Part 18

If I were a dead leaf thou mightest bear; If I were a swift cloud to fly with thee; A wave to pant beneath thy power, and share The impulse of thy strength, only less free Than Thou, O uncontrollable! If even I were as in my boyhood, and could be The comrade of thy wanderings over heaven, As then, when to outstrip the skyey speed Scarce seem'd a vision, I would ne'er have striven As thus with thee in prayer in my sore need. O lift me as a wave, a leaf, a cloud! I fall upon the thorns of life! I bleed! A heavy weight of hours has chain'd and bow'd One too like thee: tameless, and swift, and proud.

Make me thy lyre, ev'n as the forest is: What if my leaves are falling like its own! The tumult of thy mighty harmonies Will take from both a deep autumnal tone, Sweet though in sadness. Be thou, Spirit fierce, My spirit! Be thou me, impetuous one! Drive my dead thoughts over the universe Like wither'd leaves to quicken a new birth! And, by the incantation of this verse, Scatter, as from an unextinguish'd hearth Ashes and sparks, my words among mankind! Be through my lips to unawaken'd earth The trumpet of a prophecy! O, Wind, If Winter comes, can Spring be far behind?

P.B. SHELLEY.

276. NATURE AND THE POET.

_Suggested by a Picture of Peele Castle in a Storm, painted by Sir George Beaumont._

I was thy neighbour once, thou rugged Pile! Four summer weeks I dwelt in sight of thee: I saw thee every day; and all the while Thy form was sleeping on a glassy sea.

So pure the sky, so quiet was the air! So like, so very like, was day to day! Whene'er I look'd, thy image still was there; It trembled, but it never pass'd away.

How perfect was the calm! It seem'd no sleep, No mood, which season takes away, or brings: I could have fancied that the mighty Deep Was even the gentlest of all gentle things.

Ah! then if mine had been the painter's hand To express what then I saw; and add the gleam, The light that never was on sea or land, The consecration, and the Poet's dream,--

I would have planted thee, thou hoary pile, Amid a world how different from this! Beside a sea that could not cease to smile; On tranquil land, beneath a sky of bliss.

A picture had it been of lasting ease, Elysian quiet, without toil or strife; No motion but the moving tide, a breeze, Or merely silent Nature's breathing life.

Such, in the fond illusion of my heart, Such picture would I at that time have made; And seen the soul of truth in every part, A steadfast peace that might not be betray'd.

So once it would have been,--'tis so no more I have submitted to a new control: A power is gone, which nothing can restore; A deep distress hath humanised my soul.

Not for a moment could I now behold A smiling sea, and be what I have been: The feeling of my loss will ne'er be old; This, which I know, I speak with mind serene.

Then, Beaumont, Friend! who would have been the friend If he had lived, of him whom I deplore, This work of thine I blame not, but commend; This sea in anger, and that dismal shore.

O 'tis a passionate work!--yet wise and well, Well chosen is the spirit that is here; That hulk which labours in the deadly swell, This rueful sky, this pageantry of fear!

And this huge Castle, standing here sublime, I love to see the look with which it braves, --Cased in the unfeeling armour of old time-- The lightning, the fierce wind, and trampling waves.

Farewell, farewell the heart that lives alone, Housed in a dream, at distance from the Kind! Such happiness, wherever it be known, Is to be pitied; for 'tis surely blind.

But welcome fortitude, and patient cheer, And frequent sights of what is to be borne! Such sights, or worse, as are before me here: Not without hope we suffer and we mourn.

W. WORDSWORTH.

277. THE POET'S DREAM.

On a Poet's lips I slept Dreaming like a love-adept In the sound his breathing kept; Nor seeks nor finds he mortal blisses, But feeds on the aerial kisses Of shapes that haunt Thought's wildernesses. He will watch from dawn to gloom The lake-reflected sun illume The yellow bees in the ivy-bloom, Nor heed nor see, what things they be-- But from these create he can Forms more real than living Man, Nurslings of immortality!

P.B. SHELLEY.

278.

The World is too much with us; late and soon, Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers; Little we see in Nature that is ours; We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon!

This Sea that bares her bosom to the moon, The winds that will be howling at all hours And are up-gather'd now like sleeping flowers, For this, for everything, we are out of tune;

It moves us not.--Great God! I'd rather be A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn,-- So might I, standing on this pleasant lea,

Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn; Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea; Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn.

