our simplicity Among the woods and fields, we love you well, Joanna! and I guess, since you have been So distant from us now for two long years, That you will gladly listen to discourse, However trivial, if you thence be taught That they, with whom you once were happy, talk Familiarly of you and of old times. While I was seated, now some ten days past, Beneath those lofty firs, that overtop Their ancient neighbour, the old steeple-tower, The Vicar from his gloomy house hard by Came forth to greet me; and when he had asked, "How fares Joanna, that wild-hearted Maid! And when will she return to us?" he paused; And, after short exchange of village news, He with grave looks demanded, for what cause, Reviving obsolete idolatry, I, like a Runic Priest, in characters Of formidable size had chiselled out Some uncouth name upon the native rock, Above the Rotha, by the forest-side. - Now, by those dear immunities of heart Engendered between malice and true love, I was not loth to be so catechised, And this was my reply: - "As it befell, One summer morning we had walked abroad At break of day, Joanna and myself. - Twas that delightful season when the broom, Full-flowered, and visible on every steep, Along the copses runs in veins of gold. Our pathway led us on to Rotha's banks; And when we came in front of that tall rock That eastward looks, I there stopped short - and stood Tracing the lofty barrier with my eye From base to summit; such delight I found To note in shrub and tree, in stone and flower That intermixture of delicious hues, Along so vast a surface, all at once, In one impression, by connecting force Of their own beauty, imaged in the heart. - When I had gazed perhaps two minutes' space, Joanna, looking in my eyes, beheld That ravishment of mine, and laughed aloud. The Rock, like something starting from a sleep, Took up the Lady's voice, and laughed again; That ancient Woman seated on Helm-crag Was ready with her cavern; Hammar-scar, And the tall Steep of Silver-how, sent forth A noise of laughter; southern Loughrigg heard, And Fairfield answered with a mountain tone; Helvellyn far into the clear blue sky Carried the Lady's voice, - old Skiddaw blew His speaking-trumpet; - back out of the clouds Of Glaramara southward came the voice; And Kirkstone tossed it from his misty head. - Now whether (said I to our cordial Friend, Who in the hey-day of astonishment Smiled in my face) this were in simple truth A work accomplished by the brotherhood Of ancient mountains, or my ear was touched With dreams and visionary impulses To me alone imparted, sure I am That there was a loud uproar in the hills. And, while we both were listening, to my side The fair Joanna drew, as if she wished To shelter from some object of her fear. - And hence, long afterwards, when eighteen moons Were wasted, as I chanced to walk alone Beneath this rock, at sunrise, on a calm And silent morning, I sat down, and there, In memory of affections old and true, I chiselled out in those rude characters Joanna's name deep in the living stone: - And I, and all who dwell by my fireside. Have called the lovely rock, Joanna's Rock."   , ; - , . , , , , ! , , -. - , , , , : " ? ?" , , , , , - , . , , ; : - , . , ; - : , , ; , , . - . , , ; , ; , - ; , ; ; ; ; . , , , , , . , , , . , , : , , , . SONG FOR THE WANDERING JEW Though the torrents from their fountains Roar down many a craggy steep, Yet they find among the mountains Resting-places calm and deep. Clouds that love through air to hasten, Ere the storm its fury stills, Helmet-like themselves will fasten On the heads of towering hills. What, if through the frozen centre Of the Alps the Chamois bound, Yet he has a home to enter In some nook of chosen ground: And the Sea-horse, though the ocean Yield him no domestic cave, Slumbers without sense of motion, Couched upon the rocking wave. If on windy days the Raven Gambol like a dancing skiff, Not the less she loves her haven In the bosom of the cliff. The fleet Ostrich, till day closes. Vagrant over desert sands, Brooding on her eggs reposes When chill night that care demands. Day and night my toils redouble, Never nearer to the goal; Night and day, I feel the trouble Of the Wanderer in my soul.  , , , . , , . , . , , , . , , , , - . , - - ... , , . From "Poems" (1807) "" (1807) POEMS DEDICATED TO NATIONAL INDEPENDENCE AND LIBERTY x x x I grieved for Buonapart_e_, 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? is 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: Books, leisure, perfect freedom, and the talk Man holds with week-day man in the 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. ,  x x x . ? : , ? , , - , , , , . , : , ; , , - . , ; . CALAIS, AUGUST 15, 1802 Festivals have I seen that were not names: This is young Buonaparte's natal day, And his is henceforth an established 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 witnessed, 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. x x x : . - , , ! , ? - - : . : , , ! , , , . 