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(H. M.), Essays on Literary Art: Some Remarks on Wordsworth. DawSON (W. J.), Makers of Modern English. ** BAGEHOT (Walter), Literary Studies, Vol. II : Wordsworth, Tennyson and Browning.

ALGER (W. R.), Solitudes. BELL (C. D.), Some of our English Poets. BRIMLEY (G.), Essays. BROOKE (Stopford A:), Theology in the English Poets. Brooks (S. W.), English Poetry and Poets. BURROUGHS (John), Fresh Fields: Country of Wordsworth. CAINE (T. H.), Cobwebs of Criticism. CHENEY (J. V.), That Dome in Air. CHORLEY (H. F.), Authors of England. COURTHOPE (V. J.), Liberal Movement in English Literature: Wordsworth's Theory of Poetry. DEVEY (J.), Comparative Estimate of Modern English Poets. Dixon (W.M.), English Poetry, Blake to Browning. FIELDS (J. T.), Yesterdays with Authors. FROTHINGHAM (O. B.), Transcendentalism in New England. GileS (H.), Illustrations of Genius. GRAVES (R. P.), Afternoon Lectures: Wordsworth and the Lake Country. HAMILTON (Walter), Poets Laureate. HAWEIS (H. R.), Poets in the Pulpit. Howitt (W.), Homes of the British Poets, Vol. II. HUDSON (H. N.), Studies in Wordsworth. INGLEBY (C. M.), Essays. Johnson (C. F.), Three Americans and Three Englishmen. REED (H.), Lectures on British Poets, Vol. II. McCORMICK (W. S.), Three Lectures on English Literature. MACDONALD (G.), England's Antiphon. Minto (W.), Literature of the Georgian Era. MITCHELL (D. G.), English Lands, Letters and Kings, Vol. III. Moir (D. M.), Lectures on Poetical Literature.

RAWNSLEY (H. D.), Literary Associations of the English Lakes, Vol. V. ROBERTSON (F. W.), Lectures and Addresses. RUSHTON (W.), Afternoon Lectures, Vol. I. SAUNDERS (F.), Famous Books. SCUDDER (V. D.), Life of the Spirit in Modern English Poetry: Wordsworth and the new Democracy. SWANWICK (A.), Poets the Interpreters of their Age. TUCKERMAN (II. T.), Thoughts on the Poets. Winter (William), Gray Days and Gold : Lakes and Fells of Wordsworth. WHIPPLE (E. P.), Essays and Reviews. WHIPPLE (E. P.), Literature and Life.

MEMORIAL VERSES, ETC.

** Watson (William), Wordsworth's Grave. * ARNOLD (M.), Memorial Verses, April 1850. SHELLEY, Poems: Sonnet to Wordsworth (arraignment of Wordsworth for apostasy to the cause of liberty). PalGRAVE (F. T.), William Wordsworth (in Stedman's Victorian Anthology, p. 240). WHITTIER, Poems: Wordsworth. LOWELL, Poetical Words, Vol. Í. SAINTE-BEUVE, Poésies : Trois sonnets imités de Wordsworth.

* An asterisk marks the most important books and essays.

WORDSWORTH

LINES

Left upon a Seat in a Yew-tree, which stands near the lake of Esthwaite, on a desolate part of the shore, commanding a beautiful prospect.

Composed in part at school at Hawkshead. The tree has disappeared, and the slip of Common on which it stood, that ran parallel to the lake and lay open to it, has long been enclosed ; so that the road has lost much of its attraction. This spot was my favorite walk in the evenings during the latter part of my school-time.

(Wordsworth's note.)

NAY, Traveller ! rest. This lonely Yew

tree stands Far from all human dwelling: what if

here No sparkling rivulet spread the verdant

herb ? What if the bee love not these barren

boughs ? Yet, if the w d breathe soft, the curling

waves, That break against the shore, shall lull

thy mind By one soft impulse saved from vacancy.

