Till they were pluck'd together; a blue flower
Call'd by the thrifty husbandman a weed:
But Ceres, in her garland, might have worn
That ornament, unblamed. The floweret, held
In scarcely conscious fingers, was, she knows,
(Her Father told her so,) in youth's gay dawn
Her Mother's favourite; and the orphan Girl,
In her own dawn, -a dawn less gay and bright,-
Loves it, while there in solitary peace
She sits, for that departed Mother's sake.-
Not from a source less sacred is derived
(Surely I do not err) that pensive air
Of calm abstraction through the face diffused
And the whole person.
Words have something told
More than the pencil can, and verily
More than is needed; but the precious Art
Forgives their interference, -Art divine,
That both creates and fixes, in despite
Of Death and Time, the marvels it hath wrought.
Strange contrasts have we in this world of ours!
That posture, and the look of filial love
Thinking of past and gone, with what is left
Dearly united, might be swept away
From this fair Portrait's fleshly Archetype,
Even by an innocent fancy's slightest freak
Banish'd, nor ever, haply, be restored
To their lost place, or meet in harmony
So exquisite; but here do they abide,
Enshrined for ages. Is not then the Art
Godlike, a humble branch of the divine,
In visible quest of immortality,
Stretch'd forth with trembling hope? In every realm,
From high Gilbraltar to Siberian plains,
Thousands, in each variety of tongue
That Europe knows, would echo this appeal;
One above all, a Monk who waits on God
In the magnific Convent built of yore
To sanctify th' Escurial palace. He-
Guiding, from cell to cell and room to room,
A British Painter, (eminent for truth
In character, and depth of feeling, shown
By labours that have touch'd the hearts of kings,
The pile of buildings, composing the palace and convent of San Lorenzo, has,
in common usage, lost its proper name in that of the Escurial, a village at the foot of the hill upon which the splendid edifice, built by Philip the Second, stands.
5 This "British Painter" was Wilkie.
And are endear'd to simple cottagers,)
Came, in that service, to a glorious work,
Our Lord's Last Supper, beautiful as when first
Th' appropriate Picture, fresh from Titian's hand,
Graced the Refectory: and there, while both
Stood with eyes fix'd upon that masterpiece,
The hoary Father in the stranger's ear
Breathed out these words: "Here daily do we sit,
Thanks given to God for daily bread, and here,
Pondering the mischiefs of these restless times,
And thinking of my Brethren, dead, dispersed,
Or changed and changing, I not seldom gaze
Upon this solemn Company unmoved
By shock of circumstance or lapse of years,
Until I cannot but believe that they,
They are in truth the Substance, we the Shadows."
So spake the mild Jeronymite, his griefs
Melting away within him like a dream
Ere he had ceased to gaze, perhaps to speak:
And I, grown old, but in a happier land,
Domestic Portrait! have to verse consign'd
In thy calm presence those heart-moving words;
Words that can soothe, more than they agitate;
Whose spirit, like the angel that went down
Into Bethesda's pool, with healing virtue
Informs the fountain in the human breast
Which by the visitation was disturb'd.
But why this stealing tear? Companion mute,
On thee I look, not sorrowing: fare thee well,
My Song's Inspirer, once again farewell!
NATIONAL INDEPENDENCE AND LIBERTY.
COMPOSED BY THE SEA-SIDE, NEAR CALAIS, AUGUST, 1802.
FAIR Star of evening, Splendour of the West,
Star of my country! on th' horizon's brink
Thou hangest, stooping, as might seem, to sink
On England's bosom; yet well pleased to rest,
Meanwhile, and be to her a glorious crest
Conspicuous to the Nations. Thou, I think,
Shouldst be my Country's emblem; and shouldst wink,
6 The anecdote of the saying of the monk, in sight of Titian's picture, was told me in this house by Mr. Wilkie, and was, I believe, first communicated to the public in this poem, which I was composing at the time Southey heard the story from Miss Hutchinson, and transferred it to The Doctor.- Author's Notes, 1843.
Bright Star! with laughter on her banners, drest
In thy fresh beauty. There! that dusky spot
Beneath thee, that is England; there she lies.
Blessings be on you both! one hope, one lot,
One life, one glory!-I, with many a fear
For my dear Country, many heartfelt sighs,
Among men who do not love her, linger here."
CALAIS, AUGUST, 1802.
Is it a reed that's shaken by the wind,
Or what is it that ye go forth to see?
Lords, lawyers, statesmen, squires of low degree,
Men known, and men unknown, sick, lame, and blind,
Post forward all, like creatures of one kind,
With first-firuit offerings crowd to bend the knee
In France, before the new-born Majesty.
'Tis ever thus. Ye men of prostrate mind,
A seemly reverence may be paid to power;
But that's a loyal virtue, never sown
In haste, nor springing with a transient shower:
When truth, when sense, when liberty were flown,
What hardship had it been to wait an hour?
Shame on you, feeble Heads, to slavery prone!*
I GRIEVED for Buonaparte, with a vain
And an unthinking grief! The tenderest mood
Of that Man's mind, - what can it be? what food
Fed his first hopes? what knowledge could he gain?
