AIREY-FORCE VALLEY
Published 1842
First published (1842) in “Poems, chiefly of Early and Late
Years.” Afterwards one of the “Poems of the Imagination.”—Ed.
——Not a breath of air
Ruffles the bosom of this leafy glen.
From the brook’s margin, wide around, the trees
Are stedfast as the rocks; the brook itself,
Old as the hills that feed it from afar, 5
Doth rather deepen than disturb the calm
Where all things else are still and motionless.
And yet, even now, a little breeze, perchance
Escaped from boisterous winds that rage without,
Has entered, by the sturdy oaks unfelt, 10
But to its gentle touch how sensitive
Is the light ash! that, pendent from the brow
Of yon dim cave,
[253] in seeming silence makes
A soft eye-music of slow-waving boughs,
Powerful almost as vocal harmony 15
To stay the wanderer’s steps and soothe his thoughts.
The Aira beck rises on the slopes of Great Dodd, passes
Dockray, and enters Ullswater between Glencoin Park and
Gowbarrow Park, about two miles from the head of the lake.
The Force is quite near to Lyulph’s Tower, where the stream
has a fall of about eighty feet. Compare the reference to it in
The Somnambulist (1833), and Wordsworth’s account of “Aira-Force,”
in his Guide through the District of the Lakes, “Here
is a powerful Brook, which dashes among rocks through a deep
glen, hung on every side with a rich and happy intermixture of
native wood; here are beds of luxuriant fern, aged hawthorns
and hollies decked with honeysuckles; and fallow deer glancing
and bounding over the lawns and through the thickets.”—Ed.
“LYRE! THOUGH SUCH POWER DO IN THY
MAGIC LIVE”
Composed 1842 (or earlier).—Published 1842
One of the “Poems of the Imagination.”—Ed.
Lyre! though such power do in thy magic live
As might from India’s farthest plain
Recal the not unwilling Maid,
Assist me to detain
The lovely Fugitive: 5
Check with thy notes the impulse which, betrayed
By her sweet farewell looks, I longed to aid.
Here let me gaze enrapt upon that eye,
The impregnable and awe-inspiring fort
Of contemplation, the calm port 10
By reason fenced from winds that sigh
Among the restless sails of vanity.
But if no wish be hers that we should part,
A humbler bliss would satisfy my heart.
Where all things are so fair, 15
Enough by her dear side to breathe the air
Of this Elysian weather;
And, on or in, or near, the brook, espy
Shade upon the sunshine lying
Faint and somewhat pensively; 20
And downward Image gaily vying
With its upright living tree
’Mid silver clouds, and openings of blue sky
As soft almost and deep as her cerulean eye.
Nor less the joy with many a glance 25
Cast up the Stream or down at her beseeching,
To mark its eddying foam-balls prettily distrest
By ever-changing shape and want of rest;
Or watch, with mutual teaching,
The current as it plays 30
In flashing leaps and stealthy creeps
Adown a rocky maze;
Or note (translucent summer’s happiest chance!)
In the slope-channel floored with pebbles bright,
Stones of all hues, gem emulous of gem, 35
So vivid that they take from keenest sight
The liquid veil that seeks not to hide them.
[254]
LOVE LIES BLEEDING
Composed 1842.—Published 1842
[It has been said that the English, though their country has
produced so many great poets, is now the most unpoetical nation
in Europe. It is probably true; for they have more temptation
to become so than any other European people. Trade, commerce,
and manufactures, physical science, and mechanic arts,
out of which so much wealth has arisen, have made our countrymen
infinitely less sensible to movements of imagination and
fancy than were our forefathers in their simple state of society.
How touching and beautiful were, in most instances, the names
they gave to our indigenous flowers, or any other they were
familiarly acquainted with!—Every month for many years have
we been importing plants and flowers from all quarters of the
globe, many of which are spread through our gardens, and some
perhaps likely to be met with on the few Commons which we
have left. Will their botanical names ever be displaced by
plain English appellations, which will bring them home to our
hearts by connexion with our joys and sorrows? It can never
be, unless society treads back her steps towards those simplicities
which have been banished by the undue influence of towns
spreading and spreading in every direction, so that city-life with
every generation takes more and more the lead of rural. Among
the ancients, villages were reckoned the seats of barbarism.
Refinement, for the most part false, increases the desire to
accumulate wealth; and while theories of political economy are
boastfully pleading for the practice, inhumanity pervades all our
dealings in buying and selling. This selfishness wars against
disinterested imagination in all directions, and, evils coming
round in a circle, barbarism spreads in every quarter of our
island. Oh for the reign of justice, and then the humblest
man among us would have more power and dignity in and about
him than the highest have now!—I.F.]
