Delphi Complete Works of William Wordsworth

by William Wordsworth

  Be mentioned as a parting word, that not

  In hollow exultation, dealing out

  Hyperboles of praise comparative,

  Not rich one moment to be poor for ever;

  Not prostrate, overborne, as if the mind

  Herself were nothing, a mere pensioner

  On outward forms—did we in presence stand

  Of that magnificent region. On the front

  Of this whole Song is written that my heart 740

  Must, in such Temple, needs have offered up

  A different worship. Finally, whate’er

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

  That flowed into a kindred stream; a gale,

  Confederate with the current of the soul,

  To speed my voyage; every sound or sight,

  In its degree of power, administered

  To grandeur or to tenderness,—to the one

  Directly, but to tender thoughts by means

  Less often instantaneous in effect; 750

  Led me to these by paths that, in the main,

  Were more circuitous, but not less sure

  Duly to reach the point marked out by Heaven.

  Oh, most beloved Friend! a glorious time,

  A happy time that was; triumphant looks

  Were then the common language of all eyes;

  As if awaked 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 budding grove. 760

  We left the Swiss exulting in the fate

  Of their near 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.

  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 along them, as a bird 770

  Moves through the air, or as a fish pursues

  Its sport, or feeds in its proper element;

  I wanted not that joy, I did not need

  Such help; the ever-living universe,

  Turn where I might, was opening out its glories,

  And the independent spirit of pure youth

  Called forth, at every season, new delights,

  Spread round my steps like sunshine o’er green fields.

  BOOK SEVENTH

  RESIDENCE IN LONDON

  SIX changeful years have vanished since I first

  Poured out (saluted by that quickening breeze

  Which met me issuing from the City’s walls)

  A glad preamble to this Verse: I sang

  Aloud, with fervour irresistible

  Of short-lived transport, like a torrent bursting,

  From a black thunder-cloud, down Scafell’s side

  To rush and disappear. But soon broke forth

  (So willed the Muse) a less impetuous stream,

  That flowed awhile with unabating strength, 10

  Then stopped for years; not audible again

  Before last primrose-time. Beloved Friend!

  The assurance which then cheered some heavy thoughts

  On thy departure to a foreign land

  Has failed; too slowly moves the promised work.

  Through the whole summer have I been at rest,

  Partly from voluntary holiday,

  And part through outward hindrance. But I heard,

  After the hour of sunset yester-even,

  Sitting within doors between light and dark, 20

  A choir of redbreasts gathered somewhere near

  My threshold,—minstrels from the distant woods

  Sent in on Winter’s service, to announce,

  With preparation artful and benign,

  That the rough lord had left the surly North

  On his accustomed journey. The delight,

  Due to this timely notice, unawares

  Smote me, and, listening, I in whispers said,

  “Ye heartsome Choristers, ye and I will be

  Associates, and, unscared by blustering winds, 30

  Will chant together.” Thereafter, as the shades

  Of twilight deepened, going forth, I spied

  A glow-worm underneath a dusky plume

  Or canopy of yet unwithered fern,

  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 herself,

  The voiceless worm on the unfrequented hills,

  Seemed sent on the same errand with the choir 40

  Of Winter that had warbled at my door,

  And the whole year breathed tenderness and love.

  The last night’s genial feeling overflowed

  Upon this morning, and my favourite grove,

  Tossing in sunshine its dark boughs aloft,

  As if to make the strong wind visible,

  Wakes in me agitations like its own,

  A spirit friendly to the Poet’s task,

  Which we will now resume with lively hope,

  Nor checked by aught of tamer argument 50

  That lies before us, needful to be told.

  Returned from that excursion, soon I bade

  Farewell for ever to the sheltered seats

  Of gowned students, quitted hall and bower,

  And every comfort of that privileged ground,

  Well pleased to pitch a vagrant tent among

  The unfenced regions of society.

  Yet, undetermined to what course of life

  I should adhere, and seeming to possess

  A little space of intermediate time 60

  At full command, to London first I turned,

  In no disturbance of excessive hope,

  By personal ambition unenslaved,

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

  From dangerous passions free. Three years had flown

  Since I had felt in heart and soul the shock

  Of the huge town’s first presence, and had paced

  Her endless streets, a transient visitant:

  Now, fixed amid that concourse of mankind

  Where Pleasure whirls about incessantly, 70

  And life and labour seem but one, I filled

  An idler’s place; an idler well content

  To have a house (what matter for a home?)

  That owned him; living cheerfully abroad

  With unchecked fancy ever on the stir,

  And all my young affections out of doors.

