Was audible, among the hills I sate 365
Alone, upon some jutting eminence
At the first hour of morning, when the Vale
Lay quiet in an utter solitude.
How shall I trace the history, where seek
The origin of what I then have felt? 370
Oft in these moments such a holy calm
Did overspread my soul, that I forgot
That I had bodily eyes, and what I saw
Appear’d like something in myself, a dream,
A prospect in my mind. 375
‘Twere long to tell
What spring and autumn, what the winter snows,
And what the summer shade, what day and night,
The evening and the morning, what my dreams
And what my waking thoughts supplied, to nurse 380
That spirit of religious love in which
I walked with Nature. But let this, at least
Be not forgotten, that I still retain’d
My first creative sensibility,
That by the regular action of the world 385
My soul was unsubdu’d. A plastic power
Abode with me, a forming hand, at times
Rebellious, acting in a devious mood,
A local spirit of its own, at war
With general tendency, but for the most 390
Subservient strictly to the external things
With which it commun’d. An auxiliar light
Came from my mind which on the setting sun
Bestow’d new splendor, the melodious birds,
The gentle breezes, fountains that ran on, 395
Murmuring so sweetly in themselves, obey’d
A like dominion; and the midnight storm
Grew darker in the presence of my eye.
Hence by obeisance, my devotion hence,
And hence my transport. 400
Nor should this, perchance,
Pass unrecorded, that I still have lov’d
The exercise and produce of a toil
Than analytic industry to me
More pleasing, and whose character I deem 405
Is more poetic as resembling more
Creative agency. I mean to speak
Of that interminable building rear’d
By observation of affinities
In objects where no brotherhood exists 410
To common minds. My seventeenth year was come
And, whether from this habit, rooted now
So deeply in my mind, or from excess
Of the great social principle of life,
Coercing all things into sympathy, 415
To unorganic natures I transferr’d
My own enjoyments, or, the power of truth
Coming in revelation, I convers’d
With things that really are, I, at this time
Saw blessings spread around me like a sea. 420
Thus did my days pass on, and now at length
From Nature and her overflowing soul
I had receiv’d so much that all my thoughts
Were steep’d in feeling; I was only then
Contented when with bliss ineffable 425
I felt the sentiment of Being spread
O’er all that moves, and all that seemeth still,
O’er all, that, lost beyond the reach of thought
And human knowledge, to the human eye
Invisible, yet liveth to the heart, 430
O’er all that leaps, and runs, and shouts, and sings,
Or beats the gladsome air, o’er all that glides
Beneath the wave, yea, in the wave itself
And mighty depth of waters. Wonder not
If such my transports were; for in all things 435
I saw one life, and felt that it was joy.
One song they sang, and it was audible,
Most audible then when the fleshly ear,
O’ercome by grosser prelude of that strain,
Forgot its functions, and slept undisturb’d. 440
If this be error, and another faith
Find easier access to the pious mind,
Yet were I grossly destitute of all
Those human sentiments which make this earth
So dear, if I should fail, with grateful voice 445
To speak of you, Ye Mountains and Ye Lakes,
And sounding Cataracts! Ye Mists and Winds
That dwell among the hills where I was born.
If, in my youth, I have been pure in heart,
If, mingling with the world, I am content 450
With my own modest pleasures, and have liv’d,
With God and Nature communing, remov’d
From little enmities and low desires,
The gift is yours; if in these times of fear,
This melancholy waste of hopes o’erthrown, 455
If, ‘mid indifference and apathy
And wicked exultation, when good men,
On every side fall off we know not how,
To selfishness, disguis’d in gentle names
Of peace, and quiet, and domestic love, 460
Yet mingled, not unwillingly, with sneers
On visionary minds; if in this time
Of dereliction and dismay, I yet
Despair not of our nature; but retain
A more than Roman confidence, a faith 465
That fails not, in all sorrow my support,
The blessing of my life, the gift is yours,
Ye mountains! thine, O Nature! Thou hast fed
My lofty speculations; and in thee,
For this uneasy heart of ours I find 470
A never-failing principle of joy,
And purest passion.
Thou, my Friend! wert rear’d
In the great City, ‘mid far other scenes;
But we, by different roads at length have gain’d 475
The self-same bourne. And for this cause to Thee
I speak, unapprehensive of contempt,
The insinuated scoff of coward tongues,
And all that silent language which so oft
In conversation betwixt man and man 480
Blots from the human countenance all trace
Of beauty and of love. For Thou hast sought
The truth in solitude, and Thou art one,
The most intense of Nature’s worshippers
In many things my Brother, chiefly here 485
In this my deep devotion.
