The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Poetical Works of William Wordsworth, Volume 8, by William Wordsworth.

“Critics, right honourable Bard, decree

Laurels to some, a night-shade wreath to thee,

Whose muse a sure though late revenge hath ta’en

Of harmless Abel’s death, by murdering Cain.”

“A German Haggis from receipt

Of him who cooked the death of Abel,

And sent ‘warm-reeking, rich and sweet,’

From Venice to Sir Walter’s table.”

Through Cumbrian wilds, in many a mountain cove,

The pastoral Muse laments the Wheel—no more

Engaged, near blazing hearth on clean-swept floor,

In tasks which guardian Angels might approve,

Friendly the weight of leisure to remove, 5

And to beguile the lassitude of ease;

Gracious to all the dear dependencies

Of house and field,—to plenty, peace, and love.

There too did Fancy prize the murmuring wheel;

For sympathies, inexplicably fine, 10

Instilled a confidence—how sweet to feel!

That ever in the night-calm, when the Sheep

Upon their grassy beds lay couch’d in sleep,

The quickening spindle drew a trustier line.

My Son! behold the tide already spent

That rose, and steadily advanced to fill

The shores and channels, working Nature’s will

Among the mazy streams that backward went,

And in the sluggish Ports where ships were pent. 5

And now, its task performed, the flood stands still

At the green base of many an inland hill,

In placid beauty and entire content.

Such the repose that Sage and Hero find,

Such measured rest the diligent and good 10

Of humbler name, whose souls do like the flood

Of ocean press right on, or gently wind,

Neither to be diverted nor withstood

Until they reach the bounds by Heaven assigned.

The confidence of Youth our only Art,

And Hope gay Pilot of the bold design,

We saw the living Landscapes of the Rhine,

Reach after reach, salute us and depart;

Slow sink the Spires,—and up again they start! 5

But who shall count the Towers as they recline

O’er the dark steeps, or in the horizon line

Striding, with shattered crests, the eye athwart?

More touching still, more perfect was the pleasure,

When hurrying forward till the slack’ning stream 10

Spread like a spacious Mere, we there could measure

A smooth free course along the watery gleam,

Think calmly on the past, and mark at leisure

Features which else had vanished like a dream.

The confidence of Youth our only Art.

Were there, below, a spot of holy ground,

By Pain and her sad family unfound, etc.

These vales were saddened with no common gloom

When good Jemima perished in her bloom;

When, such the awful will of heaven, she died

By flames breathed on her from her own fireside.

On earth we dimly see, and but in part 5

We know, yet faith sustains the sorrowing heart;

And she, the pure, the patient and the meek,

Might have fit epitaph could feelings speak;

If words could tell and monuments record,

How Treasures lost are inwardly deplored, 10

No name by grief’s fond eloquence adorned

More than Jemima’s would be praised and mourned.

The tender virtues of her blameless life,

Bright in the daughter, brighter in the wife,

And in the cheerful mother brightest shone,— 15

That light hath past away—the will of God [394] be done.

… of Heaven …

MS.

But Cytherea, studious to invent

Arts yet untried, upon new counsels bent,

Resolves that Cupid, chang’d in form and face

To young Ascanius, should assume his place;

Present the maddening gifts, and kindle heat 5

Of passion at the bosom’s inmost seat.

She dreads the treacherous house, the double tongue;

She burns, she frets—by Juno’s rancour stung;

The calm of night is powerless to remove

These cares, and thus she speaks to wingèd Love: 10

“O son, my strength, my power! who dost despise

(What, save thyself, none dares through earth and skies)

The giant-quelling bolts of Jove, I flee,

O son, a suppliant to thy deity!

What perils meet Æneas in his course, 15

How Juno’s hate with unrelenting force

Pursues thy brother—this to thee is known;

And oft-times hast thou made my griefs thine own.

Him now the generous Dido by soft chains

Of bland entreaty at her court detains; 20

Junonian hospitalities prepare

Such apt occasion that I dread a snare.

Hence, ere some hostile God can intervene,

Would I, by previous wiles, inflame the queen

With passion for Æneas, such strong love 25

That at my beck, mine only, she shall move.

Hear, and assist;—the father’s mandate calls

His young Ascanius to the Tyrian walls;

He comes, my dear delight,—and costliest things

Preserv’d from fire and flood for presents brings. 30

Him will I take, and in close covert keep,

’Mid groves Idalian, lull’d to gentle sleep,

Or on Cythera’s far-sequestered steep,

That he may neither know what hope is mine,

Nor by his presence traverse the design. 35

Do thou, but for a single night’s brief space,

Dissemble; be that boy in form and face!

