THE WARNING
A SEQUEL TO THE FOREGOING
Composed March 1833.—Published 1835
[These lines were composed during the fever spread through
the nation by the Reform Bill. As the motives which led to
this measure, and the good or evil which has attended or has
risen from it, will be duly appreciated by future historians,
there is no call for dwelling on the subject in this place. I will
content myself with saying that the then condition of the people's
mind is not, in these verses, exaggerated.—I. F.]
One of the "Poems of Sentiment and Reflection."—Ed.
List, the winds of March are blowing;
Her ground-flowers shrink, afraid of showing
Their meek heads to the nipping air,
Which ye feel not, happy pair!
Sunk into a kindly sleep. 5
We, meanwhile, our hope will keep;
And if Time leagued with adverse Change
(Too busy fear!) shall cross its range,
Whatsoever check they bring,
Anxious duty hindering, 10
To like hope[770] our prayers will cling.
Thus, while the ruminating spirit feeds
Upon the events of home[771] as life proceeds,
Affections pure and holy in their source
Gain a fresh impulse, run a livelier course; 15
Hopes that within the Father's heart prevail,
Are in the experienced Grandsire's slow to fail;
And if the harp pleased his gay youth, it rings
To his grave touch with no unready strings,
While thoughts press on, and feelings overflow, 20
And quick words round him fall like flakes of snow.[772]
Thanks to the Powers that yet maintain their sway,
And have renewed the tributary Lay.
Truths of the heart flock in with eager pace,
And Fancy greets them with a fond embrace; 25
Swift as the rising sun his beams extends
She shoots the tidings forth to distant friends;
Their gifts she hails (deemed precious, as they prove
For the unconscious Babe so prompt a love!)—[773]
But from this peaceful centre of delight 30
Vague sympathies have urged her to take flight:
Rapt[774] into upper regions, like the bee
That sucks from mountain heath her honey fee;
Or, like the warbling lark intent to shroud
His head in sunbeams or a bowery cloud, 35
She soars—and here and there her pinions rest
On proud towers, like this humble cottage, blest
With a new visitant, an infant guest—
Towers where red streamers flout the breezy sky
In pomp foreseen by her creative eye, 40
When feasts shall crowd the hall, and steeple bells
Glad proclamation make, and heights and dells
Catch the blithe music as it sinks and swells,[775]
And harboured ships, whose pride is on the sea,
Shall hoist their topmost flags in sign of glee, 45
Honouring the hope of noble ancestry.
But who (though neither reckoning ills assigned
By Nature, nor reviewing in the mind
The track that was, and is, and must be, worn
With weary feet by all of woman born)— 50
Shall now by such a gift with joy be moved,
Nor feel the fulness of that joy reproved?
Not He, whose last faint memory will command
The truth that Britain was his native land;[776]
Whose infant soul was tutored to confide 55
In the cleansed faith for which her martyrs died;
Whose boyish ear the voice of her renown
With rapture thrilled; whose Youth revered the crown
Of Saxon liberty that Alfred wore,[777]
Alfred, dear Babe, thy great Progenitor! 60
—Not He, who from her mellowed practice drew
His social sense of just, and fair, and true;
And saw, thereafter, on the soil of France
Rash Polity begin her maniac dance,[778]
Foundations broken up, the deeps run wild, 65
Nor grieved to see (himself not unbeguiled)—
Woke from the dream, the dreamer to upbraid,
And learn how sanguine expectations fade
When novel trusts by folly are betrayed,—
To see Presumption, turning pale, refrain 70
From further havoc, but repent in vain,—
Good aims lie down, and perish in the road
Where guilt had urged them on with ceaseless goad.
Proofs thickening round her that on public ends
Domestic virtue vitally depends, 75
That civic strife can turn the happiest hearth
Into a grievous sore of self-tormenting earth.[779]
Can such a One, dear Babe! though glad and proud
To welcome thee, repel the fears that crowd
Into his English breast, and spare to quake 80
Less for his own than[780] for thy innocent sake?
Too late—or, should the providence of God
Lead, through dark[781] ways by sin and sorrow trod,
Justice and peace to a secure abode,
Too soon—thou com'st into this breathing world; 85
Ensigns of mimic outrage are unfurled.
Who shall preserve or prop the tottering Realm?
What hand suffice to govern the state-helm?
