Almost at the root Of that tall pine, the shadow of whose bare And slender stem, while here I sit at eve, Oft stretches towards me, like a strong straight path Traced faintly in the greensward, there, beneath A plain blue stone, a gentle dalesman lies, From whom in early childhood was withdrawn The precious gift of hearing. He grew up From year to year in loneliness of soul; And this deep mountain valley was to him Soundless, with all its streams. The bird of dawn Did never rouse this cottager from sleep With startling summons; not for his delight The vernal cuckoo shouted; not for him Murmured the labouring bee. When stormy winds Were working the broad bosom of the lake Into a thousand thousand sparkling waves, Rocking the trees, or driving cloud on cloud Along the sharp edge of yon lofty crags, The agitated scene before his eye Was silent as a picture: evermore Were all things silent, wheresoe'er he moved. Yet, by the solace of his own pure thoughts Upheld, he duteously pursued the round Of rural labours; the steep mountain side Ascended with his staff and faithful dog; The plough he guided, and the scythe he swayed; And the ripe corn before his sickle fell Among the jocund reapers. Book VII. By viewing man in connection with external nature, the poet blends his metaphysics with pictures of life and scenery. To build up and strengthen the powers of the mind, in contrast to the operations of sense, is ever his object. Like Bacon, Wordsworth would rather believe all the fables in the Talmud and Alcoran than that this universal frame is without a mind-or that that mind does not, by its external symbols, speak to the human heart. He lives under the 'habitual sway' of nature. To me the meanest flower that blows can give Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears. The subsequent works of the poet are numerous— The White Doe of Rylstone, a romantic narrative poem, yet coloured with his peculiar genius; Sonnets on the River Duddon; The Waggoner; Peter Bell; Ecclesiastical Sketches; Yarrow Revisited, &c. Having made repeated tours in Scotland and on the continent, the poet diversified his subjects with descriptions of particular scenes, local manners, legends, and associations. The whole of his works have been arranged by their author according to their respective subjects; as Poems referring to the Period of Childhood; Poems founded on the Affections; Poems of the Fancy; Poems of the Imagination, &c. This classification is often arbitrary and capricious; but it is one of the conceits of Wordsworth, that his poems should be read in a certain continuous order, to give full effect to his system. Thus classified and published, the poet's works form six volumes. A seventh has lately (1842) been added, consisting of poems written very early and very late in life (as is stated), and a tragedy which had long lain past the author. The latter is not happy, for Wordaworth has less dramatic power than any other living poet. In the drama, however, both Scott and Byron failed; and Coleridge, with his fine imagination and pictorial expression, was only a shade more successful. The fame of Wordsworth is daily extending. The few ridiculous or puerile pieces which excited so much sarcasm, parody, and derision, have been quietly forgotten, or are considered as mere idiosyncrasies of the poet that provoke a smile, while his higher attributes command admiration, and have secured a new generation of readers. A tribe of worshippers, in the young poets of the day, have arisen to do him homage, and in some instances have carried the feeling to a sectarian and bigotted excess. Many of his former depreciators have also joined the ranks of his admirers-partly because in his late works he has done himself more justice both in his style and subjects. He is too intellectual, and too little sensuous, to use the phrase of Milton, ever to become generally popular, unless in some of his smaller pieces. His peculiar sensibilities cannot be relished by all. His poetry, however, is of various kinds. Forgetting his own theory as to the proper subjects of poetry, he has ventured on the loftiest themes, and in calm sustained elevation of thought, appropriate imagery, and intense feeling, he often reminds the reader of the sublime strains of Milton. His Laodamia, the Vernal Ode, the Ode to Lycoris and Dion, are pure and richly classic poems in conception and diction. Many of his sonnets have also a chaste and noble simplicity. In these short compositions, his elevation and power as a poet are perhaps more remarkably displayed than in any of his other productions. They possess a winning sweetness or simple grandeur, without the most distant approach to antithesis or straining for effect; while that tendency to prolixity and diffuseness which characterise his longer poems, is repressed by the necessity for brief and rapid thought and concise expression, imposed by the nature of the sonnet. It is no exaggeration to say that Milton alone has surpassed-if even he has surpassed-some of the noble sonnets of Wordsworth dedicated to liberty and inspired by patriotism. Sonnets. London, 1802. Milton! thou shouldst be living at this hour; The World is Too Much with Us. The world is too much with us; late and soon, Composed upon Westminster Bridge, September 3, 1803. Ships, towers, domes, theatres, and temples lie On King's College Chapel, Cambridge. Tax not the royal saint with vain expense, Of white-robed scholars only, this immense Give all thou canst; high Heaven rejects the lore So deemed the man who fashioned for the sense His Intimations of Immortality, and Lines on Tintern Abbey, are the finest examples of his rapt imaginative style, blending metaphysical truth with diffuse gorgeous description and metaphor. His simpler effusions are pathetic and tender. He has little strong passion; but in one piece, Vaudracour and Julia, he has painted the passion of love with more warmth than might be anticipated from his abstract idealism His present mind Was under fascination; he beheld A vision, and adored the thing he saw. With half the wonders that were wrought for him. The lovers parted under circumstances of danger, but had a stolen interview at night Through all her courts The vacant city slept; the busy winds, Moved not; meanwhile the galaxy displayed To their full hearts the universe seemed hung On that brief meeting's slender filament! This is of the style of Ford or Massinger. Living mostly apart from the world, and nursing with solitary complacency his poetical system, and all that could bear upon his works and pursuits as a poet, Wordsworth fell into those errors of taste and that want of discrimination to which we have already alluded. His most puerile ballads and attempts at humour are apparently as much prized by him, and classed with the same nicety and care, as the most majestic of his