[223] 1849

… whencesoe’er …
1842.

[224] Compare To the Clouds, I. 94, p. 145.—Ed.

“FEEL FOR THE WRONGS TO UNIVERSAL KEN”

Published 1842

[This Sonnet is recommended to the perusal of those who consider that the evils under which we groan are to be removed or palliated by measures ungoverned by moral and religious principles.—I.F.]

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

Feel for the wrongs to universal ken
Daily exposed, woe that unshrouded lies;
And seek the Sufferer in his darkest den,
Whether conducted to the spot by sighs
And moanings, or he dwells (as if the wren 5
Taught him concealment) hidden from all eyes
In silence and the awful modesties
Of sorrow;—feel for all, as brother Men!
Rest not in hope want’s icy chain to thaw
By casual boons and formal charities;[225] 10
Learn to be just, just through impartial law;
Far as ye may, erect and equalise;
And, what ye cannot reach by statute, draw
Each from his fountain of self-sacrifice!

[225] 1845.

… Men!—
Feel for the Poor,—but not to still your qualms
By formal charity or dole of alms;
Learn …
1842.

IN ALLUSION TO VARIOUS RECENT HISTORIES AND NOTICES OF THE FRENCH REVOLUTION

Published 1842

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

Portentous change when History can appear
As the cool Advocate of foul device;[226]
Reckless audacity extol, and jeer
At consciences perplexed with scruples nice!
They who bewail not, must abhor, the sneer 5
Born of Conceit, Power’s blind Idolater;
Or haply sprung from vaunting Cowardice
Betrayed by mockery of holy fear.
Hath it not long been said the wrath of Man
Works not the righteousness of God? Oh bend, 10
Bend, ye Perverse! to judgments from on High,
Laws that lay under Heaven’s perpetual ban
All principles of action that transcend
The sacred limits of humanity.

[226] Wordsworth wrote this sonnet against Carlyle’s French Revolution in particular. Carlyle knew it, and this may in part—although only in part—account for Carlyle’s indifference to Wordsworth.—Ed.

CONTINUED

Published 1842

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

Who ponders National events shall find
An awful balancing of loss and gain,
Joy based on sorrow, good with ill combined,
And proud deliverance issuing out of pain
And direful throes; as if the All-ruling Mind, 5
With whose perfection it consists to ordain
Volcanic burst, earthquake, and hurricane,
Dealt in like sort with feeble human kind
By laws immutable. But woe for him
Who thus deceived shall lend an eager hand 10
To social havoc. Is not Conscience ours,
And Truth, whose eye guilt only can make dim;
And Will, whose office, by divine command,
Is to control and check disordered Powers?

CONCLUDED

Published 1842

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

Long-favoured England! be not thou misled
By monstrous theories of alien growth,
Lest alien frenzy seize thee, waxing wroth,
Self-smitten till thy garments reek dyed red
With thy own blood, which tears in torrents shed 5
Fail to wash out, tears flowing ere thy troth
Be plighted, not to ease but sullen sloth,
Or wan despair—the ghost of false hope fled
Into a shameful grave. Among thy youth,
My Country! if such warning be held dear, 10
Then shall a Veteran’s heart be thrilled with joy,
One who would gather from eternal truth,
For time and season, rules that work to cheer—
Not scourge, to save the People—not destroy.

“LO! WHERE SHE STANDS FIXED IN A SAINT-LIKE TRANCE”

Published 1842

One of the “Miscellaneous Sonnets.”—Ed.

Lo! where she stands fixed in a saint-like trance,
One upward hand, as if she needed rest
From rapture, lying softly on her breast!
Nor wants her eyeball an ethereal glance;
But not the less—nay more—that countenance, 5
While thus illumined, tells of painful strife
For a sick heart made weary of this life
By love, long crossed with adverse circumstance.
—Would She were now as when she hoped to pass
At God’s appointed hour to them who tread 10
Heaven’s sapphire pavement, yet breathed well content,
Well pleased, her foot should print earth’s common grass,
Lived thankful for day’s light, for daily bread,
For health, and time in obvious duty spent.

