Of those who in the livery were arrayed
Of good or evil fame, of those with whom
By frame of academic discipline
Perforce we were connected, men whose sway,
And whose authority of office, served 575
To set our minds on edge, and did no more.
Nor wanted we rich pastime of this kind —
Found everywhere, but chiefly in the ring
Of the grave elders, men unscoured, grotesque
In character, tricked out like aged trees 580
Which through the lapse of their infirmity
Give ready place to any random seed
That chuses to be reared upon their trunks.
Here on my view, confronting as it were
Those shepherd swains whom I had lately left, 585
Did flash a different image of old age —
How different — yet both withal alike
A book of rudiments for the unpractised sight,
Objects embossed, and which with sedulous care
Nature holds up before the eye of youth 590
In her great school — with further view, perhaps,
To enter early on her tender scheme
Of teaching comprehension with delight
And mingling playful with pathetic thoughts.
The surfaces of artificial life 595
And manners finely spun, the delicate race
Of colours, lurking, gleaming up and down
Through that state arras woven with silk and gold:
This wily interchange of snaky hues,
Willingly and unwillingly revealed, 600
I had not learned to watch, and at this time
Perhaps, had such been in my daily sight,
I might have been indifferent thereto
As hermits are to tales of distant things.
Hence, for these rarities elaborate 605
Having no relish yet, I was content
With the more homely produce rudely piled
In this our coarser warehouse. At this day
I smile in many a mountain solitude
At passages and fragments that remain 610
Of that inferior exhibition, played
By wooden images, a theatre
For wake or fair. And oftentimes do flit
Remembrances before me of old men,
Old humourists, who have been long in their graves, 615
And, having almost in my mind put off
Their human names, have into phantoms passed
Of texture midway betwixt life and books.
I play the loiterer, ‘tis enough to note
That here in dwarf proportions were expressed 620
The limbs of the great world — its goings-on
Collaterally pourtrayed as in mock fight,
A tournament of blows, some hardly dealt
Though short of mortal combat — and whate’er
Might of this pageant be supposed to hit 625
A simple rustic’s notice, this way less,
More that way, was not wasted upon me.
And yet this spectacle may well demand
A more substantial name, no mimic show,
Itself a living part of a live whole, 630
A creek of the vast sea. For, all degrees
And shapes of spurious fame and short-lived praise
Here sate in state, and, fed with daily alms,
Retainers won away from solid good.
And here was Labour, his own Bond-slave; Hope 635
That never set the pains against the prize;
Idleness, halting with his weary clog;
And poor misguided Shame, and witless Fear,
And simple Pleasure, foraging for Death;
Honour misplaced, and Dignity astray; 640
Feuds, factions, flatteries, Enmity and Guile,
Murmuring Submission and bald Government
(The idol weak as the idolator)
And Decency and Custom starving Truth,
And blind Authority beating with his staff 645
The child that might have led him; Emptiness
Followed as of good omen, and meek Worth
Left to itself unheard of and unknown.
Of these and other kindred notices
I cannot say what portion is in truth 650
The naked recollection of that time,
And what may rather have been called to life
By after-meditation. But delight,
That, in an easy temper lulled asleep,
Is still with innocence its own reward, 655
This surely was not wanting. Carelessly
I gazed, roving as through a cabinet
Or wide museum, thronged with fishes, gems,
Birds, crocodiles, shells, where little can be seen,
Well understood, or naturally endeared, 660
Yet still does every step bring something forth
That quickens, pleases, stings — and here and there
A casual rarity is singled out
And has its brief perusal, then gives way
To others, all supplanted in their turn. 665
Meanwhile, amid this gaudy congress framed
Of things by nature most unneighbourly,
The head turns round, and cannot right itself;
And, though an aching and a barren sense
Of gay confusion still be uppermost, 670
With few wise longings and but little love,
Yet something to the memory sticks at last
Whence profit may be drawn in times to come.
Thus in submissive idleness, my friend,
The labouring time of autumn, winter, spring — 675
Nine months — rolled pleasingly away, the tenth
Returned me to my native hills again.
BOOK FOURTH.
SUMMER VACATION
A PLEASANT sight it was when, having clomb
The Heights of Kendal, and that dreary moor
Was crossed, at length as from a rampart’s edge
I overlooked the bed of Windermere.