W. WORDSWORTH.

279. WITHIN KING'S COLLEGE CHAPEL, CAMBRIDGE.

Tax not the royal Saint with vain expense, With ill-match'd aims the Architect who plann'd (Albeit labouring for a scanty band Of white-robed Scholars only) this immense

And glorious work of fine intelligence! --Give all thou canst; high Heaven rejects the lore Of nicely-calculated less or more:-- So deem'd the man who fashion'd for the sense

These lofty pillars, spread that branching roof Self-poised, and scoop'd into ten thousand cells Where light and shade repose, where music dwells

Lingering and wandering on as loth to die-- Like thoughts whose very sweetness yieldeth proof That they were born for immortality.

W. WORDSWORTH.

280. YOUTH AND AGE.

Verse, a breeze 'mid blossoms straying, Where Hope clung feeding, like a bee-- Both were mine! Life went a-maying With Nature, Hope, and Poesy, When I was young!

When I was young?--Ah, woeful when! Ah! for the change 'twixt Now and Then! This breathing house not built with hands, This body that does me grievous wrong, O'er aery cliffs and glittering sands How lightly then it flash'd along: Like those trim skiffs, unknown of yore, On winding lakes and rivers wide, That ask no aid of sail or oar, That fear no spite of wind or tide! Nought cared this body for wind or weather When Youth and I lived in't together. Flowers are lovely; Love is flower-like; Friendship is a sheltering tree; O! the joys, that came down shower-like, Of Friendship, Love, and Liberty, Ere I was old!

Ere I was old? Ah woeful Ere, Which tells me, Youth's no longer here! O Youth! for years so many and sweet 'Tis known that Thou and I were one, I'll think it but a fond conceit-- It cannot be, that Thou art gone! Thy vesper-bell hath not yet toll'd:-- And thou wert aye a masker bold! What strange disguise hast now put on To make believe that thou art gone? I see these locks in silvery slips, This drooping gait, this alter'd size: But Springtide blossoms on thy lips, And tears take sunshine from thine eyes! Life is but Thought: so think I will That Youth and I are housemates still.

Dew-drops are the gems of morning, But the tears of mournful eve! Where no hope is, life's a warning That only serves to make us grieve

When we are old: --That only serves to make us grieve With oft and tedious taking-leave, Like some poor nigh-related guest That may not rudely be dismist, Yet hath out-stay'd his welcome while, And tells the jest without a smile.

S. T. COLERIDGE.

281. THE TWO APRIL MORNINGS.

We walk'd along, while bright and red Uprose the morning sun; And Matthew stopp'd, he looked, and said, "The will of God be done!"

A village schoolmaster was he, With hair of glittering gray; As blithe a man as you could see On a spring holiday.

And on that morning, through the grass, And by the steaming rills We travel'd merrily, to pass A day among the hills.

"Our work," said I, "was well begun; Then, from thy breast what thought, Beneath so beautiful a sun, So sad a sigh has brought?"

A second time did Matthew stop; And fixing still his eye Upon the eastern mountain-top, To me he made reply:

"Yon cloud with that long purple cleft Brings fresh into my mind A day like this, which I have left Full thirty years behind.

"And just above yon slope of corn Such colours, and no other, Were in the sky, that April morn Of this the very brother.

"With rod and line I sued the sport Which that sweet season gave, And, to the church-yard come, stopp'd short Beside my daughter's grave.

"Nine summers had she scarcely seen, The pride of all the vale; And then she sang:--she would have been A very nightingale.

"Six feet in earth my Emma lay; And yet I loved her more-- For so it seem'd,--than till that day I e'er had loved before.

"And, turning from her grave, I met, Beside the church-yard yew, A blooming Girl, whose hair was wet With points of morning dew.

"A basket on her head she bare; Her brow was smooth and white: To see a child so very fair, It was a pure delight!

"No fountain from its rocky cave E'er tripped with foot so free; She seem'd as happy as a wave That dances on the sea.

"There came from me a sigh of pain Which I could ill confine; I looked at her, and looked again And did not wish her mine!"

--Matthew is in his grave, yet now, Methinks I see him stand As at that moment, with a bough Of wilding in his hand.

W. WORDSWORTH.

282. THE FOUNTAIN.

_A Conversation._

We talk'd with open heart, and tongue Affectionate and true, A pair of friends, though I was young, And Matthew seventy-two.

We lay beneath a spreading oak, Beside a mossy seat; And from the turf a fountain broke And gurgled at our feet.

"Now, Matthew!" said I "let us match This water's pleasant tune With some old border song, or catch That suits a summer's noon.

"Or of the church-clock and the chimes Sing here beneath the shade That half-mad thing of witty rhymes Which you last April made!"

In silence Matthew lay, and eyed The spring beneath the tree; And thus the dear old man replied, The gray-hair'd man of glee:

"No check, no stay, this Streamlet fears, How merrily it goes! 'Twill murmur on a thousand years And flow as now it flows.

