Delphi Complete Works of William Wordsworth

by William Wordsworth

  Breathed up its smoke, an image of his ghost

  Or spirit that full soon must take her flight. 450

  Nor shall we not be tending towards that point

  Of sound humanity to which our Tale

  Leads, though by sinuous ways, if here I show

  How Fancy, in a season when she wove

  Those slender cords, to guide the unconscious Boy

  For the Man’s sake, could feed at Nature’s call

  Some pensive musings which might well beseem

  Maturer years.

  A grove there is whose boughs

  Stretch from the western marge of Thurstonmere

  With length of shade so thick, that whoso glides 460

  Along the line of low-roofed water, moves

  As in a cloister. Once—while, in that shade

  Loitering, I watched the golden beams of light

  Flung from the setting sun, as they reposed

  In silent beauty on the naked ridge

  Of a high eastern hill—thus flowed my thoughts

  In a pure stream of words fresh from the heart:

  Dear native Regions, wheresoe’er shall close

  My mortal course, there will I think on you;

  Dying, will cast on you a backward look; 470

  Even as this setting sun (albeit the Vale

  Is no where touched by one memorial gleam)

  Doth with the fond remains of his last power

  Still linger, and a farewell lustre sheds,

  On the dear mountain-tops where first he rose.

  Enough of humble arguments; recall,

  My Song! those high emotions which thy voice

  Has heretofore made known; that bursting forth

  Of sympathy, inspiring and inspired,

  When everywhere a vital pulse was felt, 480

  And all the several frames of things, like stars,

  Through every magnitude distinguishable,

  Shone mutually indebted, or half lost

  Each in the other’s blaze, a galaxy

  Of life and glory. In the midst stood Man,

  Outwardly, inwardly contemplated,

  As, of all visible natures, crown, though born

  Of dust, and kindred to the worm; a Being,

  Both in perception and discernment, first

  In every capability of rapture, 490

  Through the divine effect of power and love;

  As, more than anything we know, instinct

  With godhead, and, by reason and by will,

  Acknowledging dependency sublime.

  Ere long, the lonely mountains left, I moved,

  Begirt, from day to day, with temporal shapes

  Of vice and folly thrust upon my view,

  Objects of sport, and ridicule, and scorn,

  Manners and characters discriminate,

  And little bustling passions that eclipse, 500

  As well they might, the impersonated thought,

  The idea, or abstraction of the kind.

  An idler among academic bowers,

  Such was my new condition, as at large

  Has been set forth; yet here the vulgar light

  Of present, actual, superficial life,

  Gleaming through colouring of other times,

  Old usages and local privilege,

  Was welcomed, softened, if not solemnised.

  This notwithstanding, being brought more near 510

  To vice and guilt, forerunning wretchedness,

  I trembled,—thought, at times, of human life

  With an indefinite terror and dismay,

  Such as the storms and angry elements

  Had bred in me; but gloomier far, a dim

  Analogy to uproar and misrule,

  Disquiet, danger, and obscurity.

  It might be told (but wherefore speak of things

  Common to all?) that, seeing, I was led

  Gravely to ponder—judging between good 520

  And evil, not as for the mind’s delight

  But for her guidance—one who was to ‘act’,

  As sometimes to the best of feeble means

  I did, by human sympathy impelled:

  And, through dislike and most offensive pain,

  Was to the truth conducted; of this faith

  Never forsaken, that, by acting well,

  And understanding, I should learn to love

  The end of life, and everything we know.

  Grave Teacher, stern Preceptress! for at times 530

  Thou canst put on an aspect most severe;

  London, to thee I willingly return.

  Erewhile my verse played idly with the flowers

  Enwrought upon thy mantle; satisfied

  With that amusement, and a simple look

  Of child-like inquisition now and then

  Cast upwards on thy countenance, to detect

  Some inner meanings which might harbour there.

  But how could I in mood so light indulge,

  Keeping such fresh remembrance of the day, 540

  When, having thridded the long labyrinth

  Of the suburban villages, I first

  Entered thy vast dominion? On the roof

  Of an itinerant vehicle I sate,

  With vulgar men about me, trivial forms

  Of houses, pavement, streets, of men and things,—

  Mean shapes on every side: but, at the instant,

  When to myself it fairly might be said,

  The threshold now is overpast, (how strange

  That aught external to the living mind 550

  Should have such mighty sway! yet so it was),

  A weight of ages did at once descend

  Upon my heart; no thought embodied, no

  Distinct remembrances, but weight and power,—

  Power growing under weight: alas! I feel

  That I am trifling: ‘twas a moment’s pause,—

  All that took place within me came and went

  As in a moment; yet with Time it dwells,

  And grateful memory, as a thing divine.