I bounded down the hill, shouting amain 5
A lusty summons to the farther shore
For the old ferryman; and when he came
I did not step into the well-known boat
Without a cordial welcome. Thence right forth
I took my way, now drawing towards home, 10
To that sweet valley where I had been reared;
‘Twas but a short hour’s walk ere, veering round,
I saw the snow-white church upon its hill
Sit like a thron`ed lady, sending out
A gracious look all over its domain. 15
Glad greetings had I, and some tears perhaps,
From my old dame, so motherly and good,
While she perused me with a parent’s pride.
The thoughts of gratitude shall fall like dew
Upon thy grave, good creature: while my heart 20
Can beat I never will forget thy name.
Heaven’s blessing be upon thee where thou liest
After thy innocent and busy stir
In narrow cares, thy little daily growth
Of calm enjoyments, after eighty years, 25
And more than eighty, of untroubled life —
Childless, yet by the strangers to they blood
Honoured with little less than filial love.
Great joy was mine to see thee once again,
Thee and thy dwelling, and a throng of things 30
About its narrow precincts, all beloved
And many of them seeming yet my own.
Why should I speak of what a thousand hearts
Have felt, and every man alive can guess?
The rooms, the court, the garden were not left 35
Long unsaluted, and the spreading pine
And broad stone table underneath its boughs —
Our summer seat in many a festive hour —
>
And that unruly child of mountain birth,
The froward brook, which, soon as he was boxed 40
Within our garden, found himself at once
As if by trick insidious and unkind,
Stripped of his voice, and left to dimple down
Without an effort and without a will
A channel paved by the hand of man. 45
I looked at him and smiled, and smiled again,
And in the press of twenty thousand thoughts,
‘Ha’, quoth I, ‘pretty prisoner, are you there!’
— And now, reviewing soberly that hour,
I marvel that a fancy did not flash 50
Upon me, and a strong desire, straitway,
At sight of such an emblem that shewed forth
So aptly my late course of even days
And all their smooth enthralment, to pen down
A satire on myself. My aged dame 55
Was with me, at my side; she guided me,
I willing, nay — nay, wishing to be led.
The face of every neighbour whom I met
Was as a volume to me; some I hailed
Far off, upon the road, or at their work — 60
Unceremonious greetings, interchanged
With half the length of a long field between.
Among my schoolfellows I scattered round
A salutation that was more constrained
Though earnest — doubtless with a little pride, 65
But with more shame, for my habiliments,
The transformation and the gay attire.
Delighted did I take my place again
At our domestic table; and, dear friend,
Relating simply as my wish hath been 70
A poet’s history, can I leave untold
The joy with which I laid me down at night
In my accustomed bed, more welcome now
Perhaps than if it had been more desired,
Or been more often thought of with regret — 75
That bed whence I had heard the roaring wind
And clamorous rain, that bed where I so oft
Had lain awake on breezy nights to watch
The moon in splendour couched among the leaves
Of a tall ash that near our cottage stood, 80
Had watched her with fixed eyes, while to and fro
In the dark summit of the moving tree
She rocked with every impulse of the wind.
Among the faces which it pleased me well
To see again was one by ancient right 85
Our inmate, a rough terrier of the hills,
By birth and call of nature preordained
To hunt the badger and unearth the fox
Among the impervious crags. But having been
From youth our own adopted, he had passed 90
Into a gentler service; and when first
The boyish spirit flagged, and day by day
Along my veins I kindled with the stir,
The fermentation and the vernal heat
Of poesy, affecting private shades 95
Like a sick lover, then this dog was used
To watch me, an attendant and a friend,
Obsequious to my steps early and late,
Though often of such dilatory walk
Tired, and uneasy at the halts I made. 100
A hundred times when in these wanderings
I have been busy with the toil of verse —
Great pains and little progress — and at once
Some fair enchanting image in my mind
Rose up, full-formed like Venus from the sea, 105
Have I sprung forth towards him and let loose
My hand upon his back with stormy joy,
Caressing him again and yet again.
And when in the public roads at eventide
I sauntered, like a river murmuring 110
And talking to itself, at such a season
It was his custom to jog on before;
But, duly whensoever he had met
A passenger approaching, would he turn
To give me timely notice, and straitway, 115
Punctual to such admonishment, I hushed
My voice, composed my gait, and shaped myself
To give and take a greeting that might save
My name from piteous rumours, such as wait
On men suspected to be crazed in brain. 120
Those walks, well worthy to be prized and loved —
Regretted, that word too was on my tongue,
But they were richly laden with all good,
And cannot be remembered but with thanks
And gratitude and perfect joy of heart — 125
Those walks did now like a returning spring
Come back on me again. When first I made
Once more the circuit of our little lake
If ever happiness hath lodged with man
That day consummate happiness was mine — 130
Wide-spreading, steady, calm, contemplative.
