Chapter XI: Part II (4)

But from the Castle turret blew
A chill forbidding blast,
Which the poor Broom no sooner felt
Than she shrank up so fast; 20
Her _wished-for_ yellow she forswore,
And since that time has cast
Fond looks on colours three or four
And put forth _Blue_ at last.
And now, my lads, the Election comes 25
In June’s sunshining hours,
When every field and bank and brae
Is clad with yellow flowers.
While faction Blue from shops and booths
Tricks out her blustering powers, 30
Lo! smiling Nature’s lavish hand
Has furnished wreaths for ours.

[392] “Written, in my opinion, at the General Election of 1818.”--(The Rev. Thomas Hutchinson of Kimbolton.)

[393] “Bird-nest” was the old name of Brougham Hall.--ED.

PLACARD FOR A POLL BEARING AN OLD SHIRT

Wordsworth was deeply interested in the successive parliamentary elections for Westmoreland (see his “Addresses to the Freeholders of Westmorland, 1818,” in the Prose Works.) He particularly disliked Lord Brougham’s candidature. The following squib is in MS. at Lowther Castle. He wrote on the MS.--“For a version of part of B.’s famous London Tower Speech see opposite page.”--ED.

If money’s slack,
The shirt on my back
Shall off, and go to the hammer:
Though I sell shirt and skin
By Jove I’ll be in,
And raise up a radical clamor!

“CRITICS, RIGHT HONOURABLE BARD, DECREE”

I have found this in a catalogue of Autograph Letters, and have no knowledge of its date, or of the Bard referred to. Solomon Gesner wrote a poem on _The Death of Abel_, which was translated into English. See footnote to _The Prelude_, book vii. l. 564.--ED.

“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.”

On Cain, a Mystery, dedicated to Sir Walter Scott:--

“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.”

1819

“THROUGH CUMBRIAN WILDS, IN MANY A MOUNTAIN COVE”

In 1819 Wordsworth wrote the sonnet beginning, “Grief, thou hast lost an ever ready friend.” In the note to that sonnet (vol. vi. p. 196) I have given a different version of its last six lines, from a MS. sonnet. But as these six lines also form the conclusion of another unpublished sonnet, it may be given in full by itself, in this Appendix.--ED.

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”

The following sonnet occurs after the above in the same MS. whence both are extracted.--ED.

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.

1820

AUTHOR’S VOYAGE DOWN THE RHINE

(THIRTY YEARS AGO)

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.

This sonnet was published in the first edition of the Memorials of this Tour (1822), but was struck out of the next edition, and never republished. Its rejection by Wordsworth is curious.

It refers to the pedestrian tour which the Poet took, with his friend Jones, in 1790, which he afterwards recorded in full in his _Descriptive Sketches_.

Dorothy Wordsworth, in her Journal of the Tour in 1820, refers to it thus:--“Our journey through the narrower and most romantic passages of the Vale of the Rhine was connected with times long past, when my brother and his Friend (it was thirty years ago) floated down the stream in their little Bark. Often did my fancy place them with a freight of happiness in the centre of some bending reach, overlooked by tower or castle, or (when expectation would be most eager) at the turning of a promontory, which had concealed from their view some delicious winding which we had left behind; but no more of my own feelings, a record of his will be more interesting.”

She then quotes the sonnet, beginning

The confidence of Youth our only Art.

There are also numerous allusions in Mrs. Wordsworth’s Journal to this early tour; _e.g._ under date August 13. “We left Meyringen; soon reached a sort of Hotel, which Wm. pointed out to us with great interest, as being the only spot where he and his friend Jones were ill used, during the course of their adventurous journey--a wild looking building, a little removed from the road, where the vale of Hasli ends.” Again, in describing the sunset from the woody hill Colline de Gibet, overlooking the two lakes of Brienz and Thun, at Interlaken, “with the loveliest of green vallies between us and Jungfrau,” “Surely William must have had this Paradise in his thoughts when he began his _Descriptive Sketches_--

Were there, below, a spot of holy ground,
By Pain and her sad family unfound, etc.

But no habitation was there among these rocky knolls, and tiny pastures. One fragment, something like a ruined convent, lurked under a steep, woody-fringed crag. What a Refuge for a pious Sisterhood!” Compare also the note to _Stanzas composed in the Simplon Pass_, vol. vi. p. 359.--ED.

