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Vol. III, by William Wordsworth

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Title: The Poetical Works of William Wordsworth, Vol. III

Author: William Wordsworth

Release Date: May 19, 2004 [EBook #12383]

Language: English

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                              THE POETICAL WORKS

                                     OF



                              WILLIAM WORDSWORTH





                                  EDITED BY
                               WILLIAM KNIGHT


                                   VOL. III


                                    1896






CONTENTS


1804

  "She was a Phantom of delight"

  "I wandered lonely as a cloud"

  The Affliction of Margaret--

  The Forsaken

  Repentance

  Address to my Infant Daughter, Dora

  The Kitten and Falling Leaves

  The Small Celandine

  At Applethwaite, near Keswick

  Vaudracour and Julia


1805

  French Revolution

  Ode to Duty

  To a Sky-Lark

  Fidelity

  Incident characteristic of a Favourite Dog

  Tribute to the Memory of the same Dog

  To the Daisy (#4)

  Elegiac Stanzas

  Elegiac Verses

  "When, to the attractions of the busy world"

  The Cottager to her Infant

  The Waggoner

  The Prelude; or, Growth of a Poet's Mind

  From the Italian of Michael Angelo

  From the Same

  From the Same. To the Supreme Being


APPENDICES

         I

        II

       III

        IV

         V

        VI

       VII






                      WORDSWORTH'S POETICAL WORKS





1804

The poems written in 1804 were not numerous; and, with the exception of
'The Small Celandine', the stanzas beginning "I wandered lonely as a
cloud," and "She was a Phantom of delight," they were less remarkable
than those of the two preceding, and the three following years.
Wordsworth's poetical activity in 1804 is not recorded, however, in
Lyrical Ballads or Sonnets, but in 'The Prelude', much of which was
thought out, and afterwards dictated to Dorothy or Mary Wordsworth, on
the terrace walk of Lancrigg during that year; while the 'Ode,
Intimations of Immortality' was altered and added to, although it did
not receive its final form till 1806. In the sixth book of 'The
Prelude', p. 222, the lines occur:

  'Four years and thirty, told this very week,
  Have I been now a sojourner on earth.'

That part of the great autobiographical poem must therefore
have been composed in April, 1804.--Ed.





       *       *       *       *       *





"SHE WAS A PHANTOM OF DELIGHT"


Composed 1804.--Published 1807


[Written at Town-end, Grasmere. The germ of this poem was four lines
composed as a part of the verses on the 'Highland Girl'. Though
beginning in this way, it was written from my heart, as is sufficiently
obvious.--I. F.]

One of the "Poems of the Imagination."--Ed.




  She was a Phantom of delight
  When first she gleamed upon my sight; [A]
  A lovely Apparition, sent
  To be a moment's ornament;
  Her eyes as stars of Twilight fair;                               5
  Like Twilight's, too, her dusky hair;
  But all things else about her drawn
  From May-time and the cheerful Dawn; [1]
  A dancing Shape, an Image gay,
  To haunt, to startle, and way-lay.                               10

  I saw her upon nearer view,
  A Spirit, yet a Woman too!
  Her household motions light and free,
  And steps of virgin-liberty;
  A countenance in which did meet                                  15
  Sweet records, promises as sweet;
  A Creature not too bright or good
  For human nature's daily food;
  For transient sorrows, simple wiles,
  Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles.                  20

  And now I see with eye serene
  The very pulse of the machine;
  A Being breathing thoughtful breath,
  A Traveller between [2] life and death;
  The reason firm, the temperate will,                             25
  Endurance, foresight, strength, and skill;
  A perfect Woman, [3] nobly planned,
  To warn, to comfort, and command;
  And yet a Spirit still, and bright
  With something of angelic light. [4]                             30



       *       *       *       *       *


VARIANTS ON THE TEXT

[Variant 1:

1807.

  From May-time's brightest, liveliest dawn;    1836

The text of 1840 returns to that of 1807.]


[Variant 2:

1832.

  ... betwixt ...    1807.]


[Variant 3:

1815.

  A perfect Woman; ...   1807.]


[Variant 4:

1845.

  ... of an angel light.    1807.

  ...       angel-light.    1836.]



       *       *       *       *       *


FOOTNOTE ON THE TEXT

[Footnote A: Compare two references to Mary Wordsworth in 'The Prelude':

    'Another maid there was, who also shed
  A gladness o'er that season, then to me,
  By her exulting outside look of youth
  And placid under-countenance, first endeared;'

(Book vi. l. 224).

  'She came, no more a phantom to adorn
  A moment, but an inmate of the heart,
  And yet a spirit, there for me enshrined
  To penetrate the lofty and the low;'

(Book xiv, l. 268).--Ed.]



It is not easy to say what were the "four lines composed as a part of
the verses on the 'Highland Girl'" which the Fenwick note tells us was
"the germ of this poem." They may be lines now incorporated in those 'To
a Highland Girl', vol. ii. p. 389, or they may be lines in the present
poem, which Wordsworth wrote at first for the 'Highland Girl', but
afterwards transferred to this one. They _may_ have been the first four
lines of the later poem. The two should be read consecutively, and
compared.

After Wordsworth's death, a writer in the 'Daily News', January
1859--then understood to be Miss Harriet Martineau--wrote thus:

  "In the 'Memoirs', by the nephew of the poet, it is said that these
  verses refer to Mrs. Wordsworth; but for half of Wordsworth's life it
  was always understood that they referred to some other phantom which
  'gleamed upon his sight' before Mary Hutchinson."

This statement is much more than improbable; it is, I think, disproved
by the Fenwick note. They cannot refer to the "Lucy" of the Goslar
poems; and Wordsworth indicates, as plainly as he chose, to whom they
actually do refer. Compare the Hon. Justice Coleridge's account of a
conversation with Wordsworth ('Memoirs', vol. ii. p. 306), in which the
poet expressly said that the lines were written on his wife. The
question was, however, set at rest in a conversation of Wordsworth with
Henry Crabb Robinson, who wrote in his 'Diary' on

  "May 12 (1842).--Wordsworth said that the poems 'Our walk was far
  among the ancient trees' [vol. ii. p. 167], then 'She was a Phantom of
  delight,' [B] and finally the two sonnets 'To a Painter', should be
  read in succession as exhibiting the different phases of his affection
  to his wife."

('Diary, Reminiscences, and Correspondence of Henry Crabb Robinson',
vol. iii. p. 197.)

The use of the word "machine," in the third stanza of the poem, has been
much criticised, but for a similar use of the term, see the sequel to
'The Waggoner' (p. 107):

  'Forgive me, then; for I had been
  On friendly terms with this Machine.'

See also 'Hamlet' (act II. scene ii. l. 124):


  'Thine evermore, most dear lady, whilst this machine is to him.'

The progress of mechanical industry in Britain since the beginning of
the present century has given a more limited, and purely technical,
meaning to the word, than it bore when Wordsworth used it in these two
instances.--Ed.


[Footnote B: The poet expressly told me that these verses were on his
wife.--H. C. R.]





       *       *       *       *       *





"I WANDERED LONELY AS A CLOUD"


Composed 1804.--Published 1807


[Town-end, 1804. The two best lines in it are by Mary. The daffodils
grew, and still grow, on the margin of Ullswater, and probably may be
seen to this day as beautiful in the month of March, nodding their
golden heads beside the dancing and foaming waves.--I. F.]

This was No. VII. in the series of Poems, entitled, in the edition of
1807, "Moods of my own Mind." In 1815, and afterwards, it was classed by
Wordsworth among his "Poems of the Imagination."--Ed.




  I wandered lonely as a cloud
  That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
  When all at once I saw a crowd,
  A host, of golden [1] daffodils;
  Beside the lake, beneath the trees,                          5
  Fluttering and dancing in the breeze. [2]

  Continuous as the stars that shine
  And twinkle on the milky way,
  They stretched in never-ending line
  Along the margin of a bay:                                  10
  Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
  Tossing their heads in sprightly dance. [3]

  The waves beside them danced; but they
  Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:
  A poet could not but be gay, [4]                            15
  In such a jocund [5] company:
  I gazed--and gazed--but little thought
  What wealth the show to me had brought:

  For oft, when on my couch I lie
  In vacant or in pensive mood,                               20
  They flash upon that inward eye
  Which is the bliss of solitude;
  And then my heart with pleasure fills,
  And dances with the daffodils.



       *       *       *       *       *


VARIANTS ON THE TEXT

[Variant 1:

1815.

  ... dancing ...        1807.]


[Variant 2:

1815.

  Along the Lake, beneath the trees,
  Ten thousand dancing in the breeze.     1807]


[Variant 3: This stanza was added in the edition of 1815.]


[Variant 4:

1807

  ... be but gay,      1836.

The 1840 edition returns to the text of 1807.]


[Variant 5:

1815.

  ... laughing ...     1807.]



The following is from Dorothy Wordsworth's Journal, under date,
Thursday, April 15, 1802:

  "When we were in the woods beyond Gowbarrow Park, we saw a few
  daffodils close to the water side. We fancied that the sea had floated
  the seeds ashore, and that the little colony had so sprung up. But as
  we went along there were more, and yet more; and, at last, under the
  boughs of the trees, we saw that there was a long belt of them along
  the shore, about the breadth of a country turnpike road. I never saw
  daffodils so beautiful. They grew among the mossy stones, about and
  above them; some rested their heads upon these stones, as on a pillow
  for weariness; and the rest tossed and reeled and danced, and seemed
  as if they verily laughed with the wind that blew upon them over the
  lake. They looked so gay, ever glancing, ever changing. This wind blew
  directly over the lake to them. There was here and there a little
  knot, and a few stragglers higher up; but they were so few as not to
  disturb the simplicity, unity, and life of that one busy highway. We
  rested again and again. The bays were stormy, and we heard the waves
  at different distances, and in the middle of the water, like the
  sea...."

In the edition of 1815 there is a footnote to the lines

  'They flash upon that inward eye
  Which is the bliss of solitude'

to the following effect:

  "The subject of these Stanzas is rather an elementary feeling and
  simple impression (approaching to the nature of an ocular spectrum)
  upon the imaginative faculty, than an exertion of it. The one which
  follows [A] is strictly a Reverie; and neither that, nor the next
  after it in succession, 'Power of Music', would have been placed here
  except for the reason given in the foregoing note."

The being "placed here" refers to its being included among the "Poems of
the Imagination." The "foregoing note" is the note appended to 'The Horn
of Egremont Castle'; and the "reason given" in it is "to avoid a
needless multiplication of the Classes" into which Wordsworth divided
his poems. This note of 181? [B], is reprinted mainly to show the
difficulties to which Wordsworth was reduced by the artificial method of
arrangement referred to. The following letter to Mr. Wrangham is a more
appropriate illustration of the poem of "The Daffodils." It was written,
the late Bishop of Lincoln says, "sometime afterwards." (See 'Memoirs of
Wordsworth', vol. i. pp. 183, 184); and, for the whole of the letter,
see a subsequent volume of this edition.

  "GRASMERE, Nov. 4.

  "MY DEAR WRANGHAM,--I am indeed much pleased that Mrs. Wrangham and
  yourself have been gratified by these breathings of simple nature. You
  mention Butler, Montagu's friend; not Tom Butler, but the conveyancer:
  when I was in town in spring, he happened to see the volumes lying on
  Montagu's mantelpiece, and to glance his eye upon the very poem of
  'The Daffodils.' 'Aye,' says he, 'a fine morsel this for the
  Reviewers.' When this was told me (for I was not present) I observed
  that there were 'two lines' in that little poem which, if thoroughly
  felt, would annihilate nine-tenths of the reviews of the kingdom, as
  they would find no readers. The lines I alluded to were these:

    'They flash upon that inward eye
    Which is the bliss of solitude.'"

These two lines were composed by Mrs. Wordsworth. In 1877 the daffodils
were still growing in abundance on the shore of Ullswater, below
Gowbarrow Park.

Compare the last four lines of James Montgomery's poem, 'The Little
Cloud':

  'Bliss in possession will not last:
  Remembered joys are never past:
  At once the fountain, stream, and sea,
  They were--they are--they yet shall be.'

Ed.


[Footnote A:  It was 'The Reverie of Poor Susan'.--Ed.]


[Footnote B: This is an error in the original printed text. Evidently a
year before the above-mentioned publication in 1815: one of 1810-1815.
text Ed.]





       *       *       *       *       *





THE AFFLICTION OF MARGARET--[A]


Composed 1804.--Published 1807


[Written at Town-end, Grasmere. This was taken from the case of a poor
widow who lived in the town of Penrith. Her sorrow was well known to
Mrs. Wordsworth, to my sister, and, I believe, to the whole town. She
kept a shop, and when she saw a stranger passing by, she was in the
habit of going out into the street to enquire of him after her
son.--I. F.]

Included by Wordsworth among his "Poems founded on the Affections."--Ed.




  I        Where art thou, my beloved Son,
           Where art thou, worse to me than dead?
           Oh find me, prosperous or undone!
           Or, if the grave be now thy bed,
           Why am I ignorant of the same                        5
           That I may rest; and neither blame
           Nor sorrow may attend thy name?

  II       Seven years, alas! to have received
           No tidings of an only child;
           To have despaired, have hoped, believed,            10
           And been for evermore beguiled; [1]
           Sometimes with thoughts of very bliss!
           I catch at them, and then I miss;
           Was ever darkness like to this?

  III      He was among the prime in worth,                    15
           An object beauteous to behold;
           Well born, well bred; I sent him forth
           Ingenuous, innocent, and bold:
           If things ensued that wanted grace,
           As hath been said, they were not base;              20
           And never blush was on my face.

  IV       Ah! little doth the young-one dream,
           When full of play and childish cares,
           What power is in [2] his wildest scream,
           Heard by his mother unawares!                       25
           He knows it not, he cannot guess:
           Years to a mother bring distress;
           But do not make her love the less.

  V        Neglect me! no, I suffered long
           From that ill thought; and, being blind,            30
           Said, "Pride shall help me in my wrong:
           Kind mother have I been, as kind
           As ever breathed:" and that is true;
           I've wet my path with tears like dew,
           Weeping for him when no one knew.                   35

  VI       My Son, if thou be humbled, poor,
           Hopeless of honour and of gain,
           Oh! do not dread thy mother's door;
           Think not of me with grief and pain:
           I now can see with better eyes;                     40
           And worldly grandeur I despise,
           And fortune with her gifts and lies.

  VII      Alas! the fowls of heaven have wings,
           And blasts of heaven will aid their flight;
           They mount--how short a voyage brings               45
           The wanderers back to their delight!
           Chains tie us down by land and sea;
           And wishes, vain as mine, may be
           All that is left to comfort thee.

  VIII     Perhaps some dungeon hears thee groan,              50
           Maimed, mangled by inhuman men;
           Or thou upon a desert thrown
           Inheritest the lion's den;
           Or hast been summoned to the deep,
           Thou, thou and all thy mates, to keep               55
           An incommunicable sleep.

  IX       I look for ghosts; but none will force
           Their way to me: 'tis falsely said
           That there was ever intercourse
           Between [3] the living and the dead;                60
           For, surely, then I should have sight
           Of him I wait for day and night,
           With love and longings infinite.

  X        My apprehensions come in crowds;
           I dread the rustling of the grass;                  65
           The very shadows of the clouds
           Have power to shake me as they pass:
           I question things and do not find
           One that will answer to my mind;
           And all the world appears unkind.                   70

  XI       Beyond participation lie
           My troubles, and beyond relief:
           If any chance to heave a sigh,
           They pity me, and not my grief.
           Then come to me, my Son, or send                    75
           Some tidings that my woes may end;
           I have no other earthly friend!