The sun was set, or setting, when I left
Our cottage door, and evening soon brought on
A sober hour, not winning or serene,
For cold and raw the air was, and untuned; 135
But as a face we love is sweetest then
When sorrow damps it, or, whatever look
It chance to wear, is sweetest if the heart
Have fulness in itself, even so with me
It fared that evening. Gently did my soul 140
Put off her veil, and, self-transmuted, stood
Naked as in the presence of her God.
As on I walked, a comfort seemed to touch
A heart that had not been disconsolate,
Strength came where weakness was not known to be, 145
At least not felt; and restoration came
Like an intruder knocking at the door
Of unacknowledged weariness. I took
The balance in my hand and weighed myself:
I saw but little, and thereat was pleased; 150
Little did I remember, and even this
Still pleased me more — but I had hopes and peace
And swellings of the spirits, was rapt and soothed,
Conversed with promises, had glimmering views
How life pervades the undecaying mind, 155
How the immortal soul with godlike power
Informs, creates, and thaws the deepest sleep
That time can lay upon her, how on earth
Man if he do but live within the light
Of high endeavours, daily spreads abroad 160
His being with a strength that cannot fail.
Nor was there want of milder thoughts, of love,
Of innocence, and holiday repose,
And more than pastoral quiet in the heart
Of amplest projects, and a peaceful end 165
At last, or glorious, by endurance won.
Thus musing, in a wood I sate me down
Alone, continuing there to muse. Meanwhile
The mountain heights were slowly overspread
With darkness, and before a rippling breeze 170
The long lake lengthened out its hoary line,
And in the sheltered coppice where I sate,
Around me, from among the hazel leaves —
Now here, now there, stirred by the straggling wind —
Came intermittingly a breath-like sound, 175
A respiration short and quick, which oft,
Yea, might I say, again and yet again,
Mistaking for the panting of my dog,
The off-and-on companion of my walk,
I turned my head to look if he were there. 180
A freshness also found I at this time
In human life, the life I mean of those
Whose occupations really I loved.
The prospect often touched me with surprize:
Crowded and full, and changed, as se
emed to me, 185
Even as a garden in the heat of spring
After an eight-days’ absence. For — to omit
The things which were the same and yet appeared
So different — amid this solitude,
The little vale where was my chief abode, 190
‘Twas not indifferent to a youthful mind
To note, perhaps some sheltered seat in which
An old man had been used to sun himself,
Now empty; pale-faced babes whom I had left
In arms, known children of the neighbourhood, 195
Now rosy prattlers, tottering up and down;
And growing girls whose beauty, filched away
With all its pleasant promises, was gone
To deck some slighted playmate’s homely cheek.
Yes, I had something of another eye, 200
And often looking round was moved to smiles
Such as a delicate work of humour breeds.
I read, without design, the opinions, thoughts,
Of those plain-living people, in a sense
Of love and knowledge: with another eye 205
I saw the quiet woodman in the woods,
The shepherd on the hills. With new delight,
This chiefly, did I view my grey-haired dame,
Saw her go forth to church, or other work
Of state, equipped in monumental trim — 210
Short velvet cloak, her bonnet of the like,
A mantle such as Spanish cavaliers
Wore in old time. Her smooth domestic life —
Affectionate without uneasiness —
Her talk, her business, pleased me; and no less 215
Her clear though shallow stream of piety,
That ran on sabbath days a fresher course.
With thoughts unfelt till now I saw her read
Her bible on the Sunday afternoons,
And loved the book when she had dropped asleep 220
And made of it a pillow for her head.
Nor less do I remember to have felt
Distinctly manifested at this time,
A dawning, even as of another sense,
A human-heartedness about my love 225
For objects hitherto the gladsome air
Of my own private being, and no more —
Which I had loved, even as a bless`ed spirit
Or angel, if he were to dwell on earth,
Might love in individual happiness. 230
But now there opened on me other thoughts,
Of change, congratulation and regret,
A new-born feeling. It spread far and wide:
The trees, the mountains shared it, and the brooks,
The stars of heaven, now seen in their old haunts — 235
White Sirius glittering o’er the southern crags,
Orion with his belt, and those fair Seven,
Acquaintances of every little child,
And Jupiter, my own beloved star.
Delphi Complete Works of William Wordsworth Page 92