Delphi Complete Works of William Wordsworth

by William Wordsworth

  And her blind helper Chance, do ‘then’ suffice 140

  To quicken, and to aggravate—to feed

  Pity and scorn, and melancholy pride,

  Not less than that huge Pile (from some abyss

  Of mortal power unquestionably sprung)

  Whose hoary diadem of pendent rocks

  Confines the shrill-voiced whirlwind, round and round

  Eddying within its vast circumference,

  On Sarum’s naked plain—than pyramid

  Of Egypt, unsubverted, undissolved—

  Or Syria’s marble ruins towering high 150

  Above the sandy desert, in the light

  Of sun or moon.—Forgive me, if I say

  That an appearance which hath raised your minds

  To an exalted pitch (the self-same cause

  Different effect producing) is for me

  Fraught rather with depression than delight,

  Though shame it were, could I not look around,

  By the reflection of your pleasure, pleased.

  Yet happier in my judgment, even than you

  With your bright transports fairly may be deemed, 160

  The wandering Herbalist,—who, clear alike

  From vain, and, that worse evil, vexing thoughts,

  Casts, if he ever chance to enter here,

  Upon these uncouth Forms a slight regard

  Of transitory interest, and peeps round

  For some rare floweret of the hills, or plant

  Of craggy fountain; what he hopes for wins,

  Or learns, at least, that ‘tis not to be won:

  Then, keen and eager, as a fine-nosed hound,

  By soul-engrossing instinct driven along 170

  Through wood or open field, the harmless Man

  Departs, intent upon his onward quest!—

  Nor is that Fellow-wanderer, so deem I,

  Less to be envied, (you may trace him oft

  By scars which his activity has left

  Beside our roads and pathways, though, thank Heaven!

  This covert nook reports not of his hand)

  He who with pocket-hammer smites the edge

  Of luckless rock or prominent stone, disguised

  In weather-stains or crusted o’er by Nature 180

  With her first growths, detaching by the stroke

  A chip or splinter—to resolve his doubts;

  And, with that ready answer satisfied,

  The substance classes by some barbarous name,

  And hurries on; or from the fragments picks

  His specimen, if but haply interveined

  With sparkling mineral, or should crystal cube

  Lurk in its cells—and thinks himself enriched,

  Wealthier, and doubtless wiser, than before!

  Intrusted safely each to his pursuit, 190

  Earnest alike, let both from hill to hill

  Range; if it please them, speed from clime to clime;

  The mind is full—and free from pain their pastime.”

  “Then,” said I, interposing, “One is near,

  Who cannot but possess in your esteem

  Place worthier still of envy. May I name,

  Without offence, that fair-faced cottage-boy?

  Dame Nature’s pupil of the lowest form,

  Youngest apprentice in the school of art!

  Him, as we entered from the open glen, 200

  You might have noticed, busily engaged,

  Heart, soul, and hands,—in mending the defects

  Left in the fabric of a leaky dam

  Raised for enabling this penurious stream

  To turn a slender mill (that new-made plaything)

  For his delight—the happiest he of all!”

  “Far happiest,” answered the desponding Man,

  “If such as now he is, he might remain!

  Ah! what avails imagination high

  Or question deep? what profits all that earth, 210

  Or heaven’s blue vault, is suffered to put forth

  Of impulse or allurement, for the Soul

  To quit the beaten track of life, and soar

  Far as she finds a yielding element

  In past or future; far as she can go

  Through time or space—if neither in the one,

  Nor in the other region, nor in aught

  That Fancy, dreaming o’er the map of things,

  Hath placed beyond these penetrable bounds,

  Words of assurance can be heard; if nowhere 220

  A habitation, for consummate good,

  Or for progressive virtue, by the search

  Can be attained,—a better sanctuary

  From doubt and sorrow, than the senseless grave?”

  “Is this,” the grey-haired Wanderer mildly said,

  “The voice, which we so lately overheard,

  To that same child, addressing tenderly

  The consolations of a hopeful mind?

  ‘His body is at rest, his soul in heaven.’

  These were your words; and, verily, methinks 230

  Wisdom is oft-times nearer when we stoop

  Than when we soar.”—

  The Other, not displeased,

  Promptly replied—”My notion is the same.

  And I, without reluctance, could decline

  All act of inquisition whence we rise,

  And what, when breath hath ceased, we may become.

  Here are we, in a bright and breathing world.

  Our origin, what matters it? In lack

  Of worthier explanation, say at once

  With the American (a thought which suits 240

  The place where now we stand) that certain men

  Leapt out together from a rocky cave;

  And these were the first parents of mankind:

  Or, if a different image be recalled

  By the warm sunshine, and the jocund voice

  Of insects chirping out their careless lives

  On these soft beds of thyme-besprinkled turf,

  Choose, with the gay Athenian, a conceit

  As sound—blithe race! whose mantles were bedecked

  With golden grasshoppers, in sign that they 250

  Had sprung, like those bright creatures, from the soil

  Whereon their endless generations dwelt.