       *       *       *       *       *


VARIANTS ON THE TEXT

[Variant 1:

1836.

  To have despair'd, and have believ'd,
  And be for evermore beguil'd;       1807.]


[Variant 2:

1832.

  What power hath even ...        1807.]


[Variant 3:

1832.

  Betwixt ...         1807.]



       *       *       *       *       *


FOOTNOTE ON THE TEXT

[Footnote A: In the edition of 1807, the title was 'The Affliction of
Margaret--of--'; in 1820, it was 'The Affliction of Margaret'; and in
1845, it was as above. In an early MS. it was 'The Affliction of
Mary--of--'. For an as yet unpublished Preface to it, see volume viii.
of this edition.--Ed.]





       *       *       *       *       *





THE FORSAKEN


Composed 1804.--Published 1842


[This was an overflow from 'The Affliction of Margaret', and was
excluded as superfluous there, but preserved in the faint hope that it
may turn to account by restoring a shy lover to some forsaken damsel. My
poetry has been complained of as deficient in interests of this sort,--a
charge which the piece beginning, "Lyre! though such power do in thy
magic live," will scarcely tend to obviate. The natural imagery of these
verses was supplied by frequent, I might say intense, observation of the
Rydal torrent. What an animating contrast is the ever-changing aspect of
that, and indeed of every one of our mountain brooks, to the monotonous
tone and unmitigated fury of such streams among the Alps as are fed all
the summer long by glaciers and melting snows. A traveller observing the
exquisite purity of the great rivers, such as the Rhone at Geneva, and
the Reuss at Lucerne, when they issue out of their respective lakes,
might fancy for a moment that some power in nature produced this
beautiful change, with a view to make amends for those Alpine sullyings
which the waters exhibit near their fountain heads; but, alas! how soon
does that purity depart before the influx of tributary waters that have
flowed through cultivated plains and the crowded abodes of men.--I. F.]

Included by Wordsworth among his "Poems founded on the Affections."--Ed.




  The peace which others seek they find;
  The heaviest storms not longest last;
  Heaven grants even to the guiltiest mind
  An amnesty for what is past;
  When will my sentence be reversed?                           5
  I only pray to know the worst;
  And wish as if my heart would burst.

  O weary struggle! silent years
  Tell seemingly no doubtful tale;
  And yet they leave it short, and fears                      10
  And hopes are strong and will prevail.
  My calmest faith escapes not pain;
  And, feeling that the hope is vain,
  I think that he will come again.





       *       *       *       *       *





REPENTANCE

A PASTORAL BALLAD


Composed 1804.--Published 1820


[Written at Town-end, Grasmere. Suggested by the conversation of our
next neighbour, Margaret Ashburner.--I. F.]

This "next neighbour" is constantly referred to in Dorothy Wordsworth's
Grasmere Journal.

Included in 1820 among the "Poems of Sentiment and Reflection"; in 1827,
and afterwards, it was classed with those "founded on the
Affections."--Ed.




  The fields which with covetous spirit we sold,
  Those beautiful fields, the delight of the day,
  Would have brought us more good than a burthen of gold, [1]
  Could we but have been as contented as they.

  When the troublesome Tempter beset us, said I,                       5
  "Let him come, with his purse proudly grasped in his hand;
  But, Allan, be true to me, Allan,--we'll die [2]
  Before he shall go with an inch of the land!"

  There dwelt we, as happy as birds in their bowers;
  Unfettered as bees that in gardens abide;                           10
  We could do what we liked [3] with the land, it was ours;
  And for us the brook murmured that ran by its side.

  But now we are strangers, go early or late;
  And often, like one overburthened with sin,
  With my hand on the latch of the half-opened gate, [4]              15
  I look at the fields, but [5] I cannot go in!

  When I walk by the hedge on a bright summer's day,
  Or sit in the shade of my grandfather's tree,
  A stern face it puts on, as if ready to say,
  "What ails you, that you must come creeping to me!"                 20

  With our pastures about us, we could not be sad;
  Our comfort was near if we ever were crost;
  But the comfort, the blessings, and wealth that we had,
  We slighted them all,--and our birth-right was lost. [6]

  Oh, ill-judging sire of an innocent son                             25
  Who must now be a wanderer! but peace to that strain!
  Think of evening's repose when our labour was done,
  The sabbath's return; and its leisure's soft chain!

  And in sickness, if night had been sparing of sleep,
  How cheerful, at sunrise, the hill where I stood, [7]               30
  Looking down on the kine, and our treasure of sheep
  That besprinkled the field; 'twas like youth in my blood!

  Now I cleave to the house, and am dull as a snail;
  And, oftentimes, hear the church-bell with a sigh,
  That follows the thought--We've no land in the vale,                35
  Save six feet of earth where our forefathers lie!



       *       *       *       *       *


VARIANTS ON THE TEXT

[Variant 1:

1820.

  the delight of our day,                                  MS.

  O fools that we were--we had land which we sold          MS.

  O fools that we were without virtue to hold              MS.

  The fields that together contentedly lay
  Would have done us more good than another man's gold     MS.]


[Variant 2:

1820.

  When the bribe of the Tempter beset us, said I,
  Let him come with his bags proudly grasped in his hand.
  But, Thomas, be true to me, Thomas, we'll die             MS.]


[Variant 3:

1836.

  ... chose ...      1820 and MS.]


[Variant 4:

1820.

  When my hand has half-lifted the latch of the gate,      MS.]


[Variant 5:

1820.

  ... and ...      MS.]


[Variant 6:

1827.

  But the blessings, and comfort, and wealth that we had,
  We slighted them all,--and our birth-right was lost.
                                                           1820 and MS.

  But we traitorously gave the best friend that we had
  For spiritless pelf--as we felt to our cost!             MS.]


[Variant 7:

1820.

  When my sick crazy body had lain without sleep,
  How cheering the sunshiny vale where I stood,      MS.]





       *       *       *       *       *





ADDRESS TO MY INFANT DAUGHTER, DORA, [A]

ON BEING REMINDED THAT SHE WAS A MONTH OLD THAT DAY, SEPTEMBER 16


Composed September 16, 1804.--Published 1815


Included by Wordsworth among his "Poems of the Fancy."--Ed.




--Hast thou then survived--
  Mild Offspring of infirm humanity,
  Meek Infant! among all forlornest things
  The most forlorn--one life of that bright star,
  The second glory of the Heavens?--Thou hast;                         5
  Already hast survived that great decay,
  That transformation through the wide earth felt,
  And by all nations. In that Being's sight
  From whom the Race of human kind proceed,
  A thousand years are but as yesterday;                              10
  And one day's narrow circuit is to Him
  Not less capacious than a thousand years.
  But what is time? What outward glory? neither
  A measure is of Thee, whose claims extend
  Through "heaven's eternal year." [B]--Yet hail to Thee,             15
  Frail, feeble, Monthling!--by that name, methinks,
  Thy scanty breathing-time is portioned out
  Not idly.--Hadst thou been of Indian birth,
  Couched on a casual bed of moss and leaves,
  And rudely canopied by leafy boughs,                                20
  Or to the churlish elements exposed
  On the blank plains,--the coldness of the night,
  Or the night's darkness, or its cheerful face
  Of beauty, by the changing moon adorned,
  Would, with imperious admonition, then                              25
  Have scored thine age, and punctually timed
  Thine infant history, on the minds of those
  Who might have wandered with thee.--Mother's love,
  Nor less than mother's love in other breasts,
  Will, among us warm-clad and warmly housed,                         30
  Do for thee what the finger of the heavens
  Doth all too often harshly execute
  For thy unblest coevals, amid wilds
  Where fancy hath small liberty to grace
  The affections, to exalt them or refine;                            35
  And the maternal sympathy itself,
  Though strong, is, in the main, a joyless tie
  Of naked instinct, wound about the heart.
  Happier, far happier is thy lot and ours!
  Even now--to solemnise thy helpless state,                          40
  And to enliven in the mind's regard
  Thy passive beauty--parallels have risen,
  Resemblances, or contrasts, that connect,
  Within the region of a father's thoughts,
  Thee and thy mate and sister of the sky.                            45
  And first;--thy sinless progress, through a world
  By sorrow darkened and by care disturbed,
  Apt likeness bears to hers, through gathered clouds,
  Moving untouched in silver purity,
  And cheering oft-times their reluctant gloom.                       50
  Fair are ye both, and both are free from stain:
  But thou, how leisurely thou fill'st thy horn
  With brightness! leaving her to post along,
  And range about, disquieted in change,
  And still impatient of the shape she wears.                         55
  Once up, once down the hill, one journey, Babe
  That will suffice thee; and it seems that now
  Thou hast fore-knowledge that such task is thine;
  Thou travellest so contentedly, and sleep'st
  In such a heedless peace. Alas! full soon                           60
  Hath this conception, grateful to behold,
  Changed countenance, like an object sullied o'er
  By breathing mist; and thine appears to be
  A mournful labour, while to her is given
  Hope, and a renovation without end.                                 65
  --That smile forbids the thought; for on thy face
  Smiles are beginning, like the beams of dawn,
  To shoot and circulate; smiles have there been seen;
  Tranquil assurances that Heaven supports
  The feeble motions of thy life, and cheers                          70
  Thy loneliness: or shall those smiles be called
  Feelers of love, put forth as if to explore
  This untried world, and to prepare thy way
  Through a strait passage intricate and dim?
  Such are they; and the same are tokens, signs,                      75
  Which, when the appointed season hath arrived,
  Joy, as her holiest language, shall adopt;
  And Reason's godlike Power be proud to own.



       *       *       *       *       *


FOOTNOTES ON THE TEXT

[Footnote A: The title from 1815 to 1845 was 'Address to my Infant
Daughter, on being reminded that she was a Month old, on that Day'.
After her death in 1847, her name was added to the title.--Ed.]

[Footnote B: See Dryden's poem, 'To the pious memory of the accomplished
young lady, Mrs. Anne Killigrew', I. l. 15.--Ed.]


The text of this poem was never altered.--Ed.





       *       *       *       *       *





THE KITTEN AND FALLING LEAVES [A]


Composed 1804.--Published 1807


[Seen at Town-end, Grasmere. The elder-bush has long since disappeared;
it hung over the wall near the cottage: and the kitten continued to leap
up, catching the leaves as here described. The Infant was Dora.--J. F.]

One of the "Poems of the Fancy." In Henry Crabb Robinson's 'Diary,
etc.', under date Sept. 10, 1816, we find,

  "He" (Wordsworth) "quoted from 'The Kitten and the Falling Leaves' to
  show he had connected even the kitten with the great, awful, and
  mysterious powers of Nature."

Ed.




  That way look, my Infant, [1] lo!
  What a pretty baby-show!
  See the Kitten on the wall,
  Sporting with the leaves that fall,
  Withered leaves--one--two--and three--5
  From the lofty elder-tree!
  Through the calm and frosty [2] air
  Of this morning bright and fair,
  Eddying round and round they sink
  Softly, slowly: one might think,                          10
  From the motions that are made,
  Every little leaf conveyed
  Sylph or Faery hither tending,--
  To this lower world descending,
  Each invisible and mute,                                  15
  In his wavering parachute.
----But the Kitten, how she starts,
  Crouches, stretches, paws, and darts! [3]
  First at one, and then its fellow
  Just as light and just as yellow;                         20
  There are many now--now one--
  Now they stop and there are none:
  What intenseness of desire
  In her upward eye of fire!
  With a tiger-leap half-way                                25
  Now she meets the coming prey,
  Lets it go as fast, and then
  Has it in her power again:
  Now she works with three or four,
  Like an Indian conjurer;                                  30
  Quick as he in feats of art,
  Far beyond in joy of heart.
  Were her antics played in the eye
  Of a thousand standers-by,
  Clapping hands with shout and stare,                      35
  What would little Tabby care
  For the plaudits of the crowd?
  Over happy to be proud,
  Over wealthy in the treasure
  Of her own exceeding pleasure!                            40

    'Tis a pretty baby-treat;
  Nor, I deem, for me unmeet; [4]
  Here, for neither Babe nor [5] me,
  Other play-mate can I see.
  Of the countless living things,                           45
  That with stir of feet and wings
  (In the sun or under shade,
  Upon bough or grassy blade)
  And with busy revellings,
  Chirp and song, and murmurings,                           50
  Made this orchard's narrow space,
  And this vale so blithe a place;
  Multitudes are swept away
  Never more to breathe the day:
  Some are sleeping; some in bands                          55
  Travelled into distant lands;
  Others slunk to moor and wood,
  Far from human neighbourhood;
  And, among the Kinds that keep
  With us closer fellowship,                                60
  With us openly abide,
  All have laid their mirth aside.

    Where is he that giddy [6] Sprite,
  Blue-cap, with his colours bright,
  Who was blest as bird could be,                           65
  Feeding in the apple-tree;
  Made such wanton spoil and rout,
  Turning blossoms inside out;
  Hung--head pointing towards the ground--[7]
  Fluttered, perched, into a round                          70
  Bound himself, and then unbound;
  Lithest, gaudiest Harlequin!
  Prettiest tumbler ever seen!
  Light of heart and light of limb;
  What is now become of Him?                                75
  Lambs, that through the mountains went
  Frisking, bleating merriment,
  When the year was in its prime,
  They are sobered by this time.
  If you look to vale or [8] hill,                          80
  If you listen, all is still,
  Save a little neighbouring rill,
  That from out the rocky ground
  Strikes a solitary sound.
  Vainly glitter [9] hill and plain,                        85
  And the air is calm in vain;
  Vainly Morning spreads the lure
  Of a sky serene and pure;
  Creature none can she decoy
  Into open sign of joy:                                    90
  Is it that they have a fear
  Of the dreary season near?
  Or that other pleasures be
  Sweeter even than gaiety?

    Yet, whate'er enjoyments dwell                          95
  In the impenetrable cell
  Of the silent heart which Nature
  Furnishes to every creature;
  Whatsoe'er we feel and know
  Too sedate for outward show,                             100
  Such a light of gladness breaks,
  Pretty Kitten! from thy freaks,--
  Spreads with such a living grace
  O'er my little Dora's [10] face;
  Yes, the sight so stirs and charms                       105
  Thee, Baby, laughing in my arms,
  That almost I could repine
  That your transports are not mine,
  That I do not wholly fare
  Even as ye do, thoughtless pair! [11]                    110
  And I will have my careless season
  Spite of melancholy reason, [12]
  Will walk through life in such a way
  That, when time brings on decay,
  Now and then I may possess                               115
  Hours of perfect gladsomeness. [13]
--Pleased by any random toy;
  By a kitten's busy joy,
  Or an infant's laughing eye
  Sharing in the ecstasy;                                  120
  I would fare like that or this,
  Find my wisdom in my bliss;
  Keep the sprightly soul awake,
  And have faculties to take,
  Even from things [14] by sorrow wrought,                 125
  Matter for a jocund thought,
  Spite of care, and spite of grief,
  To gambol with Life's falling Leaf.



       *       *       *       *       *


VARIANTS ON THE TEXT

[Variant 1:

  ... Darling, ...    MS.]


[Variant 2:

  ... silent ...      MS.]


[Variant 3:

  Knows not what she would be at,
  Now on this side, now on that.       MS.]


[Variant 4:

  One for me, too, as is meet.         MS.]


[Variant 5:

1815.

  ... or ...      1807.]


