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But Angels round her pillow
The tempest overcame her,
Blest Pair! whate'er befall you,
My heart leaps up when I behold
REMEMBRANCE OF COLLINS. A rainbow in the sky: So was it when my life began;
(Composed upon the Thames, near Richmonis.) So is it now I am a man;
GLIDE gently, thus for ever glide, So be it when I shall grow old,
O Thames! that other bards may see Or let me die!
As lovely visions by thy side The Child is father of the Man;
fair river, come to me. And I could wish my days to be
O glide, fair stream! for ever so, Bound each to each by natural piety. Thy quiet soul on all bestowing,
[1804. Til all our minds for ever flow
As thy deep waters now are flowing.
THE SPARROW'S NEST.
Vain thought!- yet be as now thou art,
That in thy waters may be seen BEHOLD, within the leafy shade,
The image of a poet's heart, Those bright blue eggs together laid !
How bright, how solemn, how serene! On me the chance-discover'd sight
Such as did once the Poet bless Gleam'd like a vision of delight.
Who, murmuring here a later ditty, I started, seeming to espy
Could find no refuge from distress
But in the milder grief of pity.2
Now let us, as we float along,
For him suspend the clashing oar,
And pray that never child of song
May know that Poet's sorrows more. She look'd at it and seem'd to fear it;
How calm! how still! the only sound, Dreading, though wishing, to be near it:
The dripping of the oar suspended!3– Such heart was in her, being then A little Prattler among men.
The evening darkness gathers round The Blessing of my later years
By virtue's holicst Powers attended.
[1789. Was with me when a boy: She gave me eyes,
she gave me ears; And humble cares, and delicate fears;
2 The allusion is to Collins's Ode on the A heart, the fountain of sweet tears; Death of Thomson, the last-written of the And love, and thought, and joy.
author's poems which were published dur
ing his life-time. The scene of that Ode [1801. is supposed to lie on the Thames, near
3 Here, again, Wordsworth alludes to 1. The poet speaks of his sister under Collins's Ode: various names.
Her real name was Doro. “Remembrance oft shall haunt the shore, thy. See page 64, note 9. The poet's sense When Thames in summer wreaths is drest; of obligation to her is remarked upon in And oft suspend the dashing oar, the Sketch of his Life.
To bid his gentle spirit rest!”
What fond and wayward thougb ts will
[slide AFTER ACCOMPANYING HER ON A MOUN. “O mercy!” to myself I cried, TAIN EXCURSION. “If Lucy should be dead!"
[1799. I MET Louisa in the shade, And, having seen that lovely Maid, Why should I fear to say
SHE dwelt among th' untrodden ways That, nymph-like, she is fleet and strong,
Beside the springs of Dove, And down the rocks can leap along
A Maid whom there were none to praise, Like rivulets in May?
And very few to love: She loves her fire, her cottage-home;
A violet by a mossy stone Yet o'er the moorland will she roam
Half hidden from the eye! In weather rough and bleak;
Fair as a star, when only one
Is shining in the sky.
She lived unknown, and few could know
When Lucy ceased to be; Take all that's mine beneath the Moon, But she is in her grave, and, 0, If I with her but half a noon
The difference to me!
(1799. May sit beneath the walls Of some old cave, or mossy nook, When up she winds along the brook To hunt the waterfalls.
I TRAVELL'D among unknown men,
In lands beyond the sea;
What love I bore to thee.
'Tis past, that melancholy dream! But in the Lover's ear alone,
Nor will I quit thy shore What once to me befell:
A second time; for still I seem
To love thee more and more.
Among thy mountains did I feel
The joy of my desire; Beneath an evening Moon.
And she I cherish'd turn'd her wheel
Beside an English fire.
Thy mornings show'd, thy nights con. With quickening pace my horse drew nigh The bowers where Lucy play'd; (ceal'd Those paths so dear to me.
And thine too is the last green field
That Lucy's eyes survey'd. [1799. And now we reach'd the orchard-plot; And, as we climb'd the hill, The sinking Moon to Lucy's cot Came near, nd nearer still.
In one of those sweet dreams I slept,
LET other bards of angels sing,
Bright suns without a spot;
Rejoice that thou art not!
My horse moved on; hoof after hoof
Heed not tho' none should call thee fair;
So, Mary, let it be,
With what thou art to me.
True beauty dwells in deep retreats, Evening now unbinds the fetters
Fashion'd by the glowing light;
And the lover is beloved. (1824. To the harbinger of night.
Yet by some grave thoughts attended TO THE CUCKOO.
Eve renews her calm career;
Is the longest of the year.
Dora! sport, as now thou sportest,
On this platform, light and free; While I am lying on the grass
Take thy bliss, while longest, shortest, Thy twofold shout I hear;
Are indifferent to thee.
Who would check the happy feeling
That inspires the linnet's song?
On her pinions swift and strong?
Yet, at this impressive season,
Words which tenderness can speak
Might exalt the loveliest cheek;
And, while shades to shades succeeding
Steal the landscape from the sight,
Last forerunner of “Good night!”
SUMMER ebbs; - each day that follows
Is a reflux from on high, To seek thee did I often rove
Tending to the darksome hollows
Where the frosts of Winter lie.
He who governs the creation,
In His providence, assign'd Can lie upon the plain
Such a gradual declination And listen, till I do beget
To the life of human kind. That golden time again.
