Delphi Complete Works of William Wordsworth

by William Wordsworth

  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—

  I mean, O distant Friend! a story drawn

  From our own ground,—the Maid of Buttermere,—

  And how, unfaithful to a virtuous wife

  Deserted and deceived, the Spoiler came

  And wooed the artless daughter of the hills, 300

  And wedded her, in cruel mockery

  Of love and marriage bonds. These words to thee

  Must needs bring back the moment when we first,

  Ere the broad world rang with the maiden’s name,

  Beheld her serving at the cottage inn;

  Both stricken, as she entered or withdrew,

  With admiration of her modest mien

  And carriage, marked by unexampled grace.

  We since that time not unfamiliarly

  Have seen her,—her discretion have observed, 310

  Her just opinions, delicate reserve,

  Her patience, and humility of mind

  Unspoiled by commendation and the excess

  Of public notice—an offensive light

  To a meek spirit suffering inwardly.

  From this memorial tribute to my theme

  I was returning, when, with sundry forms

  Commingled—shapes which met me in the way

  That we must tread—thy image rose again,

  Maiden of Buttermere! She lives in peace 320

  Upon the spot where she was born and reared;

  Without contamination doth she live

  In quietness, without anxiety:

  Beside the mountain chapel, sleeps in earth

  Her new-born infant, fearless as a lamb

  That, thither driven from some unsheltered place,

  Rests underneath the little rock-like pile

  When storms are raging. Happy are they both—

  Mother and child!—These feelings, in themselves

  Trite, do yet scarcely seem so when I think 330

  On those ingenuous moments of our youth

  Ere we have learnt by use to slight the crimes

  And sorrows of the world. Those simple days

  Are now my theme; and, foremost of the scenes,


  Which yet survive in memory, appears

  One, at whose centre sate a lovely Boy,

  A sportive infant, who, for six months’ space,

  Not more, had been of age to deal about

  Articulate prattle—Child as beautiful

  As ever clung around a mother’s neck, 340

  Or father fondly gazed upon with pride.

  There, too, conspicuous for stature tall

  And large dark eyes, beside her infant stood

  The mother; but, upon her cheeks diffused,

  False tints too well accorded with the glare

  From play-house lustres thrown without reserve

  On every object near. The Boy had been

  The pride and pleasure of all lookers-on

  In whatsoever place, but seemed in this

  A sort of alien scattered from the clouds. 350

  Of lusty vigour, more than infantine

  He was in limb, in cheek a summer rose

  Just three parts blown—a cottage-child—if e’er,

  By cottage-door on breezy mountain-side,

  Or in some sheltering vale, was seen a babe

  By Nature’s gifts so favoured. Upon a board

  Decked with refreshments had this child been placed

  ‘His’ little stage in the vast theatre,

  And there he sate, surrounded with a throng

  Of chance spectators, chiefly dissolute men 360

  And shameless women, treated and caressed;

  Ate, drank, and with the fruit and glasses played,

  While oaths and laughter and indecent speech

  Were rife about him as the songs of birds

  Contending after showers. The mother now

  Is fading out of memory, but I see

  The lovely Boy as I beheld him then

  Among the wretched and the falsely gay,

  Like one of those who walked with hair unsinged

  Amid the fiery furnace. Charms and spells 370

  Muttered on black and spiteful instigation

  Have stopped, as some believe, the kindliest growths.

  Ah, with how different spirit might a prayer

  Have been preferred, that this fair creature, checked

  By special privilege of Nature’s love,

  Should in his childhood be detained for ever!

  But with its universal freight the tide

  Hath rolled along, and this bright innocent,

  Mary! may now have lived till he could look

  With envy on thy nameless babe that sleeps, 380

  Beside the mountain chapel, undisturbed.

  Four rapid years had scarcely then been told

  Since, travelling southward from our pastoral hills,

  I heard, and for the first time in my life,

  The voice of woman utter blasphemy—

  Saw woman as she is, to open shame

  Abandoned, and the pride of public vice;

  I shuddered, for a barrier seemed at once

  Thrown in that from humanity divorced

  Humanity, splitting the race of man 390

  In twain, yet leaving the same outward form.

  Distress of mind ensued upon the sight,

  And ardent meditation. Later years

  Brought to such spectacle a milder sadness,

  Feelings of pure commiseration, grief

  For the individual and the overthrow

  Of her soul’s beauty; farther I was then

  But seldom led, or wished to go; in truth

  The sorrow of the passion stopped me there.

  But let me now, less moved, in order take 400

  Our argument. Enough is said to show

  How casual incidents of real life,

  Observed where pastime only had been sought,

  Outweighed, or put to flight, the set events

  And measured passions of the stage, albeit

  By Siddons trod in the fulness of her power.

