[297] 1845.

And there in sweet communion live:
Yet those loved most, in which we own
A touching likeness which they bear
To flower or herb, by Nature sown,
To breathe our English air.
MS.
And there in sweet communion live
Admired for beauty of their own,
Loved for the likeness some may bear
To flower …
MS.
Thus tempted Fancy with free scope
Will range, and on these aliens set
Names among us endeared to none,
To hearts a fond regret.
MS.
So tempted …
May range, …
MS.

[298]

Nor miss …
MS.

TO THE PENNSYLVANIANS

Composed 1845.—Published 1845

One of the “Sonnets dedicated to Liberty and Order.”—Ed.

Days undefiled by luxury or sloth,
Firm self-denial, manners grave and staid,
Rights equal, laws with cheerfulness obeyed,
Words that require no sanction from an oath,
And simple honesty a common growth— 5
This high repute, with bounteous Nature’s aid,
Won confidence, now ruthlessly betrayed
At will, your power the measure of your troth!—
All who revere the memory of Penn
Grieve for the land on whose wild woods his name[299] 10
Was fondly grafted with a virtuous aim,
Renounced, abandoned by degenerate Men
For state-dishonour black as ever came
To upper air from Mammon’s loathsome den.[300]

[299] To William Penn, son of Admiral Sir W. Penn, a printer and Quaker, Charles II. granted lands in America, to which he gave the name of Pennsylvania.—Ed.

[300] Mr. Ellis Yarnall wrote to me, April 27, 1885: “The three last lines of the Sonnet To the Pennsylvanians, in regard to which you inquire, I think refer to what at the time Wordsworth wrote was known as the repudiation by Pennsylvania of her State debt. The language, however, is too strong, inasmuch as there was no repudiation. For a year or two the interest on the debt was unpaid, then payment was resumed. Members of Wordsworth’s family, or his near friends, held, I believe, some of the Pennsylvania bonds. They held also, as appears from the Memoirs, Mississippi bonds, and these were repudiated, or at least five million dollars of a certain class of Mississippi bonds. No such wrong-doing is chargeable to Pennsylvania. I remember the delight with which Professor Reed showed me the note on the fly-leaf at the end of the fifth volume of the edition of 1850—words written at his request, and the last sentences ever composed by the Poet for the press.”—Ed.

“YOUNG ENGLAND—WHAT IS THEN BECOME OF OLD”

Composed 1845.—Published 1845

One of the “Sonnets dedicated to Liberty and Order.”—Ed.

Young England—what is then become of Old
Of dear Old England? Think they she is dead,
Dead to the very name? Presumption fed
On empty air! That name will keep its hold
In the true filial bosom’s inmost fold 5
For ever.—The Spirit of Alfred, at the head
Of all who for her rights watch’d, toil’d and bled,
Knows that this prophecy is not too bold.
What—how! shall she submit in will and deed
To Beardless Boys—an imitative race, 10
The servum pecus of a Gallic breed?
Dear Mother! if thou must thy steps retrace,
Go where at least meek Innocency dwells;
Let Babes and Sucklings be thy oracles.

1846

The poems written in 1846 were six sonnets, the lines beginning, “I know an aged man constrained to dwell,” an “Evening Voluntary,” and other two short pieces.—Ed.

SONNET[301]

Composed 1846.—Published 1850

This was placed among the “Epitaphs and Elegiac Poems.”—Ed.

Why should we weep or mourn, Angelic boy,
For such thou wert ere from our sight removed,
Holy, and ever dutiful—beloved
From day to day with never-ceasing joy,
And hopes as dear as could the heart employ 5
In aught to earth pertaining? Death has proved
His might, nor less his mercy, as behoved—
Death conscious that he only could destroy
The bodily frame. That beauty is laid low
To moulder in a far-off field of Rome; 10
But Heaven is now, blest Child, thy Spirit’s home:
When such divine communion, which we know,
Is felt, thy Roman-burial place will be
Surely a sweet remembrancer of Thee.

