Delphi Complete Works of William Wordsworth

by William Wordsworth

That here, in memory of all books which lay

  Their sure foundations in the heart of man,

  Whether by native prose, or numerous verse, 200

  That in the name of all inspired souls—

  From Homer the great Thunderer, from the voice

  That roars along the bed of Jewish song,

  And that more varied and elaborate,

  Those trumpet-tones of harmony that shake

  Our shores in England,—from those loftiest notes

  Down to the low and wren-like warblings, made

  For cottagers and spinners at the wheel,

  And sun-burnt travellers resting their tired limbs,

  Stretched under wayside hedge-rows, ballad tunes, 210

  Food for the hungry ears of little ones,

  And of old men who have survived their joys—

  ‘Tis just that in behalf of these, the works,

  And of the men that framed them, whether known

  Or sleeping nameless in their scattered graves,

  That I should here assert their rights, attest

  Their honours, and should, once for all, pronounce

  Their benediction; speak of them as Powers

  For ever to be hallowed; only less,

  For what we are and what we may become, 220

  Than Nature’s self, which is the breath of God,

  Or His pure Word by miracle revealed.

  Rarely and with reluctance would I stoop

  To transitory themes; yet I rejoice,

  And, by these thoughts admonished, will pour out

  Thanks with uplifted heart, that I was reared

  Safe from an evil which these days have laid

  Upon the children of the land, a pest

  That might have dried me up, body and soul.

  This verse is dedicate to Nature’s self, 230

  And things that teach as Nature teaches: then,

  Oh! where had been the Man, the Poet where,

  Where had we been, we two, beloved Friend!

  If in the season of unperilous choice,

  In lieu of wandering, as we did, through vales

  Rich with indigenous produce, open ground

  Of Fancy, happy pastures ranged at will,

  We had been followed, hourly watched, and noosed,

  Each in his several melancholy walk

  Stringed like a poor man’s heifer at its feed, 240

  Led through the lanes in forlorn servitude;

  Or rather like a stalled ox debarred

  From touch of growing grass, that may not taste

  A flower till it have yielded up its sweets

  A prelibation to the mower’s scythe.

  Behold the parent hen amid her brood,

  Though fledged and feathered, and well pleased to part

  And straggle from her presence, still a brood,

  And she herself from the maternal bond

  Still undischarged; yet doth she little more 250

  Than move with them in tenderness and love,

  A centre to the circle which they make;

  And now and then, alike from need of theirs

  And call of her own natural appetites,

  She scratches, ransacks up the earth for food,

  Which they partake at pleasure. Early died

  My honoured Mother, she who was the heart

  And hinge of all our learnings and our loves:

  She left us destitute, and, as we might,

  Trooping together. Little suits it me 260

  To break upon the sabbath of her rest

  With any thought that looks at others’ blame;

  Nor would I praise her but in perfect love.

  Hence am I checked: but let me boldly say,

  In gratitude, and for the sake of truth,

  Unheard by her, that she, not falsely taught,

  Fetching her goodness rather from times past,

  Than shaping novelties for times to come,

  Had no presumption, no such jealousy,

  Nor did by habit of her thoughts mistrust 270

  Our nature, but had virtual faith that He

  Who fills the mother’s breast with innocent milk,

  Doth also for our nobler part provide,

  Under His great correction and control,

  As innocent instincts, and as innocent food;

  Or draws, for minds that are left free to trust

  In the simplicities of opening life,

  Sweet honey out of spurned or dreaded weeds.

  This was her creed, and therefore she was pure

  From anxious fear of error or mishap, 280

  And evil, overweeningly so called;

  Was not puffed up by false unnatural hopes,

  Nor selfish with unnecessary cares,

  Nor with impatience from the season asked

  More than its timely produce; rather loved

  The hours for what they are, than from regard

  Glanced on their promises in restless pride.

  Such was she—not from faculties more strong

  Than others have, but from the times, perhaps,

  And spot in which she lived, and through a grace 290

  Of modest meekness, simple-mindedness,

  A heart that found benignity and hope,

  Being itself benign.

  My drift I fear

  Is scarcely obvious; but, that common sense

  May try this modern system by its fruits,

  Leave let me take to place before her sight

  A specimen pourtrayed with faithful hand.

