Delphi Complete Works of William Wordsworth

by William Wordsworth

  OH, there is blessing in this gentle breeze,

  That blows from the green fields and from the clouds

  And from the sky; it beats against my cheek,

  And seems half conscious of the joy it gives.

  O welcome messenger! O welcome friend! 5

  A captive greets thee, coming from a house

  Of bondage, from yon city’s walls set free,

  A prison where he hath been long immured.

  Now I am free, enfranchised and at large,

  May fix my habitation where I will. 10

  What dwelling shall receive me, in what vale

  Shall be my harbour, underneath what grove

  Shall I take up my home, and what sweet stream

  Shall with its murmurs lull me to my rest?

  The earth is all before me — with a heart 15

  Joyous, nor scared at its own liberty,

  I look about, and should the guide I chuse

  Be nothing better than a wandering cloud

  I cannot miss my way. I breathe again —

  Trances of thought and mountings of the mind 20

  Come fast upon me. It is shaken off,

  As by miraculous gift ‘tis shaken off,

  That burthen of my own unnatural self,

  The heavy weight of many a weary day

  Not mine, and such as were not made for me. 25

  Long months of peace — if such bold word accord

  With any promises of human life —

  Long months of ease and undisturbed delight

  Are mine in prospect. Whither shall I turn,

  By road or pathway, or through open field, 30

  Or shall a twig or any floating thing

  Upon the river point me out my course?

  Enough that I am free, for months to come

  May dedicate myself to chosen tasks,

  May quit the tiresome sea and dwell on shore — 35

  If not a settler on the soil, at least

  To drink wild water, and to pluck green herbs,

  And gather fruits fresh from their native bough.

  Nay more, if I may trust myself, this hour

  Hath brought a gift that consecrates my joy; 40

  For I, methought, while the sweet breath of heaven

  Was blowing on my body, felt within

  A corresponding mild creative breeze,

  A vital breeze which travelled gently on

  O’er things which it had made, and is become 45

  A tempest, a redundant energy,

  Vexing its own creation. ‘Tis a power

  That does not come unrecognised, a storm

  Which, breaking up a long-continued frost,

  Brings with it vernal promises, the hope 50

  Of active days, of dignity and thought,

  Of prowess in an honorable field,

  Pure passions, virtue, knowledge, and delight,

  The holy life of music and of verse.

  Thus far, O friend, did I, not used to make 55

  A present joy the matter of my song,

  Pour out that day my soul in measured strains,

  Even in the very words which I have here

  Recorded. To the open fields I told

  A prophesy; poetic numbers came 60

  Spontaneously, and clothed in priestly robe

  My spirit, thus singled out, as it might seem,

  For holy services. Great hopes were mine:

  My own voice cheared me, and, far more, the mind’s

  Internal echo of the imperfect sound — 65

  To both I listened, drawing from them both

  A chearful confidence in things to come.

  Whereat, being not unwilling now to give

  A respite to this passion, I paced on

  Gently, with careless steps, and came erelong 70

  To a green shady place where down I sate

  Beneath a tree, slackening my thoughts by choice

  And settling into gentler happiness.

  ‘Twas autumn, and a calm and placid day

  With warmth as much as needed from a sun 75

  Two hours declined towards the west, a day

  With silver clouds and sunshine on the grass,

  And, in the sheltered grove where I was couched,

  A perfect stillness. On the ground I lay

  Passing through many thoughts, yet mainly such 80

  As to myself pertained. I made a choice

  Of one sweet vale whither my steps should turn,

  And saw, methought, the very house and fields

  Present before my eyes; nor did I fail

  To add meanwhile assurance of some work 85

  Of glory there forthwith to be begun —

  Perhaps too there performed. Thus long I lay

  Cheared by the genial pillow of the earth

  Beneath my head, soothed by a sense of touch

  From the warm ground, that balanced me, else lost 90

  Entirely, seeing nought, nought hearing, save

  When here and there about the grove of oaks

  Where was my bed, an acorn from the trees

  Fell audibly, and with a startling sound.

  Thus occupied in mind I lingered here 95

  Contented, nor rose up until the sun

  Had almost touched the horizon; bidding then

  A farewell to the city left behind,

  Even with the chance equipment of that hour

  I journeyed towards the vale which I had chosen. 100

  It was a splendid evening, and my soul

  Did once again make trial of the strength

  Restored to her afresh; nor did she want

  Eolian visitations — but the harp

  Was soon defrauded, and the banded host 105

  Of harmony dispersed in straggling sounds,

  And lastly utter silence. ‘Be it so,

  It is an injury’, said I, ‘to this day

  To think of any thing but present joy.’

