The Complete Poetical Works of William Wordsworth, Late Poet Laureate

POWER OF MUSIC.

Now, Coaches and Chariots! roar on like a stream Here are twenty souls happy as souls in a dream:

AN Orpheus! an Orpheus!-yes, Faith may grow They are deaf to your murmurs-they care Lot for bold,

you,

Mark that Cripple who leans on his Crutch; like a Poor in estate, of manners base, men of the multitude, Tower

That long has leaned forward, leans hour after hour! -
That Mother, whose Spirit in fetters is bound,
While she dandles the Babe in her arms to the sound.

Have souls which never yet have risen, and therefore prostrate lie?

No, no, this cannot be-Men thirst for power and majesty!

Does, then, a deep and earnest thought the blissful | Seem to participate, the whilst they view
mind employ
Their own far-stretching arms and leafy heads

Of him who gazes, or has gazed? a grave and steady Vividly pictured in some glassy pool,
joy,

That doth reject all show of pride, admits no outward sign,

Because not of this noisy world, but silent and divine!

Whatever be the cause, 't is sure that they who pry and pore

Seem to meet with little gain, seem less happy than before:

One after One they take their turn, nor have I one espied

That doth not slackly go away, as if dissatisfied.

THE HAUNTED TREE.

ΤΟ

THOSE silvet clouds collected round the sun
His mid-day warmth abate not, seeming less
To overshade than multiply his beams
By soft reflection-grateful to the sky,

To rocks, fields, woods. Nor doth our human sense

Ask, for its pleasure, screen or canopy
More ample than the time-dismantled Oak
Spreads o'er this tuft of heath, which now, attired

In the whole fulness of its bloom, affords
Couch beautiful as e'er for earthly use
Was fashioned; whether by the hand of Art,
That Eastern Su tan, amid flowers enwrought
On silken tissue might diffuse his limbs
In languor; or, by Nature, for repose
Of panting Wood-nymph, wearied by the chase.
O Lady! fairer in thy Poet's sight

Than fairest spiritual Creature of the groves,
Approach-and, thus invited, crown with rest
The noon-tide hour: - though truly some there are
Whose footsteps superstitiously avoid
This venerable Tree; for, when the wind
Blows keenly, it sends forth a creaking sound
(Above the general roar of woods and crags)
Distinctly heard from far- a doleful note!
As if (so Grecian shepherds would have deemed)
The Hamadryad, pent within, bewailed
Some bitter wrong.. Nor is it unbelieved,
By ruder fancy, that a troubled Ghost
Haunts this old Trunk; lamenting deeds of which
The flowery ground is conscious. But no wind
Sweeps now along this elevated ridge;

Not even a zephyr stirs ; — the obnoxious Tree
Is mute, and, in his silence would look down,
O lovely Wanderer of the trackless hills,
On thy reclining form with more delight
Than his Coevals, in the sheltered vale

That, for a brief space, checks the hurrying stream!

WRITTEN IN MARCH,

WHILE RESTING ON THE BRIDGE AT THE FOOT OF
BROTHER'S WATER.

THE Cock is crowing,

The stream is flowing,
The small birds twitter,

The lake doth glitter,

The green field sleeps in the sun:
The oldest and youngest

Are at work with the strongest;

The cattle are grazing,

Their heads never raising;

There are forty feeding like one!

Like an army defeated

The Snow hath retreated,

And now doth fare ill

On the top of the bare hill;

The Ploughhoy is whooping-anon-anon:
There's joy in the mountains;
There's life in the fountains;
Small clouds are sailing,
Blue sky prevailing;
The rain is over and gone!

GIPSIES.

YET are they here the same unbroken knot
Of human Beings, in the self-same spot!

Men, Women, Children, yea the frame
Of the whole Spectacle the same!
Only their fire seems bolder, yielding light,
Now deep and red, the colouring of night;
That on their Gipsy-faces falls,

Their bed of straw and blanket-walls.
-Twelve hours, twelve bounteous hours, are gone

while I

Have been a Traveller under open sky,

Much witnessing of change and cheer,
Yet as I left I find them here!
The weary Sun betook himself to rest.
-Then issued Vesper from the fulgent West,
Outshining like a visible God

The glorious path in which he trod.
And now, ascending, after one dark hour
And one night's diminution of her power.
Behold the mighty Moon! this way
She looks as if at them-but they

SEQUEL TO THE FOREGOING,
COMPOSED MANY YEARS AFTER.

