Delphi Complete Works of William Wordsworth

by William Wordsworth

That I have dared to tread this holy ground,

  Speaking no dream but things oracular,

  Matter not lightly to be heard by those

  Who to the letter of the outward promise

  Do read the invisible soul, by men adroit 255

  In speech and for communion with the world

  Accomplished, minds whose faculties are then

  Most active when they are most eloquent,

  And elevated most when most admired.

  Men may be found of other mold than these, 260

  Who are their own upholders, to themselves

  Encouragement, and energy, and will,

  Expressing liveliest thoughts in lively words

  As native passion dictates. Others, too,

  There are among the walks of homely life 265

  Still higher, men for contemplation framed,

  Shy, and unpractised in the strife of phrase,

  Meek men, whose very souls perhaps would sink

  Beneath them, summoned to such intercourse:

  Theirs is the language of the heavens, the power, 270

  The thought, the image, and the silent joy;

  Words are but under-agents in their souls —

  When they are grasping with their greatest strength

  They do not breathe among them. This I speak

  In gratitude to God, who feeds our hearts 275

  For his own service, knoweth, loveth us,

  When we are unregarded by the world.’

  Also about this time did I receive

  Convictions still more strong than heretofore

  Not only that the inner frame is good, 280

  And graciously composed, but that, no less,

  Nature through all conditions hath a power

  To consecrate — if we have eyes to see —

  The outside of her creatures, and to breathe

  Grandeur upon the very humblest face 285

  Of human life. I felt that the array

  Of outward circumstance and visible form

  Is to the pleasure of the human mind

  What passion makes it; that meanwhile the forms

  Of Nature have a passion in themselves 290

  That intermingles with those works of man

  To which she summons him, although the works

  Be mean, having nothing lofty of their own;

  And that the genius of the poet hence

  May boldly take his way among mankind 295

  Wherever Nature leads — that he hath stood

  By Nature’s side among the men of old,

  And so shall stand for ever. Dearest friend,

  Forgive me if I say that I, who long

  Had harboured reverentially a thought 300

  That poets, even as prophets, each with each

  Connected in a mighty scheme of truth,

  Have each for his peculiar dower a sense

  By which he is enabled to perceive

  Something unseen before — forgive me, friend, 305

  If I, the meanest of this band, had hope

  That unto me had also been vouchsafed

  An influx, that in some sort I possessed

  A privilege, and that a work of mine,

  Proceeding from the depth of untaught things, 310

  Enduring and creative, might become

  A power like one of Nature’s.

  To such a mood,

  Once above all — a traveller at that time

  Upon the plain of Sarum — was I raised: 315

  There on the pastoral downs without a track

  To guide me, or along the bare white roads

  Lengthening in solitude their dreary line,

  While through those vestiges of ancient times

  I ranged, and by the solitude o’ercome, 320

  I had a reverie and saw the past,

  Saw multitudes of men, and here and there

  A single Briton in his wolf-skin vest,

  With shield and stone-ax, stride across the wold;

  The voice of spears was heard, the rattling spear 325

  Shaken by arms of mighty bone, in strength

  Long mouldered, of barbaric majesty.

  I called upon the darkness, and it took —

  A midnight darkness seemed to come and take —

  All objects from my sight; and lo, again 330

  The desart visible by dismal flames!

  It is the sacrificial altar, fed

  With living men — how deep the groans! — the voice

  Of those in the gigantic wicker thrills

  Throughout the region far and near, pervades 335

  The monumental hillocks, and the pomp

  Is for both worlds, the living and the dead.

  At other moments, for through that wide waste

  Three summer days I roamed, when ‘twas my chance

  To have before me on the downy plain 340

  Lines, circles, mounts, a mystery of shapes

  Such as in many quarters yet survive,

  With intricate profusion figuring o’er

  The untilled ground (the work, as some divine,

  Of infant science, imitative forms 345

  By which the Druids covertly expressed

  Their knowledge of the heavens, and imaged forth

  The constellations), I was gently charmed,

  Albeit with an antiquarian’s dream,

  And saw the bearded teachers, with white wands 350

  Uplifted, pointing to the starry sky,

  Alternately, and plain below, while breath

  Of music seemed to guide them, and the waste

  Was cleared with stillness and a pleasant sound.

  This for the past, and things that may be viewed, 355

  Or fancied, in the obscurities of time.