[Variant 6:

  ... busy ...    MS.]


[Variant 7:

1836,

  Hung with head towards the ground,     1807.]


[Variant 8:

  ... and ...     MS.]


[Variant 9:

1836.

  ... glitters ...     1807.]


[Variant 10:

1849.

  Laura's [a]    1807]


[Variant 11: Additional lines:

  But I'll take a hint from you,
  And to pleasure will be true,         MS.]


[Variant 12:

  Be it songs of endless Spring
  Which the frolic Muses sing,
  Jest, and Mirth's unruly brood
  Dancing to the Phrygian mood;
  Be it love, or be it wine,
  Myrtle wreath, or ivy twine,
  Or a garland made of both;
  Whether then Philosophy
  That would fill us full of glee
  Seeing that our breath we draw
  Under an unbending law,
  That our years are halting never;
  Quickly gone, and gone for ever,
  And would teach us thence to brave
  The conclusion in the grave;
  Whether it be these that give
  Strength and spirit so to live,
  Or the conquest best be made,
  By a sober course and staid,
  I would walk in such a way,           MS.]


[Variant 13:

  ... joyousness.     MS.]


[Variant 14:

  From the things by ...     MS.]



       *       *       *       *       *


FOOTNOTE ON THE TEXT

[Footnote A:  In the editions of 1807-1832 the title was 'The Kitten and
the Falling Leaves'.--Ed.]



       *       *       *       *       *


SUB-FOOTNOTE ON THE TEXT

[Sub-Footnote a: Dora Wordsworth died in July 1847. Probably the change
of text in 1849--one of the latest which the poet made--was due to the
wish to connect this poem with memories of his dead daughter's
childhood, and her "laughing eye."--Ed.]





       *       *       *       *       *





THE SMALL CELANDINE [A]


Composed 1804.--Published 1807


[Grasmere, Town-end. It is remarkable that this flower coming out so
early in the spring as it does, and so bright and beautiful, and in such
profusion, should not have been noticed earlier in English verse. What
adds much to the interest that attends it, is its habit of shutting
itself up and opening out according to the degree of light and
temperature of the air.--I. F.]

In pencil on opposite page "Has not Chaucer noticed it?"--W. W.

This was classed by Wordsworth among his "Poems referring to the Period
of Old Age."-Ed.




  There is a Flower, the lesser Celandine,
  That shrinks, like many more, from cold and rain;
  And, the first moment that the sun may shine,
  Bright as the sun himself, [1] 'tis out again!

  When hailstones have been falling, swarm on swarm,                 5
  Or blasts the green field and the trees distrest,
  Oft have I seen it muffled up from harm,
  In close self-shelter, like a Thing at rest.

  But lately, one rough day, this Flower I passed
  And recognised it, though an altered form,                        10
  Now standing forth an offering to the blast,
  And buffeted at will by rain and storm.

  I stopped, and said with inly-muttered voice,
  "It doth not love the shower, nor seek the cold:
  This neither is its courage nor its choice,                       15
  But its necessity in being old.

  "The sunshine may not cheer [2] it, nor the dew;
  It cannot help itself in its decay;
  Stiff in its members, withered, changed of hue."
  And, in my spleen, I smiled that it was grey.                     20

  To be a Prodigal's Favourite--then, worse truth,
  A Miser's Pensioner--behold our lot!
  O Man, that from thy fair and shining youth
  Age might but take the things Youth needed not!



       *       *       *       *       *


VARIANTS ON THE TEXT

[Variant 1:

1837.

  ... itself, ... 1807.]


[Variant 2:

1827

  ... bless ...   1807.]



       *       *       *       *       *


FOOTNOTE ON THE TEXT

[Footnote A: Common Pilewort.--W. W. 1807.]



With the last stanza compare one from 'The Fountain', vol. ii. p. 93:

  'Thus fares it still in our decay:
  And yet the wiser mind
  Mourns less for what age takes away
  Than what it leaves behind.'

Compare also the other two poems on the Celandine, vol. ii. pp. 300,
303, written in a previous year.--Ed.





       *       *       *       *       *





AT APPLETHWAITE, NEAR KESWICK

1804


Composed 1804.--Published 1842


[This was presented to me by Sir George Beaumont, with a view to the
erection of a house upon it, for the sake of being near to Coleridge,
then living, and likely to remain, at Greta Hall, near Keswick. The
severe necessities that prevented this arose from his domestic
situation. This little property, with a considerable addition that still
leaves it very small, lies beautifully upon the banks of a rill that
gurgles down the side of Skiddaw; and the orchard and other parts of the
grounds command a magnificent prospect of Derwent Water, the mountains
of Borrowdale and Newlands. Not many years ago I gave the place to my
daughter.--I. F.]

In pencil on the opposite page in Dora Wordsworth's (Mrs. Quillinan's)
handwriting--"Many years ago, Sir; for it was given when she was a frail
feeble monthling."

One of the "Miscellaneous Sonnets."--Ed.




  BEAUMONT! it was thy wish that I should rear
  A seemly Cottage in this sunny Dell,
  On favoured ground, thy gift, where I might dwell
  In neighbourhood with One to me most dear,
  That undivided we from year to year                             5
  Might work in our high Calling--a bright hope
  To which our fancies, mingling, gave free scope
  Till checked by some necessities severe.
  And should these slacken, honoured BEAUMONT! still
  Even then we may perhaps in vain implore                       10
  Leave of our fate thy wishes [1] to fulfil.
  Whether this boon be granted us or not,
  Old Skiddaw will look down upon the Spot
  With pride, the Muses love it evermore. [2] [A]



       *       *       *       *       *


VARIANTS ON THE TEXT

[Variant 1:

  ... pleasure ... MS.]


[Variant 2:

  ... will be proud, and that same spot
  Be dear unto the Muses evermore.          MS.]



       *       *       *       *       *


FOOTNOTE ON THE TEXT

[Footnote A: In the edition of 1842 the following footnote is given by
Wordsworth,

  "This biographical Sonnet, if so it may be called, together with the
  Epistle that follows, have been long suppressed from feelings of
  personal delicacy."

The "Epistle" was that addressed to Sir George Beaumont in 1811.--Ed.]


This little property at Applethwaite now belongs to Mr. Gordon
Wordsworth, the grandson of the poet. It is a "sunny dell" only in its
upper reaches, above the spot where the cottage--which still bears
Wordsworth's name--is built. This sonnet, and Sir George Beaumont's wish
that Wordsworth and Coleridge should live so near each other, as to be
able to carry on joint literary labour, recall the somewhat similar wish
and proposal on the part of W. Calvert, unfolded in a letter from
Coleridge to Sir Humphry Davy.--Ed.





       *       *       *       *       *




VAUDRACOUR AND JULIA


Composed 1804.--Published 1820


The following Tale was written as an Episode, in a work from which its
length may perhaps exclude it. [A] The facts are true; no invention as
to these has been exercised, as none was needed.--W. W. 1820.

[Written at Town-end, Grasmere. Faithfully narrated, though with the
omission of many pathetic circumstances, from the mouth of a French
lady, [B] who had been an eye-and-ear witness of all that was done and
said. Many long years after, I was told that Dupligne was then a monk in
the Convent of La Trappe.--I. F.]

This was included among the "Poems founded on the Affections."--Ed.




  O happy time of youthful lovers (thus
  My story may begin) O balmy time,
  In which a love-knot on a lady's brow
  Is fairer than the fairest star in heaven!
  To such inheritance of blessed fancy                              5
  (Fancy that sports more desperately with minds
  Than ever fortune hath been known to do)
  The high-born Vaudracour was brought, by years
  Whose progress had a little overstepped
  His stripling prime. A town of small repute,                     10
  Among the vine-clad mountains of Auvergne,
  Was the Youth's birth-place. There he wooed a Maid
  Who heard the heart-felt music of his suit
  With answering vows. Plebeian was the stock,
  Plebeian, though ingenuous, the stock,                           15
  From which her graces and her honours sprung:
  And hence the father of the enamoured Youth,
  With haughty indignation, spurned the thought
  Of such alliance.--From their cradles up,
  With but a step between their several homes,                     20
  Twins had they been in pleasure; after strife
  And petty quarrels, had grown fond again;
  Each other's advocate, each other's stay;
  And, in their happiest moments, not content,
  If more divided than a sportive pair [1]                         25
  Of sea-fowl, conscious both that they are hovering
  Within the eddy of a common blast,
  Or hidden only by the concave depth
  Of neighbouring billows from each other's sight.

    Thus, not without concurrence of an age                        30
  Unknown to memory, was an earnest given
  By ready nature for a life of love,
  For endless constancy, and placid truth;
  But whatsoe'er of such rare treasure lay
  Reserved, had fate permitted, for support                        35
  Of their maturer years, his present mind
  Was under fascination;--he beheld
  A vision, and adored the thing he saw.
  Arabian fiction never filled the world
  With half the wonders that were wrought for him.                 40
  Earth breathed in one great presence of the spring;
  Life turned the meanest of her implements,
  Before his eyes, to price above all gold;
  The house she dwelt in was a sainted shrine;
  Her chamber-window did surpass in glory                          45
  The portals of the dawn; all paradise
  Could, by the simple opening of a door,
  Let itself in upon him:--pathways, walks,
  Swarmed with enchantment, till his spirit sank,
  Surcharged, within him, overblest to move                        50
  Beneath a sun that wakes a weary world
  To its dull round of ordinary cares;
  A man too happy for mortality!

    So passed the time, till whether through effect
  Of some unguarded moment that dissolved                          55
  Virtuous restraint--ah, speak it, think it, not!
  Deem rather that the fervent Youth, who saw
  So many bars between his present state
  And the dear haven where he wished to be
  In honourable wedlock with his Love,                             60
  Was in his judgment tempted to decline
  To perilous weakness, [2] and entrust his cause
  To nature for a happy end of all;
  Deem that by such fond hope the Youth was swayed,
  And bear with their transgression, when I add                    65
  That Julia, wanting yet the name of wife,
  Carried about her for a secret grief
  The promise of a mother.
                               To conceal
  The threatened shame, the parents of the Maid                    70
  Found means to hurry her away by night,
  And unforewarned, that in some distant spot
  She might remain shrouded in privacy,
  Until the babe was born. When morning came,
  The Lover, thus bereft, stung with his loss,                     75
  And all uncertain whither he should turn,
  Chafed like a wild beast in the toils; but soon
  Discovering traces of the fugitives,
  Their steps he followed to the Maid's retreat.
  Easily may the sequel be divined--[3]                            80
  Walks to and fro--watchings at every hour;
  And the fair Captive, who, whene'er she may,
  Is busy at her casement as the swallow
  Fluttering its pinions, almost within reach,
  About the pendent nest, did thus espy                            85
  Her Lover!--thence a stolen interview,
  Accomplished under friendly shade of night.

    I pass the raptures of the pair;--such theme
  Is, by innumerable poets, touched
  In more delightful verse than skill of mine                      90
  Could fashion; chiefly by that darling bard
  Who told of Juliet and her Romeo,
  And of the lark's note heard before its time,
  And of the streaks that laced the severing clouds
  In the unrelenting east.--Through all her courts                 95
  The vacant city slept; the busy winds,
  That keep no certain intervals of rest,
  Moved not; meanwhile the galaxy displayed
  Her fires, that like mysterious pulses beat
  Aloft;--momentous but uneasy bliss!                             100
  To their full hearts the universe seemed hung
  On that brief meeting's slender filament!

    They parted; and the generous Vaudracour
  Reached speedily the native threshold, bent
  On making (so the Lovers had agreed)                            105
  A sacrifice of birthright to attain
  A final portion from his father's hand;
  Which granted, Bride and Bridegroom then would flee
  To some remote and solitary place,
  Shady as night, and beautiful as heaven,                        110
  Where they may live, with no one to behold
  Their happiness, or to disturb their love.
  But _now_ of this no whisper; not the less,
  If ever an obtrusive word were dropped
  Touching the matter of his passion, still,                      115
  In his stern father's hearing, Vaudracour
  Persisted openly that death alone
  Should abrogate his human privilege
  Divine, of swearing everlasting truth,
  Upon the altar, to the Maid he loved.                           120

    "You shall be baffled in your mad intent
  If there be justice in the court of France,"
  Muttered the Father.--From these words the Youth [4]
  Conceived a terror; and, by night or day,
  Stirred nowhere without weapons, that full soon                 125
  Found dreadful provocation: for at night [5]
  When to his chamber he retired, attempt
  Was made to seize him by three armed men,
  Acting, in furtherance of the father's will,
  Under a private signet of the State.                            130
  One the rash Youth's ungovernable hand
  Slew, and as quickly to a second gave [6]
  A perilous wound--he shuddered to behold
  The breathless corse; then peacefully resigned
  His person to the law, was lodged in prison,                    135
  And wore the fetters of a criminal.

    Have you observed [7] a tuft of winged seed
  That, from the dandelion's naked stalk,
  Mounted aloft, is suffered not to use
  Its natural gifts for purposes of rest,                         140
  Driven by the autumnal whirlwind to and fro
  Through the wide element? or have you marked
  The heavier substance of a leaf-clad bough,
  Within the vortex of a foaming flood,
  Tormented? by such aid you may conceive                         145
  The perturbation that ensued; [8]--ah, no!
  Desperate the Maid--the Youth is stained with blood;
  Unmatchable on earth is their disquiet! [9]
  Yet [10] as the troubled seed and tortured bough
  Is Man, subjected to despotic sway.                             150

    For him, by private influence with the Court,
  Was pardon gained, and liberty procured;
  But not without exaction of a pledge,
  Which liberty and love dispersed in air.
  He flew to her from whom they would divide him--155
  He clove to her who could not give him peace--
  Yea, his first word of greeting was,--"All right
  Is gone from me; my lately-towering hopes,
  To the least fibre of their lowest root,
  Are withered; thou no longer canst be mine,                     160
  I thine--the conscience-stricken must not woo
  The unruffled Innocent,--I see thy face,
  Behold thee, and my misery is complete!"

    "One, are we not?" exclaimed the Maiden--"One,
  For innocence and youth, for weal and woe?"                     165
  Then with the father's name she coupled words
  Of vehement indignation; but the Youth
  Checked her with filial meekness; for no thought
  Uncharitable crossed his mind, no sense
  Of hasty anger rising in the eclipse [11]                       170
  Of true domestic loyalty, did e'er
  Find place within his bosom.--Once again
  The persevering wedge of tyranny
  Achieved their separation: and once more
  Were they united,--to be yet again                              175
  Disparted, pitiable lot! But here
  A portion of the tale may well be left
  In silence, though my memory could add
  Much how the Youth, in scanty space of time,
  Was traversed from without; much, too, of thoughts              180
  That occupied his days in solitude
  Under privation and restraint; and what,
  Through dark and shapeless fear of things to come,
  And what, through strong compunction for the past,
  He suffered--breaking down in heart and mind!                   185

    Doomed to a third and last captivity,
  His freedom he recovered on the eve
  Of Julia's travail. When the babe was born,
  Its presence tempted him to cherish schemes
  Of future happiness. "You shall return,                         190
  Julia," said he, "and to your father's house
  Go with the child.--You have been wretched; yet
  The silver shower, whose reckless burthen weighs
  Too heavily upon the lily's head,
  Oft leaves a saving moisture at its root.                       195
  Malice, beholding you, will melt away.
  Go!--'tis a town where both of us were born;
  None will reproach you, for our truth is known;
  And if, amid those once-bright bowers, our fate
  Remain unpitied, pity is not in man.                            200
  With ornaments--the prettiest, nature yields
  Or art can fashion, shall you deck our [12] boy,
  And feed his countenance with your own sweet looks
  Till no one can resist him.--Now, even now,
  I see him sporting on the sunny lawn;                           205
  My father from the window sees him too;
  Startled, as if some new-created thing
  Enriched the earth, or Faery of the woods
  Bounded before him;--but the unweeting Child
  Shall by his beauty win his grandsire's heart                   210
  So that it shall be softened, and our loves
  End happily, as they began!"

