Delphi Complete Works of William Wordsworth

by William Wordsworth

  Of feeling, the pure breath of real life, 475

  We were not left untouched. With such a book

  Before our eyes we could not chuse but read

  A frequent lesson of sound tenderness,

  The universal reason of mankind,

  The truth of young and old. Nor, side by side 480

  Pacing, two brother pilgrims, or alone

  Each with his humour, could we fail to abound —

  Craft this which hath been hinted at before —

  In dreams and fictions pensively composed:

  Dejection taken up for pleasure’s sake, 485

  And gilded sympathies, the willow wreath,

  Even among those solitudes sublime,

  And sober posies of funereal flowers,

  Culled from the gardens of the Lady Sorrow,

  Did sweeten many a meditative hour. 490

  Yet still in me, mingling with these delights,

  Was something of stern mood, an under-thirst

  Of vigor, never utterly asleep.

  Far different dejection once was mine —

  A deep and genuine sadness then I felt — 495

  The circumstances I will here relate

  Even as they were. Upturning with a band

  Of travellers, from the Valais we had clomb

  Along the road that leads to Italy;

  A length of hours, making of these our guides, 500

  Did we advance, and, having reached an inn

  Among the mountains, we together ate

  Our noon’s repast, from which the travellers rose

  Leaving us at the board. Erelong we followed,

  Descending by the beaten road that led 505

  Right to a rivulet’s edge, and there broke off;

  The only track now visible was one

  Upon the further side, right opposite,

  And up a lofty mountain. This we took,

  After a little scruple and short pause, 510

  And climbed with eagerness — though not, at length,

  Without surprize and some anxiety

  On finding that we did not overtake

  Our comrades gone before. By fortunate chance,

  While every moment now encreased our doubts, 515

  A peasant met us, and from him we learned

  That to the place which had perplexed us first

  We must descend, and there should find the road

  Which in the stony channel of the stream

  Lay a few steps, and then along its banks — 520

  And further, that thenceforward all our course

  Was downwards with the current of that stream.

  Hard of belief, we questioned him again,

  And all the answers which the man returned

  To our inquiries, in their sense and substance 525

  Translated by the feelings which we had,

  Ended in this — that we had crossed the Alps.

  Imagination! — lifting up itself

  Before the eye and progress of my song

  Like an unfathered vapour, here that power, 530

  In all the might of its endowments, came

  Athwart me. I was lost as in a cloud,

  Halted without a struggle to break through,

  And now, recovering, to my soul I say

  ‘I recognise thy glory’. In such strength 535

  Of usurpation, in such visitings

  Of awful promise, when the light of sense

  Goes out in flashes that have shewn to us

  The invisible world, doth greatness make abode,

  There harbours whether we be young or old. 540

  Our destiny, our nature, and our home,

  Is with infinitude — and only there;

  With hope it is, hope that can never die,

  Effort, and expectation, and desire,

  And something evermore about to be. 545

  The mind beneath such banners militant

  Thinks not of spoils or trophies, nor of aught

  That may attest its prowess, blest in thoughts

  That are their own perfection and reward —

  Strong in itself, and in the access of joy 550

  Which hides in like the overflowing Nile.

  The dull and heavy slackening which ensued

  Upon those tidings by the peasant given

  Was soon dislodged; downwards we hurried fast,

  And entered with the road which we had missed 555

  Into a narrow chasm. The brook and road

  Were fellow-travellers in this gloomy pass,

  And with them did we journey several hours

  At a slow step. The immeasurable height

  Of woods decaying, never to be decayed, 560

  The stationary blasts of waterfalls,

  And everywhere along the hollow rent

  Winds thwarting winds, bewildered and forlorn,

  The torrents shooting from the clear blue sky,

  The rocks that muttered close upon our ears — 565

  Black drizzling crags that spake by the wayside

  As if a voice were in them — the sick sight

  And giddy prospect of the raving stream,

  The unfettered clouds and region of the heavens,

  Tumult and peace, the darkness and the light, 570

  Were all like workings of one mind, the features

  Of the same face, blossoms upon one tree,

  Characters of the great apocalypse,

  The types and symbols of eternity,

  Of first, and last, and midst, and without end. 575

  That night our lodging was an alpine house,

  An inn, or hospital (as they are named),

  Standing in that same valley by itself,

  And close upon the confluence of two streams —

  A dreary mansion, large beyond all need, 580

  With high and spacious rooms, deafened and stunned

  By noise of waters, making innocent sleep

  Lie melancholy among weary bones.

  Uprisen betimes, our journey we renewed,

  Led by the stream, ere noon-day magnified 585

  Into a lordly river, broad and deep,

  Dimpling along in silent majesty

  With mountains for its neighbours, and in view

  Of distant mountains and their snowy tops,

  And thus proceeding to Locarno’s lake, 590

  Fit resting-place for such a visitant.

