Delphi Complete Works of William Wordsworth

by William Wordsworth

  By each of which the expected steeds might come,

  The choice uncertain. Thither I repaired

  Up to the highest summit; ‘twas a day

  Stormy, and rough, and wild, and on the grass

  I sat, half-sheltered by a naked wall;

  Upon my right hand was a single sheep,

  A whistling hawthorn on my left, and there,

  Those two companions at my side, I watched

  With eyes intensely straining as the mist 350

  Gave intermitting prospects of the wood

  And plain beneath. Ere I to school returned

  That dreary time, ere I had been ten days

  A dweller in my Father’s house, he died,

  And I and my two Brothers, orphans then,

  Followed his body to the grave. The event

  With all the sorrow which it brought appeared

  A chastisement, and when I called to mind

  That day so lately passed when from the crag

  I looked in such anxiety of hope, 360

  With trite reflections of morality

  Yet with the deepest passion I bowed low

  To God, who thus corrected my desires;

  And afterwards the wind, and sleety rain,

  And all the business of the elements,

  The single sheep, and the one blasted tree,

  And the bleak music of that old stone wall,

  The noise of wood and water, and the mist

  Which on the line of each of those two roads

  Advanced in such indisputable shapes, 370

  All these were spectacles and sounds to which

  I often would repair, and thence would drink

  As at a fountain, and I do not doubt

  That in this later time when storm and rain

  Beat on my roof at midnight, or by day

  When I am in the woods, unknown to me

  The workings of my spirit thence are brought.

  Nor sedulous° to trace diligent

  How Nature by collateral° interest indirect

  And by extrinsic passion peopled first 380

  My mind with forms, or beautiful or grand,

  And made me love them, may I well forget

  How other pleasures have been mine, and joys

  Of subtler origin, how I have felt

  Not seldom, even in that tempestuous time,

  Those hallowed and pure motions of the sense

  Which seem in their simplicity to own

  An intellectual charm, that calm delight

  Which, if I err not, surely must belong

  To those first-born affinities that fit 390

  Our new existence to existing things

  And in our dawn of being constitute

  The bond of union betwixt life and joy.

  Yes, I remember when the changeful earth

  And twice five seasons on my mind had stamped

  The faces of the moving year, even then,

  A Child, I held unconscious intercourse

  With the eternal Beauty, drinking in

  A pure organic pleasure from the lines

  Of curling mist or from the level plain 400

  Of waters coloured by the steady clouds.

  The sands of Westmoreland, the creeks and bays

  Of Cumbria’s 2 rocky limits, they can tell

  How when the sea threw off his evening shade

  And to the Shepherd’s hutt beneath the crags

  Did send sweet notice of the rising moon,

  How I have stood to images like these

  A stranger, linking with the spectacle

  No body of associated forms

  And bringing with me no peculiar sense 410

  Of quietness or peace, yet I have stood

  Even while my eye has moved o’er three long leagues

  Of shining water, gathering as it seemed,

  Through the wide surface of that field of light

  New pleasure, like a bee among the flowers.

  Thus often in those fits of vulgar joy

  Which through all seasons on a child’s pursuits

  Are prompt attendants, ‘mid that giddy bliss

  Which like a tempest works along the blood

  And is forgotten, even then I felt 420

  Gleams like the flashing of a shield; the earth

  And common face of Nature spake to me

  Rememberable things: sometimes, ‘tis true,

  By quaint associations, yet not vain

  Nor profitless if haply they impressed

  Collateral objects and appearances,

  Albeit lifeless then, and doomed to sleep

  Until maturer seasons called them forth

  To impregnate and to elevate the mind.

  And if the vulgar joy by its own weight 430

  Wearied itself out of memory,

  The scenes which were witness of that joy

  Remained, in their substantial lineaments

  Depicted on the brain, and to the eye

  Were visible, a daily sight: and thus

  By the impressive agency of fear,

  By pleasure and repeated happiness,

  So frequently repeated, and by force

  Of obscure feelings representative

  Of joys that were forgotten, these same scenes 440

  So beauteous and majestic in themselves,

  Though yet the day was distant, did at length

  Become habitually dear, and all

  Their hues and forms were by invisible links

  Allied to the affections.

  I began

  My story early, feeling, as I fear,

  The weakness of a human love for days

  Disowned by memory, ere the birth of spring

  Planting my snow-drops among winter snows. 450

  Nor will it seem to thee, my Friend, so prompt

  In sympathy, that I have lengthened out

  With fond and feeble tongue a tedious tale.

