XXI
AT FLORENCE—FROM MICHAEL ANGELO
[However at first these two sonnets from Michael Angelo
may seem in their spirit somewhat inconsistent with each other,
I have not scrupled to place them side by side as characteristic
of their great author, and others with whom he lived. I feel,
nevertheless, a wish to know at what periods of his life they
were respectively composed.[156] The latter, as it expresses, was
written in his advanced years, when it was natural that the
Platonism that pervades the one should give way to the
Christian feeling that inspired the other: between both there
is more than poetic affinity.—I.F.]
Rapt above earth by power of one fair face,
Hers in whose sway alone my heart delights,
I mingle with the blest on those pure heights
Where Man, yet mortal, rarely finds a place.
With Him who made the Work that Work accords 5
So well, that by its help and through his grace
I raise my thoughts, inform my deeds and words,
Clasping her beauty in my soul’s embrace.
Thus, if from two fair eyes mine cannot turn,
I feel how in their presence doth abide 10
Light which to God is both the way and guide;
And, kindling at their lustre, if I burn,
My noble fire emits the joyful ray
That through the realms of glory shines for aye.
XXII
AT FLORENCE—FROM M. ANGELO
Eternal Lord! eased of a cumbrous load,
And loosened from the world, I turn to Thee;
Shun, like a shattered bark, the storm, and flee
To thy protection for a safe abode.
The crown of thorns, hands pierced upon the tree, 5
The meek, benign, and lacerated face,
To a sincere repentance promise grace,
To the sad soul give hope of pardon free.
With justice mark not Thou, O Light divine,
My fault, nor hear it with thy sacred ear; 10
Neither put forth that way thy arm severe;
Wash with thy blood my sins; thereto incline
More readily the more my years require
Help, and forgiveness speedy and entire.
XXIII
AMONG THE RUINS OF A CONVENT IN
THE APENNINES
[The political revolutions of our time have multiplied, on the
Continent, objects that unavoidably call forth reflections such as
are expressed in these verses, but the Ruins in those countries
are too recent to exhibit, in anything like an equal degree, the
beauty with which time and nature have invested the remains
of our Convents and Abbeys. These verses, it will be observed,
take up the beauty long before it is matured, as one cannot but
wish it may be among some of the desolations of Italy, France,
and Germany.—I.F.]
Ye Trees! whose slender roots entwine
Altars that piety neglects;
Whose infant arms enclasp the shrine
Which no devotion now respects;
If not a straggler from the herd 5
Here ruminate, nor shrouded bird,
Chanting her low-voiced hymn, take pride
In aught that ye would grace or hide—
How sadly is your love misplaced,
Fair Trees, your bounty run to waste! 10
Ye, too,
[157] wild Flowers! that no one heeds,
And ye—full often spurned as weeds—
In beauty clothed, or breathing sweetness
From fractured arch and mouldering wall—
Do but more touchingly recal 15
Man’s headstrong violence and Time’s fleetness,
Making
[158] the precincts ye adorn
Appear to sight still more forlorn.
XXIV
IN LOMBARDY
See, where his difficult way that Old Man wins
Bent by a load of Mulberry leaves!—most hard
Appears his lot, to the small Worm’s compared,
For whom his toil with early day begins.
Acknowledging no task-master, at will 5
(As if her labour and her ease were twins)
She seems to work, at pleasure to lie still;—
And softly sleeps within the thread she spins.
So fare they—the Man serving as her Slave.
Ere long their fates do each to each conform: 10
Both pass into new being,—but the Worm,
Transfigured, sinks into a hopeless grave;
His volant Spirit will, he trusts, ascend
To bliss unbounded, glory without end.
XXV
AFTER LEAVING ITALY
[I had proof in several instances that the Carbonari, if I may
still call them so, and their favourers, are opening their eyes to
the necessity of patience, and are intent upon spreading knowledge
actively but quietly as they can. May they have
resolution to continue in this course! for it is the only one by
which they can truly benefit their country. We left Italy by
the way which is called the “Nuova Strada de Allmagna,” to
the east of the high passes of the Alps, which take you at once
from Italy into Switzerland. This road leads across several
smaller heights, and winds down different vales in succession,
so that it was only by the accidental sound of a few German
words that I was aware we had quitted Italy, and hence the
unwelcome shock alluded to in the two or three last lines of
the latter sonnet.—I.F.]