If, in the aims of men, the surest test
Of good or bad (whate'er be sought for or profest) 90
Lie in the means required, or ways ordained,
For compassing the end, else never gained;
Yet governors and govern'd both are blind
To this plain truth, or fling it to the wind;
If to expedience principle must bow; 95
Past, future, shrinking up beneath the incumbent Now;
If cowardly concession still must feed
The thirst for power in men who ne'er concede;
Nor turn aside, unless to shape a way
For domination at some riper day; 100
If[782] generous Loyalty must stand in awe
Of subtle Treason, in[783] his mask of law,
Or with bravado insolent and hard,
Provoking punishment, to win reward;
If office help the factious to conspire, 105
And they who should extinguish, fan the fire—
Then, will the sceptre be a straw, the crown
Sit loosely, like the thistle's crest of down;
To be blown off at will, by Power that spares it
In cunning patience, from the head that wears it. 110
Lost people, trained to theoretic feud!
Lost above all, ye labouring multitude!
Bewildered whether ye, by slanderous tongues
Deceived, mistake calamities for wrongs;
And over fancied usurpations brood, 115
Oft snapping at revenge in sullen mood;
Or, from long stress of real injuries fly
To desperation for a remedy;
In bursts of outrage spread your judgments wide,
And to your wrath cry out, "Be thou our guide;" 120
Or, bound by oaths, come forth to tread earth's floor
In marshalled thousands, darkening street and moor
With the worst shape mock-patience ever wore;
Or, to the giddy top of self-esteem
By Flatterers carried, mount into a dream 125
Of boundless suffrage, at whose sage behest
Justice shall rule, disorder be supprest,
And every man sit down as Plenty's Guest!
—O for a bridle bitted with remorse
To stop your Loaders in their headstrong course![784] 130
Oh may the Almighty scatter with his grace
These mists, and lead you to a safer place,
By paths no human wisdom can foretrace!
May He pour round you, from worlds far above
Man's feverish passions, his pure light of love, 135
That quietly restores the natural mien
To hope, and makes truth willing to be seen!
Else shall your blood-stained hands in frenzy reap
Fields gaily sown when promises were cheap.—
Why is the Past belied with wicked art, 140
The Future made to play so false a part,
Among a people famed for strength of mind,
Foremost in freedom, noblest of mankind?
We act as if we joyed in the sad tune
Storms make in rising, valued in the moon 145
Nought but her changes. Thus, ungrateful Nation!
If thou persist, and, scorning moderation,
Spread for thyself the snares of tribulation,
Whom, then, shall meekness guard? What saving skill
Lie in forbearance, strength in standing still? 150
—Soon shall the widow (for the speed of Time
Nought equals when the hours are winged with crime)
Widow, or wife, implore on tremulous knee,
From him who judged her lord, a like decree;
The skies will weep o'er old men desolate: 155
Ye little-ones! Earth shudders at your fate,
Outcasts and homeless orphans——
But turn, my Soul, and from the sleeping pair
Learn thou the beauty of omniscient care!
Be strong in faith, bid anxious thoughts lie still; 160
Seek for the good and cherish it—the ill
Oppose, or bear with a submissive will.
"IF THIS GREAT WORLD OF JOY AND PAIN"
Composed 1833.—Published 1835
One of the "Poems of Sentiment and Reflection."—Ed.
If this great world of joy and pain
Revolve in one sure track;
If freedom, set, will rise again,
And virtue, flown, come back;
Woe to the purblind crew who fill 5
The heart with each day's care;
Nor gain, from past or future, skill
To bear, and to forbear!
ON A HIGH PART OF THE COAST OF
CUMBERLAND[785]
Easter Sunday, April 7
THE AUTHOR'S SIXTY-THIRD BIRTH-DAY
Composed 1833.—Published 1835
[The lines were composed on the road between Moresby and
Whitehaven while I was on a visit to my son, then rector of
the former place. This succession of Voluntaries, with the
exception of the 8th and 9th, originated in the concluding lines
of the last paragraph of this poem. With this coast I have
been familiar from my earliest childhood, and remember being
struck for the first time by the town and port of Whitehaven
and the white waves breaking against its quays and piers, as
the whole came into view from the top of the high ground
down which the road (it has since been altered) then descended
abruptly. My sister, when she first heard the voice of the sea
from this point, and beheld the scene before her, burst into
tears. Our family then lived at Cockermouth, and this fact
was often mentioned among us as indicating the sensibility for
which she was so remarkable.—I. F.]
