THE POETICAL WORKS OF WILLIAM WORDSWORTH, VOL. 8 (Completed)

TO THE MOON

(COMPOSED BY THE SEA-SIDE,--ON THE COAST OF CUMBERLAND)

Composed 1835.--Published 1837

One of the "Evening Voluntaries."--ED.

Wanderer! that stoop'st so low, and com'st so near

To human life's unsettled atmosphere;

Who lov'st with Night and Silence to partake,

So might it seem, the cares of them that wake;

And, through the cottage-lattice softly peeping,

Dost shield from harm the humblest of the sleeping;

What pleasure once encompassed those sweet names

Which yet in thy behalf the Poet claims,

An idolizing dreamer as of yore!--

I slight them all; and, on this sea-beat shore

Sole-sitting, only can to thoughts attend

That bid me hail thee as the SAILOR'S FRIEND;

So call thee for heaven's grace through thee made known

By confidence supplied and mercy shown,

When not a twinkling star or beacon's light

Abates the perils of a stormy night;

And for less obvious benefits, that find

Their way, with thy pure help, to heart and mind;

Both for the adventurer starting in life's prime;

And veteran ranging round from clime to clime,

Long-baffled hope's slow fever in his veins,

And wounds and weakness oft his labour's sole remains.

The aspiring Mountains and the winding Streams,

Empress of Night! are gladdened by thy beams;

A look of thine the wilderness pervades,

And penetrates the forest's inmost shades;

Thou, chequering peaceably the minster's gloom,

Guid'st the pale Mourner to the lost one's tomb;

Canst reach the Prisoner--to his grated cell

Welcome, though silent and intangible!--

And lives there one, of all that come and go

On the great waters toiling to and fro,

One, who has watched thee at some quiet hour

Enthroned aloft in undisputed power,

Or crossed by vapoury streaks and clouds that move

Catching the lustre they in part reprove--

Nor sometimes felt a fitness in thy sway

To call up thoughts that shun the glare of day,

And make the serious happier than the gay?

Yes, lovely Moon! if thou so mildly bright

Dost rouse, yet surely in thy own despite,

To fiercer mood the phrenzy-stricken brain,

Let me a compensating faith maintain;

That there's a sensitive, a tender, part

Which thou canst touch in every human heart,

For healing and composure.--

But, as least And mightiest billows ever have confessed

Thy domination; as the whole vast Sea

Feels through her lowest depths thy sovereignty;

So shines that countenance with especial grace

On them who urge the keel her plains to trace

Furrowing its way right onward. The most rude,

Cut off from home and country, may have stood--

Even till long gazing hath bedimmed his eye,

Or the mute rapture ended in a sigh--

Touched by accordance of thy placid cheer,

With some internal lights to memory dear,

Or fancies stealing forth to soothe the breast

Tired with its daily share of earth's unrest,--

Gentle awakenings, visitations meek;

A kindly influence whereof few will speak,

Though it can wet with tears the hardiest cheek.

And when thy beauty in the shadowy cave

Is hidden, buried in its monthly grave;[18]

Then, while the Sailor, 'mid an open sea

Swept by a favouring wind that leaves thought free,

Paces the deck--no star perhaps in sight,

And nothing save the moving ship's own light

To cheer the long dark hours of vacant night--

Oft with his musings does thy image blend,

In his mind's eye thy crescent horns ascend,

And thou art still, O Moon, that SAILOR'S FRIEND

[18] Compare-- When thou wert hidden in thy monthly grave, in the lines Written in a Grotto, p. 235.--ED.