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Poems in Two Volumes, Volume 2. William WordsworthЧитать онлайн книгу.

Poems in Two Volumes, Volume 2 - William Wordsworth


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who is rooted to his chair!

        Look at him – look again! for He

        Hath long been of thy Family.

        With legs that move not, if they can,

        And useless arms, a Trunk of Man,

        He sits, and with a vacant eye;

        A Sight to make a Stranger sigh!

        Deaf, drooping, that is now his doom:

        His world is in this single room:

        Is this a place for mirth and cheer?

        Can merry-making enter here?

        The joyous Woman is the Mate

        Of Him in that forlorn estate!

        He breathes a subterraneous damp,

        But bright as Vesper shines her lamp:

        He is as mute as Jedborough Tower;

        She jocund as it was of yore,

        With all it's bravery on; in times,

        When, all alive with merry chimes,

        Upon a sun-bright morn of May,

        It rouz'd the Vale to Holiday.

        I praise thee, Matron! and thy due

        Is praise; heroic praise, and true!

        With admiration I behold

        Thy gladness unsubdued and bold:

        Thy looks, thy gestures, all present

        The picture of a life well-spent:

        This do I see; and something more;

        A strength unthought of heretofore!

        Delighted am I for thy sake;

        And yet a higher joy partake.

        Our Human-nature throws away

        It's second Twilight, and looks gay:

        A Land of promise and of pride

        Unfolding, wide as life is wide.

        Ah! see her helpless Charge! enclos'd

        Within himself, as seems; compos'd;

        To fear of loss, and hope of gain,

        The strife of happiness and pain,

        Utterly dead! yet, in the guise

        Of little Infants, when their eyes

        Begin to follow to and fro

        The persons that before them go,

        He tracks her motions, quick or slow.

        Her buoyant Spirit can prevail

        Where common cheerfulness would fail:

        She strikes upon him with the heat

        Of July Suns; he feels it sweet;

        An animal delight though dim!

        'Tis all that now remains for him!

        I look'd, I scann'd her o'er and o'er;

        The more I look'd I wonder'd more:

        When suddenly I seem'd to espy

        A trouble in her strong black eye;

        A remnant of uneasy light,

        A flash of something over-bright!

        And soon she made this matter plain;

        And told me, in a thoughtful strain,

        That she had borne a heavy yoke,

        Been stricken by a twofold stroke;

        Ill health of body; and had pin'd

        Beneath worse ailments of the mind.

        So be it! but let praise ascend

        To Him who is our Lord and Friend!

        Who from disease and suffering

        Hath call'd for thee a second Spring;

        Repaid thee for that sore distress

        By no untimely joyousness;

        Which makes of thine a blissful state;

        And cheers thy melancholy Mate!

      6. TO A HIGHLAND GIRL

(At Inversneyde, upon Loch Lomond.)

        Sweet Highland Girl, a very shower

        Of beauty is thy earthly dower!

        Twice seven consenting years have shed

        Their utmost bounty on thy head:

        And these gray Rocks; this household Lawn;

        These Trees, a veil just half withdrawn;

        This fall of water, that doth make

        A murmur near the silent Lake;

        This little Bay, a quiet Road

        That holds in shelter thy Abode;

        In truth together ye do seem

        Like something fashion'd in a dream;

        Such Forms as from their covert peep

        When earthly cares are laid asleep!

        Yet, dream and vision as thou art,

        I bless thee with a human heart:

        God shield thee to thy latest years!

        I neither know thee nor thy peers;

        And yet my eyes are fill'd with tears.

        With earnest feeling I shall pray

        For thee when I am far away:

        For never saw I mien, or face,

        In which more plainly I could trace

        Benignity and home-bred sense

        Ripening in perfect innocence.

        Here, scatter'd like a random seed,

        Remote from men, Thou dost not need

        The embarrass'd look of shy distress,

        And maidenly shamefacedness:

        Thou wear'st upon thy forehead clear

        The freedom of a Mountaineer.

        A face with gladness overspread!

        Sweet looks, by human kindness bred!

        And seemliness complete, that sways

        Thy courtesies, about thee plays;

        With no restraint, but such as springs

        From quick and eager visitings

        Of thoughts, that lie beyond the reach

        Of thy few words of English speech:

        A bondage sweetly brook'd, a strife

        That gives thy gestures grace and life!

        So have I, not unmov'd in mind,

        Seen birds of tempest-loving kind,

        Thus beating up against the wind.

        What hand but would a garland cull

        For thee who art so beautiful?

        O happy pleasure! here to dwell

        Beside thee in some heathy dell;

        Adopt


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