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WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.

MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.

FORESIGHT,

To dignify arch looks and laughing eyes;
And feats of cunning; and the pretty round

OR THE CHARGE OF A CHILD TO HIS YOUNGER Of trespasses, affected to provoke

COMPANION.

THAT is work of waste and ruin—
Do as Charles and I are doing!
Strawberry-blossoms, one and all,
We must spare them-here are many:
Look at it-the Flower is small,
Small and low, though fair as any:
Do not touch it! summers two
I am older, Anne, than you.

Pull the Primrose, Sister Anne!
Pull as many as you can.
-Here are Daisies, take your fill;
Pansies, and the Cuckow-flower:
Of the lofty Daffodil

Make your bed, and make your bower;
Fill your lap, and fill your bosom ;
Only spare the Strawberry-blossom!

Primroses, the spring may love them-
Summer knows but little of them:
Violets, a barren kind,
Withered on the ground must lie;
Daisies leave no fruit behind
When the pretty flowerets die;
Pluck them, and another year
As many will be blowing here.

God has given a kindlier power
To the favoured Strawberry-flower.
When the months of Spring are fled
Hither led us bend our walk;
Lurking berries, ripe and red,
Then will hang on every stalk,
Each within its leafy bower;

And for that promise spare the flower!

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Mock-chastisement and partnership in play.
And, as a faggot sparkles on the hearth,
Not less if unattended and alone
Than when both young and old sit gathered
round

And take delight in its activity,
Even so this happy Creature of herself
Is all sufficient: solitude to her

Is blithe society, who fills the air
With gladness and involuntary songs.
Light are her sallies as the tripping Fawn's
Forth-startled from the fern where she lay
couched ;

Unthought-of, unexpected, as the stir
Of the soft breeze ruffling the meadow-
flowers;

Or from before it chasing wantonly
The many-coloured images impressed
Upon the bosom of a placid lake.

WE ARE SEVEN.
A SIMPLE child

That lightly draws its breath
And feels its life in every limb,
What should it know of death?

I met a little cottage-girl:

She was eight years old, she said; Her hair was thick with many a curl That clustered round her head.

She had a rustic woodland-air

And she was wildly clad;

Her eyes were fair, and very fair; Her beauty made me glad.

Sisters and brothers, little Maid,
How many may you be?
How many? Seven in all, she said
And wondering looked at me.

And where are they? I pray you tell.
She answered: Seven are we;
And two of us at Conway dwell,
And two are gone to sea.

Two of us in the church-yard lie,
My sister and my brother;
And, in the church-yard-cottage, I
Dwell near them with my mother.

You say that two at Conway dwell,
And two are gone to sea,
Yet ye are seven!-I pray you tell,
Sweet Maid, how this may be?

Then did the little Maid reply:
Seven boys and girls are we;
Two of us in the church-yard lie,
Beneath the church-yard-tree.

You run about, my little Maid,
Your limbs they are alive;

If two are in the church-yard laid,
Then ye are only five.

Their graves are green, they may be seen,
The little maid replied,

Twelve steps or more from my mother's door,
And they are side by side.

My stockings there I often knit,
My kerchief there I hem;

And there upon the ground I sit-
I sit and sing to them.

And often after sunset, Sir,
When it is light and fair,
I take my little porringer,
And eat my supper there.

The first that died was little Jane;
In bed she moaning lay,
Till God released her of her pain;
And then she went away.

So in the church-yard she was laid;
And all the summer dry
Together round her grave we played,
My brother John and I.

And when the ground was white with snow,
And I could run and slide,

My brother John was forced to go,
And he lies by her side.

How many are you then, said I,
If they two are in Heaven?
The little Maiden did reply:
O Master we are seven.

But they are dead; those two are dead!
Their spirits are in Heaven!
"Twas throwing words away: for still
The little Maid would have her will,
And said: Nay, we are seven!

TO H. C.

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!
That 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.
Oh! too industrious folly!

Oh! 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,

Not doom'd to jostle with unkindly shocks;
Or to be trail'd 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.

THE BLIND, HIGHLAND BOY.

(A TALE TOLD BY THE FIRE-SIDE.)

Now we are tired of boisterous joy, We've romp'd enough, my little Boy! Jane hangs her head upon my breast, And you shall bring your stool and rest, This corner is your own.

There! take your seat, and let me see
That you can listen quietly;
And as I promised I will tell
That strange adventure which befel
A poor blind Highland-Boy.

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'Twas even the largest of its kind,
Large, thin, and light as birch-tree-rind ;
So light a shell that it would swim
And gaily lift its fearless brim

Above the tossing waves.

And this the little blind Boy knew:
And he a story strange, yet true,
Had heard, how in a shell like this
An English boy, oh thought of bliss!
Had stoutly launched from shore;

Launched from the margin of a bay
Among the Indian isles, where lay
His father's ship, and had sailed far,
To join that gallant Ship of war
In his delightful shell.

Our Highland-Boy oft visited

The house which held this prize; and, led
By choice or chance, did thither come
One day when no one was at home,
And found the door unbarred.

While there he sate alone and blind
That story flashed upon his mind;—
A bold thought rouzed him, and he took
The shell from out its secret nook
And bore it in his arms.

And with the happy burthen hied,
And pushed it from Loch Levin's side,-
Stepped into it; and without dread,
Following the fancies in his head,

He paddled up and down.

A while he stood upon his feet;
He felt the motion-took his seat;
And dallied thus, till from the shore
The tide retreating more and more

Had sucked, and sucked him in.