1822

“THESE VALES WERE SADDENED WITH NO COMMON GLOOM”

In the _Memoirs of William Wordsworth_ by his nephew (the late Bishop of Lincoln) vol. i. chap. xxx. the following occurs as an addendum transferred to the footnotes:--

“The first six lines of an epitaph in Grasmere Church were also his composition. The elegant marble tablet on which they were engraved was designed by Sir Francis Chantry, and prepared by Allan Cunningham, 1822. It is over the chancel door.”

The following is the Inscription:--

In the Burial Ground
of this Church are deposited the remains of
JEMIMA ANNE DEBORAH,
second daughter of
Sir Egerton Brydges, of Denton Court, Kent, Bart.
She departed this life at the Ivy Cottage, Rydal,
May 25th 1822, aged 28 years.
This memorial is erected by her husband

EDWARD QUILLINAN.

The entire sonnet, of which Wordsworth wrote the “first six lines,” is as follows:--

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.

[394]

… of Heaven …

MS.

TRANSLATION OF PART OF THE FIRST BOOK OF THE ÆNEID

Composed 1823 (?).--Published 1836

This translation was included in the _Philological Museum_, edited by Julius Charles Hare, and published at Cambridge in 1832 (vol. i. p. 382, etc.). Three Books were translated by Wordsworth, but the greater portion is still in MS., unpublished. What is now reproduced appeared in the _Museum_. As it was never included by Wordsworth himself in any edition of his Works, his own estimate of its literary value was slight. It was published by Professor Henry Reed in his American reprint of 1851. Writing to Lord Lonsdale on 9th Nov. 1823, Wordsworth says, “I have just finished a Translation into English rhyme of the First _Æneid_. Would you allow me to send it to you? I would be much gratified if you would take the trouble of comparing some passages with the original. I have endeavoured to be much more literal than Dryden, or Pitt--who keeps more close to the original than his predecessor.”--ED.

TO THE EDITORS OF THE “PHILOLOGICAL MUSEUM”

Your letter, reminding me of an expectation I some time since
held out to you of allowing some specimens of my translation
from the _Æneid_ to be printed in the _Philological Museum_
was not very acceptable; for I had abandoned the thought of
ever sending into the world any part of that experiment,--for
it was nothing more,--an experiment begun for amusement, and I
now think a less fortunate one than when I first named it to
you. Having been displeased in modern translations with the
additions of incongruous matter, I began to translate with a
resolve to keep clear of that fault, by adding nothing; but
I became convinced that a spirited translation can scarcely
be accomplished in the English language without admitting a
principle of compensation. On this point, however, I do not
wish to insist, and merely send the following passage, taken at
random, from a wish to comply with your request.--W.W.

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.”

1823

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

The following version of the first few lines of the _Æneid_ were copied by Professor Reed of Philadelphia, with Mrs. Wordsworth’s permission, during a visit to Rydal Mount in 1854, four years after the poet’s death. Mrs. Reed kindly sent them to me.--ED.

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.

1826

LINES ADDRESSED TO JOANNA H. FROM GWERNDWFFNANT IN JUNE 1826

BY DOROTHY WORDSWORTH[395]

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.

[395] I owe my knowledge of this and the following poem to the nephew of Mrs. Wordsworth, the Reverend Thomas Hutchinson of Kimbolton, Herefordshire, who wrote: “The two following poems were found among his papers on the demise of Mr. Monkhouse--a first cousin of Wordsworth; the first in the hand-writing of Wordsworth’s wife, and the second of her daughter.”--ED.

HOLIDAY AT GWERNDWFFNANT, MAY 1826

IRREGULAR STANZAS

BY DOROTHY WORDSWORTH

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.

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

The following lines were written by Wordsworth in 1826. He never published them. They were the result of a slight disagreement between the Wordsworth family and the Le Flemings, which led the former to fear that they might have to “quit Rydal Mount as a residence.” It was an insignificant difference, and the Wordsworths did not leave their home. The only thing worthy of record, in connection with the matter, is that the fear of being dispossessed led the poet to write what follows.--ED.

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!

[396] The MS. has a second reading, “covetous hand.”--ED.

[397] In MS. also “its herbs.”--ED.

[398]

… to a close

From a MS. copied at Rydal by Professor Reed in 1854.

[399]

… pecked at …

From a MS. copied at Rydal by Professor Reed in 1854.