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 reached its final day: Men are we, and must grieve when even the Shade Of that which once was great is passed away. , 1802 . , . ! , . , , . - , ! ? . - ! , , -, . 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 Pillowed in some deep dungeon's earless den; - 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.   , ! , , - , , - , , ! - . - , : . - - . ! - . , - . SONNET WRITTEN IN LONDON, SEPTEMBER, 1802 O, friend! I know not which way I must look For comfort, being, as I am, opprest, To think that now our life is only drest For show; mean handy-work of craftsman, cook, Or groom! - We must run glittering like a brook In the open sunshine, or we are unblest: The wealthiest man among us is the best: No grandeur now in nature or in book Delights us. Rapine, avarice, expense, This is idolatry; and these we adore; Plain living and high thinking are no more: The homely beauty of the good old cause Is gone; our peace, our fearful innocence, And pure religion breathing household laws. , 1802 , , , - - - , , ? , , , ! - , . - , . , - , , . . , - ! , ? LONDON, 1802 Milton! thou shouldst be living at this hour; England hath need of thee: she is a fen Of stagnant waters: alar, sword, and pen, Fireside, the heroic wealth of hall and bower; Have forfeited their ancient English dower Of inward happiness. We are selfish men; Oh! raise us up, return to us again; And give us manners, virtue, freedom, power. Thy soul was like a Star, and dwelt apart; Thou hadst a voice whose sound was like the sea: Pure as the naked heavens, majestic, free, So didst thou travel on life's common way, In cheerful godliness; and yet thy heart The lowliest duties on herself did lay. , 1802 , , - ! . , , , , - , , , . . ! , . , . , , , , - . . x x x Nuns fret not at their convent's narrow room; And hermits are contented with their cells; And students with their pensive citadels; Maids at the wheel, the weaver at his loom, Sit blithe and happy; bees that soar for bloom, High as the highest Peak of Furness-fells, Will murmur by the hour in foxglove bells; In truth the prison, unto which we doom Ourselves, no prison is; and hence for me, In sundry moods, 'twas pastime to be bound Within the Sonnet's scanty plot of ground: Pleased if some Souls (for such there needs must be) Who have felt the weight of too much liberty, Should find brief solace there, as I have found. x x x , , , , - . , , , - , , , . , . , , . , ( !), , , . COMPOSED UPON WESTMINSTER BRIDGE, SEPTEMBER 3, 1802 Earth has not anything to show more fair: Dull would he be of soul who could pass by A sight so touching in its majesty: This City now doth, like a garment, wear The beauty of the morning; silent, bare, Ships, towers, domes, theatres, and temples lie Open unto the fields, and to the sky; All bright and glittering in the smokeless air. Never did sun more beautifully steep In his first splendour, valley, rock, or hill; Ne'er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep! The river glideth at his own sweet will: Dear God! the very houses seem asleep; And all that mighty heart is lying still! , 3 1802  ! - , - - . , , , , , , . , , , , . . , . COMPOSED BY THE SEA-SIDE NEAR CALAIS, AUGUST 1802 Fair Star of evening, Splendour of the west, Star of my Country! - on the 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, Should'st be my Country's emblem; and should'st wink, 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.  , 1802 ! , . , . , . , , , . , - , . x x x The world is too much with us; late and soon, Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers: Little we see in Nature that is ours; We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon! This Sea that bares her bosom to the moon; The winds that will be howling at all hours, And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers; For this, for everything, we are out of tune; It moves us not. - Great God! I'd rather be A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn; So might I, standing on this pleasant lea, Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn; Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea; Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn. x x x , ; - , , ! , - , : . ! ! , : ! x x x It is a beauteous evening, calm and free, The holy time is quiet as a Nun Breathless with adoration; the