  Full early trained to worship seemliness,

  This model of a child is never known

  To mix in quarrels; that were far beneath 300

  Its dignity; with gifts he bubbles o’er

  As generous as a fountain; selfishness

  May not come near him, nor the little throng

  Of flitting pleasures tempt him from his path;

  The wandering beggars propagate his name,

  Dumb creatures find him tender as a nun,

  And natural or supernatural fear,

  Unless it leap upon him in a dream,

  Touches him not. To enhance the wonder, see

  How arch his notices, how nice his sense 310

  Of the ridiculous; not blind is he

  To the broad follies of the licensed world,

  Yet innocent himself withal, though shrewd,

  And can read lectures upon innocence;

  A miracle of scientific lore,

  Ships he can guide across the pathless sea,

  And tell you all their cunning; he can read

  The inside of the earth, and spell the stars;

  He knows the policies of foreign lands;

  Can string you names of districts, cities, towns, 320

  The whole world over, tight as beads of dew

  Upon a gossamer thread; he sifts, he weighs;

  All things are put to question; he must live

  Knowing that he grows wiser every day

  Or else not live at all, and seeing too

  Each little drop of wisdom as it falls

  Into the dimpling cistern of his heart:

  For this unnatural growth the trainer blame,

  Pity the tree.—Poor human vanity,

  Wert thou extinguished, little would be left 330

  Which he could truly love; but how escape?

  For, ever as a thought of purer birth

  Rises to lead him toward a better clime,

  Some intermeddler still is on the watch

  To drive him back, and pound him, like a stray,

  Within the pinfold of his own conceit.

  Meanwhile old grandame earth is grieved to find

  The playthings, which her love designed for him,

  Unthought of: in their woodland beds the flowers

  Weep, and the river sides are all forlorn. 340

  Oh! give us once again the wishing-cap

  Of For
tunatus, and the invisible coat

  Of Jack the Giant-killer, Robin Hood,

  And Sabra in the forest with St. George!

  The child, whose love is here, at least, doth reap

  One precious gain, that he forgets himself.

  These mighty workmen of our later age,

  Who, with a broad highway, have overbridged

  The froward chaos of futurity,

  Tamed to their bidding; they who have the skill 350

  To manage books, and things, and make them act

  On infant minds as surely as the sun

  Deals with a flower; the keepers of our time,

  The guides and wardens of our faculties,

  Sages who in their prescience would control

  All accidents, and to the very road

  Which they have fashioned would confine us down,

  Like engines; when will their presumption learn,

  That in the unreasoning progress of the world

  A wiser spirit is at work for us, 360

  A better eye than theirs, most prodigal

  Of blessings, and most studious of our good,

  Even in what seem our most unfruitful hours?

  There was a Boy: ye knew him well, ye cliffs

  And islands of Winander!—many a time

  At evening, when the earliest stars began

  To move along the edges of the hills,

  Rising or setting, would he stand alone

  Beneath the trees or by the glimmering lake,

  And there, with fingers interwoven, both hands 370

  Pressed closely palm to palm, and to his mouth

  Uplifted, he, as through an instrument,

  Blew mimic hootings to the silent owls,

  That they might answer him; and they would shout

  Across the watery vale, and shout again,

  Responsive to his call, with quivering peals,

  And long halloos and screams, and echoes loud,

  Redoubled and redoubled, concourse wild

  Of jocund din; and, when a lengthened pause

  Of silence came and baffled his best skill, 380

  Then sometimes, in that silence while he hung

  Listening, a gentle shock of mild surprise

  Has carried far into his heart the voice

  Of mountain torrents; or the visible scene

  Would enter unawares into his mind,

  With all its solemn imagery, its rocks,

  Its woods, and that uncertain heaven, received

  Into the bosom of the steady lake.

  This Boy was taken from his mates, and died

  In childhood, ere he was full twelve years old. 390

  Fair is the spot, most beautiful the vale

  Where he was born; the grassy churchyard hangs

  Upon a slope above the village school,

  And through that churchyard when my way has led

  On summer evenings, I believe that there

  A long half hour together I have stood

  Mute, looking at the grave in which he lies!

  Even now appears before the mind’s clear eye

  That self-same village church; I see her sit

  (The throned Lady whom erewhile we hailed) 400

  On her green hill, forgetful of this Boy

  Who slumbers at her feet,—forgetful, too,

  Of all her silent neighbourhood of graves,

  And listening only to the gladsome sounds

  That, from the rural school ascending, play

  Beneath her and about her. May she long

  Behold a race of young ones like to those

  With whom I herded!—(easily, indeed,

  We might have fed upon a fatter soil

  Of arts and letters—but be that forgiven)— 410

  A race of real children; not too wise,

  Too learned, or too good; but wanton, fresh,

  And bandied up and down by love and hate;

  Not unresentful where self-justified;

  Fierce, moody, patient, venturous, modest, shy;

  Mad at their sports like withered leaves in winds;

  Though doing wrong and suffering, and full oft

  Bending beneath our life’s mysterious weight

  Of pain, and doubt, and fear, yet yielding not

  In happiness to the happiest upon earth. 420

  Simplicity in habit, truth in speech,

  Be these the daily strengtheners of their minds;

  May books and Nature be their early joy!

  And knowledge, rightly honoured with that name—

  Knowledge not purchased by the loss of power!