  Locarno, spreading out in width like heaven,

  And Como thou — a treasure by the earth

  Kept to itself, a darling bosomed up

  In Abyssinian privacy — I spake 595

  Of thee, thy chestnut woods and garden plots

  Of Indian corn tended by dark-eyed maids,

  Thy lofty steeps, and pathways roofed with vines

  Winding from house to house, from town to town

  (Sole link that binds them to each other), walks 600

  League after league, and cloistral avenues

  Where silence is if music be not there:

  While yet a youth undisciplined in verse,

  Through fond ambition of my heart I told

  Your praises, nor can I approach you now 605

  Ungreeted by a more melodious song,

  Where tones of learned art and Nature mixed

  May frame enduring language. Like a breeze

  Or sunbeam over your domain I passed

  In motion without pause; but ye have left 610

  Your beauty with me, an impassioned sight

  Of colours and of forms, whose power is sweet

  And gracious, almost, might I dare to say,

  As virtue is, or goodness — sweet as love,

  Or the remembrance of a noble deed, 615

  Or gentlest visitations of pure thought

  When God, the giver of all joy, is thanked

  Religiously in silent blessedness —

  Sweet as this last itself, for such it is.


  Through those delightful pathways we advanced 620

  Two days, and still in presence of the lake,

  Which winding up among the Alps now changed

  Slowly its lovely countenance and put on

  A sterner character. The second night,

  In eagerness, and by report misled 625

  Of those Italian clocks that speak the time

  In fashion different from ours, we rose

  By moonshine, doubting not that day was near,

  And that, meanwhile, coasting the water’s edge

  As hitherto, and with as plain a track 630

  To be our guide, we might behold the scene

  In its most deep repose. We left the town

  Of Gravedona with this hope, but soon

  Were lost, bewildered among woods immense,

  Where, having wandered for a while, we stopped 635

  And on a rock sate down to wait for day.

  An open place it was and overlooked

  From high the sullen water underneath,

  On which a dull red image of the moon

  Lay bedded, changing oftentimes its form 640

  Like an uneasy snake. Long time we sate,

  For scarcely more than one hour of the night —

  Such was our error — had been gone when we

  Renewed our journey. On the rock we lay

  And wished to sleep, but could not for the stings 645

  Of insects, which with noise like that of noon

  Filled all the woods. The cry of unknown birds,

  the mountains — more by darkness visible

  And their own size, than any outward light —

  The breathless wilderness of clouds, the clock 650

  That told with unintelligible voice

  The widely parted hours, the noise of streams,

  And sometimes rustling motions nigh at hand

  Which did not leave us free from personal fear,

  And lastly, the withdrawing moon that set 655

  Before us while she still was high in heaven —

  These were our food, and such a summer night

  Did to that pair of golden days succeed,

  With now and then a doze and snatch of sleep,

  On Como’s banks, the same delicious lake. 660

  But here I must break off, and quit at once,

  Though loth, the record of these wanderings,

  A theme which may seduce me else beyond

  All reasonable bounds. Let this alone

  Be mentioned as a parting word, that not 665

  In hollow exultation, dealing forth

  Hyperboles of praise comparative;

  Not rich one moment to be poor for ever;

  Not prostrate, overborne — as if the mind

  Itself were nothing, a mean pensioner 670

  On outward forms — did we in presence stand

  Of that magnificent region. On the front

  Of this whole song is written that my heart

  Must, in such temple, needs have offered up

  A different worship. Finally, whate’er 675

  I saw, or heard, or felt, was but a stream

  That flowed into a kindred stream, a gale

  That helped me forwards, did administer

  To grandeur and to tenderness — to the one

  Directly, but to tender thoughts by means 680

  Less often instantaneous in effect —

  Conducted me to these along a path

  Which, in the main, was more circuitous.

  Oh most beloved friend, a glorious time,

  A happy time that was. Triumphant looks 685

  Were then the common language of all eyes:

  As if awakened from sleep, the nations hailed

  Their great expectancy; the fife of war

  Was then a spirit-stirring sound indeed,

  A blackbird’s whistle in a vernal grove. 690

  We left the Swiss exulting in the fate

  Of their neighbours, and, when shortening fast

  Our pilgrimage — nor distant far from home —

  We crossed the Brabant armies on the fret

  For battle in the cause of Liberty. 695

  A stripling, scarcely of the household then

  Of social life, I looked upon these things

  As from a distance — heard, and saw, and felt,

  Was touched but with no intimate concern —

  I seemed to move among them as a bird 700

  Moves through the air, or as a fish pursues

  Its business in its proper element.