  So, like a peasant, I pursued my road 110

  Beneath the evening sun, nor had one wish

  Again to bend the sabbath of that time

  To a servile yoke. What need of many words? —

  A pleasant loitering journey, through two days

  Continued, brought me to my hermitage. 115

  I spare to speak, my friend, of what ensued —

  The admiration and the love, the life

  In common things, the endless store of things

  Rare, or at least so seeming, every day

  Found all about me in one neighbourhood, 120

  The self-congratulations, the complete

  Composure, and the happiness entire.

  But speedily a longing in me rose

  To brace myself to some determined aim,

  Reading or thinking, either to lay up 125

  New stores, or rescue from decay the old

  By timely interference. I had hopes

  Still higher, that with a frame of outward life

  I might endue, might fix in a visible home,

  Some portion of those phantoms of conceit, 130

  That had been floating loose about so long,

  And to such beings temperately deal forth

  The many feelings that oppressed my heart.

  But I have been discouraged: gleams of light

  Flash often from the east, then disappear, 135

  And mock me with a sky that ripens not

  Into a steady morning. If my mind,

  Remembering the sweet promise of the past,

  Would gladly grapple with some noble theme,

  Vain is her wish — where’er she turns she finds 140

  Impediments from day to day renewed.

  And now it would content me to yield up

  Those lofty hopes awhile for present gifts

  Of humbler industry. But, O dear friend,

  The poet, gentle creature as he is, 145

  Hath like the lover his
unruly times —

  His fits when he is neither sick nor well,

  Though no distress be near him but his own

  Unmanageable thoughts. The mind itself,

  The meditative mind, best pleased perhaps 150

  While she as duteous as the mother dove

  Sits brooding, lives not always to that end,

  But hath less quiet instincts — goadings on

  That drive her as in trouble through the groves.

  With me is now such passion, which I blame 155

  No otherwise than as it lasts too long.

  When, as becomes a man who would prepare

  For such a glorious work, I through myself

  Make rigorous inquisition, the report 160

  Is often chearing; for I neither seem

  To lack that first great gift, the vital soul,

  Nor general truths which are themselves a sort

  Of elements and agents, under-powers,

  Subordinate helpers of the living mind. 165

  Nor am I naked in external things,

  Forms, images, nor numerous other aids

  Of less regard, though won perhaps with toil,

  And needful to build up a poet’s praise.

  Time, place, and manners, these I seek, and these 170

  I find in plenteous store, but nowhere such

  As may be singled out with steady choice —

  No little band of yet remembered names

  Whom I, in perfect confidence, might hope

  To summon back from lonesome banishment 175

  And make them inmates in the hearts of men

  Now living, or to live in times to come.

  Sometimes, mistaking vainly, as I fear,

  Proud spring-tide swellings for a regular sea,

  I settle on some British theme, some old 180

  Romantic tale by Milton left unsung;

  More often resting at some gentle place

  Within the groves of chivalry I pipe

  Among the shepherds, with reposing knights

  Sit by a fountain-side and hear their tales. 185

  Sometimes, more sternly move, I would relate

  How vanquished Mithridates northward passed

  And, hidden in the cloud of years, became

  That Odin, father of a race by whom

  Perished the Roman Empire; how the friends 190

  And followers of Sertorius, out of Spain

  Flying, found shelter in the Fortunate Isles,

  And left their usages, their arts and laws,

  To disappear by a slow gradual death,

  To dwindle and to perish one by one, 195

  Starved in those narrow bounds — but not the soul

  Of liberty, which fifteen hundred years

  Survived, and, when the European came

  With skill and power that could not be withstood,

  Did like a pestilence maintain its hold, 200

  And wasted down by glorious death that race

  Of natural heroes. Or I would record

  How in tyrannic times, some unknown man,

  Unheard of in the chronicles of kings,

  Suffered in silence for the love of truth; 205

  How that one Frenchman, through continued force

  Of meditation on the inhuman deeds

  Of the first conquerors of the Indian Isles,

  Went single in his ministry across

  The ocean, not to comfort the oppressed, 210

  But like a thirsty wind to roam about

  Withering the oppressor; how Gustavus found

  Help at his need in Dalecarlia’s mines;

  How Wallace fought for Scotland, left the name

  Of Wallace to be found like a wild flower 215

  All over his dear county, left the deeds

  Of Wallace like a family of ghosts

  To people the steep rocks and river-banks,

  Her natural sanctuaries, with a local soul

  Of independence and stern liberty. 220

  Sometimes it suits me better to shape out

  Some tale from my own heart, more near akin

  To my own passions and habitual thoughts,

  Some variegated story, in the main

  Lofty, with interchange of gentler things. 225

  But deadening admonitions will succeed,

  And the whole beauteous fabric seems to lack

  Foundation, and withal appears throughout

  Shadowy and unsubstantial.

