Whatever shadings of mortality 240
Had fallen upon these objects heretofore
Were different in kind: not tender — strong,
Deep, gloomy were they, and severe, the scatterings
Of childhood, and moreover, had given way
In later youth to beauty and to love 245
Enthusiastic, to delight and joy.
As one who hangs down-bending from the side
Of a slow-moving boat upon the breast
Of a still water, solacing himself
With such discoveries as his eye can make 250
Beneath him in the bottom of the deeps,
Sees many beauteous sights — weeds, fishes, flowers,
Grots, pebbles, roots of trees — and fancies more,
Yet often is perplexed, and cannot part
The shadow from the substance, rocks and sky, 255
Mountains and clouds, from that which is indeed
The region, and the things which there abide
In their true dwelling; now is crossed by gleam
Of his own image, by a sunbeam now,
And motions that are sent he knows not whence, 260
Impediments that make his task more sweet;
Such pleasant office have we long pursued
Incumbent o’er the surface of past time —
With like success. Nor have we often looked
On more alluring shows — to me at least — 265
More soft, or less ambiguously descried,
Than those which now we have been passing by,
And where we still are lingering. Yet in spite
Of all these new employments of the mind
There was an inner falling off. I loved, 270
Loved deeply, all that I had loved before,
More deeply even than ever; but a swarm
Of heady thoughts jostling each other, gawds
And feast and dance and public revelry
And sports and games — less pleasing in themselves 275
Than as they were a badge, glossy and fresh,
Of manliness and freedom — these did now
Seduce me from the firm habitual quest
Of feeding pleasures, from that eager zeal,
Those yearnings which had every day been mine, 280
A wild, unworldly-minded youth, given up
To Nature and to books, or, at the most,
From time to time by inclination shipped
One among many, in societies
That were, or seemed, as simple as myself. 285
But now was come a change — it would demand
Some skill, and longer time than may be spared,
To paint even to myself these vanities,
And how they wrought — but sure it is that now
Contagious air did oft environ me, 290
Unknown among these haunts in former days.
The very garments that I wore appeared
To prey upon my strength, and stopped the course
And quiet stream of self-forgetfulness.
Something there was about me that perplexed 295
Th’ authentic sight of reason, pressed too closely
On that religious dignity of mind
That is the very faculty of truth,
Which wanting — either, from the very first
A function never lighted up, or else 300
Extinguished — man, a creature great and good,
Seems but a pageant plaything with vile claws,
And this great frame of breathing elements
A senseless idol.
This vague heartless chace 305
Of trivial pleasures was a poor exchange
For books and Nature at that early age.
‘Tis true, some casual knowledge might be gained
Of character or life; but at that time,
Of manners put to school I took small note, 310
And all my deeper passions lay elsewhere —
Far better had it been to exalt the mind
By solitary study, to uphold
Intense desire by thought and quietness.
And yet, in chastisement of these regrets, 315
The memory of one particular hour
Doth here rise up against me. In a throng,
A festal company of maids and youths,
Old men and matrons, staid, promiscuous rout,
A medley of all tempers, I had passed 320
The night in dancing, gaiety and mirth —
With din of instruments, and shuffling feet,
And glancing forms, and tapers glittering,
And unaimed prattle flying up and down,
Spirits upon the stretch, and here and there 325
Slight shocks of young love-liking interspersed
That mounted up like joy into the head,
And tingled through the veins. Ere we retired
The cock had crowed, the sky was bright with day;
Two miles I had to walk along the fields 330
Before I reached my home. Magnificent
The morning was, a memorable pomp,
More glorious than I ever had beheld.
The sea was laughing at a distance; all
The solid montains were as bright as clouds, 335
Grain-tinctured, drenched in empyrean light;
And in the meadows and the lower grounds
Was all the sweetness of a common dawn —
Dews, vapours, and the melody of birds,
And labourers going forth into the fields. 340
Ah, need I say, dear friend, that to the brim
My heart was full? I made no vows, but vows
Were then made for me; bond unknown to me
Was given, that I should be — else sinning greatly —
A dedicated spirit. On I walked 345
In blessedness, which even yet remains.
Strange rendezvous my mind was at that time,
A party-coloured shew of grave and gay,
Solid and light, short-sighted and profound,
Of considerate habits and sedate, 350
Consorting in one mansion unreproved.