And when enraptured Dido shall receive

Thee to her arms, and kisses interweave

With many a fond embrace, while joy runs high, 40

And goblets crown the proud festivity,

Instil thy subtle poison, and inspire,

At every touch, an unsuspected fire.”

Love, at the word, before his mother’s sight

Puts off his wings, and walks, with proud delight, 45

Like young Iulus; but the gentlest dews

Of slumber Venus sheds, to circumfuse

The true Ascanius steep’d in placid rest;

Then wafts him, cherish’d on her careful breast,

Through upper air to an Idalian glade, 50

Where he on soft amaracas is laid,

With breathing flowers embraced, and fragrant shade.

But Cupid, following cheerily his guide

Achates, with the gifts to Carthage hied;

And, as the hall he entered, there, between 55

The sharers of her golden couch, was seen

Reclin’d in festal pomp the Tyrian queen.

The Trojans, too (Æneas at their head),

On couches lie, with purple overspread:

Meantime in canisters is heap’d the bread, 60

Pellucid water for the hands is borne,

And napkins of smooth texture, finely shorn.

Within are fifty handmaids, who prepare,

As they in order stand, the dainty fare;

And fume the household deities with store 65

Of odorous incense; while a hundred more

Match’d with an equal number of like age,

But each of manly sex, a docile page,

Marshal the banquet, giving with due grace

To cup or viand its appointed place. 70

The Tyrians rushing in, an eager band,

Their painted couches seek, obedient to command.

They look with wonder on the gifts—they gaze

Upon Iulus, dazzled with the rays

That from his ardent countenance are flung, 75

And charm’d to hear his simulating tongue;

Nor pass unprais’d the robe and veil divine,

Round which the yellow flowers and wandering foliage twine.

But chiefly Dido, to the coming ill

Devoted, strives in vain her vast desires to fill; 80

She views the gifts; upon the child then turns

Insatiable looks, and gazing burns.

To ease a father’s cheated love he hung

Upon Æneas, and around him clung;

Then seeks the queen; with her his arts he tries; 85

She fastens on the boy enamour’d eyes,

Clasps in her arms, nor weens (O lot unblest!)

How great a God, incumbent o’er her breast,

Would fill it with his spirit. He, to please

His Acidalian mother, by degrees 90

Blots out Sichaeus, studious to remove

The dead, by influx of a living love,

By stealthy entrance of a perilous guest.

Troubling a heart that had been long at rest.

Now when the viands were withdrawn, and ceas’d 95

The first division of the splendid feast,

While round a vacant board the chiefs recline,

Huge goblets are brought forth; they crown the wine;

Voices of gladness roll the walls around;

Those gladsome voices from the courts rebound; 100

From gilded rafters many a blazing light

Depends, and torches overcome the night.

The minutes fly—till, at the queen’s command,

A bowl of state is offered to her hand:

Then she, as Belus wont, and all the line 105

From Belus, filled it to the brim with wine;

Silence ensued. “O Jupiter, whose care

Is hospitable dealing, grant my prayer!

Productive day be this of lasting joy

To Tyrians, and these exiles driven from Troy; 110

A day to future generations dear!

Let Bacchus, donor of soul-quick’ning cheer,

Be present; kindly Juno, be thou near!

And, Tyrians, may your choicest favours wait

Upon this hour, the bond to celebrate!” 115

She spake and shed an offering on the board;

Then sipp’d the bowl whence she the wine had pour’d

And gave to Bitias, urging the prompt lord;

He rais’d the bowl, and took a long deep draught;

Then every chief in turn the beverage quaff’d. 120

Graced with redundant hair, Iopas sings

The lore of Atlas, to resounding strings,

The labours of the Sun, the lunar wanderings;

Whence human kind, and brute; what natural powers

Engender lightning, whence are falling showers. 125

He haunts Arcturus,—that fraternal twain

The glittering Bears,—the Pleiads fraught with rain;

—Why suns in winter, shunning heaven’s steep heights

Post seaward,—what impedes the tardy nights.

The learned song from Tyrian hearers draws 130

Loud shouts,—the Trojans echo the applause.