One of the “Poems of the Fancy.”—Ed.
You call it, “Love lies bleeding,”—so you may,
[255]Though the red Flower, not prostrate, only droops,
As we have seen it here from day to day,
From month to month, life passing not away:
A flower how rich in sadness! Even thus stoops, 5
(Sentient by Grecian sculpture’s marvellous power)
Thus leans, with hanging brow and body bent
Earthward in uncomplaining languishment,
The dying Gladiator. So, sad Flower!
(’Tis Fancy guides me willing to be led, 10
Though by a slender thread,)
So drooped Adonis bathed in sanguine dew
Of his death-wound, when he from innocent air
The gentlest breath of resignation drew;
While Venus in a passion of despair 15
Rent, weeping over him, her golden hair
Spangled with drops of that celestial shower.
She suffered, as Immortals sometimes do;
But pangs more lasting far, that Lover knew
Who first, weighed down by scorn, in some lone bower 20
Did press this semblance of unpitied smart
Into the service of his constant heart,
His own dejection, downcast Flower! could share
With thine, and gave the mournful name which thou wilt ever bear.
“THEY CALL IT LOVE LIES BLEEDING!
RATHER SAY”
The previous poem was originally composed in sonnet form;
and it belongs, in that form, to the year 1833. It occurs in a
MS. copy of the sonnets which record the Tour of 1833 to
the Isle of Man and to Scotland.—Ed.
They call it Love lies bleeding! rather say
That in this crimson Flower Love bleeding droops,
A Flower how sick in sadness! Thus it stoops
With languid head unpropped from day to day
From month to month, life passing not away. 5
Even so the dying Gladiator leans
On mother earth, and from his patience gleans
Relics of tender thoughts, regrets that stay
A moment and are gone. O fate-bowed flower!
Fair as Adonis bathed in sanguine dew, 10
Of his death-wound, that Lover’s heart was true
As heaven, who pierced by scorn in some lone bower
Could press thy semblance of unpitied smart
Into the service of his constant heart.
COMPANION TO THE FOREGOING
Composed (?)[256]—Published 1845
Never enlivened with the liveliest ray
That fosters growth or checks or cheers decay,
Nor by the heaviest rain-drops more deprest,
This Flower, that first appeared as summer’s guest,
Preserves her beauty ’mid autumnal leaves 5
And to her mournful habits fondly cleaves.
When files of stateliest plants have ceased to bloom,
One after one submitting to their doom,
When her coevals each and all are fled,
What keeps her thus reclined upon her lonesome bed? 10
The old mythologists, more impress’d than we
Of this late day by character in tree
Or herb, that claimed peculiar sympathy,
Or by the silent lapse of fountain clear,
Or with the language of the viewless air 15
By bird or beast made vocal, sought a cause
To solve the mystery, not in Nature’s laws
But in Man’s fortunes. Hence a thousand tales
Sung to the plaintive lyre in Grecian vales.
Nor doubt that something of their spirit swayed 20
The fancy-stricken Youth or heart-sick Maid,
Who, while each stood companionless and eyed
This undeparting Flower in crimson dyed,
Thought of a wound which death is slow to cure,
A fate that has endured and will endure, 25
And, patience coveting yet passion feeding,
Called the dejected Lingerer, Love lies bleeding.
THE CUCKOO-CLOCK
Composed 1842.—Published 1842
[Of this clock I have nothing further to say than what the
poem expresses, except that it must be here recorded that it
was a present from the dear friend for whose sake these notes
were chiefly undertaken, and who has written them from my
dictation.—I.F.]
One of the “Poems of the Imagination.”—Ed.
Wouldst thou be taught, when sleep has taken flight,
By a sure voice that can most sweetly tell,
How far-off yet a glimpse of morning light,
And if to lure the truant back be well,
Forbear to covet a Repeater’s stroke, 5
That, answering to thy touch, will sound the hour;
Better provide thee with a Cuckoo-clock
For service hung behind thy chamber-door;
And in due time the soft spontaneous shock,
The double note, as if with living power, 10
Will to composure lead—or make thee blithe as bird in bower.
List, Cuckoo—Cuckoo!—oft tho’ tempests howl,
Or nipping frost remind thee trees are bare,
How cattle pine, and droop the shivering fowl,
Thy spirits will seem to feed on balmy air: 15
I speak with knowledge,—by that Voice beguiled,
Thou wilt salute old memories as they throng
Into thy heart; and fancies, running wild
Through fresh green fields, and budding groves among,
Will make thee happy, happy as a child; 20
Of sunshine wilt thou think, and flowers, and song,
And breathe as in a world where nothing can go wrong.