'Tis not in battles that from youth we train
The Governor who must be wise and good,
And temper with the sternness of the brain
Thoughts motherly, and meek as womanhood.
Wisdom doth live with children round her knees:
7 In the Summer of 1802, Wordsworth and his sister made a short visit to France, and arrived at Calais on the 31st of July. Of this trip Miss Wordsworth wrote a brief Diary, noting the things that particularly interested them during their stay at Calais. The Diary furnishes the following in illustration of this sonnet: "Delightful walks in the evening; seeing far off in the West the coast of England, like a cloud, crested with Dover Castle, the evening star, and the glory of the sky: the reflections in the water were more beautiful than the sky itself; purple waves brighter than precious stones for ever melting away upon the sands."
8 Early in August, 1802, Napoleon was made First Consul for life, with the whole forces of the State centred in his hands. Of course the nation was in transports at this swift progress backwards towards the one-man power and the despotism of the sword.
9 Napoleon was by birth and blood an Italian, both his parents being of that stock, and was born February 5, 1768. Corsica was incorporated with France in June fol lowing; and he afterwards gave out that he was born in August, 1769, that he might pass for a Frenchman by birth. Wordsworth always gives the name with the Italian pronunciation. It is said that Napoleon took it in dudgeon to have his name so pro nounced.
Books, leisure, perfect freedom, and the talk
Man holds with week-day man in th' hourly walk
Of the mind's business, these are the degrees
By which true Sway doth mount; this is the stalk
True Power doth grow on; and her rights are these.
CALAIS, AUGUST 15, 1802.
FESTIVALS have I seen that were not names:
This is young Buonapartè's natal day,
And his is henceforth an establish'd sway,
Consul for life. With worship France proclaims
Her approbation, and with pomps and games.
Heaven grant that other cities may be gay!
Calais is not: and I have bent my way
To the sea-coast, noting that each man frames
His business as he likes. Far other show
My youth here witness'd,1 in a prouder time;
The senselessness of joy was then sublime!
Happy is he who, caring not for Pope,
Consul, or King, can sound himself to know
The destiny of Man, and live in hope.
ON THE EXTINCTION OF THE VENETIAN REPUBLIC.
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 titles 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 pass'd away.
1 Alluding to the poet's first visit to France, which was in the Summer of 1790, when the revolutionary ardour was in its full glow of triumph and hope, and Wordsworth himself was in full sympathy with it.
2 At this time, 1802, the poet was all out of heart for the cause of freedom in France: on the Continent of Europe he could see nothing but arguments of despair. In this state of things, with all the surroundings looking so dark, he might weli think that, if men would find any thing to sustain their hopes, they must search within, and explore the better forces of human nature in their own breasts.
3 Venice was ruthlessly seized by Napoleon in 1796, her government revolution. ized into fraternity with that of France; and finally she was made over by him to Austria in the treaty of Leoben, April, 1797.
TO TOUSSAINT L'OUVERTURE.
TOUSSAINT, the most unhappy man of men!
Whether the whistling Rustic tend his plough
Within thy hearing, or thy head be now
Pillow'd in some deep dungeon's earless den;-
O miserable Chieftain! where and when
Wilt thou find patience? Yet die not; do thou
Wear rather in thy bonds a cheerful brow:
Though fallen thyself, never to rise again,
Live, and take comfort. Thou hast left behind
Powers that will work for thee; air, earth, and skies;
There's not a breathing of the common wind
That will forget thee; thou hast great allies;
Thy friends are exultations, agonies,
And love, and man's unconquerable mind.
COMPOSED IN THE VALLEY NEAR DOVER, ON THE DAY OF LANDING.
HERE, on our native soil, we breathe once more.
The cock that crows, the smoke that curls, that sound
Of bells; those boys who in yon meadow-ground
In white-sleeved shirts are playing; and the roar
Of the waves breaking on the chalky shore;
All, all are English. Oft have I look'd round
With joy in Kent's green vales; but never found
Myself so satisfied in heart before.
Europe is yet in bonds; but let that pass,
Thought for another moment. Thou art free,
My Country! and 'tis joy enough and pride
For one hour's perfect bliss, to tread the grass
Of England once again, and hear and see,
With such a dear companion at my side.
SEPTEMBER, 1802. NEAR DOVER.
INLAND, within a hollow vale, I stood;
And saw, while sea was calm and air was clear,
The coast of France, the coast of France how near!
Drawn almost into frightful neighbourhood."
4 This heroic Negro chief was the most redoubted champion for the freedom which the Constituent Assembly had given to the slaves of Saint Domingo. In 1802, Napoleon sent over a large army, to regain possession of the island, and bring it back to its old condition. After a long resistance, Toussaint was at last treacher. ously ensnared and captured, and sent to France. For some time it was not known what became of him; but he is now said to have been confined in the castle of Joux, in the Jura, where he died soon after, whether by natural or violent means, is un known.
5 I quote again from Miss Wordsworth's Diary: "On the 29th August left Calais at twelve in the morning for Dover; bathed, and sat on the Dover cliffs, and looked upon France; we could see the shores almost as plain as if it were but an Englisk lake."
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