  Then, last wish — 230

  My last and favorite aspiration — then

  I yearn towards some philosophic song

  Of truth that cherishes our daily life,

  With meditations passionate from deep

  Recesses in man’s heart, immortal verse 235

  Thoughtfully fitted to the Orphean lyre;

  But from this awful burthen I full soon

  Take refuge, and beguile myself with trust

  That mellower years will bring a riper mind

  And clearer insight. Thus from day to day 240

  I live a mockery of the brotherhood

  Of vice and virtue, with no skill to part

  Vague longing that is bred by want of power,

  From paramount impulse not to be withstood;

  A timorous capacity, from prudence; 245

  From circumspection, infinite delay.

  Humility and modest awe themselves

  Betray me, serving often for a cloak

  To a more subtle selfishness, that now

  Doth lock my functions up in blank reserve, 250

  Now dupes me by an over-anxious eye

  That with a false activity beats off

  Simplicity and self-presented truth.

  Ah, better far than this to stray about

  Voluptuously through fields and rural walks 255

  And ask no record of the hours given up

  To vacant musing, unreproved neglect

  Of all things, and deliberate holiday.

  Far better never to have heard the name

  Of zeal and just ambition than to live 260

  Thus baffled by a mind that every hour

  Turns recreant to her task, takes heart again,

  Then feels immediately some hollow thought

  Hang like an interdict upon her hopes.

  This is my lot; for either still I find 265

  Some imperfection in the chosen theme,

  Or see of absolute accomplishment

  Much wanting — so much wanting — in myself

  That I recoil and droop, and seek repose

  In indolence from vain perplexity, 270

  Unprofitably travelling toward the grave,

  Like a false steward who hath much received

  And renders nothing back.

  — Was it for this

  That one, the fairest of all Rivers, lov’d 275

  To blend his murmurs with my Nurse’s song,

  And from his alder shades and rocky falls,

  And from his fords and shallows, sent a voice

  That flow’d along my dreams? For this, didst Thou,

  O Derwent! travelling over the green Plains 280

  Near my ‘sweet Birthplace’, didst thou, beauteous Stream

  Make ceaseless music through the night and day

  Which with its steady cadence, tempering

  Our human waywardness, compos’d my thoughts

  To more than infant softness, giving me, 285

  Among the fretful dwellings of mankind,

  A knowledge, a dim earnest, of the calm

  That Nature breathes among the hills and groves.

  When, having left his Mountains, to the Towers

  Of Cockermouth that beauteous River came, 290

  Behind my Father’s House he pass’d, close by,

  Along the margin of our Terrace Walk.

  He was a Playmate whom we dearly lov’d.

  Oh! many a time have I, a five years’ Child,
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  A naked Boy, in one delightful Rill, 295

  A little Mill-race sever’d from his stream,

  Made one long bathing of a summer’s day,

  Bask’d in the sun, and plunged, and bask’d again

  Alternate all a summer’s day, or cours’d

  Over the sandy fields, leaping through groves 300

  Of yellow grunsel, or when crag and hill,

  The woods, and distant Skiddaw’s lofty height,

  Were bronz’d with a deep radiance, stood alone

  Beneath the sky, as if I had been born

  On Indian Plains, and from my Mother’s hut 305

  Had run abroad in wantonness, to sport,

  A naked Savage, in the thunder shower.

  Fair seed-time had my soul, and I grew up

  Foster’d alike by beauty and by fear;

  Much favour’d in my birthplace, and no less 310

  In that beloved Vale to which, erelong,

  I was transplanted. Well I call to mind

  (‘Twas at an early age, ere I had seen

  Nine summers) when upon the mountain slope

  The frost and breath of frosty wind had snapp’d 315

  The last autumnal crocus, ‘twas my joy

  To wander half the night among the Cliffs

  And the smooth Hollows, where the woodcocks ran

  Along the open turf. In thought and wish

  That time, my shoulder all with springes hung, 320

  I was a fell destroyer. On the heights

  Scudding away from snare to snare, I plied

  My anxious visitation, hurrying on,

  Still hurrying, hurrying onward; moon and stars

  Were shining o’er my head; I was alone, 325

  And seem’d to be a trouble to the peace

  That was among them. Sometimes it befel

  In these night-wanderings, that a strong desire

  O’erpower’d my better reason, and the bird

  Which was the captive of another’s toils 330

  Became my prey; and, when the deed was done

  I heard among the solitary hills

  Low breathings coming after me, and sounds

  Of undistinguishable motion, steps

  Almost as silent as the turf they trod. 335

  Nor less in springtime when on southern banks

  The shining sun had from his knot of leaves

  Decoy’d the primrose flower, and when the Vales

  And woods were warm, was I a plunderer then

  In the high places, on the lonesome peaks 340

  Where’er, among the mountains and the winds,

  The Mother Bird had built her lodge. Though mean

  My object, and inglorious, yet the end

  Was not ignoble. Oh! when I have hung

  Above the raven’s nest, by knots of grass 345

  And half-inch fissures in the slippery rock

  But ill sustain’d, and almost, as it seem’d,

  Suspended by the blast which blew amain,