Dawns on a kingdom, and for needful haste Best eloquence avails not, Inspiration Mounts with a tune, that travels like a blast Piping through cave and battlemented tower; Then starts the sluggard, pleased to meet That voice of Freedom, in its power Of promises, shrill, wild, and sweet! Who, from a martial pageant, spreads Incitements of a battle-day,
Thrilling the unweaponed crowd with plumeless heads?-
Even She whose Lydian airs inspire Peaceful striving, gentle play
Of timid hope and innocent desire
Shot from the dancing Graces, as they move Fanned by the plausive wings of Love.
How oft along thy mazes,
Regent of sound, have dangerous Passions trod !
O Thou, through whom the temple rings with praises,
And blackening clouds in thunder speak of God,
Betray not by the cozenage of sense Thy votaries, wooingly resigned
To a voluptuous influence
That taints the purer, better, mind;
But lead sick Fancy to a harp
That hath in noble tasks been tried:
And, if the virtuous feel a pang too sharp, Soothe it into patience, stay
The uplifted arm of Suicide:
And let some mood of thine in firm array Knit every thought the impending issue needs, Ere martyr burns, or patriot bleeds!
As Conscience, to the centre
Of being, smites with irresistible pain, So shall a solemn cadence, if it enter The mouldy vaults of the dull idiot's brain, Transmute him to a wretch from quiet Convulsed as by a jarring din; And then aghast, as at the world Of reason partially let in
By concords winding with a sway
Terrible for sense and soul!
All treasures hoarded by the miser, Time. Orphean Insight! truth's undaunted lover, To the first leagues of tutored passion climb, When Music deigned within this grosser sphere Her subtle essence to enfold,
And voice and shell drew forth a tear Softer than Nature's self could mould. Yet strenuous was the infant Age: Art, daring because souls could feel, Stirred nowhere but an urgent equipage Of rapt imagination sped her march Through the realms of woe and weal: Hell to the lyre bowed low the upper arch Rejoiced that clamorous spell and magic verse Her wan disasters could disperse.
The pipe of Pan, to shepherds
Couched in the shadow of Manalian pines, Was passing sweet; the eyeballs of the leo- pards,
That in high triumph drew the Lord of vines, How did they sparkle to the cymbal's clang! While Fauns and Satyrs beat the ground
In cadence, and Silenus swang
This way and that, with wild-flowers crowned. To life, to life give back thine ear: Ye who are longing to be rid
Of fable, though to truth subservient, hear The little sprinkling of cold earth that fell Echoed from the coffin-lid;
The convict's summons in the steeple's knell ; "The vain distress-gun," from a leeward shore, Repeated-heard, and heard no more!
For terror, joy, or pity,
Vast is the compass and the swell of notes: From the babe's first cry to voice of regal city, hurled-Rolling a solemn sea-like bass, that floats Far as the woodlands-with the trill to blend Of that shy songstress, whose love-tale Might tempt an angel to descend, While hovering o'er the moonlight vale. Ye wandering Utterances, has earth no scheme,
Or awed he weeps, struggling to quell dismay. No scale of moral music-to unite
Point not these mysteries to an Art
Lodged above the starry pole;
Pure modulations flowing from the heart Of divine Love, where Wisdom,
With Order dwell, in endless youth?
Powers that survive but in the faintest dream Of memory?-O that ye might stoop to bear Chains, such precious chains of sight As laboured minstrelsies through ages wear! O for a balance fit the truth to tell
Of the Unsubstantial, pondered well!
By one pervading spirit Of tones and numbers all things are controlled, As sages taught, where faith was found to merit Initiation in that mystery old.
The heavens, whose aspect makes our minds as still
As they themselves appear to be, Innumerable voices fill
With everlasting harmony;
The towering headlands, crowned with mist, Their feet among the billows, know
That Ocean is a mighty harmonist; Thy pinions, universal Air,
Ever waving to and fro,
Are delegates of harmony, and bear
Strains that support the Seasons in their round; Stern Winter loves a dirge-like sound.