  The curious traveller, who, from open day, 560

  Hath passed with torches into some huge cave,

  The Grotto of Antiparos, or the Den

  In old time haunted by that Danish Witch,

  Yordas; he looks around and sees the vault

  Widening on all sides; sees, or thinks he sees,

  Erelong, the massy roof above his head,

  That instantly unsettles and recedes,—

  Substance and shadow, light and darkness, all

  Commingled, making up a canopy

  Of shapes and forms and tendencies to shape 570

  That shift and vanish, change and interchange

  Like spectres,—ferment silent and sublime!

  That after a short space works less and less,

  Till, every effort, every motion gone,

  The scene before him stands in perfect view

  Exposed, and lifeless as a written book!—

  But let him pause awhile, and look again,

  And a new quickening shall succeed, at first

  Beginning timidly, then creeping fast,

  Till the whole cave, so late a senseless mass, 580

  Busies the eye with images and forms

  Boldly assembled,—here is shadowed forth

  From the projections, wrinkles, cavities,

  A variegated landscape,—there the shape

  Of some gigantic warrior clad in mail,

  The ghostly semblance of a hooded monk,

  Veiled nun, or pilgrim resting on his staff:

  Strange congregation! yet not slow to meet

  Eyes that perceive through minds that can inspire.

  Even in such sort had I at first been moved, 590

  Nor otherwise continued to be moved,

  As I explored the vast metropolis,

  Fount of my country’s destiny and the world’s;

  That great emporium, c
hronicle at once

  And burial-place of passions, and their home

  Imperial, their chief living residence.

  With strong sensations teeming as it did

  Of past and present, such a place must needs

  Have pleased me, seeking knowledge at that time

  Far less than craving power; yet knowledge came, 600

  Sought or unsought, and influxes of power

  Came, of themselves, or at her call derived

  In fits of kindliest apprehensiveness,

  From all sides, when whate’er was in itself

  Capacious found, or seemed to find, in me

  A correspondent amplitude of mind;

  Such is the strength and glory of our youth!

  The human nature unto which I felt

  That I belonged, and reverenced with love,

  Was not a punctual presence, but a spirit 610

  Diffused through time and space, with aid derived

  Of evidence from monuments, erect,

  Prostrate, or leaning towards their common rest

  In earth, the widely scattered wreck sublime

  Of vanished nations, or more clearly drawn

  From books and what they picture and record.

  ‘Tis true, the history of our native land—

  With those of Greece compared and popular Rome,

  And in our high-wrought modern narratives

  Stript of their harmonising soul, the life 620

  Of manners and familiar incidents—

  Had never much delighted me. And less

  Than other intellects had mine been used

  To lean upon extrinsic circumstance

  Of record or tradition; but a sense

  Of what in the Great City had been done

  And suffered, and was doing, suffering, still,

  Weighed with me, could support the test of thought;

  And, in despite of all that had gone by,

  Or was departing never to return, 630

  There I conversed with majesty and power

  Like independent natures. Hence the place

  Was thronged with impregnations like the Wilds

  In which my early feelings had been nursed—

  Bare hills and valleys, full of caverns, rocks,

  And audible seclusions, dashing lakes,

  Echoes and waterfalls, and pointed crags

  That into music touch the passing wind.

  Here then my young imagination found

  No uncongenial element; could here 640

  Among new objects serve or give command,

  Even as the heart’s occasions might require,

  To forward reason’s else too-scrupulous march.

  The effect was, still more elevated views

  Of human nature. Neither vice nor guilt,

  Debasement undergone by body or mind,

  Nor all the misery forced upon my sight,

  Misery not lightly passed, but sometimes scanned

  Most feelingly, could overthrow my trust

  In what we ‘may’ become; induce belief 650

  That I was ignorant, had been falsely taught,

  A solitary, who with vain conceits

  Had been inspired, and walked about in dreams.

  From those sad scenes when meditation turned,

  Lo! everything that was indeed divine

  Retained its purity inviolate,

  Nay brighter shone, by this portentous gloom

  Set off; such opposition as aroused

  The mind of Adam, yet in Paradise

  Though fallen from bliss, when in the East he saw 660

  Darkness ere day’s mid course, and morning light

  More orient in the western cloud, that drew

  O’er the blue firmament a radiant white,

  Descending slow with something heavenly fraught.

  Add also, that among the multitudes

  Of that huge city, oftentimes was seen

  Affectingly set forth, more than elsewhere

  Is possible, the unity of man,

  One spirit over ignorance and vice

  Predominant, in good and evil hearts; 670

  One sense for moral judgments, as one eye

  For the sun’s light. The soul when smitten thus

  By a sublime ‘idea’, whencesoe’er

  Vouchsafed for union or communion, feeds

  On the pure bliss, and takes her rest with God.

  Thus from a very early age, O Friend!

  My thoughts by slow gradations had been drawn

  To human-kind, and to the good and ill

  Of human life: Nature had led me on;

  And oft amid the “busy hum” I seemed 680

  To travel independent of her help,

  As if I had forgotten her; but no,

  The world of human-kind outweighed not hers

  In my habitual thoughts; the scale of love,

  Though filling daily, still was light, compared

  With that in which ‘her’ mighty objects lay.