I knew the worth of that which I possessed,
Though slighted and misused. Besides in truth
That summer, swarming as it did with thoughts
Transient and loose, yet wanted not a store 355
Of primitive hours, when — by these hindrances
Unthwarted — I experienced in myself
Conformity as just as that of old
To the end and written spirit of God’s works,
Whether held forth in Nature or in man. 360
From many wanderings that have left behind
Remembrances not lifeless, I will here
Single out one, then pass to other themes.
A favorite pleasure hath it been with me
From time of earliest youth to walk alone 365
Along the public way, when, for the night
Deserted, in its silence it assumes
A character of deeper quietness
Than pathless solitudes. At such an hour
Once, ere these summer months were passed away, 370
I slowly mounted up a steep ascent
Where the road’s wat’ry surface, to the ridge
Of that sharp rising, glittered in the moon
And seemed before my eyes another stream
Creeping with silent lapse to join the brook 375
That murmured in the valley. On I went
Tranquil, receiving in my own despite
Amusement, as I slowly passed along,
From such near objects as from time to time
Perforce intruded on the listless sense, 380
Quiescent and disposed to sympathy,
With an exhausted mind worn out by toil
And all unworthy of the deeper joy
Which waits on distant prospect — cliff or sea,
The dark blue vaul
t and universe of stars. 385
Thus did I steal along that silent road,
My body from the stillness drinking in
A restoration like the calm of sleep,
But sweeter far. Above, before, behind,
Around me, all was peace and solitude; 390
I looked not round, nor did the solitude
Speak to my eye, but it was heard and felt,
O happy state! what beauteous pictures now
Rose in harmonious imagery; they rose
As from some distant region of my soul 395
And came along like dreams — yet such as left
Obscurely mingled with their passing forms
A consciousness of animal delight,
A self-possession felt in every pause
And every gentle movement of my frame. 400
While thus I wandered, step by step led on,
It chanced a sudden turning of the road
Presented to my view an uncouth shape,
So near that, slipping back into the shade
Of a thick hawthorn, I could mark him well, 405
Myself unseen. He was of stature tall,
A foot above man’s common measure tall,
Stiff in his form, and upright, lank and lean —
A man more meagre, as it seemed to me,
Was never seen abroad by night or day. 410
His arms were long, and bare his hands; his mouth
Shewed ghastly in the moonlight; from behind,
A milestone propped him, and his figure seemed
Half sitting, and half standing. I could mark
That he was clad in military garb, 415
Though faded yet entire. He was alone,
Had no attendant, neither dog, nor staff,
Nor knapsack; in his very dress appeared
A desolation, a simplicity
That seemed akin to solitude. Long time 420
Did I peruse him with a mingled sense
Of fear and sorrow. From his lips meanwhile
There issued murmuring sounds, as if of pain
Or of uneasy thought; yet still his form
Kept the same steadiness, and at his feet 425
His shadow lay, and moved not. In a glen
Hard by, a village stood, whose roofs and doors
Were visible among the scattered trees,
Scarce distant from the spot an arrow’s flight.
I wished to see him move, but he remained 430
Fixed to his place, and still from time to time
Sent forth a murmuring voice of dead complaint,
Groans scarcely audible. Without self-blame
I had not thus prolonged my watch; and now,
Subduing my heart’s specious cowardise, 435
I left the shady nook where I had stood
And hailed him. Slowly from his resting-place
He rose, and with a lean and wasted arm
In measured gesture lifted to his head
Returned my salutation, then resumed 440
His station as before. And when erelong
I asked his history, he in reply
Was neither slow nor eager, but, unmoved,
And with a quiet uncomplaining voice,
A stately air of mild indifference, 445
He told in simple words a soldier’s tale:
That in the tropic islands he had served,
Whence he had landed scarcely ten days past —
That on his landing he had been dismissed,
And now was travelling to his native home. 450
At this I turned and looked towards the village,
But all were gone to rest, the fires all out,
And every silent window to the moon
Shone with a yellow glitter. ‘No one there’,
Said I, ‘is waking; we must measure back 455
The way which we have come. Behind yon wood
A labourer dwells, and, take it on my word,
He will not murmur should we break his rest,
And with a ready heart will give you food
And lodging for the night.’ At this he stooped, 460
And from the ground took up an oaken staff
By me yet unobserved, a traveller’s staff
Which I suppose from his slack hand had dropped,
And lain till now neglected in the grass.
Towards the cottage without more delay 465
We shaped our course. As it appeared to me
He travelled without pain, and I beheld
With ill-suppressed astonishment his tall
And ghastly figure moving at my side;
Nor while we journeyed thus could I forbear 470
To question him of what he had endured
From hardship, battle, or the pestilence.