  But stop!—these theoretic fancies jar

  On serious minds: then, as the Hindoos draw

  Their holy Ganges from a skiey fount,

  Even so deduce the stream of human life

  From seats of power divine; and hope, or trust,

  That our existence winds her stately course

  Beneath the sun, like Ganges, to make part

  Of a living ocean; or, to sink engulfed, 260

  Like Niger, in impenetrable sands

  And utter darkness: thought which may be faced,

  Though comfortless!—

  Not of myself I speak;

  Such acquiescence neither doth imply,

  In me, a meekly-bending spirit soothed

  By natural piety; nor a lofty mind,

  By philosophic discipline prepared

  For calm subjection to acknowledged law;

  Pleased to have been, contented not to be.

  Such palms I boast not;—no! to me, who find 270

  Reviewing my past way, much to condemn,

  Little to praise, and nothing to regret,

  (Save some remembrances of dream-like joys

  That scarcely seem to have belonged to me)

  If I must take my choice between the pair

  That rule alternately the weary hours,

  Night is than day more acceptable; sleep

  Doth, in my estimate of good, appear

  A better state than waking; death than sleep:

  Feelingly sweet is stillness after storm, 280

  Though under covert of the wormy ground!

  Yet be it said, in justice to myself,

  That in more genial tim
es, when I was free

  To explore the destiny of human kind

  (Not as an intellectual game pursued

  With curious subtilty, from wish to cheat

  Irksome sensations; but by love of truth

  Urged on, or haply by intense delight

  In feeding thought, wherever thought could feed)

  I did not rank with those (too dull or nice, 290

  For to my judgment such they then appeared,

  Or too aspiring, thankless at the best)

  Who, in this frame of human life, perceive

  An object whereunto their souls are tied

  In discontented wedlock; nor did e’er,

  From me, those dark impervious shades, that hang

  Upon the region whither we are bound,

  Exclude a power to enjoy the vital beams

  Of present sunshine.—Deities that float

  On wings, angelic Spirits! I could muse 300

  O’er what from eldest time we have been told

  Of your bright forms and glorious faculties,

  And with the imagination rest content,

  Not wishing more; repining not to tread

  The little sinuous path of earthly care,

  By flowers embellished, and by springs refreshed.

  —’Blow winds of autumn!—let your chilling breath

  ‘Take the live herbage from the mead, and strip

  ‘The shady forest of its green attire,—

  ‘And let the bursting clouds to fury rouse 310

  ‘The gentle brooks!—Your desolating sway,

  ‘Sheds,’ I exclaimed, ‘no sadness upon me,

  ‘And no disorder in your rage I find.

  ‘What dignity, what beauty, in this change

  ‘From mild to angry, and from sad to gay,

  ‘Alternate and revolving! How benign,

  ‘How rich in animation and delight,

  ‘How bountiful these elements—compared

  ‘With aught, as more desirable and fair,

  ‘Devised by fancy for the golden age; 320

  ‘Or the perpetual warbling that prevails

  ‘In Arcady, beneath unaltered skies,

  ‘Through the long year in constant quiet bound,

  ‘Night hushed as night, and day serene as day!’

  —But why this tedious record?—Age, we know

  Is garrulous; and solitude is apt

  To anticipate the privilege of Age,

  From far ye come; and surely with a hope

  Of better entertainment:—let us hence!”

  Loth to forsake the spot, and still more loth 330

  To be diverted from our present theme,

  I said, “My thoughts, agreeing, Sir, with yours,

  Would push this censure farther;—for, if smiles

  Of scornful pity be the just reward

  Of Poesy thus courteously employed

  In framing models to improve the scheme

  Of Man’s existence, and recast the world,

  Why should not grave Philosophy be styled,

  Herself, a dreamer of a kindred stock,

  A dreamer yet more spiritless and dull? 340

  Yes, shall the fine immunities she boasts

  Establish sounder titles of esteem

  For her, who (all too timid and reserved

  For onset, for resistance too inert,

  Too weak for suffering, and for hope too tame)

  Placed, among flowery gardens curtained round

  With world-excluding groves, the brotherhood

  Of soft Epicureans, taught—if they

  The ends of being would secure, and win

  The crown of wisdom—to yield up their souls 350

  To a voluptuous unconcern, preferring

  Tranquillity to all things. Or is she,”

  I cried, “more worthy of regard, the Power,

  Who, for the sake of sterner quiet, closed

  The Stoic’s heart against the vain approach

  Of admiration, and all sense of joy?”

  His countenance gave notice that my zeal

  Accorded little with his present mind;

  I ceased, and he resumed.—”Ah! gentle Sir,

  Slight, if you will, the ‘means’; but spare to slight 360

  The ‘end’ of those, who did, by system, rank,

  As the prime object of a wise man’s aim,

  Security from shock of accident,

  Release from fear; and cherished peaceful days

  For their own sakes, as mortal life’s chief good,

  And only reasonable felicity.

