Delphi Complete Works of William Wordsworth

by William Wordsworth

  Galled by their monarch’s chain. The times were big

  With ominous change, which, night by night, provoked

  Keen struggles, and black clouds of passion raised;

  But memorable moments intervened,

  When Wisdom, like the Goddess from Jove’s brain,

  Broke forth in armour of resplendent words,

  Startling the Synod. Could a youth, and one 540

  In ancient story versed, whose breast had heaved

  Under the weight of classic eloquence,

  Sit, see, and hear, unthankful, uninspired?

  Nor did the Pulpit’s oratory fail

  To achieve its higher triumph. Not unfelt

  Were its admonishments, nor lightly heard

  The awful truths delivered thence by tongues

  Endowed with various power to search the soul;

  Yet ostentation, domineering, oft

  Poured forth harangues, how sadly out of place!— 550

  There have I seen a comely bachelor,

  Fresh from a toilette of two hours, ascend

  His rostrum, with seraphic glance look up,

  And, in a tone elaborately low

  Beginning, lead his voice through many a maze

  A minuet course; and, winding up his mouth,

  From time to time, into an orifice

  Most delicate, a lurking eyelet, small,

  And only not invisible, again

  Open it out, diffusing thence a smile 560

  Of rapt irradiation, exquisite.

  Meanwhile the Evangelists, Isaiah, Job,

  Moses, and he who penned, the other day,

  The Death of Abel, Shakspeare, and the Bard

  Whose genius spangled o’er a gloomy theme

  With fancies thick as his inspiring stars,

  And Ossian (doubt not—’tis the naked truth)

  Summoned from streamy Morven—each and all

  Would, in their turns, lend ornaments and flowers

  To entwine the crook of eloquence that helped 570

  This pretty Shepherd, pride of all the plains,

  To rule and guide his captivated flock.

  I glance but at a few conspicuous marks,

  Leaving a thousand others, that, in hall,

  Court, theatre, conventicle, or shop,

  In public room or private, park or street,

  Each fondly reared on his own pedestal,

  Looked out for admiration. Folly, vice,

  Extravagance in gesture, mien, and dress,

  And all the strife of singularity, 580

  Lies to the ear, and lies to every sense—

  Of these, and of the living shapes they wear,

  There is no end. Such candidates for regard,

  Although well pleased to be where they were found,

  I did not hunt after, nor greatly prize,

  Nor made unto myself a secret boast

  Of reading them with quick and curious eye;

  But, as a common produce, things that are

  To-day, to-morrow will be, took of them

  Such willing note, as, on some errand bound 590

  That asks not speed, a traveller might bestow

  On sea-shells that bestrew the sandy beach,

  Or daisies swarming through the fields of June.

  But foolishness and madness in parade,

  Though most at home in this their dear domain,

  Are scattered everywhere, no rarities,

  Even to the rudest novice of the Schools.

  Me, rather, it employed, to note, and keep

  In memory, those individual sights

  Of courage, or integrity, or truth, 600

  Or tenderness, which there, set off by foil,

  Appeared more touching. One will I select—

  A Father—for he bore that sacred name;—

  Him saw I, sitting in an open square,

  Upon a corner-stone of that low wall,

  Wherein were fixed the iron pales that fenced

  A spacious grass-plot; there, in silence, sate

  This One Man, with a sickly babe outstretched

  Upon his knee, whom he had thither brought

  For sunshine, and to breathe the fresher air. 610

  Of those who passed, and me who looked at him,

  He took no heed; but in his brawny arms

  (The Artificer was to the elbow bare,

  And from his work this moment had been stolen)

  He held the child, and, bending over it,

  As if he were afraid both of the sun

  And of the air, which he had come to seek,

  Eyed the poor babe with love unutterable.

  As the black storm upon the mountain top

  Sets off the sunbeam in the valley, so 620

  That huge fermenting mass of human-kind

  Serves as a solemn back-ground, or relief,

  To single forms and objects, whence they draw,

  For feeling and contemplative regard,

  More than inherent liveliness and power.

  How oft, amid those overflowing streets,

  Have I gone forward with the crowd, and said

  Unto myself, “The face of every one

  That passes by me is a mystery!”

  Thus have I looked, nor ceased to look, oppressed 630

  By thoughts of what and whither, when and how,

  Until the shapes before my eyes became

  A second-sight procession, such as glides

  Over still mountains, or appears in dreams;

  And once, far-travelled in such mood, beyond

  The reach of common indication, lost

  Amid the moving pageant, I was smitten

  Abruptly, with the view (a sight not rare)

  Of a blind Beggar, who, with upright face,

  Stood, propped against a wall, upon his chest 640

  Wearing a written paper, to explain

  His story, whence he came, and who he was.

  Caught by the spectacle my mind turned round

  As with the might of waters; and apt type

  This label seemed of the utmost we can know,

  Both of ourselves and of the universe;

  And, on the shape of that unmoving man,

  His steadfast face and sightless eyes, I gazed,

  As if admonished from another world.

