LINES ADDRESSED TO JOANNA H. FROM GWERNDWFFNANT IN JUNE 1826

By Dorothy Wordsworth[395]

A twofold harmony is here;

I listen with the bodily ear,

But dull and cheerless is the sound

Contrasted with the heart’s rebound.

Now at the close of fervid June, 5

Upon this breathless hazy noon,

I seek the deepest darkest shade

Within the covert of that glade,

Which you and I first named our own

When primroses were fully blown, 10

Oaks just were budding, and the grove

Rang with the gladdest songs of love.

Then did the Leader of the Band,

A gallant thrush, maintain his stand

Unshrouded from the eye of day 15

Upon yon Beech’s topmost spray.

Within the selfsame lofty tree

A thrush sings now—perchance ’tis he—

The lusty joyous gallant bird,

Which on that April morn we heard. 20

But oh! how different that voice

Which bade the very hills rejoice.

Through languid air, through leafy boughs

It falls, and can no echo rouse.

But on the workings of my heart 25

Doth memory act a busy part;

That jocund April morn lives there,

Its cheering sounds, its hues so fair.

Why mixes with remembrance blithe

What nothing but the restless scythe 30

Of Death can utterly destroy,

A heaviness, a dull alloy?

Ah Friend! thy heart can answer why.

Even then I heaved a bitter sigh,

No word of sorrow did’st thou speak, 35

But tears stole down thy tremulous cheek.

The wished for hour at length was come,

And thou had’st housed me in thy home,

On fair Gwerndwffnant’s billowy hill,

Had’st led me to its crystal rill, 40

And led me through the dingle deep

Up to the highest grassy steep,

The sheep walk where the snow-white lambs

Sported beside their quiet dams.

But thou wert destined to remove 45

From all these objects of thy love,

In this thy later day to roam

Far off, and seek another home.

Now thou art gone—belike ’tis best—

And I remain a passing guest, 50

Yet for thy sake, beloved Friend,

When from this spot my way shall tend,

And if my timid soul might dare

To shape the future in its prayer,

Then fervently would I entreat 55

Our gracious God to guide thy feet

Back to the peaceful sunny cot,

Where thou so oft hast blessed thy lot.

[395] I owe my knowledge of this and the following poem to the nephew of Mrs. Wordsworth, the Reverend Thomas Hutchinson of Kimbolton, Herefordshire, who wrote: “The two following poems were found among his papers on the demise of Mr. Monkhouse—a first cousin of Wordsworth; the first in the hand-writing of Wordsworth’s wife, and the second of her daughter.”—Ed.

HOLIDAY AT GWERNDWFFNANT, MAY 1826
IRREGULAR STANZAS

By Dorothy Wordsworth

You’re here for one long vernal day;

We’ll give it all to social play,

Though forty years have rolled away

Since we were young as you.

Then welcome to our spacious Hall! 5

Tom, Bessy, Mary, welcome all!

Though removed from busy men,

Yea lonesome as the foxes’ den,

’Tis a place for joyance fit,

For frolic games and inborn wit. 10

’Twas nature built this hall of ours;

She shap’d the bank; she framed the bowers

That close it all around;

From her we hold our precious right,

And here, thro’ live-long day and night, 15

She rules with modest sway.

Our carpet is our verdant sod;

A richer one was never trod

In prince’s proud saloon.

Purple, and gold, and spotless white, 20

And quivering shade, and sunny light,

Blend with the emerald green.

She opened for the mountain brook

A gentle winding pebbly way

Into this placid secret nook. 25

Its bell-like tinkling—list, you hear—

’Tis never loud, yet always clear

As linnet’s song in May.

And we have other music here:

A thousand songsters through the year 30

Dwell in these happy groves,

And in this season of their loves

They join their voices with the doves

To raise a perfect harmony.

Thus spake I while with sober pace 35

We slipped into that chosen place

And from the centre of our Hall

The young ones played around,

Then, like a flock of vigorous lambs,

That quit their grave and slow-paced dams 40

To frolic o’er the mead,

That innocent fraternal troop

Erewhile a steady listening group

Off starting—Girl and Boy

In gamesome race with agile bound 45

Beat o’er and o’er the grassy ground

As if in motion—perfect joy.