Fair Land! Thee all men greet with joy; how few,
Whose souls take pride in freedom, virtue, fame,
Part from thee without pity dyed in shame:
I could not—while from Venice we withdrew,
Led on till an Alpine strait confined our view
[159] 5Within its depths, and to the shore we came
Of Lago Morto, dreary sight and name,
Which o’er sad thoughts a sadder colouring threw.
Italia! on the surface of thy spirit,
(Too aptly emblemed by that torpid lake) 10
Shall a few partial breezes only creep?—
Be its depths quickened; what thou dost inherit
Of the world’s hopes, dare to fulfil; awake,
Mother of Heroes, from thy death-like sleep!
XXVI
CONTINUED
As indignation mastered grief, my tongue
Spake bitter words; words that did ill agree
With those rich stores of Nature’s imagery,
And divine Art, that fast to memory clung—
Thy gifts, magnificent Region, ever young 5
In the sun’s eye, and in his sister’s sight
How beautiful! how worthy to be sung
In strains of rapture, or subdued delight!
I feign not; witness that unwelcome shock
That followed the first sound of German speech, 10
Caught the far-winding barrier Alps among.
In that announcement, greeting seemed to mock
[160]Parting; the casual word had power to reach
My heart, and filled that heart with conflict strong.
AT BOLOGNA, IN REMEMBRANCE OF THE
LATE INSURRECTIONS, 1837[161][162]
Composed 1837.—Published 1842
This was originally (1842) included in the “Memorials of a
Tour in Italy,” but, in 1845, it was transferred, along with the
two which follow it, to the “Sonnets dedicated to Liberty and
Order.”—Ed.
I
Ah why deceive ourselves! by no mere fit
Of sudden passion roused shall men attain
True freedom where for ages they have lain
Bound in a dark abominable pit,
With life’s best sinews more and more unknit. 5
Here, there, a banded few who loathe the chain
May rise to break it: effort worse than vain
For thee, O great Italian nation, split
Into those jarring fractions.—Let thy scope
Be one fixed mind for all; thy rights approve 10
To thy own conscience gradually renewed;
Learn to make Time the father of wise Hope;
Then trust thy cause to the arm of Fortitude,
The light of Knowledge, and the warmth of Love.
II
CONTINUED
Composed 1837.—Published 1842
Hard task! exclaim the undisciplined, to lean
On Patience coupled with such slow endeavour,
That long-lived servitude must last for ever.
Perish the grovelling few, who, prest between
Wrongs and the terror of redress, would wean 5
Millions from glorious aims. Our chains to sever
Let us break forth in tempest now or never!—
What, is there then no space for golden mean
And gradual progress?—Twilight leads to day,
And, even within the burning zones of earth, 10
The hastiest sunrise yields a temperate ray;
The softest breeze to fairest flowers gives birth:
Think not that Prudence dwells in dark abodes,
She scans the future with the eye of gods.
III
CONCLUDED
Composed 1837.—Published 1842
As leaves are to the tree whereon they grow
And wither, every human generation
Is to the Being of a mighty nation,
Locked in our world’s embrace through weal and woe;
Thought that should teach the zealot to forego 5
Rash schemes, to abjure all selfish agitation,
And seek through noiseless pains and moderation
The unblemished good they only can bestow.
Alas! with most, who weigh futurity
Against time present, passion holds the scales: 10
Hence equal ignorance of both prevails,
And nations sink; or, struggling to be free,
Are doomed to flounder on, like wounded whales
Tossed on the bosom of a stormy sea.
“WHAT IF OUR NUMBERS BARELY COULD
DEFY”
Composed 1837.—Published 1837
One of the “Poems dedicated to National Independence and
Liberty.”—Ed.