conceptions, or the most natural and beautiful of his descriptions. The art of condensation is also rarely practised by him. But if the poet's retirement or peculiar disposition has been a cause of his weakness, it has also been one of the sources of his strength. It left him untouched by the artificial or mechanical tastes of his age; it gave an originality to his conceptions and to the whole colour of his thoughts; and it completely imbued him with that purer antique life and knowledge of the phenomena of nature-the sky, lakes, and mountains of his native district, in all their tints and forms-which he has depicted with such power and enthusiasm. A less complacent poet would have been chilled by the long neglect and ridicule he experienced. His spirit was self-supported, and his genius, at once observant and meditative, was left to shape out its own creations, and extend its sympathies to that world which lay beyond his happy mountain solitude. She was a phantom of delight To be a moment's ornament; Her eyes as stars of twilight fair; Like twilight's, too, her dusky hair; From May-time and the cheerful dawn; I saw her upon nearer view, A spirit, yet a woman too! Her household motions light and free, A countenance in which did meet [Lines Composed a few miles above Tintern Abbey, on Revisiting the Banks of the Wye.] Tintern Abbey. Five years have passed; five summers, with the length These waters, rolling from their mountain springs Though absent long, Is lightened; that serene and blessed mood Until the breath of this corporeal frame, And even the motion of our human blood If this Be but a vain belief, yet, oh! how oft, O sylvan Wye-thou wanderer through the woods- And now, with gleams of half-extinguished thought, The picture of the mind revives again: While here I stand, not only with the sense Of present pleasure, but with pleasing thoughts For future years. And so I dare to hope, Though changed, no doubt, from what I was when first I came among these hills; when, like a roe, I bounded o'er the mountains, by the sides All thinking things, all objects of all thought, Nor, perchance, The language of my former heart, and read My former pleasures in the shooting lights Of thy wild eyes. Oh! yet a little while May I behold in thee what I was once, My dear, dear sister! And this prayer I make, For all sweet sounds and harmonies; oh! then, Should be thy portion, with what healing thoughts Thy voice, nor catch from thy wild eyes these gleams * In our admiration of the external forms of nature, the mind is redeemed from a sense of the transitory, which so often mixes perturbation with pleasure; and there is perhaps no feeling of the human heart which, being so intense, is at the same time so composed. It is for this reason, amongst others, that it is peculiarly favourable to the contemplations of a poetical philosopher, and eminently so to one like Mr Wordsworth, in whose scheme of thought there is no feature more prominent than the doctrine, that the intellect should be nourished by the feelings, and that the state of mind which bestows a gift of genuine insight, is one of profound emotion as well as profound composure; or, as Coleridge has somewhere expressed himselfDeep self-possession, an intense repose. The power which lies in the beauty of nature to induce this union of the tranquil and the vivid is described, and to every disciple of Wordsworth has been, as much as is possible, imparted by the celebrated 'Lines written in 1798, a few miles above Tintern Abbey,' in which the poet, having attributed to his intermediate recollections of the landscape then revisited a benign influence over many acts of daily life, describes the particulars in which he is indebted to them. The im passioned love of nature is interfused through the whole of Mr Wordsworth's system of thought, filling up all interstices, penetrating all recesses, colouring all media, supporting, associating, and giving coherency and mutual relevancy to it in all its parts. Though man is his subject, yet is man never presented to us divested of his relations with external nature. Man is the text, but there is always a running commentary of natural phenomena.-Quarterly Review for 1834. In illustration of this remark, every episode in the Excursion' might be cited (particularly the affecting and beautiful tale of Margaret in the first book); and the poems of The Cumberland Beggar,' Michael,' and The Fountain' (the last unquestionably one of the finest of the ballads), are also striking instances. Picture of Christmas Eve. [Addressed to the Rev. Dr Wordsworth, with Sonnets to the River Duddon, &c.] The minstrels played their Christmas tune The encircling laurels, thick with leaves, Through hill and valley every breeze That scraped the chords with strenuous hand. Yet, would that thou, with me and mine, A true revival of the light; Which nature, and these rustic powers, For names once heard, and heard no more; For infant in the cradle laid! Ah! not for emerald fields alone, Glittering before the thunderer's sight, To humbler streams and greener bowers. Yes, they can make, who fail to find That through the clouds do sometimes steal, Hence, while the imperial city's din Ruth. When Ruth was left half desolate, And she had made a pipe of straw, Beneath her father's roof, 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 them from the Cherokees; The feathers nodded in the breeze, And made a gallant crest. From Indian blood you deem him sprung: But 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: The moon, the glory of the sun, And streams that murmur as they run, 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, 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, He told of girls-a happy rout! Who quit their fold with dance and shout, To gather strawberries all day long; He spake of plants that hourly change With budding, fading, faded flowers, He told of the magnolia, spread Of flowers that with one scarlet gleam The youth of green savannahs spake, 'How pleasant,' then he said, 'it were A fisher or a hunter there, In sunshine or through shade To wander with an easy mind, And build a household fire, and find A home in every glade! What days and what bright years! Ah me! Our life were life indeed, with thee So passed in quiet bliss, And all the while,' said he,' to know On such an earth as this!' And then he sometimes interwove Fond thoughts about a father's love : 6 For there,' said he, are spun Around the heart such tender ties, Sweet Ruth! and could you go with me Or run, my own adopted bride, Beloved Ruth -No more he said. She thought again-and did agree And drive the flying deer. And now, as fitting is and right, We in the church our faith will plight, Even so they did; and I may say Through dream and vision did she sink, And green savannahs, she should share But, as you have before been told, |