Yet we mark it not; - fruits redden, O blessed Bird! the earth we pace
Fresh flowers blow, as flowers have Again appears to be
blown; An unsubstantial, faery place;
And the heart is loth to deaden That is fit home for Thee! [1804. Hopes that she so long hath known.
Be thou wiser, youthful M den!
And, when thy decline shall come,
Let not flowers, or boughs fruit-laden,
Hide the knowledge of thy doom.
Now, even now, ere wrapp'd in slumber,
Fix thine eyes upon the sea For the Sun is in his harbour,
That absorbs time, space, and number; Weary of the open sky.
Look thou to Eternity! 4 These stanzas are supposed to be ad- Follow thou the flowing river dressed to the author's wife.
On whose breast are thither borne
All deceived, and each deceiver,
"To-night will be a stormy night, Through the gates of night and morn; You to the town must go;
And take a lantern, Child, to light
Your mother through the snow.”
'Tis scarcely afternoon;
The minster-clock has just struck two, Thus when thou with Time hast travelPd And yonder is the Moon!” Toward the mighty gulf of things, And the mazy streain unravell’d
At this the Father raised his hook, With thy best imaginings;
And snapp'd a fagot-band;
He plied his work; – and Lucy took
The lantern in her hand.
Not blither is the mountain roe:
With many a wanton stroke
Her feet disperse the powdery snow, Duty, like a strict preceptor,
That rises up like smoke. Sometimes frowns, or seems to frown;
The storm came on before its time: Choose her thistle for thy sceptre,
She wander'd up and down; While youth's roses are thy crown.
And many a hill did Lucy climb:
But never reach'd the town.
The wretched parents all that night
Went shouting far and wide; That proclaims a genuine queen;
But there was neither sound nor sight
To serve them for a guide.
At day-break on a hill they stood
That overlook'd the moor; Lord of Heaven's unchanging year! 5 And thence they saw the bridge of wood,
(1817. A furlong from their door.
They wept; and, turning homeward,
“ In Heaven we all shall meet;” [cried, LUCY GRAY; OR, SOLITUDE. When in the snow the mother spied
The print of Lucy's feet.
Then downwards from the steep hill's I chanced to see at break of day
They track'd the footmarks small; [edge The solitary child.
And through the broken hawthorn hedge,
And by the long stone-wall; No mate, no comrade Lucy knew;
And then an open field they cross'd: She dwelt on a wide moor',
The marks were still the same; The sweetest thing that ever grew
They track'd them on, nor ever lost; Beside a human door!
And to the bridge they came. You yet may spy the fawn at play,
They follow'd from the snowy bank The hare upon the green;
Those footinarks, one by one, But the sweet face of Lucy Gray
Into the middle of the plank; Will never more be seen.
And further there were none!
Yet some maintain that to this day 5 Suggested by my daughter Dora play- She is a living child; ing in front of Ryilal Mount; and composed in a great measure the same after. That you may see sweet Lucy Gray noon.-- Author's Notes.
Upon the lonesome wild.
O’er rough and smooth she trips along, “You run about, my little Maid,
Your limbs they are alive:
If two are in the church-yard laid, That whistles in the wind.
[1799. Then ye are only five.”
“Their graves are green, they may be The little Maid replied,
(seen,” WE ARE SEVEN.
“Twelve steps or more from my mother's - A simple Child,
And they are side by side. [door, That lightly draws its breath,
My stockings there I often knit, And feels its life in every limb,
My kerchief there I hem; What should it know of death?
And there upon the ground I sit,
And sing a song to them.
And often after sun-set, Sir,
I take my little porringer,
And eat my supper there.
The first that died was sister Jane:
Till God released her of her pain;
And then she went away. “ Sisters and brothers, little Maid, How many may you be?”
So in the church-yard she was laid; “How many? Seven in all,” she said,
And, when the grass was dry, And wondering look'd at me.
Together round her grave we play'd, " And where are they? I pray you tell.” My brother John and I. She answer'd, “Seven are we;
And when the ground was white with And two of us at Conway dwell,
And I could run and slide, (snow, And two are gone to sea.
My brother John was forced to go; Two of us in the church-yard lie,
And he lies by her side." My sister and my brother;
“How many are you, then," said I, And, in the church-yard cottage, I
“ If they two are in Heaven?” Dwell near them with my mother.”
Quick was the little Maid's reply,
“O Master! we are seven.” You say that two at Conway dwell, And two are gone to sea,
“But they are dead; those two are dead! Yet ye are seven! - I pray you tell,
Their spirits are in Heaven !"Sweet Maid, how this may be.”
'Twas throwing words away; for still Then did the little Maid reply,
The little Maid would have her will, “ Seven boys and girls are we;
And said, “Nay, we are seven !”? [1798. Two of us in the church-yard lie, Beneath the church-yard tree.”
7 The author tells us that he composed this poem while walking in a grove at Al.
foxden, and that the little girl who is the 6 Founded on a circumstance related heroine was met by him within the area to me by my sister, of a little girl who, of Goodrich Castle in 1793. The piece was not far from Halifax in Yorkshire, was published in the first volume of Lyrical bewildered in a snow-storm. Her' foot. Ballads, 1798. - In his notes, the author steps were traced by her parents to the relates how a friend, who had got sight middle of the lock of a canal, and no of the poem as it was going through the other vestige of her, backward or for.press, remonstrated with him against ward, could be traced. Her body how-printing it: “One evening he came to ever was found in the canal. - Author's me with a grave face, and said, • Words. Notes.
worth, I have seen the volume that you