-Who he was That piled these stones and with the

All but neglect. The world, for so it

thought, Owed him no service; wherefore he at

once With indignation turned himself away, And with the food of pride sustained his

soul In solitude.-Stranger! these gloomy

boughs Had charms for him; and here he loved

to sit, His only visitants a straggling sheep, The stone-chat, or the glancing sand

piper : And on these barren rocks, with fern

and heath, And juniper and thistle, sprinkled o'er, Fixing his downcast eye, he many an

hour A morbid pleasure nourished, tracing

here An emblem of his own unfruitful life: And, lifting up his head, he then would

gaze On the more distant scene,-how lovely

'tis Thou seest, -and he would gaze till it

became Far lovelier, and his heart could not sus

tain The beauty, still more beauteous! Nor,

that time, When nature had subdued him to her

self, Would he forget those Beings to whose

minds, Warm from the labors of benevolence, The world, and human life, appeared a

mossy sod

First covered, and here taught this aged

Tree With its dark arms to form a circling

bower, I well remember.-He was one who

owned No common soul. In youth by science

nursed, And led by nature into a wild scene Of lofty hopes, he to the world went

forth A favored Being, knowing no desire Which genius did not hallow ; 'gainst

the taint Of dissolute tongues, and jealousy, and

hate, And scorn,-against all enemies pre.

pared,

scene

Of kindred loveliness : then he would

sigh, Inly disturbed, to think that others felt What he must never feel : and so, lost

Man ! On visionary views would fancy feed, Till his eye streamed with tears. In this

deep vale

Down which she so often has tripped

with her pail ; And a single small cottage, a nest like a

dove's, The one only dwelling on earth that she

loves.

He died,--this seat his only monument. If Thou be one whose heart the holy

forms Of young imagination have kept pure, Stranger! henceforth be warned; and

know that pride. Howe'er disguised in its own majesty, Is littleness; that he, who feels con

tempt For any living thing, hath faculties Which he has never used ; that thought

with him Is in its infancy. The man whose eye Is ever on himself doth look on one, The least of Nature's works, one who

might move The wise man to that scorn which wis.

dom holds Unlawful, ever. O be wiser, Thou ! Instructed that true knowledge leads to

love; True dignity abides with him alone Who, in the silent hour of inward

thought, Can still suspect, and still revere him

self, In lowliness of heart. 1795. 1798.1

She looks, and her heart is in heaven:

but they fade, The mist and the river, the hill and the

shade : The stream will not flow, and the hill

will not rise, And the colors have all passed away

from her eyes! 1797. 1800.

A NIGHT-PIECE Composed on the road between Nether Stowey and Alfoxden, extempore. I distinctly recollect the very moment when I was struck, as described

-" He looks up-the clouds are split," etc. (Wordsworth)

"Wordsworth particularly recommended to me among his Poems of Imagination, Yew Trees, and a description of Night. These, he says, are amongst the best for the imaginative power displayed in them." (Diary of Henry Crabb Robinson, May 9, 1815.)

THE REVERIE OF POOR SUSAN This arose out of my observation of the affecting music of these birds hanging in this way in the London streets during the freshness and tillness of the Spring morning.-(Wordsworth.)

seen,

At the corner of Wood Street, when day

light appears, Hangs a Thrush that sings loud, it has

sung for three years; Poor Susan has passed by the spot, and

bas heard In the silence of morning the song of

the Bird.

-THE sky is overcast With a continuous cloud of texture close, Heavy and wan, all whitened by the

Moon, Which through that veil is indistinctly A dull, contracted circle, yielding light So feebly spread, that not a shadow falls, Chequering the ground-from rock,

plant, tree, or tower. At length a pleasant instantaneous gleam Startles the pensive traveller while he

treads His lonesome path, with unobserving

eye Bent earthward ; he looks up-the

clouds are split Asunder,--and above his head he sees The clear Moon, and the glory of the

heavens. There, in a black-blue vault she sails

along, Follow ed by multitudes of stars, that,

small And sharp, and bright, along the dark

abyss Dri: as she drives : how fast they

wheel away, Yot vanish not!-the wind is in the tree, But they are silent ;-still they roll along !! uneasurably distant; and the vault,

'Tis a note of enchantment; what ails

her? She sees A mountain ascending, a vision of trees; Bright volumes of vapor through Loth

bury glide, And a river flows on through the vale

of Cheapside. Green pastures she views in the midst

of the dale,

1 Italic figures indicate the yeg of writing ; upright figures the year of pul, cation. To dates for Wordsworth are taken froin the bible graphical tables in Vol. VIII - KU','ht's edition of the Poems.