THE NORMAN BOY

Published 1842

[The subject of this poem was sent me by Mrs. Ogle, to whom I was personally unknown, with a hope on her part that I might be induced to relate the incident in verse; and I do not regret that I took the trouble, for not improbably the fact is illustrative of the boy’s early piety, and may concur with my other little pieces on children to produce profitable reflection among my youthful readers. This is said, however, with an absolute conviction that children will derive most benefit from books which are not unworthy the perusal of persons of any age. I protest with all my heart against those productions, so abundant in the present day, in which the doings of children are dwelt upon as if they were incapable of being interested in anything else. On this subject I have dwelt at length in the poem on the growth of my own mind.—I.F.]

One of the “Poems referring to the Period of Childhood.”—Ed.

High on a broad unfertile tract of forest-skirted Down,
Nor kept by Nature for herself, nor made by man his own,
From home and company remote and every playful joy,
Served, tending a few sheep and goats, a ragged Norman boy.
Him never saw I, nor the spot; but from an English Dame, 5
Stranger to me and yet my friend, a simple notice came,
With suit that I would speak in verse of that sequestered child
Whom, one bleak winter’s day, she met upon the dreary Wild.
His flock, along the woodland’s edge with relics sprinkled o’er
Of last night’s snow, beneath a sky threatening the fall of more, 10
Where tufts of herbage tempted each, were busy at their feed,
And the poor Boy was busier still, with work of anxious heed.
There was he, where of branches rent and withered and decayed,
For covert from the keen north wind, his hands a hut had made.
A tiny tenement, forsooth, and frail, as needs must be 15
A thing of such materials framed, by a builder such as he.
The hut stood finished by his pains, nor seemingly lacked aught
That skill or means of his could add, but the architect had wrought
Some limber twigs into a Cross, well-shaped with fingers nice,
To be engrafted on the top of his small edifice. 20
That Cross he now was fastening there, as the surest power and best
For supplying all deficiencies, all wants of the rude nest
In which, from burning heat, or tempest driving far and wide,
The innocent Boy, else shelterless, his lonely head must hide.
That Cross belike he also raised as a standard for the true 25
And faithful service of his heart in the worst that might ensue
Of hardship and distressful fear, amid the houseless waste
Where he, in his poor self so weak, by Providence was placed.
——Here, Lady! might I cease; but nay, let us before we part
With this dear holy shepherd-boy breathe a prayer of earnest heart, 30
That unto him, where’er shall lie his life’s appointed way,
The Cross, fixed in his soul, may prove an all-sufficing stay.

THE POET’S DREAM[227]
Sequel To the Norman Boy

Published 1842

One of the “Poems referring to the Period of Childhood.”—Ed.

