XXXII. ADDRESS TO MY INFANT DAUGHTER, DORA, ON BEING REMINDED THAT SHE WAS A MONTH OLD THAT DAY, SEPTEMBER 16. HAST thou then survived,— Mild Offspring of infirm humanity, Meek Infant! among all forlornest things The most forlorn, one life of that bright star, The second glory of the heavens ? Thou hast ; Already hast survived that great decay, That transformation through the wide earth felt, thee, Frail, feeble Monthling!- by that name, methinks, Thy scanty breathing-time is portioned out Not idly. Hadst thou been of Indian birth, Couched on a casual bed of moss and leaves, Or to the churlish elements exposed On the blank plains, — the coldness of the night, Or the night's darkness, or its cheerful face Nor less than mother's love in other breasts, - Apt likeness bears to hers, through gathered clouds, Moving untouched in silver purity, And cheering ofttimes their reluctant gloom. Fair are ye both, and both are free from stain: But thou, how leisurely thou fill'st thy horn That smile forbids the thought; for on thy face Smiles are beginning, like the beams of dawn, To shoot and circulate; smiles have there been seen; Tranquil assurances that Heaven supports XXXIII. THE WAGONER. "In Cairo's crowded streets The impatient Merchant, wondering, waits in vain, THOMSON. TO CHARLES LAMB, ESQ. MY DEAR FRIEND: WHEN I sent you, a few weeks ago, the Tale of Peter Bell, you asked why THE WAGONER was not added. To say the truth,—from the higher tone of imagination, and the deeper touches of passion aimed at in the former, I apprehended this little Piece could not accompany it without disadvantage. In the year 1806, if I am not mistaken, THE WAGONER was read to you in manuscript, and, as you have remembered it for so long a time, I am the more encouraged to hope, that, since the localities on which the Poem partly depends did not prevent its being interesting to you, it may prove acceptable to others. Being therefore in some measure the cause of its present appearance, you must allow me the gratification of inscribing it to you; in acknowledgment of the pleasure I have derived from your Writings, and of the high esteem with which I am very truly yours, WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. RYDAL MOUNT, May 20, 1819. "TIS spent, CANTO FIRST. this burning day of June! Soft darkness o'er its latest gleams is stealing; The buzzing dor-hawk, round and round, is wheeling, That solitary bird Is all that can be heard In silence deeper far than that of deepest noon! Confiding Glowworms, 't is a night Propitious to your earth-born light! But, where the scattered stars are seen In hazy straits the clouds between, Each, in his station twinkling not, Seems changed into a pallid spot. The mountains against heaven's grave weight Rise up, and grow to wondrous height. The air, as in a lion's den, Is close and hot; - and now and then Comes a tired and sultry breeze, And the silence makes it sweet. Hush, there is some one on the stir! The Wain announces, by whose side Along the banks of Rydal Mere He paces on, a trusty Guide. |