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Delphi Complete Works of William Wordsworth

Page 237

by William Wordsworth


  Between the orbs of our apparent sphere

  And its invisible counterpart, adorned

  With answering constellations, under earth,

  Removed from all approach of living sight

  But present to the dead; who, so they deemed,

  Like those celestial messengers beheld

  All accidents, and judges were of all.

  The lively Grecian, in a land of hills,

  Rivers and fertile plains, and sounding shores,—

  Under a cope of sky more variable, 720

  Could find commodious place for every God,

  Promptly received, as prodigally brought,

  From the surrounding countries, at the choice

  Of all adventurers. With unrivalled skill,

  As nicest observation furnished hints

  For studious fancy, his quick hand bestowed

  On fluent operations a fixed shape;

  Metal or stone, idolatrously served.

  And yet—triumphant o’er this pompous show

  Of art, this palpable array of sense, 730

  On every side encountered; in despite

  Of the gross fictions chanted in the streets

  By wandering Rhapsodists; and in contempt

  Of doubt and bold denial hourly urged

  Amid the wrangling schools—a SPIRIT hung,

  Beautiful region! o’er thy towns and farms,

  Statues and temples, and memorial tombs;

  And emanations were perceived; and acts

  Of immortality, in Nature’s course,

  Exemplified by mysteries, that were felt 740

  As bonds, on grave philosopher imposed

  And armed warrior; and in every grove

  A gay or pensive tenderness prevailed,

  When piety more awful had relaxed.

  —’Take, running river, take these locks of mine’—

  Thus would the Votary say—’this severed hair,

  ‘My vow fulfilling, do I here present,

  ‘Thankful for my beloved child’s return.

  ‘Thy banks, Cephisus, he again hath trod,

  ‘Thy murmurs heard; and drunk the crystal lymph 750

  ‘With which thou dost refresh the thirsty lip,

  ‘And, all day long, moisten these flowery fields!’

  And doubtless, sometimes, when the hair was shed

  Upon the flowing stream, a thought arose

  Of Life continuous, Being unimpaired;

  That hath been, is, and where it was and is

  There shall endure,—existence unexposed

  To the blind walk of mortal accident;

  From diminution safe and weakening age;

  While man grows old, and dwindles, and decays; 760

  And countless generations of mankind

  Depart; and leave no vestige where they trod.

  We live by Admiration, Hope and Love;

  And, even as these are well and wisely fixed,

  In dignity of being we ascend.

  But what is error?”—”Answer he who can!”

  The Sceptic somewhat haughtily exclaimed:

  “Love, Hope, and Admiration,—are they not

  Mad Fancy’s favourite vassals? Does not life

  Use them, full oft, as pioneers to ruin, 770

  Guides to destruction? Is it well to trust

  Imagination’s light when reason’s fails,

  The unguarded taper where the guarded faints?

  —Stoop from those heights, and soberly declare

  What error is; and, of our errors, which

  Doth most debase the mind; the genuine seats

  Of power, where are they? Who shall regulate,

  With truth, the scale of intellectual rank?”

  “Methinks,” persuasively the Sage replied,

  “That for this arduous office you possess 780

  Some rare advantages. Your early days

  A grateful recollection must supply

  Of much exalted good by Heaven vouchsafed

  To dignify the humblest state.—Your voice

  Hath, in my hearing, often testified

  That poor men’s children, they, and they alone,

  By their condition taught, can understand

  The wisdom of the prayer that daily asks

  For daily bread. A consciousness is yours

  How feelingly religion may be learned 790

  In smoky cabins, from a mother’s tongue—

  Heard where the dwelling vibrates to the din

  Of the contiguous torrent, gathering strength

  At every moment—and, with strength, increase

  Of fury; or, while snow is at the door,

  Assaulting and defending, and the wind,

  A sightless labourer, whistles at his work—

  Fearful; but resignation tempers fear,

  And piety is sweet to infant minds.

  —The Shepherd-lad, that in the sunshine carves, 800

  On the green turf, a dial—to divide

  The silent hours; and who to that report

  Can portion out his pleasures, and adapt,

  Throughout a long and lonely summer’s day

  His round of pastoral duties, is not left

  With less intelligence for ‘moral’ things

  Of gravest import. Early he perceives,

  Within himself, a measure and a rule,

  Which to the sun of truth he can apply,

  That shines for him, and shines for all mankind. 810

  Experience daily fixing his regards

  On nature’s wants, he knows how few they are,

  And where they lie, how answered and appeased.

  This knowledge ample recompense affords

  For manifold privations; he refers

  His notions to this standard; on this rock

  Rests his desires; and hence, in after life,

  Soul-strengthening patience, and sublime content.

  Imagination—not permitted here

  To waste her powers, as in the worldling’s mind, 820

  On fickle pleasures, and superfluous cares,

  And trivial ostentation—is left free

  And puissant to range the solemn walks

  Of time and nature, girded by a zone

  That, while it binds, invigorates and supports.

