Delphi Complete Works of William Wordsworth

by William Wordsworth

Their herds and flocks about them, they themselves,

  And all which they can further or obstruct —

  Through utter weakness pitiably dear,

  As tender infants are — and yet how great, 55

  For all things serve them: them the morning light

  Loves as it glistens on the silent rocks,

  And them the silent rocks, which now from high

  Look down upon them, the reposing clouds,

  The lurking brooks from their invisible haunts, 60

  And old Helvellyn, conscious of the stir,

  And the blue sky that roofs their calm abode.

  With deep devotion, Nature, did I feel

  In that great city what I owed to thee:

  High thoughts of God and man, and love of man, 65

  Triumphant over all those loathsome sights

  Of wretchedness and vice, a watchful eye,

  Which, with the outside of our human life

  Not satisfied, must read the inner mind.

  For I already had been taught to love 70

  My fellow-beings, to such habits trained

  Among the woods and mountains, where I found

  In thee a gracious guide to lead me forth

  Beyond the bosom of my family,

  My friends and youthful playmates. ‘Twas thy power 75

  That raised the first complacency in me,

  And noticeable kindliness of heart,

  Love human to the creature in himself

  As he appeared, a stranger in my path,

  Before my eyes a brother of this world — 80

  Thou first didst with those motions of delight

  Inspire me. I remember, far from home

  Once having strayed while yet a very child,

  I saw a sight — and with what joy and love!

  It was a day of exhalations spread 85

  Upon the mountains, mists and steam-like fogs

  Redounding everywhere, not vehement,

  But calm and mild, gentle and beautiful,

  With gleams of sunshine on the eyelet spots

  And loopholes of the hills, wherever seen, 90

  Hidden by quiet process, and as soon

  Unfolded, to be huddled up again —

  Along a narrow valley and profound

  I journeyed, when aloft above my head,

  Emerging from the silvery vapours, lo, 95

  A shepherd and his dog, in open day.

  Girt round with mists they stood, and looked about

  From that enclosure small, inhabitants

  Of an a¨erial island floating on,

  As seemed, with that abode in which they were, 100

  A little pendant area of grey rocks,

  By the soft wind breathed forward. With delight

  As bland almost, one evening I beheld —

  And at as early age (the spectacle

  Is common, but by me was then first seen) — 105

  A shepherd in the bottom of a vale,

  Towards the centre standing, who with voice,

  And hand waved to and fro as need required,

  Gave signal to his dog, thus teaching him

  To chace along the mazes of steep crags 110

  The flock he could not see. And so the brute —

  Dear creature — with a man’s intelligence,

  Advancing, or retreating on his steps,

  Through every pervious strait, to right or left,

  Thridded a way unbaffled, while the flock 115

  Fled upwards from the terror of his bark

  Through rocks and seams of turf with liquid gold

  Irradiate — that deep farewell light by which

  The setting sun proclaims the love he bears

  To mountain regions. 120

  Beauteous the domain

  Where to the sense of beauty first my heart

  Was opened — tract more exquisitely fair

  Than in that paradise of ten thousand trees,

  Or Gehol’s famous gardens, in a clime 125

  Chosen

  from widest empire, for delight

  Of the Tartarian dynasty composed

  Beyond that mighty wall, not fabulous

  (China’s stupendous mound!) by patient skill

  Of myriads, and boon Nature’s lavish help: 130

  Scene linked to scene, and ever-growing change,

  Soft, grand, or gay, with palaces and domes

  Of pleasure spangled over, shady dells

  For eastern monasteries, sunny mounds

  With temples crested, bridges, gondolas, 135

  Rocks, dens and groves of foliage, taught to melt

  Into each other their obsequious hues —

  Going and gone again, in subtile chace,

  Too fine to be pursued — or standing forth

  In no discordant opposition, strong 140

  And gorgeous as the colours side by side

  Bedded among the plumes of tropic birds;

  And mountains over all, embracing all,

  And all the landscape endlessly enriched

  With waters running, falling, or asleep. 145

  But lovelier far than this the paradise

  Where I was reared, in Nature’s primitive gifts

  Favored no less, and more to every sense

  Delicious, seeing that the sun and sky,

  The elements, and seasons in their change, 150

  Do find their dearest fellow-labourer there

  The heart of man — a district on all sides

  The fragrance breathing of humanity,

  Man free, man working for himself, with choice

  Of time, and place, and object; by his wants, 155

  His comforts, native occupations, cares,

  Conducted on to individual ends

  Or social, and still followed by a train,

  Unwooed, unthought-of even: simplicity,

  And beauty, and inevitable grace. 160

  Yea, doubtless, at any age when but a glimpse

  Of those resplendent gardens, with their frame

  Imperial, and elaborate ornaments,

  Would to a child be transport over-great,

  When but a half-hour’s roam through such a place 165

  Would leave behind a dance of images

  That shall break in upon his sleep for weeks,

  Even then the common haunts of the green earth

  With the ordinary human interests

  Which they embosom — all without regard 170

  As both may seem — are fastening on the heart

  Insensibly, each with the other’s help,

  So that we love, not knowing that we love,

  And feel, not knowing whence our feeling comes.