"And here, on this delightful day I cannot choose but think How oft, a vigorous man, I lay Beside this fountain's brink.

"My eyes are dim with childish tears, My heart is idly stirr'd, For the same sound is in my ears Which in those days I heard.

"Thus fares it still in our decay: And yet the wiser mind Mourns less for what Age takes away, Than what it leaves behind.

"The blackbird amid leafy trees-- The lark above the hill, Let loose their carols when they please, Are quiet when they will.

"With Nature never do they wage A foolish strife; they see A happy youth, and their old age Is beautiful and free:

"But we are press'd by heavy laws; And often, glad no more, We wear a face of joy, because We have been glad of yore.

"If there be one who need bemoan His kindred laid in earth, The household hearts that were his own,-- It is the man of mirth.

"My days, my friend, are almost gone, My life has been approved, And many love me; but by none Am I enough beloved."

"Now both himself and me he wrongs, The man who thus complains! I live and sing my idle songs Upon these happy plains:

"And Matthew, for thy children dead I'll be a son to thee!" At this he grasp'd my hand and said, "Alas! that cannot be."

We rose up from the fountain-side; And down the smooth descent Of the green sheep-track did we glide And through the wood we went;

And, ere we came to Leonard's Rock, He sang those witty rhymes About the crazy old church-clock, And the bewilder'd chimes.

W. WORDSWORTH.

283. THE RIVER OF LIFE.

The more we live, more brief appear Our life's succeeding stages: A day to childhood seems a year, And years like passing ages.

The gladsome current of our youth Ere passion yet disorders, Steals lingering like a river smooth Along its grassy borders.

But as the careworn cheek grows wan, And sorrow's shafts fly thicker, Ye Stars, that measure life to man, Why seem your courses quicker?

When joys have lost their bloom and breath And life itself is vapid, Why, as we reach the Falls of Death, Feel we its tide more rapid?

It may be strange--yet who would change Time's course to lower speeding, When one by one our friends have gone And left our bosoms bleeding?

Heaven gives our years of fading strength Indemnifying fleetness; And those of youth, a seeming length, Proportion'd to their sweetness.

T. CAMPBELL.

284. THE HUMAN SEASONS.

Four Seasons fill the measure of the year; There are four seasons in the mind of Man: He has his lusty Spring, when fancy clear Takes in all beauty with an easy span:

He has his summer, when luxuriously Spring's honey'd cud of youthful thought he loves To ruminate, and by such dreaming high Is nearest unto heaven: quiet coves

His soul has in its Autumn, when his wings He furleth close; contented so to look On mists in idleness--to let fair things Pass by unheeded as a threshold brook:--

He has his Winter too of pale misfeature, Or else he would forego his mortal nature.

J. KEATS.

285. A LAMENT.

O World! O Life! O Time! On whose last steps I climb, Trembling at that where I had stood before; When will return the glory of your prime? No more--O never more!

Out of the day and night A joy has taken flight: Fresh spring, and summer, and winter hoar Move my faint heart with grief, but with delight No more--O never more!

P.B. SHELLEY.

286.

My heart leaps up when I behold A rainbow in the sky: So was it when my life began, So is it now I am a man; So be it when I shall grow old Or let me die! The Child is father of the Man: I could wish my days to be Bound each to each by natural piety.

W. WORDSWORTH.

287. ODE ON INTIMATIONS OF IMMORTALITY FROM RECOLLECTIONS OF EARLY CHILDHOOD.

There was a time when meadow, grove, and stream, The earth, and every common sight To me did seem Apparell'd in celestial light, The glory and the freshness of a dream. It is not now as it hath been of yore;-- Turn wheresoe'er I may, By night or day, The things which I have seen I now can see no more!

The rainbow comes and goes, And lovely is the rose; The moon doth with delight Look round her when the heavens are bare; Waters on a starry night Are beautiful and fair; The sunshine is a glorious birth; But yet I know, where'er I go, That there hath pass'd away a glory from the earth.

Now, while the birds thus sing a joyous song, And while the young lambs bound As to the tabor's sound, To me alone there came a thought of grief: A timely utterance gave that thought relief, And I again am strong. The cataracts blow their trumpets from the steep,-- No more shall grief of mine the season wrong: I hear the echoes through the mountains throng, The winds come to me from the fields of sleep, And all the earth is gay; Land and sea Give themselves up to jollity, And with the heart of May Doth every beast keep holiday;-- Thou child of joy, Shout round me, let me hear thy shouts, thou happy Shepherd boy!

