![]() In 1802 Wordsworth married Mary Hutchinson. In 1799 he and Dorothy settled in Dove Cottage, Grasmere to the next year belong ‘The Recluse’, Book I (later The Excursion), ‘The Brothers’, ‘Michael’, and many of the poems included in the 1800 edition of the Lyrical Ballads (which, with its provocative preface on poetic diction, aroused much criticism). (See Ancient Mariner, Idiot Boy, Tintern Abbey.) The winter of 1798–9 was spent in Goslar in Germany, where Wordsworth wrote the enigmatic ‘Lucy’ poems. ![]() This was a period of intense creativity for both poets, which produced the Lyrical Ballads (1798), a landmark in the history of English Romanticism. In 1795 he received a legacy of £900 from his friend Raisley Calvert, which allowed him to pursue his vocation as a poet, and to be reunited with his sister Dorothy Wordsworth they settled first at Racedown in Dorset, then at Alfoxden in Somerset, to be near Coleridge, then living at Nether Stowey, whom Wordsworth had met in 1795. England's declaration of war against France shocked him deeply, but the institution of the Terror marked the beginning of his disillusion with the French Revolution, a period of depression reflected in his verse drama The Borderers (composed 1796–7, pub. In this year he also wrote (but did not publish) a Letter to the Bishop of Llandaff (see Watson, R.) in support of the French Republic. 1820.) After his return to England he published in 1793 two poems in heroic couplets, An Evening Walk and Descriptive Sketches, both conventional attempts at the picturesque and the sublime. ![]() (This love affair is reflected in ‘Vaudracour and Julia’, composed ?1804, pub. In 1790 he went on a walking tour of France, the Alps, and Italy, and returned to France late in 1791, to spend a year there during this period he fell in love with the daughter of a surgeon at Blois, Annette Vallon, who bore him a daughter. He attended St John's College, Cambridge, but disliked the academic course. ![]() His mother died in 1778, his father in 1783, losses recorded in The Prelude. And, when thy Mother weeps for Thee, Lost Youth! a solitary Mother This tribute from a casual Friend A not unwelcome aid may lend, To feed the tender luxury, The rising pang to smother.Educated at Hawkshead Grammar School. Lamented Youth! to thy cold clay Fit obsequies the Stranger paid And piety shall guard the Stone Which hath not left the spot unknown Where the wild waves resigned their prey- And 'that' which marks thy bed. Not vain is sadly-uttered praise The words of truth's memorial vow Are sweet as morning fragrance shed From flowers 'mid GOLDAU'S ruins bred As evening's fondly-lingering rays, On RIGHI'S silent brow. Fetch, sympathising Powers of air, Fetch, ye that post o'er seas and lands, Herbs, moistened by Virginian dew, A most untimely grave to strew, Whose turf may never know the care Of 'kindred' human hands! Beloved by every gentle Muse He left his Transatlantic home: Europe, a realised romance, Had opened on his eager glance What present bliss!-what golden views! What stores for years to come! Though lodged within no vigorous frame, His soul her daily tasks renewed, Blithe as the lark on sun-gilt wings High poised-or as the wren that sings In shady places, to proclaim Her modest gratitude. We parted upon solemn ground Far-lifted towards the unfading sky But all our thoughts were 'then' of Earth, That gives to common pleasures birth And nothing in our hearts we found That prompted even a sigh. We met, while festive mirth ran wild, Where, from a deep lake's mighty urn, Forth slips, like an enfranchised slave, A sea-green river, proud to lave, With current swift and undefiled, The towers of old LUCERNE. If foresight could have rent the veil Of three short days-but hush-no more! Calm is the grave, and calmer none Than that to which thy cares are gone, Thou Victim of the stormy gale Asleep on ZURICH'S shore! O GODDARD! what art thou?-a name- A sunbeam followed by a shade! Nor more, for aught that time supplies, The great, the experienced, and the wise: Too much from this frail earth we claim, And therefore are betrayed. And we were gay, our hearts at ease With pleasure dancing through the frame We journeyed all we knew of care- Our path that straggled here and there Of trouble-but the fluttering breeze Of Winter-but a name. Lulled by the sound of pastoral bells, Rude Nature's Pilgrims did we go, From the dread summit of the Queen Of mountains, through a deep ravine, Where, in her holy chapel, dwells "Our Lady of the Snow." The sky was blue, the air was mild Free were the streams and green the bowers As if, to rough assaults unknown, The genial spot had 'ever' shown A countenance that as sweetly smiled- The face of summer-hours.
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