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166
The Rydal Trip.
Dear Willy, now the March hath blown
His last wild blast once more and flown,
And April, like my muse yet prone
To change, comes in,
Again, to thee my rhyming crone,
A rhyme I'd spin.
His last wild blast once more and flown,
And April, like my muse yet prone
To change, comes in,
Again, to thee my rhyming crone,
A rhyme I'd spin.
I'm brimming o'er with things to say,
Could I but only find the way
My thoughts and feelings to convey
In language clear,
About a visit I did pay
The Lakes last year.
Could I but only find the way
My thoughts and feelings to convey
In language clear,
About a visit I did pay
The Lakes last year.
Then up, Muse up, this task profound,
Up, up and do! with bound on bound,
Away to England's Pleasure Ground,
Away and ring,
And to thy Northern harp's wild sound,
Its glories sing!
Up, up and do! with bound on bound,
Away to England's Pleasure Ground,
Away and ring,
And to thy Northern harp's wild sound,
Its glories sing!
First on to sacred Grasmere—Why,
Why what a giddy goose am I,
Away before my tale to fly!
On Rapture horsed,
We'll come to Grasmere by-and-by—
But Keswick first!
Why what a giddy goose am I,
Away before my tale to fly!
On Rapture horsed,
We'll come to Grasmere by-and-by—
But Keswick first!
167
From there we'll in the day-dawn go
And o'er the clear, cool Derwent row;
Then scale Lodore, tho' e'er so slow,
Which having done,
Thro' Watendlith with mop and mow,
To Rosthwaite run!
And o'er the clear, cool Derwent row;
Then scale Lodore, tho' e'er so slow,
Which having done,
Thro' Watendlith with mop and mow,
To Rosthwaite run!
Next to the Druid Cirque we'll fare,
And dream an hour o'er days that were;
And dreams will often show more clear
Life's issues than
The Daily Press from year to year
Read daily can.
And dream an hour o'er days that were;
And dreams will often show more clear
Life's issues than
The Daily Press from year to year
Read daily can.
—The D. P.? La! what wizen'd witch
Hath popt my nose into this ditch,
To smell the—pah!—the filth, the pitch
With which the drab,
The pimp and lackey of the Rich,
The Poor bedaub?
Hath popt my nose into this ditch,
To smell the—pah!—the filth, the pitch
With which the drab,
The pimp and lackey of the Rich,
The Poor bedaub?
Help! help me out of this! then you
Sweet Elves may pinch me black and blue';
That's if you—Mercy!—how I rue—
Help, help, and O!
Let's fly to Rydal as we flew
One year ago!
Sweet Elves may pinch me black and blue';
That's if you—Mercy!—how I rue—
Help, help, and O!
Let's fly to Rydal as we flew
One year ago!
To pitch and spite, cry we, Good Night!
Nor let Helvellyn in his might
Of magic to arrest one's flight,
A counter count,
Ere we with love a-glow alight
On Rydal Mount!
Nor let Helvellyn in his might
Of magic to arrest one's flight,
A counter count,
Ere we with love a-glow alight
On Rydal Mount!
168
No sooner said than done: and there,
How wags the world, what need we care?
The men will at each other swear
Till they are blue;
The women tear each other's hair;
And let them! Pooh!
How wags the world, what need we care?
The men will at each other swear
Till they are blue;
The women tear each other's hair;
And let them! Pooh!
Are all not born to err? and worse—
But you can tell them that, of course,
Not I—I'm but a man of verse
That needeth bread,
And to put money in my purse
I must be read.
But you can tell them that, of course,
Not I—I'm but a man of verse
That needeth bread,
And to put money in my purse
I must be read.
“Lo! from what height on which agog
You rode, down thro' what dense, dark fog,
Into what deep Serbonian bog
Have you been drawn,
Thus at Fate's feet a very dog
To whine and fawn?
You rode, down thro' what dense, dark fog,
Into what deep Serbonian bog
Have you been drawn,
Thus at Fate's feet a very dog
To whine and fawn?
“Up, up, for shame, thou wretch! and let
Thy face against the False be set;
Tho' harder lot be thine than yet
Thou once hast known,
Up, up, and let in hues of jet
The truth be shown!
Thy face against the False be set;
Tho' harder lot be thine than yet
Thou once hast known,
Up, up, and let in hues of jet
The truth be shown!
“A bran new pen this moment grasp,
Not dipt in spue of toad or asp,
Not tipt with sting of critic-wasp,
But in, with what
May thy thought-burdened heart unclasp”—
To whom? “Whom not?
Not dipt in spue of toad or asp,
Not tipt with sting of critic-wasp,
But in, with what
May thy thought-burdened heart unclasp”—
To whom? “Whom not?