  Though reared upon the base of outward things, 650

  Structures like these the excited spirit mainly

  Builds for herself; scenes different there are,

  Full-formed, that take, with small internal help,

  Possession of the faculties,—the peace

  That comes with night; the deep solemnity

  Of nature’s intermediate hours of rest,

  When the great tide of human life stands still:

  The business of the day to come, unborn,

  Of that gone by, locked up, as in the grave;

  The blended calmness of the heavens and earth, 660

  Moonlight and stars, and empty streets, and sounds

  Unfrequent as in deserts; at late hours

  Of winter evenings, when unwholesome rains

  Are falling hard, with people yet astir,

  The feeble salutation from the voice

  Of some unhappy woman, now and then

  Heard as we pass, when no one looks about,

  Nothing is listened to. But these, I fear,

  Are falsely catalogued; things that are, are not,

  As the mind answers to them, or the heart 670

  Is prompt, or slow, to feel. What say you, then,

  To times, when half the city shall break out

  Full of one passion, vengeance, rage, or fear?

  To executions, to a street on fire,

  Mobs, riots, or rejoicings? From these sights

  Take one,—that ancient festival, the Fair,

  Holden where martyrs suffered in past time,

  And named of St. Bartholomew; there, see


  A work completed to our hands, that lays,

  If any spectacle on earth can do, 680

  The whole creative powers of man asleep!—

  For once, the Muse’s help will we implore,

  And she shall lodge us, wafted on her wings,

  Above the press and danger of the crowd,

  Upon some showman’s platform. What a shock

  For eyes and ears! what anarchy and din,

  Barbarian and infernal,—a phantasma,

  Monstrous in colour, motion, shape, sight, sound!

  Below, the open space, through every nook

  Of the wide area, twinkles, is alive 690

  With heads; the midway region, and above,

  Is thronged with staring pictures and huge scrolls,

  Dumb proclamations of the Prodigies;

  With chattering monkeys dangling from their poles,

  And children whirling in their roundabouts;

  With those that stretch the neck and strain the eyes,

  And crack the voice in rivalship, the crowd

  Inviting; with buffoons against buffoons

  Grimacing, writhing, screaming,—him who grinds

  The hurdy-gurdy, at the fiddle weaves, 700

  Rattles the salt-box, thumps the kettle-drum,

  And him who at the trumpet puffs his cheeks,

  The silver-collared Negro with his timbrel,

  Equestrians, tumblers, women, girls, and boys,

  Blue-breeched, pink-vested, with high-towering plumes.—

  All moveables of wonder, from all parts,

  Are here—Albinos, painted Indians, Dwarfs,

  The Horse of knowledge, and the learned Pig,

  The Stone-eater, the man that swallows fire,

  Giants, Ventriloquists, the Invisible Girl, 710

  The Bust that speaks and moves its goggling eyes,

  The Wax-work, Clock-work, all the marvellous craft

  Of modern Merlins, Wild Beasts, Puppet-shows,

  All out-o’-the-way, far-fetched, perverted things,

  All freaks of nature, all Promethean thoughts

  Of man, his dulness, madness, and their feats

  All jumbled up together, to compose

  A Parliament of Monsters. Tents and Booths

  Meanwhile, as if the whole were one vast mill,

  Are vomiting, receiving on all sides, 720

  Men, Women, three-years’ Children, Babes in arms.

  Oh, blank confusion! true epitome

  Of what the mighty City is herself,

  To thousands upon thousands of her sons,

  Living amid the same perpetual whirl

  Of trivial objects, melted and reduced

  To one identity, by differences

  That have no law, no meaning, and no end—

  Oppression, under which even highest minds

  Must labour, whence the strongest are not free. 730

  But though the picture weary out the eye,

  By nature an unmanageable sight,

  It is not wholly so to him who looks

  In steadiness, who hath among least things

  An under-sense of greatest; sees the parts

  As parts, but with a feeling of the whole.

  This, of all acquisitions, first awaits

  On sundry and most widely different modes

  Of education, nor with least delight

  On that through which I passed. Attention springs, 740

  And comprehensiveness and memory flow,

  From early converse with the works of God

  Among all regions; chiefly where appear

  Most obviously simplicity and power.

  Think, how the everlasting streams and woods,

  Stretched and still stretching far and wide, exalt

  The roving Indian, on his desert sands:

  What grandeur not unfelt, what pregnant show

  Of beauty, meets the sun-burnt Arab’s eye:

  And, as the sea propels, from zone to zone, 750

  Its currents; magnifies its shoals of life

  Beyond all compass; spreads, and sends aloft

  Armies of clouds,—even so, its powers and aspects

  Shape for mankind, by principles as fixed,

  The views and aspirations of the soul

  To majesty. Like virtue have the forms

  Perennial of the ancient hills; nor less

  The changeful language of their countenances

  Quickens the slumbering mind, and aids the thoughts,

  However multitudinous, to move 760

  With order and relation. This, if still,

  As hitherto, in freedom I may speak,

  Not violating any just restraint,

  As may be hoped, of real modesty,—

  This did I feel, in London’s vast domain.