Just as those final words were penned, the sun broke out in power,
And gladdened all things; but, as chanced, within that very hour,
Air blackened, thunder growled, fire flashed from clouds that hid the sky,
And, for the Subject of my Verse, I heaved a pensive sigh.
Nor could my heart by second thoughts from heaviness be cleared, 5
For bodied forth before my eyes the cross-crowned hut appeared;
And, while around it storm as fierce seemed troubling earth and air,
I saw, within, the Norman Boy kneeling alone in prayer.
The Child, as if the thunder’s voice spake with articulate call,
Bowed meekly in submissive fear, before the Lord of All; 10
His lips were moving; and his eyes, upraised to sue for grace,
With soft illumination cheered the dimness of that place.
How beautiful is holiness!—what wonder if the sight,
Almost as vivid as a dream, produced a dream at night?
It came with sleep and showed the Boy, no cherub, not transformed, 15
But the poor ragged Thing whose ways my human heart had warmed.
Me had the dream equipped with wings, so I took him in my arms,
And lifted from the grassy floor, stilling his faint alarms,
And bore him high through yielding air my debt of love to pay,
By giving him, for both our sakes, an hour of holiday. 20
I whispered, “Yet a little while, dear Child! thou art my own,
To show thee some delightful thing, in country or in town.
What shall it be? a mirthful throng? or that holy place and calm
St. Denis, filled with royal tombs,[228] or the Church of Notre Dame?[229]
“St. Ouen’s golden Shrine?[230] Or choose what else would please thee most 25
Of any wonder Normandy, or all proud France, can boast!”
“My Mother,” said the Boy, “was born near to a blessèd Tree,
The Chapel Oak of Allonville;[231] good Angel, show it me!”
On wings, from broad and stedfast poise let loose by this reply,
For Allonville, o’er down and dale, away then did we fly; 30
O’er town and tower we flew, and fields in May’s fresh verdure drest;
The wings they did not flag; the Child, though grave, was not deprest.
But who shall show, to waking sense, the gleam of light that broke
Forth from his eyes, when first the Boy looked down on that huge oak,
For length of days so much revered, so famous where it stands 35
For twofold hallowing—Nature’s care, and work of human hands?
Strong as an Eagle with my charge I glided round and round
The wide-spread boughs, for view of door, window, and stair that wound
Gracefully up the gnarled trunk; nor left we unsurveyed
The pointed steeple peering forth from the centre of the shade. 40
I lighted—opened with soft touch the chapel’s iron door,[232]
Past softly, leading in the Boy; and, while from roof to floor
From floor to roof all round his eyes the Child with wonder cast,[233]
Pleasure on pleasure crowded in, each livelier than the last.
For, deftly framed within the trunk, the[234] sanctuary showed, 45
By light of lamp and precious stones, that glimmered here, there glowed,
Shrine, Altar, Image, Offerings hung in sign of gratitude;
Sight that inspired accordant thoughts; and speech[235] I thus renewed:
“Hither the Afflicted come, as thou hast heard thy Mother say,
And, kneeling, supplication make to our Lady de la Paix;[236] 50
What mournful sighs have here been heard, and, when the voice was stopt
By sudden pangs; what bitter tears have on this pavement dropt!
“Poor Shepherd of the naked Down, a favoured lot is thine,
Far happier lot, dear Boy, than brings full many to this shrine;
From body pains and pains of soul thou needest no release, 55
Thy hours as they flow on are spent, if not in joy, in peace.
“Then offer up thy heart to God in thankfulness and praise,
Give to Him prayers, and many thoughts, in thy most busy days;
And in His sight the fragile Cross, on thy small hut, will be
Holy as that which long hath crowned the Chapel of this Tree; 60
“Holy as that far seen which crowns the sumptuous Church in Rome
Where thousands meet to worship God under a mighty Dome;[237]
He sees the bending multitude, He hears the choral rites,
Yet not the less, in children’s hymns and lonely prayer, delights.
“God for His service needeth not proud work of human skill; 65
They please Him best who labour most to do in peace His will:
So let us strive to live, and to our Spirits will be given
Such wings as, when our Saviour calls, shall bear us up to heaven.”
The Boy no answer made by words, but, so earnest was his look,
Sleep fled, and with it fled the dream—recorded in this book, 70
Lest all that passed should melt away in silence from my mind,
As visions still more bright have done, and left no trace behind.
But oh! that Country-man of thine, whose eye, loved Child, can see
A pledge of endless bliss in acts of early piety,
In verse, which to thy ear might come, would treat this simple theme, 75
Nor leave untold our happy flight in that adventurous dream.[238]
Alas the dream,[239] to thee, poor Boy! to thee from whom it flowed,
Was nothing, scarcely can be aught, yet ’twas[240] bounteously bestowed,
If I may dare to cherish hope that gentle eyes will read
Not loth, and listening Little-ones, heart-touched, their fancies feed. 80

[227] 1845.

The title in 1842 was “Sequel To the Norman Boy.”

[228] The Abbey Church of St. Denis, to the north of Paris,—one of the finest specimens of French Gothic,—was the burial-place of the French Kings for many generations.—Ed.

[229] In Paris.—Ed.

[230] The Church of St. Ouen, in Rouen, is the most perfect edifice of its kind in Europe.—Ed.

[231] “Among ancient Trees there are few, I believe, at least in France, so worthy of attention as an Oak which may be seen in the ‘Pays de Caux,’ about a league from Yvetot, close to the church, and in the burial-ground of Allonville.

The height of this Tree does not answer to its girth; the trunk, from the roots to the summit, forms a complete cone; and the inside of this cone is hollow throughout the whole of its height.

Such is the Oak of Allonville, in its state of nature. The hand of Man, however, has endeavoured to impress upon it a character still more interesting, by adding a religious feeling to the respect which its age naturally inspires.

The lower part of its hollow trunk has been transformed into a Chapel of six or seven feet in diameter, carefully wainscotted and paved, and an open iron gate guards the humble Sanctuary.

Leading to it there is a staircase, which twists round the body of the Tree. At certain seasons of the year divine service is performed in this Chapel.

