The invisible world with thee hath sympathized; Be thy affections raised and solemnized. "Learn, by a mortal yearning, to ascend Seeking a higher object. Love was given, Encouraged, sanctioned, chiefly for that end; For this the passion to excess was driven That self might be annulled: her bondage prove The fetters of a dream, opposed to love." Aloud she shrieked! for Hermes reappears! Round the dear Shade she would have clung 't is vain : The hours are past-too brief had they been years; And him no mortal effort can detain : Swift, toward the realms that know not earthly day, He through the portal takes his silent way, And on the palace-floor a lifeless corse she lay. Thus, all in vain exhorted and reproved, She perished; and, as for a wilful crime, By the just Gods whom no weak pity moved, Was doomed to wear out her appointed time, Apart from happy Ghosts, that gather flowers Of blissful quiet 'mid unfading bowers. -Yet tears to human suffering are due; And mortal hopes defeated and o'erthrown Are mourned by man, and not by man alone, As fondly he believes.-Upon the side Of Hellespont (such faith was enter tained) A knot of spiry trees for ages grew From out the tomb of him for whom she died; And ever, when such stature they had gained That Ilium's walls were subject to their view, The trees' tall summits withered at the sight: A constant interchange of growth and blight! 1814. 1815. YARROW VISITED SEPTEMBER, 1814 As mentioned in my verses on the death of the Ettrick Shepherd, my first visit to Yarrow was in his company. We had lodged the night before at Traquhair, where Hogg had joined us I seldom read or think of this poem without regretting that my dear Sister was not of the party, as she would have had so much delight in recalling the time when, travelling together in Scotland, we declined going in search of this celebrated stream, not altogether, I will frankly confess, for the reasons assigned in the poem on the occasion. (Wordsworth.) AND is this-Yarrow ?-This the Stream O that some Minstrel's harp were near, And chase this silence from the air, Yet why?-a silvery current flows Is visibly delighted; For not a feature of those hills A blue sky bends o'er Yarrow vale, Though not unwilling here to admit Where was it that the famous Flower Of Yarrow Vale lay bleeding? His bed perchance was yon smooth mound On which the herd is feeding: The Water-wraith ascended thrice- Delicious is the Lay that sings The path that leads them to the grove, The unconquerable strength of love; Bear witness, rueful Yarrow ! But thou, that didst appear so fair Dost rival in the light of day Meek loveliness is round thee spread, The grace of forest charms decayed, That region left, the vale unfolds Of cultivated nature; And, rising from those lofty groves, The shattered front of Newark's Towers, Fair scenes for childhood's opening bloom, For sportive youth to stray in ; Yon cottage seems a bower of bliss, Of tender thoughts, that nestle there- How sweet, on this autumnal day, And on my True-love's forehead plant The sober Hills thus deck their brows I see but not by sight alone, The vapors linger round the Heights, 1814. 1815. TO B. R. HAYDON B. R. Haydon, the painter, was for many years a friend of Wordsworth. On November 27, 1815, Haydon wrote: "I have benefited and have been supported in the troubles of life by your poetry. I will bear want, pain, misery, and blindness; but I will never yield one step I have gained on the road I am determined to travel over." Wordsworth's answer to this letter was the following sonnet. HIGH is our calling, Friend !—Creative Art (Whether the instrument of words she use, Or pencil pregnant with ethereal hues,) Demands the service of a mind and heart, Though sensitive, yet, in their weakest part, Heroically fashioned-to infuse Faith in the whispers of the lonely Muse, While the whole world seems adverse to desert. And, oh! when Nature sinks, as oft she may, Through long-lived pressure of obscure distress, Still to be strenuous for the bright reward, And in the soul admit of no decay, Brook no continuance of weak-mindedness Great is the glory, for the strife is hard! 1815. 1816. Yet will I temperately rejoice; Which, haply, kindred souls may prize For deathless powers to verse belong, But some their function have disclaimed, Best pleased with what is aptliest framed To enervate and defile. Not such the initiatory strains Trembled the groves, the stars grew pale, While all-too-daringly the veil Nor such the spirit-stirring note Woe! woe to Tyrants! from the lyre And not unhallowed was the page Love listening while the Lesbian Maid O ye, who patiently explore That were, indeed, a genuine birth 1819. 1820. AFTER-THOUGHT I THOUGHT of Thee, my partner and my guide, As being past away.-Vain sympathies! For, backward, Duddon, as I cast my eyes, |