Delphi Complete Works of William Wordsworth

by William Wordsworth

  The stationary blasts of waterfalls,

  And in the narrow rent at every turn

  Winds thwarting winds, bewildered and forlorn,

  The torrents shooting from the clear blue sky,

  The rocks that muttered close upon our ears, 630

  Black drizzling crags that spake by the way-side

  As if a voice were in them, the sick sight

  And giddy prospect of the raving stream,

  The unfettered clouds and region of the Heavens,

  Tumult and peace, the darkness and the light—

  Were all like workings of one mind, the features

  Of the same face, blossoms upon one tree;

  Characters of the great Apocalypse,

  The types and symbols of Eternity,

  Of first, and last, and midst, and without end. 640

  That night our lodging was a house that stood

  Alone within the valley, at a point

  Where, tumbling from aloft, a torrent swelled

  The rapid stream whose margin we had trod;

  A dreary mansion, large beyond all need,

  With high and spacious rooms, deafened and stunned

  By noise of waters, making innocent sleep

  Lie melancholy among weary bones.

  Uprisen betimes, our journey we renewed,

  Led by the stream, ere noon-day magnified 650

  Into a lordly river, broad and deep,

  Dimpling along in silent majesty,

  With mountains for its neighbours, and in view

  Of distant mountains and their snowy tops,

  And thus proceeding to Locarno’s Lake,

  Fit resting-place for such a visitant.

  Locarno! spreading out in width like Heaven,

  How dost thou cleave to the poetic heart,

  Bask in the sunshine of the memory;

  And Como! thou, a treasure whom the earth 660

  Keeps to herself, confined as in a depth

  Of Abyssinian privacy. I spake

  Of thee, thy chestnut woods, and garden plots

  Of Indian corn tended by dark-eyed maids;

  Thy lofty steeps, and pathways roofed with vines,

  Winding from house to house, from town to town,

  Sole link that binds them to each other; walks,

  League after league, and cloistral avenues,

  Where silence dwells if music be not there:

  While yet a youth undisciplined in verse, 670

  Through fond ambition of that hour I strove

  To chant your praise; nor can approach you now

  Ungreeted by a more melodious Song,

  Where tones of Nature smoothed by learned Art

  May flow in lasting current. Like a breeze

  Or sunbeam over your domain I passed

  In motion without pause; but ye have left

  Your beauty with me, a serene accord

  Of forms and colours, passive, yet endowed

  In their submissiveness with power as sweet 680

  And gracious, almost, might I dare to say,

  As virtue is, or goodness; sweet as love,

  Or the remembrance of a generous deed,

  Or mildest visitations of pure thought,

  When God, the giver of all joy, is thanked

  Religiously, in silent blessedness;

  Sweet as this last herself, for such it is.

  With those delightful pathways we advanced,

  For two days’ space, in presence of the Lake,

  That, stretching far among the Alps, assumed 690

  A character more stern. The second night,

  From sleep awakened, and misled by sound

  Of the church clock telling the hours with strokes

  Whose import then we had not learned, we rose

  By moonlight, doubting not that day was nigh,

  And that meanwhile, by no uncertain path,

  Along the winding margin of the lake,

  Led, as before, we should behold the scene

  Hushed in profound repose. We left the town

  Of Gravedona with this hope; but soon 700

  Were lost, bewildered among woods immense,

  And on a rock sate down, to wait for day.

  An open place it was, and overlooked,

  From high, the sullen water far beneath,

  On which a dull red image of the moon

  Lay bedded, changing oftentimes its form

  Like an uneasy snake. From hour to hour

  We sate and sate, wondering, as if the night

  Had been ensnared by witchcraft. On the rock

  At last we stretched our weary limbs for sleep, 710

  But ‘could not’ sleep, tormented by the stings

  Of insects, which, with noise like that of noon,

  Filled all the woods: the cry of unknown birds;

  The mountains more by blackness visible

  And their own size, than any outward light;

  The breathless wilderness of clouds; the clock

  That told, with unintelligible voice,

  The widely parted hours; the noise of streams,

  And sometimes rustling motions nigh at hand,

  That did not leave us free from personal fear; 720

  And, lastly, the withdrawing moon, that set

  Before us, while she still was high in heaven;—

  These were our food; and such a summer’s night

  Followed that pair of golden days that shed

  On Como’s Lake, and all that round it lay,

  Their fairest, softest, happiest influence.

  But here I must break off, and bid farewell

  To days, each offering some new sight, or fraught

  With some untried adventure, in a course

  Prolonged till sprinklings of autumnal snow 730

  Checked our unwearied steps. Let this alone

  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 bir
d 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.

  THE PRELUDE 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 Fairy-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,