CHAPTER XVIII. M1 POEMS. ISS WORDSWORTH did not write much poetry. The few picces she has left behind, though not of the highest order, are sufficient to show that had she devoted herself to it, she might have attained distinction. She was so devoted to her brother that she did not attempt for herself an independent . position. She preferred to find subjects for the more skilful pen of her brother, and to act as his amanųensis. The poems that she did write, and which have been published with those of her brother, are worthy of a place here The first of these, written in 1805, is "THE COTTAGER TO HER INFANT. . (Suggested to Miss Wordsworth when watching one of the Poet's Children.) "The.days are cold, the nights are long, All merry things are now at rest, "The kitten sleeps upon the hearth, The crickets long have ceased their mirth; There's nothing stirring in the house Then why so busy thou? Nay! start not at that sparkling light; On the window pane, bedropped with rain: And wake when it is day." The following (written in 1806) has been described by Charles Lamb as masterly : 66 ADDRESS TO A CHILD (DURING A BOISTEROUS WINTER "What way EVENING). does the Wind come? What way does he go? He rides over the water, and over the snow; Through wood and through vale; and o'er rocky height Which the goat cannot climb, takes his sounding flight; He tosses about in every bare tree, As, if you look up, you plainly may see; -Yet seek him,-and what shall you find in the place? Nothing but silence and empty space; Save, in a corner, a heap of dry leaves, That he's left, for a bed, to beggars or thieves! You shall go to the orchard, and then you will see -But let him range round; he does us no harm, We build up the fire, we're snug and warm ; Untouched by his breath, see the candle shines bright, Books have we to read,-but that half-stifled knell, The next (also a child's poem), written in 1807, was composed on the eve of the return of Mrs. Wordsworth, Since your dear Mother went away,- "O blessed tidings! thought of joy! "Louder and louder did he shout, "I told of hills, and far-off towns, But he submits; what can he do? "No strife disturbs his sister's breast; Of time and distance, night and day; "Her joy is like an instinct--joy "Her brother now takes up the note, "Then, settling into fond discourse, "We told o'er all that we had done,- "We talked of change, of winter gone, Of green leaves on the hawthorn spray, "To her these tales they will repeat, "-But see, the evening star comes forth! A sadness at the heart : "Tis gone-and in a merry fit They run upstairs in gamesome race; I could have joined the wanton chase. |