One of the "Evening Voluntaries."—Ed.
The Sun, that seemed so mildly to retire,
Flung back from distant climes a streaming fire,
Whose blaze is now subdued to tender gleams,
Prelude of night's approach with soothing dreams.
Look round;—of all the clouds not one is moving; 5
'Tis the still hour of thinking, feeling, loving.
Silent, and stedfast as the vaulted sky,
The boundless plain of waters seems to lie:—
Comes that low sound from breezes rustling o'er
The grass-crowned headland that conceals the shore?
No; 'tis the earth-voice of the mighty sea, 11
Whispering how meek and gentle he can be![786]
Thou Power supreme! who, arming to rebuke
Offenders, dost put off the gracious look,
And clothe thyself with terrors like the flood 15
Of ocean roused into his fiercest mood,
Whatever discipline thy Will ordain
For the brief course that must for me remain;
Teach me with quick-eared spirit to rejoice
In admonitions of thy softest voice! 20
Whate'er the path these mortal feet may trace,
Breathe through my soul the blessing of thy grace,
Glad, through a perfect love, a faith sincere
Drawn from the wisdom that begins with fear,
Glad to expand; and, for a season, free 25
From finite cares, to rest absorbed in Thee!
(BY THE SEA-SIDE)
Composed 1833.—Published 1835
One of the "Evening Voluntaries."—Ed.
The sun is couched, the sea-fowl gone to rest;
And the wild storm hath somewhere found a nest;
Air slumbers—wave with wave no longer strives,
Only a heaving of the deep survives,[787]
A tell-tale motion! soon will it be laid, 5
And by the tide alone the water swayed.
Stealthy withdrawings, interminglings mild
Of light with shade in beauty reconciled—
Such is the prospect far as sight can range,
The soothing recompense, the welcome change. 10
Where now the ships that drove before the blast,
Threatened by angry breakers as they passed;
And by a train of flying clouds bemocked;
Or, in the hollow surge, at anchor rocked
As on a bed of death? Some lodge in peace, 15
Saved by His care who bade the tempest cease;
And some, too heedless of past danger, court
Fresh gales to waft them to the far-off port;
But near, or hanging sea and sky between,
Not one of all those wingèd powers is seen, 20
Seen in her course, nor 'mid this quiet heard;
Yet oh! how gladly would the air be stirred
By some acknowledgment of thanks and praise,
Soft in its temper as those vesper lays
Sung to the Virgin while accordant oars 25
Urge the slow bark along Calabrian shores;
A sea-born service through the mountains felt
Till into one loved vision all things melt:
Or like those hymns that soothe with graver sound
The gulfy coast of Norway iron-bound; 30
And, from the wide and open Baltic, rise
With punctual care, Lutherian harmonies.
Hush, not a voice is here! but why repine,
Now when the star of eve comes forth to shine
On British waters with that look benign?[788] 35
Ye mariners, that plough your onward way,
Or in the haven rest, or sheltering bay,
May silent thanks at least to God be given
With a full heart; "our thoughts are heard in heaven!"[789]
COMPOSED BY THE SEA-SHORE
Composed 1834.—Published 1845
[These lines were suggested during my residence under my
son's roof at Moresby, on the coast near Whitehaven, at the
time when I was composing those verses among the "Evening
Voluntaries" that have reference to the sea. It was in that
neighbourhood I first became acquainted with the ocean and
its appearances and movements. My infancy and early childhood
were passed at Cockermouth, about eight miles from the
coast, and I well remember that mysterious awe with which I
used to listen to anything said about storms and shipwrecks.
Sea-shells of many descriptions were common in the town; and
I was not a little surprised when I heard that Mr. Landor[790]
had denounced me as a plagiarist from himself for having
described a boy applying a sea-shell to his ear and listening to
it for intimations of what was going on in its native element.
This I had done myself scores of times, and it was a belief
among us that we could know from the sound whether the tide
was ebbing or flowing.—I.F.]
One of the "Evening Voluntaries."—Ed.