  THE PRELUDE BOOK NINTH

  RESIDENCE IN FRANCE

  EVEN as a river,—partly (it might seem)

  Yielding to old remembrances, and swayed

  In part by fear to shape a way direct,

  That would engulph him soon in the ravenous sea—

  Turns, and will measure back his course, far back,

  Seeking the very regions which he crossed

  In his first outset; so have we, my Friend!

  Turned and returned with intricate delay.

  Or as a traveller, who has gained the brow

  Of some aerial Down, while there he halts 10

  For breathing-time, is tempted to review

  The region left behind him; and, if aught

  Deserving notice have escaped regard,

  Or been regarded with too careless eye,

  Strives, from that height, with one and yet one more

  Last look, to make the best amends he may:

  So have we lingered. Now we start afresh

  With courage, and new hope risen on our toil.

  Fair greetings to this shapeless eagerness,

  Whene’er it comes! needful in work so long, 20

  Thrice needful to the argument which now

  Awaits us! Oh, how much unlike the past!

  Free as a colt at pasture on the hill,

  I ranged at large, through London’s wide domain,

  Month after month. Obscurely did I live,

  Not seeking frequent intercourse with men,

  By literature, or elegance, or rank,

  Distinguished. Scarcely was a year thus spent

  Ere I forsook the crowded solitude,

  With less regret for its luxurious pomp, 30

  And all the nicely-guarded shows of art,

  Than for the humble book-stalls in the streets,

  Exposed to eye and hand where’er I turned.

  France lured me forth; the realm that I had crossed

  So lately, journeying toward the snow-clad Alps.

  But now, relinquishing the scrip and staff,

  And all enjoyment which the summer sun

  Sheds round the steps of those who meet the day

  With motion constant as his own, I went

  Prepared to sojourn in a pleasant town, 40

  Washed by the current of the stately Loire.

  Through Paris lay my readiest course, and there

  Sojourning a few days, I visited

  In haste, each spot of old or recent fame,

  The latter chiefly, from the field of Mars

  Down to the suburbs of St. Antony,

  And from Mont Martre southward to the Dome

  Of Genevieve. In both her clamorous Halls,

  The National Synod and the Jacobins,

  I saw the Revolutionary Power 50

  Toss like a ship at anchor, rocked by storms;

  The Arcades I traversed, in the Palace huge

  Of
Orleans; coasted round and round the line

  Of Tavern, Brothel, Gaming-house, and Shop,

  Great rendezvous of worst and best, the walk

  Of all who had a purpose, or had not;

  I stared and listened, with a stranger’s ears,

  To Hawkers and Haranguers, hubbub wild!

  And hissing Factionists with ardent eyes,

  In knots, or pairs, or single. Not a look 60

  Hope takes, or Doubt or Fear is forced to wear,

  But seemed there present; and I scanned them all,

  Watched every gesture uncontrollable,

  Of anger, and vexation, and despite,

  All side by side, and struggling face to face,

  With gaiety and dissolute idleness.

  Where silent zephyrs sported with the dust

  Of the Bastille, I sate in the open sun,

  And from the rubbish gathered up a stone,

  And pocketed the relic, in the guise 70

  Of an enthusiast; yet, in honest truth,

  I looked for something that I could not find,

  Affecting more emotion than I felt;

  For ‘tis most certain, that these various sights,

  However potent their first shock, with me

  Appeared to recompense the traveller’s pains

  Less than the painted Magdalene of Le Brun,

  A beauty exquisitely wrought, with hair

  Dishevelled, gleaming eyes, and rueful cheek

  Pale and bedropped with overflowing tears. 80

  But hence to my more permanent abode

  I hasten; there, by novelties in speech,

  Domestic manners, customs, gestures, looks,

  And all the attire of ordinary life,

  Attention was engrossed; and, thus amused,

  I stood ‘mid those concussions, unconcerned,

  Tranquil almost, and careless as a flower

  Glassed in a green-house, or a parlour shrub

  That spreads its leaves in unmolested peace,

  While every bush and tree, the country through, 90

  Is shaking to the roots: indifference this

  Which may seem strange: but I was unprepared

  With needful knowledge, had abruptly passed

  Into a theatre, whose stage was filled

  And busy with an action far advanced.

  Like others, I had skimmed, and sometimes read

  With care, the master pamphlets of the day;

  Nor wanted such half-insight as grew wild

  Upon that meagre soil, helped out by talk

  And public news; but having never seen 100

  A chronicle that might suffice to show

  Whence the main organs of the public power

  Had sprung, their transmigrations, when and how

  Accomplished, giving thus unto events

  A form and body; all things were to me

  Loose and disjointed, and the affections left