  Yet was the theatre my dear delight;

  The very gilding, lamps and painted scrolls,

  And all the mean upholstery of the place,

  Wanted not animation, when the tide 410

  Of pleasure ebbed but to return as fast

  With the ever-shifting figures of the scene,

  Solemn or gay: whether some beauteous dame

  Advanced in radiance through a deep recess

  Of thick entangled forest, like the moon

  Opening the clouds; or sovereign king, announced

  With flourishing trumpet, came in full-blown state

  Of the world’s greatness, winding round with train

  Of courtiers, banners, and a length of guards;

  Or captive led in abject weeds, and jingling 420

  His slender manacles; or romping girl

  Bounced, leapt, and pawed the air; or mumbling sire,

  A scare-crow pattern of old age dressed up

  In all the tatters of infirmity

  All loosely put together, hobbled in,

  Stumping upon a cane with which he smites,

  From time to time, the solid boards, and makes them

  Prate somewhat loudly of the whereabout

  Of one so overloaded with his years.

  But what of this! the laugh, the grin, grimace, 430

  The antics striving to outstrip each other,

  Were all received, the least of them not lost,

  With an unmeasured welcome. Through the night,

  Between the show, and many-headed mass

  Of the spectators, and each several nook

  Filled with its fray or brawl, how eagerly

  And with what flashes, as it were, the mind

  Turned this way—that way! sportive and alert

  And watchful, as a kitten when at play,

  While winds are eddying round her, among straws 440

  And rustling leaves. Enchanting age and sweet!

  Romantic almost, looked at through a space,

  How small, of intervening years! For then,

  Though surely no mean progress had been made

  In meditations holy and sublime,

  Yet something of a girlish child-like gloss

  Of novelty survived for scenes like these;

  Enjoyment haply handed down from times

  When at a country-playhouse, some rude barn

  Tricked out for that proud use, if I perchance 450

  Caught, on a summer evening through a chink

  In the old wall, an unexpected glimpse

  Of daylight, the bare thought of where I was

  Gladdened me more than if I had been led

  Into a dazzling cavern of romance,

  Crowded with Genii busy among works

  Not to be looked at by the common sun.

  The matter that detains us now may seem,

  To many, neither dignified enough

  Nor arduous, yet will not be scorned by them, 460

  Who, looking inward, have observed the ties

  That bind the perishable hours of life

  Each to the other, and the curious props

  By which the world of memory and thought

  Exists and is sustained. More lofty themes,

  Such as at least do wear a prouder face,

  Solicit our regard; but when I think

  Of these, I feel the imaginative power

  Languish within me; even then it slept,

  When, pressed by tragic sufferings, the heart 470

  Was more than full; amid my sobs and tears

  It slept, even in the pregnant season of youth.

  For though I was most passionately moved

  And yielded to all changes of the scene

  With an obsequious promptness, yet the storm

  Passed not beyond the suburbs of the mind;

  Save when realities of act and mien,

  The incarnation of the spirits that move

  In harmony amid the Poet’s world,

  Rose to ideal grand
eur, or, called forth 480

  By power of contrast, made me recognise,

  As at a glance, the things which I had shaped,

  And yet not shaped, had seen and scarcely seen,

  When, having closed the mighty Shakspeare’s page,

  I mused, and thought, and felt, in solitude.

  Pass we from entertainments, that are such

  Professedly, to others titled higher,

  Yet, in the estimate of youth at least,

  More near akin to those than names imply,—

  I mean the brawls of lawyers in their courts 490

  Before the ermined judge, or that great stage

  Where senators, tongue-favoured men, perform,

  Admired and envied. Oh! the beating heart,

  When one among the prime of these rose up,—

  One, of whose name from childhood we had heard

  Familiarly, a household term, like those,

  The Bedfords, Glosters, Salsburys, of old,

  Whom the fifth Harry talks of. Silence! hush!

  This is no trifler, no short-flighted wit,

  No stammerer of a minute, painfully 500

  Delivered, No! the Orator hath yoked

  The Hours, like young Aurora, to his car:

  Thrice welcome Presence! how can patience e’er

  Grow weary of attending on a track

  That kindles with such glory! All are charmed,

  Astonished; like a hero in romance,

  He winds away his never-ending horn;

  Words follow words, sense seems to follow sense:

  What memory and what logic! till the strain

  Transcendent, superhuman as it seemed, 510

  Grows tedious even in a young man’s ear.

  Genius of Burke! forgive the pen seduced

  By specious wonders, and too slow to tell

  Of what the ingenuous, what bewildered men,

  Beginning to mistrust their boastful guides,

  And wise men, willing to grow wiser, caught,

  Rapt auditors! from thy most eloquent tongue—

  Now mute, for ever mute in the cold grave.

  I see him,—old, but vigorous in age,—

  Stand like an oak whose stag-horn branches start 520

  Out of its leafy brow, the more to awe

  The younger brethren of the grove. But some—

  While he forewarns, denounces, launches forth,

  Against all systems built on abstract rights,

  Keen ridicule; the majesty proclaims

  Of Institutes and Laws, hallowed by time;

  Declares the vital power of social ties

  Endeared by Custom; and with high disdain,

  Exploding upstart Theory, insists

  Upon the allegiance to which men are born— 530

  Some—say at once a froward multitude—

  Murmur (for truth is hated, where not loved)

  As the winds fret within the Aeolian cave,