  I needed not that joy, I did not need

  Such help: the ever-living universe

  And independent spirit of pure youth 705

  Were with me at that season, and delight

  Was in all places spread around my steps

  As constant as the grass upon the fields.

  BOOK SEVENTH.

  RESIDENCE IN LONDON

  FIVE years are vanished since I first poured out,

  Saluted by that animating breeze

  Which met me issuing from the city’s walls,

  A glad preamble to this verse. I sang

  Aloud in dithyrambic fervour, deep 5

  But short-lived uproar, like a torrent sent

  Out of the bowels of a bursting cloud

  Down Scawfell or Blencathara’s rugged sides,

  A waterspout from heaven. But ‘twas not long

  Ere the interrupted strain broke forth once more, 10

  And flowed awhile in strength; then stopped for years —

  Not heard again until a little space

  Before last primrose-time. Belov`ed friend,

  The assurances then given unto myself,

  Which did beguile me of some heavy thoughts 15

  At thy departure to a foreign land,

  Have failed; for slowly doth this work advance.

  Through the whole summer I have been at rest,

  Partly from voluntary holiday

  And part through outward hindrance. But I heard 20

  After the hour of sunset yester-even,

  Sitting within doors betwixt light and dark,

  A voice that stirred me. ‘Twas a little band,

  A quire of redbreasts gathered somewhere near

  My threshold, minstrels from the distant woods 25

  And dells, sent in by Winter to bespeak

  For the old man a welcome, to announce

  With preparation artful and benign —

  Yea, the most gentle music of the year —

  That their rough lord had left the surly north, 30

  And hath begun his journey. A delight

  At this unthought-of-greeting unawares

  Smote me, a sweetness of the coming time,

  And, listening, I half whispered, ‘We will be,

  Ye heartsome choristers, ye and I will be 35

  Brethren, and in the hearing of bleak winds

  Will chaunt together.’ And, thereafter, walking

  By later twilight on the hills I saw

  A glow-worm, from beneath a dusky shade

  Or canopy of the yet unwithered fern 40

  Clear shining, like a hermit’s taper seen

  Through a thick forest. Silence touched me here

  No less than sound had done before; the child

  Of summer, lingering, shining by itself,

  The voiceless worm on the unfrequented hills, 45

  Seemed sent on the same errand with the quire

  Of winter that had warbled at my door,

  And the whole year seemed tenderness and love.

  The last night’s genial feeling overflowed

  Upon this morning, and my favorite grove — 50

  Now tossing its dark boughs in sun and wind —

  Spreads through me a commotion like its own,

  Something that fits me for the poet’s task,

  Which we will now resume with chearful hope,

&n
bsp; Nor checked by aught of tamer argument 55

  That lies before us, needful to be told.

  Returned from that excursion, soon I bade

  Farewell for ever to the private bowers

  Of gowned students — quitted these, no more 60

  To enter them, and pitched my vagrant tent,

  A casual dweller and at large, among

  The unfenced regions of society.

  Yet undetermined to what plan of life

  I should adhere, and seeming thence to have 65

  A little space of intermediate time

  Loose and at full command, to London first

  I turned, if not in calmness, nevertheless

  In no disturbance of excessive hope —

  At ease from all ambition personal, 70

  Frugal as there was need, and though self-willed,

  Yet temperate and reserved, and wholly free

  From dangerous passions. ‘Twas at least two years

  Before this season when I first beheld

  That mighty place, a transient visitant; 75

  And now it pleased me my abode to fix

  Single in the wide waste. To have a house,

  It was enough — what matter for a home? —

  That owned me, living chearfully abroad

  With fancy on the stir from day to day, 80

  And all my young affections out of doors.

  There was a time when whatso’er is feigned

  Of airy palaces and gardens built

  By genii of romance, or hath in grave

  Authentic history been set forth of Rome, 85

  Alcairo, Babylon, or Persepolis,

  Or given upon report by pilgrim friars

  Of golden cities ten months’ journey deep

  Among Tartarean wilds, fell short, far short,

  Of that which I in simpleness believed 90

  And thought of London — held me by a chain

  Less strong of wonder and obscure delight.

  I know not that herein I shot beyond

  The common mark of childhood, but I well

  Remember that among our flock of boys 95

  Was one, a cripple from the birth, whom chance

  Summoned from school to London — fortunate

  And envied traveller — and when he returned,

  After short absence, and I first set eyes

  Upon his person, verily, though strange 100

  The thing may seem, I was not wholly free

  From disappointment to behold the same

  Appearance, the same body, not to find

  Some change, some beams of glory brought away

  From that new region, Much I questioned him, 105

  And every word he uttered, on my ears

  Fell flatter than a cag`ed parrot’s note,

  That answers unexpectedly awry,

  And mocks the prompter’s listening. Marvellous things