  The Spirit of Nature was upon me there;

  The soul of Beauty and enduring Life

  Vouchsafed her inspiration, and diffused,

  Through meagre lines and colours, and the press

  Of self-destroying, transitory things, 770

  Composure, and ennobling Harmony.

  THE PRELUDE BOOK EIGHTH

  RETROSPECT—LOVE OF NATURE LEADING TO LOVE OF MAN

  WHAT sounds are those, Helvellyn, that are heard

  Up to thy summit, through the depth of air

  Ascending, as if distance had the power

  To make the sounds more audible? What crowd

  Covers, or sprinkles o’er, yon village green?

  Crowd seems it, solitary hill! to thee,

  Though but a little family of men,

  Shepherds and tillers of the ground—betimes

  Assembled with their children and their wives,

  And here and there a stranger interspersed. 10

  They hold a rustic fair—a festival,

  Such as, on this side now, and now on that,

  Repeated through his tributary vales,

  Helvellyn, in the silence of his rest,

  Sees annually, if clouds towards either ocean

  Blown from their favourite resting-place, or mists

  Dissolved, have left him an unshrouded head.

  Delightful day it is for all who dwell

  In this secluded glen, and eagerly

  They give it welcome. Long ere heat of noon, 20

  From byre or field the kine were brought; the sheep

  Are penned in cotes; the chaffering is begun.

  The heifer lows, uneasy at the voice

  Of a new master; bleat the flocks aloud.

  Booths are there none; a stall or two is here;

  A lame man or a blind, the one to beg,

  The other to make music; hither, too,

  From far, with basket, slung upon her arm,

  Of hawker’s wares—books, pictures, combs, and pins—

  Some aged woman finds her way again, 30

  Year after year, a punctual visitant!

  There also stands a speech-maker by rote,

  Pulling the strings of his boxed raree-show;

  And in the lapse of many years may come

  Prouder itinerant, mountebank, or he

  Whose wonders in a covered wain lie hid.

  But one there is, the loveliest of them all,

  Some sweet lass of the valley, looking out

  For gains, and who that sees her would not buy?

  Fruits of her father’s orchard are her wares, 40

  And with the ruddy produce she walks round

  Among the crowd, half pleased with, half ashamed

  Of, her new office, blushing restlessly.

  The children now are rich, for the old to-day

  Are generous as the young; and, if content

  With looking on, some ancient wedded pair

  Sit in the shade together; while they gaze,

  “A cheerful smile unbends the wrinkled brow,

  The days departed start again to life,

  And all the scenes
of childhood reappear, 50

  Faint, but more tranquil, like the changing sun

  To him who slept at noon and wakes at eve.”

  Thus gaiety and cheerfulness prevail,

  Spreading from young to old, from old to young,

  And no one seems to want his share.—Immense

  Is the recess, the circumambient world

  Magnificent, by which they are embraced:

  They move about upon the soft green turf:

  How little they, they and their doings, seem,

  And all that they can further or obstruct! 60

  Through utter weakness pitiably dear,

  As tender infants are: and yet how great!

  For all things serve them: them the morning light

  Loves, as it glistens on the silent rocks;

  And them the silent rocks, which now from high

  Look down upon them; the reposing clouds;

  The wild brooks prattling from invisible haunts;

  And old Helvellyn, conscious of the stir

  Which animates this day their calm abode.

  With deep devotion, Nature, did I feel, 70

  In that enormous City’s turbulent world

  Of men and things, what benefit I owed

  To thee, and those domains of rural peace,

  Where to the sense of beauty first my heart

  Was opened; tract more exquisitely fair

  Than that famed paradise of ten thousand trees,

  Or Gehol’s matchless gardens, for delight

  Of the Tartarian dynasty composed

  (Beyond that mighty wall, not fabulous,

  China’s stupendous mound) by patient toil 80

  Of myriads and boon nature’s lavish help;

  There, in a clime from widest empire chosen,

  Fulfilling (could enchantment have done more?)

  A sumptuous dream of flowery lawns, with domes

  Of pleasure sprinkled over, shady dells

  For eastern monasteries, sunny mounts

  With temples crested, bridges, gondolas,

  Rocks, dens, and groves of foliage taught to melt

  Into each other their obsequious hues,

  Vanished and vanishing in subtle chase, 90

  Too fine to be pursued; or standing forth

  In no discordant opposition, strong

  And gorgeous as the colours side by side

  Bedded among rich plumes of tropic birds;

  And mountains over all, embracing all;

  And all the landscape, endlessly enriched

  With waters running, falling, or asleep.

  But lovelier far than this, the paradise

  Where I was reared; in Nature’s primitive gifts

  Favoured no less, and more to every sense 100

  Delicious, seeing that the sun and sky,

  The elements, and seasons as they change,

  Do find a worthy fellow-labourer there—

  Man free, man working for himself, with choice