Break forth into thanksgiving,
Ye banded instruments of wind and chords; Unite, to magnify the Ever-living,
Your inarticulate notes with the voice of words! Nor hushed be service from the lowing mead, Nor mute the forest hum of noon; Thou too be heard, lone eagle! freed From snowy peak and cloud, attune
Thy hungry barkings to the hymn Of joy, that from her utmost walls The six-days' Work, by flaming Seraphim Transmits to Heaven! As Deep to Deep Shouting through one valley calls,
All worlds, all natures, mood and measure keep For praise and ceaseless gratulation, poured Into the ear of God, their Lord!
A Voice to Light gave Being;
To Time, and Man his earth-born chronicler : A Voice shall finish doubt and dim foreseeing, And sweep away life's visionary stir; The trumpet (we, intoxicate with pride, Arm at its blast for deadly wars) To archangelic lips applied,
The grave shall open, quench the stars. O Silence! are Man's noisy years No more than moments of thy life?
Is Harmony, blest queen of smiles and tears, With her smooth tones and discords just, Tempered into rapturous strife,
Thy destined bond-slave? No! though earth be dust
And vanish, though the heavens dissolve, her
TO ROBERT SOUTHEY, ESQ., P.L., ETC., ETC.
MY DEAR FRIEND, The Tale of Peter Bell, which I now introduce to your notice, and to that of the Public, has, in its Manuscript state, nearly survived its minority:--for it first saw the light in the summer of 1798. During this long interval, pains have been taken at different times to make the production less unworthy of a favourable reception; or, rather, to fit it for filling permanently a station, however humble, in the Literature of our Country. This has, indeed, been the aim of all my endeavours in Poetry, which, you know, have been sufficiently laborious to prove that I deem the Art not lightly to be approached and that the attainment of excellence in it may laudably be made the principal object of intellectual pursuit by any man who, with reasonable consideration of circumstances, has faith in his own impulses.
The Poem of Peter Bell, as the Prologue will show, was composed under a belief that the Imagination not only does not require for its exercise the intervention of supernatural agency, but that, though such agency be excluded, the faculty may be called forth as imperiously and for kindred results of pleasure, by incidents, within the compass of poetic probability, in the humblest departments of daily life. Since that Prologue was written, you have exhibited most splendid effects of judicious daring, in the opposite and usual course. Let this acknowledg ment make my peace with the lovers of the supernatural and I am persuaded it will be admitted that to you, as a Master in that province of the art, the following Tale, whether from contrast or congruity, is not an inappropriate offering. Accept it, then, as a public testimony of affectionate admiration from one with whose name yours has been often coupled to use your own words) for evil and for good; and believe me to be, with earnest wishes that life and health may be granted you to complete the many important works in which you are engaged, and with high respect, Most faithfully yours, WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. RYDAL MOUNT, April 7, 1819.
THERE'S Something in a flying horse, There's something in a huge balloon; But through the clouds I'll never float Until I have a little Boat, Shaped like the crescent-moon. And now I have a little Boat, In shape a very crescent-moon: Fast through the clouds my boat can sail; But if perchance your faith should fail, Look up-and you shall see me soon! The woods, my Friends, are round you roaring, Rocking and roaring like a sea: The noise of danger's in your ears,
And ye have all a thousand fears Both for my little Boat and me! Meanwhile untroubled I admire The pointed horns of my canoe; And, did not pity touch my breast To see how ye are all distrest, Till my ribs ached, I'd laugh at you! Away we go, my Boat and I- Frail man ne'er sate in such another; Whether among the winds we strive, Or deep into the clouds we dive, Each is contented with the other. Away we go-and what care we For treasons, tumults, and for wars? K
We are as calm in our delight As is the crescent-moon so bright Among the scattered stars.
Up goes my Boat among the stars Though many a breathless field of light, Through many a long blue field of ether, Leaving ten thousand stars beneath her; Up goes my little Boat so bright! The Crab, the Scorpion, and the Bull- We pry among them all; have shot High o'er the red-haired race of Mars, Covered from top to toe with scars; Such company I like it not!