  Acknowledge, then, that whether by the side

  Of his poor hut, or on the mountain top,

  Or in the cultured field, a Man so bred

  (Take from him what you will upon the score

  Of ignorance or illusion) lives and breathes 830

  For noble purposes of mind: his heart

  Beats to the heroic song of ancient days;

  His eye distinguishes, his soul creates.

  And those illusions, which excite the scorn

  Or move the pity of unthinking minds,

  Are they not mainly outward ministers

  Of inward conscience? with whose service charged

  They came and go, appeared and disappear,

  Diverting evil purposes, remorse

  Awakening, chastening an intemperate grief, 840

  Or pride of heart abating: and, whene’er

  For less important ends those phantoms move,

  Who would forbid them, if their presence serve—

  On thinly-peopled mountains and wild heaths,

  Filling a space, else vacant—to exalt

  The forms of Nature, and enlarge her powers?

  Once more to distant ages of the world

  Let us revert, and place before our thoughts

  The face which rural solitude might wear

  To the unenlightened swains of pagan Greece. 850

  —In that fair clime, the lonely herdsman, stretched

  On the soft grass through half a summer’s day,

  With music lulled his indolent repose:

  And, in some fit of weariness, if he,

  When his own breath was silent, chanced to hear />
  A distant strain, far sweeter than the sounds

  Which his poor skill could make, his fancy fetched,

  Even from the blazing chariot of the sun,

  A beardless Youth, who touched a golden lute,

  And filled the illumined groves with ravishment. 860

  The nightly hunter, lifting a bright eye

  Up towards the crescent moon, with grateful heart

  Called on the lovely wanderer who bestowed

  That timely light, to share his joyous sport:

  And hence, a beaming Goddess with her Nymphs,

  Across the lawn and through the darksome grove,

  Not unaccompanied with tuneful notes

  By echo multiplied from rock or cave,

  Swept in the storm of chase; as moon and stars

  Glance rapidly along the clouded heaven, 870

  When winds are blowing strong. The traveller slaked

  His thirst from rill or gushing fount, and thanked

  The Naiad. Sunbeams, upon distant hills

  Gliding apace, with shadows in their train,

  Might, with small help from fancy, be transformed

  Into fleet Oreads sporting visibly.

  The Zephyrs fanning, as they passed, their wings,

  Lacked not, for love, fair objects whom they wooed

  With gentle whisper. Withered boughs grotesque,

  Stripped of their leaves and twigs by hoary age, 880

  From depth of shaggy covert peeping forth

  In the low vale, or on steep mountain side;

  And, sometimes, intermixed with stirring horns

  Of the live deer, or goat’s depending beard,—

  These were the lurking Satyrs, a wild brood

  Of gamesome Deities; or Pan himself,

  The simple shepherd’s awe-inspiring God!”

  The strain was aptly chosen; and I could mark

  Its kindly influence, o’er the yielding brow

  Of our Companion, gradually diffused; 890

  While, listening, he had paced the noiseless turf,

  Like one whose untired ear a murmuring stream

  Detains; but tempted now to interpose,

  He with a smile exclaimed:—

  “‘Tis well you speak

  At a safe distance from our native land,

  And from the mansions where our youth was taught.

  The true descendants of those godly men

  Who swept from Scotland, in a flame of zeal,

  Shrine, altar, image, and the massy piles

  That harboured them,—the souls retaining yet 900

  The churlish features of that after-race

  Who fled to woods, caverns, and jutting rocks,

  In deadly scorn of superstitious rites,

  Or what their scruples construed to be such—

  How, think you, would they tolerate this scheme

  Of fine propensities, that tends, if urged

  Far as it might be urged, to sow afresh

  The weeds of Romish phantasy, in vain

  Uprooted; would re-consecrate our wells

  To good Saint Fillan and to fair Saint Anne; 910

  And from long banishment recall Saint Giles,

  To watch again with tutelary love

  O’er stately Edinborough throned on crags?

  A blessed restoration, to behold

  The patron, on the shoulders of his priests,

  Once more parading through her crowded streets,

  Now simply guarded by the sober powers

  Of science, and philosophy, and sense!”

  This answer followed.—”You have turned my thoughts

  Upon our brave Progenitors, who rose 920

  Against idolatry with warlike mind,

  And shrunk from vain observances, to lurk

  In woods, and dwell under impending rocks

  Ill-sheltered, and oft wanting fire and food;

  Why?—for this very reason that they felt,

  And did acknowledge, wheresoe’er they moved,

  A spiritual presence, oft-times misconceived,

  But still a high dependence, a divine

  Bounty and government, that filled their hearts

  With joy, and gratitude, and fear, and love; 930

  And from their fervent lips drew hymns of praise,

  That through the desert rang. Though favoured less,

  Far less, than these, yet such, in their degree,

  Were those bewildered Pagans of old time.

