A MAN'S A MAN FOR A' THAT
Is there,s for honest poverty,
That hings his head, an' a' that? The coward slave, we pass him by, We dare be poor for a' that! For a' that, an' a' that,
Our toils obscure, an' a' that; The rank is but the guinea's stamp; The man's the gowd for a' that.
What though on hamely fare we dine, Wear hodden-grey,10 an' a 'that;
Gie fools their silks, and knaves their wine, A man's a man for a' that.
For a' that, an' a' that,
Their tinsel show, an' a' that;
The honest man, tho' e'er sae poor, Is king o' men for a' that.
Ye see yon birkie,1 ca'd a lord,
Wha struts, an' stares, an' a' that; Tho' hundreds worship at his word, He's but a coof2 for a' that. For a' that, an' a' that,
His riband, star, an' a' that, The man o' independent mind, He looks and laughs at a' that.
A prince can mak a belted knight, A marquis, duke, an' a' that; But an honest man's aboon his might, Guid faith, he mauna fa's that! For a' that, an' a' that,
Their dignities, an' a' that, The pith o' sense, an' pride o' worth, Are higher rank than a' that.
Then let us pray that come it may, As come it will for a' that, That sense and worth, o'er a' the earth, May bear the gree, an' a' that. For a' that, an' a' that,
It's coming yet for a' that, That man to man, the warld o'er, Shall brothers be for a' that.
Sae black and bare, sae black and bare, The desert were a paradise,
If thou wert there, if thou wert there.
Or were I monarch o' the globe,
Wi' thee to reign, wi' thee to reign, The brightest jewel in my crown
Wad be my queen, wad be my queen.
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,
Wordsworth thought it worth while to print this "extract from the conclusion of a poem" which was written, at the age of sixteen. just before he left his school at Hawkshead. It both reveals his strong local attachment and anticipates his reliance upon what be-"My stockings there I often knit, came for him a chief source of poetic in- My kerchief there I hem; spiration, namely, "emotion recollected tranquillity."
"Twelve steps or more from my mother's door, And they are side by side.
And there upon the ground I sit,
This, and the two poems that follow it, were among those contributed by Wordsworth to the joint volume of Lyrical Ballads which he and Coleridge published in 1798 (see p. And often after sunset, Sir, 428; also Eng. Lit., pp. 232-235). This poem When it is light and fair,
was written to show "the obscurity and
perplexity which in childhood attend our I take my little porringer, notion of death, or rather our utter in- ability to admit that notion."
LINES COMPOSED A FEW MILES ABOVE TINTERN ABBEY, ON REVISITING THE BANKS OF THE WYE DURING A TOUR. JULY 13, 1798.†
Five years have past; five summers, with the length
Of five long winters! and again I hear These waters, rolling from their mountain- springs
With a soft inland murmur.‡-Once again Do I behold these steep and lofty cliffs, That on a wild secluded scene impress
64 Thoughts of more deep seclusion; and connect The landscape with the quiet of the sky. The day is come when I again repose Here, under this dark sycamore, and view These plots of cottage-ground, these orchard- tufts,
This is one of the earliest and most definite expressions of Wordsworth's faith in the essential oneness of man and nature, and of his sorrow over man's apostasy from that faith.
Which at this season, with their unripe fruits, Are clad in one green hue, and lose themselves 'Mid groves and copses. Once again I see These hedge-rows, hardly hedge-rows, little lines Of sportive wood run wild: these pastoral farms,
Green to the very door; and wreaths of smoke Sent up, in silence, from among the trees! With some uncertain notice, as might seem Of vagrant dwellers in the houseless woods, Or of some Hermit's cave, where by his fire The Hermit sits alone.
These beauteous forms, Through a long absence, have not been to me As is a landscape to a blind man's eye: But oft, in lonely rooms, and 'mid the din Of towns and cities, I have owed to them In hours of weariness, sensations sweet, Felt in the blood, and felt along the heart; And passing even into my purer mind,
Note by Wordsworth: "I have not ventured to call this poem an Ode; but it was written with a hope that in the transitions, and the impassioned music of the versification. would be found the principal requisites of that species of composition." Professor Dowden remarks upon the four stages of the poet's growth to be found described in the poem: First. animal enjoyment of nature in boyhood; second, passion for beauty and sublimity; third, perception of nature's tranquillizing and elevating influence on the spirit; and fourth, deep communion with a spiritual presence: stages which he further describes as the periods of the blood, of the senses, of the imagination,
For the effect of the tides on the Wye nearer its mouth, see Tennyson's In Memoriam, XIX.
With tranquil restoration:-feelings too Of unremembered pleasure: such, perhaps, As have no slight or trivial influence On that best portion of a good man's life, His little, nameless, unremembered acts Of kindness and of love. Nor less, I trust, To them I may have owed another gift, Of aspect more sublime; that blessed mood In which the burthen of the mystery, In which the heavy and the weary weight Of all this unintelligible world,
Is lightened:-that serene and blessed mood, In which the affections gently lead us on,— Until, the breath of this corporeal frame And even the motion of our human blood Almost suspended, we are laid asleep In body, and become a living soul: While with an eye made quiet by the power Of harmony, and the deep power of joy, We see into the life of things.
