A lovely Apparition sent To be a moment's ornament;
Her eyes as stars of Twilight fair; Like Twilight's, too, her dusky hair; But all things else about her drawn From May-time and the cheerful Dawn; A dancing Shape, an Image gay, To haunt, to startle, and way-lay.
I saw her upon nearer view, A Spirit, yet a Woman too! Her household motions light and free, And steps of virgin-liberty:
A countenance in which did meet Sweet records, promises as sweet; A Creature not too bright or good For human nature's daily food; For transient sorrows, simple wiles, Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears and smiles.
And now I see with eye serene The very pulse of the machine; A Being breathing thoughtful breath, A Traveller between life and death; The reason firm, the temperate will, Endurance, foresight, strength, and skill;
A perfect Woman, nobly planned, To warn, to comfort, and command; And yet a Spirit still, and bright With something of angelic light. 1804. 1807. I WANDERED LONELY AS A
Written at Town-end, Grasmere. The Daffodils grew and still grow on the margin of Ullswater, and probably may be seen to this day as beautiful in the month of March, nodding their golden heads beside the dancing and foaming waves. (Wordsworth.)
I WANDERED lonely as a cloud That floats on high o'er vales and hills, When all at once I saw a crowd, A host, of golden daffodils; Beside the lake, beneath the trees, Fluttering and dancing in the breeze. Continuous as the stars that shine And twinkle on the milky way, They stretched in never-ending line Along the margin of a bay: Ten thousand saw I at a glance, Tossing their heads in sprightly dance. The waves beside them danced; but they
Out-did the sparkling waves in glee : A poet could not but be gay,
THE AFFLICTION OF MARGARET Written at Town-end, Grasmere. This was taken from the case of a poor widow who lived in the town of Penrith. Her sorrow was well known to Mrs. Wordsworth, to my Sister, and, I believe, to the whole town. She kept a shop, and when she saw a stranger passing by, she was in the habit of going out into the street to enquire of him after her son. (Wordsworth.) WHERE art thou, my beloved Son, Where art thou, worse to me than dead? Oh find me, prosperous or undone! Or, if the grave be now thy bed, Why am I ignorant of the same, That I may rest, and neither blame Nor sorrow may attend thy name?
Seven years, alas! to have received No tidings of an only child; To have despaired, have hoped, believed, And been for evermore beguiled; Sometimes with thoughts of very bliss! I catch at them, and then I miss; Was ever darkness like to this?
He was among the prime in worth, An object beauteous to behold; Well born, well bred; I sent him forth Ingenuous, innocent, and bold: If things ensued that wanted grace, As hath been said, they were not base; And never blush was on my face.
Ah! little doth the young one dream, When full of play and childish cares, What power is in his wildest scream, Heard by his mother unawares! He knows it not, he cannot guess: Years to a mother bring distress; But do not make her love the less.
Neglect me! no, I suffered long From that ill thought; and, being blind, Said, "Pride shall help me in my wrong; Kind mother have I been, as kind As ever breathed:" and that is true; I've wet my path with tears like dew, Weeping for him when no one knew.
My Son, if thou be humbled, poor, Hopeless of honor and of gain, Oh! do not dread thy mother's door; Think not of me with grief and pain: I now can see with better eyes; And worldly grandeur I despise, And fortune with her gifts and lies.
Alas! the fowls of heaven have wings, And blasts of heaven will aid their flight; They mount-how short a voyage brings The wanderers back to their delight! Chains tie us down by land and sea ; And wishes, vain as mine, may be All that is left to comfort thee.
Perhaps some dungeon hears thee groan, Maimed, mangled by inhuman men; Or thou upon a desert thrown Inheritest the lion's den;
Or hast been summoned to the deep, Thou, thou and all thy mates, to keep An incommunicable sleep.
I look for ghosts; but none will force Their way to me: 'tis falsely said That there was ever intercourse Between the living and the dead; For, surely, then I should have sight Of him I wait for day and night, With love and longings infinite.
My apprehensions come in crowds; I dread the rustling of the grass; The very shadows of the clouds Have power to shake me as they pass: I question things and do not find One that will answer to my mind; And all the world appears unkind.
Beyond participation lie
My troubles, and beyond relief: If any chance to heave a sigh, They pity me, and not my grief. Then come to me, my Son, or send Some tidings that my woes may end; I have no other earthly friend!