—But, lengthening out the night with converse new,

Large draughts of love unhappy Dido drew;

Of Priam ask’d, of Hector—o’er and o’er—

What arms the son of bright Aurora wore;— 135

What steeds the car of Diomed could boast;

Among the leaders of the Grecian host

How look’d Achilles, their dread paramount—

“But nay—the fatal wiles, O guest, recount,

Retrace the Grecian cunning from its source, 140

Your own grief and your friends’—your wandering course;

For now, till this seventh summer have ye rang’d

The sea, or trod the earth, to peace estrang’d.”

Arms and the Man I sing, the first who bore

His course to Latium from the Trojan shore,

A fugitive of fate. Long time was he

By powers celestial tossed on land and sea

Thro’ wrathful Juno’s far-famed enmity;

Much too from war endured till new abodes

He planted, and in Latium fixed his Gods,

Whence flows the Latin people, whence have come

The Alban Sites and walls of lofty Rome.

A twofold harmony is here;

I listen with the bodily ear,

But dull and cheerless is the sound

Contrasted with the heart’s rebound.

Now at the close of fervid June, 5

Upon this breathless hazy noon,

I seek the deepest darkest shade

Within the covert of that glade,

Which you and I first named our own

When primroses were fully blown, 10

Oaks just were budding, and the grove

Rang with the gladdest songs of love.

Then did the Leader of the Band,

A gallant thrush, maintain his stand

Unshrouded from the eye of day 15

Upon yon Beech’s topmost spray.

Within the selfsame lofty tree

A thrush sings now—perchance ’tis he—

The lusty joyous gallant bird,

Which on that April morn we heard. 20

But oh! how different that voice

Which bade the very hills rejoice.

Through languid air, through leafy boughs

It falls, and can no echo rouse.

But on the workings of my heart 25

Doth memory act a busy part;

That jocund April morn lives there,

Its cheering sounds, its hues so fair.

Why mixes with remembrance blithe

What nothing but the restless scythe 30

Of Death can utterly destroy,

A heaviness, a dull alloy?

Ah Friend! thy heart can answer why.

Even then I heaved a bitter sigh,

No word of sorrow did’st thou speak, 35

But tears stole down thy tremulous cheek.

The wished for hour at length was come,

And thou had’st housed me in thy home,

On fair Gwerndwffnant’s billowy hill,

Had’st led me to its crystal rill, 40

And led me through the dingle deep

Up to the highest grassy steep,

The sheep walk where the snow-white lambs

Sported beside their quiet dams.

But thou wert destined to remove 45

From all these objects of thy love,

In this thy later day to roam

Far off, and seek another home.

Now thou art gone—belike ’tis best—

And I remain a passing guest, 50

Yet for thy sake, beloved Friend,

When from this spot my way shall tend,

And if my timid soul might dare

To shape the future in its prayer,

Then fervently would I entreat 55

Our gracious God to guide thy feet

Back to the peaceful sunny cot,

Where thou so oft hast blessed thy lot.

You’re here for one long vernal day;

We’ll give it all to social play,

Though forty years have rolled away

Since we were young as you.

Then welcome to our spacious Hall! 5

Tom, Bessy, Mary, welcome all!

Though removed from busy men,

Yea lonesome as the foxes’ den,

’Tis a place for joyance fit,

For frolic games and inborn wit. 10

’Twas nature built this hall of ours;

She shap’d the bank; she framed the bowers

That close it all around;

From her we hold our precious right,

And here, thro’ live-long day and night, 15

She rules with modest sway.

Our carpet is our verdant sod;

A richer one was never trod

In prince’s proud saloon.

Purple, and gold, and spotless white, 20

And quivering shade, and sunny light,

Blend with the emerald green.

She opened for the mountain brook

A gentle winding pebbly way

Into this placid secret nook. 25

Its bell-like tinkling—list, you hear—

’Tis never loud, yet always clear

As linnet’s song in May.

And we have other music here:

A thousand songsters through the year 30

Dwell in these happy groves,

And in this season of their loves

They join their voices with the doves

To raise a perfect harmony.

Thus spake I while with sober pace 35

We slipped into that chosen place

And from the centre of our Hall

The young ones played around,

Then, like a flock of vigorous lambs,

That quit their grave and slow-paced dams 40

To frolic o’er the mead,

That innocent fraternal troop

Erewhile a steady listening group

Off starting—Girl and Boy

In gamesome race with agile bound 45

Beat o’er and o’er the grassy ground

As if in motion—perfect joy.

So vanishes my idle scheme

That we through this long vernal day,

Associates in their youthful play, 50

With them might travel in one stream.