  Nor is it, friend, unknown to thee; at least —

  Thyself delighted — thou for my delight

  Hast said, perusing some imperfect verse

  Which in that lonesome journey was composed, 360

  That also I must then have exercised

  Upon the vulgar forms of present things

  And actual world of our familiar days,

  A higher power — have caught from them a tone,

  An image, and a character, by books 365

  Not hitherto reflected. Call we this

  But a persuasion taken up by thee

  In friendship, yet the mind is to herself

  Witness and judge, and I remember well

  That in life’s everyday appearances 370

  I seemed about this period to have sight

  Of a new world — a world, too, that was fit

  To be transmitted and made visible

  To other eyes, as having for its base

  That whence our dignity originates, 375

  That which both gives it being, and maintains

  A balance, an ennobling interchange

  Of action from within and from without:

  The excellence, pure spirit, and best power,

  Both of the object seen, and eye that sees. 380

  BOOK THIRTEENTH.

  CONCLUSION

  IN one of these excursions, travelling then 4

  Through Wales on foot and with a youthful friend,

  I left Bethkelet’s huts at couching-time,

  And westward took my way to see the sun

  Rise from the top of Snowdon. Having reached 5

  The cottage at the mountain’s foot, we there

  Rouzed up the shepherd who by ancient right

  Of office is the stranger’s usual guide,

  And after short refreshment sallied forth.

  It was a summer’s night, a close warm night, 10

  Wan, dull, and glaring, with a dripping mist

  Low-hung and thick that covered all the sky,

  Half threatening storm and rain; but on we went

  Unchecked, being full of heart and having faith

  In our tried pilot. Littl
e could we see, 15

  Hemmed round on every side with fog and damp,

  And, after ordinary travellers’ chat

  With our conductor, silently we sunk

  Each into commerce with his private thoughts.

  Thus did we breast the ascent, and by myself 20

  Was nothing either seen or heard the while

  Which took me from my musings, save that once

  The shepherd’s cur did to his own great joy

  Unearth a hedgehog in the mountain-crags,

  Round which he made a barking turbulent. 25

  This small adventure — for even such it seemed

  4Book Fourteenth begins here in 1850 version.

  In that wild place and at the dead of night —

  Being over and forgotten, on we wound

  In silence as before. With forehead bent

  Earthward, as if in opposition set 30

  Against an enemy, I panted up

  With eager pace, and no less eager thoughts,

  Thus might we wear perhaps an hour away,

  Ascending at loose distance each from each,

  And I, as chanced, the foremost of the band — 35

  When at my feet the ground appeared to brighten,

  And with a step or two seemed brighter still;

  Nor had I time to ask the cause of this,

  For instantly a light upon the turf

  Fell like a flash. I looked about, and lo, 40

  The moon stood naked in the heavens at height

  Immense above my head, and on the shore

  I found myself of a huge sea of mist,

  Which meek and silent rested at my feet.

  A hundred hills their dusky backs upheaved 45

  All over this still ocean, and beyond,

  Far, far beyond, the vapours shot themselves

  In headlands, tongues, and promontory shapes,

  Into the sea, the real sea, that seemed

  To dwindle and give up its majesty, 50

  Usurped upon as far as sight could reach.

  Meanwhile, the moon looked down upon this shew

  In single glory, and we stood, the mist

  Touching our very feet; and from the shore

  At distance not the third part of a mile 55

  Was a blue chasm, a fracture in the vapour,

  A deep and gloomy breathing-place, through which

  Mounted the roar of waters, torrents, steams

  Innumerable, roaring with one voice.

  The universal spectacle throughout 60

  Was shaped for admiration and delight,

  Grand in itself alone, but in that breach

  Through which the homeless voice of waters rose,

  That dark deep thoroughfare, had Nature lodged

  The soul, the imagination of the whole. 65

  A meditation rose in me that night

  Upon the lonely mountain when the scene

  Had passed away, and it appeared to me

  The perfect image of a mighty mind,

  Of one that feeds upon infinity, 70

  That is exalted by an under-presence,

  The sense of God, or whatsoe’er is dim

  Or vast in its own being — above all,

  One function of such mind had Nature there

  Exhibited by putting forth, and that 75

  With circumstance most awful and sublime:

  That domination which she oftentimes

  Exerts upon the outward face of things,

  So moulds them, and endues, abstracts, combines,

  Or by abrupt and unhabitual influence 80

  Doth make one object so impress itself

  Upon all others, and pervades them so,

  That even the grossest minds must see and hear,

  And cannot chuse but feel. The power which these

  Acknowledge when thus moved, which Nature thus 85

  Thrusts forth upon the senses, is the express

  Resemblance — in the fullness of its strength

  Made visible — a genuine counterpart

  And brother of the glorious faculty

  Which higher minds bear with them as their own. 90

  This is the very spirit in which they deal

  With all the objects of the universe:

  They from their native selves can send abroad

  Like transformation, for themselves create

  A like existence, and, when’er it is 95

  Created for them, catch it by an instinct.