[400]

… clear Spring …

From a MS. copied at Rydal by Professor Reed in 1854.

“I, WHOSE PRETTY VOICE YOU HEAR”

These lines were written for Miss Fanny Barlow of Middlethorpe Hall, York. She was first married to the Rev. E. Trafford Leigh, and afterwards to Dr. Eason Wilkinson of Manchester.--ED.

I, whose pretty Voice you hear,
Lady (you will think it queer),
Have a Mother, once a Statue,
I, thus boldly looking at you,
Do the name of Paphus bear, 5
Fam’d Pygmalion’s Son and Heir,
By that wondrous marble wife
That from Venus took her life.
Cupid’s Nephew then am I,
Nor unskill’d his darts to ply; 10
But from Him I crav’d no warrant,
Coming thus to seek my Parent;
Not equipp’d with bow and quiver
Her by menace to deliver,
But resolv’d with filial care 15
Her captivity to share.
Hence, while on your toilet, She
Is doom’d a Pincushion to be,
By her side I’ll take my place,
As a humble Needle-case; 20
Furnish’d too with dainty thread,
For a Sempstress thorough-bred.
Then let both be kindly treated,
Till the Term, for which She’s fated
Durance to sustain, be over; 25
So will I ensure a Lover
Lady! to your heart’s content;
But on harshness are you bent
Bitterly shall you repent,
When to Cyprus back I go 30
And take up my Uncle’s bow.

_Composed_, and in part transcribed, for Fanny Barlow, by her
affectionate Friend

WM. WORDSWORTH.

RYDAL MOUNT,
_Shortest Day, 1826_.

1827

TO MY NIECE DORA

BY DOROTHY WORDSWORTH

The following lines were written in Dora Wordsworth’s “Album,” in which Sir Walter Scott also wrote some verses.--ED.

Confiding hopes of youthful hearts,
And each bright visionary scheme,
Shall here remain in vivid hues
The hues of a celestial dream.

The farewell of the laurelled Knight 5
Traced by a brave but tremulous hand,
Pledge of his truth and loyalty
Thro’ changeful years, unchanged shall stand.

But why should I inscribe my name,
No Poet I--no longer young? 10
The ambition of a loving heart
Makes garrulous the tongue.

Memorials of thy aged Friend
Dora thou dost not need;
And when the cold earth covers her 15
No flattery shall she heed.

Yet still a lurking wish prevails
That when from life we all have passed
The friends who loved thy Father’s name
On her’s a thought may cast. 20

DOROTHY WORDSWORTH.

_January 1827._

1829

“MY LORD AND LADY DARLINGTON”

These lines were written by Wordsworth, after reading a sentence in the Stranger’s Book at “The Station,”--not a railway station!--on the western side of Windermere lake, opposite Bowness. Their poetic merit is slight, but they illustrate the honesty and directness of the writer’s mind. The Stranger’s Book at “The Station” contained the following:--

“Lord and Lady Darlington, Lady Vane, Miss Taylor, and Captain
Stamp pronounce this Lake superior to Lac de Genève, Lago
de Como, Lago Maggiore, L’Eau de Zurich, Loch Lomond, Loch
Katerine, or the Lakes of Killarney.”-ED.

My Lord and Lady Darlington,
I would not speak in snarling-tone;
Nor, to you, good Lady Vane,
Would I give one moment’s pain;
Nor Miss Taylor, Captain Stamp, 5
Would I your flights of _memory_ cramp.
Yet, having spent a summer’s day
On the green margin of Loch Tay,
And doubled (prospect ever bettering)
The mazy reaches of Loch Katerine, 10
And more than once been free at Luss,
Loch Lomond’s beauties to discuss,
And wished, at least, to hear the blarney
Of the sly boatmen of Killarney,
And dipped my hand in dancing wave 15
Of Eau de Zurich, Lac Genève,
And bowed to many a major domo
On stately terraces of Como,
And seen the Simplon’s forehead hoary,
Reclined on Lago Maggiore 20
At breathless eventide at rest
On the broad water’s placid breast,
I, not insensible, Heaven knows,
To all the charms this Station shows,
Must tell you, Captain, Lord, and Ladies-- 25
For honest worth one poet’s trade is--
That your praise appears to me
Folly’s own hyperbole.