And know—that, even for him who shuns the day
And nightly tosses on a bed of pain;
Whose joys, from all but memory swept away, 25
Must come unhoped for, if they come again;
Know—that, for him whose waking thoughts, severe
As his distress is sharp, would scorn my theme,
The mimic notes, striking upon his ear
In sleep, and intermingling with his dream, 30
Could from sad regions send him to a dear
Delightful land of verdure, shower and gleam,
To mock the
wandering Voice
[257] beside some haunted stream.
[258]
O bounty without measure! while the grace
Of Heaven doth in such wise, from humblest springs, 35
Pour pleasure forth, and solaces that trace
A mazy course along familiar things,
Well may our hearts have faith that blessings come,
Streaming from founts above the starry sky,
With angels when their own untroubled home 40
They leave, and speed on nightly embassy
To visit earthly chambers,—and for whom?
Yea, both for souls who God’s forbearance try,
And those that seek his help, and for his mercy sigh.
“WANSFELL! THIS HOUSEHOLD HAS A
FAVOURED LOT”
Composed 1842.—Published 1845
One of the “Miscellaneous Sonnets.”—Ed.
Wansfell!
[259] this Household has a favoured lot,
Living with liberty on thee to gaze,
To watch while Morn first crowns thee with her rays,
Or when along thy breast serenely float
Evening’s angelic clouds. Yet ne’er a note 5
Hath sounded (shame upon the Bard!) thy praise
For all that thou, as if from heaven, hast brought
Of glory lavished on our quiet days.
Bountiful Son of Earth! when we are gone
From every object dear to mortal sight, 10
As soon we shall be, may these words attest
How oft, to elevate our spirits, shone
Thy visionary majesties of light,
How in thy pensive glooms our hearts found rest.
“THOUGH THE BOLD WINGS OF POESY
AFFECT”
Composed (?)—Published 1842
One of the “Miscellaneous Sonnets.”—Ed.
Though the bold wings of Poesy affect
The clouds, and wheel around the mountain tops
Rejoicing, from her loftiest height she drops
Well pleased to skim the plain with wild flowers deckt,
Or muse in solemn grove whose shades protect 5
The lingering dew—there steals along, or stops
Watching the least small bird that round her hops,
Or creeping worm, with sensitive respect.
Her functions are they therefore less divine,
Her thoughts less deep, or void of grave intent 10
Her simplest fancies? Should that fear be thine,
Aspiring Votary, ere thy hand present
One offering, kneel before her modest shrine,
With brow in penitential sorrow bent!
“GLAD SIGHT WHEREVER NEW WITH OLD”
Composed 1842.[260]—Published 1845
One of the “Poems of the Fancy.”—Ed.
Glad sight wherever new with old
[261]Is joined through some dear homeborn tie;
The life
[262] of all that we behold
Depends upon that mystery.
Vain is the glory of the sky,
[263] 5The beauty vain of field and grove,
Unless, while with admiring eye
[264]We gaze, we also learn to love.
[265]
1843
Two sonnets, and an Inscription for a monument to Southey,
were written in 1843.—Ed.
“WHILE BEAMS OF ORIENT LIGHT SHOOT
WIDE AND HIGH”
Composed 1st January 1843.—Published 1845
One of the “Miscellaneous Sonnets.”—Ed.
While beams of orient light shoot wide and high,
Deep in the vale a little rural Town
[266]Breathes forth a cloud-like creature of its own,
That mounts not toward the radiant morning sky,
But, with a less ambitious sympathy, 5
Hangs o’er its Parent waking to the cares
Troubles and toils that every day prepares.
So Fancy, to the musing Poet’s eye,
Endears that Lingerer. And how blest her sway
[267](Like influence never may my soul reject)
[268] 10If the calm Heaven, now to its zenith decked
[269]With glorious forms in numberless array,
To the lone shepherd on the hills disclose
Gleams from
[270] a world in which the saints repose.
† These MS. variants occur in a copy of the sonnet written by Wordsworth
for Mrs. Arnold at Foxhowe.
INSCRIPTION
For a Monument in Crosthwaite Church, in
the Vale of Keswick
Composed 1843.—Published 1845
One of the “Epitaphs and Elegiac Pieces.”—Ed.