  There was a time when whatsoe’er is feigned

  Of airy palaces, and gardens built

  By Genii of romance; or hath in grave

  Authentic history been set forth of Rome, 80

  Alcairo, Babylon, or Persepolis;

  Or given upon report by pilgrim friars,

  Of golden cities ten months’ journey deep

  Among Tartarian wilds—fell short, far short,

  Of what my fond simplicity believed

  And thought of London—held me by a chain

  Less strong of wonder and obscure delight.

  Whether the bolt of childhood’s Fancy shot

  For me beyond its ordinary mark,

  ‘Twere vain to ask; but in our flock of boys 90

  Was One, a cripple from his birth, whom chance

  Summoned from school to London; fortunate

  And envied traveller! When the Boy returned,

  After short absence, curiously I scanned

  His mien and person, nor was free, in sooth,

  From disappointment, not to find some change

  In look and air, from that new region brought,

  As if from F
airy-land. Much I questioned him;

  And every word he uttered, on my ears

  Fell flatter than a caged parrot’s note, 100

  That answers unexpectedly awry,

  And mocks the prompter’s listening. Marvellous things

  Had vanity (quick Spirit that appears

  Almost as deeply seated and as strong

  In a Child’s heart as fear itself) conceived

  For my enjoyment. Would that I could now

  Recall what then I pictured to myself,

  Of mitred Prelates, Lords in ermine clad,

  The King, and the King’s Palace, and, not last,

  Nor least, Heaven bless him! the renowned Lord Mayor. 110

  Dreams not unlike to those which once begat

  A change of purpose in young Whittington,

  When he, a friendless and a drooping boy,

  Sate on a stone, and heard the bells speak out

  Articulate music. Above all, one thought

  Baffled my understanding: how men lived

  Even next-door neighbours, as we say, yet still

  Strangers, not knowing each the other’s name.

  Oh, wondrous power of words, by simple faith

  Licensed to take the meaning that we love! 120

  Vauxhall and Ranelagh! I then had heard

  Of your green groves, and wilderness of lamps

  Dimming the stars, and fireworks magical,

  And gorgeous ladies, under splendid domes,

  Floating in dance, or warbling high in air

  The songs of spirits! Nor had Fancy fed

  With less delight upon that other class

  Of marvels, broad-day wonders permanent:

  The River proudly bridged; the dizzy top

  And Whispering Gallery of St. Paul’s; the tombs 130

  Of Westminster; the Giants of Guildhall;

  Bedlam, and those carved maniacs at the gates,

  Perpetually recumbent; Statues—man,

  And the horse under him—in gilded pomp

  Adorning flowery gardens, ‘mid vast squares;

  The Monument, and that Chamber of the Tower

  Where England’s sovereigns sit in long array,

  Their steeds bestriding,—every mimic shape

  Cased in the gleaming mail the monarch wore,

  Whether for gorgeous tournament addressed, 140

  Or life or death upon the battle-field.

  Those bold imaginations in due time

  Had vanished, leaving others in their stead:

  And now I looked upon the living scene;

  Familiarly perused it; oftentimes,

  In spite of strongest disappointment, pleased

  Through courteous self-submission, as a tax

  Paid to the object by prescriptive right.

  Rise up, thou monstrous ant-hill on the plain

  Of a too busy world! Before me flow, 150

  Thou endless stream of men and moving things!

  Thy every-day appearance, as it strikes—

  With wonder heightened, or sublimed by awe—

  On strangers, of all ages; the quick dance

  Of colours, lights, and forms; the deafening din;

  The comers and the goers face to face,

  Face after face; the string of dazzling wares,

  Shop after shop, with symbols, blazoned names,

  And all the tradesman’s honours overhead:

  Here, fronts of houses, like a title-page, 160

  With letters huge inscribed from top to toe,

  Stationed above the door, like guardian saints;

  There, allegoric shapes, female or male,

  Or physiognomies of real men,

  Land-warriors, kings, or admirals of the sea,

  Boyle, Shakspeare, Newton, or the attractive head

  Of some quack-doctor, famous in his day.

  Meanwhile the roar continues, till at length,

  Escaped as from an enemy, we turn

  Abruptly into some sequestered nook, 170

  Still as a sheltered place when winds blow loud!

  At leisure, thence, through tracts of thin resort,

  And sights and sounds that come at intervals,

  We take our way. A raree-show is here,

  With children gathered round; another street

  Presents a company of dancing dogs,

  Or dromedary, with an antic pair

  Of monkeys on his back; a minstrel band

  Of Savoyards; or, single and alone,

  An English ballad-singer. Private courts, 180

  Gloomy as coffins, and unsightly lanes

  Thrilled by some female vendor’s scream, belike

  The very shrillest of all London cries,

  May then entangle our impatient steps;

  Conducted through those labyrinths, unawares,

  To privileged regions and inviolate,

  Where from their airy lodges studious lawyers

  Look out on waters, walks, and gardens green.