Ah! how should we whose heads are grey?

Light was my heart, my spirits gay,

And fondly did I dream.

But now, recalled to consciousness, 55

With weight of years, of changed estate,

Thought is not needed to repress

Those shapeless fancies of delight

That flash before my dazzled sight

Upon this joy-devoted morn. 60

Gladly we seek the stillest nook

Whence we may read, as in a book,

A history of years gone by,

Recalled to faded memory’s eye

By bright reflection from the mirth 65

Of youthful hearts—a transient second-birth

Of our own childish days.

Pleasure unbidden is their guide

Their leader—faithful to their side

Prompting each wayward feat of strength: 70

The ambitious leap, the emulous race,

The startling shout, the mimic chase,

The simple half-disguisèd wile

Detected through the flattering smile.

A truce to this unbridled course 75

Doth intervene—no need of force.

We spread upon the flowery grass

The noontide meal—each lad and lass

Obeys the call—we form a Round,

And all are seated on the ground. 80

The sun’s meridian hour is passed,

Again begins the emulous race,

Again succeeds the sportive chase.

And thus was spent that vernal day,

Till twilight checked the noisy play; 85

Then did they feel a languor spread

Over their limbs, the beating tread

Was stilled—the busy throbbing heart—

And silently we all depart.

The shelter of our rustic cot 90

Receives us, and we envy not

The palace, or the stately dome;

But wish that all had such a home.

Each child repeats his nightly prayer

That God may bless their parents’ care 95

To guide them in the way of truth

Through helpless childhood, giddy youth.

The closing hymn of cheerful praise

Doth yet again their spirits raise;

But ’tis not now a thoughtless joy. 100

For tender parents, loving friends,

And all the gifts God’s blessing sends,

Feelingly do they bless his name.

That homage paid, the young retire

With no unsatisfied desire; 105

Theirs is one long, one steady sleep,

Till the sun, tip-toe on the steep

In front of our beloved cot,

Casts on the walls her brightest beams.

Within, a startling lustre streams. 110

They all awaken suddenly;

As at the touch of magic skill,

Or, as the pilgrim, at the bell

That summons him to matin-prayer.

And is it sorrow that they feel? 115

Nay! call it not by such a name,

The stroke of sadness that doth steal

With rapid motion through their hearts,

When comes the thought that yesterday

With all its joys is passed away, 120

The long expected happy day.

An instant—and all sadness goes;

Nor brighter looks the half-blown rose

Than does the countenance of each child

Whether of ardent soul or mild. 125

The hour was fixed—they are prepared—

And homeward now they must depart,

And after many a brisk adieu,

On pony trim, and fleet of limb,

Their bustling journey they pursue. 130

The fair-hair’d gentle quiet maid,

And she who is of daring mood,

The valiant and the timid Boy

Alike are ranged to hardihood;

And wheresoe’er the troop appear 135

They scatter smiles, a hearty cheer

Comes from both old and young,

And blessings fall from many a tongue.

They reach the dear paternal roof,

Nor dread a cold or stern reproof, 140

While they pour forth the history

Of three days’ mirth and revelry.

Ah! Children, happy is your lot,

Still bound together in one knot

Beneath your tender mother’s eye! 145

Too soon these blessed days shall fly,

And brothers shall from sisters part;

And, trust me, whatsoe’er your doom,

Whate’er betide through years to come,

The punctual pleasures of your home 150

Shall linger in your thoughts,

More clear than any future hope

Though fancy take her freest scope.

For oh! too soon your hearts shall own

The past is all that is your own. 155

And every day of festival

Gratefully shall ye then recal,

Less for their own sakes than for this,

That each shall be a resting-place

For memory, and divide the race 160

Of childhood’s smooth and happy years,

Thus lengthening out that term of life

Which governed by your parents’ care

Is free from sorrow and from strife.

The doubt to which a wavering hope had clung

Is fled; we must depart, willing or not;

Sky-piercing Hills! must bid farewell to you

And all that ye look down upon with pride,

With tenderness, embosom; to your paths, 5

And pleasant dwellings, to familiar trees

And wild-flowers known as well as if our hands

Had tended them: and O pellucid Spring!

Unheard of, save in one small hamlet, here

Not undistinguished, for of wells that ooze 10

Or founts that gurgle from yon craggy steep,

Their common sire, thou only bear’st his name.