1833

TO THE UTILITARIANS

These lines were written and sent in a letter to Henry Crabb Robinson, dated 5th May 1833.--ED.

Avaunt this œconomic rage!
What would it bring?--an iron age,
Where Fact with heartless search explored
Shall be Imagination’s Lord,
And sway with absolute controul 5
The god-like Functions of the Soul.
Not _thus_ can knowledge elevate
Our Nature from her fallen state.
With sober Reason Faith unites
To vindicate the ideal rights 10
Of human-kind--the tone agreeing
Of objects with internal seeing,
Of effort with the end of Being.

Wordsworth added, in the letter to Robinson, “Is the above intelligible? I fear not! I know, however, my own meaning, and that’s enough for Manuscripts.”--ED.

1835

“THRONED IN THE SUN’S DESCENDING CAR”

These lines were placed by Wordsworth amongst the “Evening Voluntaries” in the two editions of _Yarrow Revisited and other Poems_ (1835, 1836); but they were never afterwards reprinted in his life-time.--ED.

For printing the following Piece, some reason should be given, as not a word of it is original: it is simply a fine stanza of Akenside,[401] connected with a still finer from Beattie[402]by a couplet of Thomson.[403] This practice, in which the author sometimes indulges, of linking together, in his own mind, favourite passages from different authors, seemed in itself unobjectionable; but, as the _publishing_ such compilations might lead to confusion in literature, he should deem himself inexcusable in giving this specimen, were it not from a hope that it might open to others a harmless source of _private_ gratification.--W. W. 1835.

Throned in the Sun’s descending car,
What Power unseen diffuses far
This tenderness of mind?
What Genius smiles on yonder flood?
What God in whispers from the wood 5
Bids every thought be kind?

O ever-pleasing solitude,
Companion of the wise and good.

Thy shades, thy silence, now be mine
Thy charms my only theme; 10

Why haunt the hollow cliff whose Pine
Waves o’er the gloomy stream;
Whence the scared Owl on pinions grey
Breaks from the rustling boughs,
And down the lone vale sails away 15
To more profound repose!

[401] See his Ode V., _Against Suspicion_, stanza viii.--ED.

[402] See his poem, _Retirement_, 1758.--ED.

[403] See his _Hymn on Solitude_, which begins, “Hail, ever-pleasing Solitude!”--ED.

“AND OH! DEAR SOOTHER OF THE PENSIVE BREAST”

The following ten lines were written by Wordsworth in a copy of his works, after the lines _To the Moon_ (Rydal) 1835. They may have been intended as a possible sequel to them, or to the lines _To the Moon, composed by the Seaside--on the coast of Cumberland_ (1835).--ED.

And oh! dear soother of the pensive breast,
Let homelier words without offence attest
How where on random topics as they hit
The moments’ humour, rough Tars spend their wit.
Thy changes, which to wiser Spirits seem 5
Dark as a riddle, prove a favourite theme;
Thy motions, intricate and manifold,
Oft help to make bold fancy’s flight more bold;
Beget strange themes; and to freaks give birth
Of speech as wild as ever heightened mirth. 10

1836

“SAID RED-RIBBONED EVANS”

On the 26th of March 1836, Wordsworth sent the following lines to Henry Crabb Robinson; written, he tells him, “immediately on reading Evans’s modest self-defence speech the other day.” George de Lacy Evans was radical member of Parliament for Westminster. “In 1835, he took command of the British Legion raised for the service of the Queen Regent of Spain against Don Carlos.” (Professor Dowden.)--ED.

Said red-ribboned Evans:
“My legions in Spain
Were at sixes and sevens;
Now they’re famished or slain:
But no fault of mine, 5
For, like brave Philip Sidney,
In campaigning I shine,
A true knight of his kidney.
Sound flogging and fighting
No chief, on my troth, 10
E’er took such delight in
As I in them both.
Fontarabbia can tell
How my eyes watched the foe,
Hernani knows well 15
That our feet were not slow;
Our hospitals, too,
They are matchless in story;
Where her thousands Fate slew,
All panting for glory.” 20
Alas for this Hero!
His fame touched the skies,
Then fell below zero,
Never, never to rise!
For him to Westminster 25
Did Prudence convey,
There safe as a Spinster
The Patriot to play.
But why be so glad on
His feats or his fall? 30
He’s got his red ribbon,
And laughs at us all.