Ye blesséd creatures, I have heard the call Ye to each other make; I see The heavens laugh with you in your jubilee; My heart is at your festival, My head hath its coronal, The fulness of your bliss, I feel--I feel it all. O evil day! if I were sullen While Earth herself is adorning This sweet May morning, And the children are pulling On every side In a thousand valleys far and wide Fresh flowers; while the sun shines warm, And the babe leaps up on his mother's arm:-- I hear, I hear, with joy I hear! --But there's a tree, of many, one, A single field which I have look'd upon, Both of them speak of something that is gone: The pansy at my feet Doth the same tale repeat: Whither is fled the visionary gleam? Where is it now, the glory and the dream?

Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting; The Soul that rises with us, our life's Star, Hath had elsewhere its setting And cometh from afar; Not in entire forgetfulness And not in utter nakedness But trailing clouds of glory do we come From God, who is our home: Heaven lies about us in our infancy! Shades of the prison-house begin to close Upon the growing boy, But he beholds the light, and whence it flows, He sees it in his joy, The youth, who daily farther from the east Must travel, still is Nature's priest, And by the vision splendid Is on his way attended; At length the man perceives it die away, And fade into the light of common day.

Earth fills her lap with pleasures of her own; Yearnings she hath in her own natural kind, And, even with something of a mother's mind, And no unworthy aim, The homely nurse doth all she can To make her foster-child, her inmate, Man, Forget the glories he hath known And that imperial palace whence he came.

Behold the Child among his new-born blisses, A six years' darling of a pigmy size! See, where 'mid work of his own hand he lies, Fretted by sallies of his mother's kisses, With light upon him from his father's eyes! See, at his feet, some little plan or chart, Some fragment from his dream of human life, Shaped by himself with newly-learnéd art; A wedding or a festival, A mourning or a funeral; And this hath now his heart, And unto this he frames his song: Then will he fit his tongue To dialogues of business, love, or strife; But it will not be long Ere this be thrown aside, And with new joy and pride The little actor cons another part; Filling from time to time his "humorous stage" With all the Persons, down to palsied Age, That life brings with her in her equipage; As if his whole vocation Were endless imitation.

Thou, whose exterior semblance doth belie Thy soul's immensity; Thou best philosopher, who yet dost keep Thy heritage, thou eye among the blind, That, deaf and silent, read'st the eternal deep, Haunted for ever by the eternal mind,-- Mighty prophet! Seer blest! On whom those truths do rest Which we are toiling all our lives to find; In darkness lost, the darkness of the grave; Thou, over whom thy immortality Broods like the day, a master o'er a slave, A presence which is not to be put by; Thou little child, yet glorious in the might Of heaven-born freedom on thy being's height, Why with such earnest pains dost thou provoke The years to bring the inevitable yoke, Thus blindly with thy blessedness at strife? Full soon thy soul shall have her earthly freight, And custom lie upon thee with a weight Heavy as frost, and deep almost as life!

O joy! that in our embers Is something that doth live, That nature yet remembers What was so fugitive! The thought of our past years in me doth breed Perpetual benediction: not indeed For that which is most worthy to be blest, Delight and liberty, the simple creed Of childhood, whether busy or at rest, With new-fledged hope still fluttering in his breast: --Not for these I raise The song of thanks and praise; But for those obstinate questionings Of sense and outward things, Fallings from us, vanishings, Blank misgivings of a creature Moving about in worlds not realised, High instincts, before which our mortal nature Did tremble like a guilty thing surprised: But for those first affections, Those shadowy recollections, Which, be they what they may, Are yet the fountain-light of all our day, Are yet a master-light of all our seeing; Uphold us--cherish--and have power to make Our noisy years seem moments in the being Of the eternal silence: truths that wake, To perish never; Which neither listlessness, nor mad endeavour Nor man nor boy Nor all that is at enmity with joy, Can utterly abolish or destroy! Hence, in a season of calm weather Though inland far we be, Our souls have sight of that immortal sea Which brought us hither; Can in a moment travel thither-- And see the children sport upon the shore, And hear the mighty waters rolling evermore.

Then sing, ye birds, sing, sing a joyous song! And let the young lambs bound As to the tabor's sound! We, in thought, will join your throng Ye that pipe and ye that play, Ye that through your hearts to-day Feel the gladness of the May! What though the radiance which was once so bright Be now for ever taken from my sight, Though nothing can bring back the hour Of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower; We will grieve not, rather find Strength in what remains behind, In the primal sympathy Which having been must ever be, In the soothing thoughts that spring Out of human suffering, In the faith that looks through death, In years that bring the philosophic mind.