  Such league have these two principles of joy 175

  In our affections. I have singled out

  Some moments, the earliest that I could, in which

  Their several currents, blended into one —

  Weak yet, and gathering imperceptibly —

  Flowed in by gushes. My first human love, 180

  As hath been mentioned, did incline to those

  Whose occupations and concerns were most

  Illustrated by Nature, and adorned,

  And shepherds were the men who pleased me first:

  Not such as, in Arcadian fastnesses 185

  Sequestered, handed down among themselves,

  So ancient poets sing, the golden age;

  Nor such — a second race, allied to these —

  As Shakespeare in the wood of Arden placed,

  Where Phoebe sighed for the false Ganymede, 190

  Or there where Florizel and Perdita

  Together dance, Queen of the feast and King;

  Nor such as Spenser fabled. True it is

  That I had heard, what he perhaps had seen,

  Of maids at sunrise bringing in from far 195

  Their May-bush, and along the streets in flocks

  Parading, with a song of t
aunting rhymes

  Aimed at the laggards slumbering within doors —

  Had also heard, from those who yet remembered,

  Tales of the maypole dance, and flowers that decked 200

  The posts and the kirk-pillars, and of youths,

  That each one with his maid at break of day,

  By annual custom, issued forth in troops

  To drink the waters of some favorite well,

  And hang it round with garlands. This, alas, 205

  Was but a dream: the times had scattered all

  These lighter graces, and the rural ways

  And manners which it was my chance to see

  In childhood were severe and unadorned,

  The unluxuriant produce of a life 210

  Intent on little but substantial needs,

  Yet beautiful — and beauty that was felt.

  But images of danger and distress

  And suffering, these took deepest hold of me,

  Man suffering among awful powers and forms: 215

  Of this I heard and saw enough to make

  The imagination restless — nor was free

  Myself from frequent perils. Nor were tales

  Wanting, the tragedies of former times,

  Or hazards and escapes, which in my walks 220

  I carried with me among crags and woods

  And mountains; and of these may here be told

  One as recorded by my household dame.

  ‘At the first falling of autumnal snows

  A shepherd and his son one day went forth’, 225

  Thus did the matron’s tale begin, ‘to seek

  A straggler of their flock. They both had ranged

  Upon this service the preceding day

  All over their own pastures and beyond,

  And now, at sunrise sallying out again, 230

  Renewed their search, begun where from Dove Crag —

  Ill home for bird so gentle — they looked down

  On Deepdale Head, and Brothers Water (named

  From those two brothers that were drowned therein)

  Thence, northward, having passed by Arthur’s Seat, 235

  To Fairfield’s highest summit. On the right

  Leaving St Sunday’s Pike, to Grisedale Tarn

  They shot, and over that cloud-loving hill,

  Seat Sandal — a fond lover of the clouds —

  Thence up Helvellyn, a superior mount 240

  With prospect underneath of Striding Edge

  And Grisedale’s houseless vale, along the brink

  Of Russet Cove, and those two other coves,

  Huge skeletons of crags, which from the trunk

  Of old Helvellyn spread their arms abroad 245

  And make a stormy harbour for the winds.

  Far went those shepherds in their devious quest,

  From mountain ridges peeping as they passed

  Down into every glen; at length the boy

  Said, “Father, with your leave I will go back, 250

  And range the ground which we have searched before.”

  So speaking, southward down the hill the lad

  Sprang like a gust of wind, crying aloud,

  “I know where I shall find him.” ‘For take note’,

  Said here my grey-haired dame, ‘that though the storm 255

  Drive one of these poor creatures miles and miles,

  If he can crawl he will return again

  To his own hills, the spots where when a lamb

  He learnt to pasture at his mother’s side.

  After so long a labour suddenly 260

  Bethinking him of this, the boy

  Pursued his way towards a brook whose course

  Was through that unfenced tract of mountain ground

  Which to his father’s little farm belonged,

  The home and ancient birthright of their flock. 265

  Down the deep channel of the stream he went,

  Prying through every nook. Meanwhile the rain

  Began to fall upon the mountain tops,

  Thick storm and heavy which for three hours’ space

  Abated not, and all that time the boy 270

  Was busy in his search, until at length

  He spied the sheep upon a plot of grass,

  An island in the brook. It was a place

  Remote and deep, piled round with rocks, where foot

  Of man or beast was seldom used to tread; 275

  But now, when everywhere the summer grass

  Had failed, this one adventurer, hunger-pressed,

  Had left his fellows, and made his way alone

  To the green plot of pasture in the brook.