Insensibly the foretaste of this parting

Hath ruled my steps, and seals me to thy side,

Mindful that thou (ah! wherefore by my Muse 15

So long unthanked) hast cheered a simple board

With beverage pure as ever fixed the choice

Of hermit, dubious where to scoop his cell;

Which Persian kings might envy; and thy meek

And gentle aspect oft has ministered 20

To finer uses. They for me must cease;

Days will pass on, the year, if years be given,

Fade,—and the moralising mind derive

No lessons from the presence of a Power

By the inconstant nature we inherit 25

Unmatched in delicate beneficence;

For neither unremitting rains avail

To swell thee into voice; nor longest drought

Thy bounty stints, nor can thy beauty mar,

Beauty not therefore wanting change to stir 30

The fancy pleased by spectacles unlooked for.

Nor yet, perchance, translucent Spring, had tolled

The Norman curfew bell when human hands

First offered help that the deficient rock

Might overarch thee, from pernicious heat 35

Defended, and appropriate to man’s need.

Such ties will not be severed: but, when we

Are gone, what summer loiterer will regard,

Inquisitive, thy countenance, will peruse,

Pleased to detect the dimpling stir of life, 40

The breathing faculty with which thou yield’st

(Tho’ a mere goblet to the careless eye)

Boons inexhaustible? Who, hurrying on

With a step quickened by November’s cold,

Shall pause, the skill admiring that can work 45

Upon thy chance-defilements—withered twigs

That, lodged within thy crystal depths, seem bright,

As if they from a silver tree had fallen—

And oaken leaves that, driven by whirling blasts,

Sunk down, and lay immersed in dead repose 50

For Time’s invisible tooth to prey upon

Unsightly objects and uncoveted,

Till thou with crystal bead-drops didst encrust

Their skeletons, turned to brilliant ornaments.

But, from thy bosom, should some venturous [396] hand 55

Abstract those gleaming relics, and uplift them,

However gently, toward the vulgar air,

At once their tender brightness disappears,

Leaving the intermeddler to upbraid

His folly. Thus (I feel it while I speak), 60

Thus, with the fibres of these thoughts it fares;

And oh! how much, of all that love creates

Or beautifies, like changes undergo,

Suffers like loss when drawn out of the soul,

Its silent laboratory! Words should say 65

(Could they depict the marvels of thy cell)

How often I have marked a plumy fern

From the live rock with grace inimitable

Bending its apex toward a paler self

Reflected all in perfect lineaments— 70

Shadow and substance kissing point to point

In mutual stillness; or, if some faint breeze

Entering the cell gave restlessness to one,

The other, glassed in thy unruffled breast,

Partook of every motion, met, retired, 75

And met again. Such playful sympathy,

Such delicate caress as in the shape

Of this green plant had aptly recompensed

For baffled lips and disappointed arms

And hopeless pangs, the spirit of that youth, 80

The fair Narcissus by some pitying God

Changed to a crimson flower; when he, whose pride

Provoked a retribution too severe,

Had pined; upon his watery duplicate

Wasting that love the nymphs implored in vain. 85

Thus while my Fancy wanders, thou, clear Spring,

Moved (shall I say?) like a dear friend who meets

A parting moment with her loveliest look,

And seemingly her happiest, look so fair

It frustrates its own purpose, and recalls 90

The grieved one whom it meant to send away—

Dost tempt me by disclosures exquisite

To linger, bending over thee: for now,

What witchcraft, mild enchantress, may with thee

Compare! thy earthly bed a moment past 95

Palpable to sight as the dry ground,

Eludes perception, not by rippling air

Concealed, nor through effect of some impure

Upstirring; but, abstracted by a charm

Of my own cunning, earth mysteriously 100

From under thee hath vanished, and slant beams

The silent inquest of a western sun,

Assisting, lucid well-spring! Thou revealest

Communion without check of herbs and flowers,

And the vault’s hoary sides to which they cling, 105

Imaged in downward show; the flower, the Herbs,[397]

These not of earthly texture, and the vault

Not there diminutive, but through a scale

Of vision less and less distinct, descending

To gloom imperishable. So (if truths 110

The highest condescend to be set forth

By processes minute), even so—when thought

Wins help from something greater than herself—

Is the firm basis of habitual sense

Supplanted, not for treacherous vacancy 115

And blank dissociation from a world

We love, but that the residues of flesh,

Mirrored, yet not too strictly, may refine

To Spirit; for the idealising Soul

Time wears the features of Eternity; 120

And Nature deepens into Nature’s God.