                                These gleams
  Appeared but seldom; oftener was he seen
  Propping a pale and melancholy face                             215
  Upon the Mother's bosom; resting thus
  His head upon one breast, while from the other
  The Babe was drawing in its quiet food.
--That pillow is no longer to be thine,
  Fond Youth! that mournful solace now must pass                  220
  Into the list of things that cannot be!
  Unwedded Julia, terror-smitten, hears
  The sentence, by her mother's lip pronounced,
  That dooms her to a convent.--Who shall tell,
  Who dares report, the tidings to the lord                       225
  Of her affections? so they blindly asked
  Who knew not to what quiet depths a weight
  Of agony had pressed the Sufferer down:
  The word, by others dreaded, he can hear
  Composed and silent, without visible sign                       230
  Of even the least emotion. Noting this,
  When the impatient object of his love
  Upbraided him with slackness, he returned
  No answer, only took the mother's hand
  And kissed it; seemingly devoid of pain,                        235
  Or care, that what so tenderly he pressed
  Was a dependant on [13] the obdurate heart
  Of one who came to disunite their lives
  For ever--sad alternative! preferred,
  By the unbending Parents of the Maid,                           240
  To secret 'spousals meanly disavowed.
--So be it!

              In the city he remained
  A season after Julia had withdrawn
  To those religious walls. He, too, departs--245
  Who with him?--even the senseless Little-one.
  With that sole charge he passed the city-gates,
  For the last time, attendant by the side
  Of a close chair, a litter, or sedan,
  In which the Babe was carried. To a hill,                       250
  That rose a brief league distant from the town,
  The dwellers in that house where he had lodged
  Accompanied his steps, by anxious love
  Impelled;--they parted from him there, and stood
  Watching below till he had disappeared                          255
  On the hill top. His eyes he scarcely took,
  Throughout that journey, from the vehicle
  (Slow-moving ark of all his hopes!) that veiled
  The tender infant: and at every inn,
  And under every hospitable tree                                 260
  At which the bearers halted or reposed,
  Laid him with timid care upon his knees,
  And looked, as mothers ne'er were known to look,
  Upon the nursling which his arms embraced.

    This was the manner in which Vaudracour                       265
  Departed with his infant; and thus reached
  His father's house, where to the innocent child
  Admittance was denied. The young man spake
  No word [14] of indignation or reproof,
  But of his father begged, a last request,                       270
  That a retreat might be assigned to him
  Where in forgotten quiet he might dwell,
  With such allowance as his wants required;
  For wishes he had none. To a lodge that stood
  Deep in a forest, with leave given, at the age                  275
  Of four-and-twenty summers he withdrew;
  And thither took with him his motherless Babe, [15]
  And one domestic for their common needs,
  An aged woman. It consoled him here
  To attend upon the orphan, and perform                          280
  Obsequious service to the precious child,
  Which, after a short time, by some mistake
  Or indiscretion of the Father, died.--
  The Tale I follow to its last recess
  Of suffering or of peace, I know not which:                     285
  Theirs be the blame who caused the woe, not mine!

    From this time forth he never shared a smile
  With mortal creature. An Inhabitant
  Of that same town, in which the pair had left
  So lively a remembrance of their griefs,                        290
  By chance of business, coming within reach
  Of his retirement, to the forest lodge
  Repaired, but only found the matron there, [16]
  Who told him that his pains were thrown away,
  For that her Master never uttered word                          295
  To living thing--not even to her.--Behold!
  While they were speaking, Vaudracour approached;
  But, seeing some one near, as on the latch
  Of the garden-gate his hand was laid, he shrunk--[17]
  And, like a shadow, glided out of view.                         300
  Shocked at his savage aspect, from the place
  The visitor retired.

                        Thus lived the Youth
  Cut off from all intelligence with man,
  And shunning even the light of common day;                      305
  Nor could the voice of Freedom, which through France
  Full speedily resounded, public hope,
  Or personal memory of his own deep wrongs,
  Rouse him: but in those solitary shades
  His days he wasted, an imbecile mind!                           310



       *       *       *       *       *


VARIANTS ON THE TEXT

[Variant 1:

1836.

  And strangers to content if long apart,
  Or more divided ...                         1820.]


[Variant 2:

1827.

  Was inwardly prepared to turn aside
  From law and custom, ...                    1820.]


[Variant 3:

1836.

  The sequel may be easily divined,--1820.]


[Variant 4:

1827.

  ... From this time the Youth                1820.]


[Variant 5:

1827.

  Stirred no where without arms. To their rural seat,
  Meanwhile, his Parents artfully withdrew,
  Upon some feigned occasion, and the Son
  Remained with one attendant. At midnight         1820.]


[Variant 6:

1836.

  One, did the Youth's ungovernable hand
  Assault and slay;--and to a second gave          1820.]


[Variant 7:

1836.

  ... beheld ...           1820.]


[Variant 8:

1836.

  The perturbation of each mind;--...           1820.]


[Variant 9: This line was added in 1836.]


[Variant 10:

1836.

  But ...            1820.]


[Variant 11:

1845.

  ... for no thought
  Uncharitable, no presumptuous rising
  Of hasty censure, modelled in the eclipse             1820.

  ... for no thought
  Undutifully harsh dwelt in his mind,
  No proud resentment cherished in the eclipse          C.]


[Variant 12:

1840.

  ... your ...              1820.]


[Variant 13:

1827.

  ... upon ...                1820.]


[Variant 14:

1836.

  No words ...       1820.]


[Variant 15:

1836.

  ... infant Babe,   1820.]


[Variant 16:

1827.

  ... to the spot repaired
  With an intent to visit him. He reached
  The house, and only found the Matron there,      1820]


[Variant 17:

1836.

  But, seeing some one near, even as his hand
  Was stretched towards the garden gate, he shrunk--1820]



       *       *       *       *       *


FOOTNOTES ON THE TEXT

[Footnote A: The work was 'The Prelude'. See book ix., p. 310 of this
volume.--Ed.]


[Footnote B: Compare 'The Prelude', book ix. l. 548, p. 310, where
Wordsworth says it was told him "by my Patriot friend."--Ed.]



In the preface to his volume, "'Poems of Wordsworth' chosen and edited
by Matthew Arnold," that distinguished poet and critic has said (p.
xxv.), "I can read with pleasure and edification ... everything of
Wordsworth, I think, except 'Vaudracour and Julia'."--Ed.





       *       *       *       *       *





1805


During 1805, the autobiographical poem, which was afterwards named by
Mrs. Wordsworth 'The Prelude', was finished. In that year also
Wordsworth wrote the 'Ode to Duty', 'To a Sky-Lark', 'Fidelity', the
fourth poem 'To the Daisy', the 'Elegiac Stanzas suggested by a Picture
of Peele Castle in a Storm', the 'Elegiac Verses' in memory of his
brother John, 'The Waggoner', and a few other poems.--Ed.





       *       *       *       *       *





FRENCH REVOLUTION,

AS IT APPEARED TO ENTHUSIASTS AT ITS COMMENCEMENT

REPRINTED FROM 'THE FRIEND'


Composed 1805.--Published 1809


[An extract from the long poem on my own poetical education. It was
first published by Coleridge in his 'Friend', which is the reason of its
having had a place in every edition of my poems since.--I. F.]

These lines appeared first in 'The Friend', No. 11, October 26, 1809, p.
163. They afterwards found a place amongst the "Poems of the
Imagination," in all the collective editions from 1815 onwards. They are
part of the eleventh book of 'The Prelude', entitled "France--
(concluded)," ll. 105-144. Wordsworth gives the date 1805, but these
lines possibly belong to the year 1804.--Ed.




  Oh! pleasant exercise of hope and joy!
  For mighty were [1] the auxiliars which then stood
  Upon our side, we [2] who were strong in love!
  Bliss was it in that dawn to be alive,
  But to be young was very heaven!--Oh! times,                     5
  In which the meagre, stale, forbidding ways
  Of custom, law, and statute, took at once
  The attraction of a country in romance!
  When Reason seemed the most to assert her rights,
  When most intent on making of herself                           10
  A prime Enchantress [3]--to assist the work,
  Which then was going forward in her name!
  Not favoured spots alone, but the whole earth,
  The beauty wore of promise, that which sets
  (As at some moment might not be unfelt [4]                      15
  Among the bowers of paradise itself)
  The budding rose above the rose full blown.
  What temper at the prospect did not wake
  To happiness unthought of? The inert
  Were roused, and lively natures rapt away!                      20
  They who had fed their childhood upon dreams,
  The playfellows of fancy, who had made
  All powers of swiftness, subtilty, and strength
  Their ministers,--who in lordly wise had stirred [5]
  Among the grandest objects of the sense,                        25
  And dealt [6] with whatsoever they found there
  As if they had within some lurking right
  To wield it;--they, too, who, of gentle mood,
  Had watched all gentle motions, and to these
  Had fitted their own thoughts, schemers more mild,              30
  And in the region of their peaceful selves;--
  Now was it that both [7] found, the meek and lofty
  Did both find, helpers to their heart's desire,
  And stuff at hand, plastic as they could wish;
  Were called upon to exercise their skill,                       35
  Not in Utopia, subterranean [8] fields,
  Or some secreted island, Heaven knows where!
  But in the very world, which is the world
  Of all of us,--the place where in the end
  We find our happiness, or not at all!                           40



       *       *       *       *       *


VARIANTS ON THE TEXT

[Variant 1: "were" omitted from the 1820 edition only.]


[Variant 2:

1809.

  ... us ...        'The Prelude', 1850.]


[Variant 3:

1815.

  ... Enchanter ...    1809.]


[Variant 4:

1832.

  (To take an image which was felt no doubt        1809.

  (As at some moments might not be unfelt          'The Prelude', 1850.]


[Variant 5:

1815.

  Their ministers--used to stir in lordly wise      1809.]


[Variant 6:

1815.

  And deal ...     1809.]


[Variant 7: "both" 'italicised' from 1815 to 1832, and also in 'The
Prelude'.]


[Variant 8:

1832

    ... subterraneous ...            1809.]



Compare Coleridge's remarks in 'The Friend', vol. ii. p. 38, before
quoting this poem,

  "My feelings and imagination did not remain unkindled in this general
  conflagration; and I confess I should be more inclined to be ashamed
  than proud of myself if they had! I was a sharer in the general
  vortex, though my little world described the path of its revolution in
  an orbit of its own," etc.

Ed.





       *       *       *       *       *





ODE TO DUTY


Composed 1805.--Published 1807


  "Jam non consilio bonus, sed more eo perductus, ut non tantum recte
  facere possim, sed nisi recte facere non possim." [A]

[This Ode is on the model of Gray's 'Ode to Adversity', which
is copied from Horace's Ode to Fortune. Many and many a
time have I been twitted by my wife and sister for having
forgotten this dedication of myself to the stern law-giver.
Transgressor indeed I have been from hour to hour, from day
to day: I would fain hope, however, not more flagrantly, or
in a worse way than most of my tuneful brethren. But these
last words are in a wrong strain. We should be rigorous to
ourselves, and forbearing, if not indulgent, to others; and, if
we make comparison at all, it ought to be with those who have
morally excelled us.--I. F.]

In pencil on the MS.,

  "But is not the first stanza of Gray's from a chorus of AEschylus? And
  is not Horace's Ode also modelled on the Greek?"

This poem was placed by Wordsworth among his "Poems of Sentiment and
Reflection."--Ed.




  Stern Daughter of the Voice of God!
  O Duty! if that name thou love
  Who art a light to guide, a rod
  To check the erring, and reprove;
  Thou, who art victory and law                                        5
  When empty terrors overawe;
  From vain temptations dost set free;
  And calm'st the weary strife of frail humanity! [1]

  There are who ask not if thine eye
  Be on them; who, in love and truth,                                 10
  Where no misgiving is, rely
  Upon the genial sense of youth: [B]
  Glad Hearts! without reproach or blot;
  Who do thy work, [2] and know it not:
  Oh, if through confidence misplaced                                 15
  They fail, thy saving arms, dread Power! around them cast. [3]

  Serene will be our days and bright,
  And happy will our nature be,
  When love is an unerring light,
  And joy its own security.                                           20
  And they a blissful course may hold
  Even now, who, not unwisely bold, [4]
  Live in the spirit of this creed;
  Yet seek thy firm support, [5] according to their need.

  I, loving freedom, and untried;                                     25
  No sport of every random gust,
  Yet being to myself a guide,
  Too blindly have reposed my trust:
  And oft, when in my heart was heard
  Thy timely mandate, I deferred                                      30
  The task, in smoother walks to stray; [6]
  But thee I now [7] would serve more strictly, if I may.

  Through no disturbance of my soul,
  Or strong compunction in me wrought,
  I supplicate for thy control;                                       35
  But in the quietness of thought:
  Me this unchartered freedom tires; [C]
  I feel the weight of chance-desires:
  My hopes no more must change their name,
  I long for a repose that [8] ever is the same.                      40
  [9]
  Stern Lawgiver! yet thou dost wear
  The Godhead's most benignant grace;
  Nor know we any thing so [10] fair
  As is the smile upon thy face: [D]
  Flowers laugh before thee on their beds                             45
  And fragrance in thy footing treads; [E]
  Thou dost preserve the stars from wrong;
  And the most ancient heavens, through Thee, are fresh and strong.

  To humbler functions, awful Power!
  I call thee: I myself commend                                       50
  Unto thy guidance from this hour;
  Oh, let my weakness have an end!
  Give unto me, made lowly wise,
  The spirit of self-sacrifice;
  The confidence of reason give;                                      55
  And in the light of truth thy Bondman let me live! [F]



       *       *       *       *       *


VARIANTS ON THE TEXT

[Variant 1:

1815

  From strife and from despair; a glorious ministry.      1807.]


[Variant 2:

   ... the right ...        MS.

   ... thy will ...         MS.]


[Variant 3:

1837.

  May joy be theirs while life shall last!
  And Thou, if they should totter, teach them to stand fast!      1807.

  Long may the kindly impulse last!
  But Thou, ...                                                   1827.

  And may that genial sense remain, when youth is past.           MS.]


[Variant 4:

1827.

  And bless'd are they who in the main
  This faith, even now, do entertain:              1807.

  Even now this creed do entertain                 MS.

  This holy creed do entertain                     MS.]


[Variant 5:

1845.

  Yet find that other strength,  ...  1807.

  Yet find thy firm support,     ...  1837.]


[Variant 6:

1827.

  Resolved that nothing e'er should press
  Upon my present happiness,
  I shoved unwelcome tasks away;                 1807.

  Full oft, when in my heart was heard
  Thy timely mandate, I deferred
  The task imposed, from day to day;             1815.]


[Variant 7:

  But henceforth I would ...          MS.]


[Variant 8:

 1827.

  ... which ...     1807.]


[Variant 9:

  Yet not the less would I throughout
  Still act according to the voice
  Of my own wish; and feel past doubt
  That my submissiveness was choice:
  Not seeking in the school of pride
  For "precepts over dignified,"
  Denial and restraint I prize
  No farther than they breed a second Will more wise.

