Delphi Complete Works of William Wordsworth

by William Wordsworth

  Continued, brought me to my hermitage.

  I spare to tell of what ensued, the life

  In common things—the endless store of things,

  Rare, or at least so seeming, every day 110

  Found all about me in one neighbourhood—

  The self-congratulation, and, from morn

  To night, unbroken cheerfulness serene.

  But speedily an earnest longing rose

  To brace myself to some determined aim,

  Reading or thinking; either to lay up

  New stores, or rescue from decay the old

  By timely interference: and therewith

  Came hopes still higher, that with outward life

  I might endue some airy phantasies 120

  That had been floating loose about for years,

  And to such beings temperately deal forth

  The many feelings that oppressed my heart.

  That hope hath been discouraged; welcome light

  Dawns from the east, but dawns to disappear

  And mock me with a sky that ripens not

  Into a steady morning: if my mind,

  Remembering the bold promise of the past,

  Would gladly grapple with some noble theme,

  Vain is her wish; where’er she turns she finds 130

  Impediments from day to day renewed.

  And now it would content me to yield up

  Those lofty hopes awhile, for present gifts

  Of humbler industry. But, oh, dear Friend!

  The Poet, gentle creature as he is,

  Hath, like the Lover, his unruly times;

  His fits when he is neither sick nor well,

  Though no distress be near him but his own

  Unmanageable thoughts: his mind, best pleased

  While she as duteous as the mother dove 140

  Sits brooding, lives not always to that end,

  But like the innocent bird, hath goadings on

  That drive her as in trouble through the groves;

  With me is now such passion, to be blamed

  No otherwise than as it lasts too long.

  When, as becomes a man who would prepare

  For such an arduous work, I through myself

  Make rigorous inquisition, the report

  Is often cheering; for I neither seem

  To lack that first great gift, the vital soul, 150

  Nor general Truths, which are themselves a sort

  Of Elements and Agents, Under-powers,

  Subordinate helpers of the living mind:

  Nor am I naked of external things,

  Forms, images, nor numerous other aids

  Of less regard, though won perhaps with toil

  And needful to build up a Poet’s praise.

  Time, place, and manners do I seek, and these

  Are found in plenteous store, but nowhere such

  As may be singled out with steady choice; 160

  No little band of yet remembered names

  Whom I, in perfect confidence, might hope

  To summon back from lonesome banishment,

  And make them dwellers in the hearts of men

  Now living, or to live in future years.

  Sometimes the ambitious Power of choice, mistaking

  Proud spring-tide swellings for a regular sea,

  Will settle on some British theme, some old

  Romantic tale by Milton left unsung;

  More often turning to some gentle place 170

  Within the groves of Chivalry, I pipe

  To shepherd swains, or seated harp in hand,

  Amid reposing knights by a river side

  Or fountain, listen to the grave reports

  Of dire enchantments faced and overcome

  By the strong mind, and tales of warlike feats,

  Where spear encountered spear, and sword with sword

  Fought, as if conscious of the blazonry

  That the shield bore, so glorious was the strife;

  Whence inspiration for a song that winds 180

  Through ever-changing scenes of votive quest

  Wrongs to redress, harmonious tribute paid

  To patient courage and unblemished truth,

  To firm devotion, zeal unquenchable,

  And Christian meekness hallowing faithful loves.

  Sometimes, more sternly moved, I would relate

  How vanquished Mithridates northward passed,

  And, hidden in the cloud of years, became

  Odin, the Father of a race by whom

  Perished the Roman Empire: how the friends 190

  And followers of Sertorius, out of Spain

  Flying, found shelter in the Fortunate Isles,

  And left their usages, their arts and laws,

  To disappear by a slow gradual death,

  To dwindle and to perish one by one,

  Starved in those narrow bounds: but not the soul

  Of Liberty, which fifteen hundred years

  Survived, and, when the European came

  With skill and power that might not be withstood,

  Did, like a pestilence, maintain its hold 200

  And wasted down by glorious death that race

  Of natural heroes: or I would record

  How, in tyrannic times, some high-souled man,

  Unnamed among the chronicles of kings,

  Suffered in silence for Truth’s sake: or tell,

  How that one Frenchman, through continued force

  Of meditation on the inhuman deeds

  Of those who conquered first the Indian Isles,

  Went single in his ministry across

  The Ocean; not to comfort the oppressed, 210

  But, like a thirsty wind, to roam about

  Withering the Oppressor: how Gustavus sought

  Help at his need in Dalecarlia’s mines:

  How Wallace fought for Scotland; left the name

  Of Wallace to be found, like a wild flower,

  All over his dear Country; left the deeds

  Of Wallace, like a family of Ghosts,

  To people the steep rocks and river banks,

  Her natural sanctuaries, with a local soul

  Of independence and stern liberty. 220

  Sometimes it suits me better to invent

  A tale from my own heart, more near akin

  To my own passions and habitual thoughts;