30 Unborrowed from the eye.-That time is past, And all its aching joys are now no more, And all its dizzy raptures. Not for this Faint I, nor mourn nor murmur; other gifts Have followed; for such loss, I would believe, Abundant recompense. For I have learned To look on nature, not as in the hour Of thoughtless youth; but hearing oftentimes The still, sad music of humanity,
If this Be but a vain belief, yet, oh! how oft- In darkness and amid the many shapes Of joyless daylight; when the fretful stir Unprofitable, and the fever of the world, Have hung upon the beatings of my heart- How oft, in spirit, have I turned to thee, O sylvan Wye! thou wanderer thro' the woods, How often has my spirit turned to thee! And now, with gleams of half-extinguished thought,
Nor harsh nor grating, though of ample power To chasten and subdue. And I have felt A presence that disturbs me with the joy Of elevated thoughts; a sense sublime Of something far more deeply interfused, Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns, And the round ocean and the living air, And the blue sky, and in the mind of man; A motion and a spirit, that impels All thinking things, all objects of all thought, And rolls through all things. Therefore am I
56 A lover of the meadows and the woods, And mountains; and of all that we behold From this green earth; of all the mighty world Of eye, and ear,-both what they half create, And what perceive; well pleased to recognize In nature and the language of the sense, The anchor of my purest thoughts, the nurse, The guide, the guardian of my heart, and soul | Of all my moral being.
If I were not thus taught, should I the more 60 Suffer my genial spirits to decay:
With many recognitions dim and faint, And somewhat of a sad perplexity, The picture of the mind revives again: While here I stand, not only with the sense Of present pleasure, but with pleasing thoughts That in this moment there is life and food For future years. And so I dare to hope, Though changed, no doubt, from what I was when first
I came among these hills; when like a roe I bounded o'er the mountains, by the sides Of the deep rivers, and the lonely streams, Wherever nature led: more like a man Flying from something that he dreads, than
For thou art with me here upon the banks Of this fair river; thou my dearest Friend, My dear, dear Friend; and in thy voice I catch The language of my former heart, and read My former pleasures in the shooting lights Of thy wild eyes. Oh! yet a little while May I behold in thee what I was once, My dear, dear Sister! and this prayer I make, Knowing that Nature never did betray The heart that loved her; 'tis her privilege, Through all the years of this our life, to lead From joy to joy: for she can so inform1 The mind that is within us, so impress
Who sought the thing he loved. For nature With quietness and beauty, and so feed
(The coarser pleasures of my boyish days, And their glad animal movements all gone by) To me was all in all.-I cannot paint What then I was. The sounding cataract Haunted me like a passion: the tall rock, The mountain, and the deep and gloomy wood. Their colours and their forms, were then to me An appetite; a feeling and a love, That had no need of a remoter charm, By thought supplied, nor any interest
With lofty thoughts, that neither evil tongues, Rash judgments, nor the sneers of selfish men, Nor greetings where no kindness is, nor all 130 The dreary intercourse of daily life, Shall e'er prevail against us, or disturb Our cheerful faith, that all which we behold Is full of blessings. Therefore let the moon Shine on thee in thy solitary walk; And let the misty mountain-winds be free To blow against thee: and, in after years, 1 give form to, animate
When these wild ecstasies shall be matured Into a sober pleasure; when thy mind Shall be a mansion for all lovely forms, Thy memory be as a dwelling-place
For all sweet sounds and harmonies; oh! then, If solitude, or fear, or pain, or grief, Should be thy portion, with what healing thoughts
Of tender joy wilt thou remember me, And these my exhortations! Nor, perchance—– If I should be where I no more can hear
Thy voice, nor catch from thy wild eyes these gleams
Of past existence-wilt thou then forget
That on the banks of this delightful stream 150 We stood together; and that I, so long A worshipper of Nature, hither came Unwearied in that service: rather say With warmer love-oh! with far deeper zeal Of holier love. Nor wilt thou then forget, That after many wanderings, many years Of absence, these steep woods and lofty cliffs, And this green pastoral landscape, were to me More dear, both for themselves and for thy sake!
STRANGE FITS OF PASSION HAVE I KNOWN*
Strange fits of passion have I known: And I will dare to tell,
But in the Lover's ear alone,
What once to me befell.
When she I loved looked every day
Fresh as a rose in June,
I to her cottage bent my way
Beneath an evening-moon.
Upon the moon I fixed my eye, All over the wide lea;
With quickening pace my horse drew nigh Those paths so dear to me.
And now we reached the orchard-plot;
And, as we climbed the hill,
The sinking moon to Lucy's cot
Came near, and nearer still.
In one of those sweet dreams I slept,
Kind Nature's gentlest boon!
I TRAVELLED AMONG UNKNOWN MEN I travelled among unknown men, In lands beyond the sea;
Nor, England! did I know till then What love I bore to thee.
'Tis past, that melancholy dream! Nor will I quit thy shore
A second time; for still I seem To love thee more and more.
Among thy mountains did I feel
The joy of my desire;
And she I cherished turned her wheel Beside an English fire.
Thy mornings showed, thy nights concealed The bowers where Lucy played; And thine too is the last green field That Lucy's eyes surveyed.
Three years she grew in sun and shower, Then Nature said, "A lovelier flower
This little group of five poems upon an unknown THREE YEARS SHE GREW IN SUN AND and perhaps imaginary Lucy were written in Germany in the year 1799. Without titles or notes, or any ornament beyond two or three of the simplest figures, they convey absolutely their contained emotion, illustrating that poetry which, in moments of deepest The feeling, is the natural language of man. fifth poem appears to sum up the preceding four; in its two brief stanzas it presents the two opposing and inscrutable mysteries of life and death, and leaves them to the imagination, without further comment.
On earth was never sown;
This Child I to myself will take;
1 The name of several streams in England; one has been made famous by Izaak Walton, the angler.
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