Only in the edition of 1807.]


[Variant 10:

  ... more ...     MS.]



       *       *       *       *       *


FOOTNOTES ON THE TEXT

[Footnote A: This motto was added in the edition of 1837.--Ed.]


[Footnote B: Compare S. T. C. in 'The Friend' (edition 1818, vol. iii.
p. 62),

  "Its instinct, its safety, its benefit, its glory is to love, to
  admire, to feel, and to labour."

Ed.]


[Footnote C: Compare Churchill's 'Gotham', i. 49:

  'An Englishman in chartered freedom born.'

Ed.]


[Footnote D: Compare in 'Sartor Resartus',

  "Happy he for whom a kind of heavenly sun brightens it [Necessity]
  into a ring of Duty, and plays round it with beautiful prismatic
  refractions."

Ed.]


[Footnote E: Compare Persius, 'Satura', ii. l. 38:

  'Quidquic calcaverit hic, rosa fiat.'

And Ben Jonson, in 'The Sad Shepherd', act I. scene i. ll. 8, 9:

  'And where she went, the flowers took thickest root,
  As she had sow'd them with her odorous foot.'

Also, a similar reference to Aphrodite in Hesiod, 'Theogony', vv. 192
'seq.'--Ed.]


[Footnote F: Compare S. T. C. in 'The Friend' (edition 1818), vol. iii.
p. 64.--Ed.]



Mr. J. R. Tutin has supplied me with the text of a proof copy of the
sheets of the edition of 1807, which was cancelled by Wordsworth, in
which the following stanzas take the place of the first four of that
edition:


  'There are who tread a blameless way
  In purity, and love, and truth,
  Though resting on no better stay
  Than on the genial sense of youth:
  Glad Hearts! without reproach or blot;
  Who do the right, and know it not:
  May joy be theirs while life shall last
  And may a genial sense remain, when youth is past.

  Serene would be our days and bright;
  And happy would our nature be;
  If Love were an unerring light;
  And Joy its own security.
  And bless'd are they who in the main,
  This creed, even now, do entertain,
  Do in this spirit live; yet know
  That Man hath other hopes; strength which elsewhere must grow.

  I, loving freedom, and untried;
  No sport of every random gust,
  Yet being to myself a guide,
  Too blindly have reposed my trust;
  Resolv'd that nothing e'er should press
  Upon my present happiness,
  I shov'd unwelcome tasks away:
  But henceforth I would serve; and strictly if I may.

  O Power of DUTY! sent from God
  To enforce on earth his high behest,
  And keep us faithful to the road
  Which conscience hath pronounc'd the best:
  Thou, who art Victory and Law
  When empty terrors overawe;
  From vain temptations dost set free,
  From Strife, and from Despair, a glorious Ministry! [G]'

Ed.


[Footnote G: In the original MS. sent to the printer, I find that this
stanza was transcribed by Coleridge.--Ed.]





       *       *       *       *       *





TO A SKY-LARK


Composed 1805.--Published 1807


[Rydal Mount, 1825. [A]--I. F.]

In pencil opposite,

  "Where there are no skylarks; but the poet is everywhere."

In the edition of 1807 this is No. 2 of the "Poems, composed during a
Tour, chiefly on foot." [B] In 1815 it became one of the "Poems of the
Fancy."--Ed.




  Up with me! up with me into the clouds!
      For thy song, Lark, is strong;
  Up with me, up with me into the clouds!
        Singing, singing,
  With clouds and sky [1] about thee ringing,                        5
      Lift me, guide me till I find
  That spot which seems so to thy mind!

  I have walked through wildernesses dreary,
  And [2] to-day my heart is weary;
  Had I now the wings [3] of a Faery,                               10
  Up to thee would I fly.
  There is madness about thee, and joy divine
  In that song of thine;
  Lift me, guide me high and high [4]
  To thy banqueting-place in the sky.                               15

          Joyous as morning, [5]
  Thou art laughing and scorning;
  Thou hast a nest for thy love and thy rest,
  And, though little troubled with sloth,
  Drunken Lark! thou would'st be loth                               20
  To be such a traveller as I.
  Happy, happy Liver,
  With a soul as strong as a mountain river
  Pouring out praise to the almighty Giver,
      Joy and jollity be with us both!                              25

  Alas! my journey, rugged and uneven,
  Through prickly moors or dusty ways must wind;
  But hearing thee, or others of thy kind,
  As full of gladness and as free of heaven,
  I, with my fate contented, will plod on,                          30
  And hope for higher raptures, when life's day is done. [6]



       *       *       *       *       *


VARIANTS ON THE TEXT

[Variant 1:

1827.

  With all the heav'ns ...    1807]


[Variant 2:

  But ...    MS.]


[Variant 3:

1815.

  the soul ...    1807.]


[Variant 4:

1832.

  Up with me, up with me, high and high, ...    1807.]


[Variant 5: This and the previous stanza were omitted in the edition of
1827, but restored in that of 1832.]


[Variant 6:

1827.

    Joy and jollity be with us both!
    Hearing thee, or else some other,
        As merry a Brother,
  I on the earth will go plodding on,
  By myself, chearfully, till the day is done.     1807.

  What though my course be rugged and uneven,
  To prickly moors and dusty ways confined,
  Yet, hearing thee, or others of thy kind,
  As full of gladness and as free of heaven,
  I on the earth will go plodding on,
  By myself, cheerfully, till the day is done.     1820.]



       *       *       *       *       *


FOOTNOTES ON THE TEXT

[Footnote A: So it is printed in the 'Prose Works of Wordsworth' (1876);
but the date was 1805.--Ed.]


[Footnote B: In a MS. copy this series is called "Poems composed 'for
amusement' during a Tour, chiefly on foot."--Ed.]



Compare this poem with Shelley's 'Skylark', and with Wordsworth's poem,
on the same subject, written in the year 1825, and the last five stanzas
of his 'Morning Exercise' written in 1827; also with William Watson's
'First Skylark of Spring', 1895.--Ed.





       *       *       *       *       *





FIDELITY


Composed 1805.--Published 1807


[The young man whose death gave occasion to this poem was named Charles
Gough, and had come early in the spring to Patterdale for the sake of
angling. While attempting to cross over Helvellyn to Grasmere he slipped
from a steep part of the rock where the ice was not thawed, and
perished. His body was discovered as described in this poem. Walter
Scott heard of the accident, and both he and I, without either of us
knowing that the other had taken up the subject, each wrote a poem in
admiration of the dog's fidelity. His contains a most beautiful stanza:

  "How long did'st thou think that his silence was slumber!
  When the wind waved his garment how oft did'st thou start!"

I will add that the sentiment in the last four lines of the last stanza
of my verses was uttered by a shepherd with such exactness, that a
traveller, who afterwards reported his account in print, was induced to
question the man whether he had read them, which he had not.--I. F.]

One of the "Poems of Sentiment and Reflection."--Ed.




  A barking sound the Shepherd hears,
  A cry as of a dog or fox;
  He halts--and searches with his eyes
  Among the scattered rocks:
  And now at distance can discern                          5
  A stirring in a brake of fern;
  And instantly a dog is seen,
  Glancing through that covert green. [1]

  The Dog is not of mountain breed;
  Its motions, too, are wild and shy;                     10
  With something, as the Shepherd thinks,
  Unusual in its cry:
  Nor is there any one in sight
  All round, in hollow or on height;
  Nor shout, nor whistle strikes his ear;                 15
  What is the creature doing here?

  It was a cove, a huge recess,
  That keeps, till June, December's snow;
  A lofty precipice in front,
  A silent tarn [A] below! [B]                            20
  Far in the bosom of Helvellyn,
  Remote from public road or dwelling,
  Pathway, or cultivated land;
  From trace of human foot or hand.

  There sometimes doth [2] a leaping fish                 25
  Send through the tarn a lonely cheer;
  The crags repeat the raven's croak, [C]
  In symphony austere;
  Thither the rainbow comes--the cloud--
  And mists that spread the flying shroud;                30
  And sunbeams; and the sounding blast,
  That, if it could, would hurry past;
  But that enormous barrier holds [3] it fast.

  Not free from boding thoughts, [4] a while
  The Shepherd stood; then makes his way                  35
  O'er rocks and stones, following the Dog [5]
  As quickly as he may;
  Nor far had gone before he found
  A human skeleton on the ground;
  The appalled Discoverer with a sigh [6]                 40
  Looks round, to learn the history.

  From those abrupt and perilous rocks
  The Man had fallen, that place of fear!
  At length upon the Shepherd's mind
  It breaks, and all is clear:                            45
  He instantly recalled the name, [7]
  And who he was, and whence he came;
  Remembered, too, the very day
  On which the Traveller passed this way.

  But hear a wonder, for whose sake                       50
  This lamentable tale I tell! [8]
  A lasting monument of words
  This wonder merits well.
  The Dog, which still was hovering nigh,
  Repeating the same timid cry,                           55
  This Dog, had been through three months' space
  A dweller in that savage place.

  Yes, proof was plain that, since the day
  When this ill-fated Traveller died, [9]
  The Dog had watched about the spot,                     60
  Or by his master's side:
  How nourished here through such long time
  He knows, who gave that love sublime;
  And gave that strength of feeling, great
  Above all human estimate!                               65



       *       *       *       *       *


VARIANTS ON THE TEXT

[Variant 1:

1820.

  From which immediately leaps out
  A Dog, and yelping runs about.      1807.

  And instantly a Dog is seen,
  Glancing from that covert green.    1815.]



[Variant 2:

1820.

  ... does ...    1807.]


[Variant 3:

1837.

  binds     1807.]


[Variant 4:

1815.

  Not knowing what to think     1807.]


[Variant 5:

1837.

  Towards the Dog, o'er rocks and stones,     1807.]


[Variant 6:

1815.

  Sad sight! the Shepherd with a sigh     1807.]


[Variant 7:

  And signs and circumstances dawned
  Till everything was clear;
  He made discovery of his name.     MS.]


[Variant 8:

1815.

  But hear a wonder now, for sake
  Of which this mournful Tale I tell!     1807.]


[Variant 9:

1827.

  On which the Traveller thus had died     1807.]



       *       *       *       *       *


FOOTNOTES ON THE TEXT

[Footnote A: Tarn is a _small_ Mere or Lake mostly high up in the
mountains,--W. W.]

[Footnote B: Compare the reference to Helvellyn, and its "deep coves,
shaped by skeleton arms," in the 'Musings near Aquapendente' (1837).
Wordsworth here describes Red Tarn, under Helvellyn, to the east; but
Charles Gough was killed on the Kepplecove side of Swirell Edge, and not
at Red Tarn. Bishop Watson of Llandaff, writing to Hayley (see
'Anecdotes of the Life of Bishop Watson', p. 440), writes about Charles
Gouche (evidently Gough). He had been lodging at "the Cherry Inn," near
Wytheburn, sometime before his death.--Ed.]


[Footnote C: Compare 'The Excursion', book iv. ll. 1185-94.--Ed.]



Thomas Wilkinson--referred to in the notes to 'The Solitary Reaper',
vol. ii. pp. 399, 400, and the verses 'To the Spade of a Friend', in
vol. iv.--alludes to this incident at some length in his poem, 'Emont
Vale'. Wilkinson attended the funeral of young Gough, and writes of the
incident with feeling, but without inspiration. Gough perished early in
April, and his body was not found till July 22nd, 1805. A reference to
his fate will be found in Lockhart's 'Life of Scott' (vol. ii. p. 274);
also in a letter of Mr. Luff of Patterdale, to his wife, July 23rd,
1805. Henry Crabb Robinson records (see his 'Diary, Reminiscences',
etc., vol. ii. p. 25) a conversation with Wordsworth, in which he said
of this poem, that "he purposely made the narrative as prosaic as
possible, in order that no discredit might be thrown on the truth of the
incident."--Ed.





       *       *       *       *       *





INCIDENT CHARACTERISTIC OF A FAVOURITE DOG [A]


Composed 1805.--Published 1807


[This dog I knew well. It belonged to Mrs. Wordsworth's brother, Mr.
Thomas Hutchinson, who then lived at Sockburn-on-the-Tees, a beautiful
retired situation, where I used to visit him and his sisters before my
marriage. My sister and I spent many months there after my return from
Germany in 1799--I. F.]

One of the "Poems of Sentiment and Reflection."--Ed.




  On his morning rounds the Master
  Goes to learn how all things fare;
  Searches pasture after pasture,
  Sheep and cattle eyes with care;
  And, for silence or for talk,                                     5
  He hath comrades in his walk;
  Four dogs, each pair of different breed,
  Distinguished two for scent, and two for speed.

  See a hare before him started!
--Off they fly in earnest chase;                                 10
  Every dog is eager-hearted,
  All the four are in the race:
  And the hare whom they pursue,
  Knows from instinct [1] what to do;
  Her hope is near: no turn she makes;                             15
  But, like an arrow, to the river takes.

  Deep the river was, and crusted
  Thinly by a one night's frost;
  But the nimble Hare hath trusted
  To the ice, and safely crost; so                                 20
  She hath crost, and without heed
  All are following at full speed,
  When, lo! the ice, so thinly spread,
  Breaks--and the greyhound, DART, is over-head!

  Better fate have PRINCE and SWALLOW--25
  See them cleaving to the sport!
  MUSIC has no heart to follow,
  Little MUSIC, she stops short.
  She hath neither wish nor heart,
  Hers is now another part:                                        30
  A loving creature she, and brave!
  And fondly strives [2] her struggling friend to save.

  From the brink her paws she stretches,
  Very hands as you would say!
  And afflicting moans she fetches,                                35
  As he breaks the ice away.
  For herself she hath no fears,--
  Him alone she sees and hears,--
  Makes efforts with complainings; nor gives o'er
  Until her fellow sinks to re-appear no more. [3]                 40



       *       *       *       *       *


VARIANTS ON THE TEXT

[Variant 1:

1837.

  Hath an instinct ...         1807.]


[Variant 2:

1815.

  And doth her best ...      1807.]


[Variant 3:

1837.

  Makes efforts and complainings; nor gives o'er
  Until her Fellow sunk, and reappear'd no more.      1807.

  ... sank, ...                                       1820.]



       *       *       *       *       *


FOOTNOTE ON THE TEXT

[Footnote A: In 1807 and 1815 the title was 'Incident, Characteristic of
a favourite Dog, which belonged to a Friend of the Author'.--Ed.]





       *       *       *       *       *





TRIBUTE TO THE MEMORY OF THE SAME DOG


Composed 1805.--Published 1807


[Was written at the same time, 1805. The Dog Music died, aged and blind,
by falling into a draw-well at Gallow] Hill, to the great grief of the
family of the Hutchinsons, who, as has been before mentioned, had
removed to that place from Sockburn.--I. F.]

One of the "Poems of Sentiment and Reflection."--Ed.




