, : , , , . , , . , , , , . , : "". , , , , . , . , , . : , , , , , , , , " ". , , , . 17 1799 . , - ( ), , . : , , . . , , . , , , : " , - ". , 1805 . , , . " , - " ", 6 1805 .". , , , , . " " , , , , " " . , , , - , . 1800 . , " ", "". : , , , , : "". , " " (The Idle Shepherd-Boys), : , , , , , , , . , . XVIII . , , , "" , , . , , , . , , ? , , . , , , , . ; " ", , , . , , . - , , , . , , . , , , , ? , , - , . 1802 . . , {The Love Letters of William and Mary Wordsworth. Ed. by Belt Darlington. Ithaka (N. Y.), 1981.}. , , . 1803 1810 . ; . " . X." " ", "Let other bards of angels sing...", , : " dearer far than light and life are dear..." "How rich that forehead's calm expance...", . 1803 ., , . : " , - ; , , , , , " ", , , , ..." {Wordsworth, Dorothy. Recollections of a Tour made in Scotland, A.D. 1803. Edinbourgh, 1874, p. 76.}. , , , . . - , . 1800 . " " ( " ", , , , - , , , . : , , , , , . . , , " -" (1821). , " " , . 1807 . , , . , , , . ", - , - , , ". , , . - - ( ), , , , , . , , , ( , ). , , , , . , , , , . , , , - , . . , , , {De Quincey, Thomas. Literary Reminiscences. In 2 vols. Boston, 1851.}. . , , . , , , , . , , , , , . , : " ..." , , . , , . , , , , , . - . , " , . , , - , , , . , !" {Wordsworth, Dorothy. The Alfoxden Journal, 1798. The Grasmere Journal, 1800-1803. London, 1958, p. 245.}. 1806 . : , , , . 1809 - 1810 . , , "" ( 28 ), . , 1810 . . . . , , , , " " , . ; , . , , . , , " ". "" 1807 . . , " ", , . , , , 1802 ., . , , , , , , . : , , ", " (Poems Dedicated to National Independence and Liberty, 1 - 1802-1807 ., II - 1808-1814 .). , , . , , , . 1810- - , , , . , ("Nuns fret not at their convent's narrow room...", "Scorn not the Sonnet, Critic..."). : " " (The River Duddon, A Series of Sonnets, 1820) - , , ; " " (Ecclesiastical Sonnets, 1822) - ; , . 500 , , XVIII . . 1813 . , , , ; , .., 200 . , -. : " !!! - . , - , : " , , , ..?"" {Wordsworth, William and Wordsworth, Dorothy. The Letters of William and Dorothy Wordsworth. The Middle Age. Arranged and edited by Ernest de Selincourt. In 2 vols. Oxford, 1937. Vol. 1, p. 100.}. . , " , , , , , ., , " {. : Manley, Seen. Dorothy and William Wordsworth: the Heart of a Circle of Friends. New York, 1974, p. 185.}. , . 1828 . , , : " , , . , ... , , , , , . , , . , , , . , , . , . . , , , , , ; - " {Ibid., pp. 189-190.}. 1830- . 1834 . : . , ; , , , , , , . 1834 . , -, . , , - ( ), . . " " 1847 ., , . . 1820- . , , " " , . 1830- , XIX . , . " " . , . 1830- {, . : (lakists): , , // " ", 1830. 58, . 175-180, 59, . 183-185.}, . . " " { . ., 1833.}, { , 1850, . 67, . 7, . 25-26.}. . . , , - " ...". 1870- . , . . . XX . , . . "From "Lyrical Ballads" " " LINES LEFT UPON A SEAT IN A YEW-TREE WHICH STANDS NEAR THE LAKE OF ESTHWAITE, ON A DESOLATE PART OF THE SHORE, YET COMMANDING A BEAUTIFUL PROSPECT - Nay, Traveller! rest. This lonely yew-tree stands Far from all human dwelling: what if here No sparkling rivulet spread the verdant herb; What if these barren boughs the bee not loves; Yet, if the wind breathe soft, the curling waves, That break against the shore, shall lull thy mind By one soft impulse saved from vacancy. Who he was That piled these stones, and with the mossy sod First covered o'er, and taught this aged tree, Now wild, to bend its arms in circling shade, I well remember. - He was one who own'd No common soul. In youth, by genius nurs'd, And big with lofty views, he to the world Went forth, pure in his heart, against the taint Of dissolute tongues, 'gainst jealousy, and hate, And scorn, against all enemies prepared, All but neglect: and so, his spirit damped At once, with rash disdain he turned away, And with the food of pride sustained his soul In solitude. - Stranger! these gloomy boughs Had charms for him; and here he loved to sit, His only visitants a straggling sheep, The stone-chat, or the glancing sand-piper; And on these barren rocks, with juniper, And heath, and thistle, thinly sprinkled o'er, Fixing his downward eye, he many an hour A morbid pleasure nourished, tracing here An emblem of his own unfruitful life: And lifting up his head, he then would gaze On the more distant scene; how lovely 'tis Thou seest, and he would gaze till it became Far lovelier, and his heart could not sustain The beauty still more beauteous. Nor, that time, Would he forget those beings, to whose minds, Warm from the labours of benevolence, The world, and man himself, appeared a scene Of kindred loveliness: then he would sigh With mournful joy, to think that others felt What he must never feel: and so, lost man! On visionary views would fancy feed, Till his eye