And there he is in face of Heaven! How rapidly the Child is driven! The fourth part of a mile I ween He thus had gone, ere he was seen

By any human eye.

But when he was first seen, oh me!
What shrieking and what misery!
For many saw; among the rest
His Mother, she who loved him best,
She saw her poor blind Boy.

But for the Child, the sightless Boy,
It is the triumph of his joy!
The bravest Traveller in balloon,
Mounting as if to reach the moon,

Was never half so bless'd.

And let him, let him go his way, Alone, and innocent, and gay! For, if good Angels love to wait On the forlorn unfortunate,

This Child will take no harm.

But now the passionate lament,
Which from the crowd on shore was sent,
The cries which broke from old and young
In Gaelic, or the English tongue,

Are stifled-all is still.

And quickly with a silent crew
A Boat is ready to pursue;

And from the shore their course they take,
And swiftly down the running Lake
They follow the blind Boy.

But soon they move with softer pace:
So have you seen the fowler chase
On Grasmere's clear unruffled breast
A youngling of the wild-duck's nest
With deftly-lifted oar.

Or as the wily sailors crept
To seize (while on the Deep it slept)
The hapless Creature which did dwell
Erewhile within the dancing shell,

They steal upon their prey.

With sound the least that can be made
They follow, more and more afraid,
More cautious as they draw more near;
But in his darkness he can hear,

And guesses their intent.

Lei-gha-Lei-gha-then did he cry Lei-gha-Lei-gha-most eagerly; Thus did he cry, and thus did pray, And what he meant was: Keep away, And leave me to myself!

Alas! and when he felt their hands-
You've often heard of magic Wands,
That with a motion overthrow
A palace of the proudest show,
Or melt it into air:

So all his dreams, that inward light
With which his soul had shone so bright,
All vanish'd,-'twas a heartfelt cross
To him, a heavy, bitter loss,
As he had ever known.

But hark! a gratulating voice
With which the very hills rejoice:
"Tis from the crowd, who tremblingly
Had watch'd the event, and now can see
That he is safe at last.

And then, when he was brought to land, Full sure they were a happy band, Which gathering round did on the banks Of that great Water give God thanks, And welcom'd the poor Child.

And in the general joy of heart
The blind Boy's little Dog took part;
He leapt about, and oft did kiss
His master's hands in sign of bliss,
With sound like lamentation.

But most of all, his Mother dear,
She who had fainted with her fear,
Rejoiced when waking she espies
The Child; when she can trust her eyes,
And touches the blind Boy.

She led him home, and wept amain,
When he was in the house again:
Tears flowed in torrents from her eyes,
She could not blame him, or chastise:
She was too happy far.

Thus, after he had fondly braved
The perilous Deep, the Boy was saved;
And, though his fancies had been wild,
Yet he was pleased, and reconciled

To live in peace on shore.

And in the lonely Highland-dell
Still do they keep the turtle-shell;
And long the story will repeat
Of the blind Boy's adventurous feat,
And how he was preserved.

THE HORN OF EGREMONT CASTLE.

WHEN the Brothers reached the gateway,
Eustace pointed with his lance

To the Horn which there was hanging;
Horn of the inheritance.

Horn it was which none could sound,
No one upon living ground,
Save He who came as rightful Heir
To Egremont's Domains and Castle fair.

Heirs from ages without record
Had the House of Lucie born,

Who of right had claim'd the Lordship
By the proof upon the Horn:
Each at the appointed hour

Tried the Horn, it own'd his power;
He was acknowledged: and the blast

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Sir! the Ruffians said to Hubert,
Deep he lies in Jordan flood.-
Stricken by this ill assurance,
Pale and trembling Hubert stood.
Take your earnings.-Oh! that I
Could have seen my Brother die!
It was a pang that vex'd him then,
And oft returned, again, and yet again.

Months pass'd on, and no Sir Eustace!
Nor of him were tidings heard.
Wherefore, bold as day, the Murderer
Back again to England steer'd.
To his Castle Hubert sped;
He has nothing now to dread.

But silent and by stealth he came,
And at an hour which nobody could name.

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None could tell if it were night-time,
Night or day, at even or morn;
For the sound was heard by no one
Of the proclamation-horn.
But bold Hubert lives in glee:
Months and years went smilingly;
With plenty was his table spread;
And bright the Lady is who shares his bed.

Likewise he had Sons and Daughters;

Which good Sir Eustace sounded was the last. And, as good men do, he sate

With his lance Sir Eustace pointed,
And to Hubert thus said he:

What I speak this Horn shall witness
For thy better memory.

Hear, then, and neglect me not!
At this time, and on this spot,
The words are utter'd from my heart,
As my last earnest prayer ere we depart

On good service we are going
Life to risk by sea and land;

In which course if Christ our Saviour
Do my sinful soul demand,
Hither come thou back straightway,
Hubert, if alive that day;

Return, and sound the Horn, that we
May have a living House still left in thee.

Fear not, quickly answer'd Hubert;
As I am thy Father's son,

At his board by these surrounded,
Flourishing in fair estate.
And, while thus in open day

Once he sate, as old books say,

A blast was utter'd from the Horn,
Where by the Castle-gate it hung forlorn.

"Tis the breath of good Sir Eustace!
He is come to claim his right:

Ancient Castle, Woods, and Mountains
Hear the challenge with delight.
Hubert! though the blast be blown

He is helpless and alone:

Thou hast a dungeon, speak the word!
And there he may be lodg'd, and thou be
Lord.

Speak!-astounded Hubert cannot;
And if power to speak he had,
All are daunted, all the household
Smitten to the heart, and sad.

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