[301] This sonnet refers to the poet’s grandchild, who died at Rome in the beginning of 1846. Wordsworth wrote of it thus to Professor Henry Reed, “Jan. 23, 1846. … Our daughter-in-law fell into bad health between three and four years ago. She went with her husband to Madeira, where they remained nearly a year; she was then advised to go to Italy. After a prolonged residence there, her six children (whom her husband returned to England for), went, at her earnest request, to that country, under their father’s guidance; then he was obliged, on account of his duty as a clergyman, to leave them. Four of the number resided with their mother at Rome, three of whom took a fever there, of which the youngest—as noble a boy of five years as ever was seen—died, being seized with convulsions when the fever was somewhat subdued.”—Ed.

“WHERE LIES THE TRUTH? HAS MAN, IN WISDOM’S CREED”

Composed 1846.—Published 1850

One of the “Evening Voluntaries.”—Ed.

Where lies the truth? has Man, in wisdom’s creed,
A pitiable doom; for respite brief
A care more anxious, or a heavier grief?
Is he ungrateful, and doth little heed
God’s bounty, soon forgotten; or indeed, 5
Must Man, with labour born, awake to sorrow[302]
When Flowers rejoice and Larks with rival speed
Spring from their nests to bid the Sun good morrow?
They mount for rapture as their[303] songs proclaim
Warbled in hearing both of earth and sky; 10
But o’er the contrast wherefore heave a sigh?
Like those aspirants let us soar—our aim,
Through life’s worst trials, whether shocks or snares,
A happier, brighter, purer Heaven than theirs.[304]

[302] 1850.

Who that lies down and may not wake to sorrow
MS.

[303] 1850.

They mount for rapture; this their …
MS.

[304] This sonnet was suggested by the death of Wordsworth’s grandson commemorated in the previous sonnet, and by the alarming illness of his brother, the Master of Trinity College, Cambridge, and the expected death of a nephew (John Wordsworth), at Ambleside, the only son of his eldest brother, Richard.—Ed.

TO LUCCA GIORDANO[305]

Composed 1846.—Published 1850

One of the “Evening Voluntaries.”—Ed.

Giordano, verily thy Pencil’s skill
Hath here portrayed with Nature’s happiest grace
The fair Endymion couched on Latmos-hill;
And Dian gazing on the Shepherd’s face
In rapture,—yet suspending her embrace, 5
As not unconscious with what power the thrill
Of her most timid touch his sleep would chase,
And, with his sleep, that beauty calm and still.
O may this work have found its last retreat
Here in a Mountain-bard’s secure abode, 10
One to whom, yet a School-boy, Cynthia showed
A face of love which he in love would greet,
Fixed, by her smile, upon some rocky seat;
Or lured along where green-wood paths he trod.
Rydal Mount, 1846.

[305] Lucca Giordano was born at Naples, in 1629. He was at first a disciple of Spagnaletto, next of Pietro da Cortona; but after coming under the influence of Correggio, he went to Venice, where Titian was his inspiring master. In his own work the influence of all of these predecessors may be traced, but chiefly that of Titian, whose style of colouring and composition he followed so closely that many of his works might be mistaken for those of his greatest master. The picture referred to in this sonnet was brought from Italy by the poet’s eldest son.—Ed.

“WHO BUT IS PLEASED TO WATCH THE MOON ON HIGH”

Composed 1846.—Published 1850

One of the “Evening Voluntaries.”—Ed.

Who but is pleased to watch the moon on high
Travelling where she from time to time enshrouds
Her head, and nothing loth her Majesty
Renounces, till among the scattered clouds
One with its kindling edge declares that soon 5
Will reappear before the uplifted eye
A Form as bright, as beautiful a moon,
To glide in open prospect through clear sky.
Pity that such a promise e’er should prove
False in the issue, that yon seeming space 10
Of sky should be in truth the stedfast face
Of a cloud flat and dense, through which must move
(By transit not unlike man’s frequent doom)
The Wanderer lost in more determined gloom.

