TO A LADY. IN ANSWER TO A REQUEST THAT I WOULD WRITE HER A POEM UPON SOME DRAWINGS THAT SHE HAD MADE OF FLOWERS IN THE ISLAND OF MADEIRA. FAIR Lady! can I sing of flowers That in Madeira bloom and fade, I who ne'er sate within their bowers, Nor through their sunny lawns have strayed? How they in sprightly dance are worn By Shepherd-groom or May-day queen, Or holy festal pomps adorn, These eyes have never seen. Yet though to me the pencil's art Still as we look with nicer care, Some new resemblance we may trace; A Speedwell may not want its place. From earth to heaven with motion fleet pass, A Holy-thistle here we meet, And there a Shepherd's weather-glass; And haply some familiar name Shall grace the fairest, sweetest plant Whose presence cheers the drooping frame Of English Emigrant. Gazing she feels its power beguile Sad thoughts, and breathes with easier breath; Alas! that meek, that tender smile Is but a harbinger of death: And pointing with a feeble hand She says, in faint words by sighs broken, Bear for me to my native land This precious Flower, true love's last token. TO ROBERT SOUTHEY, ESQ., P. L., ETC. ETC. MY DEAR FRIEND, The Tale of Peter Bell, which I now introduce to your notice, and to that of the Public, has, in its manuscript state, nearly survived its minority-for it first saw the light in the summer of 1798. During this long interval, pains have been taken at different times to make the production less unworthy of a favorable reception; or, rather, to fit it for filling permanently a station, however humble, in the Literature of our country. This has, indeed, been the aim of all my endeavors in Poetry, which, you know, have been sufficiently laborious to prove that I deem the Art not lightly to be approached; and that the attainment of excellence in it, may laudably be made the principal object of intellectual pursuit by any man, who, with reasonable consideration of circumstances, has faith in his own impulses. The Poem of Peter Bell, as the Prologue will show, was composed under a belief that the Imagination not only does not require for its exercise the intervention of supernatural agency, but that, though such agency be excluded, the faculty may be called forth as imperiously and for kindred results of pleasure, by incidents, within the compass of poetic probability, in the humblest departments of daily life. Since that Prologue was written, you have exhibited most splendid effects of judicious daring, in the opposite and usual course. Let this acknowledgment make my peace with the lovers of the supernatural; and I am persuaded it will be admitted, that to you, as a Master in that province of the art, the following Tale, whether from contrast or congruity, is not an unappropriate offering. Accept it, then, as a public testimony of affectionate admiration from one with whose name yours has been often coupled (to use your own words) for evil and for good; and believe me to be, with earnest wishes that life and health may be granted you to complete the many important works in which you are engaged, and with high respect, Most faithfully yours, RYDAL MOUNT, April 7, 1819. WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. PROLOGUE. THE HERE'S something in a flying horse, There's something in a huge balloon; But through the clouds I'll never float Until I have a little Boat, For shape just like the crescent-moon. And now I have a little Boat, In shape a very crescent-moon: Fast through the clouds my boat can sail; The woods, my Friends, are round you roaring, Rocking and roaring like a sea; The noise of danger 's in your ears, And ye have all a thousand fears Both for my little Boat and me! Meanwhile untroubled I admire Away we go, my Boat and I- Away we go-and what care we Up goes my Boat among the stars The Crab, the Scorpion, and the Bull, The towns in Saturn are decayed, And melancholy Spectres throng them;— The Pleiads, that appear to kiss Each other in the vast abyss, With joy I sail among them. Swift Mercury resounds with mirth, Then back to Earth, the dear green The world for my remarks and me Earth: See! there she is, the matchless Earth! Yon tawny slip is Libya's sands; That silver thread the river Dnieper; And look, where clothed in brightest green Is a sweet Isle, of isles the Queen; And see the town where I was born! Never did fifty things at once |