently, that whether such observances were right or wrong, she felt it her duty to keep them strictly. The Jews, who are numerous on this part of the Rhine, greatly surpass the German peasantry in the beauty of their features and in the intelligence of their countenances. But the lower classes of the German peasantry have, here at least, the air of people grievously opprest. Nursing mothers, at the age of seven or eight-and-twenty, often look haggard and far more decayed and withered than women of Cumberland and Westmoreland twice their age. This comes from being under-fed and over-worked in their vineyards in a hot and glaring sun.—I. F.]

One of the "Poems of the Imagination."—Ed.

Genius of Raphael! if thy wings
Might bear thee to this glen,
With faithful memory left of things[550]
To pencil dear and pen,
Thou would'st forego the neighbouring Rhine, 5
And all his majesty—
A studious forehead to incline
O'er[551] this poor family.
The Mother—her thou must have seen,
In spirit, ere she came 10
To dwell these rifted rocks between,
Or found on earth a name;
An image, too, of that sweet Boy,[552]
Thy inspirations give—
Of playfulness,[553] and love, and joy, 15
Predestined here to live.
Downcast, or shooting glances far,
How beautiful his eyes,
That blend the nature of the star
With that of summer skies! 20
I speak as if of sense beguiled;
Uncounted months are gone,
Yet am I with the Jewish Child,
That exquisite Saint John.
I see the dark-brown curls, the brow, 25
The smooth transparent skin,
Refined, as with intent to show
The holiness within;[554]
The grace of parting Infancy
By blushes yet untamed; 30
Age faithful to the mother's knee,
Nor of her arms ashamed.
Two lovely Sisters, still and sweet
As flowers, stand side by side;
Their soul-subduing looks[555] might cheat 35
The Christian of his pride:
Such beauty hath the Eternal poured
Upon them not forlorn,[556]
Though of a lineage once abhorred,
Nor yet redeemed from scorn. 40
Mysterious safeguard, that, in spite
Of poverty and wrong,
Doth here preserve a living light,
From Hebrew fountains sprung;
That gives this ragged group to cast 45
Around the dell a gleam
Of Palestine, of glory past,
And proud Jerusalem!

The title given to this poem by Dorothy Wordsworth, in the letter to Lady Beaumont in which the different MS. readings occur, is "A Jewish Family, met with in a Dingle near the Rhine." During the Continental Tour of 1820,—in which Wordsworth was accompanied by his wife and sister and other friends,—they went up the Rhine (see the notes to the poems recording that Tour). An extract from Mrs. Wordsworth's Journal, referring to the road from St. Goar to Bingen, may illustrate this poem, written in 1828. "From St. Goar to Bingen, castles commanding innumerable small fortified villages. Nothing could exceed the delightful variety, and at first the postilions whisked us too fast through these scenes; and afterwards, the same variety so often repeated, we became quite exhausted, at least D. and I were; and, beautiful as the road continued to be, we could scarcely keep our eyes open; but, on my being roused from one of these slumbers, no eye wide-awake ever beheld such celestial pictures as gleamed before mine, like visions belonging to dreams. The castles seemed now almost stationary, a continued succession always in sight, rarely without two or three before us at once. There they rose from the craggy cliffs, out of the centre of the stately river, from a green island, or a craggy rock, etc., etc."

In Dorothy Wordsworth's record of the same Tour, the following occurs:—"July 24.—We looked down into one of the vales tributary to the Rhine, which, in memory of the mountain recesses of Ullswater, I named Deep-dale, a green quiet place, spotted with villages and single houses, and enlivened by a sinuous brook." ... "A lovely dell runs behind one of these hills. At its opening, where it pours out its stream into the Rhine, we espied a one-arched Borrowdale bridge; and, behind the bridge, a village almost buried between the abruptly rising steeps."—Ed.

FOOTNOTES:

[550] 1835.

With memory left of shapes and things


MS. written by Dorothy Wordsworth.

[551] 1835.

On ...


MS. by Dorothy Wordsworth.

[552] 1835.

... this sweet Boy,


MS. by Dorothy Wordsworth.

[553] 1835.

In playfulness, ...


MS. by Dorothy Wordsworth.

[554] Compare The Russian Fugitive, ll. 1-4.—Ed.

[555] 1835.

Fair Creatures, in this lone retreat
By happy chance espied,
Your soul-subduing looks ...


MS. by Dorothy Wordsworth.

[556] 1835.

Upon you—not forlorn,


MS. by Dorothy Wordsworth.


INCIDENT AT BRUGÈS

Composed 1828.—Published 1835

[This occurred at Brugès in 1828. Mr. Coleridge, my daughter, and I made a tour together in Flanders, upon the Rhine, and returned by Holland. Dora and I, while taking a walk along a retired part of the town, heard the voice as here described, and were afterwards informed it was a convent in which were many English. We were both much touched, I might say affected, and Dora moved as appears in the verses.—I. F.]