169
“To one and all show, show”—But then,
What needs this fuss about a pen
To picture to my fellow-men
How very low
The masks in which they revel, when
This truth they know?
What needs this fuss about a pen
To picture to my fellow-men
How very low
The masks in which they revel, when
This truth they know?
'Tis not so much from lack of light
To know the wrong, to know the right,
Nor yet from lack of feeling quite,
But want of will,
They chase the phantoms that delight
To cheat them still.
To know the wrong, to know the right,
Nor yet from lack of feeling quite,
But want of will,
They chase the phantoms that delight
To cheat them still.
Their brains with fancies frantic teem,
At which their eyes with rapture gleam;
They seek to grasp their idols—seem
To grasp, anon,
To find each jewel but a dream—
Yet they dream on.
At which their eyes with rapture gleam;
They seek to grasp their idols—seem
To grasp, anon,
To find each jewel but a dream—
Yet they dream on.
Yet with a glamour o'er them, they
Still play to lose, yet losers play
A game which, won, would not repay
A moment lost
Of but one golden summer day,
Its winning cost.
Still play to lose, yet losers play
A game which, won, would not repay
A moment lost
Of but one golden summer day,
Its winning cost.
Ah, what is worse, the spell that binds,
Oft saps the very best of minds,
Nor leaves its victim till he finds
His love of all—
All good hath vanished with the winds,
Beyond recall!
Oft saps the very best of minds,
Nor leaves its victim till he finds
His love of all—
All good hath vanished with the winds,
Beyond recall!
170
Then lo, the plight of such; henceforth
Their natures change; then real worth
Becomes to them a theme for mirth;
While baubles small,
As oft in turn to praise give birth:
—Nor is that all.
Their natures change; then real worth
Becomes to them a theme for mirth;
While baubles small,
As oft in turn to praise give birth:
—Nor is that all.
Not all that one might say, and would,
Had we been in the cue, and could;
Then we must on, and leave or should,
This flowing fount
Of solemn thought—this neighbourhood
Of Rydal Mount.
Had we been in the cue, and could;
Then we must on, and leave or should,
This flowing fount
Of solemn thought—this neighbourhood
Of Rydal Mount.
A holy something in the air,
Yet makes the merry Muse forbear
Her quips and cranks; an inner prayer,
And thoughts of God,
Are mine, as I thro' pathways fare,
That Wordsworth trod.
Yet makes the merry Muse forbear
Her quips and cranks; an inner prayer,
And thoughts of God,
Are mine, as I thro' pathways fare,
That Wordsworth trod.
You little tinkling waterfall,
That scented flower upon the wall,
That doth the ear and eye enthrall,
May once have warmed
And charmed a soul whose eye saw all,
As mine is charmed.
That scented flower upon the wall,
That doth the ear and eye enthrall,
May once have warmed
And charmed a soul whose eye saw all,
As mine is charmed.
Upon this very garden seat,
Where now I sit with feelings meet,
I see him sit in spirit sweet,
With upward gaze,
And some grand song new-born repeat,
With glowing face.
Where now I sit with feelings meet,
I see him sit in spirit sweet,
With upward gaze,
And some grand song new-born repeat,
With glowing face.
171
Where'er I turn, his form appears
In fancy's eyes; in fancy's ears
One hears thy voice, enraptured hears,
Thou great Song-child,
Upon whose hopes thro' long, lone years
Thou mightst have smiled!
In fancy's eyes; in fancy's ears
One hears thy voice, enraptured hears,
Thou great Song-child,
Upon whose hopes thro' long, lone years
Thou mightst have smiled!
Thou mightst have grasped him by the hand,
And bid his heart with joy expand;
Thou mightst his flame of song have fann'd,
For thou wert strong
In human love, as thou wert grand
And great in song.
And bid his heart with joy expand;
Thou mightst his flame of song have fann'd,
For thou wert strong
In human love, as thou wert grand
And great in song.
Yea, as thy brother in renown,
That Prince of Song in London Town,
Just ere his sun of life went down,
With thy regard
Thou mightst have stoopt this hour, to crown
The rustic bard.
That Prince of Song in London Town,
Just ere his sun of life went down,
With thy regard
Thou mightst have stoopt this hour, to crown
The rustic bard.
Like him to—me?—In every limb,
I shake—I shake!—My senses swim—
What did I say? Thou memory grim,
What hast thou done?
Was ever bard, to me, like him
Beneath the sun?
I shake—I shake!—My senses swim—
What did I say? Thou memory grim,
What hast thou done?
Was ever bard, to me, like him
Beneath the sun?
Ah, why recall that moment, why,
That only came, anon, to fly
Before a day so dark?—I sigh—
While I have breath,
I'll mourn the wrench I suffered by
Rossetti's death!
That only came, anon, to fly
Before a day so dark?—I sigh—
While I have breath,
I'll mourn the wrench I suffered by
Rossetti's death!