1837

ON AN EVENT IN COL. EVANS’S REDOUBTED PERFORMANCES IN SPAIN

Mrs. Wordsworth sent this to Henry Crabb Robinson in 1837, “to show you that _we_ can write an Epigram--we _do not say_ a good one.” She then quoted it, and added, “The Producer thinks it not amiss, as being murmured between sleep and awake over the fire, while thinking of you last night!”--Ed.

The Ball whizzed by,--it grazed his ear,
And whispered as it flew,
“I only touch--not take--don’t fear,
For both, my honest Buccaneer!
Are to the Pillory due.”

1838

“WOULDST THOU BE GATHERED TO CHRIST’S CHOSEN FLOCK”

The following lines were cut on the face of a rock at Rydal Mount in 1838. There, they still remain.--ED.

Wouldst thou be gathered to Christ’s chosen flock,
Shun the broad way too easily explored,
And let thy path be hewn out of the Rock,
The living Rock of God’s eternal Word.

PROTEST AGAINST THE BALLOT, 1838[404]

Composed 1838.--Published 1838

Forth rushed, from Envy sprung and Self-conceit,
A Power misnamed the SPIRIT OF REFORM,
And through the astonished Island swept in storm,
Threatening to lay all Orders at her feet
That crossed her way. Now stoops she to entreat 5
Licence to hide at intervals her head,
Where she may work, safe, undisquieted,
In a close Box, covert for Justice meet.
St. George of England! keep a watchful eye
Fixed on the Suitor; frustrate her request-- 10
Stifle her hope; for, if the State comply,
From such Pandorian gift may come a Pest
Worse than the Dragon that bowed low his crest,
Pierced by thy spear in glorious victory.

[404] In his notes to the volume of Collected Sonnets (1838), Wordsworth writes:--“‘_Protest against the Ballot._’ Having in this notice alluded only in general terms to the mischief which, in my opinion, the Ballot would bring along with it, without especially branding its immoral and antisocial tendency (for which no political advantages, were they a thousand times greater than those presumed upon, could be a compensation), I have been impelled to subjoin a reprobation of it upon that score. In no part of my writings have I mentioned the name of any contemporary, that of Buonaparte only excepted, but for the purpose of eulogy; and therefore, as in the concluding verse of what follows, there is a deviation from this rule (for the blank will be easily filled up) I have excluded the sonnet from the body of the collection, and placed it here as a public record of my detestation, both as a man and a citizen, of the proposed contrivance.”

Then follows the sonnet beginning--

Said Secrecy to Cowardice and Fraud.

ED.

“SAID SECRECY TO COWARDICE AND FRAUD”

Composed, probably, in 1838.--Published 1838[405]

Said Secrecy to Cowardice and Fraud,
Falsehood and Treachery, in close council met,
Deep under ground, in Pluto’s cabinet,
“The frost of England’s pride will soon be thawed;
Hooded the open brow that overawed 5
Our schemes; the faith and honour, never yet
By us with hope encountered, be upset;--
For once I burst my bands, and cry, applaud!”
Then whispered she, “The Bill is carrying out!”
They heard, and, starting up, the Brood of Night 10
Clapped hands, and shook with glee their matted locks;
All Powers and Places that abhor the light
Joined in the transport, echoed back their shout,
Hurrah for ----, hugging his Ballot-box![406]

[405] This was first published in a note to the sonnet entitled _Protest against the Ballot_, in the volume of 1838. It was never republished by Wordsworth.

[406] See the note to the previous sonnet. George Grote was the person satirised. “Since that time,” adds Mr. Reed, in a note to his American edition, “Mr. Grote’s political notoriety, as an advocate of the ballot, has been merged in the high reputation he has acquired as probably the most eminent modern historian of ancient Greece”--ED.

A POET TO HIS GRANDCHILD

(SEQUEL TO THE FOREGOING)[407]

Published 1838

“Son of my buried Son, while thus thy hand
Is clasping mine, it saddens me to think
How Want may press thee down, and with thee sink
Thy Children left unfit, through vain demand
Of culture, even to feel or understand 5
My simplest Lay that to their memory
May cling;--hard fate! which haply need not be
Did Justice mould the Statutes of the Land.
A Book time-cherished and an honoured name
Are high rewards; but bound they Nature’s claim 10
Or Reason’s? No--hopes spun in timid line
From out the bosom of a modest home
Extend through unambitious years to come,
My careless Little-one, for thee and thine!”[408][409]

[407] “The foregoing” was the Sonnet named _A Plea for Authors, May 1838_.--ED.