ILLUSTRATED BOOKS AND NEWSPAPERS

Composed 1846.—Published 1850

One of the “Poems of Sentiment and Reflection.”—Ed.

Discourse was deemed Man’s noblest attribute,
And written words the glory of his hand;
Then followed Printing with enlarged command
For thought—dominion vast and absolute
For spreading truth, and making love expand. 5
Now prose and verse sunk into disrepute
Must lacquey a dumb Art that best can suit
The taste of this once-intellectual Land.
A backward movement surely have we here,[306]
From manhood—back to childhood; for the age— 10
Back towards caverned life’s first rude career.
Avaunt this vile abuse of pictured page!
Must eyes be all in all, the tongue and ear
Nothing? Heaven keep us from a lower stage!

[306] The Illustrated London News—the pioneer of illustrated newspapers—was first issued on 14th May 1842. The painter and artist may differ from the poet, in the judgment here pronounced; but had Wordsworth known the degradation to which many newspapers would sink in this direction, his censure would have been more severe.—Ed.

SONNET
To an Octogenarian

Composed 1846.—Published 1850

Affections lose their object; Time brings forth
No successors; and, lodged in memory,
If love exist no longer, it must die,—
Wanting accustomed food must pass from earth,
Or never hope to reach a second birth.[307] 5
This sad belief, the happiest that is left
To thousands, share not Thou; howe’er bereft,
Scorned, or neglected, fear not such a dearth.
Though poor and destitute of friends thou art,
Perhaps the sole survivor of thy race, 10
One to whom Heaven assigns that mournful part
The utmost solitude of age to face,
Still shall be left some corner of the heart
Where Love for living Thing can find a place.

[307] Compare Tennyson’s Lines to J.S.

God gives us love. Something to love
He lends us; but, when love is grown
To ripeness, that on which it throve
Falls off, and love is left alone.

Ed.

“I KNOW AN AGED MAN CONSTRAINED TO DWELL”

Composed 1846.—Published 1850

One of the “Miscellaneous Poems.”—Ed.

I know an aged Man constrained to dwell
In a large house of public charity,
Where he abides, as in a Prisoner’s cell,
With numbers near, alas! no company.
When he could creep about, at will, though poor 5
And forced to live on alms, this old Man fed
A Redbreast, one that to his cottage door
Came not, but in a lane partook his bread.
There, at the root of one particular tree,
An easy seat this worn-out Labourer found 10
While Robin pecked the crumbs upon his knee
Laid one by one, or scattered on the ground.
Dear intercourse was theirs, day after day;
What signs of mutual gladness when they met!
Think of their common peace, their simple play, 15
The parting moment and its fond regret.
Months passed in love that failed not to fulfil,
In spite of season’s change, its own demand,
By fluttering pinions here and busy bill;
There by caresses from a tremulous hand. 20
Thus in the chosen spot a tie so strong
Was formed between the solitary pair,
That when his fate had housed him ’mid a throng
The Captive shunned all converse proffered there.
Wife, children, kindred, they were dead and gone; 25
But, if no evil hap his wishes crossed,
One living Stay was left, and on[308] that one
Some recompense for all that he had lost.
O that the good old Man had power to prove,
By message sent through air or visible token, 30
That still he loves the Bird, and still must love;
That friendship lasts though fellowship is broken!

[308] So all the editions have it; but, as Principal Greenwood suggested to me, the true reading should be “in that one.”—Ed.

“THE UNREMITTING VOICE OF NIGHTLY STREAMS”

Composed 1846.—Published 1850

One of the “Poems of Sentiment and Reflection.”—Ed.

