Poems Written 1798-1799 by William Wordsworth

Source of book: I own the complete Wordsworth

 

Since I last wrote about Wordsworth, I exchanged my paperback version for a hardback. Both, however, are the “Cambridge Edition” by Houghton Mifflin, and are - conveniently - laid out the same way. I have a few of these editions, both in paper and hardback, and have mixed feelings about them, in part because they vary a lot. Some are organized by original collection, such as James Russell Lowell. Others, like this one, are the poems in chronological order of writing by year. I find this irritating because, on the one hand, as much as I enjoy Wordsworth, the prospect of reading all 800+ pages at once is unappealing; and on the other, finding an arbitrary place to stop is difficult. In this case, I decided to read two years worth, which is about 50 pages of double-column small print, about the equivalent of 100 pages in a normal poetry book. Since I read the early poems through 1787 last time, continuing where I left off seemed logical. 

Wordsworth around the time these were written. 

He definitely got more attractive later in life. 

While I wasn’t particularly familiar with the early poems, the ones written in these years are better known. By 1798, Wordsworth was 27, and working on a joint volume of poetry with Samuel Taylor Coleridge, entitled Lyrical Ballads. This was a success, and established both of their careers - and in the process, kicked off the Romantic movement in poetry. 

 

As the name would imply, many of the poems are lyrical ballads, with stories about rural England and its inhabitants. Unlike prior eras of poetry, which used exalted language to tell of the gods and heroes, Romantic poetry uses ordinary (for its time) language to tell of common people and their lives. 

 

It was also in this period that Wordsworth wrote his series of “Lucy” poems. Feel free to go down the rabbit hole of who “Lucy” might have been - most of the theories seem to be a real stretch. I tend to agree with the school of thought that has concluded that the Lucy of the poems is more of a poetic ideal than any one real person. 

 

While I had previously read most of the Lucy series, I was not familiar with the “Matthew” series, a set of poems about a beloved schoolmaster. These were probably based in part on Wordsworth’s teacher, William Taylor, but are clearly not strictly about him, as Taylor died young while “Matthew” lives at least into his 70s in the poems. I enjoyed these poems quite a bit, with their description of a man who instilled a love of learning, nature, and kindness in his students. 

There are also, of course, some long and tragic stories, because this is that particular era. 

Here are the poems that stood out to me this time. 

First, I have to mention “Lines Written a Few Miles above Tinturn Abbey,” which has long been a favorite of mine. It is too long to quote, but as a blank verse musing - almost a dramatic monologue - it spoke to me as a youth, and again in middle age. The idea of looking back on what one was, and recognizing growth and change while feeling the same thrill of a beautiful place in nature resonates as much now as it did then. 

Next up is this one, which I consider one of the finest nature poems Wordsworth wrote. 

 

A Night-Piece

 

———The sky is overcast

With a continuous cloud of texture close,

Heavy and wan, all whitened by the Moon,

Which through that veil is indistinctly seen,

A dull, contracted circle, yielding light

So feebly spread, that not a shadow falls,

Chequering the ground—from rock, plant, tree, or tower.

At length a pleasant instantaneous gleam

Startles the pensive traveller while he treads

His lonesome path, with unobserving eye

Bent earthwards; he looks up—the clouds are split

Asunder,—and above his head he sees

The clear Moon, and the glory of the heavens.

There, in a black-blue vault she sails along,

Followed by multitudes of stars, that, small

And sharp, and bright, along the dark abyss

Drive as she drives: how fast they wheel away,

Yet vanish not!—the wind is in the tree,

But they are silent;—still they roll along

Immeasurably distant; and the vault,

Built round by those white clouds, enormous clouds,

Still deepens its unfathomable depth.

At length the Vision closes; and the mind,

Not undisturbed by the delight it feels,

Which slowly settles into peaceful calm,

Is left to muse upon the solemn scene.

 

It is an experience I have had, but told in a lovely poetic way. 

On a more philosophical note, I read the next one years ago, but forgot just how fascinating it is. 

 

Lines Written in Early Spring

 

I heard a thousand blended notes,

While in a grove I sate reclined,

In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts

Bring sad thoughts to the mind.

 

To her fair works did Nature link

The human soul that through me ran;

And much it grieved my heart to think

What man has made of man.

 

Through primrose tufts, in that green bower,

The periwinkle trailed its wreaths;

And ’tis my faith that every flower

Enjoys the air it breathes.