What mischief cleaves to unsubdued regret,
How fancy sickens by vague hopes beset;
How baffled projects on the spirit prey,
And fruitless wishes eat the heart away,
The Sailor knows; he best, whose lot is cast 5
On the relentless sea that holds him fast
On chance dependent, and the fickle star
Of power, through long and melancholy war.
O sad it is, in sight of foreign shores,
Daily to think on old familiar doors, 10
Hearths loved in childhood, and ancestral floors;
Or, tossed about along a waste of foam,
To ruminate on that delightful home,
Which with the dear Betrothèd was to come;
Or came and was and is, yet meets the eye 15
Never but in the world of memory;
Or in a dream recalled, whose smoothest range
Is crossed by knowledge, or by dread, of change,
And if not so, whose perfect joy makes sleep
A thing too bright for breathing man to keep. 20
Hail to the virtues which that perilous life
Extracts from Nature's elemental strife;
And welcome glory won in battles fought
As bravely as the foe was keenly sought.
But to each gallant Captain and his crew 25
A less imperious sympathy is due,
Such as my verse now yields, while moonbeams play
On the mute sea in this unruffled bay;
Such as will promptly flow from every breast,
Where good men, disappointed in the quest 30
Of wealth and power and honours, long for rest;
Or, having known the splendours of success,
Sigh for the obscurities of happiness.
POEMS,[791]
COMPOSED OR SUGGESTED DURING A
TOUR, IN THE SUMMER OF 1833
Composed 1833.—Published 1835
Having been prevented by the lateness of the season, in 1831,
from visiting Staffa and Iona, the author made these the principal
objects of a short tour in the summer of 1833, of which the
following series of poems is a Memorial. The course pursued
was down the Cumberland river Derwent, and to Whitehaven;
thence (by the Isle of Man, where a few days were passed) up
the Frith of Clyde to Greenock, then to Oban, Staffa, Iona;
and back towards England by Loch Awe, Inverary, Loch Goilhead,
Greenock, and through parts of Renfrewshire, Ayrshire,
and Dumfries-shire to Carlisle, and thence up the river Eden,
and homewards by Ullswater.—W. W.
[My companions were H. C. Robinson and my son John.—I. F.]
I
ADIEU, RYDALIAN LAURELS! THAT HAVE GROWN
Adieu, Rydalian Laurels! that have grown
And spread as if ye knew that days might come
When ye would shelter in a happy home,
On this fair Mount, a Poet of your own,
One who ne'er ventured for a Delphic crown 5
To sue the God; but, haunting your green shade[792]
All seasons through, is humbly pleased to braid[793]
Ground-flowers, beneath your guardianship, self-sown.[794]
Farewell! no Minstrels now with harp new-strung
For summer wandering quit their household bowers;
Yet not for this wants Poesy a tongue 11
To cheer the Itinerant on whom she pours
Her spirit, while he crosses lonely moors,
Or musing sits forsaken halls among.
II
"WHY SHOULD THE ENTHUSIAST,
JOURNEYING THROUGH THIS ISLE"
Why should the Enthusiast, journeying through this Isle,
Repine as if his hour were come too late?
Not unprotected in her mouldering state,
Antiquity salutes him with a smile,
'Mid fruitful fields that ring with jocund toil, 5
And pleasure-grounds where Taste, refined Co-mate
Of Truth and Beauty, strives to imitate,
Far as she may, primeval Nature's style.
Fair Land! by Time's parental love made free,
By Social Order's watchful arms embraced; 10
With unexampled union meet in thee,
For eye and mind, the present and the past;
With golden prospect for futurity,
If that be reverenced which ought to last.[795]
III
"THEY CALLED THEE MERRY ENGLAND,
IN OLD TIME"
They called Thee Merry England, in old time;
A happy people won for thee that name
With envy heard in many a distant clime;
And, spite of change, for me thou keep'st the same
Endearing title, a responsive chime 5
To the heart's fond belief; though some there are
Whose sterner judgments deem that world a snare
For inattentive Fancy, like the lime
Which foolish birds are caught with. Can, I ask,
This face of rural beauty be a mask 10
For discontent, and poverty, and crime;
These spreading towns a cloak for lawless will?
Forbid it, Heaven!-and[796] Merry England still
Shall[797] be thy rightful name, in prose and rhyme!
IV
TO THE RIVER GRETA, NEAR KESWICK