The unremitting voice of nightly streams
That wastes so oft, we think, its tuneful powers,
If neither soothing to the worm that gleams
Through dewy grass, nor small birds hushed in bowers,
Nor unto silent leaves and drowsy flowers,— 5
That voice of unpretending harmony
(For who what is shall measure by what seems
To be, or not to be,[309]
Or tax high Heaven with prodigality?)
Wants not a healing influence that can creep 10
Into the human breast, and mix with sleep
To regulate the motion of our dreams
For kindly issues—as through every clime
Was felt near murmuring brooks in earliest time;
As at this day, the rudest swains who dwell 15
Where torrents roar, or hear the tinkling knell
Of water-breaks, with grateful heart could tell.

[309] Hamlet, act III. scene i. l. 56.—Ed.

“HOW BEAUTIFUL THE QUEEN OF NIGHT, ON HIGH”

Composed 1846.—Published 1850

One of the “Miscellaneous Poems.”—Ed.

How beautiful the Queen of Night, on high
Her way pursuing among scattered clouds,
Where, ever and anon, her head she shrouds
Hidden from view in dense obscurity.
But look, and to the watchful eye
A brightening edge will indicate that soon
We shall behold the struggling Moon
Break forth,—again to walk the clear blue sky.

ON THE BANKS OF A ROCKY STREAM

Composed 1846.—Published 1850

Behold an emblem of our human mind
Crowded with thoughts that need a settled home
Yet, like to eddying balls of foam
Within this whirlpool, they each other chase
Round and round, and neither find
An outlet nor a resting-place!
Stranger, if such disquietude be thine,
Fall on thy knees and sue for help divine.

ODE
INTIMATIONS OF IMMORTALITY FROM RECOLLECTIONS OF EARLY CHILDHOOD

Composed 1803-6.—Published 1807

[This was composed during my residence at Town-end, Grasmere. Two years at least passed between the writing of the four first stanzas and the remaining part. To the attentive and competent reader the whole sufficiently explains itself; but there may be no harm in adverting here to particular feelings or experiences of my own mind on which the structure of the poem partly rests. Nothing was more difficult for me in childhood than to admit the notion of death as a state applicable to my own being. I have said elsewhere—

A simple child,
That lightly draws its breath,
And feels its life in every limb,
What should it know of death!—

But it was not so much from feelings of animal vivacity that my difficulty came as from a sense of the indomitableness of the Spirit within me. I used to brood over the stories of Enoch and Elijah, and almost to persuade myself that, whatever might become of others, I should be translated, in something of the same way, to heaven. With a feeling congenial to this, I was often unable to think of external things as having external existence, and I communed with all that I saw as something not apart from, but inherent in, my own immaterial nature. Many times while going to school have I grasped at a wall or tree to recall myself from this abyss of idealism to the reality. At that time I was afraid of such processes. In later periods of life I have deplored, as we have all reason to do, a subjugation of an opposite character, and have rejoiced over the remembrances, as is expressed in the lines—

Obstinate questionings
Of sense and outward things,
Fallings from us, vanishings, etc.

To that dream-like vividness and splendour which invest objects of sight in childhood, every one, I believe, if he would look back, could bear testimony, and I need not dwell upon it here; but having in the poem regarded it as presumptive evidence of a prior state of existence, I think it right to protest against a conclusion, which has given pain to some good and pious persons, that I meant to inculcate such a belief. It is far too shadowy a notion to be recommended to faith, as more than an element in our instincts of immortality. But let us bear in mind that, though the idea is not advanced in revelation, there is nothing there to contradict it, and the fall of man presents an analogy in its favour. Accordingly, a pre-existent state has entered into the popular creeds of many nations; and, among all persons acquainted with classic literature, is known as an ingredient in Platonic philosophy. Archimedes said that he could move the world if he had a point whereon to rest his machine. Who has not felt the same aspirations as regards the world of his own mind?[310] Having to wield some of its elements when I was impelled to write this poem on the “Immortality of the Soul,” I took hold of the notion of pre-existence as having sufficient foundation in humanity for authorizing me to make for my purpose the best use of it I could as a poet.—I.F.]