 

The birds around me hopped and played,

Their thoughts I cannot measure:—

But the least motion which they made

It seemed a thrill of pleasure.

 

The budding twigs spread out their fan,

To catch the breezy air;

And I must think, do all I can,

That there was pleasure there.

 

If this belief from heaven be sent,

If such be Nature’s holy plan,

Have I not reason to lament

What man has made of man?

 

Wordsworth wrote at the dawn of the Industrial Revolution, and his words seem even more relevant today. What man has made of man indeed.

I’d also like to mention the longer ballad, “Peter Bell,” which tells of an old and unpleasant man who one day discovers a donkey grieving its dead master, who has drowned in a river. This sight, and the effect that Peter’s sad news gives to the decedent’s family, ends up changing him for the better. There is one line that was particularly brilliant. 

 

"A Potter, Sir, he was by trade,"

Said I, becoming quite collected;

"And wheresoever he appeared,

Full twenty times was Peter feared

For once that Peter was respected. 

 

I expect we all can think of plenty who are far more feared than respected. 

Another poem that had an interesting stanza was this one, itself an excerpt from a series of essays and articles that Wordsworth and Coleridge wrote together over a number of years. The poem itself is entitled “Influence of Natural Objects,” but it is the opening that I loved the most. 

 

Wisdom and Spirit of the universe!

Thou Soul, that art the Eternity of thought!

And giv'st to forms and images a breath

And everlasting motion! not in vain,

By day or star-light, thus from my first dawn

Of childhood didst thou intertwine for me

The passions that build up our human soul;

Not with the mean and vulgar works of Man;

But with high objects, with enduring things,

With life and nature; purifying thus

The elements of feeling and of thought,

And sanctifying by such discipline

Both pain and fear,—until we recognize

A grandeur in the beatings of the heart. 

 

A grandeur in the beatings of the heart. Building up our human soul, not with the mean and vulgar works of man, but with the enduring things of nature and aspiration. 

I should also quote a Lucy poem. I first experienced this one as a child. 

 

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 shining 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! 

 

I’ll end with an unusual poem, which Wordsworth wrote in Germany on what he described in the subtitle as a very cold day. He explains in a note that the wood stoves in Germany often have a figure of a galloping horse engraved - the Brunswick Arms. 

 

Written in Germany

On One of the Coldest Days of the Century

 

A fig for your languages, German and Norse!

Let me have the song of the Kettle;

And the tongs and the poker, instead of that Horse

That gallops away with such fury and force

On this dreary dull plate of black metal.

 

Our earth is no doubt made of excellent stuff;

But her pulses beat slower and slower:

The weather in Forty was cutting and rough,

And then, as Heaven knows, the Glass stood low enough;

And now it is four degrees lower.

 

Here's a Fly, a disconsolate creature,—perhaps

A child of the field, or the grove;

And, sorrow for him! this dull treacherous heat

Has seduced the poor fool from his winter retreat,

And he creeps to the edge of my stove.

 

Alas! how he fumbles about the domains

Which this comfortless oven environ!

He cannot find out in what track he must crawl,

Now back to the tiles, and now back to the wall,

And now on the brink of the iron.

 

Stock-still there he stands like a traveller bemazed;

The best of his skill he has tried;

His feelers methinks I can see him put forth

To the East and the West, and the South and the North;

But he finds neither Guide-post nor Guide.

 

See! his spindles sink under him, foot, leg and thigh;

His eye-sight and hearing are lost;

Between life and death his blood freezes and thaws;

And his two pretty pinions of blue dusky gauze

Are glued to his sides by the frost.

 

No Brother, no Friend has he near him—while I

Can draw warmth from the cheek of my Love;

As blest and as glad in this desolate gloom,

As if green summer grass were the floor of my room,

And woodbines were hanging above.

 

Yet, God is my witness, thou small helpless Thing!

Thy life I would gladly sustain

Till summer comes up from the South, and with crowds

Of thy brethren a march thou shouldst sound through the clouds,

And back to the forests again.

 

That picture of the poor unwanted fly, trying to find the balance between freezing and boiling is unexpected and well drawn. 

I wonder sometimes if I am the only person left who enjoys Wordsworth. I hope not, because I think his poems are delightful to read aloud, filled with a love of nature and life, and show a power of observation that few seem to have.