streamed with tears. In this deep vale He died, this seat his only monument. If thou be one whose heart the holy forms Of young imagination have kept pure, Stranger! henceforth be warned; and know, that pride, Howe'er disguised in its own majesty, Is littleness; that he, who feels contempt For any living thing, hath faculties Which he has never used; that thought with him Is in its infancy. The man, whose eye Is ever on himself, doth look on one, The least of nature's works, one who might move The wise man to that scorn which wisdom holds Unlawful, ever. O, be wiser thou! Instructed that true knowledge leads to love, True dignity abides with him alone Who, in the silent hour of inward thought, Can still suspect, and still revere himself, In lowliness of heart. , , , , ! . ! ! - , . , , , , , - , ? , , , , , , , , . . , . , , , . , , , , . , , , . , , , - , , . , . . - , . , , , - : , . , . , , - , . , . ! , , ... THE FEMALE VAGRANT By Derwent's side my Father's cottage stood, (The Woman thus her artless story told) One field, a flock, and what the neighbouring flood Supplied, to him were more than mines of gold. Light was my sleep; my days in transport roll'd: With thoughtless joy I stretch'd along the shore My father's nets, or watched, when from the fold High o'er the cliffs I led my fleecy store, A dizzy depth below! his boat and twinkling oar. My father was a good and pious man, An honest man by honest parents bred, And I believe that, soon as I began To lisp, he made me kneel beside my bed, And in his hearing there my prayers I said: And afterwards, by my good father taught, I read, and loved the books in which I read; For books in every neighbouring house I sought, And nothing to my mind a sweeter pleasure brought. Can I forget what charms did once adorn My garden, stored with pease, and mint, and thyme, And rose and lilly for the sabbath morn? The sabbath bells, and their delightful chime; The gambols and wild freaks at shearing time; My hen's rich nest through long grass scarce espied; The cowslip-gathering at May's dewy prime; The swans, that, when I sought the water-side, From far to meet me came, spreading their snowy pride. The staff I yet remember which upbore The bending body of my active sire; His seat beneath the honeyed sycamore When the bees hummed, and chair by winter fire; When market-morning came, the neat attire With which, though bent on haste, myself I deck'd; My watchful dog, whose starts of furious ire, When stranger passed, so often I have check'd; The red-breast known for years, which at my casement peck'd. The suns of twenty summers danced along, - Ah! little marked, how fast they rolled away: Then rose a mansion proud our woods among, And cottage after cottage owned its sway, No joy to see a neighbouring house, or stray Through pastures not his own, the master took; My Father dared his greedy wish gainsay; He loved his old hereditary nook, And ill could I the thought of such sad parting brook. But, when he had refused the proffered gold, To cruel injuries he became a prey, Sore traversed in whate'er he bought and sold. His troubles grew upon him day by day, Till all his substance fell into decay. His little range of water was denied; All but the bed where his old body lay, All, all was seized, and weeping, side by side, We sought a home where we uninjured might abide. Can I forget that miserable hour, When from the last hill-top, my sire surveyed, Peering above the trees, the steeple tower, That on his marriage-day sweet music made? Till then he hoped his bones might there be laid, Close by my mother in their native bowers: Bidding me trust in God, he stood and prayed, - I could not pray: - through tears that fell in showers, Glimmer'd our dear-loved home, alas! no longer ours! There was a youth whom I had loved so long, That when I loved him not I cannot say. 'Mid the green mountains many and many a song We two had sung, like little birds in May. When we began to tire of childish play We seemed still more and more to prize each other: We talked of marriage and our marriage day; And I in truth did love him like a brother, For never could I hope to meet with such another. His father said, that to a distant town He must repair, to ply the artist's trade. What tears of bitter grief till then unknown! What tender vows our last sad kiss delayed! To him we turned:-we had no other aid. Like one revived, upon his neck I wept, And her whom he had loved in joy, he said He well could love in grief: his faith he kept; And in a quiet home once more my father slept. Four years each day with daily bread was blest, By constant toil and constant prayer supplied. Three lovely infants lay upon my breast; And often, viewing their sweet smiles, I sighed, And knew not why. My happy father died When sad distress reduced the children's meal: Thrice happy! that from him the grave did hide The empty loom, cold hearth, and silent wheel, And tears that flowed for ills which patience could not heal. 