The Child is Father of the Man;
And I could wish my days to be
Bound each to each by natural piety.[311]
I
There was a time when meadow, grove, and stream,
The earth, and every common sight,
To me did seem
Apparelled in celestial light,
The glory and the freshness of a dream. 5
It is not now as it hath[312] been of yore;—
Turn wheresoe’er I may,
By night or day,
The things which I have seen I now can see no more.
II
The Rainbow comes and goes, 10
And lovely is the Rose,
The Moon doth with delight
Look round her when the heavens are bare,
Waters on a starry night
Are beautiful and fair; 15
The sunshine is a glorious birth;
But yet I know, where’er I go,
That there hath passed away a glory from the earth.
III
Now, while the birds thus sing a joyous song,
And while the young lambs bound 20
As to the tabor’s sound,
To me alone there came a thought of grief:
A timely utterance gave that thought relief,
And I again am strong:
The cataracts blow their trumpets from the steep; 25
No more shall grief of mine the season wrong;
I hear the Echoes through the mountains throng,
The Winds come to me from the fields of sleep,
And all the earth is gay;
Land and sea 30
Give themselves up to jollity,
And with the heart of May
Doth every Beast keep holiday;—
Thou Child of Joy,
Shout round me, let me hear thy shouts, thou happy Shepherd-boy! 35
IV
Ye blessed Creatures, I have heard the call
Ye to each other make; I see
The heavens laugh with you in your jubilee;
My heart is at your festival,
My head hath its coronal,[313] 40
The fulness of your bliss, I feel—I feel it all.[314]
Oh evil day! if I were sullen
While Earth herself is adorning,[315]
This sweet May-morning,
And the Children are culling[316] 45
On every side,
In a thousand valleys far and wide,
Fresh flowers; while the sun shines warm,
And the Babe leaps up on his Mother’s arm:—
I hear, I hear, with joy I hear! 50
—But there’s a Tree, of many, one,
A single Field which I have looked upon,
Both of them speak of something that is gone:
The Pansy at my feet
Doth the same tale repeat: 55
Whither is fled the visionary gleam?
Where is it now,[317] the glory and the dream?
V
Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting:
The Soul that rises with us, our life’s Star,
Hath had elsewhere its setting, 60
And cometh from afar:
Not in entire forgetfulness,
And not in utter nakedness,
But trailing clouds of glory do we come
From God, who is our home: 65
Heaven lies about us in our infancy!
Shades of the prison-house begin to close
Upon the growing Boy,
But He beholds the light, and whence it flows
He sees it in his joy; 70
The Youth, who daily farther from the east
Must travel, still is Nature’s Priest,
And by the vision splendid
Is on his way attended;
At length the Man perceives it[318] die away, 75
And fade into the light of common day.[319]
VI
Earth fills her lap with pleasures[320] of her own;
Yearnings she hath in her own natural kind,
And, even with something of a Mother’s mind,
And no unworthy aim, 80
The homely Nurse doth all she can
To make her Foster-child, her Inmate Man,
Forget the glories he hath known,
And that imperial palace whence he came.
VII
Behold the Child among his new-born blisses, 85
A six years’ Darling[321] of a pigmy size!
See, where ’mid work of his own hand he lies,
Fretted by sallies of his mother’s kisses,
With light upon him from his father’s eyes!
See, at his feet, some little plan or chart, 90
Some fragment from his dream of human life,
Shaped by himself with newly-learned art;
A wedding or a festival,
A mourning or a funeral;
And this hath now his heart, 95
And unto this he frames his song:
Then will he fit his tongue
To dialogues of business, love, or strife;
But it will not be long
Ere this be thrown aside, 100
And with new joy and pride
The little Actor cons another part;
Filling from time to time his “humorous stage”[322]
With all the Persons, down to palsied Age,
That Life brings with her in her equipage; 105
As if his whole vocation
Were endless imitation.
VIII
Thou, whose exterior semblance[323] doth belie
Thy Soul’s immensity;
Thou best Philosopher, who yet dost keep 110