So vanishes my idle scheme

That we through this long vernal day,

Associates in their youthful play, 50

With them might travel in one stream.

Ah! how should we whose heads are grey?

Light was my heart, my spirits gay,

And fondly did I dream.

But now, recalled to consciousness, 55

With weight of years, of changed estate,

Thought is not needed to repress

Those shapeless fancies of delight

That flash before my dazzled sight

Upon this joy-devoted morn. 60

Gladly we seek the stillest nook

Whence we may read, as in a book,

A history of years gone by,

Recalled to faded memory’s eye

By bright reflection from the mirth 65

Of youthful hearts—a transient second-birth

Of our own childish days.

Pleasure unbidden is their guide

Their leader—faithful to their side

Prompting each wayward feat of strength: 70

The ambitious leap, the emulous race,

The startling shout, the mimic chase,

The simple half-disguisèd wile

Detected through the flattering smile.

A truce to this unbridled course 75

Doth intervene—no need of force.

We spread upon the flowery grass

The noontide meal—each lad and lass

Obeys the call—we form a Round,

And all are seated on the ground. 80

The sun’s meridian hour is passed,

Again begins the emulous race,

Again succeeds the sportive chase.

And thus was spent that vernal day,

Till twilight checked the noisy play; 85

Then did they feel a languor spread

Over their limbs, the beating tread

Was stilled—the busy throbbing heart—

And silently we all depart.

The shelter of our rustic cot 90

Receives us, and we envy not

The palace, or the stately dome;

But wish that all had such a home.

Each child repeats his nightly prayer

That God may bless their parents’ care 95

To guide them in the way of truth

Through helpless childhood, giddy youth.

The closing hymn of cheerful praise

Doth yet again their spirits raise;

But ’tis not now a thoughtless joy. 100

For tender parents, loving friends,

And all the gifts God’s blessing sends,

Feelingly do they bless his name.

That homage paid, the young retire

With no unsatisfied desire; 105

Theirs is one long, one steady sleep,

Till the sun, tip-toe on the steep

In front of our beloved cot,

Casts on the walls her brightest beams.

Within, a startling lustre streams. 110

They all awaken suddenly;

As at the touch of magic skill,

Or, as the pilgrim, at the bell

That summons him to matin-prayer.

And is it sorrow that they feel? 115

Nay! call it not by such a name,

The stroke of sadness that doth steal

With rapid motion through their hearts,

When comes the thought that yesterday

With all its joys is passed away, 120

The long expected happy day.

An instant—and all sadness goes;

Nor brighter looks the half-blown rose

Than does the countenance of each child

Whether of ardent soul or mild. 125

The hour was fixed—they are prepared—

And homeward now they must depart,

And after many a brisk adieu,

On pony trim, and fleet of limb,

Their bustling journey they pursue. 130

The fair-hair’d gentle quiet maid,

And she who is of daring mood,

The valiant and the timid Boy

Alike are ranged to hardihood;

And wheresoe’er the troop appear 135

They scatter smiles, a hearty cheer

Comes from both old and young,

And blessings fall from many a tongue.

They reach the dear paternal roof,

Nor dread a cold or stern reproof, 140

While they pour forth the history

Of three days’ mirth and revelry.

Ah! Children, happy is your lot,

Still bound together in one knot

Beneath your tender mother’s eye! 145

Too soon these blessed days shall fly,

And brothers shall from sisters part;

And, trust me, whatsoe’er your doom,

Whate’er betide through years to come,

The punctual pleasures of your home 150

Shall linger in your thoughts,

More clear than any future hope

Though fancy take her freest scope.

For oh! too soon your hearts shall own

The past is all that is your own. 155

And every day of festival

Gratefully shall ye then recal,

Less for their own sakes than for this,

That each shall be a resting-place

For memory, and divide the race 160

Of childhood’s smooth and happy years,

Thus lengthening out that term of life

Which governed by your parents’ care

Is free from sorrow and from strife.