One of the "Memorials of a Tour on the Continent."—Ed.

In Brugès town is many a street
Whence busy life hath fled;[557]
Where, without hurry, noiseless feet,
The grass-grown pavement tread.
There heard we, halting in the shade 5
Flung from a Convent-tower,
A harp that tuneful prelude made
To a voice of thrilling power.[558]
The measure, simple truth to tell,
Was fit for some gay throng; 10
Though from the same grim turret fell
The shadow and the song.
When silent were both voice and chords,
The strain seemed doubly dear,
Yet sad as sweet,—for English words 15
Had fallen upon the ear.[559]
It was a breezy hour of eve;
And[560] pinnacle and spire
Quivered and seemed almost to heave,
Clothed with innocuous fire; 20
But, where we stood, the setting sun
Showed little of his state;
And, if the glory reached the Nun,
'Twas through an iron grate.[561]
Not always is the heart unwise,[562] 25
Nor pity idly born,
If even[563] a passing Stranger sighs
For them who do not mourn.
Sad is thy doom, self-solaced dove,
Captive, whoe'er thou be![564] 30
Oh! what is beauty, what is love,
And opening life to thee?
Such feeling pressed upon my soul,
A feeling sanctified
By one soft trickling tear that stole 35
From the Maiden at my side;
Less tribute could she pay than this,
Borne gaily o'er the sea,
Fresh from the beauty and the bliss
Of English liberty? 40

In the final arrangement of the poems, this one was published amongst the Memorials of a Tour on the Continent (1820), where it followed the two sonnets on Brugès. The poems suggested by the shorter Tour of 1828 are here published together, in their chronological order.

In an undated letter of Dorothy Wordsworth's to Lady Beaumont, before copying out this poem and A Jewish Family, she says, "The two following poems were taken from incidents recorded in Dora's journal of her tour with her father and S. T. Coleridge. As I well recollect, she has related the incidents very pleasingly, and I hope you will agree with me in thinking that the poet has made good use of them."—Ed.

FOOTNOTES:

[557] 1835.

... is fled,


MS. written by Dorothy Wordsworth.

[558] 1835.

To a voice like bird in bower.


MS. by Dorothy Wordsworth.

... birds ...


MS. by Mrs. Wordsworth.

[559] 1835.

Like them who think they hear,
We listened still; for English words
Had dropped upon the ear.


MS. by Mrs. Wordsworth.

The strain seemed doubly dear,
Yea passing sweet—for English words
Had dropt upon the ear.


MS. by Dorothy Wordsworth.

[560] 1835.

When ...


MS. by Dorothy Wordsworth.

[561] Compare the Sonnet—

It is a beauteous evening, calm and free,
The holy time is quiet as a Nun.—Ed.

[562] 1835.

The restless heart is not unwise,


MS. by Dorothy Wordsworth.

[563] 1835.

When even ...


MS. by Dorothy Wordsworth.

[564] 1835.

Sad is thy doom, imprisoned dove,
Whoe'er thou mayest be.


MS. by Dorothy Wordsworth.


A GRAVE-STONE UPON THE FLOOR IN THE CLOISTERS OF WORCESTER CATHEDRAL

Composed 1828.[565]—Published 1829 (in The Keepsake)

["Miserrimus." Many conjectures have been formed as to the person who lies under this stone. Nothing appears to be known for a certainty. Query—The Rev. Mr. Morris, a non-conformist, a sufferer for conscience-sake; a worthy man who, having been deprived of his benefice after the accession of William III., lived to an old age in extreme destitution, on the alms of charitable Jacobites.—I.F.]

One of the "Miscellaneous Sonnets."—Ed.

"Miserrimus!" and neither name nor date,
Prayer, text, or symbol, graven upon the stone;[566]
Nought but that word assigned to the unknown,
That solitary word—to separate
From all, and cast a cloud around the fate 5
Of him who lies beneath. Most wretched one,
Who chose his epitaph?—Himself alone
Could thus have dared the grave to agitate,
And claim, among the dead, this awful crown;
Nor doubt that He marked also for his own 10
Close to these cloistral steps a burial-place,
That every foot might fall with heavier tread,
Trampling upon his vileness. Stranger, pass
Softly!—To save the contrite, Jesus bled.

FOOTNOTES:

[565] This, and the following sonnet on the tradition of Oker Hill, first published in The Keepsake of 1829, appeared in the 1832 edition of the Poetical Works.—Ed.