The summit has been broken off many years, but there is a surface at the top of the trunk, of the diameter of a very large tree, and from it rises a pointed roof, covered with slates, in the form of a steeple, which is surmounted with an iron Cross, that rises in a picturesque manner from the middle of the leaves, like an ancient Hermitage above the surrounding Wood.

Over the entrance to the Chapel an Inscription appears, which informs us it was erected by the Abbé du Détroit, Curate of Allonville, in the year 1696; and over a door is another, dedicating it ‘To Our Lady of Peace.’”—Vide 14 No. Saturday Magazine.—W.W. 1842.

[232] 1845.

… touch a grated iron door,
1842.

[233] 1845.

… his eyes the wondering creature cast,
1842.

[234] 1845.

… a …
1842.

[235] 1845.

And swift as lightning went the time, ere speech
1842.

[236] See note, p. 137.—Ed.

[237] St. Peter’s Church.—Ed.

[238] This stanza was added in the edition of 1845.

[239] 1845.

And though the dream, …
1842.

[240] 1845.

Was nothing, nor e’er can be aught, ’twas …
1842.

SUGGESTED BY A PICTURE OF THE BIRD OF PARADISE

Published 1842

[This subject has been treated of in another note. I will here only, by way of comment, direct attention to the fact, that pictures of animals and other productions of Nature, as seen in conservatories, menageries, and museums, etc., would do little for the national mind, nay, they would be rather injurious to it, if the imagination were excluded by the presence of the object, more or less out of a state of Nature. If it were not that we learn to talk and think of the lion and the eagle, the palm-tree, and even the cedar, from the impassioned introduction of them so frequently into Holy Scripture, and by great poets, and divines who wrote as poets, the spiritual part of our nature, and therefore the higher part of it, would derive no benefit from such intercourse with such subjects.—I.F.]

One of the “Poems of the Imagination.”—Ed.

The gentlest Poet, with free thoughts endowed,
And a true master of the glowing strain,
Might scan the narrow province with disdain
That to the Painter’s skill is here allowed.
This, this the Bird of Paradise! disclaim 5
The daring thought, forget the name;
This the Sun’s Bird, whom Glendoveers might own
As no unworthy Partner in their flight
Through seas of ether, where the ruffling sway
Of nether air’s rude billows is unknown; 10
Whom Sylphs, if e’er for casual pastime they
Through India’s spicy regions wing their way,
Might bow to as their Lord. What character,
O sovereign Nature! I appeal to thee,
Of all thy feathered progeny 15
Is so unearthly, and what shape so fair?
So richly decked in variegated down,
Green, sable, shining yellow, shadowy brown,
Tints softly with each other blended,
Hues doubtfully begun and ended; 20
Or intershooting, and to sight
Lost and recovered, as the rays of light
Glance on the conscious plumes touched here and there?
Full surely, when with such proud gifts of life
Began the pencil’s strife, 25
O’erweening Art was caught as in a snare.
A sense of seemingly presumptuous wrong
Gave the first impulse to the Poet’s song;
But, of his scorn repenting soon, he drew
A juster judgment from a calmer view; 30
And, with a spirit freed from discontent,
Thankfully took an effort that was meant
Not with God’s bounty, Nature’s love, to vie,
Or made with hope to please that inward eye
Which ever strives in vain itself to satisfy, 35
But to recal the truth by some faint trace
Of power ethereal and celestial grace,
That in the living Creature find on earth a place.

TO THE CLOUDS[241]

Published 1842

[These verses were suggested while I was walking on the foot-road between Rydal Mount and Grasmere. The clouds were driving over the top of Nab-Scar across the vale: they set my thoughts a-going, and the rest followed almost immediately.—I.F.]

First published (1842) in “Poems chiefly of Early and Late Years,” afterwards included in the “Poems of the Imagination.”—Ed.

