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By which true Sway doth mount; this is the stalk

True Power doth grow on; and her rights are these. 1802, 1802.

COMPOSED UPON

WESTMINSTER

BRIDGE, SEPTEMBER 3, 1802

"We left London on Saturday morning at half-past five or six, the 30th of July. We mounted the Dover coach at Charing Cross. It was a beautiful morning. The city, St. Paul's, with the river, and a multitude of little boats, made a most beautiful sight as we crossed Westminster Bridge. The houses were not overhung by their cloud of smoke, and they were spread out endlessly; yet the sun shone so brightly, with such a fierce light, that there was even something like the purity of one of nature's own grand spectacles." (Dorothy Wordsworth's Journal, July, 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 tem ples 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 splendor, 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! 1802. 1807.

COMPOSED BY THE SEA-SIDE, NEAR CALAIS, AUGUST, 1802

"We had delightful walks after the heat of the day was passed-seeing far off in the west the coast of England like a cloud crested with Dover Castle, which was but like the summit of the cloud-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..... Nothing in romance was ever half so beautiful. Now came in view, as the evening star sunk down, and the colors of the west faded away, the two lights of England." (Doro thy Wordsworth's Journal, August, 1802.)

FAIR Star of evening, Splendor 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 ban ners, 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. 1807.

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A span of waters; yet what power is there!

What mightiness for evil and for good! Even so doth God protect us if we be Virtuous and wise. Winds blow, and waters roll,

Strength to the brave, and Power, and Deity;

Yet in themselves are nothing! One decree

Spake laws to them, and said that by the soul

Only, the Nations shall be great and free. 1802. 1807.

WRITTEN IN LONDON, SEPTEMBER, 1802

This was written immediately after my return from France to London, when I could not but be struck, as here described, with the vanity and parade of our own country, especially in great towns and cities, as contrasted with the quiet, and I may say the desolation, that the revolution had produced in France. This must be borne in mind, or else the reader may think that in this and the succeeding Sonnets I have exaggerated the mischief engendered and fostered among us by undisturbed wealth. It would not be easy to conceive with what a depth of feeling I entered into the struggle carried on by the Spaniards for their deliverance from the usurped power of the French. Many times have I gone from Allan Bank in Grasmere vale, where we were then residing, to the top of the Raise-gap as it is called, so late as two o'clock in the morning, to meet the carrier bringing the newspaper from Keswick. Imperfect traces of the state of mind in which I then was may be found in my Tract on the Convention of Cintra, as well as in these Sonnets. (Wordsworth.)

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 crafts-
man, 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

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Of the world's praise, from dark an tiquity

Hath flowed," with pomp of waters, unwithstood,"

Roused though it be full often to a mood Which spurns the check of salutary bands,

That this most famous stream in bogs and sands

Should perish; and to evil and to good Be lost for ever. In our halls is hung Armory of the invincible Knights of old:

We must be free or die, who speak the tongue

That Shakspeare spake; the faith and morals hold

Which Milton held.-In everything we are sprung

Of Earth's first blood, have titles manifold. 1802 or 1893. April 16, 1803.

WHEN I HAVE BORNE IN
MEMORY

WHEN I have borne in memory what has tamed

Great Nations, how ennobling thoughts depart

When men change swords for ledgers, and desert

The student's bower for gold, some fears unnamed

I had, my Country!-am I to be blamed?

Now, when I think of thee, and what thou art,

Verily, in the bottom of my heart,
Of those unfilial fears I am ashamed.
For dearly must we prize thee; we who
find

In thee a bulwark for the cause of men:
And I by my affection was beguiled:
What wonder if a Poet now and then,
Among the many movements of his
mind,

Felt for thee as a lover or a child! 1802 or 1803. Sept. 17, 1803.

TO HARTLEY COLERIDGE

SIX YEARS OLD

O THOU! whose fancies from afar are brought;

Who of thy words dost make a mock apparel,

And fittest to unutterable thought
The breeze-like motion and the self-

born carol:

Thou faery voyager! that dost float
In such clear water, that thy boat
May rather seem

To brood on air than on an earthly stream;

Suspended in a stream as clear as sky, Where earth and heaven do make one imagery;

O blessed vision! happy child!
Thou art so exquisitely wild,

I think of thee with many fears
For what may be thy lot in future years.
I thought of times when Pain might
be thy guest,

Lord of thy house and hospitality ;
And Grief, uneasy lover! never rest
But when she sate within the touch of

thee.

O too industrious folly!

O vain and causeless melancholy!
Nature will either end thee quite;
Or, lengthening out thy season of delight,
Preserve for thee, by individual right.
A young lamb's heart among the full-
grown flocks.

What hast thou to do with sorrow,
Or the injuries of to-morrow?
Thou art a dew-drop, which the morn
brings forth,

Ill fitted to sustain unkindly shocks,
Or to be trailed along the soiling earth;
A gem that glitters while it lives,
And no forewarning gives;

But, at the touch of wrong, without a strife

Slips in a moment out of life.

1802. 1807.

TO THE DAISY

IN youth from rock to rock I went,
From hill to hill in discontent
Of pleasure high and turbulent,

Most pleased when most uneasy;
But now my own delights I make,-
My thirst at every rill can slake,
And gladly Nature's love partake,
Of Thee, sweet Daisy !

Thee Winter in the garland wears
That thinly decks his few gray hairs;
Spring parts the clouds with softest airs,

That she may sun thee;

Whole Summer-fields are thine by right;
And Autumn, melancholy Wight!
Doth in thy crimson head delight
When rains are on thee.

In shoals and bands, a morrice train,
Thou greet'st the traveller in the lane;

Pleased at his greeting thee again;

Yet nothing daunted.

Nor grieved if thou be set at nought :
And oft alone in nooks remote

We meet thee, like a pleasant thought,
When such are wanted.

Be violets in their secret mews
The flowers the wanton Zephyrs choose:
Proud be the rose, with rains and dews
Her head impearling;

Thou liv'st with less ambitious aim,
Yet hast not gone without thy fame;
Thou art indeed by many a claim

The Poet's darling.

If to a rock from rains he fly,
Or, some bright day of April sky,
Imprisoned by hot sunshine lie

Near the green holly,

And wearily at length should fare;
He needs but look about, and there
Thou art!-a friend at hand, to scare
His melancholy.

A hundred times, by rock or bower,
Ere thus I have lain couched an hour,
Have I derived from thy sweet power

Some apprehension;

Some steady love; some brief delight; Some memory that had taken flight; Some chime of fancy wrong or right;

Or stray invention.

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Oft on the dappled turf at ease
I sit, and play with similes,

Loose types of things through all degrees,

Thoughts of thy raising:

And many a fond and idle name

I give to thee, for praise or blame,
As is the humor of the game,
While I am gazing.

A nun demure of lowly port;
Or sprightly maiden, of Love's court,
In thy simplicity the sport

Of all temptations;

A queen in crown of rubies drest;
A starveling in a scanty vest;
Are all, as seems to suit thee best,
Thy appellations.

A little cyclops, with one eye
Staring to threaten and defy.
That thought comes next-and instantly
The freak is over,

The shape will vanish-and behold
A silver shield with boss of gold,
That spreads itself, some faery bold
In fight to cover!

I see thee glittering from afar—
And then thou art a pretty star;
Not quite so fair as many are

In heaven above thee!
Yet like a star, with glittering crest,
Self-poised in air thou seem'st to rest ;-
May peace come never to his nest,

Who shall reprove thee!

See, in Chaucer and the elder Poets, the honors formerly paid to this flower. (Wordsworth.)

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