Have risen from out the deep:
The fishers say, those sisters fair,
By faeries all are buried there,
And there together sleep.
Sing, mournfully, oh! mournfully,
The solitude of Binnorie.

1804.

STRAY PLEASURES.

-Pleasure is spread through the earth

In stray gifts to be claimed by whoever shall find.'

By their floating mill,

That lies dead and still,

Behold yon Prisoners three,

The Miller with two Dames, on the breast of the Thames! The platform is small, but gives room for them all; And they're dancing merrily.

From the shore come the notes

To their mill where it floats,

To their house and their mill tethered fast :

To the small wooden isle where, their work to beguile, They from morning to even take whatever is given ;— And many a blithe day they have past.

In sight of the spires,

All alive with the fires

Of the sun going down to his rest,

In the broad open eye of the solitary sky,

They dance, there are three, as jocund as free,

While they dance on the calm river's breast.

Man and Maidens wheel,

They themselves make the reel,

And their music's a prey which they seize;

It plays not for them,-what matter? 'tis theirs ; And if they had care, it has scattered their cares, While they dance, crying, "Long as ye please!"

They dance not for me,

Yet mine is their glee !

Thus pleasure is spread through the earth

In stray gifts to be claimed by whoever shall find
Thus a rich loving-kindness, redundantly kind,
Moves all nature to gladness and mirth.

The showers of the spring

Rouse the birds, and they sing ;

1;

If the wind do but stir for his proper delight,
Each leaf, that and this, his neighbour will kiss ;
Each wave, one and t'other, speeds after his brother :
They are happy, for that is their right!

THE DANISH BOY.

A FRAGMENT.

I.

BETWEEN two sister moorland rills

There is a spot that seems to lie
Sacred to flowerets of the hills,
And sacred to the sky.

And in this smooth and open dell

1806.

There is a tempest-stricken tree;
A corner-stone by lightning cut,
The last stone of a lonely hut ;
And in this dell you see

A thing no storm can e'er destroy,
The shadow of a Danish Boy.

II.

In clouds above, the lark is heard, But drops not here to earth for rest; Within this lonesome nook the bird Did never build her nest.

No beast, no bird hath here his home;
Bees, wafted on the breezy air,

Pass high above those fragrant bells
To other flowers :-to other dells

Their burthens do they bear;

*

The Danish Boy walks here alone :
The lovely dell is all his own.

III.

A Spirit of noon-day is he ;

Yet seems a form of flesh and blood;
Nor piping shepherd shall he be,
Nor herd-boy of the wood.

A regal vest of fur he wears,

In colour like a raven's wing;

It fears not rain, nor wind, nor dew ;
But in the storm 'tis fresh and blue
As budding pines in spring;
His helmet has a vernal grace,
Fresh as the bloom upon his face.

* Nor ever linger there.-Edit. 1815.

IV.

A harp is from his shoulder slung ;
Resting the harp upon his knee;
To words of a forgotten tongue,
He suits its melody.*

Of flocks upon the neighbouring hill
He is the darling and the joy;

And often, when no cause appears,
The mountain-ponies prick their ears,
—They hear the Danish Boy,
While in the dell he sings alone
Beside the tree and corner-stone.

V.

There sits he ; in his face you spy
No trace of a ferocious air,
Nor ever was a cloudless sky
So steady or so fair.

The lovely Danish Boy is blest

And happy in his flowery cove :

From bloody deeds his thoughts are far;
And yet he warbles songs of war,
That seem like songs of love,
For calm and gentle is his mien ;
Like a dead Boy he is serene.

*And there, in a forgotten tongue,
He warbles melody.-Edit. 1815.

1799.

MISCELLANEOUS SONNETS.*

I.

PREFATORY SONNET.

NUNS fret not at their convent's narrow room;
And hermits are contented with their cells ;
And students with their pensive citadels;
Maids at the wheel, the weaver at his loom,

"This form of poetry (the Sonnet), not admitting of the breadth and magnitude which is requisite to give effect to his more characteristic style, has led Mr. Wordsworth to lay aside the implements of the architect, and to assume those of the sculptor. Few are the works of art in this kind which are so pure in their material, so graceful in their execution, so delicately wrought, so exquisitely chiselled. Yet bright and ornate as many of these productions are, there is in them, no less than in his other poems, a constant abstinence from antithesis and false effects. The words are always felt to be used, first and mainly because they are those which best express the meaning; secondly, and subordinately, because they convey to the ear the sounds which best harmonise with the meaning, and with each other. There is hardly one of Mr. Wordsworth's sonnets which ends in a point. Pointed lines will sometimes occur in the course of them, as thought will sometimes naturally take a pointed shape in the mind; but whether it takes that shape or another is obviously treated as a matter of indifference; nothing is sacrificed to it, and at the close of the sonnet, where the adventitious effect of the point might be apt to outshine the intrinsic value of the subject, it seems to have been studiously avoided. Mr. Wordsworth's sonnet never goes off, as it were, with a clap, or repercussion at the close; but is thrown up like a rocket, breaks into light, and falls in a soft shower of brightness. To none, indeed, of the minor forms of poetry are Mr. Wordsworth's powers better adapted; there is none to which discrimination in thought, and aptitude in language are more essential; and there never was a poet who reached so near to perfection in these particulars as Mr. Wordsworth."-Quarterly Review, No. 104—from an article contributed by Henry Taylor, author of Philip Van Artevelde.