June 1820


          FAME tells of groves--from England far away--
          Groves that inspire the Nightingale to trill
          And modulate, with subtle reach of skill
          Elsewhere unmatched, her ever-varying lay;
          Such bold report I venture to gainsay:
          For I have heard the quire of Richmond hill
          Chanting, with indefatigable bill,
          Strains that recalled to mind a distant day;
          When, haply under shade of that same wood,
          And scarcely conscious of the dashing oars                  10
          Plied steadily between those willowy shores,
          The sweet-souled Poet of the Seasons stood--
          Listening, and listening long, in rapturous mood,
          Ye heavenly Birds! to your Progenitors.

Memorials Of A Tour On The Continent, 1820
Dedication
(Sent With These Poems, In MS., To ----)


          DEAR Fellow-travellers! think not that the Muse,
          To You presenting these memorial Lays,
          Can hope the general eye thereon would gaze,
          As on a mirror that gives back the hues
          Of living Nature; no--though free to choose
          The greenest bowers, the most inviting ways,
          The fairest landscapes and the brightest days--
          Her skill she tried with less ambitious views.
          For You she wrought: Ye only can supply
          The life, the truth, the beauty: she confides
          In that enjoyment which with You abides,
          Trusts to your love and vivid memory;
          Thus far contented, that for You her verse
          Shall lack not power the "meeting soul to pierce!"
                                                     W. WORDSWORTH.
            RYDAL MOUNT, Nov. 1821.

Memorials Of A Tour On The Continent, 1820
I. Fish-Women--On Landing At Calais


          'Tis said, fantastic ocean doth enfold
          The likeness of whate'er on land is seen;
          But, if the Nereid Sisters and their Queen,
          Above whose heads the tide so long hath rolled,
          The Dames resemble whom we here behold,
          How fearful were it down through opening waves
          To sink, and meet them in their fretted caves,
          Withered grotesque, immeasurably old,
          And shrill and fierce in accent!--Fear it not:
          For they Earth's fairest daughters do excel;                10
          Pure undecaying beauty is their lot;
          Their voices into liquid music swell,
          Thrilling each pearly cleft and sparry grot,
          The undisturbed abodes where Sea-nymphs dwell!

Memorials Of A Tour On The Continent, 1820
II. Bruges


          BRUGES I saw attired with golden light
          (Streamed from the west) as with a robe of power:
          The splendour fled; and now the sunless hour,
          That, slowly making way for peaceful night,
          Best suits with fallen grandeur, to my sight
          Offers the beauty, the magnificence,
          And sober graces, left her for defence
          Against the injuries of time, the spite
          Of fortune, and the desolating storms
          Of future war. Advance not--spare to hide,                  10
          O gentle Power of darkness! these mild hues;
          Obscure not yet these silent avenues
          Of stateliest architecture, where the Forms
          Of nun-like females, with soft motion, glide!

Memorials Of A Tour On The Continent, 1820
III. Bruges


          THE Spirit of Antiquity--enshrined
          In sumptuous buildings, vocal in sweet song,
          In picture, speaking with heroic tongue,
          And with devout solemnities entwined--
          Mounts to the seat of grace within the mind:
          Hence Forms that glide with swan-like ease along,
          Hence motions, even amid the vulgar throng,
          To an harmonious decency confined:
          As if the streets were consecrated ground,
          The city one vast temple, dedicate                          10
          To mutual respect in thought and deed;
          To leisure, to forbearances sedate;
          To social cares from jarring passions freed;
          A deeper peace than that in deserts found!

Memorials Of A Tour On The Continent, 1820
IV. After Visiting The Field Of Waterloo


          A WINGED Goddess--clothed in vesture wrought
          Of rainbow colours; One whose port was bold,
          Whose overburthened hand could scarcely hold
          The glittering crowns and garlands which it brought--
          Hovered in air above the far-famed Spot.
          She vanished; leaving prospect blank and cold
          Of wind-swept corn that wide around us rolled
          In dreary billows; wood, and meagre cot,
          And monuments that soon must disappear:
          Yet a dread local recompence we found;                      10
          While glory seemed betrayed, while patriot-zeal
          Sank in our hearts, we felt as men 'should' feel
          With such vast hoards of hidden carnage near,
          And horror breathing from the silent ground!

Memorials Of A Tour On The Continent, 1820
V. Between Namur And Liege


          WHAT lovelier home could gentle Fancy choose?
          Is this the stream, whose cities, heights, and plains,
          War's favourite playground, are with crimson stains
          Familiar, as the Morn with pearly dews?
          The Morn, that now, along the silver MEUSE,
          Spreading her peaceful ensigns, calls the swains
          To tend their silent boats and ringing wains,
          Or strip the bough whose mellow fruit bestrews
          The ripening corn beneath it. As mine eyes
          Turn from the fortified and threatening hill,               10
          How sweet the prospect of yon watery glade,
          With its grey rocks clustering in pensive shade--
          That, shaped like old monastic turrets, rise
          From the smooth meadow-ground, serene and still!

Memorials Of A Tour On The Continent, 1820
VI. Aix-La-Chapelle


          WAS it to disenchant, and to undo,
          That we approached the Seat of Charlemaine?
          To sweep from many an old romantic strain
          That faith which no devotion may renew!
          Why does this puny Church present to view
          Her feeble columns? and that scanty chair!
          This sword that one of our weak times might wear!
          Objects of false pretence, or meanly true!
          If from a traveller's fortune I might claim
          A palpable memorial of that day,                            10
          Then would I seek the Pyrenean Breach
          That ROLAND clove with huge two-handed sway,
          And to the enormous labour left his name,
          Where unremitting frosts the rocky crescent bleach.

Memorials Of A Tour On The Continent, 1820
VII. In The Cathedral At Cologne


          O FOR the help of Angels to complete
          This Temple--Angels governed by a plan
          Thus far pursued (how gloriously!) by Man,
          Studious that HE might not disdain the seat
          Who dwells in heaven! But that aspiring heat
          Hath failed; and now, ye Powers! whose gorgeous wings
          And splendid aspect yon emblazonings
          But faintly picture, 'twere an office meet
          For you, on these unfinished shafts to try
          The midnight virtues of your harmony:--                     10
          This vast design might tempt you to repeat
          Strains that call forth upon empyreal ground
          Immortal Fabrics, rising to the sound
          Of penetrating harps and voices sweet!

Memorials Of A Tour On The Continent, 1820
VIII. In A Carriage, Upon The Banks Of The Rhine


          AMID this dance of objects sadness steals
          O'er the defrauded heart--while sweeping by,
          As in a fit of Thespian jollity,
          Beneath her vine-leaf crown the green Earth reels:
          Backward, in rapid evanescence, wheels
          The venerable pageantry of Time,
          Each beetling rampart, and each tower sublime,
          And what the Dell unwillingly reveals
          Of lurking cloistral arch, through trees espied
          Near the bright River's edge. Yet why repine?               10
          To muse, to creep, to halt at will, to gaze--
          Such sweet wayfaring--of life's spring the pride,
          Her summer's faithful joy--'that' still is mine,
          And in fit measure cheers autumnal days.