Fare Thee well!
Health, and the quiet of a healthful mind
Attend thee! seeking oft the haunts of men,
And yet more often living with Thyself, 490
And for Thyself, so haply shall thy days
Be many, and a blessing to mankind.
BOOK THIRD.
RESIDENCE AT CAMBRIDGE
IT was a dreary morning when the chaise
Rolled over the flat plains of Huntingdon
And through the open windows first I saw
The long-backed chapel of King’s College rear
His pinnacles above the dusky groves. 5
Soon afterwards we espied upon the road
A student clothed in gown and tasselled cap;
He passed — nor was I master of my eyes
Till he was left a hundred yards behind.
The place as we approached seemed more and more 10
To have an eddy’s force, and sucked us in
More eagerly at every step we took.
Onward we drove beneath the castle, down
By Magdalene Bridge we went and crossed the Cam,
And at the Hoop we landed, famous inn. 15
My spirit was up, my thoughts were full of hope;
Some friends I had — acquaintances who there
Seemed friends — poor simple schoolboys now hung round
With honour and importance. In a world
Of welcome faces up and down I roved — 20
Questions, dire
ctions, counsel and advice
Flowed in upon me from all sides. Fresh day
Of pride and pleasure: to myself I seemed
A man of business and expense, and went
From shop to shop about my own affairs, 25
To tutors or to tailors as befel,
From street to street with loose and careless heart.
I was the dreamer, they the dream; I roamed
Delighted through the motley spectacle:
Gowns grave or gaudy, doctors, students, streets, 30
Lamps, gateways, flocks of churches, courts and towers —
Strange transformation for a mountain youth,
A northern villager. As if by word
Of magic or some fairy’s power, at once
Behold me rich in monies and attired 35
In splendid clothes, with hose of silk, and hair
Glittering like rimy trees when frost is keen —
My lordly dressing-gown, I pass it by,
With other signs of manhood which supplied
The lack of beard. The weeks went roundly on, 40
With invitations, suppers, wine, and fruit,
Smooth housekeeping within, and all without
Liberal and suiting gentleman’s array.
The Evangelist St. John my patron was;
Three gloomy courts are his, and in the first 45
Was my abiding-place, a nook obscure.
Right underneath, the college kitchens made
A humming sound, less tuneable than bees
But hardly less industrious; with shrill notes
Of sharp command and scolding intermixed. 50
Near me was Trinity’s loquacious clock
Who never let the quarters, night or day,
Slip by him unproclaimed, and told the hours
Twice over with a male and female voice.
Her pealing organ was my neighbour too; 55
And from my bedroom I in moonlight nights
Could see right opposite, a few yards off,
The antechapel, where the statue stood
Of Newton with his prism and silent face.
Of college labours, of the lecturer’s room 60
All studded round, as thick as chairs could stand,
With loyal students faithful to their books,
Half-and-half idlers, hardy recusants,
And honest dunces; of important days,
Examinations, when the man was weighed 65
As in the balance of excessive hopes,
Tremblings withal and commendable fears,
Small jealousies and triumphs good or bad —
I make short mention. Things they were which then
I did not love, nor do I love them now: 70
Such glory was but little sought by me,
And little won. But it is right to say
That even so early, from the first crude days
Of settling-time in this my new abode,
Not seldom I had melancholy thoughts 75
From personal and family regards,
Wishing to hope without a hope — some fears
About my future worldly maintenance,
And, more than all, a strangeness in my mind,
A feeling that I was not for that hour 80
Nor for that place. But wherefore be cast down,
Why should I grieve? — I was a chosen son.
For hither I had come with holy powers
And faculties, whether to work or feel:
To apprehend all passions and all moods 85
Which time, and place, and season do impress
Upon the visible universe, and work
Like changes there by force of my own mind.
I was a freeman, in the purest sense
Was free, and to majestic ends was strong — 90
I do not speak of learning, moral truth,
Or understanding—’twas enough for me
To know that I was otherwise endowed.
When the first glitter of the show was passed,
And the first dazzle of the taper-light, 95
As if with a rebound my mind returned
Into its former self. Oft did I leave
My comrades, and the crowd, buildings and groves,
And walked along the fields, the level fields,
With heaven’s blue concave reared above my head. 100
And now it was that through such change entire,
And this first absence from those shapes sublime
Wherewith I had been conversant, my mind
Seemed busier in itself than heretofore —
At least I more directly recognised 105
My powers and habits. Let me dare to speak
A higher language, say that now I felt
The strength and consolation which were mine.