172
“And yet, fond heart, no vain regret;
Our path's not all by thorns beset;
We mourn the lily vanished, yet
Oft fail to prize
Some little golden violet
Before our eyes.
Our path's not all by thorns beset;
We mourn the lily vanished, yet
Oft fail to prize
Some little golden violet
Before our eyes.
“And with such boons thrice-blest art thou—
And woe betide the black-wind, woe!
Would turn, or lay their sweet heads low,
And so away
Its glory and its perfume blow
From thy life's day!
And woe betide the black-wind, woe!
Would turn, or lay their sweet heads low,
And so away
Its glory and its perfume blow
From thy life's day!
“Oft in the coal-pit's murky gloom
Would come that glory and perfume,
To cheer thee, sweeten, and illume,
What else had ne'er
Been other than a cruel doom
For bard to bear.
Would come that glory and perfume,
To cheer thee, sweeten, and illume,
What else had ne'er
Been other than a cruel doom
For bard to bear.
“With music sweeter than the trill
Of warbling bird, or gurgling rill,
Will memories dear the heart-strings thrill,
Or soon or late;
And thine are such, and will be still,
In spite of Fate!”
Of warbling bird, or gurgling rill,
Will memories dear the heart-strings thrill,
Or soon or late;
And thine are such, and will be still,
In spite of Fate!”
But this, of this, too much, and now
To Rydal we will make our bow,
“From Rydal you're afar, sir, now—
Down, you came down
So swift—Ah, slipt you not somehow,
And crack'd your crown?”
To Rydal we will make our bow,
“From Rydal you're afar, sir, now—
Down, you came down
So swift—Ah, slipt you not somehow,
And crack'd your crown?”
173
I crack'd my— Well, of this we'll crack
As we to Coaly Tyne go back;
And not to hold you on the rack,
One look we'll throw
At Windermere, pack up, off pack,
And back we'll go.
As we to Coaly Tyne go back;
And not to hold you on the rack,
One look we'll throw
At Windermere, pack up, off pack,
And back we'll go.
—The more the haste the less the speed,
As sang the tailor to his thread;
And this we'd find in very deed,
Unto our woe,
Did we to Memory give heed;
But—back we'll go.
As sang the tailor to his thread;
And this we'd find in very deed,
Unto our woe,
Did we to Memory give heed;
But—back we'll go.
“Come, come,” she cries, “and I will show
You sights will charm your senses so;
Scolfell the huge and Silverhow,
And”—But our track
Is backward bent, and back we'll go;
Yes, we'll go back!
You sights will charm your senses so;
Scolfell the huge and Silverhow,
And”—But our track
Is backward bent, and back we'll go;
Yes, we'll go back!
“A passing blink you'll not refuse
To Hunting Stile at least; nor choose
But yield the grace and worth one views
Thereat”—Just so;
Now would this charmer charm the Muse;
But—back we'll go!
To Hunting Stile at least; nor choose
But yield the grace and worth one views
Thereat”—Just so;
Now would this charmer charm the Muse;
But—back we'll go!
Yes, we'll go back; yet had we power,
A song would be yon lady's dower,
As sweet as e'er in midnight hour,
To bugle-ring,
Did Echo from her airy tower
In rapture sing!
A song would be yon lady's dower,
As sweet as e'er in midnight hour,
To bugle-ring,
Did Echo from her airy tower
In rapture sing!
174
Ay, could the deed the will display,
Then, then were sung what thou, mad fay,
Sweet Echo, to its spells a prey,
Would yet prolong,
Till all the world had pass'd away
In one wild song!
Then, then were sung what thou, mad fay,
Sweet Echo, to its spells a prey,
Would yet prolong,
Till all the world had pass'd away
In one wild song!
So would we, could we; but between
This would and could doth intervene
A gulph, from which the Muse in teen
Must turn and—O!
That sudden jerk! What can it mean?
Where are we now?
This would and could doth intervene
A gulph, from which the Muse in teen
Must turn and—O!
That sudden jerk! What can it mean?
Where are we now?
“By Coaly Tyne, sir, and 'tis plain
Not on a hack, but in a Train,
Which you must out!” Well, I've a brain!
—Well, I may Work
Myself into myself again
Thro' that same jerk.
Not on a hack, but in a Train,
Which you must out!” Well, I've a brain!
—Well, I may Work
Myself into myself again
Thro' that same jerk.
Meanwhile, my friend, for heart and fun
Unmatched, Good Night! Our task is done;
The Muse is off—her rhyme is spun—
Her zig-zag flight
Has ended where it was begun—
Good Night! Good Night!
Unmatched, Good Night! Our task is done;
The Muse is off—her rhyme is spun—
Her zig-zag flight
Has ended where it was begun—
Good Night! Good Night!
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