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WILLIAM WORDSWORTH'S MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.

EXTRACTS FROM “THE EXCURSION.' The voice of gladness, less and less supply

PHILOSOPHY! and thou more vaunted name
Religion! with thy statelier retinue,
Faith, hope,and charity, from the visible world
Choose for your emblems whatsoe'er ye find
Of safest guidance and of firmest trust,—
The Torch, the Star, the Anchor; nor except
The Cross itself, at whose unconscious feet
The generations of Mankind have knelt
Ruefully seized, and shedding bitter tears,
And through that conflict seeking rest-of you,
High-titled Powers, am I constrained to ask,
Here standing, with the unvoyageable sky
In faint reflection of infinitude
Stretched overhead, and at my pensive feet
A subterraneous magazine of bones
In whose dark vaults my own shall soon be
laid,

Where are your triumphs? your dominion
where?

And in what age admitted and confirmed?
Not for a happy land do I inquire,
Island or Grove, that hides a blessed few
Who, with obedience willing and sincere,
To your serene authorities conform;
But whom, I ask, of individual souls,
Have ye withdrawn from passion's crooked
ways,

Inspired, and thoroughly fortified?-If the

heart

Could be inspected to its inmost folds
By sight undazzled with the glare of praise,
Who shall be named-in the resplendent line
Of Sages, Martyrs, Confessors the Man
Whom the best might of Conscience, Truth
and Hope,

For one day's little compass, has preserved
From painful and discreditable shocks
Of contradiction, from some vague desire
Culpably cherished, or corrupt relapse
To some unsanctioned fear?

Of outward sunshine and internal warmth; And with this change, sharp air and falling leaves,

Foretelling total Winter, blank and cold.

Alas! what differs more than man from man!
And whence that difference? Whence but
from himself?

For see the universal Race endowed
With the same upright form!-The Sun is
fixed
And the infinite magnificence of heaven
Within the reach of every human eye;
The sleepless Ocean murmurs for all ears;
The vernal field infuses fresh delight
Into all hearts. Throughout the world of

sense

Even as an object is sublime or fair,
That object is laid open to the view
Without reserve or veil; and as a power
Is salutary, or an influence sweet,
Are each and all enabled to perceive
That power, that influence, by impartial law.
Gifts nobler are vouchsafed alike to all;
Reason,-and with that reason, smiles and
tears;
Imagination, freedom in the will,
Conscience to guide and check; and death
to be
Foretasted, immortality presumed.
Strange, then, nor less than monstrous might
be deemed
The failure, if the Almighty to this point
Liberal and undistinguishing, should hide
The excellence of moral qualities
From common understanding; leaving truth
And virtue, difficult, abstruse, and dark;
Hard to be won, and only by a few;
Strange, should he deal herein with nice
respect,

And frustrate all the rest! Believe it not:
The primal duties shine aloft-like stars;
-In the life of Man, The charities that sooth, and heal, and bless
Are scattered at the feet of Man-like flowers.
The generous inclination, the just rule,
Kind wishes, and good actions, and pure
thoughts-

If to the poetry of common speech
Faith may be given, we see as in a glass
A true reflection of the circling year,
With all its seasons. Grant that Spring is
there,

In spite of many a rough untoward blast,
Hopeful and promising with buds and flowers;
Yet where is glowing Summer's long rich day,
That ought to follow faithfully expressed?
And mellow Autumn, charged with bounteous
fruit,

Where is she imaged? in what favoured clime
Her lavish pomp and ripe magnificence?
Yet while the better part is missed, the worse
In Man's autumnal season is set forth
With a resemblance not to be denied,
And that contents him; bowers that hear

no more

No mystery it here, no special boon
For high and not for low, for proudly graced
And not for meek of heart. The smoke
ascends,

To heaven as lightly from the cottage-hearth
As from the haughty palace. He, whose soul
Ponders this true equality, may walk
The fields of earth with gratitude and hope,
Yet, in that meditation, will he find
Motive to sadder grief, as we have found,—
Lamenting ancient virtues overthrown,
And for the injustice grieving, that hath
made

So wide a difference betwixt Man and Man.

SAMUEL ROGERS.

THE PLEASURES OF MEMORY.