He all the while was in demeanor calm,
Concise in answer. Solemn and sublime
He might have seemed, but that in all he said 475
There was a strange half-absence, and a tone
Of weakness and indifference, as of one
Remembering the importance of his theme
But feeling it no longer. We advanced
Slowly, and ere we to the wood were come 480
Discourse had ceased. Together on we passed
In silence through the shades, gloomy and dark;
Then, turning up along an open field,
We gained the cottage. At the door I knocked,
Calling aloud, ‘My friend, here is a man 485
By sickness overcome. Beneath your roof
This night let him find rest, and give him food
If food he need, for he is faint and tired.’
Assured that now my comrade would repose
In comfort, I entreated that henceforth 490
He would not linger in the public ways,
But ask for timely furtherance, and help
Such as his state required. At this reproof,
With the same ghastly mildness in his look,
He said, ‘My trust is in the God of Heaven, 495
And in the eye of him that passes me.’
The cottage door was speedily unlocked,
And now the soldier touched his hat again
With his lean hand, and in a voice that seemed
To speak with a reviving interest, 500
‘Till then unfelt, he thanked me; I returned
The blessing of the poor unhappy man,
And so we parted. Back I cast a look,
And lingered near the door a little space,
Then sought with quiet heart my distant home. 505
BOOK FIFTH.
BOOKS
EVEN in the steadiest mood of reason, when
All sorrow for thy transitory pains
Goes out, it grieves me for thy state, O man,
Thou paramount creature, and thy race, while ye
Shall sojourn on this planet, not for woes 5
Which thou endur’st — that weight, albeit huge,
I charm away — but for those palms atchieved
Through length of time, by study and hard thought,
The honours of thy high endowments; there
My sadness finds its fuel. Hitherto 10
In progress through this verse my mind hath looked
Upon the speaking face of earth and heaven
As her prime teacher, intercourse with man
Established by the Sovereign Intellect,
Who through that bodily image hath diffused 15
A soul divine which we participate,
A deathless spirit. Thou also, man, hast wrought,
For commerce of thy nature with itself,
Things worthy of unconquerable life;
And yet we feel — we cannot chuse but feel — 20
That these must perish. Tremblings of the heart
It gives, to think that the immortal being
No more shall need such garments; and yet man,
As l
ong as he shall be the child of earth,
Might almost ‘weep to have’ what he may lose — 25
Nor be himself extinguished, but survive
Abject, depressed, forlorn, disconsolate.
A thought is with me sometimes, and I say,
‘Should earth by inward throes be wrenched throughout,
Or fire be sent from far to wither all 30
Her pleasant habitations, and dry up
Old Ocean in his bed, left singed and bare,
Yet would the living presence still subsist
Victorious; and composure would ensue,
And kindlings like the morning — presage sure, 35
Though slow perhaps, of a returning day.’
But all the meditations of mankind,
Yea, all the adamantine holds of truth
By reason built, or passion (which itself
Is highest reason in a soul sublime), 40
The consecrated works of bard and sage,
Sensuous or intellectual, wrought by men,
Twin labourers and heirs of the same hopes —
Where would they be? Oh, why hath not the mind
Some element to stamp her image on 45
In nature somewhat nearer to her own?
Why, gifted with such powers to send abroad
Her spirit, must it lodge in shrines so frail?
One day, when in the hearing of a friend
I had given utterance to thoughts like these, 50
He answered with a smile that in plain truth
‘Twas going far to seek disquietude —
But on the front of his reproof confessed
That he at sundry seasons had himself
Yielded to kindred hauntings, and, forthwith, 55
Added that once upon a summer’s noon
While he was sitting in a rocky cave
By the seaside, perusing as it chanced,
The famous history of the errant knight
Recorded by Cervantes, these same thoughts 60
Came to him, and to height unusual rose
While listlessly he sate, and, having closed
The book, had turned his eyes towards the sea.
On poetry and geometric truth
(The knowledge that endures) upon these two, 65
And their high privilege of lasting life
Exempt from all internal injury,
He mused — upon these chiefly — and at length,
His senses yielding to the sultry air,
Sleep seized him and he passed into a dream. 70
He saw before him an Arabian waste,
A desert, and he fancied that himself
Was sitting there in the wide wilderness
Alone upon the sands. Distress of mind
Was growing in him when, behold, at once 75
To his great joy a man was at his side,
Upon a dromedary mounted high.
He seemed an arab of the Bedouin tribes;
Delphi Complete Works of William Wordsworth Page 93