Verse > William Wordsworth > Complete Poetical Works
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THE TRIAD

          SHOW me the noblest Youth of present time,
          Whose trembling fancy would to love give birth;
          Some God or Hero, from the Olympian clime
          Returned, to seek a Consort upon earth;
          Or, in no doubtful prospect, let me see
          The brightest star of ages yet to be,
          And I will mate and match him blissfully.
          I will not fetch a Naiad from a flood
          Pure as herself--(song lacks not mightier power)
          Nor leaf-crowned Dryad from a pathless wood,                10
          Nor Sea-nymph glistening from her coral bower;
          Mere Mortals bodied forth in vision still,
          Shall with Mount Ida's triple lustre fill
          The chaster coverts of a British hill.
            "Appear!--obey my lyre's command!
          Come, like the Graces, hand in hand!
          For ye, though not by birth allied,
          Are Sisters in the bond of love;
          Nor shall the tongue of envious pride
          Presume those interweavings to reprove                      20
          In you, which that fair progeny of Jove,
          Learned from the tuneful spheres that glide
          In endless union, earth and sea above."
          --I sing in vain;--the pines have hushed their waving:
          A peerless Youth expectant at my side,
          Breathless as they, with unabated craving
          Looks to the earth, and to the vacant air;
          And, with a wandering eye that seems to chide,
          Asks of the clouds what occupants they hide:--
          But why solicit more than sight could bear,                 30
          By casting on a moment all we dare?
          Invoke we those bright Beings one by one;
          And what was boldly promised, truly shall be done.
            "Fear not a constraining measure!
          --Yielding to this gentle spell,
          Lucida! from domes of pleasure,
          Or from cottage-sprinkled dell,
          Come to regions solitary,
          Where the eagle builds her aery,
          Above the hermit's long-forsaken cell!"                     40
          --She comes!--behold
          That Figure, like a ship with snow-white sail!
          Nearer she draws; a breeze uplifts her veil;
          Upon her coming wait
          As pure a sunshine and as soft a gale
          As e'er, on herbage covering earthly mould,
          Tempted the bird of Juno to unfold
          His richest splendour--when his veering gait
          And every motion of his starry train
          Seem governed by a strain                                   50
          Of music, audible to him alone.
            "O Lady, worthy of earth's proudest throne!
          Nor less, by excellence of nature, fit
          Beside an unambitious hearth to sit
          Domestic queen, where grandeur is unknown;
          What living man could fear
          The worst of Fortune's malice, wert Thou near,
          Humbling that lily-stem, thy sceptre meek,
          That its fair flowers may from his cheek
          Brush the too happy tear?                                   60
          ----Queen, and handmaid lowly!
          Whose skill can speed the day with lively cares,
          And banish melancholy
          By all that mind invents or hand prepares;
          O Thou, against whose lip, without its smile
          And in its silence even, no heart is proof;
          Whose goodness, sinking deep, would reconcile
          The softest Nursling of a gorgeous palace
          To the bare life beneath the hawthorn-roof
          Of Sherwood's Archer, or in caves of Wallace--              70
          Who that hath seen thy beauty could content
          His soul with but a 'glimpse' of heavenly day?
          Who that hath loved thee, but would lay
          His strong hand on the wind, if it were bent
          To take thee in thy majesty away?
          Pass onward (even the glancing deer
          Till we depart intrude not here;)
          That mossy slope, o'er which the woodbine throws
          A canopy, is smoothed for thy repose!"
          --Glad moment is it when the throng                         80
          Of warblers in full concert strong
          Strive, and not vainly strive, to rout
          The lagging shower, and force coy Phoebus out,
          Met by the rainbow's form divine,
          Issuing from her cloudy shrine;--
          So may the thrillings of the lyre
          Prevail to further our desire,
          While to these shades a sister Nymph I call.
            "Come, if the notes thine ear may pierce,
          Come, youngest of the lovely Three,                         90
          Submissive to the might of verse
          And the dear voice of harmony,
          By none more deeply felt than Thee!"
          --I sang; and lo! from pastimes virginal
          She hastens to the tents
          Of nature, and the lonely elements.
          Air sparkles round her with a dazzling sheen;
          But mark her glowing cheek, her vesture green!
          And, as if wishful to disarm
          Or to repay the potent Charm,                              100
          She bears the stringed lute of old romance,
          That cheered the trellised arbour's privacy,
          And soothed war-wearied knights in raftered hall.
          How vivid, yet how delicate, her glee!
          So tripped the Muse, inventress of the dance;
          So, truant in waste woods, the blithe Euphrosyne!