  Meanwhile my hope has been that I might fetch

  Reproaches from my former years, whose power

  May spur me on, in manhood now mature,

  To honourable toil. Yet, should it be

  That this is but an impotent desire,

  That I by such inquiry am not taught

  To understand myself, nor thou to know 460

  With better knowledge how the heart was framed

  Of him thou lovest, need I dread from thee

  Harsh judgements if I am so loath to quit

  Those recollected hours that have the charm

  Of visionary things, and lovely forms

  And sweet sensations that throw back our life

  And make our infancy a visible scene

  On which that sun is shining?

  BOOK II

  Thus far my Friend, have we retraced the way

  Through which I traveled when I first began

  To love the woods and fields: the passion yet

  Was in its birth, sustained as might befall

  By nourishment that came unsought, for still

  From week to week, from month to month, we lived

  A round of tumult: duly were our games

  Prolonged in summer till the day-light failed;

  No chair remained before the doors, the bench

  And the threshold steps were empty, fast asleep 10

  The labourer and the old man who had sat

  A later lingerer, yet the revelry

  Continued and the loud uproar: at last

  When all the ground was dark, and the huge clouds

  Were edged with twinkling stars, to bed we went

  With weary joints and with a beating mind.

  Ah! is there one who ever has been young

  And needs a monitory voice to tame

  The pride of virtue and of intellect,

  And is there one, the wisest and the best 20

  Of all mankind, who does not sometimes wish

  For things whic
h cannot be, who would not give,

  If so he might, to duty and to truth

  The eagerness of infantine desire?

  A tranquillizing spirit presses now

  On my corporeal frame, so wide appears

  The vacancy between me and those days

  Which yet have such self-presence in my heart

  That sometimes when I think of them I seem

  Two consciousnesses, conscious of myself 30

  And of some other being. A grey stone

  Of native rock, left midway in the square

  Of our small market-village, was the home

  And centre of these joys, and when, returned

  After long absence, thither I repaired,

  I found that it was split and gone to build

  A smart assembly-room that perked and flared

  With wash and rough-cast, elbowing the ground

  Which had been ours. But let the fiddle scream

  And be ye happy! yet I know, my friends, 40

  That more than one of you will think with me

  Of those soft starry nights and that old dame

  From whom the stone was named, who there had sat

  And watched her table with its huckster’s wares,

  Assiduous, for the length of sixty years.

  We ran a boisterous race, the year span round

  With giddy motion. But the time approached

  That brought with it a regular desire

  For calmer pleasures, when the beauteous scenes

  Of nature were collaterally attached 50

  To every scheme of holiday delilght

  And every boyish sport, less grateful else

  And languidly pursued.

  When summer came

  It was the pastime of our afternoons

  To beat along the plain of Windermere

  With rival oars; and the selected bourn

  Was now an island musical with birds

  That sang for ever, now a sister isle

  Beneath the oak’s umbrageous covert sown 60

  With lilies of the valley like a field,

  And now a third small island where remained

  An old stone table and one mouldered cave,

  A hermit’s history. In such a race,

  So ended, disappointment could be none,

  Uneasiness, or pain, or jealousy;

  We rested in the shade all pleased alike,

  Conquered and conqueror. Thus our selfishness

  Was mellowed down, and thus the pride of strength

  And the vain-glory of superior skill 70

  Were interfused with objects which subdued

  And tempered them, and gradually produced

  A quiet independence of the heart.

  And to my Friend who knows me I may add,

  Unapprehensive of reproof that hence

  Ensued a diffidence and modesty,

  And I was taught to feel, perhaps too much,

  The self-sufficing power of solitude.

  No delicate viands sapped our bodily strength;

  More than we wished we knew the blessing then 80

  Of vigorous hunger, for our daily meals

  Were frugal, Sabine fare! and then exclude

  A little weekly stipend, and we lived

  Through three divisions of the quartered year

  In penniless poverty. But now to school

  Returned from the half-yearly holidays,

  We came with purses more profusely filled,

  Allowance which abundantly sufficed

  To gratify the palate with repasts

  More costly than the Dame of whom I spake, 90

  That ancient woman, and her board supplied,

  Hence inroads into distant vales, and long

  Excursions far away among the hills;

  Hence rustic dinners on the cool green ground

  Or in the woods or by a river-side

  Or fountain, festive banquets that provoked

  The languid action of a natural scene

  By pleasure of corporeal appetite.

  Nor is my aim neglected if I tell

  How twice in the long length of those half-years 100

  We from our funds perhaps with bolder hand

  Drew largely, anxious for one day at least

  To feel the motion of the galloping steed;

  And with the good old Innkeeper in truth

  I needs must say that sometimes we have used

  Sly subterfuge, for the intended bound

  Of the day’s journey was too distant far

  For any cautious man, a Structure famed

  Beyond its neighborhood, the antique walls

  Of a large Abbey with its fractured arch, 110

  Belfry, and images, and living trees,

  A holy scene! Along the smooth green turf

  Our horses grazed: in more than inland peace

  Left by the winds that overpass the vale

  In that sequestered ruin trees and towers

  Both silent, and both motionless alike,

  Hear all day long the murmuring sea that beats

  Incessantly upon a craggy shore.