Ye vales and hills whose beauty hither drew
The poet’s steps, and fixed him here, on you,
His eyes have closed! And ye, lov’d books, no more
Shall Southey feed upon your precious lore,
To works that ne’er shall forfeit their renown 5
Adding immortal labours of his own—
Whether he traced historic truth, with zeal
For the State’s guidance, or the Church’s weal,
Or Fancy, disciplined by studious art,
Inform’d his pen, or wisdom of the heart, 10
Or judgments sanctioned in the Patriot’s mind
By reverence for the rights of all mankind.
Wide were his aims, yet in no human breast
Could private feelings meet for holier rest.
His joys, his griefs, have vanished like a cloud 15
From Skiddaw’s top; but he to heaven was vowed
Through his industrious life, and Christian faith
Calmed in his soul the fear of change and death.
I received, from the late Lord Coleridge, the following
extracts from letters written by Wordsworth to his father, the
Hon. Justice Coleridge, in reference to the Southey Inscription
in Crosthwaite Church. Wordsworth seems to have submitted
the proposed Inscription to Mr. Coleridge’s judgment, and the
changes he made upon it, in deference to the opinions he
received, shew, as Lord Coleridge says, “the extreme care
Wordsworth took to have the substance, and the expression also,
as perfect as he could make it.” The original draft of the
“Inscription” was as follows:—
Sacred to the Memory of Robert Southey, whose mortal
remains are interred in the adjoining Churchyard.
He was born at Bristol, October ye 4th, 1774, And
died, after a residence of nearly forty years, at
Greta Hall in this Parish. March 21st, 1843.
Ye Vales and Hills, whose beauty hither drew
The Poet’s steps, and fixed him here, on you
His eyes have closed; and ye, loved Books, no more
Shall Southey feed upon your precious lore,
To Works that ne’er shall forfeit their renown
Adding immortal labours of his own,
As Fancy, disciplined by studious Art
Informed his pen, or Wisdom of the heart,
Or judgments rooted in a Patriot’s mind
Taught to revere the rights of all mankind.
Friends, Family—ah wherefore touch that string,
To them so fondly did the good man cling!
His joys, his griefs, have vanished like a cloud
From Skiddaw’s top; but He to Heaven was vowed
Through a long life; and calmed by Christian faith,
In his pure soul, the fear of change and death.
This Memorial was erected by friends of Robert Southey.
Alteration in the Epitaph—
… He to Heaven was vowed
Through a life long and pure; and Christian faith
Calmed in his soul the fear of change and death.—W.W.
December the 6th.
My dear Mr. Justice Coleridge,
Notwithstanding what I have written before, I
could not but wish to meet your wishes upon the points which
you mentioned, and, accordingly, have added and altered as on
the other side of this paper. If you approve don’t trouble
yourself to answer.
Ever faithfully yours,
W. Wordsworth.
Ye torrents, foaming down the rocky steeps,
Ye lakes, wherein the spirit of water sleeps,
Ye vales and hills, etc.
Or judgments sanctioned in the Patriot’s mind
By reverence for the rights of all mankind.
Friends, Family—within no human breast
Could private feelings need a holier nest.
His joys, his griefs, have vanished.
These alterations are approved of by friends here, and I hope
will please you.
My dear Mr. Justice Coleridge,
Pray accept my thanks for the pains you have taken
with the Inscription, and excuse the few words I shall have to
say upon your remarks. There are two lakes in the Vale of
Keswick; both which, along with the lateral Vale of Newlands
immediately opposite Southey’s study window, will be included
in the words “Ye Vales and Hills” by everyone who is familiar
with the neighbourhood.
I quite agree with you that the construction of the lines that
particularize his writings is rendered awkward by so many
participles passive, and the more so on account of the transitive
verb informed. One of these participles may be got rid of,
and, I think, a better couplet produced by this alteration—
Or judgments sanctioned in the Patriot’s mind
By reverence for the rights of all mankind.
As I have entered into particulars as to the character of S.’s
writings, and they are so various, I thought his historic works
ought by no means to be omitted, and therefore, though unwilling
to lengthen the Epitaph, I added the two following—
… Labours of his own,
Whether he traced historic truth with zeal
For the State’s guidance, or the Church’s weal,
Or Fancy, disciplined by studious Art,
Informed his pen, or wisdom of the heart,
Or judgments sanctioned in the Patriot’s mind
By reverence for the rights of all mankind.
I do not feel with you in respect to the word “so”; it
refers, of course, to the preceding line, and as the reference is
to fireside feelings and intimate friends, there appears to me a
propriety in an expression inclining to the colloquial. The
couplet was the dictate of my own feelings, and the construction
is accordingly broken and rather dramatic,—but too much of
this. If you have any objection to the couplet as altered, be
so kind as let me know; if not, on no account trouble yourself
to answer this letter.