  Some variegated story, in the main

  Lofty, but the unsubstantial structure melts

  Before the very sun that brightens it,

  Mist into air dissolving! Then a wish,

  My last and favourite aspiration, mounts

  With yearning toward some philosophic song

  Of Truth that cherishes our daily life; 230

  With meditations passionate from deep

  Recesses in man’s heart, immortal verse

  Thoughtfully fitted to the Orphean lyre;

  But from this awful burthen I full soon

  Take refuge and beguile myself with trust

  That mellower years will bring a riper mind

  And clearer insight. Thus my days are past

  In contradiction; with no skill to part

  Vague longing, haply bred by want of power,

  From paramount impulse not to be withstood, 240

  A timorous capacity, from prudence,

  From circumspection, infinite delay.

  Humility and modest awe, themselves

  Betray me, serving often for a cloak

  To a more subtle selfishness; that now

  Locks every function up in blank reserve,

  Now dupes me, trusting to an anxious eye

  That with intrusive restlessness beats off

  Simplicity and self-presented truth.

  Ah! better far than this, to stray about 250

  Voluptuously through fields and rural walks,

  And ask no record of the hours, resigned

  To vacant musing, unreproved neglect />
  Of all things, and deliberate holiday.

  Far better never to have heard the name

  Of zeal and just ambition, than to live

  Baffled and plagued by a mind that every hour

  Turns recreant to her task; takes heart again,

  Then feels immediately some hollow thought

  Hang like an interdict upon her hopes. 260

  This is my lot; for either still I find

  Some imperfection in the chosen theme,

  Or see of absolute accomplishment

  Much wanting, so much wanting, in myself,

  That I recoil and droop, and seek repose

  In listlessness from vain perplexity,

  Unprofitably travelling toward the grave,

  Like a false steward who hath much received

  And renders nothing back.

  Was it for this

  That one, the fairest of all rivers, loved 270

  To blend his murmurs with my nurse’s song,

  And, from his alder shades and rocky falls,

  And from his fords and shallows, sent a voice

  That flowed along my dreams? For this, didst thou,

  O Derwent! winding among grassy holms

  Where I was looking on, a babe in arms,

  Make ceaseless music that composed my thoughts

  To more than infant softness, giving me

  Amid the fretful dwellings of mankind

  A foretaste, a dim earnest, of the calm 280

  That Nature breathes among the hills and groves.

  When he had left the mountains and received

  On his smooth breast the shadow of those towers

  That yet survive, a shattered monument

  Of feudal sway, the bright blue river passed

  Along the margin of our terrace walk;

  A tempting playmate whom we dearly loved.

  Oh, many a time have I, a five years’ child,

  In a small mill-race severed from his stream,

  Made one long bathing of a summer’s day; 290

  Basked in the sun, and plunged and basked again

  Alternate, all a summer’s day, or scoured

  The sandy fields, leaping through flowery groves

  Of yellow ragwort; or, when rock and hill,

  The woods, and distant Skiddaw’s lofty height,

  Were bronzed with deepest radiance, stood alone

  Beneath the sky, as if I had been born

  On Indian plains, and from my mother’s hut

  Had run abroad in wantonness, to sport

  A naked savage, in the thunder shower. 300

  Fair seed-time had my soul, and I grew up

  Fostered alike by beauty and by fear:

  Much favoured in my birth-place, and no less

  In that beloved Vale to which erelong

  We were transplanted;—there were we let loose

  For sports of wider range. Ere I had told

  Ten birth-days, when among the mountain slopes

  Frost, and the breath of frosty wind, had snapped

  The last autumnal crocus, ‘twas my joy

  With store of springes o’er my shoulder hung 310

  To range the open heights where woodcocks run

  Along the smooth green turf. Through half the night,

  Scudding away from snare to snare, I plied

  That anxious visitation;—moon and stars

  Were shining o’er my head. I was alone,

  And seemed to be a trouble to the peace

  That dwelt among them. Sometimes it befell

  In these night wanderings, that a strong desire

  O’erpowered my better reason, and the bird

  Which was the captive of another’s toil 320

  Became my prey; and when the deed was done

  I heard among the solitary hills

  Low breathings coming after me, and sounds

  Of undistinguishable motion, steps

  Almost as silent as the turf they trod.

  Nor less, when spring had warmed the cultured Vale,

  Moved we as plunderers where the mother-bird

  Had in high places built her lodge; though mean

  Our object and inglorious, yet the end

  Was not ignoble. Oh! when I have hung 330

  Above the raven’s nest, by knots of grass

  And half-inch fissures in the slippery rock

  But ill sustained, and almost (so it seemed)

  Suspended by the blast that blew amain,

  Shouldering the naked crag, oh, at that time

  While on the perilous ridge I hung alone,

  With what strange utterance did the loud dry wind

  Blow through my ear! the sky seemed not a sky

  Of earth—and with what motion moved the clouds!