As if awakened, summoned, rouzed, constrained,
I looked for universal things, perused 110
The common countenance of earth and heaven,
And, turning the mind in upon itself,
Pored, watched, expected, listened, spread my thoughts,
And spread them with a wider creeping, felt
Incumbencies more awful, visitings 115
Of the upholder, of the tranquil soul,
Which underneath all passion lives secure
A steadfast life. But peace, it is enough
To notice that I was ascending now
To such community with highest truth. 120
A track pursuing not untrod before,
From deep analogies by thought supplied,
Or consciousnesses not to be subdued,
To every natural form, rock, fruit or flower,
Even the loose stones that cover the highway, 125
I gave a moral life — I saw them feel,
Or linked them to some feeling. The great mass
Lay bedded in a quickening soul, and all
That I beheld respired with inward meaning.
Thus much for the one presence, and the life 130
Of the great whole; suffice it here to add
That whatsoe’er of terror, or of love,
Or beauty, Nature’s daily face put on
From transitory passion, unto this
I was as wakeful even as waters are 135
To the sky’s motion, in a kindred sense
Of passion was obedient as a lute
That waits upon the touches of the wind.
So it was with me in my solitude:
So often among multitudes of men. 140
Unknown, unthought of, yet I was most rich,
I had a world about me—’twas my own,
I made it; for it only lived to me,
And to the God who looked into my mind.
Such sympathies would sometimes shew themselves 145
By outward gestures and by visible looks —
Some called it madness; such indeed it was,
If childlike fruitfulness in passing joy,
If steady moods of thoughtfulness matured
To inspiration, sort with such a name; 150
If prophesy be madness, if things viewed
By poets of old time, and higher up
By the first men, earth’s first inhabitants,
May in these tutored days no more be seen
With undisordered sight. But leaving this, 155
It was no madness, for I had an eye
Which in my strongest workings evermore
Was looking for the shades of difference
As they lie hid in all exterior forms,
Near or remote, minute or vast — an eye 160
Which from a stone, a tree, a withered leaf,
To the broad ocean and the azure heavens
Spangled with kindred multitudes of stars,
Could find no surface where its power might sleep,
Which spake perpetual logic to my soul, 165
And by an unrelenting agency
Did bind my
feelings even as in a chain.
And here, O friend, have I retraced my life
Up to an eminence, and told a tale
Of matters which not falsely I may call 170
The glory of my youth. Of genius, power,
Creation, and divinity itself,
I have been speaking, for my theme has been
What passed within me. Not of outward things
Done visibly for other minds — words, signs, 175
Symbols or actions — but of my own heart
Have I been speaking, and my youthful mind.
O heavens, how awful is the might of souls,
And what they do within themselves while yet
The yoke of earth is new to them, the world 180
Nothing but a wild field where they were sown.
This is in truth heroic argument,
And genuine prowess — which I wished to touch,
With hand however weak — but in the main
It lies far hidden from the reach of words. 185
Points have we all of us within our souls
Where all stand single; this I feel, and make
Breathings for incommunicable powers.
Yet each man is a memory to himself,
And, therefore, now that I must quit this theme, 190
I am not heartless; for there’s not a man
That lives who hath not had his god-like hours,
And knows not what majestic sway we have
As natural beings in the strength of Nature.
Enough, for now into a populous plain 195
We must descend. A traveller I am,
And all my tale is of myself — even so —
So be it, if the pure in heart delight
To follow me, and thou, O honoured friend,
Who in my thoughts art ever at my side, 200
Uphold as heretofore my fainting steps.
It hath been told already how my sight
Was dazzled by the novel show, and how
Erelong I did into myself return.
So did it seem, and so in truth it was — 205
Yet this was but short-lived. Thereafter came
Observance less devout: I had made a change
In climate, and my nature’s outward coat
Changed also, slowly and insensibly.
To the deep quiet and majestic thoughts 210
Of loneliness succeeded empty noise
And superficial pastimes, now and then
Forced labour, and more frequently forced hopes,
And, worse than all, a treasonable growth
Of indecisive judgements that impaired 215
And shook the mind’s simplicity. And yet
This was a gladsome time. Could I behold —
Who less insensible than sodden clay
On a sea-river’s bed at ebb of tide
Could have beheld — with undelighted heart 220
so many happy youths, so wide and fair
Delphi Complete Works of William Wordsworth Page 90