          But the ringlets of that head
          Why are they ungarlanded?
          Why bedeck her temples less
          Than the simplest shepherdess?                             110
          Is it not a brow inviting
          Choicest flowers that ever breathed,
          Which the myrtle would delight in
          With Idalian rose enwreathed?
          But her humility is well content
          With 'one' wild floweret (call it not forlorn)
          FLOWER OF THE WINDS, beneath her bosom worn--
          Yet more for love than ornament.
          Open, ye thickets! let her fly,
          Swift as a Thracian Nymph o'er field and height!           120
          For She, to all but those who love her, shy,
          Would gladly vanish from a Stranger's sight;
          Though where she is beloved and loves,
          Light as the wheeling butterfly she moves;
          Her happy spirit as a bird is free,
          That rifles blossoms on a tree,
          Turning them inside out with arch audacity.
          Alas! how little can a moment show
          Of an eye where feeling plays
          In ten thousand dewy rays;                                 130
          A face o'er which a thousand shadows go!
          --She stops--is fastened to that rivulet's side;
          And there (while, with sedater mien,
          O'er timid waters that have scarcely left
          Their birthplace in the rocky cleft
          She bends) at leisure may be seen
          Features to old ideal grace allied,
          Amid their smiles and dimples dignified--
          Fit countenance for the soul of primal truth;
          The bland composure of eternal youth!                      140
          What more changeful than the sea?
          But over his great tides
          Fidelity presides;
          And this light-hearted Maiden constant is as he.
          High is her aim as heaven above,
          And wide as ether her good-will;
          And, like the lowly reed, her love
          Can drink its nurture from the scantiest rill:
          Insight as keen as frosty star
          Is to 'her' charity no bar,                                150
          Nor interrupts her frolic graces
          When she is, far from these wild places,
          Encircled by familiar faces.
          O the charm that manners draw,
          Nature, from thy genuine law!
          If from what her hand would do,
          Her voice would utter, aught ensue
          Untoward or unfit;
          She, in benign affections pure,
          In self-forgetfulness secure,                              160
          Sheds round the transient harm or vague mischance
          A light unknown to tutored elegance:
          Her's is not a cheek shame-stricken,
          But her blushes are joy-flushes;
          And the fault (if fault it be)
          Only ministers to quicken
          Laughter-loving gaiety,
          And kindle sportive wit--
          Leaving this Daughter of the mountains free
          As if she knew that Oberon king of Faery                   170
          Had crossed her purpose with some quaint vagary,
          And heard his viewless bands
          Over their mirthful triumph clapping hands.
            "Last of the Three, though eldest born,
          Reveal thyself, like pensive Morn
          Touched by the skylark's earliest note,
          Ere humbler gladness be afloat.
          But whether in the semblance drest
          Of Dawn--or Eve, fair vision of the west,
          Come with each anxious hope subdued                        180
          By woman's gentle fortitude,
          Each grief, through meekness, settling into rest,
          --Or I would hail thee when some high-wrought page
          Of a closed volume lingering in thy hand
          Has raised thy spirit to a peaceful stand
          Among the glories of a happier age."
          Her brow hath opened on me--see it there,
          Brightening the umbrage of her hair;
          So gleams the crescent moon, that loves
          To be descried through shady groves.                       190
          Tenderest bloom is on her cheek;
          Wish not for a richer streak;
          Nor dread the depth of meditative eye;
          But let thy love, upon that azure field
          Of thoughtfulness and beauty, yield
          Its homage offered up in purity.
          What would'st thou more? In sunny glade,
          Or under leaves of thickest shade,
          Was such a stillness e'er diffused
          Since earth grew calm while angels mused?                  200
          Softly she treads, as if her foot were loth
          To crush the mountain dew-drops--soon to melt
          On the flower's breast; as if she felt
          That flowers themselves, whate'er their hue,
          With all their fragrance, all their glistening,
          Call to the heart for inward listening--
          And though for bridal wreaths and tokens true
          Welcomed wisely; though a growth
          Which the careless shepherd sleeps on,
          As fitly spring from turf the mourner weeps on--           210
          And without wrong are cropped the marble tomb to strew.
          The Charm is over; the mute Phantoms gone,
          Nor will return--but droop not, favoured Youth;
          The apparition that before thee shone
          Obeyed a summons covetous of truth.
          From these wild rocks thy footsteps I will guide
          To bowers in which thy fortune may be tried,
          And one of the bright Three become thy happy Bride.
                                                              1828.


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