'Twas a hard change, an evil time was come; We had no hope, and no relief could gain. But soon, with proud parade, the noisy drum Beat round, to sweep the streets of want and pain. My husband's arms now only served to strain Me and his children hungering in his view: In such dismay my prayers and tears were vain: To join those miserable men he flew; And now to the sea-coast, with numbers more, we drew. There foul neglect for months and months we bore, Nor yet the crowded fleet its anchor stirred. Green fields before us and our native shore, By fever, from polluted air incurred, Ravage was made, for which no knell was heard. Fondly we wished, and wished away, nor knew, 'Mid that long sickness, and those hopes deferr'd, That happier days we never more must view: The parting signal streamed, at last the land withdrew, But from delay the summer calms were past. On as we drove, the equinoctial deep Ran mountains-high before the howling blast. We gazed with terror on the gloomy sleep Of them that perished in the whirlwind's sweep, Untaught that soon such anguish must ensue, Our hopes such harvest of affliction reap, That we the mercy of the waves should rue. We reached the western world, a poor, devoted crew. Oh! dreadful price of being to resign All that is dear in being! better far In Want's most lonely cave till death to pine, Unseen, unheard, unwatched by any star; Or in the streets and walks where proud men are, Better our dying bodies to obtrude, Than dog-like, wading at the heels of war, Protract a curst existence, with the brood That lap (their very nourishment!) their brother's blood. The pains and plagues that on our heads came down, Disease and famine, agony and fear, In wood or wilderness, in camp or town, It would thy brain unsettle even to hear. All perished-all, in one remorseless year, Husband and children! one by one, by sword And ravenous plague, all perished: every tear Dried up, despairing, desolate, on board A British ship I waked, as from a trance restored. Peaceful as some immeasurable plain By the first beams of dawning light impress'd, In the calm sunshine slept the glittering main. The very ocean has its hour of rest, That comes not to the human mourner's breast. Remote from man, and storms of mortal care, A heavenly silence did the waves invest; I looked and looked along the silent air, Until it seemed to bring a joy to my despair. Ah! how unlike those late terrific sleeps! And groans, that rage of racking famine spoke, Where looks inhuman dwelt on festering heaps! The breathing pestilence that rose like smoke! The shriek that from the distant battle broke! The mine's dire earthquake, and the pallid host Driven by the bomb's incessant thunder-stroke To loathsome vaults, where heart-sick anguish toss'd, Hope died, and fear itself in agony was lost! Yet does that burst of woe congeal my frame, When the dark streets appeared to heave and gape, While like a sea the storming army came, And Fire from Hell reared his gigantic shape, And Murder, by the ghastly gleam, and Rape Seized their joint prey, the mother and the child! But from these crazing thoughts my brain, escape! - For weeks the balmy air breathed soft and mild, And on the gliding vessel Heaven and Ocean smiled. Some mighty gulf of separation past, I seemed transported to another world:- A thought resigned with pain, when from the mast The impatient mariner the sail unfurl'd, And whistling, called the wind that hardly curled The silent sea. From the sweet thoughts of home, And from all hope I was forever hurled. For me-farthest from earthly port to roam Was best, could I but shun the spot where man might come. And oft, robb'd of my perfect mind, I thought At last my feet a resting-place had found: Here will I weep in peace, (so fancy wrought,) Roaming the illimitable waters round; Here watch, of every human friend disowned, All day, my ready tomb the ocean-flood - To break my dream the vessel reached its bound: And homeless near a thousand homes I stood, And near a thousand tables pined, and wanted food. By grief enfeebled was I turned adrift, Helpless as sailor cast on desert rock; Nor morsel to my mouth that day did lift, Nor dared my hand at any door to k