University of Virginia Library

WORDSWORTH.

O thou who labourest in life's weary ways,
With eyes grown dim in unavailing gaze
For some dim goal that ever seems to flee,
Some mocking shade of fruitless phantasy—
If but thy soul can vibrate in reply
To air-borne spells of potent poesy,
If of thyself thou canst indeed rejoice
To hear the mighty Mother's solemn voice—
Come, whosoe'er thou art, and rest thy head
Where Wordsworth bears thee to a mountain bed:
There are wild flowers, more fair than gardens grow,
That on moist rock and breezy moorland blow,
Parnassian stars of tender-veinëd white,
Or frail anemones, the spring's delight,
Thick-springing woodruff, dear in balmy death,
And, best of all, the wind-swept heather's breath.
There shalt thou hear the happy summer through
The unwearying murmur of the stock-dove's coo,
Or else, more wondrous for the poet's word,
‘At once far off and near,’ the cuckoo-bird.
And herewithal shall come to thee the sound
Of crag-born waters falling aye around,
Where fern and birch beside the amber pool
Quiver in bright spray of the torrent cool.
And when from that fair couch thou shalt arise,
His hand shall lead thee on toward the skies.
Then higher yet, beyond the voice of rills,
Drink in the holy silence of the hills.
There tarrying late thou first shalt know aright
The choral starry congress of the night:
And thy still soul in free exulting awe
Shall feel the majesty of duteous law.
No farther needs the hand that led thee on,
Thou art alone, thy gentle guide is gone.
Yet oft thenceforth when for such moments high,
Plunged in the world, thy weary heart may sigh,
Shall that kind poet lead thee forth again
To those calm heights, and ease thee of thy pain.
Therefore for ever let his name be blest,
For tired souls sought him, and he gave them rest.