On could my mind, unfolded in my page, Enlighten climes and mould a future age; There as it glowed, with noblest frenzy fraught,

Dispense the treasures of exalted thought;
To virtue wake the pulses of the heart,
And bid the tear of emulation start!
Oh could it still, through each succeeding
year,

My life, my manners, and my name endear;-
And when the poet sleeps in silent dust,
Still hold communion with the wise and
just!-

Yet should this verse, my leasure's best

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TWILIGHT'S Soft dews steal o'er the village'green,

With magic tints to harmonize the scene. Stilled is the hum that through the hamlet broke,

When round the ruins of their ancient oak
The peasants flocked to hear the minstrel play,
And games and carols closed the busy day.
Her wheel at rest, the matron thrills no more
With treasured tales, and legendary lore.
All, all are fled; nor mirth nor music flows
To chase the dreams of innocent repose.
All, all are fled; yet still I linger here!
What secret charms this silent spot endear?
Mark yon old Mansion, frowning thro'
the trees,
Whose hollow turret wooes the whistling
breeze.

That casement, arched with ivy's brownest shade,

First to these eyes the light of heaven conveyed.

The mouldering gateway strews the grass-
grown court,
Once the calm scene of many a simple sport;
When nature pleased, for life itself was new,
And the heart promised what the fancy drew.
See, thro' the fractured pediment revealed,
Where moss inlays the rudely-sculptured

shield,

The martin's old hereditary nest.
Long may the ruin spare its hallowed guest!

As jars the hinge, what sullen echoes call!
Oh haste, unfold the hospitable hall!
That hall, where once, in antiquated state,
The chair of justice held the grave debate.
Now stained with dews, with cobwebs darkly
hung,

Oft has its roof with peals of rapture rung ; When round yon ample board, in due degree, We sweetened every meal with social glee. The heart's light laugh pursued the circling jest;

And all was sunshine in each little breast. 'Twas here we chased the slipper by its sound;

And turned the blindfold hero round and round.

'Twas here, at eve, we formed our fairy-ring ; And Fancy fluttered on her wildest wing. Giants and genii chained each wondering ear; And orphan-sorrows drew the ready tear. Oft with the babes we wandered in the wood, Or viewed the forest-feats of Robin Hood: Oft, fancy-led, at midnight's fearful hour, With startling step we scaled the lonely tower;

O'er infant innocence to hang and weep, Murder'd by ruffian hands, when smiling in its sleep.

Ye Household Deities! whose guardian eye Marked each pure thought, ere registered on high; Still, still ye walk the consecrated ground, And breathe the soul of Inspiration round. As o'er the dusky furniture I bend, Each chair awakes the feelings of a friend.

The storied arras, source of fond delight, With old achievement charms the wildered sight;

And still, with Heraldry's rich hues imprest, On the dim window glows the pictured crest; The screen unfolds its many-coloured chart; The clock still points its moral to the heart; That faithful monitor 'twas heaven to hear, When soft it spoke a promised pleasure

near:

And has its sober hand, its simple chime, Forgot to trace the feathered feet of Time? That massive beam with curious carvings wrought,

Whence the caged linnet soothed my pensive thought;

Those muskets, cased with venerable rust; Those once-loved forms, still breathing thro' their dust,

Still, from the frame in mould gigantic cast, | Starting to life-all whisper of the past!

As thro' the garden's desert paths I rove, What fond illusions swarm in every grove! How oft, when purple-evening tinged the west,

We watched the emmet to her grainy nest; Welcomed the wild-bee home on weary wing, Laden with sweets, the choicest of the spring! How oft inscribed, with Friendship's votive rhyme,

The bark now silvered by the touch of Time; Soared in the swing, half pleased and half afraid,

Thro' sister-elms that waved their summershade;

Or strewed with crumbs yon root-inwoven seat,

To lure the redbreast from his lone retreat! Childhood's lov'd group revisits every

scene,

The tangled wood-walk and the tufted green! Indulgent MEMORY wakes, and lo! they live! Clothed with far softer hues than light can give.

Thou first, best friend that Heaven assigns below,

To soothe and sweeten all the cares we know; Whose glad suggestions still each vain alarm, When nature fades and life forgets to charm; Thee would the Muse invoke!-to thee belong

The sage's precept, and the poet's song.
What softened views thy magic glass reveals,
When o'er the landscape Time's meek twi-
light steals!

As when in ocean sinks the orb of day,
Long on the wave reflected lustres play;
Thy tempered gleams of happiness resigned
Glance on the darkened inirror of the mind.
The School's lone porch, with reverend
mosses gray,
Just tells the pensive pilgrim where it lay.
Mute is the bell that rung at peep of dawn,
Quickening my truant-feet across the lawn:
Unheard the shout that rent the noontide air,
When the slow dial gave a pause to care.

Up springs, at every step, to claim a tear, Some little friendship formed and cherished here!