WHERE are they now, those wanton Boys?
For whose free range the dædal earth
Was filled with animated toys,
And implements of frolic mirth;
With tools for ready wit to guide;
And ornaments of seemlier pride,

More fresh, more bright, than Princes wear,
For what one moment flung aside,
Another could repair;

What good or evil have they seen

Since I their pastime witnessed here,
Their daring wiles, their sportive cheer?

I ask but all is dark between!

Spirits of beauty and of grace!
Associates in that eager chase;
Ye. by a course to nature true,
The sterner judgment can subdue;
And waken a relenting smile
When she encounters fraud or guile;
And sometimes ye can charm away
The inward mischief, or allay,
Ye, who within the blameless mind
Your favourite seat of empire find!

They met me in a genial hour,

When universal nature breathed

As with the breath of one sweet flower.

A time to overrule the power

Of discontent, and check the birth

Of thoughts with better thoughts at strife,

The most familiar bane of life
Since parting Innocence bequeathed
Mortality to Earth!

Soft clouds, the whitest of the year,

Sailed through the sky- the brooks ran clear; The lambs from rock to rock were bounding. With songs the budded groves resounding,

And to my heart is still endeared

The faith with which it then was cheered;

The faith which saw that gladsome pair
Walk through the fire with unsinged hair.
Or, if such thoughts must needs deceive,
Kind Spirits! may we not believe
That they, so happy and so fair,
Through your sweet influence and the care
Of pitying Heaven, at least were free
From touch of deadly injury?
Destined, whate'er their earthly doom,
For mercy and immortal bloom!

RUTH.

WHEN Ruth was left half desolate,
Her Father took another Mate;
And Ruth, not seven years old,
A slighted Child, at her own will
Went wandering over dale and hill,
In thoughtless freedom bold.

And she had made a Pipe of straw,
And from that oaten Pipe could draw
All sounds of winds and floods;
Had built a bower upon the green,
As if she from her birth had been
An infant of the woods.

Beneath her Father's root, alone

She seemed to live; her thoughts her own;
Herself her own delight;

Pleased with herself, nor sad, nor gay;
And, passing thus the live-long day,
She grew to Woman's height.

There came a Youth from Georgia's shore

A military Casque he wore,

With splendid feathers drest;

He brought then from the Cherokees;

The feathers nodded in the breeze,

And made a gallant crest.

From Indian blood you deem him sprung:

Ah no! he spake the English tongue,

And bore a Soldier's name;
And, when America was free
From battle and from jeopardy,

He 'cross the ocean came.

With hues of genius on his cheek

In finest tones the Youth could speak: While he was yet a Boy,

The moon, the glory of the sun,

And streams that murmur as they run, Had been his dearest joy.

He was a lovely Youth! I guess

The panther in the Wilderness
Was not so fair as he;

And, when he chose to sport and play,
No dolphin ever was so gay
Upon the tropic sea.

Among the Indians he had fought
And with him many tales he brought
Of pleasure and of fear

Such tales as told to any Maid

By such a Youth, in the green shade,
Were perilous to hear.

He told of Girls-a happy rout!

Who quit their fold with dance and shout,
Their pleasant Indian Town,

To gather strawberries all day long;
Returning with a choral song
When daylight is gone down.

He spake of plants divine and strange
That every hour their blossoms change,
Ten thousand lovely hues!

With budding, fading, faded flowers
They stand the wonder of the bowers
From morn to evening dews.

He told of the Magnolia*, spread
High as a cloud, high over head!

The Cypress and her spire;

-Of flowers that with one scarlet gleam Cover a hundred leagues, and seem

To set the hills on fire.t

The Youth of green savannahs spake,
And many an endless, endless lake,
With all its fairy crowds

Of islands, that together lie
As quietly as spots of sky
Among the evening clouds.

And then he said, "How sweet it were
A fisher or a hunter there,

A gardener in the shade,

Still wandering with an easy mind

To build a household fire, and find

A home in every glade!

"What days and what sweet years! Ah me!

Our life were life indeed, with thee

So passed in quiet bliss,

And all the while," said he, "to know

That we were in a world of woe,

On such an earth as this!"

*Magnolia grandiflora.

†The splendid appearance of these scarlet flowers, which are scattered with such profusion over the Hills in the Southern parts of North America, is frequently mentioned by Bartram in his Travels.

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