broad sun Is sinking down in its tranquillity; The gentleness of heaven broods o'er the Sea: Listen! the mighty Being is awake, And doth with his eternal motion make A sound like thunder - everlastingly, Dear Child! dear Girl! that walkest with me here. If thou appear untouched by solemn thought, Thy nature is not therefore less divine: Thou liest in Abraham's bosom all the year; And worshipp'st at the Temple's inner shrine, God being with thee when we know it not. x x x , ; , . , . ! , - ! , , , . ! ! , , - ; , , - , , . PERSONAL TALK x x x I am not One who much or oft delight To season my fireside with personal talk. - Of friends, who live within an easy walk, Or neighbors, daily, weekly, in my sight: And, for my chance-acquaintance, ladies bright, Sons, mothers, maidens withering on the stalk, These all wear out of me, like Forms, with chalk Painted on rich men's floors, for one feast-night. Better than such discourse doth silence long, Long, barren silence, square with my desire; To sit without emotion, hope, or aim, In the loved presence of my cottage-fire, And listen to the flapping of the flame, Or kettle whispering its faint undersong.   x x x , - : , - - - , . , , , ? - , ? x x x "Beloved Vale!" I said, "when I shall con Those many records of my childish years, Remembrance of myself and of my peers Will press me down; to think of what is gone Will be an awful thought, if life have one." But, when into the Vale I came, no fears Distressed me; from mine eyes escaped no tears: Deep thought, or dread remembrance, had I none. By doubts and thousand petty fancies crost I stood, of simple shame the blushing Thrall; So narrow seemed the brooks, the fields so small! A Juggler's balls old Time about him tossed: I looked, I stared, I smiled, I laughed: and all The weight of sadness was in wonder lost. x x x : " ! , , , , , , ". ! , - , , . , , : , , ! ... , - , , , . TO SLEEP O gentle Sleep! do they belong to thee, These twinklings of oblivion? Thou dost love To sit in meekness, like the brooding Dove, A captive never wishing to be free. This tiresome night, Sleep! thou art to me A Fly, that up and down himself doth shove Upon a fretful rivulet, now above, Now on the water vexed with mockery. 1 have no pain that calls for patience, no; Hence am I cross and peevish as a child; Am pleased by fits to have thee for my foe, Yet ever willing to be reconciled: gentle Creature! do not use me so, But once and deeply let me be beguiled.  ! - , . , . - , : , - . , , , , . , ! , . TO SLEEP A flock of sheep that leisurely pass by, One after one: the sound of rain, and bees Murmuring; the fall of rivers, winds and seas, Smooth fields, white sheets of water, and pure sky: I have thought of all by turns, and yet do lie Sleepless! and soon the small birds' melodies Must hear, first uttered from my orchard trees; And the first cuckoo's melancholy cry. Even thus last night, and two nights more, I lay And could not win thee, Sleep! by any stealth: So do not let me wear to-night away: Without Thee what is all the morning's wealth? Come, blessed barrier between day and day, Dear mother of fresh thoughts and joyous health! x x x , , , , , , . - , . , . , - ! - , . , , ! x x x With Ships the sea was sprinkled far and nigh, Like stars in heaven, and joyously it showed; Seme lying fast at anchor in the road, Some veering up and down, one knew not why. A goodly Vessel did I then espy Come like a giant from a haven broad; And lustily along the bay she strode, Her tackling rich, and of apparel high. This Ship was nought to me, nor I to her, Yet I pursued her with a Lover's look; This Ship to all the rest did I prefer: When will she turn, and whither? She will brook No tarrying; where She comes the winds must stir On went She, and due north her journey took. x x x , - , , : , . : , , . ! , , , , ; : ... , , - . TO A BUTTERFLY Stay near me - do not take thy flight! A little longer stay in sight! Much converse do I find in thee, Historian of my infancy! Float near me; do not yet .depart! Dead times revive in thee: Thou bring'st, gay creature as thou art! A solemn image to my heart, My father's family! Oh! pleasant, pleasant were the days, The time, when, in our childish plays, My sister Emmeline and I Together chased the butterfly! A very hunter did I rush Upon the prey:-with leaps and springs I followed on from brake to bush; But she, God love her, feared to brush The dust from off its wings.   - ! ! , , ! , - . , , - . , , , , , . - , , , , . x x x My heart leaps up when I behold A rainbow in the sky: So was it when my life began; So is it now I am a man; So be it when I shall grow old, Or let me die! The Child is father of the Man;