What if our numbers barely could defy
The arithmetic of babes, must foreign hordes,
Slaves, vile as ever were befooled by words,
Striking through English breasts the anarchy
Of Terror, bear us to the ground, and tie 5
Our hands behind our backs with felon cords?
Yields every thing to discipline of swords?
Is man as good as man, none low, none high?—
Nor discipline nor valour can withstand
The shock, nor quell
[163] the inevitable rout,
10When in some great extremity breaks out
A people, on their own beloved Land
Risen, like one man, to combat in the sight
Of a just God for liberty and right.
A NIGHT THOUGHT
Composed 1837.—Published 1837
[These verses were thrown off extempore upon leaving Mrs.
Luff’s house at Fox Ghyll one evening. The good woman is
not disposed to look at the bright side of things, and there
happened to be present certain ladies who had reached the
point of life where youth is ended, and who seemed to contend
with each other in expressing their dislike of the country and
climate. One of them had been heard to say she could not
endure a country where there was “neither sunshine nor
cavaliers.”—I.F.]
This poem was first published in The Tribute, a Collection of
Miscellaneous unpublished Poems by various Authors, edited by
Lord Northampton, in 1837, “for the benefit of the widow and
family of the Rev. Edward Smedley.” (The same volume
contained a poem by Southey on Brough Bells.) It next
found a place in “Poems chiefly of Early and Late Years”
(1842). A stanza given in The Tribute, No. 2 (see below),
was omitted afterwards.—Ed.
Lo! where the Moon along the sky
Sails with her happy destiny;
[164]Oft is she hid from mortal eye
Or dimly seen,
But when the clouds asunder fly 5
How bright her mien!
[165]
Far different we—a froward race,
[166]Thousands though rich in Fortune’s grace
With cherished sullenness of pace
Their way pursue, 10
Ingrates who wear a smileless face
The whole year through.
If kindred humours e’er would make
[167]My spirit droop for drooping’s sake,
From Fancy following in thy wake, 15
Bright ship of heaven!
A counter impulse let me take
THE WIDOW ON WINDERMERE SIDE
Published 1842
[The facts recorded in this Poem were given me, and the
character of the person described, by my friend the Rev. R. P.
Graves,[169] who has long officiated as curate at Bowness, to the
great benefit of the parish and neighbourhood. The individual
was well known to him. She died before these verses were composed.
It is scarcely worth while to notice that the stanzas are
written in the sonnet form, which was adopted when I thought
the matter might be included in twenty-eight lines.—I.F.]
One of the “Poems founded on the Affections.”—Ed.
How beautiful when up a lofty height
Honour ascends among the humblest poor,
And feeling sinks as deep! See there the door
Of One, a Widow, left beneath a weight
Of blameless debt. On evil Fortune’s spite 5
She wasted no complaint, but strove to make
A just repayment, both for conscience-sake
And that herself and hers should stand upright
In the world’s eye. Her work when daylight failed
Paused not, and through the depth of night she kept 10
Such earnest vigils, that belief prevailed
With some, the noble Creature never slept;
But, one by one, the hand of death assailed
Her children from her inmost heart bewept.
The Mother mourned, nor ceased her tears to flow, 15
Till a winter’s noon-day placed her buried Son
Before her eyes, last child of many gone—
His raiment of angelic white, and lo!
His very feet bright as the dazzling snow
Which they are touching; yea far brighter, even 20
As that which comes, or seems to come, from heaven,
Surpasses aught these elements can show.
Much she rejoiced, trusting that from that hour
Whate’er befel she could not grieve or pine;
But the Transfigured, in and out of season, 25
Appeared, and spiritual presence gained a power
Over material forms that mastered reason.
Oh, gracious Heaven, in pity make her thine!
But why that prayer? as if to her could come
No good but by the way that leads to bliss 30
Through Death,—so judging we should judge amiss.
Since reason failed want is her threatened doom,
Yet frequent transports mitigate the gloom:
Nor of those maniacs is she one that kiss
The air or laugh upon a precipice; 35
No, passing through strange sufferings toward the tomb,
She smiles as if a martyr’s crown were won:
Oft, when light breaks through clouds or waving trees,
With outspread arms and fallen upon her knees
The Mother hails in her descending Son 40
An Angel, and in earthly ecstasies
Her own angelic glory seems begun.