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“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 ? Quick was the little Maid's reply, ** 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 !"

1798. 1798.

“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,

X SIMON LEE

THE OLD HUNTSMAN;

WITH AN INCIDENT IN WHICH HE WAS

CONCERNED. This old man had been huntsman to the squires of Alfoxden. . The fact was as mentioned in the poem; and I have, after an interval of fortyfive years, the image of the old man as fresh before my eyes as if I had seen him yesterday. The expression when the hounds were out, dearly love their voice," was word for word from his own lips,

(Wordsworth.)

In the sweet shire of Cardigan, Not far from pleasant Ivor-hall,

'Tis little, very little--all That they can do between them.

Few months of life has he in store
As he to you will tell,
For still, the more he works, the more
Do his weak ankles swell.
My gentle Reader, I perceive
How patiently you've waited,
And now I fear that you expect
Some tale will be related.

O Reader! had you in your mind
Such stores as silent thought can bring,
O gentle Reader! you would find
A tale in every thing.
What more I have to say is short,
And you must kindly take it :
It is no tale ; but, should you think,
Perhaps a tale you'll make it.

An old Man dwells, a little man,-
Tis said he once was tall.
Full five and thirty years he lived
A running huntsman merry;
And still the centre of his cheek
Is red as a ripe cherry.
No man like him the horn could sound,
And hill and valley rang with glee
When Echo bandied, round and round,
The halloo of Simon Lee.
In those proud days. he little cared
For husbandry or tillage ;
To blither tasks did Simon rouse
The sleepers of the village.
He all the country could outrun,
Could leave both man and horse behind :
And often, ere the chase was done,
He reeled and was stone-blind.
And still there's something in the world
At which his heart rejoices ;
For when the chiming hounds are out,
He dearly loves their voices !
But, oh the heavy change !—bereft
Of health, strength, friends, and kindred,

see !
Old Simon to the world is left
In liveried poverty.
His Master's dead,—and no one now
Dwells in the Hall of Ivor ;
Men, dogs, and horses, all are dead ;
He is the sole survivor.
And he is lean and he is sick ;
His body, dwindled and awry,
Rests upon ankles swoln and thick;
His legs are thin and dry.
One prop he has, and only one,
His wife, an aged woman,
Lives with him, near the waterfall,
Upon the village Common.
Beside their moss-grown hut of clay,
Not twenty paces from the door.
A scrap of land they have, but they
Are poorest of the poor.
This scrap of land he from the heath
Enclosed when he was stronger ;
But what to them avails the land
Which he can till no longer?
Oft, working by her Husband's side,
Ruth does what Simon cannot do ;
For she, with scanty cause for pride,
Is stouter of the two.
And, though you with your utmost skill
From labor could not wean them,

One summer-day I chanced to see
This old Man doing all he could
To unearth the root of an old tree,
A stump of rotten wood.
The mattock tottered in his hand;
So vain was his endeavor,
That at the root of the old tree
He might have worked for ever.

“ You're overtasked, good Simon Lee,
Give me your tool," to him I said ;
And at the word right gladly he
Received my proffered aid.
I struck, and with a single blow
The tangled root I severed,
At which the poor old Man so long
And vainly had endeavored.

The tears into his eyes were brought, And thanks and praises seemed to run So fast out of his heart, I thought They never would have done. -I've heard of hearts unkind, kind deeds With coldness still returning ; Alas! the gratitude of men (Hath oftener left me mourning.

1798. 1798.

LINES WRITTEN IN EARLY

SPRING I HEARD thousand blended notes, While in a grove I sate reclined. In that sweet mood when pleasant

thoughts Bring sad thoughts to the mind.

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