The Hundred Best English Poems Part 21

EDMUND WALLER.

91. _On a Girdle._

That which her slender waist confined, Shall now my joyful temples bind: No monarch but would give his crown, His arms might do what this has done.

It was my heaven's extremest sphere, The pale which held that lovely deer.

My joy, my grief, my hope, my love, Did all within this circle move!

A narrow compa.s.s! and yet there Dwelt all that's good, and all that's fair: Give me but what this ribbon bound, Take all the rest the sun goes round.

92. _Song._

Go, lovely Rose!

Tell her that wastes her time and me, That now she knows, When I resemble her to thee, How sweet and fair she seems to be.

Tell her that's young, And shuns to have her graces spied, That hadst thou sprung In deserts, where no men abide, Thou must have uncommended died.

Small is the worth Of beauty from the light retired: Bid her come forth, Suffer herself to be desired, And not blush so to be admired.

Then die! that she The common fate of all things rare May read in thee, How small a part of time they share That are so wondrous sweet and fair!

_1822 Edition._

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.

93. _She dwelt among the untrodden ways_

She dwelt among the untrodden ways Beside the springs of Dove, A Maid whom there were none to praise And very few to love:

A violet by a mossy stone Half hidden from the eye!

--Fair as a star, when only one Is s.h.i.+ning in the sky.

She lived unknown, and few could know When Lucy ceased to be; But she is in her grave, and, oh, The difference to me!

94. _She was a Phantom of delight_

She was a Phantom of delight When first she gleamed upon my sight; A lovely Apparition, sent To be a moment's ornament; Her eyes as stars of Twilight fair; Like Twilight's, too, her dusky hair; But all things else about her drawn From May-time and the cheerful Dawn; A dancing Shape, an Image gay, To haunt, to startle, and way-lay.

I saw her upon nearer view, A Spirit, yet a Woman too!

Her household motions light and free, And steps of virgin-liberty; A countenance in which did meet Sweet records, promises as sweet; A Creature not too bright or good For human nature's daily food; For transient sorrows, simple wiles, Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles.

And now I see with eye serene The very pulse of the machine; A Being breathing thoughtful breath, A Traveller between life and death; The reason firm, the temperate will, Endurance, foresight, strength, and skill; A perfect Woman, n.o.bly planned, To warn, to comfort, and command; And yet a Spirit still, and bright With something of angelic light.

95. _Sonnets._

PART I.--x.x.xIII.

The world is too much with us; late and soon, Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers: Little we see in Nature that is ours; We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon!

This Sea that bares her bosom to the moon; The winds that will be howling at all hours, And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers; For this, for everything, we are out of tune; It moves us not.--Great G.o.d! I'd rather be A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn; So might I, standing on this pleasant lea, Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn; Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea; Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn.

96. PART II.--x.x.xVI.

_Composed upon Westminster Bridge, September 3, 1802._

Earth has not anything to show more fair: Dull would be he of soul who could pa.s.s by A sight so touching in its majesty: This City now doth, like a garment, wear The beauty of the morning; silent, bare, s.h.i.+ps, towers, domes, theatres, and temples lie Open unto the fields, and to the sky; All bright and glittering in the smokeless air.

Never did sun more beautifully steep In his first splendour, valley, rock, or hill; Ne'er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep!

The river glideth at his own sweet will: Dear G.o.d! the very houses seem asleep; And all that mighty heart is lying still!

97. _To a Highland Girl, at Inversneyde, upon Loch Lomond._

Sweet Highland Girl, a very shower Of beauty is thy earthly dower!

Twice seven consenting years have shed Their utmost bounty on thy head: And these gray rocks; that household lawn; Those trees, a veil just half withdrawn; This fall of water that doth make A murmur near the silent lake; This little bay; a quiet road That holds in shelter thy Abode-- In truth together do ye seem Like something fas.h.i.+oned in a dream; Such Forms as from their covert peep When earthly cares are laid asleep!

But, O fair Creature! in the light Of common day, so heavenly bright, I bless Thee, Vision as thou art, I bless thee with a human heart; G.o.d s.h.i.+eld thee to thy latest years!

Thee, neither know I, nor thy peers; And yet my eyes are filled with tears.

With earnest feeling I shall pray For thee when I am far away: For never saw I mien, or face, In which more plainly I could trace Benignity and home-bred sense Ripening in perfect innocence.

Here scattered, like a random seed, Remote from men, Thou dost not need The embarra.s.sed look of shy distress, And maidenly shamefacedness: Thou wear'st upon thy forehead clear The freedom of a Mountaineer: A face with gladness overspread!

Soft smiles, by human kindness bred!

And seemliness complete, that sways Thy courtesies, about thee plays; With no restraint, but such as springs From quick and eager visitings Of thoughts that lie beyond the reach Of thy few words of English speech: A bondage sweetly brooked, a strife That gives thy gestures grace and life!

So have I, not unmoved in mind, Seen birds of tempest-loving kind-- Thus beating up against the wind.

What hand but would a garland cull For thee who art so beautiful.

O happy pleasure! here to dwell Beside thee in some heathy dell; Adopt your homely ways, and dress, A Shepherd, thou a Shepherdess!

But I could frame a wish for thee More like a grave reality: Thou art to me but as a wave Of the wild sea; and I would have Some claim upon thee, if I could, Though but of common neighbourhood.

What joy to hear thee, and to see!

Thy elder Brother I would be, Thy Father--anything to thee!

Now thanks to Heaven! that of its grace Hath led me to this lonely place.

Joy have I had; and going hence I bear away my recompense.

In spots like these it is we prize Our Memory, feel that she hath eyes: Then, why should I be loth to stir?

I feel this place was made for her; To give new pleasure like the past, Continued long as life shall last.

Nor am I loth, though pleased at heart, Sweet Highland Girl! from thee to part; For I, methinks, till I grow old, As fair before me shall behold, As I do now, the cabin small, The lake, the bay, the waterfall; And Thee, the Spirit of them all!

98. _The Solitary Reaper._