And not the lightest leaf, but trembling teems With golden visions, and romantic dreams! Down by yon hazel-copse, at evening, blazed

The Gipsy's faggot-there we stood and gazed;

Gazed on her sun-burnt face with silent awe, Her tatter'd mantle, and her hood of straw; Her moving lips, her caldron brimming o'er; The drowsy brood that on her back she bore, Imps, in the barn with mousing owlet bred, From rifled roost at nightly revel fed; Whose dark eyes flashed thro' locks of blackest shade,

When in the breeze the distant watch-dog bayed :

And heroes fled the Sybil's muttered call, Whose elfin prowess scaled the orchard-wall. As o'er my palm the silver piece she drew, And traced the line of life with searching view,

How throbb'd my fluttering pulse with hopes and fears,

To learn the colour of my future years! Ah, then, what honest triumph flushed my breast!

This truth once known-To bless is to be blest!

We led the bending beggar on his way,
(Bare were his feet, his tresses silver-gray)
Soothed the keen pangs his aged spirit felt,
And on his tale with mute attention dwelt.
As in his scrip we dropt our little store,
And sighed to think that little was no more,
He breathed his prayer: Long may such
goodness live!

'Twas all he gave, 'twas all he had to give.
But hark! thro' those old firs, with sullen
swell,
The church-clock strikes! ye tender scenes,
farewell!

It calls me hence, beneath their shade, to

trace

The few fond lines that Time may soon efface.

On yon gray stone, that fronts the chanceldoor, Worn smooth by busy feet now seen no

more,

Each eve we shot the marble thro' the ring, When the heart danced, and life was in its spring;

Alas! unconscious of the kindred earth, That faintly echoed to the voice of mirth. The glow-worm loves her emerald light to shed,

Where now the sexton rests his hoary head. Oft, as he turned the greensward with his spade,

He lectured every youth that round him played;

And calmly pointing where his fathers lay, Roused him to rival each, the hero of his day.

Hush, ye fond flutterings, hush! while The village-common spotted white with here alone sheep, I search the records of each mouldering The church-yard-yews round which his fathers sleep;

stone.

Guides of my life! Instructors of my youth! All rouse Reflection's sadly-pleasing train, Who first unveiled the hallowed form of And oft he looks and weeps, and looks again. So, when the mild TUPIA dared explore

Truth;

Whose every word enlightened and endeared; | Arts yet untaught, and worlds unknown

In age beloved, in poverty revered;
In Friendship's silent register ye live,
Nor ask the vain memorial Art can give.
But when the sons of peace and pleasure

sleep, When only Sorrow wakes, and wakes to weep,

What spells entrance my visionary mind With sighs so sweet, with transports so refined?

Ethereal Power! whose smile, at noon of night,

Recalls the far-fled spirit of delight;
Instils that musing, melancholy mood,
Which charms the wise, and elevates the good;
Blest MEMORY, hail! Oh grant the grateful
Muse,

Her pencil dipt in Nature's living hues,
To pass the clouds that round thy empire roll,
And trace its airy precincts in the soul.
Lulled in the countless chambers of the
brain,

Our thoughts are linked by many a hidden chain.

Awake but one, and lo, what myriads rise!
Each stamps its image as the other flies!
Each, as the various avenues of sense
Delight or sorrow to the soul dispense,
Brightens or fades; yet all, with magic art,
Controul the latent fibres of the heart.
As studious PROSPERO'S mysterious spell
Convened the subject-spirits to his cell:
Each, at thy call, advances or retires,
As judgment dictates, or the scene inspires.
Each thrills the seat of sense, that sacred

source

Whence the fine nerves direct their mazy

course,

before,

And, with the sons of Science, wooed the gale That, rising, swelled their strange expanse of sail;

So, when he breathed his firm yet fond adieu,

Borne from his leafy hut, his carved canoe, And all his soul best loved-such tears he shed,

While each soft scene of summer-beauty fled: Long o'er the wave a wistful look he cast, Long watched the streaming signal from the mast;

Till twilight's dewy tints deceived his eye, And fairy-forests fringed the evening-sky. So Scotia's Queen, as slowly dawned the

day,

Rose on her couch, and gazed her soul away. Her eyes had blessed the beacon's glimmering height,

That faintly tipt the feathery surge with light;

But now the morn with orient hues portrayed

Each castled cliff and brown monastic shade: All touched the talisman's resistless spring, And lo, what busy tribes were instant on the wing!

Thus kindred objects kindred thoughts inspire, As summer-clouds flash forth electric fire. And hence this spot gives back the joys of youth, Warm as the life, and with the mirror's truth. Hence home-felt pleasure prompts the Patriot's sigh;

And thro' the frame invisibly convey
This makes him wish to live, and dare to die.
The subtle, quick vibrations as they play. For this young FOSCARI, whose hapless fate
Survey the globe, each ruder realm explore; Venice should blush to hear the Muse relate,
From Reason's faintest ray to NEWTON soar. When exile wore his blooming years away,
What different spheres to human bliss as-To sorrow's long soliloquies a prey,

signed!