The towns in Saturn are decayed, And melancholy Spectres throng them ;- The Pleiads, that appear to kiss Each other in the vast abyss, With joy I sail among them.
Swift Mercury resounds with mirth, Great Jove is full of stately bowers; But these, and all that they contain, What are they to that tiny grain, That little Earth of ours?
Then back to Earth, the dear green Earth:- Whole ages if I here should roam, The world for my remarks and me Would not a whit the better be; I've left my heart at home.
See! there she is, the matchless Earth! There spreads the famed Pacific Ocean! Old Andes thrusts yon craggy spear Through the grey clouds: the Alps are here, Like waters in commotion !
Yon tawny slip is Libya's sands: That silver thread the river Dnieper;
And look, where clothed in brightest green Is a sweet Isle, of isles the Queen; Ye fairies, from all evil keep her! And see the town where I was born! Around those happy fields we span In boyish gambols:-I was lost Where I have been, but on this coast I feel I am a man.
Never did fifty things at once Appear so lovely, never, never ;- How tunefully the forests ring! To hear the earth's soft murmuring
Thus could I hang for ever!
"Shame on you !" cried my little Boat, "Was ever such a homesick Loon, Within a living Boat to sit,
And make no better use of it,
A Boat twin-sister of the crescent-moon !
Ne'er in the breast of full-grown Poet Fluttered so faint a heart before ;- Was it the music of the spheres That overpowered your mortal ears? -Such din shall trouble them no more. These nether precincts do not lack Charms of their own ;-then come with me; I want a comrade, and for you There's nothing that I would not do; Nought is there that you shall not see.
Haste and above Siberian snows We'll sport amid the boreal morning; Will mingle with her lustres gliding
Among the stars, the stars now hiding, And now the stars adorning.
I know the secrets of a land Where human foot did never stray; Fair is that land as evening skies, And cool, though in the depth it lies Of burning Africa.
Or we'll into the realm of Faery, Among the lovely shades of things; The shadowy forms of mountains bare, And streams, and bowers, and ladies fair, The shades of palaces and kings! Or, if you thirst with hardy zeal Less quiet regions to explore, Prompt voyage shall to you reveal How earth and heaven are taught to feel The might of magic lore!'
"My little vagrant Form of light, My gay and beautiful Canoe,
Well have you played your friendly part: As kindly take what from my heart Experience forces- then adieu! Temptation lurks among your words; But, while these pleasures you're pursuing Without impediment or let,
No wonder if you quite forget What on the earth is doing.
There was a time when all mankind Did listen with a faith sincere To tuneful tongues in mystery versed; Then Poets fearlessly rehearsed The wonders of a wild career. Go-(but the world's a sleepy world, And 'tis, I fear, an age too late) Take with you some ambitious Youth! For, restless Wanderer! I, in truth, Am all unfit to be your mate.
Long have I loved what I behold,
The night that calms, the day that cheers; The common growth of mother-earth Suffices me-her tears, her mirth,
Her humblest mirth and tears.
The dragon's wing, the magic ring, I shall not covet for my dower,
If I along that lowly way
With sympathetic heart may stray, And with a soul of power.
These given, what more need I desire To stir, to soothe, or elevate?
What nobler marvels than the mind May in life's daily prospect find,
May find or there create?
A potent wand doth Sorrow wield; What spell so strong as guilty Fear! Repentance is a tender Sprite: If aught on earth have heavenly might, 'Tis lodged within her silent tear. But grant my wishes,-let us now Descend from this ethereal height; Then take thy way, adventurous Skiff, More daring far than Hippogriff, And be thy own delight!
To the stone-table in my garden, Loved haunt of many a summer hour, The Squire is come: his daughter Bess Beside him in the cool recess
Sits blooming like a flower.
With these are many more convened; They know not I have been so far ;- I see them there, in number nine, Beneath the spreading Weymouth pine! I see them-there they are!