Millions of kneeling Hindoos at this day

Bow to the watery element, adored

In their vast stream, and if an age hath been

(As books and haply votive altars vouch) 125

When British floods were worshipped, some faint trace

Of that idolatry, through monkish rites

Transmitted far as living memory,

Might wait on thee, a silent monitor,

On thee, bright Spring, a bashful little one, 130

Yet to the measure of thy promises

True, as the mightiest; upon thee, sequestered

For meditation, nor inopportune

For social interest such as I have shared.

Peace to the sober matron who shall dip 135

Her pitcher here at early dawn, by me

No longer greeted—to the tottering sire,

For whom like service, now and then his choice,

Relieves the tedious holiday of age—

Thoughts raised above the Earth while here he sits 140

Feeding on sunshine—to the blushing girl

Who here forgets her errand, nothing loth

To be waylaid by her betrothed, peace

And pleasure sobered down to happiness!

But should these hills be ranged by one whose soul 145

Scorning love-whispers shrinks from love itself

As Fancy’s snare for female vanity,

Here may the aspirant find a trysting-place

For loftier intercourse. The Muses crowned

With wreaths that have not faded to this hour 150

Sprung from high Jove, of sage Mnemosyne

Enamoured, so the fable runs; but they

Certes were self-taught damsels, scattered births

Of many a Grecian vale, who sought not praise,

And, heedless even of listeners, warbled out 155

Their own emotions given to mountain air

In notes which mountain echoes would take up

Boldly and bear away to softer life;

Hence deified as sisters they were bound

Together in a never-dying choir; 160

Who with their Hippocrene and grottoed fount

Of Castaly, attest that Woman’s heart

Was in the limpid age of this stained world

The most assured seat of [ ]

And new-born waters, deemed the happiest source 165

Of inspiration for the conscious lyre.

Lured by the crystal element in times

Stormy and fierce, the Maid of Arc withdrew

From human converse to frequent alone

The Fountain of the Fairies. What to her, 170

Smooth summer dreams, old favours of the place.

Pageant and revels of blithe elves—to her

Whose country groan’d under a foreign scourge?

She pondered murmurs that attuned her ear

For the reception of far other sounds 175

Than their too happy minstrelsy,—a Voice

Reached her with supernatural mandate charged

More awful than the chambers of dark earth

Have virtue to send forth. Upon the marge

Of the benignant fountain, while she stood 180

Gazing intensely, the translucent lymph

Darkened beneath the shadow of her thoughts

As if swift clouds swept o’er it, or caught

War’s tincture, ’mid the forest green and still,

Turned into blood before her heart-sick eye. 185

Erelong, forsaking all her natural haunts,

All her accustomed offices and cares

Relinquishing, but treasuring every law

And grace of feminine humanity,

The chosen Rustic urged a warlike steed 190

Toward the beleaguered city, in the might

Of prophecy, accoutred to fulfil,

At the sword’s point, visions conceived in love.

The cloud of rooks descending thro’ mid air

Softens its evening uproar towards a close [398] 195

Near and more near; for this protracted strain

A warning not unwelcome. Fare thee well!

Emblem of equanimity and truth,

Farewell!—if thy composure be not ours,

Yet as thou still, when we are gone, wilt keep 200

Thy living chaplet of fresh flowers and fern,

Cherished in shade tho’ peeped at [399] by the sun;

So shall our bosoms feel a covert growth

Of grateful recollections, tribute due

To thy obscure and modest attributes 205

To thee, dear Spring,[400] and all-sustaining Heaven!

1819

“THROUGH CUMBRIAN WILDS, IN MANY A MOUNTAIN COVE”

“MY SON! BEHOLD THE TIDE ALREADY SPENT”

1820

AUTHOR’S VOYAGE DOWN THE RHINE
(THIRTY YEARS AGO)

1822

“THESE VALES WERE SADDENED WITH NO COMMON GLOOM”

TRANSLATION OF PART OF THE FIRST BOOK OF THE ÆNEID

1823

“ARMS AND THE MAN I SING, THE FIRST WHO BORE”

1826

LINES ADDRESSED TO JOANNA H. FROM GWERNDWFFNANT IN JUNE 1826

HOLIDAY AT GWERNDWFFNANT, MAY 1826
IRREGULAR STANZAS

COMPOSED WHEN A PROBABILITY EXISTED OF OUR BEING OBLIGED TO QUIT RYDAL MOUNT AS A RESIDENCE