  Well do I call to mind the very week

  When I was first intrusted to the care

  Of that sweet Valley; when its paths, its shores,

  And brooks were like a dream of novelty

  To my half-infant thoughts; that very week, 430

  While I was roving up and down alone,

  Seeking I knew not what, I chanced to cross

  One of those open fields, which, shaped like ears,

  Make green peninsulas on Esthwaite’s Lake:

  Twilight was coming on, yet through the gloom

  Appeared distinctly on the opposite shore

  A heap of garments, as if left by one

  Who might have there been bathing. Long I watched,

  But no one owned them; meanwhile the calm lake

  Grew dark with all the shadows on its breast, 440

  And, now and then, a fish up-leaping snapped

  The breathless stillness. The succeeding day,

  Those unclaimed garments telling a plain tale

  Drew to the spot an anxious crowd; some looked

  In passive expectation from the shore,

  While from a boat others hung o’er the deep,

  Sounding with grappling irons and long poles.

  At last, the dead man, ‘mid that beauteous scene

  Of trees and hills and water, bolt upright

  Rose, with his ghastly face, a spectre shape 450

  Of terror; yet no soul-debasing fear,

  Young as I was, a child not nine years old,

  Possessed me, for my inner eye had seen

  Such sights before, among the shining streams

  Of faery land, the forest of romance.

  Their spirit hallowed the sad spectacle

  With decoration of ideal grace;

  A dignity, a smoothness, like the works

  Of Grecian art, and purest poesy.

  A precious treasure had I long possessed, 460

  A little yellow, canvas-covered book,

  A slender abstract of the Arabian tales;

  And, from companions in a new abode,

  When first I learnt, that this dear prize of mine

  Was but a block hewn from a mighty quarry—

  That there were four large volumes, laden all

  With kindred matter, ‘twas to me, in truth,

  A promise scarcely earthly. Instantly,

  With one not richer than myself, I made

  A covenant that each should lay aside 470

  The moneys he possessed, and hoard up more,

  Till our joint savings had amassed enough

  To make this book our own. Through several months,

  In spite of all temptation, we preserved

  Religiously that vow; but firmness failed,

  Nor were we ever masters of our wish.

  And when thereafter to my father’s house

  The holidays returned me, there to find

  That golden store of books which I had left,

  What joy was mine! How often in the course 480

  Of those glad respites, though a soft west wind

  Ruffled the waters to the angler’s wish,

  For a whole day together, have I lain

  Down by thy side, O Derwent! murmuring stream,

  On the hot stones, and in the glaring sun,

  And there have read, dev
ouring as I read,

  Defrauding the day’s glory, desperate!

  Till with a sudden bound of smart reproach,

  Such as an idler deals with in his shame,

  I to the sport betook myself again. 490

  A gracious spirit o’er this earth presides,

  And o’er the heart of man; invisibly

  It comes, to works of unreproved delight,

  And tendency benign, directing those

  Who care not, know not, think not, what they do.

  The tales that charm away the wakeful night

  In Araby, romances; legends penned

  For solace by dim light of monkish lamps;

  Fictions, for ladies of their love, devised

  By youthful squires; adventures endless, spun 500

  By the dismantled warrior in old age,

  Out of the bowels of those very schemes

  In which his youth did first extravagate;

  These spread like day, and something in the shape

  Of these will live till man shall be no more.

  Dumb yearnings, hidden appetites, are ours,

  And ‘they must’ have their food. Our childhood sits,

  Our simple childhood, sits upon a throne

  That hath more power than all the elements.

  I guess not what this tells of Being past, 510

  Nor what it augurs of the life to come;

  But so it is; and, in that dubious hour—

  That twilight—when we first begin to see

  This dawning earth, to recognise, expect,

  And, in the long probation that ensues,

  The time of trial, ere we learn to live

  In reconcilement with our stinted powers;

  To endure this state of meagre vassalage,

  Unwilling to forego, confess, submit,

  Uneasy and unsettled, yoke-fellows 520

  To custom, mettlesome, and not yet tamed

  And humbled down—oh! then we feel, we feel,

  We know where we have friends. Ye dreamers, then,

  Forgers of daring tales! we bless you then,

  Impostors, drivellers, dotards, as the ape

  Philosophy will call you: ‘then’ we feel

  With what, and how great might ye are in league,

  Who make our wish, our power, our thought a deed,

  An empire, a possession,—ye whom time

  And seasons serve; all Faculties to whom 530

  Earth crouches, the elements are potter’s clay,

  Space like a heaven filled up with northern lights,

  Here, nowhere, there, and everywhere at once.

  Relinquishing this lofty eminence

  For ground, though humbler, not the less a tract

  Of the same isthmus, which our spirits cross

  In progress from their native continent

  To earth and human life, the Song might dwell

  On that delightful time of growing youth,

  When craving for the marvellous gives way 540