  Dust as we are, the immortal spirit grows 340

  Like harmony in music; there is a dark

  Inscrutable workmanship that reconciles

  Discordant elements, makes them cling together

  In one society. How strange, that all

  The terrors, pains, and early miseries,

  Regrets, vexations, lassitudes interfused

  Within my mind, should e’er have borne a part,

  And that a needful part, in making up

  The calm existence that is mine when I

  Am worthy of myself! Praise to the end! 350

  Thanks to the means which Nature deigned to employ;

  Whether her fearless visitings, or those

  That came with soft alarm, like hurtless light

  Opening the peaceful clouds; or she would use

  Severer interventions, ministry

  More palpable, as best might suit her aim.

  One summer evening (led by her) I found

  A little boat tied to a willow tree

  Within a rocky cave, its usual home.

  Straight I unloosed her chain, and stepping in 360

  Pushed from the shore. It was an act of stealth

  And troubled pleasure, nor without the voice

  Of mountain-echoes did my boat move on;

  Leaving behind her still, on either side,

  Small circles glittering idly in the moon,

  Until they melted all into one track

  Of sparkling light. But now, like one who rows,

  Proud of his skill, to reach a chosen point

  With an unswerving line, I fixed my view

  Upon the summit of a craggy ridge, 370

  The horizon’s utmost boundary; far above

  Was nothing but the stars and the grey sky.

  She was an elfin pinnace; lustily

  I dipped my oars into the silent lake,

  And, as I rose upon the stroke, my boat

  Went heaving through the water like a swan;

  When, from behind that craggy steep till then

  The horizon’s bound, a huge peak, black and huge,

  As if with voluntary power instinct,

  Upreared its head. I struck and struck again, 380

  And growing still in stature the grim shape

  Towered up between me and the stars, and still,

  For so it seemed, with purpose of its own

  And measured motion like a living thing,

  Strode after me. With trembling oars I turned,

  And through the silent water stole my way

  Back to the covert of the willow tree;

  There in her mooring-place I left my bark,—

  And through the meadows homeward went, in grave

  And serious mood; but after I had seen 390

  That spectacle, for many days, my brain

  Worked with a dim and undetermined sense

  Of unknown modes of being; o’er my thoughts

  There hung a darkness, call it solitude

  Or blank desertion. No familiar shapes

  Remained, no pleasant images of trees,

  Of sea or sky, no colours of green fields;

  But huge
and mighty forms, that do not live

  Like living men, moved slowly through the mind

  By day, and were a trouble to my dreams. 400

  Wisdom and Spirit of the universe!

  Thou Soul that art the eternity of thought

  That givest to forms and images a breath

  And everlasting motion, not in vain

  By day or star-light thus from my first dawn

  Of childhood didst thou intertwine for me

  The passions that build up our human soul;

  Not with the mean and vulgar works of man,

  But with high objects, with enduring things—

  With life and nature—purifying thus 410

  The elements of feeling and of thought,

  And sanctifying, by such discipline,

  Both pain and fear, until we recognise

  A grandeur in the beatings of the heart.

  Nor was this fellowship vouchsafed to me

  With stinted kindness. In November days,

  When vapours rolling down the valley made

  A lonely scene more lonesome, among woods,

  At noon and ‘mid the calm of summer nights,

  When, by the margin of the trembling lake, 420

  Beneath the gloomy hills homeward I went

  In solitude, such intercourse was mine;

  Mine was it in the fields both day and night,

  And by the waters, all the summer long.

  And in the frosty season, when the sun

  Was set, and visible for many a mile

  The cottage windows blazed through twilight gloom,

  I heeded not their summons: happy time

  It was indeed for all of us—for me

  It was a time of rapture! Clear and loud 430

  The village clock tolled six,—I wheeled about,

  Proud and exulting like an untired horse

  That cares not for his home. All shod with steel,

  We hissed along the polished ice in games

  Confederate, imitative of the chase

  And woodland pleasures,—the resounding horn,

  The pack loud chiming, and the hunted hare.

  So through the darkness and the cold we flew,

  And not a voice was idle; with the din

  Smitten, the precipices rang aloud; 440

  The leafless trees and every icy crag

  Tinkled like iron; while far distant hills

  Into the tumult sent an alien sound

  Of melancholy not unnoticed, while the stars

  Eastward were sparkling clear, and in the west

  The orange sky of evening died away.

  Not seldom from the uproar I retired

  Into a silent bay, or sportively

  Glanced sideway, leaving the tumultuous throng,

  To cut across the reflex of a star 450

  That fled, and, flying still before me, gleamed

  Upon the glassy plain; and oftentimes,

  When we had given our bodies to the wind,