  Thence back into the throng, until we reach,

  Following the tide that slackens by degrees, 190

  Some half-frequented scene, where wider streets

  Bring straggling breezes of suburban air.

  Here files of ballads dangle from dead walls;

  Advertisements, of giant-size, from high

  Press forward, in all colours, on the sight;

  These, bold in conscious merit, lower down;

  ‘That’, fronted with a most imposing word,

  Is, peradventure, one in masquerade.

  As on the broadening causeway we advance,

  Behold, turned upwards, a face hard and strong 200

  In lineaments, and red with over-toil.

  ‘Tis one encountered here and everywhere;

  A travelling cripple, by the trunk cut short,

  And stumping on his arms. In sailor’s garb

  Another lies at length, beside a range

  Of well-formed characters, with chalk inscribed

  Upon the smooth flint stones: the Nurse is here,

  The Bachelor, that loves to sun himself,

  The military Idler, and the Dame,

  That field-ward takes her walk with decent steps. 210

  Now homeward through the thickening hubbub, where

  See, among less distinguishable shapes,

  The begging scavenger, with hat in hand;

  The Italian, as he thrids his way with care,

  Steadying, far-seen, a frame of images

  Upon his head; with basket at his breast

  The Jew; the stately and slow-moving Turk,

  With freight of slippers piled beneath his arm!

  Enough;—the mighty concourse I surveyed

  With no unthinking mind, well pleased to note 220

  Among the crowd all specimens of man,

  Through all the colours which the sun bestows,

  And every character of form and face:

  The Swede, the Russian; from the genial south,

  The Frenchman and the Spaniard; from remote

  America, the Hunter-Indian; Moors,

  Malays, Lascars, the Tartar, the Chinese,

  And Negro Ladies in white muslin gowns.

  At leisure, then, I viewed, from day to day,

  The spectacles within doors,—birds and beasts 230

  Of every nature, and strange plants convened

  From every clime; and, next, those sights that ape

  The absolute presence of reality,

  Expressing, as in mirror, sea and land,

  And what earth is, and what she has to show.

  I do not here allude to subtlest craft,

  By means refined attaining purest ends,

  But imitations, fondly made in plain

  Confession of man’s weakness and his loves.

  Whether the Painter, whose ambitious skill 240

  Submits to nothing less than taking in

  A whole horizon’s circuit
, do with power,

  Like that of angels or commissioned spirits,

  Fix us upon some lofty pinnacle,

  Or in a ship on waters, with a world

  Of life, and life-like mockery beneath,

  Above, behind, far stretching and before;

  Or more mechanic artist represent

  By scale exact, in model, wood or clay,

  From blended colours also borrowing help, 250

  Some miniature of famous spots or things,—

  St. Peter’s Church; or, more aspiring aim,

  In microscopic vision, Rome herself;

  Or, haply, some choice rural haunt,—the Falls

  Of Tivoli; and, high upon that steep,

  The Sibyl’s mouldering Temple! every tree,

  Villa, or cottage, lurking among rocks

  Throughout the landscape; tuft, stone scratch minute—

  All that the traveller sees when he is there.

  Add to these exhibitions, mute and still, 260

  Others of wider scope, where living men,

  Music, and shifting pantomimic scenes,

  Diversified the allurement. Need I fear

  To mention by its name, as in degree,

  Lowest of these and humblest in attempt,

  Yet richly graced with honours of her own,

  Half-rural Sadler’s Wells? Though at that time

  Intolerant, as is the way of youth

  Unless itself be pleased, here more than once

  Taking my seat, I saw (nor blush to add, 270

  With ample recompense) giants and dwarfs,

  Clowns, conjurors, posture-masters, harlequins,

  Amid the uproar of the rabblement,

  Perform their feats. Nor was it mean delight

  To watch crude Nature work in untaught minds;

  To note the laws and progress of belief;

  Though obstinate on this way, yet on that

  How willingly we travel, and how far!

  To have, for instance, brought upon the scene

  The champion, Jack the Giant-killer: Lo! 280

  He dons his coat of darkness; on the stage

  Walks, and achieves his wonders, from the eye

  Of living Mortal covert, “as the moon

  Hid in her vacant interlunar cave.”

  Delusion bold! and how can it be wrought?

  The garb he wears is black as death, the word

  “Invisible” flames forth upon his chest.

  Here, too, were “forms and pressures of the time,”

  Rough, bold, as Grecian comedy displayed

  When Art was young; dramas of living men, 290

  And recent things yet warm with life; a sea-fight,

  Shipwreck, or some domestic incident

  Divulged by Truth and magnified by Fame;

  Such as the daring brotherhood of late

  Set forth, too serious theme for that light place—