  Lie [1] here, without a record of thy worth,
  Beneath a [2] covering of the common earth!
  It is not from unwillingness to praise,
  Or want of love, that here no Stone we raise;
  More thou deserv'st; but _this_ man gives to man,                    5
  Brother to brother, _this_ is all we can.
  Yet [3] they to whom thy virtues made thee dear
  Shall find thee through all changes of the year:
  This Oak points out thy grave; the silent tree
  Will gladly stand a monument of thee.                               10

    We grieved for thee, and wished thy end were past; [4]
  And willingly have laid thee here at last:
  For thou hadst lived till every thing that cheers
  In thee had yielded to the weight of years;
  Extreme old age had wasted thee away,                               15
  And left thee but a glimmering of the day;
  Thy ears were deaf, and feeble were thy knees,--
  I saw thee stagger in the summer breeze,
  Too weak to stand against its sportive breath,
  And ready for the gentlest stroke of death.                         20
  It came, and we were glad; yet tears were shed;
  Both man and woman wept when thou wert dead;
  Not only for a thousand thoughts that were,
  Old household thoughts, in which thou hadst thy share;
  But for some precious boons vouchsafed to thee,                     25
  Found scarcely any where in like degree!
  For love, that comes wherever life and sense
  Are given by God, in thee was most intense; [5]
  A chain of heart, a feeling of the mind,
  A tender sympathy, which did thee bind                              30
  Not only to us Men, but to thy Kind:
  Yea, for thy fellow-brutes in thee we saw
  A soul [6] of love, love's intellectual law:--
  Hence, if we wept, it was not done in shame;
  Our tears from passion and from reason came,                        35
  And, therefore, shalt thou be an honoured name!



       *       *       *       *       *


VARIANTS ON THE TEXT

[Variant 1: In the editions of 1807 to 1820 the following lines began
the poem. They were withdrawn in 1827.

  Lie here sequester'd:--be this little mound
  For ever thine, and be it holy ground!]


[Variant 2:

1827.

  Beneath the ...    1807.]


[Variant 3:

  But ...    MS.]


[Variant 4:

1837.

  I pray'd for thee, and that thy end were past;       1807.

  I grieved for thee, and wished thy end were past;    1820.]


[Variant 5:

1837.

  For love, that comes to all; the holy sense,
  Best gift of God, in thee was most intense;    1807.]


[Variant 6:

1837.

  The soul ...    1807.]





       *       *       *       *       *





TO THE DAISY (#4)


Composed 1805.--Published 1815


Placed by Wordsworth among his "Epitaphs and Elegiac Pieces."--Ed.




  Sweet Flower! belike one day to have
  A place upon thy Poet's grave,
  I welcome thee once more:
  But He, who was on land, at sea,
  My Brother, too, in loving thee,                        5
  Although he loved more silently,
  Sleeps by his native shore.

  Ah! hopeful, hopeful was the day
  When to that Ship he bent his way,
  To govern and to guide:                                10
  His wish was gained: a little time
  Would bring him back in manhood's prime
  And free for life, these hills to climb;
  With all his wants supplied.

  And full of hope day followed day                      15
  While that stout Ship at anchor lay
  Beside the shores of Wight;
  The May had then made all things green;
  And, floating there, in pomp serene,
  That Ship was goodly to be seen,                       20
  His pride and his delight!

  Yet then, when called ashore, he sought
  The tender peace of rural thought:
  In more than happy mood
  To your abodes, bright daisy Flowers!                  25
  He then would steal at leisure hours,
  And loved you glittering in your bowers,
  A starry multitude.

  But hark the word!--the ship is gone;--
  Returns from her long course: [1]--anon                30
  Sets sail:--in season due,
  Once more on English earth they stand:
  But, when a third time from the land
  They parted, sorrow was at hand
  For Him and for his crew.                              35

  Ill-fated Vessel!--ghastly shock!
  --At length delivered from the rock,
  The deep she hath regained;
  And through the stormy night they steer;
  Labouring for life, in hope and fear,                  40
  To reach a safer shore [2]--how near,
  Yet not to be attained!

  "Silence!" the brave Commander cried;
  To that calm word a shriek replied,
  It was the last death-shriek.                          45
  --A few (my soul oft sees that sight)
  Survive upon the tall mast's height; [3]
  But one dear remnant of the night--
  For Him in vain I seek.

  Six weeks beneath the moving sea                       50
  He lay in slumber quietly;
  Unforced by wind or wave
  To quit the Ship for which he died,
  (All claims of duty satisfied;)
  And there they found him at her side;                  55
  And bore him to the grave.

  Vain service! yet not vainly done
  For this, if other end were none,
  That He, who had been cast
  Upon a way of life unmeet                              60
  For such a gentle Soul and sweet,
  Should find an undisturbed retreat
  Near what he loved, at last--

  That neighbourhood of grove and field
  To Him a resting-place should yield,                   65
  A meek man and a brave!
  The birds shall sing and ocean make
  A mournful murmur for _his_ sake;
  And Thou, sweet Flower, shalt sleep and wake
  Upon his senseless grave. [4]                          70



       *       *       *       *       *


VARIANTS ON THE TEXT

[Variant 1:

1837.

  From her long course returns:--...    1815.]


[Variant 2:

1837.

  Towards a safer shore--...    1815.]


[Variant 3:

1837

--A few appear by morning light,
  Preserved upon the tall mast's height:
  Oft in my Soul I see that sight;        1815.]


[Variant 4: In the edition of 1827 and subsequent ones, Wordsworth here
inserted a footnote, asking the reader to refer to No. VI. of the "Poems
on the Naming of Places," beginning "When, to the attractions of the
busy world," p. 66. His note of 1837 refers also to the poem which there
precedes the present one, viz. the 'Elegiac Stanzas.'--Ed.]





       *       *       *       *       *





ELEGIAC STANZAS [A]

SUGGESTED BY A PICTURE OF PEELE CASTLE, IN A STORM,
PAINTED BY SIR GEORGE BEAUMONT


Composed 1805.--Published 1807


[Sir George Beaumont painted two pictures of this subject, one of which
he gave to Mrs. Wordsworth, saying she ought to have it; but Lady
Beaumont interfered, and after Sir George's death she gave it to Sir
Uvedale Price, at whose house at Foxley I have seen it.--I. F.]

Placed by Wordsworth among his "Epitaphs and Elegiac Pieces."--Ed.




  I was thy neighbour once, thou rugged Pile!
  Four summer weeks I dwelt in sight of thee:
  I saw thee every day; and all the while
  Thy Form was sleeping on a glassy sea.

  So pure the sky, so quiet was the air!                         5
  So like, so very like, was day to day!
  Whene'er I looked, thy Image still was there;
  It trembled, but it never passed away.

  How perfect was the calm! it seemed no sleep;
  No mood, which season takes away, or brings:                  10
  I could have fancied that the mighty Deep
  Was even the gentlest of all gentle Things.

  Ah! THEN, if mine had been the Painter's hand,
  To express what then I saw; and add the gleam,
  The light that never was, on sea or land,                     15
  The consecration, and the Poet's dream; [1]

  I would have planted thee, thou hoary Pile
  Amid a world how different from this!
  Beside a sea that could not cease to smile;
  On tranquil land, beneath a sky of bliss.                     20

  Thou shouldst have seemed a treasure-house divine [2]
  Of peaceful years; a chronicle of heaven;--
  Of all the sunbeams that did ever shine
  The very sweetest had to thee been given.

  A Picture had it been of lasting ease,                        25
  Elysian quiet, without toil or strife;
  No motion but the moving tide, a breeze,
  Or merely silent Nature's breathing life.

  Such, in the fond illusion [3] of my heart,
  Such Picture would I at that time have made:                  30
  And seen the soul of truth in every part,
  A stedfast peace that might not be betrayed. [4]

  So once it would have been,--'tis so no more;
  I have submitted to a new control:
  A power is gone, which nothing can restore;                   35
  A deep distress hath humanised my Soul.

  Not for a moment could I now behold
  A smiling sea, and be what I have been:
  The feeling of my loss will ne'er be old;
  This, which I know, I speak with mind serene.                 40

  Then, Beaumont, Friend! who would have been the Friend,
  If he had lived, of Him whom I deplore,
  This work of thine I blame not, but commend;
  This sea in anger, and that dismal shore.

  O 'tis a passionate Work!--yet wise and well,                 45
  Well chosen is the spirit that is here;
  That Hulk which labours in the deadly swell,
  This rueful sky, this pageantry of fear!

  And this huge Castle, standing here sublime,
  1 love to see the look with which it braves,                  50
  Cased in the unfeeling armour of old time,
  The lightning, the fierce wind, and trampling waves.

  Farewell, farewell the heart that lives alone,
  Housed in a dream, at distance from the Kind!
  Such happiness, wherever it be known,                         55
  Is to be pitied; for 'tis surely blind.

  But welcome fortitude, and patient cheer,
  And frequent sights of what is to be borne!
  Such sights, or worse, as are before me here.--
  Not without hope we suffer and we mourn.                      60


       *       *       *       *       *

VARIANTS ON THE TEXT

[Variant 1:

1807.

                and add a gleam,
  The lustre, known to neither sea nor land,
  But borrowed from the youthful Poet's dream;      1820.

  ... the gleam,                                    1827.

The edition of 1832 returns to the text of 1807. [a]]


[Variant 2:

1845.

  ... a treasure-house, a mine        1807.

The whole of this stanza was omitted in the editions of 1820-1843.]


[Variant 3:

1815.

  ... delusion ...       1807.]


[Variant 4:

1837.

  A faith, a trust, that could not be betray'd.      1807.]


       *       *       *       *       *

FOOTNOTE ON THE TEXT

[Footnote A: The original title, in MS, was 'Verses suggested',
etc,--Ed.]


       *       *       *       *       *

SUB-FOOTNOTE ON THE TEXT

[Sub-Footnote a: Many years ago Principal Shairp wrote to me,

  "Have you noted how the two lines, 'The light that never was,' etc.,
  stood in the edition of 1827? I know no other such instance of a
  change from commonplace to perfection of ideality."

The Principal had not remembered at the time that the "perfection of
ideality" was in the original edition of 1807. The curious thing is that
the prosaic version of 1820 and 1827 ever took its place. Wordsworth's
return to his original reading was one of the wisest changes he
introduced into the text of 1832.--Ed.]



There is a Peele Castle, on a small rocky island, close to the town of
Peele, in the Isle of Man; yet separated from it, much as St. Michael's
Mount in Cornwall is separated from the mainland. This castle was
believed by many to be the one which Sir George painted, and which gave
rise to the foregoing lines. I visited it in 1879, being then ignorant
that any other Peele Castle existed; and although, the day being calm,
and the season summer, I thought Sir George had idealized his subject
much--(as I had just left Coleorton, where the picture still exists)--I
accepted the customary opinion. But I am now convinced, both from the
testimony of the Arnold family, [B] and as the result of a visit to Piel
Castle, near Barrow in Furness, that Wordsworth refers to it. The late
Bishop of Lincoln, in his uncle's 'Memoirs' (vol. i. p. 299), quotes the
line

  "I was thy neighbour once, thou rugged pile,"

and adds,

  "He had spent four weeks there of a college summer vacation at the
  house of his cousin, Mr. Barker."

This house was at Rampside, the village opposite Piel, on the coast of
Lancashire. The "rugged pile," too, now "cased in the unfeeling armour
of old time," painted by Beaumont, is obviously this Piel Castle near
Barrow. I took the engraving of his picture with me, when visiting it:
and although Sir George--after the manner of landscape artists of his
day--took many liberties with his subjects, it is apparent that it was
this, and not Peele Castle in Mona, that he painted. The "four summer
weeks" referred to in the first stanza, were those spent at Piel during
the year 1794.

With the last verse of these 'Elegiac Stanzas' compare stanzas ten and
eleven of the 'Ode, Intimations of Immortality', vol. viii.

One of the two pictures of "Peele Castle in a Storm"--engraved by S. W.
Reynolds, and published in the editions of Wordsworth's poems of 1815
and 1820--is still in the Beaumont Gallery at Coleorton Hall.

The poem is so memorable that I have arranged to make this picture of
"Peele Castle in a Storm," the vignette to vol. xv. of this edition. It
deserves to be noted that it was to the pleading of Barron Field that we
owe the restoration of the original line of 1807,

  'The light that never was, on sea or land.'

An interesting account of Piel Castle will be found in Hearne and
Byrne's 'Antiquities'. It was built by the Abbot of Furness in the first
year of the reign of Edward III.--Ed.


[Footnote B: Miss Arnold wrote to me, in December 1893:

  "I have never doubted that the Peele Castle of Wordsworth is the Piel
  off Walney Island. I know that my brother Matthew so believed, and I
  went with him some years ago from Furness Abbey over to Piel, visiting
  it as the subject of the picture and the poem."

Ed.]





       *       *       *       *       *





ELEGIAC VERSES,

IN MEMORY OF MY BROTHER, JOHN WORDSWORTH, COMMANDER OF THE E. I.
COMPANY'S SHIP, 'THE EARL OF ABERGAVENNY', IN WHICH HE PERISHED BY
CALAMITOUS SHIPWRECK, FEB. 6TH, 1805.


Composed near the Mountain track, that leads from Grasmere through
Grisdale Hawes, where it descends towards Patterdale.

Composed 1805.--Published 1842

[  "Here did we stop; and here looked round,
   While each into himself descends."

The point is two or three yards below the outlet of Grisedale Tarn, on a
foot-road by which a horse may pass to Patterdale--a ridge of Helvellyn
on the left, and the summit of Fairfield on the right.--I. F.]

This poem was included among the "Epitaphs and Elegiac Pieces."--Ed.




  I        The Sheep-boy whistled loud, and lo!
           That instant, startled by the shock,
           The Buzzard mounted from the rock
           Deliberate and slow:
           Lord of the air, he took his flight;                   5
           Oh! could he on that woeful night
           Have lent his wing, my Brother dear,
           For one poor moment's space to Thee,
           And all who struggled with the Sea,
           When safety was so near.                              10

  II       Thus in the weakness of my heart
           I spoke (but let that pang be still)
           When rising from the rock at will,
           I saw the Bird depart.
           And let me calmly bless the Power                     15
           That meets me in this unknown Flower,
           Affecting type of him I mourn!
           With calmness suffer and believe,
           And grieve, and know that I must grieve,
           Not cheerless, though forlorn.                        20

  III      Here did we stop; and here looked round
           While each into himself descends,
           For that last thought of parting Friends
           That is not to be found.
           Hidden was Grasmere Vale from sight,                  25
           Our home and his, his heart's delight,
           His quiet heart's selected home.
           But time before him melts away,
           And he hath feeling of a day
           Of blessedness to come.                               30

  IV       Full soon in sorrow did I weep,
           Taught that the mutual hope was dust,
           In sorrow, but for higher trust,
           How miserably deep!
           All vanished in a single word,                        35
           A breath, a sound, and scarcely heard.
           Sea--Ship--drowned--Shipwreck--so it came,
           The meek, the brave, the good, was gone;
           He who had been our living John
           Was nothing but a name.                               40

  V        That was indeed a parting! oh,
           Glad am I, glad that it is past;
           For there were some on whom it cast
           Unutterable woe.
           But they as well as I have gains;--45
           From many a humble source, to pains
           Like these, there comes a mild release;
           Even here I feel it, even this Plant
           Is in its beauty ministrant
           To comfort and to peace.                              50

  VI       He would have loved thy modest grace,
           Meek Flower! To Him I would have said,
           "It grows upon its native bed
           Beside our Parting-place;
           There, cleaving to the ground, it lies                55
           With multitude of purple eyes,
           Spangling a cushion green like moss;
           But we will see it, joyful tide!
           Some day, to see it in its pride,
           The mountain will we cross."                          60

  VII--Brother and friend, if verse of mine
           Have power to make thy virtues known,
           Here let a monumental Stone
           Stand--sacred as a Shrine;
           And to the few who pass this way,                     65
           Traveller or Shepherd, let it say,
           Long as these mighty rocks endure,--
           Oh do not Thou too fondly brood,
           Although deserving of all good,
           On any earthly hope, however pure! [A]                70


       *       *       *       *       *

FOOTNOTE ON THE TEXT

[Footnote A: See 2nd vol. of the Author's Poems, page 298, and 5th vol.,
pages 311 and 314, among Elegiac Pieces.--W. W. 1842.

