the poetic interpreter, and, as such, refiner as well as embalmer, of the wit and merriment of the common people: the writer by whom that title is to be won is yet to arise, and probably from among the people themselves: but of whatever is more tender or more thoughtful in the spirit of ordinary life in England the poetry of Wordsworth is the truest and most comprehensive transcript we possess. Many of his verses, embodying as they do the philosophy as well as the sentiment of this every-day human experience, have a completeness and impressiveness, as of texts, mottoes, proverbs, the force of which is universally felt, and has already worked them into the texture and substance of the language to a far greater extent, we apprehend, than has happened in the case of any contemporary writer. Wordsworth, though only a few years deceased, for he survived till 1850, nearly sixty years after the publication of his first poetry, is already a classic; and, extensively as he is now read and appreciated, any review of our national literature would be very incomplete without at least a few extracts from his works illustrative of the various styles in which he has written. As a specimen of what may be called his more peculiar manner, or that which is or used to be more especially understood by the style of the Lake School of poetry, we will begin with the well-known verses entitled The Fountain, a Conversation, which, in his own classification, are included among what he designates Poems of Sentiment and Reflection, and are stated to have been composed in 1799: We walked with open heart, and tongue Affectionate and true, A pair of friends, though I was young, We lay beneath a spreading oak, Beside a mossy seat; And from the turf a fountain broke, And gurgled at our feet. "Now, Matthew!" said I, "let us match This water's pleasant tune With some old Border-song, or catch Or of the church-clock and the chimes "No check, no stay, this streamlet fears; How merrily it goes! "Twill murmur on a thousand years, And here, on this delightful day, My eyes are dim with childish tears, Thus fares it still in our decay: Mourns less for what age takes away Than what it leaves behind. The blackbird amid leafy trees, The lark above the hill, Let loose their carols when they please, With nature never do they wage A happy youth, and their old age But we are pressed by heavy laws; If there be one who need bemoan His kindred laid in earth, The household hearts that were his own, It is the man of mirth. My days, my friend, are almost gone, My life has been approved, And many love me; but by none Am I enough beloved." "Now, both himself and me he wrongs, The man who thus complains! I live and sing my idle songs And, Matthew, for thy children dead At this he grasped my hand, and said, "Alas! that cannot be !" We rose up from the fountain-side; And, ere we came to Leonard's Rock, And the bewildered chimes. The following, entitled The Affliction of Margaret, dated 1804, and classed among the Poems founded on the Affections, is more impassioned, but still essentially in the same style : Where art thou, my beloved son, To have despaired, have hoped, believed, He was among the prime in worth, If things ensued that wanted grace, Ah! little doth the young one dream, Neglect me! no, I suffered long My son, if thou be humbled, poor, Alas! the fowls of heaven have wings, Perhaps some dungeon hears thee groan, Or hast been summoned to the deep, I look for ghosts; but none will force Beyond participation lie I have no other earthly friend! Here is another from the same class, and still in the same style, dated 1798. The verses are very beautiful; they bear some resemblance to the touching old Scotch ballad called Lady Anna Bothwell's Lament, beginning Balow, my boy, lie still and sleep; It grieves me sair to see thee weep of which there is a copy in Percy's Reliques, and others, differing considerably from that, in other collections: : Her eyes are wild, her head is bare, And she came far from over the main. Or else she were alone: And underneath the haystack warm, "Sweet babe, they say that I am mad, A fire was once within my brain; Oh! love me, love me, little boy! |