Yet will I temperately rejoice; Which, haply, kindred souls may prize For deathless powers to verse belong, But some their function have disclaimed, Best pleased with what is aptliest framed To enervate and defile. Not such the initiatory strains Trembled the groves, the stars grew pale, While all-too-daringly the veil Nor such the spirit-stirring note And not unhallowed was the page Love listening while the Lesbian Maid O ye, who patiently explore That were, indeed, a genuine birth 1819. 1820. AFTER-THOUGHT I THOUGHT of Thee, my partner and my guide, As being past away.-Vain sympathies ! For, backward, Duddon, as I cast my eyes, And glorious Work of fine intelligence! Give all thou canst; high Heaven rejects the lore Of nicely-calculated less or more; So deemed the man who fashioned for the sense These lofty pillars, spread that branching roof Self-poised, and scooped into ten thousand cells, Where light and shade repose, where music dwells Lingering and wandering on as loth to die; Like thoughts whose very sweetness yieldeth proof That they were born for immortality. 1820 or 1821. 1822. MEMORY A PEN-to register; a key- As aptly, also, might be given That, softening objects, sometimes even That smooths foregone distress, the lines Of lingering care subdues, Long vanished happiness refines, Yet, like a tool of Fancy, works That startle Conscience, as she lurks Oh! that our lives, which flee so fast, That not an image of the past Retirement then might hourly look Age steal to his allotted nook With heart as calm as lakes that sleep, TO A SKY-LARK ETHEREAL minstrel! pilgrim of the sky! Dost thou despise the earth where cares abound? Or, while the wings aspire, are heart and eye Both with thy nest upon the dewy ground? Thy nest which thou canst drop into at will, Those quivering wings composed, that music still! Leave to the nightingale her shady wood; A privacy of glorious light is thine; Whence thou dost pour upon the world a flood Of harmony, with instinct more di vine; Type of the wise who soar, but never roam; True to the kindred points of Heaven and Home! 1825. 1827. SCORN NOT THE SONNET Composed, almost extempore, in a short walk on the western side of Rydal Lake. (Wordsworth.) SCORN not the Sonnet; Critic, you have frowned, Mindless of its just honors; with this key Shakspeare unlocked his heart; the melody Of this small lute gave ease to Petrarch's wound; A thousand times this pipe did Tasso sound: With it Camõens soothed an exile's grief; The Sonnet glittered a gay myrtle leaf Amid the cypress with which Dante crowned His visionary brow: a glow-worm lamp, It cheered mild Spenser, called from Faeryland To struggle through dark ways; and, when a damp Fell round the path of Milton, in his hand The Thing became a trumpet; whence he blew Soul-animating strains-alas, too few! 1827 1827. THE PRIMROSE OF THE ROCK Written at Rydal Mount. The Rock stands on the right hand a little way leading up the middle road from Rydal to Grasmere. We have been in the habit of calling it the glow-worm rock from the number of glow-worms we have often seen hanging on it as described. The tuft of primrose has, I fear, been washed away by the heavy rains. (Wordsworth) See Dorothy Wordsworth's Journal, April 24th, 1802. A ROCK there is whose homely front The passing traveller slights; Yet there the glow-worms hang their lamps, Like stars, at various heights; What hideous warfare hath been waged, A lasting link in Nature's chain The flowers, still faithful to the stems, The stems are faithful to the root, Close clings to earth the living rock, So blooms this lonely Plant, nor dreads The following Stanzas are a memorial of a day passed with Sir Walter Scott and other Friends visiting the Banks of the Yarrow under his guidance, immediately before his departure from Abbotsford, for Naples. The title Yarrow Revisited will stand in no need of explanation for Readers acquainted with the Author's previous poems suggested by that celebrated Stream. (Wordsworth.) THE gallant Youth, who may have gained, Or seeks, a " winsome Marrow," Was but an Infant in the lap When first I looked on Yarrow; Once more, by Newark's Castle-gate Long left without a warder, I stood, looked, listened, and with Thee, Great Minstrel of the Border! Grave thoughts ruled wide on that sweet day, Their dignity installing In gentle bosoms, while sere leaves But breezes played, and sunshine gleamed The forest to embolden; Reddened the fiery hues, and shot For busy thoughts the Stream flowed on And slept in many a crystal pool For quiet contemplation: Brisk Youth appeared, the Morn of Like guests that meet, and some from far, By cordial love invited. And if, as Yarrow, through the woods Though we were changed and chang- If, then, some natural shadows spread Eternal blessings on the Muse, And her divine employment! The blameless Muse, who trains her Sons Has o'er their pillow brooded ; And Care waylays their steps--a Sprite For thee, O SCOTT! compelled to change For Thou, upon a hundred streams, With gladness must requite Thee. A gracious welcome shall be thine, Dreams treasured up from early days, And what, for this frail world, were all That mortals do or suffer, As recorded in my sister's Journal, I had first seen the Trosachs in her and Coleridge's com pany. The sentiment that runs through this Sonnet was natural to the season in which I again saw this beautiful spot; but this and some other sonnets that follow were colored by the remembrance of my recent visit to Sir Walter Scott, and the melancholy errand on which he was going. (Wordsworth.) THERE'S not a nook within this solemn Pass. But were an apt confessional for One Taught by his summer spent, his autumn |