  What motive drew, what impulse, I would ask,

  Through a long course of later ages, drove,

  The hermit to his cell in forest wide;

  Or what detained him, till his closing eyes 370

  Took their last farewell of the sun and stars,

  Fast anchored in the desert?—Not alone

  Dread of the persecuting sword, remorse,

  Wrongs unredressed, or insults unavenged

  And unavengeable, defeated pride,

  Prosperity subverted, maddening want,

  Friendship betrayed, affection unreturned,

  Love with despair, or grief in agony;—

  Not always from intolerable pangs

  He fled; but, compassed round by pleasure, sighed 380

  For independent happiness; craving peace,

  The central feeling of all happiness,

  Not as a refuge from distress or pain,

  A breathing-time, vacation, or a truce,

  But for its absolute self; a life of peace,

  Stability without regret or fear;

  That hath been, is, and shall be evermore!—

  Such the reward he sought; and wore out life,

  There, where on few external things his heart

  Was set, and those his own; or, if not his, 390

  Subsisting under nature’s stedfast law.

  What other yearning was the master tie

  Of the monastic brotherhood, upon rock

  Aerial, or in green secluded vale,

  One after one, collected from afar,

  An undissolving fellowship?—What but this,

  The universal instinct of repose,

  The longing for confirmed tranquillity,

  Inward and outward; humble, yet sublime:

  The life where hope and memory are as one; 400

  Where earth is quiet and her face unchanged

  Save by the simplest toil of human hands

  Or seasons’ difference; the immortal Soul

  Consistent in self-rule; and heaven revealed

  To meditation in that quietness!—

  Such was their scheme: and though the wished-for end

  By multitudes was missed, perhaps attained

  By none, they for the attempt, and pains employed,

  Do, in my present censure, stand redeemed

  From the unqualified disdain, that once 410

  Would have been cast upon them by my voice

  Delivering her decisions from the seat

  Of forward youth—that scruples not to solve

  Doubts, and determine questions, by the rules

  Of inexperienced judgment, ever prone

  To overweening faith; and is inflamed,

  By courage, to demand from real life

  The test of act and suffering, to provoke

  Hostility—how dreadful when it comes,

  Whether affliction be the foe, or guilt! 420

  A child of earth, I rested, in that stage

  Of my past course to which these thoughts advert,

  Upon earth’s native energies; forgetting

  That mine was a condition which required

  Nor energy, nor fortitude—a calm

  Without vicissitude; which, if the like

  Had been presented to my view elsewhere,

  I might have even been tempted to despise.

  But no—for the s
erene was also bright;

  Enlivened happiness with joy o’erflowing, 430

  With joy, and—oh! that memory should survive

  To speak the word—with rapture! Nature’s boon,

  Life’s genuine inspiration, happiness

  Above what rules can teach, or fancy feign;

  Abused, as all possessions ‘are’ abused

  That are not prized according to their worth.

  And yet, what worth? what good is given to men,

  More solid than the gilded clouds of heaven?

  What joy more lasting than a vernal flower?—

  None! ‘tis the general plaint of human kind 440

  In solitude: and mutually addressed

  From each to all, for wisdom’s sake:—This truth

  The priest announces from his holy seat:

  And, crowned with garlands in the summer grove,

  The poet fits it to his pensive lyre.

  Yet, ere that final resting-place be gained,

  Sharp contradictions may arise, by doom

  Of this same life, compelling us to grieve

  That the prosperities of love and joy

  Should be permitted, oft-times, to endure 450

  So long, and be at once cast down for ever.

  Oh! tremble, ye, to whom hath been assigned

  A course of days composing happy months,

  And they as happy years; the present still

  So like the past, and both so firm a pledge

  Of a congenial future, that the wheels

  Of pleasure move without the aid of hope:

  For Mutability is Nature’s bane;

  And slighted Hope ‘will’ be avenged; and, when

  Ye need her favours, ye shall find her not; 460

  But in her stead—fear—doubt—and agony!”

  This was the bitter language of the heart:

  But, while he spake, look, gesture, tone of voice,

  Though discomposed and vehement, were such

  As skill and graceful nature might suggest

  To a proficient of the tragic scene

  Standing before the multitude, beset

  With dark events. Desirous to divert

  Or stem the current of the speaker’s thoughts,

  We signified a wish to leave that place 470

  Of stillness and close privacy, a nook

  That seemed for self-examination made;

  Or, for confession, in the sinner’s need,

  Hidden from all men’s view. To our attempt

  He yielded not; but, pointing to a slope

  Of mossy turf defended from the sun,

  And on that couch inviting us to rest,

  Full on that tender-hearted Man he turned

  A serious eye, and his speech thus renewed.

  “You never saw, your eyes did never look 480

  On the bright form of Her whom once I loved:—

  Her silver voice was heard upon the earth,