  Them the enduring and the transient both

  Serve to exalt. They build up greatest things

  From least suggestions, ever on the watch,

  Willing to work and to be wrought upon. 100

  They need not extraordinary calls

  To rouze them — in a world of life they live,

  By sensible impressions not enthralled,

  But quickened, rouzed, and made thereby more fit

  To hold communion with the invisible world. 105

  Such minds are truly from the Deity,

  For they are powers; and hence the highest bliss

  That can be known is theirs — the consciousness

  Of whom they are, habitually infused

  Through every image, and through every thought, 110

  And all impressions; hence religion, faith,

  And endless occupation for the soul,

  Whether discursive or intuitive;

  Hence sovereignty within and peace at will,

  Emotion which best foresight need not fear, 115

  Most worthy then of trust when most intense;

  Hence chearfulness in every act of life;

  Hence truth in moral judgements; and delight

  That fails not, in the external universe.

  Oh, who is he that hath his whole life long 120

  Preserved, enlarged, this freedom in himself? —

  For this alone is genuine liberty,

  Witness, ye solitudes, where I received

  My earliest visitations (careless then

  Of what was given me), and where now I roam, 125

  A meditative, oft a suffering man,

  And yet I trust with undiminished powers;

  Witness — whatever falls my better mind,

  Revolving with the accidents of life,

  May have sustained — that, howsoe’er misled, 130

  I never in the quest of right and wrong

  Did tamper with myself from private aims;

  Nor was in any of my hopes the dupe

  Of selfish passions; nor did wilfully

  Yield ever to mean cares and low pursuits; 135

  But rather did with jealousy shrink back

  From every combination that might aid

  The tendency, too potent in itself,

  Of habit to enslave the mind — I mean

  Oppress it by the laws of vulgar sense, 140

  And substitute a universe of death,

  The falsest of all worlds, in place of that

  Which is divine and true. To fear and love

  (To love as first and chief, for there fear ends)

  Be this ascribed, to early intercourse 145

  In presence of sublime and lovely forms

  With the adverse principles of pain and joy —

  Evil as one is rashly named by those

  Who know not what they say. From love, for here

  Do we begin and end, all grandeur comes, 150

  All truth and beauty — from pervading love —

  That gone, we are as dust. Behold the fields

  In balmy springtime, full of rising flowers

  And happy creatures; see that pair, the lamb

  And the lamb’s mother, and their tender ways 155

  Shall touch thee to the heart; in some green bower

  Rest, and be not alone, but have thou there

  The one who is thy choice of all the world —

  There linger, lulled, and lost, and rapt away —
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  Be happy to thy fill; thou call’st this love, 160

  And so it is, but there is higher love

  Than this, a love that comes into the heart

  With awe and a diffusive sentiment.

  Thy love is human merely: this proceeds

  More from the brooding soul, and is divine. 165

  This love more intellectual cannot be

  Without imagination, which in truth

  Is but another name for absolute strength

  And clearest insight, amplitude of mind,

  And reason in her most exalted mood. 170

  This faculty hath been the moving soul

  Of our long labour: we have traced the stream

  From darkness, and the very place of birth

  In its blind cavern, whence is faintly heard

  The sound of waters; followed it to light 175

  And open day, accompanied its course

  Among the ways of Nature, afterwards

  Lost sight of it bewildered and engulphed,

  Then given it greeting as it rose once more

  With strength, reflecting in its solemn breast 180

  The works of man, and face of human life;

  And lastly, from its progress have we drawn

  The feeling of life endless, the one thought

  By which we live, infinity and God.

  Imagination having been our theme, 185

  So also hath that intellectual love,

  For they are each in each, and cannot stand

  Dividually. Here must thou be, O man,

  Strength to thyself — no helper hast thou here —

  Here keepest thou thy individual state: 190

  No other can divide with thee this work,

  No secondary hand can intervene

  To fashion this ability. ‘Tis thine,

  The prime and vital principle is thine

  In the recesses of thy nature, far 195

  From any reach of outward fellowship,

  Else ‘tis not thine at all. But joy to him,

  O, joy to him who here hath sown — hath laid

  Here the foundations of his future years —

  For all that friendship, all that love can do, 200

  All that a darling countenance can look

  Or dear voice utter, to complete the man,

  Perfect him, made imperfect in himself,

  All shall be his. And he whose soul hath risen

  Up to the height of feeling intellect 205

  Shall want no humbler tenderness, his heart

  Be tender as a nursing mother’s heart;

  Of female softness shall his life be full,

  Of little loves and delicate desires,

  Mild interests and gentlest sympathies. 210

  Child of my parents, sister of my soul,

  Elsewhere have strains of gratitude been breathed

  To thee for all the early tenderness

  Which I from thee imbibed. And true it is