Bulchevy's Book of English Verse Part 93

516. Lucy ii

SHE dwelt among the untrodden ways Beside the springs of Dove, A Maid whom there were none to praise And very few to love:

A violet by a mossy stone Half hidden from the eye!

Fair as a star, when only one Is s.h.i.+ning in the sky.

She lived unknown, and few could know When Lucy ceased to be; But she is in her grave, and oh, The difference to me!

William Wordsworth. 1770-1850

517. Lucy iii

I TRAVELL'D among unknown men, In lands beyond the sea; Nor, England! did I know till then What love I bore to thee.

'Tis past, that melancholy dream!

Nor will I quit thy sh.o.r.e A second time; for still I seem To love thee more and more.

Among thy mountains did I feel The joy of my desire; And she I cherish'd turn'd her wheel Beside an English fire.

Thy mornings showed, thy nights conceal'd, The bowers where Lucy played; And thine too is the last green field That Lucy's eyes survey'd.

William Wordsworth. 1770-1850

518. Lucy iv

THREE years she grew in sun and shower; Then Nature said, 'A lovelier flower On earth was never sown; This child I to myself will take; She shall be mine, and I will make A lady of my own.

"Myself will to my darling be Both law and impulse: and with me The girl, in rock and plain, In earth and heaven, in glade and bower, Shall feel an overseeing power To kindle or restrain.

'She shall be sportive as the fawn That wild with glee across the lawn Or up the mountain springs; And hers shall be the breathing balm, And hers the silence and the calm Of mute insensate things.

'The floating clouds their state shall lend To her; for her the willow bend; Nor shall she fail to see Even in the motions of the storm Grace that shall mould the maiden's form By silent sympathy.

'The stars of midnight shall be dear To her; and she shall lean her ear In many a secret place Where rivulets dance their wayward round, And beauty born of murmuring sound Shall pa.s.s into her face.

'And vital feelings of delight Shall rear her form to stately height, Her virgin bosom swell; Such thoughts to Lucy I will give While she and I together live Here in this happy dell.'

Thus Nature spake--The work was done-- How soon my Lucy's race was run!

She died, and left to me This heath, this calm, and quiet scene; The memory of what has been, And never more will be.

William Wordsworth. 1770-1850

519. Lucy v

A SLUMBER did my spirit seal; I had no human fears: She seem'd a thing that could not feel The touch of earthly years.

No motion has she now, no force; She neither hears nor sees; Roll'd round in earth's diurnal course, With rocks, and stones, and trees.

William Wordsworth. 1770-1850

520. Upon Westminster Bridge

EARTH has not anything to show more fair: Dull would he be of soul who could pa.s.s by A sight so touching in its majesty: This City now doth like a garment wear The beauty of the morning; silent, bare, s.h.i.+ps, towers, domes, theatres, and temples lie Open unto the fields, and to the sky; All bright and glittering in the smokeless air.

Never did sun more beautifully steep In his first splendour valley, rock, or hill; Ne'er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep!

The river glideth at his own sweet will: Dear G.o.d! the very houses seem asleep; And all that mighty heart is lying still!

William Wordsworth. 1770-1850

521. Evening on Calais Beach

IT is a beauteous evening, calm and free, The holy time is quiet as a Nun Breathless with adoration; the broad sun Is sinking down in its tranquillity; The gentleness of heaven broods o'er the sea: Listen! the mighty Being is awake, And doth with his eternal motion make A sound like thunder--everlastingly.

Dear Child! dear Girl! that walkest with me here, If thou appear untouch'd by solemn thought, Thy nature is not therefore less divine: Thou liest in Abraham's bosom all the year; And wors.h.i.+pp'st at the Temple's inner shrine, G.o.d being with thee when we know it not.

William Wordsworth. 1770-1850

522. On the Extinction of the Venetian Republic, 1802

ONCE did she hold the gorgeous East in fee; And was the safeguard of the West: the worth Of Venice did not fall below her birth, Venice, the eldest Child of Liberty.

She was a maiden City, bright and free; No guile seduced, no force could violate; And, when she took unto herself a mate, She must espouse the everlasting Sea.

And what if she had seen those glories fade, Those t.i.tles vanish, and that strength decay; Yet shall some tribute of regret be paid When her long life hath reach'd its final day: Men are we, and must grieve when even the Shade Of that which once was great is pa.s.s'd away.

William Wordsworth. 1770-1850

523. England, 1802 i

O FRIEND! I know not which way I must look For comfort, being, as I am, opprest, To think that now our life is only drest For show; mean handy-work of craftsman, cook, Or groom!--We must run glittering like a brook In the open suns.h.i.+ne, or we are unblest: The wealthiest man among us is the best: No grandeur now in nature or in book Delights us. Rapine, avarice, expense, This is idolatry; and these we adore: Plain living and high thinking are no more: The homely beauty of the good old cause Is gone; our peace, our fearful innocence, And pure religion breathing household laws.

William Wordsworth. 1770-1850

524. England, 1802 ii

MILTON! thou shouldst be living at this hour: England hath need of thee: she is a fen Of stagnant waters: altar, sword, and pen, Fireside, the heroic wealth of hall and bower, Have forfeited their ancient English dower Of inward happiness. We are selfish men; O raise us up, return to us again, And give us manners, virtue, freedom, power!

Thy soul was like a Star, and dwelt apart; Thou hadst a voice whose sound was like the sea: Pure as the naked heavens, majestic, free, So didst thou travel on life's common way, In cheerful G.o.dliness; and yet thy heart The lowliest duties on herself did lay.

William Wordsworth. 1770-1850

525. England, 1802 iii

GREAT men have been among us; hands that penn'd And tongues that utter'd wisdom--better none: The later Sidney, Marvel, Harrington, Young Vane, and others who call'd Milton friend.

These moralists could act and comprehend: They knew how genuine glory was put on; Taught us how rightfully a nation shone In splendour: what strength was, that would not bend But in magnanimous meekness. France, 'tis strange, Hath brought forth no such souls as we had then.