[408] 1836.

Son of my buried Son, whose tiny hand
Thus clings to mine, it {saddens} me to think
{troubles}
That thou pressed down by poverty mayst sink
Even till thy children shall in vain demand
{Culture and neither feel nor} understand
{Culture required to feel and}
{My simplest lay that to their memory}
{My least recondite lay, which memory}
{Perchance may cleave}; hard fate, which need not be
{May keep in trust }
Did justice mould the statutes of the land.
{A book time-cherished} and an honoured name
{A cherished volume }
Are high rewards, but bound not {Reason’s} claim.
{Nature’s}
No--hopes {in fond hereditary line }
{and wishes in a living line}
Spun from the bosom of a modest home
Extend thro’ unambitious years to come,
My careless Little-one, for thee and thine!

MS.

[409] The author of an animated article, printed in the _Law Magazine_, in favour of the principle of Serjeant Talfourd’s Copyright Bill, precedes me in the public expression of this feeling; which had been forced too often upon my own mind, by remembering how few descendants of men eminent in literature are even known to exist.--W.W. 1838.

This sonnet was not addressed to any grandson of the Poet’s.--ED.

1840

ON A PORTRAIT OF I.F., PAINTED BY MARGARET GILLIES[410]

Composed 1840.--Published 1850

We gaze--nor grieve to think that we must die,
But that the precious love this friend hath sown
Within our hearts, the love whose flower hath blown
Bright as if heaven were ever in its eye,
Will pass so soon from human memory; 5
And not by strangers to our blood alone,
But by our best descendants be unknown,
Unthought of--this may surely claim a sigh.
Yet, blessèd Art, we yield not to dejection:
Thou against Time so feelingly dost strive; 10
Where’er, preserved in this most true reflection,
An image of her soul is kept alive,
Some lingering fragrance of the pure affection,
Whose flower with us will vanish, must survive.

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.

RYDAL MOUNT,
_New Year’s Day, 1840_.

[410] See the note to the next sonnet.--ED.

TO I.F.[411]

Composed 1840.--Published 1850

The star which comes at close of day to shine
More heavenly bright than when it leads the morn,
Is friendship’s emblem,[412] whether the forlorn
She visiteth, or, shedding light benign
Through shades that solemnize Life’s calm decline, 5
Doth make the happy happier. This have we
Learnt, Isabel, from thy society,
Which now we too unwillingly resign
Though for brief absence. But farewell! the page
Glimmers before my sight through thankful tears, 10
Such as start forth, not seldom, to approve
Our truth, when we, old yet unchill’d by age,
Call thee, though known but for a few fleet years,
The heart-affianced sister of our love!

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.

RYDAL MOUNT,
_Feb. 1840_.

[411] This and the preceding sonnet, beginning “We gaze--nor grieve to think that we must die,” were addressed to Miss Fenwick, to whom we owe the invaluable “Fenwick Notes.” Were it not that the date is very minutely given, I would believe that they belong to 1841, as Miss Gillies told me she resided at Rydal Mount in that year, when she painted Mrs. Wordsworth’s portrait.--ED.

[412] 1850.

Bright is the star which comes at eve to shine
More heavenly bright than when it leads the morn,
And such is Friendship, whether the forlorn, etc.

1840.

“OH BOUNTY WITHOUT MEASURE, WHILE THE GRACE”

In his copy of the edition of 1845 at the close of the poem, _Animal Tranquillity and Decay_ (1798) (see the “Poem referring to the Period of Old Age,” vol. i. p. 307), Henry Crabb Robinson wrote the following lines, sent to him by Wordsworth.--ED.

Oh Bounty without measure, while the Grace
Of Heaven doth in such wise from humblest springs
Pour pleasures forth, and solaces that trace
A mazy course along familiar things,
Well may our hearts have faith that blessings come 5
Streaming from points above the starry sky,
With angels, when their own untroubled home
They leave, and speed on mighty embassy
To visit earthly chambers,--and for whom?
Yea, both for souls who God’s forbearance try, 10
And those that seek his help and for his mercy sigh.

_7th April 1840. My 70th Birthday._

W.W.

1842

THE EAGLE AND THE DOVE[413]