  Before the boy knew well what he had seen, 280

  He leapt upon the island with proud heart

  And with a prophet’s joy. Immediately

  The sheep sprang forward to the further shore

  And was borne headlong by the roaring flood —

  At this the boy looked round him, and his heart 285

  Fainted with fear. Thrice did he turn his face

  To either brink, nor could he summon up

  The courage that was needful to leap back

  Cross the tempestuous torrent: so he stood,

  A prisoner on the island, not without 290

  More than one thought of death and his last hour.

  Meanwhile the father had returned alone

  To his own house; and now at the approach

  Of evening he went forth to meet his son,

  Conjecturing vainly for what cause the boy 295

  Had stayed so long. The shepherd took his way

  Up his own mountain grounds, where, as he walked

  Along the steep that overhung the brook

  He seemed to hear a voice, which was again

  Repeated, like the whistling of a kite. 300

  At this, now knowing why, as oftentimes

  Long afterwards he has been heard to say,

  Down to the brook he went, and tracked its course

  Upwards among the o’erhanging rocks — nor thus

  Had he gone far, ere he espied the boy, 305

  Where on that little plot of ground he stood

  Right in the middle of the roaring stream,

  Now stronger every moment and more fierce.

  The sight was such as no one could have seen

  Without distress and fear. The shepherd heard 310

  The outcry of his son, he stretched his staff

  Towards him, bade him leap — which word scarce said,

  The boy was safe within his father’s arms.’

  Smooth life had flock and shepherd in old time,

  Long springs and tepid winters on the banks 315

  Of delicate Galesus — and no less

  Those scattered along Adria’s myrtle shores —

  Smooth life the herdman and his snow-white herd,

  To triumphs and to sacrificial rites

  Devoted, on the inviolable stream 320

  Of rich Clitumnus; and the goatherd lived

  As sweetly underneath the pleasant brows

  Of cool Lucretilis, where the pipe was heard

  Of Pan, the invisible God, thrilling the rocks

  With tutelary music, from all harm 325

  The fold protecting. I myself, mature

  In manhood then, have seen a pastoral tract

  Like one of these, where fancy might run wild,

  Though under skies less generous and serene;

  Yet there, as for herself, had Nature framed 330

  A pleasure-ground, diffused a fair expanse

  Of level pasture, islanded with groves

  And banked with woody risings — but the plain

  Endless, here opening widely out, and there

  Shut up in lesser lakes or beds of lawn 335

  And intricate recesses, creek or bay

  Sheltered within a shelter, where at large

  The shepherd strays, a rolling hut hi
s home:

  Thither he comes with springtime, there abides

  All summer, and at sunrise ye may hear 340

  His flute or flagelet resounding far.

  There’s not a nook or hold of that vast space,

  Nor strait where passage is, but it shall have

  In turn its visitant, telling there his hours

  In unlaborious pleasure, with no task 345

  More toilsome than to carve a beechen bowl

  For spring or fountain, which the traveller finds

  When through the region he pursues at will

  His devious course.

  A glimpse of such sweet life 350

  I saw when, from the melancholy walls

  Of Goslar, once imperial, I renewed

  My daily walk along that chearful plain,

  Which, reaching to her gates, spreads east and west

  And northwards, from beneath the mountainous verge 355

  Of the Hercynian forest. Yet hail to you,

  Your rocks and precipices, ye that seize

  The heart with firmer grasp, your snows and streams

  Ungovernable, and your terrifying winds,

  That howled so dismally when I have been 360

  Companionless among your solitudes!

  There, ‘tis the shepherd’s task the winter long

  To wait upon the storms: of their approach

  Sagacious, from the height he drives his flock

  Down into sheltering coves, and feeds them there 365

  Through the hard time, long as the storm is ‘locked’

  (So do they phrase it), bearing from the stalls

  A toilsome burthen up the craggy ways

  To strew it on the snow. And when the spring

  Looks out, and all the mountains dance with lambs, 370

  He through the enclosures won from the steep waste,

  And through the lower heights hath gone his rounds;

  And when the flock with warmer weather climbs

  Higher and higher, him his office leads

  To range among them through the hills dispersed, 375

  And watch their goings, whatsoever track

  Each wanderer chuses for itself — a work

  That lasts the summer through. He quits his home

  At dayspring, and no sooner doth the sun

  Begin to strike him with a fire-like heat, 380

  Than he lies down upon some shining place,

  And breakfasts with his dog. When he hath stayed —

  As for the most he doth — beyond this time,

  He springs up with a bound, and then away!

  Ascending fast with his long pole in hand, 385

  Or winding in and out among the crags.

  What need to follow him through what he does

  Or sees in his day’s march? He feels himself

  In those vast regions where his service is

  A freeman, wedded to his life of hope 390

  And hazard, and hard labour interchanged