You call it, "Love lies bleeding,". so you may, Though by a slender thread,) So drooped Adonis bathed in sanguine dew bower Did press this semblance of unpitied smart Into the service of his constant heart, His own dejection, downcast flower! could share With thine, and gave the mournful name which thou wilt ever bear. COMPANION TO THE FOREGOING. NEVER enlivened with the liveliest ray The old mythologists, more impress'd than we Of this late day by character in tree Or herb, that claimed peculiar sympathy, Or by the silent lapse of fountain clear, Or with the language of the viewless air By bird or beast made vocal, sought a cause To solve the mystery, not in nature's laws But in man's fortunes. Hence a thousand tales Sung to the plaintive lyre in Grecian vales. Nor doubt that something of their spirit swayed The fancy-stricken youth or heart-sick maid, Who, while each stood companionless and eyed This undeparting flower in crimson dyed, Thought of a wound which death is slow to cure, A fate that has endured and will endure, And, patience coveting yet passion feeding Called the dejected Lingerer, Love lies bleeding. RURAL ILLUSIONS. SYLPH was it? or a bird more bright Than those of fabulous stock? A second darted by ; — and lo! Another of the flock, Through sunshine flitting from the bough Of April's mimicries! Those brilliant strangers, hailed with joy Proved last year's leaves, pushed from the spray Maternal Flora! show thy face, And let thy hand be seen, To be confounded with live growths, Were only blossoms dropped from twigs Not such the world's illusive shows; Her blossoms which, though shed, outbrave For the undeceived, smile as they may, But gentle nature plays her part With ever-varying wiles, And transient feignings with plain truth That those fond idlers most are pleased ADDRESS TO MY INFANT DAUGHTER, DORA, ON BEING REMINDED THAT SHE WAS A MONTH OLD ON THAT DAY (SEPTEMBER 16TH.) HAST thou then survived Mild offspring of infirm humanity, The most forlorn - one life of that bright star, But what is time? What outward glory? neither On the blank plains, — the coldness of the night, Though strong, is, in the main, a joyless tie Resemblances, or contrasts, that connect, And cheering ofttimes their reluctant gloom. Hope and a renovation without end. -That smile forbids the thought; for on thy face To shoot and circulate; smiles have there been seen; *Several years after the event that forms the subject of the poem, in company with my friend, the late Mr. Coleridge, I happened to fall in with the person to whom the name of Benjamin is given. Upon our expressing regret that we had not, for a long time, seen upon the road either him or his waggon, he said: "They could not do without me; and as to the man who was put in my place, no good could come out of him; he was a man of no ideas." U added?"-To say the truth,- from the higher tone of imagination, and the deeper touches of passion aimed at in the former, I apprehend, this little Piece could not accompany it without disadvantage. In the year The fact of my discarded hero's getting the horses out of a great difficulty with a word, as related in the poem, was told me by an eye-witness. ["Due honour is done to Peter Bell, at this time, by students of poetry in general; but some, even of Mr. Wordsworth's greatest admirers, do not quite satisfy me in their admiration of The Waggoner, a poem which my dear uncle, Mr. Southey, preferred even to the former. Ich will meine Denkungsart hierin niemanden aufdringen, as Lessing says; I will force my way of thinking on nobody, but take the liberty, for my own gratification, to express it. The sketches of hill and valley in this poem have a lightness and spirit, an allegro touch, -distinguishing them from the grave and elevated splendour which characterizes Mr. Wordsworth's representations of nature in general, and from the pensive tenderness of those in The White Doe, while it harmonizes well with the human interest of the piece; indeed, it is the harmonious sweetness of the composition which is most dwelt upon by its special admirers. In its course it describes, with bold brief touches, the striking mountain tract from Grasmere to Keswick; it commences with an evening storm among the mountains, presents a lively interior of a country inn during midnight, and concludes after bringing us in sight of St. John's Vale and the Vale of Keswick seen by day break.'Skiddaw touched with rosy light,' and the pros pect from Nathdale Fell, 'hoar with the frost-like dews of dawn' thus giving a beautiful and well contrasted panorama, produced by the most delicate and masterly strokes of the pencil. Well may Mr. Ruskin, a fine observer and eloquent describer of various classes of natural appearances, speak of Mr. Wordsworth as the great poetic landscape painter of the age. But Mr. Ruskin has found how seldom the great landscape painters are powerful in expressing human passions and affections on canvass, or even successful in the introduction of human figures into their foregrounds; whereas in the poetic paintings of Mr. Wordsworth, the landscape is always subordinate to a higher interest; certainly, in The Waggoner, the little sketch of human nature which occupies, as it were, the front of that encircling background, the picture of Benjamin and his temptations, his humble friends and the mute companions of his way, has a character of its own, combining with sportiveness, a homely pathos, which must ever be delightful to some of those who are thoroughly conversant with the spirit of Mr. Wordsworth's poetry. It may be compared with the ale-house scene in Tam O'Shanter, parts of Voss's Luise, or Ovid's Baucis and Philemon; though it differs from each of them as much as they differ from each other. The Epilogue carries on the feeling of the piece very beautifully."- S. C. This fine criticism-worthy of the Sire-is from the pen of the daughter of Coleridge, the widow of Henry Nelson Coleridge; it is part of a note in Coleridge's "Biographia Literaria.' Edition of 1847. Vol. II. p. 183. See also a letter from Coleridge to Southey, April 13, 1801, in which an account is given of the "master" in this poem. His name was Jackson. Southey's Life and Correspondence, Vol. II. p. 148, Chap. viii., where in a note it is added that the circumstances of the poem. are accurately correct.-H. R.] 1806, if I am not mistaken, THE Waggoner was read to you in manuscript; and, as you have remembered it for so long a time, I am the more encouraged to hope, that, since the localities on which it partly depends did not prevent its being interesting to you, it may prove acceptable to others. Being therefore in some measure the cause of its present appearance, you must allow me the gratification of inscribing it to you: in acknowledgment of the pleasure I have derived from your Writings, and of the high esteem with which I am Very truly yours, WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. KYDAL MOUNT, May 20, 1819. CANTO FIRST. TIs spent this burning day of June! Soft darkness o'er its latest gleams is stealing; Round the dim crags on heavy pinions wheeling, Confiding Glow-worms! 'tis a night Is close and hot; -and now and then Comes a tired and sultry breeze The mountains rise to wondrous height, And in the heavens there hangs a weight; The Horses have worked with right good-will, And now have gained the top of the hill, He was patient-they were strong— And now they smoothly glide along, Gathering breath, and pleased to win The praises of mild Benjamin. Heaven shield him from mishap and snare! But why so early with this prayer? — Is it for threatenings in the sky! Or for some other danger nigh? No, none is near him yet, though he Be one of much infirmity; For at the bottom of the Brow, Where once the Dove and OLIVE-BOUGH Offered a greeting of good ale To all who entered Grasmere Vale; It is a doubt with Benjamin Whether they be alive or dead! Here is no danger, none at all! Beyond his wish is he secure; But pass a mile- and then for trial,Then for the pride of self-denial; If he resist that tempting door, Which with such friendly voice will call, If he resist those casement panes, And that bright gleam which thence will fall Upon his Leaders' bells and manes, Inviting him with cheerful lure: For still, though all be dark elsewhere, Some shining notice will be there, Of open house and ready fare. |