William Wordsworth two selections

THE EXCURSION

BOOK FIRST:
THE WANDERER

          ...
            Such was the Boy--but for the growing Youth
          What soul was his, when, from the naked top
          Of some bold headland, he beheld the sun
          Rise up, and bathe the world in light! He looked--         200
          Ocean and earth, the solid frame of earth
          And ocean's liquid mass, in gladness lay
          Beneath him:--Far and wide the clouds were touched,
          And in their silent faces could he read
          Unutterable love. Sound needed none,
          Nor any voice of joy; his spirit drank
          The spectacle: sensation, soul, and form,
          All melted into him; they swallowed up
          His animal being; in them did he live,
          And by them did he live; they were his life.               210
          In such access of mind, in such high hour
          Of visitation from the living God,
          Thought was not; in enjoyment it expired.
          No thanks he breathed, he proffered no request;
          Rapt into still communion that transcends
          The imperfect offices of prayer and praise,
          His mind was a thanksgiving to the power
          That made him; it was blessedness and love!
          
            A Herdsman on the lonely mountain tops,
          Such intercourse was his, and in this sort                 220
          Was his existence oftentimes 'possessed'.
          O then how beautiful, how bright, appeared
          The written promise! Early had he learned
          To reverence the volume that displays
          The mystery, the life which cannot die;
          But in the mountains did he 'feel' his faith.
          All things, responsive to the writing, there
          Breathed immortality, revolving life,
          And greatness still revolving; infinite:
          There littleness was not; the least of things              230
          Seemed infinite; and there his spirit shaped
          Her prospects, nor did he believe,--he 'saw'.
          What wonder if his being thus became
          Sublime and comprehensive! Low desires,
          Low thoughts had there no place; yet was his heart
          Lowly; for he was meek in gratitude,
          Oft as he called those ecstasies to mind,
          And whence they flowed; and from them he acquired
          Wisdom, which works through patience; thence he learned
          In oft-recurring hours of sober thought                    240
          To look on Nature with a humble heart.
          Self-questioned where it did not understand,
          And with a superstitious eye of love....

GOODY BLAKE AND HARRY GILL

A TRUE STORY

          OH! what's the matter? what's the matter?
          What is't that ails young Harry Gill?
          That evermore his teeth they chatter,
          Chatter, chatter, chatter still!
          Of waistcoats Harry has no lack,
          Good duffle grey, and flannel fine;
          He has a blanket on his back,
          And coats enough to smother nine.

          In March, December, and in July,
          'Tis all the same with Harry Gill;                          10
          The neighbours tell, and tell you truly,
          His teeth they chatter, chatter still.
          At night, at morning, and at noon,
          'Tis all the same with Harry Gill;
          Beneath the sun, beneath the moon,
          His teeth they chatter, chatter still!

          Young Harry was a lusty drover,
          And who so stout of limb as he?
          His cheeks were red as ruddy clover;
          His voice was like the voice of three.                      20
          Old Goody Blake was old and poor;
          Ill fed she was, and thinly clad;
          And any man who passed her door
          Might see how poor a hut she had.

          All day she spun in her poor dwelling:
          And then her three hours' work at night,
          Alas! 'twas hardly worth the telling,
          It would not pay for candle-light.
          Remote from sheltered village-green,
          On a hill's northern side she dwelt,                        30
          Where from sea-blasts the hawthorns lean,
          And hoary dews are slow to melt.

          By the same fire to boil their pottage,
          Two poor old Dames, as I have known,
          Will often live in one small cottage;
          But she, poor Woman! housed alone.
          'Twas well enough when summer came,
          The long, warm, lightsome summer-day,
          Then at her door the 'canty' Dame
          Would sit, as any linnet, gay.                              40

          But when the ice our streams did fetter,
          Oh then how her old bones would shake!
          You would have said, if you had met her,
          'Twas a hard time for Goody Blake.
          Her evenings then were dull and dead:
          Sad case it was, as you may think,
          For very cold to go to bed;
          And then for cold not sleep a wink.

          O joy for her! whene'er in winter
          The winds at night had made a rout;                         50
          And scattered many a lusty splinter
          And many a rotten bough about.
          Yet never had she, well or sick,
          As every man who knew her says,
          A pile beforehand, turf or stick,
          Enough to warm her for three days.

          Now, when the frost was past enduring,
          And made her poor old bones to ache,
          Could any thing be more alluring
          Than an old hedge to Goody Blake?                           60
          And, now and then, it must be said,
          When her old bones were cold and chill,
          She left her fire, or left her bed,
          To seek the hedge of Harry Gill.

          Now Harry he had long suspected
          This trespass of old Goody Blake;
          And vowed that she should be detected--
          That he on her would vengeance take.
          And oft from his warm fire he'd go,
          And to the fields his road would take;                      70
          And there, at night, in frost and snow,
          He watched to seize old Goody Blake.

          And once, behind a rick of barley,
          Thus looking out did Harry stand:
          The moon was full and shining clearly,
          And crisp with frost the stubble land.
          --He hears a noise--he's all awake--
          Again?--on tip-toe down the hill
          He softly creeps--'tis Goody Blake;
          She's at the hedge of Harry Gill!                           80

          Right glad was he when he beheld her:
          Stick after stick did Goody pull:
          He stood behind a bush of elder,
          Till she had filled her apron full.
          When with her load she turned about,
          The by-way back again to take;
          He started forward, with a shout,
          And sprang upon poor Goody Blake.

          And fiercely by the arm he took her,
          And by the arm he held her fast,                            90
          And fiercely by the arm he shook her,
          And cried, "I've caught you then at last!"--
          Then Goody, who had nothing said,
          Her bundle from her lap let fall;
          And, kneeling on the sticks, she prayed
          To God that is the judge of all.

          She prayed, her withered hand uprearing,
          While Harry held her by the arm--
          "God! who art never out of hearing,
          O may he never more be warm!"                              100
          The cold, cold moon above her head,
          Thus on her knees did Goody pray;
          Young Harry heard what she had said:
          And icy cold he turned away.

          He went complaining all the morrow
          That he was cold and very chill:
          His face was gloom, his heart was sorrow,
          Alas! that day for Harry Gill!
          That day he wore a riding-coat,
          But not a whit the warmer he:                              110
          Another was on Thursday brought,
          And ere the Sabbath he had three.

          'Twas all in vain, a useless matter,
          And blankets were about him pinned;
          Yet still his jaws and teeth they clatter;
          Like a loose casement in the wind.
          And Harry's flesh it fell away;
          And all who see him say, 'tis plain,
          That, live as long as live he may,
          He never will be warm again.                               120

          No word to any man he utters,
          A-bed or up, to young or old;
          But ever to himself he mutters,
          "Poor Harry Gill is very cold."
          A-bed or up, by night or day;
          His teeth they chatter, chatter still.
          Now think, ye farmers all, I pray,
          Of Goody Blake and Harry Gill!
                                                              1798.