  Beyond their own poor natures and above

  They looked; were humbly thankful for the good

  Which the warm sun solicited, and earth

  Bestowed; were gladsome,—and their moral sense

  They fortified with reverence for the Gods;

  And they had hopes that overstepped the Grave. 940

  Now, shall our great Discoverers,” he exclaimed,

  Raising his voice triumphantly, “obtain

  From sense and reason, less than these obtained,

  Though far misled? Shall men for whom our age

  Unbaffled powers of vision hath prepared,

  To explore the world without and world within,

  Be joyless as the blind? Ambitious spirits—

  Whom earth, at this late season, hath produced

  To regulate the moving spheres, and weigh

  The planets in the hollow of their hand; 950

  And they who rather dive than soar, whose pains

  Have solved the elements, or analysed

  The thinking principle—shall they in fact

  Prove a degraded Race? and what avails

  Renown, if their presumption make them such?

  Oh! there is laughter at their work in heaven!

  Inquire of ancient Wisdom; go, demand

  Of mighty Nature, if ‘twas ever meant

  That we should pry far off yet be unraised;

  That we should pore, and dwindle as we pore, 960

  Viewing all objects unremittingly

  In disconnection dead and spiritless;

  And still dividing, and dividing still,

  Break down all grandeur, still unsatisfied

  With the perverse attempt, while littleness

  May yet become more little; waging thus

  An impious warfare with the very life

  Of our own souls!

  And if indeed there be

  An all-pervading Spirit, upon whom

  Our dark foundations rest, could he design 970

  That this magnificent effect of power,

  The earth we tread, the sky that we behold

  By day, and all the pomp which night reveals;

  That these—and that superior mystery

  Our vital frame, so fearfully devised,

  And the dread soul within it—should exist

  Only to be examined, pondered, searched,

  Probed, vexed, and criticised? Accuse me not

  Of arrogance, unknown Wanderer as I am,

  If, having walked with Nature threescore years, 980

  And offered, far as frailty would allow,

  My heart a daily sacrifice to Truth,

  I now affirm of Nature and of Truth,

  Whom I have served, that their DIVINITY

  Revolts, offended at the ways of men

  Swayed by such motives, to such ends employed;

  Philosophers, who, though the human soul

  Be of a thousand faculties composed,

  And twice ten thousand interests, do yet prize

  This soul, and the transcendent universe, 990

  No more than as a mirror that reflects

  To proud Self-love her own intelligence;

  That one, poor, finite object, in the abyss

  Of infinite Being, twinkling restlessly!

  Nor higher place can be assigned to him

  And his compeers—the laughing Sage of France.—

  Crowned was he, if my memory do not err,

  W
ith laurel planted upon hoary hairs,

  In sign of conquest by his wit achieved

  And benefits his wisdom had conferred; 1000

  His stooping body tottered with wreaths of flowers

  Opprest, far less becoming ornaments

  Than Spring oft twines about a mouldering tree;

  Yet so it pleased a fond, a vain, old Man,

  And a most frivolous people. Him I mean

  Who penned, to ridicule confiding faith,

  This sorry Legend; which by chance we found

  Piled in a nook, through malice, as might seem,

  Among more innocent rubbish.”—Speaking thus,

  With a brief notice when, and how, and where, 1010

  We had espied the book, he drew it forth;

  And courteously, as if the act removed,

  At once, all traces from the good Man’s heart

  Of unbenign aversion or contempt,

  Restored it to its owner. “Gentle Friend,”

  Herewith he grasped the Solitary’s hand,

  “You have known lights and guides better than these.

  Ah! let not aught amiss within dispose

  A noble mind to practise on herself,

  And tempt opinion to support the wrongs 1020

  Of passion: whatsoe’er be felt or feared,

  From higher judgment-seats make no appeal

  To lower: can you question that the soul

  Inherits an allegiance, not by choice

  To be cast off, upon an oath proposed

  By each new upstart notion? In the ports

  Of levity no refuge can be found,

  No shelter, for a spirit in distress.

  He, who by wilful disesteem of life

  And proud insensibility to hope, 1030

  Affronts the eye of Solitude, shall learn

  That her mild nature can be terrible;

  That neither she nor Silence lack the power

  To avenge their own insulted majesty.

  O blest seclusion! when the mind admits

  The law of duty; and can therefore move

  Through each vicissitude of loss and gain,

  Linked in entire complacence with her choice;

  When youth’s presumptuousness is mellowed down,

  And manhood’s vain anxiety dismissed; 1040

  When wisdom shows her seasonable fruit,

  Upon the boughs of sheltering leisure hung

  In sober plenty; when the spirit stoops

  To drink with gratitude the crystal stream

  Of unreproved enjoyment; and is pleased

  To muse, and be saluted by the air

  Of meek repentance, wafting wall-flower scents

  From out the crumbling ruins of fallen pride

  And chambers of transgression, now forlorn.

  O, calm contented days, and peaceful nights! 1050

  Who, when such good can be obtained, would strive

  To reconcile his manhood to a couch

 

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