Delphi Complete Works of William Wordsworth

by William Wordsworth

  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;