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ON THE DEATH OF HIS MAJESTY (GEORGE THE THIRD) 573

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This Rill trickles down the hill-side into Windermere, near Lowwood. My sister and I, on our first visit together to this part of the country, walked from Kendal, and we rested to refresh ourselves by the side of the lake where the streamlet falls into it. This sonnet was written some years after in recollection of that happy ramble, that most happy day and hour.

THERE is a little unpretending Rill

Of limpid water, humbler far than aught That ever among Men or Naiads sought Notice or name! It quivers down the hill,

Furrowing its shallow way with dubious

will;

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COMPOSED ON THE BANKS OF A ROCKY STREAM

1820. 1820

DOGMATIC Teachers, of the snow-white fur!

Ye wrangling Schoolmen, of the scarlet hood!

Who, with a keenness not to be withstood, Press the point home, or falter and demur, Checked in your course by many a teasing burr;

These natural council-seats your acrid blood Might cool; and, as the Genius of the flood

Stoops willingly to animate and spur Each lighter function slumbering in the brain,

Yon eddying balls of foam, these arrowy gleams

That o'er the pavement of the surging

streams

Welter and flash, a synod might detain
With subtle speculations, haply vain,
But surely less so than your far-fetched
themes !

ON THE DEATH OF HIS MAJESTY (GEORGE THE THIRD)

1820. 1820

WARD of the LAW!-dread Shadow of a King!

Whose realm had dwindled to one stately

room;

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Gently hast sunk into the quiet tomb, Why should we bend in grief, to sorrow cling,

When thankfulness were best? - Freshflowing tears,

Or, where tears flow not, sigh succeeding sigh,

Yield to such after-thought the sole reply Which justly it can claim. The Nation

hears

In this deep knell, silent for threescore

years,

An unexampled voice of awful memory!

574 "THE STARS ARE MANSIONS BUILT BY NATURE'S HAND"

"THE STARS ARE MANSIONS BUILT BY NATURE'S HAND" 1820. 1820

THE stars are mansions built by Nature's hand,

And, haply, there the spirits of the blest Dwell, clothed in radiance, their immortal vest;

Huge Ocean shows, within his yellow strand,
A habitation marvellously planned,
For life to occupy in love and rest;
All that we see is dome, or vault, or nest,
Or fortress, reared at Nature's sage com-
mand.

Glad thought for every season! but the
Spring

Gave it while cares were weighing on my heart,

'Mid song of birds, and insects murmur

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ON THE DETRACTION WHICH FOLLOWED THE PUBLICATION OF A CERTAIN POEM

1820. 1820

See Milton's Sonnet, beginning, "A Book was writ of late called 'Tetrachordon."

A Book came forth of late, called Peter BELL;

Not negligent the style; - the matter?good

As aught that song records of Robin Hood; Or Roy, renowned through many a Scottish dell;

But some (who brook those hackneyed themes full well,

Nor heat, at Tam o' Shanter's name, their blood)

Waxed wroth, and with foul claws, a harpy brood,

On Bard and Hero clamorously fell. Heed not, wild Rover once through heath and glen,

Who mad'st at length the better life thy choice,

Heed not such onset! nay, if praise of men To thee appear not an unmeaning voice, Lift up that grey-haired forehead, and rejoice In the just tribute of thy Poet's pen!

OXFORD, MAY 30, 1820
1820. 1820

YE sacred Nurseries of blooming Youth!
In whose collegiate shelter England's
Flowers

Expand, enjoying through their vernal hours The air of liberty, the light of truth; Much have ye suffered from Time's gnawing tooth:

Yet, O ye spires of Oxford! domes and towers!

Gardens and groves! your presence overpowers

The soberness of reason; till, in sooth, Transformed, and rushing on a bold exchange,

I slight my own beloved Cam, to range
Where silver Isis leads my stripling feet;
Pace the long avenue, or glide adown
The stream-like windings of that glorious

street

An eager Novice robed in fluttering gown!

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JUNE 1820

1820. 1820

FAME tells of groves-from England far

away

Groves that inspire the Nightingale to trill
And modulate, with subtle reach of skill
Elsewhere unmatched, her ever-varying
lay;

Such bold report I venture to gainsay:
For I have heard the quire of Richmond
hill

Chanting, with indefatigable bill,

Strains that recalled to mind a distant day;

When, haply under shade of that same
wood,

And scarcely conscious of the dashing oars
Plied steadily between those willowy shores,
The sweet-souled Poet of the Seasons
stood -

Listening, and listening long, in rapturous
mood,

Ye heavenly Birds! to your Progenitors.

MEMORIALS OF A TOUR ON THE CONTINENT

1820. 1822

I set out in company with my Wife and Sister, and Mr. and Mrs. Monkhouse, then just married, and Miss Horrocks. These two ladies, sisters, we left at Berne, while Mr. Monkhouse took the opportunity of making an excursion with us among the Alps as far as Milan. Mr. H. C. Robinson joined us at Lucerne, and when this ramble was completed we rejoined at Geneva the two ladies we had left at Berne and proceeded to Paris, where Mr. Monkhouse and H. C. R. left us, and where we spent five weeks, of which there is not a record in these poems.

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DEAR Fellow-travellers! think not that the Muse,
To You presenting these memorial Lays,
Can hope the general eye thereon would gaze,
As on a mirror that gives back the hues
Of living Nature; no-though free to choose
The greenest bowers, the most inviting ways,
The fairest landscapes and the brightest days –
Her skill she tried with less ambitious views.
For You she wrought: Ye only can supply
The life, the truth, the beauty: she confides
In that enjoyment which with You abides,
Trusts to your love and vivid memory;
Thus far contented, that for You her verse
Shall lack not power the "meeting soul to pierce!"
W. WORDSWORTH.

RYDAL MOUNT, Nov. 1821.

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BETWEEN NAMUR AND LIEGE

1820. 1822

The scenery on the Meuse pleases me more, upon the whole, than that of the Rhine, though the river itself is much inferior in grandeur. The rocks both in form and colour, especially between Namur and Liege, surpass any upon the Rhine, though they are in several places disfigured by quarries, whence stones were taken for the new fortifications. This is much to be regretted, for they are useless, and the scars will remain perhaps for thousands of years. A like injury to a still greater degree has been inflicted, in my memory, upon the beautiful rocks of Clifton on the banks of the Avon. There is probably in existence a very long letter of mine to Sir Uvedale Price, in which was given a description of the landscapes on the Meuse as compared with those on the Rhine.

Details in the spirit of these sonnets are given both in Mrs. Wordsworth's Journals and my Sister's, and the re-perusal of them has

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