There sits the Vicar and his Dame;
And there my good friend, Stephen Otter; And, ere the light of evening fail,
To them I must relate the Tale
Of Peter Bell the Potter."
Off flew the Boat-away she flees, Spurning her freight with indignation! And I, as well as I was able,
On two poor legs, toward my stone-table Limped on with sore vexation.
"O, here he is!" cried little Bess- She saw me at the garden door: "We've waited anxiously and long," They cried, and all around me throng, Full nine of them or more!
"Reproach me not-your fears be still- Be thankful we again have met :- Resume, my Friends! within the shade Your seats, and quickly shall be paid The well-remembered debt."
I spake with faltering voice, like one Not wholly rescued from the pale Of a wild dream, or worse illusion; But, straight, to cover my confusion, Began the promised Tale.
ALL by the moonlight river side Groaned the poor Beast-alas! in vain ; The staff was raised to loftier height, And the blows fell with heavier weight As Peter struck--and struck again. "Hold!" cried the Squire, "against the rules Of common sense you're surely sinning; This leap is for us all too bold: Who Peter was, let that be told, And start from the beginning."
-"A Potter, Sir, he was by trade," Said I, becoming quite collected; "And wheresoever he appeared, Full twenty times was Peter feared For once that Peter was respected. He, two-and-thirty years or more, Had been a wild and woodland rover; Had heard the Atlantic surges roar On farthest Cornwall's rocky shore, And trod the cliffs of Dover.
And he had seen Caernarvon's towers, And well he knew the spire of Sarum; And he had been where Lincoln bell Flings o'er the fen that ponderous knell- A far-renowned alarum!
At Doncaster, at York, and Leeds, And merry Carlisle had he been; And all along the Lowlands fair, All through the bonny shire of Ayr; And far as Aberdeen.
And he had been at Inverness; And Peter, by the mountain-rills,
In the dialect of the North, a hawker of earthenware is thus designated.
Had danced his round with Highland lasses; And he had lain beside his asses
On lofty Cheviot Hills:
And he had trudged through Yorkshire dales, Among the rocks and winding scars; Where deep and low the hamlets lie Beneath their little patch of sky And little lot of stars:
And all along the indented coast, Bespattered with the salt-sea foam; Where'er a knot of houses lay
On headland, or in hollow bay ;- Sure never man like him did roam!
As well might Peter, in the Fleet,
Have been fast bound, a begging debtor ;- He travelled here, he travelled there;- But not the value of a hair Was heart or head the better
He roved among the vales and streams, In the green wood and hollow dell; They were his dwellings night and day,- But nature ne'er could find the way Into the heart of Peter Bell.
In vain, through every changeful year, Did Nature lead him as before; A primrose by a river's brim A yellow primrose was to him, And it was nothing more.
Small change it made in Peter's heart To see his gentle panniered train With more than vernal pleasure feeding Where'er the tender grass was leading Its earliest green along the lane.
In vain, through water, earth, and air, The soul of happy sound was spread, When Peter on some April morn, Beneath the broom or budding thorn, Made the warm earth his lazy bed. At noon, when, by the forest's edge He lay beneath the branches high, The soft blue sky did never melt Into his heart: he never felt The witchery of the soft blue sky On a fair prospect some have looked And felt, as I have heard them say, As if the moving time had been A thing as steadfast as the scene On which they gazed themselves away. Within the breast of Peter Bell These silent raptures found no place; He was a Carl as wild and rude As ever hue-and-cry pursued,
As ever ran a felon's race.
Of all that lead a lawless life, Of all that love their lawless lives,
In city or in village small,
He was the wildest far of all:
He had a dozen wedded wives.
Nay, start not!-wedded wives-and twelve!
But how one wife could e'er come near him, In simple truth I cannot tell; For, be it said of Peter Bell,
To see him was to fear him.
Though Nature could not touch his heart By lovely forms, and silent weather, And tender sounds, yet you might see
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