These poems are those respectively beginning:

  "When, to the attractions of the busy world ..."

  "I was thy neighbour once, thou rugged Pile! ..."

  "Sweet Flower! belike one day to have ..."

Ed.


The plant alluded to is the Moss Campion (Silene acaulis, of Linnaeus).
See note at the end of the volume.--W. W. 1842.

See among the "Poems on the Naming of Places," No. VI.--W. W. 1845.

The note is as follows:

  "Moss Campion ('Silene acaulis'). This most beautiful plant is scarce
  in England, though it is found in great abundance upon the mountains
  of Scotland. The first specimen I ever saw of it in its native bed was
  singularly fine, the tuft or cushion being at least eight inches
  diameter, and the root proportionably thick. I have only met with it
  in two places among our mountains, in both of which I have since
  sought for it in vain.

  Botanists will not, I hope, take it ill, if I caution them against
  carrying off inconsiderately rare and beautiful plants. This has often
  been done, particularly from Ingleborough and other mountains in
  Yorkshire, till the species have totally disappeared, to the great
  regret of lovers of nature living near the places where they
  grew."--W. W. 1842.

See also 'The Prelude', book xiv. 1. 419, p. 379.--Ed.]



This poem underwent no change in successive editions.

At a meeting of "The Wordsworth Society" held at Grasmere, in July 1881,
it was proposed by one of the members, the Rev. H. D. Rawnsley, then
Vicar of Wray, to erect some memorial at the parting-place of the
brothers. The brothers John and William Wordsworth parted at Grisedale
Tarn, on the 29th September 1800. The originator of the idea wrote thus
of it in June 1882:

  "A proposition, made by one of its members to the Wordsworth Society
  when it met in Grasmere in 1881, to mark the spot in the Grisedale
  Pass of Wordsworth's parting from his brother John--and to carry out a
  wish the poet seems to have hinted at in the last of his elegiac
  verses in memory of that parting--is now being put into effect. It has
  been determined, after correspondence with Lord Coleridge, Dr.
  Cradock, Professor Knight, and Mr. Hills, to have inscribed--(on the
  native rock, if possible)--the first four lines of Stanzas III. and
  VII. of these verses:

    'Here did we stop; and here looked round
    While each into himself descends,
    For that last thought of parting Friends
    That is not to be found.
    ...
    Brother and friend, if verse of mine
    Have power to make thy virtues known,
    Here let a monumental Stone
    Stand--sacred as a Shrine.'

  The rock selected is a fine mass, facing the east, on the left of the
  track as one descends from Grisedale Tarn towards Patterdale, and is
  about 100 yards from the tarn. No more suitable one can be found, and
  we have the testimony of Mr. David Richardson of Newcastle, who has
  practical knowledge of engineering, that it is the fittest, both from
  shape and from slight incline of plane.

  It has been proposed to sink a panel in the face of the rock, that so
  the inscription may be slightly protected, and to engrave the letters
  upon the face of the panel thus obtained. But it is not quite certain
  yet that the grain of the rock--volcanic ash--will admit of the
  lettering. If this cannot be carried out, it has been determined to
  have the letters engraved upon a slab of Langdale slate, and imbed it
  in the Grisedale Rock.

  It is believed that the simplicity of the design, the lonely isolation
  of this mountain memorial, will appeal at once

    ' ... to the few who pass this way,
    Traveller or Shepherd.'

  And we in our turn appeal to English tourists who may chance to see
  it, to forego the wish of adding to it, or taking anything from it, by
  engraving their own names; and to let the Monumental Stone stand, as
  the poet wished it might

    ' ... stand, SACRED as a Shrine.'

  We owe great thanks to Mrs. Sturge for first surveying the place, to
  ascertain the possibility of finding a mountain rock sufficiently
  striking in position; to Mr. Richardson, jun., for his etching of the
  rock, upon which the inscription is to be made; to his father for the
  kind trouble he took in the measurement of the said rock; and
  particularly to the seconder of the original proposal, and my
  coadjutor in the task of final selection and superintending the work,
  Mr. W. H. Hills.

  H. D. RAWNSLEY.

  _P. S._--When we came to examine the rock, we found the area for the
  panel less than we had hoped for, owing to certain rock fissures,
  which, by acting as drains for the rainwater on the surface, would
  have much interfered with the durability of the inscription. The
  available space for the panel remains 3 feet 7 in length by 1 foot 9
  inches in depth. Owing to the fineness of the grain of the stone, it
  may be quite possible to letter the native rock; but it has been
  difficult to fix on a style of lettering for the inscription that
  shall be at once in good taste, forcible, and plain. It was proposed
  that the Script type of letter which was made use of in the
  inscription cut on the rock, in the late Mr. Ball's garden grounds
  below the Mount at Rydal, should be adopted; but a final decision has
  been given in favour of a style of lettering which Mrs. Rawnsley has
  designed. The panel is, from its position, certain to attract the eye
  of the wanderer from Patterdale up to the Grisedale Pass.

  H. D. R."

See the note to 'The Waggoner', p. 112, referring to the Rock of Names,
on the shore of Thirlmere.

The following extract from 'Recollections from 1803 to 1837, with a
Conclusion in 1868, by the Hon. Amelia Murray' (London: Longmans, Green,
and Co. 1868)--refers to the loss of the 'Abergavenny':

  "One morning, coming down early, I saw what I thought was a great big
  ship without any hull. This was the 'Abergavenny', East Indiaman,
  which had sunk with all sails set, hardly three miles from the shore,
  and all on board perished.

  Had any of the crew taken refuge in the main-top, they might have been
  saved; but the bowsprit, which was crowded with human beings, gave a
  lurch into the sea as the ship settled down, and thus all were washed
  off--though the timber appeared again above water when the
  'Abergavenny' touched the ground. The ship had sprung a leak off St.
  Alban's Head; and in spite of pumps, she went to the bottom just
  within reach of safety."    Pp. 12, 13.

A 'Narrative of the loss of the "Earl of Abergavenny" East Indiaman, off
Portland, Feb. 5, 1805', was published in pamphlet form (8vo, 1805), by
Hamilton and Bird, 21 High Street, Islington.

For much in reference to John Wordsworth, which illustrates both these
'Elegiac Verses', and the poem "On the Naming of Places" which follows
them, I must refer to his 'Life' to be published in another volume of
this series; but there is one letter of Dorothy Wordsworth's, written to
her friend Miss Jane Pollard (afterwards Mrs. Marshall), in reference to
her brother's death, which may find a place here. For the use of it I am
indebted to the kindness of Mrs. Marshall's daughter, the Dowager Lady
Monteagle:

  "March 16th, 1805. Grasmere.

  "... It does me good to weep for him, and it does me good to find that
  others weep, and I bless them for it. ... It is with me, when I write,
  as when I am walking out in this vale, once so full of joy. I can turn
  to no object that does not remind me of our loss. I see nothing that
  he would not have loved, and enjoyed.... My consolations rather come
  to me in gusts of feeling, than are the quiet growth of my mind. I
  know it will not always be so. The time will come when the light of
  the setting sun upon these mountain tops will be as heretofore a pure
  joy; not the same _gladness_, that can never be--but yet a joy even
  more tender. It will soothe me to know how happy he would have been,
  could he have seen the same beautiful spectacle.... He was taken away
  in the freshness of his manhood; pure he was, and innocent as a child.
  Never human being was more thoroughly modest, and his courage I need
  not speak of. He was 'seen speaking with apparent cheerfulness to the
  first mate a few minutes before the ship went down;' and when nothing
  more could be done, He said, 'the will of God be done.' I have no
  doubt when he felt that it was out of his power to save his life he
  was as calm as before, if some thought of what we should endure did
  not awaken a pang.... He loved solitude, and he rejoiced in society.
  He would wander alone amongst these hills with his fishing-rod, or led
  on by the mere pleasure of walking, for many hours; or he would walk
  with W. or me, or both of us, and was continually pointing out--with a
  gladness which is seldom seen but in very young people--something
  which perhaps would have escaped our observation; for he had so fine
  an eye that no distinction was unnoticed by him, and so tender a
  feeling that he never noticed anything in vain. Many a time has he
  called out to me at evening to look at the moon or stars, or a cloudy
  sky, or this vale in the quiet moonlight; but the stars and moon were
  his chief delight. He made of them his companions when he was at sea,
  and was never tired of those thoughts which the silence of the night
  fed in him. Then he was so happy by the fireside. Any little business
  of the house interested him. He loved our cottage. He helped us to
  furnish it, and to make the garden. Trees are growing now which he
  planted.... He staid with us till the 29th of September, having come
  to us about the end of January. During that time Mary Hutchinson--now
  Mary Wordsworth--staid with us six weeks. John used to walk with her
  everywhere, and they were exceedingly attached to each other; so my
  poor sister mourns with us, not merely because we have lost one who
  was so dear to William and me, but from tender love to John and an
  intimate knowledge of him. Her hopes as well as ours were fixed on
  John.... I can think of nothing but of our departed Brother, yet I am
  very tranquil to-day. I honour him, and love him, and glory in his
  memory...."

Southey, writing to his friend, C. W. W. Wynn, on the 3rd of April 1805,
says:

  "DEAR WYNN,

  I have been grievously shocked this evening by the loss of the
  'Abergavenny', of which Wordsworth's brother was captain. Of course
  the news came flying up to us from all quarters, and it has disordered
  me from head to foot. At such circumstances I believe we feel as much
  for others as for ourselves; just as a violent blow occasions the same
  pain as a wound, and he who breaks his shin feels as acutely at the
  moment as the man whose leg is shot off. In fact, I am writing to you
  merely because this dreadful shipwreck has left me utterly unable to
  do anything else. It is the heaviest calamity Wordsworth has ever
  experienced, and in all probability I shall have to communicate it to
  him, as he will very likely be here before the tidings can reach him.
  What renders any near loss of this kind so peculiarly distressing is,
  that the recollection is perpetually freshened when any like event
  occurs, by the mere mention of shipwreck, or the sound of the wind. Of
  all deaths it is the most dreadful, from the circumstances of terror
  which accompany it...."

(See 'The Life and Correspondence of Robert Southey', vol. ii. p. 321.)

The following is part of a letter from Mary Lamb to Dorothy Wordsworth
on the same subject. It is undated:

  "MY DEAR MISS WORDSWORTH,--

  I wished to tell you that you would one day feel the kind of peaceful
  state of mind and sweet memory of the dead, which you so happily
  describe, as now almost begun; but I felt that it was improper, and
  most grating to the feelings of the afflicted, to say to them that the
  memory of their affliction would in time become a constant part, not
  only of their dreams, but of their most wakeful sense of happiness.
  That you would see every object with and through your lost brother,
  and that that would at last become a real and everlasting source of
  comfort to you, I felt, and well knew, from my own experience in
  sorrow; but till you yourself began to feel this, I did not dare to
  tell you so; but I send you some poor lines, which I wrote under this
  conviction of mind, and before I heard Coleridge was returning home.

  ...

    "Why is he wandering on the sea?--
    Coleridge should now with Wordsworth be.
    By slow degrees he'd steal away
    Their woes, and gently bring a ray
    (So happily he'd time relief,)
    Of comfort from their very grief.
    He'd tell them that their brother dead,
    When years have passed o'er their head,
    Will be remembered with such holy,
    True and tender melancholy,
    That ever this lost brother John
    Will be their heart's companion.
    His voice they'll always hear,
      His face they'll always see;
    There's naught in life so sweet
      As such a memory."

(See 'Final Memorials of Charles Lamb', by Thomas Noon Talfourd, vol.
ii. pp. 233, 234.)--Ed.





       *       *       *       *       *





"WHEN, TO THE ATTRACTIONS OF THE BUSY WORLD"


Composed 1800 to 1805.--Published 1815


[The grove still exists; but the plantation has been walled in, and is
not so accessible as when my brother John wore the path in the manner
here described. The grove was a favourite haunt with us all while we
lived at Town-end.--I. F.]

This was No. VI. of the "Poems on the Naming of Places." For several
suggested changes in MS. see Appendix I. p. 385.--Ed.




  When, to the attractions of the busy world,
  Preferring studious leisure, I had chosen
  A habitation in this peaceful Vale,
  Sharp season followed of continual storm
  In deepest winter; and, from week to week,                         5
  Pathway, and lane, and public road, were clogged
  With frequent showers of snow. Upon a hill
  At a short distance from my cottage, stands
  A stately Fir-grove, whither I was wont
  To hasten, for I found, beneath the roof                          10
  Of that perennial shade, a cloistral place
  Of refuge, with an unincumbered floor.
  Here, in safe covert, on the shallow snow,
  And, sometimes, on a speck of visible earth,
  The redbreast near me hopped; nor was I loth                      15
  To sympathise with vulgar coppice birds
  That, for protection from the nipping blast,
  Hither repaired.--A single beech-tree grew
  Within this grove of firs! and, on the fork
  Of that one beech, appeared a thrush's nest;                      20
  A last year's nest, conspicuously built
  At such small elevation from the ground
  As gave sure sign that they, who in that house
  Of nature and of love had made their home
  Amid the fir-trees, all the summer long                           25
  Dwelt in a tranquil spot. And oftentimes,
  A few sheep, stragglers from some mountain-flock,
  Would watch my motions with suspicious stare,
  From the remotest outskirts of the grove,--
  Some nook where they had made their final stand,                  30
  Huddling together from two fears--the fear
  Of me and of the storm. Full many an hour
  Here did I lose. But in this grove the trees
  Had been so thickly planted, and had thriven
  In such perplexed and intricate array;                            35
  That vainly did I seek, beneath [1] their stems
  A length of open space, where to and fro
  My feet might move without concern or care;
  And, baffled thus, though earth from day to day
  Was fettered, and the air by storm disturbed,                     40
  I ceased the shelter to frequent, [2]--and prized,
  Less than I wished to prize, that calm recess.

    The snows dissolved, and genial Spring returned
  To clothe the fields with verdure. Other haunts
  Meanwhile were mine; till, one bright April day,                  45
  By chance retiring from the glare of noon
  To this forsaken covert, there I found
  A hoary pathway traced between the trees,
  And winding on with such an easy line
  Along a natural opening, that I stood                             50
  Much wondering how I could have sought in vain [3]
  For what was now so obvious. [4] To abide,
  For an allotted interval of ease,
  Under my cottage-roof, had gladly come
  From the wild sea a cherished Visitant; [5]                       55
  And with the sight of this same path--begun,
  Begun and ended, in the shady grove, [6]
  Pleasant conviction flashed upon my mind [7]
  That, to this opportune recess allured,
  He had surveyed it with a finer eye,                              60
  A heart more wakeful; and had worn the track [8]
  By pacing here, unwearied and alone, [A]
  In that habitual restlessness of foot
  That haunts the Sailor measuring [9] o'er and o'er
  His short domain upon the vessel's deck,                          65
  While she pursues her course [10] through the dreary sea.