  Our steeds remounted, and the summons given,

  With whip and spur we by the Chantry flew 120

  In uncouth race, and left the cross-legged Knight

  And the stone Abbot, and that single wren

  Which one day sang so sweetly in the nave

  Of the old church that, though from recent showers

  The earth was comfortless, and touched by faint

  Internal breezes from the roofless walls

  The shuddering ivy dripped large drops, yet still

  So sweetly ‘mid the gloom the invisible bird

  Sang to itself that there I could have made

  My dwelling-place, and lived for ever there 130

  To hear such music. Through the walls we flew

  And down the valley, and, a circuit made

  In wantonness of heart, through rough and smooth

  We scampered homeward. O ye rocks and streams

  And that still spirit of the evening air,

  Even in this joyous time I sometimes felt

  Your presence, when with slackened step we breathed

  Along the sides of the steep hills, or when,

  Lightened by gleams of moonlight from the sea,

  We beat the thundering hoofs the level sand. 140

  There was a row of ancient trees, since fallen,

  That on the margin of a jutting land

  Stood near the lake of Coniston and made

  With its long boughs above the water stretched

  A gloom through which a boat might sail along

  As in a cloister. An old Hall was near,

  Grotesque and beautiful, its gavel end

  And huge round chimneys to the top o’ergrown

  With fields of ivy. Thither we repaired,

  ‘Twas even a custom with us, to the shore 150

  And to that cool piazza. They who dwelt

  In the neglected mansion-house supplied

  Fresh butter, tea-kettle, and earthen-ware,

  And chafing-dish with smoking coals, and so

  Beneath the trees we sat in our small boat

  And in the covert eat our delicate meal

  Upon the calm smooth lake. It was a joy

  Worthy the heart of one who is full grown

  To rest beneath those horizontal boughs

  And mark the radiance of the setting sun, 160

  Himself unseen, reposing on the top

  Of the high eastern hills. And there I said,

  That beauteous sight before me, there I said

  (Then first beginning in my thoughts to mark

  That sense of dim similitude which links

  Our moral feelings with external forms)

  That in whatever region I should close

  My mortal life I would remember you,

  Fair scenes! that dying I woul
d think on you,

  My soul would send a longing look to you: 170

  Even as that setting sun while all the vale

  Could nowhere catch one faint memorial gleam

  Yet with the last remains of his last light

  Still lingered, and a farewell luster threw

  On the dear mountain-tops where first he rose.

  ‘Twas then my fourteenth summer, and these words

  Were uttered in casual access

  Of sentiment, a momentary trance

  That far outran the habit of my mind.

  Upon the east 180

  Above the crescent of a pleasant bay,

  There was an Inn, no homely-featured shed,

  Brother of the surrounding cottages,

  But ‘twas a splendid place, the door beset

  With chaises, grooms, and liveries, and within

  Decanters, glasses, and the blood-red wine.

  In ancient times, or ere the Hall was built

  On the large island, had the dwelling been

  More worthy of a poet’s love, a hut

  Proud of its one bright fire and sycamore shade. 190

  But though the rhymes were gone which once inscribed

  The threshold, and large golden characters

  On the blue-frosted sign-board had usurped

  The place of the old Lion in contempt

  And mockery of the rustic painter’s hand,

  Yet to this hour the spot to me is dear

  With all its foolish pomp. The garden lay

  Upon a slope surmounted by the plain

  Of a small bowling-green; beneath us stood

  A grove, with gleams of water through the trees 200

  And over the tree-tops; nor did we want

  Refreshment, strawberries and mellow cream,

  And there through half an afternoon we played

  On the smooth platform, and the shouts we sent

  Made all the mountains ring. But ere the fall

  Of night, when in our pinnace we returned

  Over the dusky lake, and to the beach

  Of some small island steered our course with one,

  The minstrel of our troop, and left him there

  And rowed off gently while he blew his flute 210

  Alone upon the rock – oh then the calm

  And dead still water lay upon my mind

  Even with a weight of pleasure, and the sky,

  Never before so beautiful, sank down

  Into my heart and held me like a dream.

  Thus day by day my sympathies increased

  And thus the common range of visible things

  Grew dear to me: already I began

  To love the sun, a Boy I loved the sun

  Not, as I since have loved him, as a pledge 220

  And surety of my earthly life, a light

  Which while I view I feel I am alive,

  But for this cause, that I had seen him lay

  His beauty on the morning hills, had seen