Army of Clouds! ye wingèd Host in troops
Ascending from behind the motionless brow
Of that tall rock,[242] as from a hidden world,
O whither with[243] such eagerness of speed?
What seek ye, or what shun ye? of the gale[244] 5
Companions, fear ye to be left behind,
Or racing o’er[245] your blue ethereal field
Contend ye with each other? of the sea
Children, thus post ye over vale and height[246]
To sink upon your mother’s lap—and rest?[247] 10
Or were ye rightlier hailed, when first mine eyes
Beheld in your impetuous march the likeness
Of a wide army pressing on to meet
Or overtake some unknown enemy?—
But your smooth motions suit a peaceful aim; 15
And Fancy, not less aptly pleased, compares
Your squadrons to an endless flight of birds
Aerial, upon due migration bound
To milder climes; or rather do ye urge
In caravan your hasty pilgrimage 20
To pause at last on more aspiring heights
Than these,[248] and utter your devotion there
With thunderous voice? Or are ye jubilant,
And would ye, tracking your proud lord the Sun,
Be present at his setting; or the pomp 25
Of Persian mornings would ye fill, and stand
Poising your splendours high above the heads
Of worshippers kneeling to their up-risen God?
Whence, whence, ye Clouds! this eagerness of speed?
Speak, silent creatures.—They are gone, are fled, 30
Buried together in yon gloomy mass
That loads the middle heaven; and clear and bright
And vacant doth the region which they thronged
Appear; a calm descent of sky conducting
Down to the unapproachable abyss, 35
Down to that hidden gulf from which they rose
To vanish—fleet as days and months and years,
Fleet as the generations of mankind,
Power, glory, empire, as the world itself,
The lingering world, when time hath ceased to be. 40
But the winds roar, shaking the rooted trees,
And see! a bright precursor to a train
Perchance as numerous, overpeers the rock
That sullenly refuses to partake
Of the wild impulse. From a fount of life 45
Invisible, the long procession moves
Luminous or gloomy, welcome to the vale
Which they are entering, welcome to mine eye
That sees them, to my soul that owns in them,
And in the bosom of the firmament 50
O’er which they move, wherein they are contained,
A type of her capacious self and all
Her restless progeny.
A humble walk
Here is my body doomed to tread, this path,
A little hoary line and faintly traced,[249] 55
Work, shall we call it, of the shepherd’s foot
Or of his flock?—joint vestige of them both.
I pace it unrepining, for my thoughts
Admit no bondage and my words have wings.
Where is the Orphean lyre, or Druid harp, 60
To accompany the verse? The mountain blast
Shall be our hand of music; he shall sweep
The rocks, and quivering trees, and billowy lake,
And search the fibres of the caves, and they
Shall answer, for our song is of the Clouds 65
And the wind loves them; and the gentle gales—
Which by their aid re-clothe the naked lawn
With annual verdure, and revive the woods,
And moisten the parched lips of thirsty flowers—
Love them; and every idle breeze of air 70
Bends to the favourite burthen. Moon and stars
Keep their most solemn vigils when the Clouds
Watch also, shifting peaceably their place
Like bands of ministering Spirits, or when they lie,
As if some Protean art the change had wrought, 75
In listless quiet o’er the ethereal deep
Scattered, a Cyclades[250] of various shapes
And all degrees of beauty. O ye Lightnings!
Ye are their perilous offspring;[251] and the Sun—
Source inexhaustible of life and joy, 80
And type of man’s far-darting reason, therefore
In old time worshipped as the god of verse,[252]
A blazing intellectual deity—
Loves his own glory in their looks, and showers
Upon that unsubstantial brotherhood 85
Visions with all but beatific light
Enriched—too transient were they not renewed
From age to age, and did not, while we gaze
In silent rapture, credulous desire
Nourish the hope that memory lacks not power 90
To keep the treasure unimpaired. Vain thought!
Yet why repine, created as we are
For joy and rest, albeit to find them only
Lodged in the bosom of eternal things?

[241] The title in the edition of 1842 was Address to the Clouds.—Ed.

[242] See the Fenwick note and compare Dorothy Wordsworth’s Grasmere Journal, 31st January 1802.—Ed.

[243] 1842.

… in …
MS.

[244] 1842.

… wind
MS.

[245] 1842.

… on …
MS.

[246] 1842.

… over dale and mountain height
MS.

[247] 1842.

… mother’s joyous lap?
MS.

[248] 1842.

Or come ye as I hailed you first, a Flight
Aerial, on a due migration bound,
Embodied travellers not blindly led
To milder climes; or rather do ye urge
Your Caravan, your hasty pilgrimage
With hope to pause at last upon the top
Of some remoter mountains more beloved
Than these, …
MS.