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When reason, justice, vainly urg'd his cause, For this he rous'd her sanguinary laws; Glad to return, tho' Hope could grant no more, And chains and torture hailed him to the shore. And hence the charm historic scenes

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SO TULLY paused, amid the wrecks of Time,
On the rude stone to trace the truth sublime;
When at his feet, in honoured dust disclosed,
The immortal Sage of Syracuse reposed.
And as his youth in sweet delusion hung,
Where once a PLATO taught, a PINDAR Sung;
Who now but meets him musing, when he

roves

His ruin'd Tusculan's romantic groves?
In Rome's great forum, who but hears him roll
His moral thunders o'er the subject soul?
And hence that calm delight the portrait
gives:

We gaze on every feature till it lives!
Still the fond lover sees the absent maid;
And the lost friend still lingers in his shade!
Say why the pensive widow loves to weep,
When on her knee she rocks her babe to
sleep?

Tremblingly still, she lifts his veil to trace
The father's features in his infant face,
The hoary grandsire smiles the hour away,
Won by the raptures of a game at play;
He bends to meet each artless burst of joy,
Forgets his age, and acts again the boy.

The war-worn courser charges at the sound, And with young vigour wheels the pasture round.

Oft has the aged tenant of the vale Leaned on his staff to lengthen out the tale; Oft have his lips the grateful tribute breathed, From sire to son with pious zeal bequeathed. When o'er the blasted heath the day declined, And on the scathed oak warred the winterwind;

When not a distant taper's twinkling ray Gleamed o'er the furze to light him on his way;

When not a sheep-bell soothed his listening

ear,

And the big rain-drops told the tempest near;
Then did his horse the homeward track
descry,

The track that shunned his sad inquiring eye;
And win each wavering purpose to relent,
With warmth so mild, so gently violent,
That his charmed hand the careless rein
resigned,

And doubts and terrors vanished from his
mind.

Recall the traveller, whose altered form
Has borne the buffet of the mountain-storm;
And who will first his fond impatience meet?
His faithful dog's already at his feet!
Yes, tho' the porter spurn him from the
door,

What tho' the iron school of War erase Each milder virtue, and each softer grace; What tho' the fiend's torpedo-touch arrest Each gentler, finer impulse of the breast; Still shall this active principle preside, And wake the tear to Pity's self denied. The intrepid Swiss, who guards a foreign | Tho' all that knew him know his face no more, His faithful dog shall tell his joy to each, With that mute eloquence which passes speech.

shore,

Condemned to climb his mountain-cliffs no

more,

If chance he hears the song so sweetly wild Which on those cliffs his infant hours beguil'd,

Melts at the long-lost scenes that round him
rise,

And sinks a martyr to repentant sighs.
Ask not if courts or camps dissolve the
charm:

Say why VESPASIAN lov'd his Sabine farm;
Why great NAVARRE, when France and
freedom bled,

Sought the lone limits of a forest-shed?
When DIOCLETIAN's self-corrected mind
The imperial fasces of a world resigned,
Say why we trace the labours of his spade
In calm Salona's philosophic shade?
Say, when contentious CHARLES renounced a
throne,

Tomuse with monks unlettered and unknown,
What from his soul the parting tribute drew?
What claimed the sorrows of a last adieu?
The still retreats that soothed his tranquil
breast,

Ere grandeur dazzled,and its cares oppressed.
Undamped by time, the generous Instinct
glows

Far as Angola's sands, as Zembla's snows;
Glows in the tiger's den, the serpent's nest,
On every form of varied life imprest.
The social tribes its choicest influence hail:-
And, when the drum beats briskly in the gale,

And see, the master but returns to die!
Yet who shall bid the watchful servant fly?
The blasts of heaven, the drenching dews
of earth,

The wanton insults of unfeeling mirth,
These, when to guard Misfortune's sacred
grave,
Will firm Fidelity exult to brave.

Led by what chart, transports the timid
dove
The wreaths of conquest, or the vows of
love?

Say, thro' the clouds what compass points
her flight?
and nations blessed
the sight.

Monarchs have gazed,

Pile rocks on rocks, bid woods and mountains rise,

Eclipse her native shades, her native skies;— 'Tis vain! thro' Ether's pathless wilds she goes,

And lights at last where all her cares repose.
Sweet bird!thy truth shall Harlem's walls
attest,

And unborn ages consecrate thy nest.
When with the silent energy of grief,
With looks that asked, yet dared not hope
relief,

Want, with her babes, round generous Valour
clung,

To wring the slow surrender from his tongue,

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