[566] The stone is in the cloisters of Worcester Cathedral, at the north-west corner of the quadrangle, just below the doorway leading into the nave of the cathedral. It is a small stone, two feet, by one and a half. The Reverend Thomas Maurice (or Morris)—a minor canon of Worcester, and vicar of Clains—refused to take the oath of allegiance at the Revolution Settlement, and was accordingly deprived of his benefice. He lived to the age of 88, on the generosity of the richer non-jurors, and died 1748. (See Murray's Guide to Warwickshire, and Richard King's Handbook to the Cathedral of Worcester.)—Ed.


THE GLEANER

(SUGGESTED BY A PICTURE)

Composed 1828.—Published 1829

[This poem was first printed in the annual called The Keepsake. The painter's name I am not sure of, but I think it was Holmes.[567]—I.F.]

In 1832 one of the "Poems of Sentiment and Reflection." Transferred in 1845 to "Miscellaneous Poems."—Ed.

That happy gleam of vernal eyes,
Those locks from summer's golden skies,
That o'er thy brow are shed;
That cheek—a kindling of the morn,
That lip—a rose-bud from the thorn, 5
I saw; and Fancy sped
To scenes Arcadian, whispering, through soft air,
Of bliss that grows without a care,
And[568] happiness that never flies—
(How can it where love never dies?) 10
Whispering of promise,[569] where no blight
Can reach the innocent delight;
Where pity, to the mind conveyed
In pleasure, is the darkest shade
That Time, unwrinkled grandsire, flings 15
From his smoothly gliding wings.
What mortal form, what earthly face
Inspired the pencil, lines to trace,
And mingle colours, that should breed
Such rapture, nor want power to feed; 20
For had thy charge been idle flowers,
Fair Damsel! o'er my captive mind,
To truth and sober reason blind,
'Mid that soft air, those long-lost bowers,
The sweet illusion might have hung, for hours. 25
Thanks to this tell-tale sheaf of corn,
That touchingly bespeaks thee born
Life's daily tasks with them to share
Who, whether from their lowly bed
They rise, or rest the weary head, 30
Ponder the blessing[570] they entreat
From Heaven, and feel what they repeat,
While they give utterance to the prayer
That asks for daily bread.

The year of the publication of this poem in The Keepsake was 1829. It then appeared under the title of The Country Girl, and it was afterwards included in the 1832 edition of the poems.—Ed.

FOOTNOTES:

[567] The painter was J. Holmes, and his picture was engraved by C. Heath.—Ed.

[568] 1837.

Of ... 1829.

[569] 1837.

Of promise whispering, ... 1832.

[570] 1832.

Do weigh the blessing ... 1829.

ON[571] THE POWER OF SOUND

Composed December 1828.—Published 1835

[Written at Rydal Mount. I have often regretted that my tour in Ireland, chiefly performed in the short days of October in a carriage-and-four (I was with Mr. Marshall), supplied my memory with so few images that were new, and with so little motive to write. The lines however in this poem, "Thou too be heard, lone eagle!" were suggested near the Giants' Causeway, or rather at the promontory of Fairhead, where a pair of eagles wheeled above our heads and darted off as if to hide themselves in a blaze of sky made by the setting sun.—I.F.]

One of the "Poems of the Imagination."-Ed.

ARGUMENT

The Ear addressed, as occupied by a spiritual functionary, in communion with sounds, individual, or combined in studied harmony.—Sources and effects of those sounds (to the close of 6th Stanza).—The power of music, whence proceeding, exemplified in the idiot.—Origin of music, and its effect in early ages—how produced (to the middle of 10th Stanza).—The mind recalled to sounds acting casually and severally.—Wish uttered (11th Stanza) that these could be united into a scheme or system for moral interests and intellectual contemplation.—(Stanza 12th.) The Pythagorean theory of numbers and music, with their supposed power over the motions of the universe—imaginations consonant with such a theory.—Wish expressed (in 11th Stanza) realised, in some degree, by the representation of all sounds under the form of thanksgiving to the Creator.—(Last Stanza) the destruction of earth and the planetary system—the survival of audible harmony, and its support in the Divine Nature, as revealed in Holy Writ.

I

Thy functions are ethereal,
As if within thee dwelt a glancing mind,
Organ of vision! And a Spirit aërial
Informs the cell of Hearing, dark and blind;
Intricate labyrinth, more dread for thought 5
To enter than oracular cave;
Strict passage, through which sighs are brought,
And whispers for the heart, their slave;
And shrieks, that revel in abuse
Of shivering flesh; and warbled air, 10
Whose piercing sweetness can unloose
The chains of frenzy, or entice a smile
Into the ambush of despair;
Hosannas pealing down the long-drawn aisle,[572]
And requiems answered by the pulse that beats 15
Devoutly, in life's last retreats!

II