Thy heritage, thou Eye among the blind,
That, deaf and silent, read’st the eternal deep,
Haunted for ever by the eternal mind,—
Mighty Prophet! Seer blest!
On whom those truths do rest, 115
Which we are toiling all our lives to find,
In darkness lost, the darkness of the grave;[324]
Thou, over whom thy Immortality
Broods like the Day, a Master o’er a Slave,
A Presence which is not to be put by;[325] 120
Thou little Child, yet glorious in the might
Of heaven-born freedom on thy being’s height,[326]
Why with such earnest pains dost thou provoke
The years to bring the inevitable yoke,
Thus blindly with thy blessedness at strife? 125
Full soon thy Soul shall have her earthly freight,
And custom[327] lie upon thee with a weight,[328]
Heavy as frost, and deep almost as life!
IX
O joy! that in our embers
Is something that doth live, 130
That nature yet remembers
What was so fugitive!
The thought of our past years in me doth breed
Perpetual benediction;[329] not indeed
For that which is most worthy to be blest; 135
Delight and liberty, the simple creed
Of Childhood, whether busy or at rest,
With new-fledged hope still fluttering in his breast:—[330]
Not for these I raise
The song of thanks and praise; 140
But for those obstinate questionings
Of sense and outward things,
Fallings from us, vanishings;
Blank misgivings of a Creature
Moving about in worlds not realised, 145
High instincts before which our mortal Nature
Did tremble like a guilty Thing surprised:
But for those first affections,
Those shadowy recollections,
Which, be they what they may, 150
Are yet the fountain light of all our day,
Are yet a master light of all our seeing;
Uphold us, cherish, and have power to make[331]
Our noisy years seem moments in the being
Of the eternal Silence: truths that wake, 155
To perish never;
Which neither listlessness, nor mad endeavour,
Nor Man nor Boy,
Nor all that is at enmity with joy,
Can utterly abolish or destroy! 160
Hence in a season of calm weather,
Though inland far we be,
Our Souls have sight of that immortal sea
Which brought us hither,
Can in a moment travel thither, 165
And see the Children sport upon the shore,
And hear the mighty waters rolling evermore.
X
Then sing, ye Birds, sing, sing a joyous song!
And let the young Lambs bound
As to the tabor’s sound! 170
We in thought will join your throng,
Ye that pipe and ye that play,
Ye that through your hearts to-day
Feel the gladness of the May!
What though the radiance which was once so bright 175
Be now for ever taken from my sight,
Though nothing can bring back the hour
Of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower;
We will grieve not, rather find
Strength in what remains behind; 180
In the primal sympathy
Which having been must ever be;
In the soothing thoughts that spring
Out of human suffering;
In the faith that looks through death, 185
In years that bring the philosophic mind.
XI
And O, ye Fountains, Meadows, Hills, and Groves,
Forebode not any severing[332] of our loves!
Yet in my heart of hearts I feel your might;
I only have relinquished one delight 190
To live beneath your more habitual sway.
I love the Brooks which down their channels fret,
Even more than when I tripped lightly as they;
The innocent brightness of a new-born Day
Is lovely yet; 195
The Clouds that gather round the setting sun
Do take a sober colouring from an eye
That hath kept watch o’er man’s mortality;
Another race hath been, and other palms are won.[333]
Thanks to the human heart by which we live, 200
Thanks to its tenderness, its joys, and fears,
To me the meanest flower that blows[334] can give
Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears.[335]

This great Ode was first printed as the last poem in the second volume of the edition of 1807. At that date Wordsworth gave it the simple title Ode, prefixing to it the motto, “Paulò majora canamus.” In 1815, when he revised the poem throughout, he named it—in the characteristic manner of many of his titles—diffuse and yet precise, Ode. Intimations of Immortality from Recollections of Early Childhood; and he then prefixed to it the lines of his own earlier poem on the Rainbow (March 1802):—