1838
In 1838 Wordsworth wrote ten sonnets. These were published
(along with the one suggested by Mrs. Southey) for the
first time in the volume of collected Sonnets, several being
inserted out of their intended place, while the book was passing
through the press.
The Protest against the Ballot, which appeared in 1838,
was never republished.—Ed.
TO THE PLANET VENUS
Upon its Approximation (as an Evening Star)
to the Earth, January 1838
Composed 1838.—Published 1838[170]
One of the “Miscellaneous Sonnets.”—Ed.
What strong allurement draws, what spirit guides,
Thee, Vesper! brightening still, as if the nearer
Thou com’st to man’s abode the spot grew dearer
Night after night? True is it Nature hides
Her treasures less and less.—Man now presides 5
In power, where once he trembled in his weakness;
Science
[171] advances with gigantic strides;
But are we aught enriched in love and meekness?
[172]Aught dost thou see, bright Star! of pure and wise
More than in humbler times graced human story; 10
That makes our hearts more apt to sympathise
With heaven, our souls more fit for future glory,
When earth shall vanish from our closing eyes,
Ere we lie down in our last dormitory?
[173]
“HARK! ’TIS THE THRUSH, UNDAUNTED,
UNDEPREST”
Composed 1838.—Published 1838
One of the “Miscellaneous Sonnets.”—Ed.
Hark! ’tis the Thrush, undaunted, undeprest,
By twilight premature of cloud and rain;
Nor does that roaring wind deaden his strain
[174]Who carols thinking of his Love and nest,
And seems, as more incited, still more blest. 5
Thanks; thou hast snapped a fire-side Prisoner’s chain,
Exulting Warbler! eased a fretted brain,
And in a moment charmed my cares to rest.
Yes, I will forth, bold Bird! and front the blast,
That we may sing together, if thou wilt, 10
So loud, so clear, my Partner through life’s day,
Mute in her nest love-chosen, if not love-built
Like thine, shall gladden, as in seasons past,
Thrilled by loose snatches of the social Lay.
“’TIS HE WHOSE YESTER-EVENING’S HIGH
DISDAIN”
Composed 1838.—Published 1838
One of the “Miscellaneous Sonnets.”—Ed.
’Tis He whose yester-evening’s high disdain
Beat back the roaring storm—but how subdued
His day-break note, a sad vicissitude!
Does the hour’s drowsy weight his glee restrain?
Or, like the nightingale, her joyous vein 5
Pleased to renounce, does this dear Thrush attune
His voice to suit the temper of yon Moon
Doubly depressed, setting, and in her wane?
Rise, tardy Sun! and let the Songster prove
(The balance trembling between night and morn 10
No longer) with what ecstasy upborne
He can pour forth his spirit. In heaven above,
And earth below, they best can serve true gladness
Who meet most feelingly the calls of sadness.
COMPOSED AT RYDAL ON MAY
MORNING, 1838[175]
Composed 1st May 1838.—Published 1838
[This and the following sonnet were composed on what we
call the “Far Terrace” at Rydal Mount, where I have murmured
out many thousands of verses.—I.F.]
This sonnet was first published in the Volume of Collected
Sonnets in 1838. In 1842 it was classed among the “Miscellaneous
Sonnets”; but in 1845 it was transferred to the
“Memorials of a Tour in Italy, 1837.”—Ed.
If with old love of you, dear Hills! I share
New love of many a rival image brought
From far, forgive the wanderings of my thought:
Nor art thou wronged, sweet May! when I compare
[176]Thy present birth-morn with thy last,
[177][178] so fair,
5So rich to me in favours. For my lot
Then was, within the famed Egerian Grot
To sit and muse, fanned by its dewy air
Mingling with thy soft breath! That morning too,
Warblers I heard their joy unbosoming 10
Amid the sunny, shadowy, Coliseum;
[179]Heard them, unchecked by aught of saddening hue,
[180]For victories there won by flower-crowned Spring,
[181]Chant in full choir their innocent Te Deum.