Prematurely I object to as you do. I used the word with
reference to that decay of faculties which is not uncommon in
advanced life, and which often leads to dotage,—but the word
must not be retained.
We regret much to hear that Lady Coleridge is unwell, pray
present to her our best wishes.
What could induce the Bishop of London to forbid the
choral service at St. Mark’s? It was in execution, I understand,
above all praise.
Ever most faithfully yours,
W. Wordsworth.
December 2nd, ’43.
My dear Mr. Justice Coleridge,
The first line would certainly have more spirit by
reading “your” as you suggest. I had previously considered
that; but decided in favour of “the,” as “your,” I thought,
would clog the sentence in sound, there being “ye” thrice
repeated, and followed by “you” at the close of the 4th line.
I also thought that “your” would interfere with the application
of “you” at the end of the fourth line, to the whole of the
particular previous images as I intended it to do. But I don’t
trouble you with this Letter on that account, but merely to ask
you whether the couplet now standing:—
Large were his aims, yet in no human breast
Could private feelings find a holier nest,
would not be better thus
Could private feelings meet in holier rest.
This alteration does not quite satisfy me, but I can do no better.
The word “nest” both in itself and in conjunction with
“holier” seems to me somewhat bold and rather startling for
marble, particularly in a Church. I should not have thought
of any alteration in a merely printed poem, but this makes a
difference. If you think the proposed alteration better, don’t
trouble yourself to answer this; if not, pray be so kind as to
tell me so by a single line. I would not on any account have
trespassed on your time but for this public occasion. We are
sorry to hear of Lady Coleridge’s indisposition; pray present
to her our kind regards and best wishes for her recovery, united
with the greetings of the season both for her and yourself, and
believe me faithfully,
Your obliged,
Wm. Wordsworth.
Rydal Mount, December 23rd, ’43.
To the Memory of Robert Southey, a Man eminent for
genius, versatile talents, extensive and accurate
knowledge, and habits of the most conscientious
industry. Nor was he less distinguished for strict
temperance, pure benevolence, and warm affections;
but his Mind, such are the awful dispensations
of Providence, was prematurely and almost
totally obscured by a slowly-working and inscrutable
malady under which he languished until
released by death in the 69th year of his age.
Reader! ponder the condition to which this
great and good Man, not without merciful alleviations,
was doomed, and learn from his example
to make timely use of thy endowments and opportunities,
and to walk humbly with thy God.
COPY OF THE PRINTED INSCRIPTION
Sacred to the Memory of Robert Southey, whose mortal
remains are interred in the adjoining churchyard.
He was born at Bristol, October 4th, 1774, and died
after a residence of nearly 40 years at Greta
Hall, in this Parish, March 21st, 1843.
Ye torrents, foaming down the rocky steeps,
Ye lakes, wherein the spirit of water sleeps,
Ye vales and hills, whose beauty hither drew
The Poet’s steps and fixed him here, on you
His eyes have closed! and ye, loved books, no more
Shall Southey feed upon your precious lore,
To works that ne’er shall forfeit their renown
Adding immortal labours of his own—
Whether he traced historic truth, with zeal
For the State’s guidance or the Church’s weal,
Or Fancy, disciplined by studious art,
Informed his pen, or wisdom of the heart,
Or judgments sanctioned in the Patriot’s mind
By reverence for the rights of all mankind.
Wide were his aims, yet in no human breast
Could private feelings find a holier nest.
His joys, his griefs, have vanished like a cloud
From Skiddaw’s top; but he to Heaven was vowed
Through a long life, and calmed by Christian faith,
In his pure soul, the fear of change and death.
This Memorial was erected by friends of Robert Southey.
Edward Quillinan wrote, 25th March 1843, “Yesterday I
drove Mr. Wordsworth early over to Keswick, that he and
I might attend the funeral of Mr. Southey, who was buried in
Crosthwaite churchyard there at eleven A.M. It was very affecting
to see Kate Southey with her brother Cuthbert, and brother-in-law
Herbert Hill, at her father’s grave as the coffin was lowered
into it. She looked as if she yearned to be there too. She
says she has now got her father back again.”—Ed.
TO THE REV. CHRISTOPHER WORDSWORTH,
D.D., MASTER OF HARROW SCHOOL[271]
After the perusal of his Theophilus Anglicanus, recently
published.
Composed 1843.—Published 1845
One of the “Miscellaneous Sonnets.”—Ed.