STERN Daughter of the Voice of God! O Duty! if that name thou love Who art a light to guide, a rod To check the erring, and reprove; Thou, who art victory and law When empty terrors overawe: From vain temptations dost set free: And calm'st the weary strife of frail humanity!
There are who ask not if thine eye Be on them; who, in love and truth, Where no misgiving is, rely Upon the genial sense of youth: Glad Hearts! without reproach or blot Who do thy work, and know it not: Oh! if through confidence misplaced They fail, thy saving arms, dread Power! around them cast.
Serene will be our days and bright, And happy will our nature be, When love is an unerring light, And joy its own security. And they a blissful course may hold Even now, who, not unwisely bold, Live in the spirit of this creed; Yet seek thy firm support, according to their need.
I, loving freedom, and untried, No sport of every random gust, Yet being to myself a guide, Too blindly have reposed my trust: And oft, when in my heart was heard Thy timely mandate, I deferred The task, in smoother walks to stray; But thee I now would strictly, if I may.
Through no disturbance of my soul, Or strong compunction in me wrought, I supplicate for thy control;
But in the quietness of thought:
Me this unchartered freedom tires;
I feel the weight of chance-desires : My hopes no more must change their
I long for a repose that ever is the
Stern Lawgiver! yet thou dost wear The Godhead's most benignant grace; Nor know we anything so fair As is the smile upon thy face: Flowers laugh before thee on their beds And fragrance in thy footing treads; Thou dost preserve the stars from wrong; And the most ancient heavens, through Thee, are fresh and strong.
To humbler functions, awful Power! I call thee: I myself commend Unto thy guidance from this hour; Oh, let my weakness have an end! Give unto me, made lowly wise The spirit of self-sacrifice; The confidence of reason give;
And in the light of truth thy Bondman 1805. 1807.
Which at no season fade,
Thou, while thy babes around thee cling Shalt show us how divine a thing
A Woman may be made.
Thy thoughts and feelings shall not die Nor leave thee, when gray hairs are nigh A melancholy slave;
But an old age serene and bright, And lovely as a Lapland night, Shall lead thee to thy grave.
1801? February 11, 1802. FRENCH REVOLUTION
AS IT APPEARED TO ENTHUSIASTS AT ITS COMMENCEMENT
An extract from the long poem of my own poetical education. It was first published by Coleridge in his "Friend," which is the reason of its having had a place in every edition of my poems since. (Wordsworth.) From The Prelude, Bk. XI.
OH! pleasant exercise of hope and joy! For mighty were the auxiliars which then stood
Upon our side, we who were strong in love!
Bliss was it in that dawn to be alive, But to be young was very heaven!Oh! times,
In which the meagre, stale, forbidding
Their ministers,--who in lordly wise had
Among the grandest objects of the sense, And dealt with whatsoever they found there
As if they had within some lurking right To wield it;-they, too, who, of gentle mood,
Had watched all gentle motions, and to these
Had fitted their own thoughts, schemers more mild,
And in the region of their peaceful selves;
Now was it that both found, the meek and lofty
Did both find, helpers to their heart's desire,
And stuff at hand, plastic as they could wish;
Were called upon to exercise their skill, Not in Utopia, subterranean fields, Or some secreted island, Heaven knows where!
But in the very world, which is the world
Of all of us, the place where in the end We find our happiness, or not at all! 1804. October 26, 1809.
CHARACTER OF THE HAPPY WARRIOR
Suggested in part by an event which all Eng. land was lamenting-the death of Lord Nelsonand in part by the personal loss, which he still felt so keenly, his brother John's removal. On the 4th of February, 1806, Southey wrote thus to Sir Walter Scott: .. Wordsworth was with me last week; he has been of late more employed in correcting his poems than in writ ting others; but one piece he has written, upon the ideal character of a soldier, than which I have never seen anything more full of meaning and sound thought. The subject was suggested by Nelson's most glorious death..
(Knight, Life of Wordsworth, II, 46–7.)
WHO' is the happy Warrior? Who is he That every man in arms should wish to be?
-It is the generous Spirit, who, when brought
Among the tasks of real life, hath wrought
Upon the plan that pleased his boyish thought:
Whose high endeavors are an inward light
That makes the path before him always
Who, with a natural instinct to discern
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