Lyrics of the XIXth Century.

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.

1770-1850.

INVOCATION.

TO THE POWER OF SOUND.

Thy functions are ethereal,

As if within thee dwelt a glancing mind,
Organ of Vision! And a Spirit aèrial
Informs the cell of Hearing, dark and blind:
Intricate labyrinth, more dread for thought
To enter than oracular cave:

Strict passage, through which sighs are brought,
And whispers for the heart, their slave;

And shrieks that revel in abuse

Of shivering flesh; and warbled air,
Whose piercing sweetness can unloose
The chains of frenzy or entice a smile

Into the ambush of despair;

Hozannas pealing down the long-drawn aisle ;
And requiems answer'd by the pulse that beats
Devoutly in life's last retreats.

The headlong streams and fountains

Serve thee! Invisible Spirit! with untired powers:
Cheering the wakeful tent on Syrian mountains,
They lull perchance ten thousand thousand flowers.
That roar, the prowling lion's "Here I am!"

How fearful to the desert wide!

That bleat, how tender! of the dam
Calling a straggler to her side.
Shout, cuckoo ! let the vernal soul
Go with thee to the frozen zone;

Toll from thy loftiest perch, lone bell-bird! toll,
At the still hour to Mercy dear :

Mercy from her twilight throne

Listening to nun's faint throb of holy fear,

To sailor's prayer breathed from a darkening sea,
Or widow's cottage-lullaby.

Ye Voices! and ye Shadows

And Images of Voice, to hound and horn

From rocky steep and rock-bestudded meadows
Flung back and in the sky's blue caves reborn!
On with your pastime, till the church-tower bells
A greeting give of measured glee ;
And milder Echoes from their cells
Repeat the bridal symphony.

Then, or far earlier, let us rove

Where mists are breaking up or gone,
And from aloft look down into a cove
Besprinkled with a careless quire :
Happy milkmaids, one by one
Scattering a ditty each to her desire,—

A liquid concert matchless by nice art,
A stream as if from one full heart.

Bless'd be the song that brightens

The blind man's gloom, exalts the veteran's mirth!

Unscorn'd the peasant's whistling breath that lightens

His duteous toil of furrowing the green earth!

For the tired slave Song lifts the languid oar,

And bids it aptly fall, with chime
That beautifies the fairest shore
And mitigates the harshest clime.
Yon pilgrims see !—in lagging file

They move; but soon the appointed way
A choral" Avè, Marie !" shall beguile,
And to their hope the distant shrine

Glisten with a livelier ray.

Nor friendless he, the prisoner of the mine,

Who from the well-spring of his own clear breast
Can draw, and sing his griefs to rest.

When civic renovation

Dawns on a kingdom, and for needful haste

Best eloquence avails not, Inspiration
Mounts with a tune that travels like a blast,
Piping through cave and battlemented tower:
Then starts the sluggard, pleased to meet
That voice of Freedom in its power

Of promises, shrill, wild and sweet.
Who from a martial pageant spreads

Incitements of a battle-day,

Thrilling the unweapon'd crowd with plumeless heads?

Even She whose Lydian airs inspire

Peaceful striving, gentle play

Of timid hope and innocent desire

Shot from the dancing Graces as they move

Fann'd by the plausive wings of Love.

How oft along thy mazes,

Regent of Sound! have dangerous passions trod.

O thou! through whom the temple rings with praises, And blackening clouds in thunder speak of God,

Betray not by the cozenage of sense

Thy votaries, wooingly resign'd

To a voluptuous influence

That taints the purer, better mind;

But lead sick Fancy to a harp

That hath in noble tasks been tried!

And, if the virtuous feel a pang too sharp,

Soothe it into patience!—stay

The uplifted arm of Suicide;

And let some mood of thine in firm array

Knit every thought the impending issue needs, Ere martyr burns or patriot bleeds!

As Conscience to the centre

Of Being smites with irresistible pain,
So shall a solemn cadence, if it enter
The mouldy vaults of the dull idiot's brain,
Transmute him to a wretch from quiet hurl'd,
Convulsed as by a jarring din;
And then aghast, as at the world
Of reason partially let in

By concords winding with a sway
Terrible for sense and soul:

Or awed he weeps, struggling to quell dismay.
Point not these mysteries to an art,

Lodged above the starry pole?

Pure modulations flowing from the heart

Of Divine Love, where Wisdom, Beauty, Truth, With Order, dwell in endless youth.

Oblivion may not cover

All treasures hoarded by the miser Time.
Orphean Insight! Truth's undaunted lover,
To the first leagues of tutor'd passion climb,
When Music deign'd within this grosser sphere
Her subtle essence to enfold,

And voice and shell drew forth a tear
Softer than Nature's self could mould.
Yet strenuous was the infant age:
Art, daring because souls could feel,
Stirr'd nowhere but an urgent equipage
Of rapt imagination sped her march
Through the realms of woe and weal :
Hell to the lyre bow'd low; the upper arch
Rejoiced that clamorous spell and magic verse
Her wan disasters could disperse.

The Gift to King Amphion,

That wall'd a city with its melody,

Was for belief no dream. Thy skill, Arion!
Could humanize the creatures of the sea,

Where men were monsters: a last grace he craves,
Leave for one chant; the dulcet sound
Steals from the deck o'er willing waves,
And listening dolphins gather round;
Self-cast, as with a desperate course
'Mid that strange audience, he bestrides
A proud One docile as a managed horse,
And singing, while the accordant hand
Sweeps his harp, the Master rides ;

So shall he touch at length a friendly strand,
And he with his preserver shine star-bright
In memory, through silent night.

The pipe of Pan to shepherds

Couch'd in the shadow of Mænalian pines
Was passing sweet; the eyeballs of the leopards
That in high triumph drew the Lord of Vines,
How did they sparkle to the cymbals' clang!
While Fauns and Satyrs beat the ground
In cadence, and Silenus swang

This way and that, with wild-flowers crown'd.
To life, to life give back thine ear!
Ye, who are longing to be rid

Of fable though to truth subservient! hear
The little sprinkling of cold earth that fell
Echoed from the coffin-lid;

The convict's summons in the steeple's knell ;
The vain distress-gun, from a leeward shore
Repeated, heard,—and heard no more.

For terror, joy, or pity,

Vast is the compass and the swell of notes:

From the babe's first cry to voice of regal city