  When thou hadst quitted Esthwaite's pleasant shore,
  And taken thy first leave of those green hills
  And rocks that were the play-ground of thy youth,
  Year followed year, my Brother! and we two,                       70
  Conversing not, knew little in what mould
  Each other's mind was fashioned; [11] and at length
  When once again we met in Grasmere Vale,
  Between us there was little other bond
  Than common feelings of fraternal love.                           75
  But thou, a School-boy, to the sea hadst carried
  Undying recollections; Nature there
  Was with thee; she, who loved us both, she still
  Was with thee; and even so didst thou become
  A _silent_ Poet; from the solitude                                80
  Of the vast sea didst bring a watchful heart
  Still couchant, an inevitable ear,
  And an eye practised like a blind man's touch.
--Back to the joyless Ocean thou art gone;
  Nor from this vestige of thy musing hours                         85
  Could I withhold thy honoured name,--and now
  I love the fir-grove [12] with a perfect love.
  Thither do I withdraw when cloudless suns
  Shine hot, or wind blows troublesome and strong;
  And there I sit at evening, when the steep                        90
  Of Silver-how, and Grasmere's peaceful [13] lake,
  And one green island, gleam between the stems
  Of the dark firs, a visionary scene!
  And, while I gaze upon the spectacle
  Of clouded splendour, on this dream-like sight                    95
  Of solemn loveliness, I think on thee,
  My Brother, and on all which thou hast lost.
  Nor seldom, if I rightly guess, while Thou,
  Muttering the verses which I muttered first
  Among the mountains, through the midnight watch                  100
  Art pacing thoughtfully [14] the vessel's deck
  In some far region, here, while o'er my head,
  At every impulse of the moving breeze,
  The fir-grove murmurs with a sea-like sound, [B]
  Alone I tread this path;--for aught I know,                      105
  Timing my steps to thine; and, with a store
  Of undistinguishable sympathies,
  Mingling most earnest wishes for the day
  When we, and others whom we love, shall meet
  A second time, in Grasmere's happy Vale.                         110


       *       *       *       *       *

VARIANTS ON THE TEXT

[Variant 1:

1836.

  ... between ...      1815.]


[Variant 2:

1836.

  And, baffled thus, before the storm relaxed,
  I ceased that Shelter to frequent,--1815.

  ... the shelter ...                       1827.]


[Variant 3:

1827.

  Much wondering at my own simplicity
  How I could e'er have made a fruitless search      1815.]


[Variant 4:

  ... At the sight
  Conviction also flashed upon my mind
  That this same path (within the shady grove
  Begun and ended) by my Brother's steps
  Had been impressed.--...

These additional lines appeared only in 1815 and 1820.]


[Variant 5:

1845.

  ... To sojourn a short while
  Beneath my roof He from the barren seas
  Had newly come--a cherished Visitant!         1815.

  ... To abide,
  For an allotted interval of ease,
  Beneath my cottage roof, had newly come
  From the wild sea a cherished Visitant;       1827.

  Beneath my cottage roof, had gladly come      1840.

  ... had meanwhile come                        C. [a]]


[Variant 6: This and the previous line were added in 1827.]


[Variant 7:

1827.

  And much did it delight me to perceive     1815.]


[Variant 8:

1827.

  A heart more wakeful; that, more both to part
  From place so lovely, he had worn the track     1815.]


[Variant 9:

1845.

  With which the Sailor measures ...     1815.]


[Variant 10:

1845.

  While she is travelling ...      1815.]


[Variant 11:

1836.

  ... minds were fashioned;...     1815.]


[Variant 12:

1827.

  ... art gone;
  And now I call the path-way by thy name,
  And love the fir-grove          1815.]


[Variant 13:

1827.

  ... placid ...       1815.]


[Variant 14:

1827.

  Art pacing to and fro ...       1815.]


       *       *       *       *       *

FOOTNOTES ON THE TEXT

[Footnote A: Compare Daniel's 'Hymens Triumph', ii. 4:

  'And where no sun could see him, where no eye
  Might overlook his lonely privacy;
  There in a path of his own making, trod
  Rare as a common way, yet led no way
  Beyond the turns he made.'

Ed.]


[Footnote B: Compare the line in Coleridge's 'Hymn before Sun-rise, in
the Vale of Chamouni':

  'Ye pine groves with your soft and soul-like sound,'

Ed.]


       *       *       *       *       *

SUB-FOOTNOTE ON THE TEXT

[Sub-Footnote a: In the late Lord Coleridge's copy of the edition of
1836, there is a footnote in Wordsworth's handwriting to the word
"meanwhile" which is substituted for "newly." "If 'newly' come, could he
have traced a visible path?"--Ed.]



This wish was not granted; the lamented Person, not long after, perished
by shipwreck, in discharge of his duty as Commander of the Honourable
East India Company's Vessel, the 'Earl of Abergavenny'.--W. W. 1815.

For the date of this poem in the Chronological Tables given in the
editions of 1815 and 1820, Wordsworth assigned the year 1802. But, in
the edition of 1836, he assigned it to the year 1805, the date retained
by Mr. Carter in the edition of 1857. Captain Wordsworth perished on the
5th of February 1805; and if the poem was written in 1805, it must have
been in the month of January of that year. The note to the poem is
explicit--"Not long after" he "perished by shipwreck," etc. Thus the
poem _may_ have been written in the beginning of 1805; but it is not at
all certain that part of it at least does not belong to an earlier year.
John Wordsworth lived with his brother and sister at the Town-end
Cottage, Grasmere, during part of the winter, and during the whole of
the spring, summer, and autumn of 1800, William and John going together
on foot into Yorkshire from the 14th of May to the 7th of June. John
left Grasmere on Michaelmas day (September 29th) 1800, and never
returned to it again. The following is Miss Wordsworth's record of that
day in her Journal of 1800:

  "On Monday, 29th, John left us. William and I parted with him in sight
  of Ullswater. It was a fine day, showery, but with sunshine and fine
  clouds. Poor fellow, my heart was right sad, I could not help thinking
  we should see him again, because he was only going to Penrith."

In the spring of 1801, John Wordsworth sailed for China in the
'Abergavenny'.  He returned from this voyage in safety, and the brothers
met once again in London. He went to sea again in 1803, and returned to
London in 1804, but could not visit Grasmere; and in the month of
February 1805--shortly after he was appointed to the command of the
'Abergavenny'--the ship was lost at the Bill of Portland, and every one
on board perished. It is clear that the latter part of the poem, "When,
to the attractions of the busy world," was written between John
Wordsworth's departure from Grasmere and the loss of the 'Abergavenny',
i. e. between September 1800 and February 1805, as there are references
in it both to what his brother did at Grasmere and to his return to
sea:

  'Back to the joyless Ocean thou art gone.'

There are some things in the earlier part of the poem that appear to
negative the idea of its having been written in 1800. The opening lines
seem to hint at an experience somewhat distant. He speaks of being
"wont" to do certain things. But, on the other hand, I find an entry in
Dorothy Wordsworth's Journal, which leads me to believe that the poem
may have been begun in 1800, and that the first part, ending (as it did
then) with the line:

  'While she is travelling through the dreary sea,'

may have been finished before John Wordsworth left Grasmere;
the second part being written afterwards, while he was at sea;
and that this is the explanation of the date given in the editions
of 1815 and 1820, viz. 1802.

Passages occur in Dorothy Wordsworth's Journal to the
following effect:

  "Monday Morning, 1st September.--We walked in the wood by the lake.
  William read 'Joanna' and 'the Firgrove' to Coleridge."

A little earlier there is the record,

  "Saturday, 22nd August.--William was composing all the morning....
  William read us the poem of 'Joanna' beside the Rothay by the
  roadside."

Then, on Friday, the 25th August, there is the entry,

  "We walked over the hill by the Firgrove, I sate upon a rock and
  observed a flight of swallows gathering together high above my head.
  We walked through the wood to the stepping stones, the lake of Rydale
  very beautiful, partly still, I left William to compose an
  inscription, that about the path...."

Then, next day,

  "Saturday morning, 30th August.--William finished his inscription of
  the Pathway, then walked in the wood, and when John returned he sought
  him, and they bathed together."

To what poem Dorothy Wordsworth referred under the name of the
"Inscription of the Pathway" has puzzled me much. There is no poem
amongst his "Inscriptions" (written in or before August 1800) that
corresponds to it in the least. But, if my conjecture is right that this
"Poem on the Naming of Places," beginning:

  'When, to the attractions of the busy world,'

was composed at two different times, it is quite possible that "the
Firgrove" which was read--along with 'Joanna'--to Coleridge on September
1st, 1800, was the first part of this very poem.

If this supposition is correct, some light is cast both on the
"Inscription of the Pathway." and on the date assigned by Wordsworth
himself to the poem. There is a certain fitness, however, in this poem
being placed--as it now is--in sequence to the 'Elegiac Verses' in
memory of John Wordsworth, beginning, "The Sheep-boy whistled loud," and
near the fourth poem 'To the Daisy', beginning, "Sweet Flower! belike
one day to have."

The "Fir-grove" still exists. It is between Wishing Gate and White Moss
Common, and almost exactly opposite the former. Standing at the gate and
looking eastwards, the grove is to the left, not forty yards distant.
Some of the firs (Scotch ones) still survive, and several beech trees,
not "a single beech-tree," as in the poem. From this, one might infer
that the present colony had sprung up since the beginning of the
century, and that the special tree, in which was the thrush's nest, had
perished; but Dr. Cradock wrote to me that "Wordsworth pointed out the
tree to Miss Cookson a few days before Dora Wordsworth's death. The tree
is near the upper wall and tells its own tale." The Fir-grove--"John's
Grove"--can easily be entered by a gate about a hundred yards beyond
the Wishing-gate, as one goes toward Rydal. The view from it, the
"visionary scene,"

                           'the spectacle
  Of clouded splendour, ... this dream-like sight
  Of solemn loveliness,'

is now much interfered with by the new larch plantations immediately
below the firs. It must have been very different in Wordsworth's time,
and is constantly referred to in his sister's Journal as a favourite
retreat, resorted to

                           'when cloudless suns
  Shone hot, or wind blew troublesome and strong.'

In the absence of contrary testimony, it might be supposed that "the
track" which the brother had "worn,"

  'By pacing here, unwearied and alone,'

faced Silver-How and the Grasmere Island, and that the single beech tree
was nearer the lower than the upper wall. But Miss Cookson's testimony
is explicit. Only a few fir trees survive at this part of the grove,
which is now open and desolate, not as it was in those earlier days,
when

                                  'the trees
  Had been so thickly planted, and had thriven
  With such perplexed and intricate array,
  That vainly did I seek, beneath their stems
  A length of open space ...'

Dr. Cradock remarks,

  "As to there being more than one beech, Wordsworth would not have
  hesitated to sacrifice servile exactness to poetical effect." He had a
  fancy for "one"--

    'Fair as a star when only one
    Is shining in the sky;'

  "'One' abode, no more;" Grasmere's "one green island;" "one green
  field."

Since the above note was printed, new light has been cast on the
"Inscription of the Pathway," for which see volume viii. of this
edition.--Ed.





       *       *       *       *       *





THE COTTAGER TO HER INFANT

BY MY SISTER


Composed 1805.--Published 1815


[Suggested to her, while beside my sleeping children.--I. F.]

One of the "Poems founded on the Affections."--Ed.




  The days are cold, the nights are long,
  The north-wind sings a doleful song;
  Then hush again upon my breast;
  All merry things are now at rest,
    Save thee, my pretty Love!                          5

  The kitten sleeps upon the hearth,
  The crickets long have ceased their mirth;
  There's nothing stirring in the house
  Save one _wee_, hungry, nibbling mouse,
    Then why so busy thou?                             10

  Nay! start not at that sparkling light;
  'Tis but the moon that shines so bright
  On the window pane bedropped with rain:
  Then, little Darling! sleep again,
    And wake when it is day.                           15



This poem underwent no change in successive editions. The title in all
the earlier ones (1815 to 1843) was 'The Cottager to her Infant. By a
Female Friend'; and in the preface to the edition of 1815, Wordsworth
wrote,

  "Three short pieces (now first published) are the work of a Female
  Friend; ... if any one regard them with dislike, or be disposed to
  condemn them, let the censure fall upon him, who, trusting in his own
  sense of their merit, and their fitness for the place which they
  occupy, _extorted_ them from the Authoress."

In the edition of 1845, he disclosed the authorship; and gave the more
natural title, 'By my Sister'. Other two poems by her were introduced
into the edition of 1815, and subsequent ones, viz. the 'Address to a
Child', and 'The Mother's Return'. In an appendix to a MS. copy of the
'Recollections of a Tour made in Scotland', by Dorothy Wordsworth,
transcribed by Mrs. Clarkson, I find the poem 'The Cottager to her
Infant' with two additional stanzas, which are there attributed to
Wordsworth. The appendix runs thus:

  "To my Niece Dorothy, a sleepless Baby

    THE COTTAGER TO HER INFANT

  (The third and fourth stanzas which follow by W. W.)

    'Ah! if I were a lady gay
    I should not grieve with thee to play;
    Right gladly would I lie awake
    Thy lively spirits to partake,
      And ask no better cheer.

    But, Babe! there's none to work for me.
    And I must rise to industry;
    Soon as the cock begins to crow
    Thy mother to the fold must go
      To tend the sheep and kine.'"

Ed.





       *       *       *       *       *





THE WAGGONER [A]


Composed 1805.--Published 1819


[Written at Town-end, Grasmere. The characters and story from fact.--I.
F.]


                  "In Cairo's crowded streets
  The impatient Merchant, wondering, waits in vain,
  And Mecca saddens at the long delay."

  THOMSON. [B]



TO CHARLES LAMB, ESQ.

MY DEAR FRIEND,

When I sent you, a few weeks ago, the Tale of 'Peter Bell', you asked
"why THE WAGGONER was not added?"--To say the truth,--from the higher
tone of imagination, and the deeper touches of passion aimed at in the
former, I apprehended, this little Piece could not accompany it without
disadvantage. In the year 1806, if I am not mistaken, THE WAGGONER was
read to you in manuscript; and, as you have remembered it for so long a
time, I am the more encouraged to hope, that, since the localities on
which it partly depends did not prevent its being interesting to you, it
may prove acceptable to others. Being therefore in some measure the
cause of its present appearance, you must allow me the gratification of
inscribing it to you; in acknowledgment of the pleasure I have derived
from your Writings, and of the high esteem with which
I am
Very truly yours,
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.

RYDAL MOUNT, _May 20th_, 1819.




CANTO FIRST


  'Tis spent--this burning day of June!
  Soft darkness o'er its latest gleams is stealing;
  The buzzing dor-hawk, round and round, is wheeling,--
  That solitary bird
  Is all that can be heard [1]                                       5
  In silence deeper far than that of deepest noon!

    Confiding Glow-worms, 'tis a night
  Propitious to your earth-born light!
  But, where the scattered stars are seen
  In hazy straits the clouds between,                               10
  Each, in his station twinkling not,
  Seems changed into a pallid spot. [2]
  The mountains against heaven's grave weight
  Rise up, and grow to wondrous height. [3]
  The air, as in a lion's den,                                      15
  Is close and hot;--and now and then
  Comes a tired [4] and sultry breeze
  With a haunting and a panting,
  Like the stifling of disease;
  But the dews [5] allay the heat,                                  20
  And the silence makes it sweet.

    Hush, there is some one on the stir!
  'Tis Benjamin the Waggoner;
  Who long hath trod this toilsome way,
  Companion of the night and [6] day.                               25
  That far-off tinkling's drowsy cheer,
  Mix'd with a faint yet grating sound
  In a moment lost and found,
  The Wain announces--by whose side
  Along the banks of Rydal Mere                                     30
  He paces on, a trusty Guide,--
  Listen! you can scarcely hear!
  Hither he his course is bending;--
  Now he leaves the lower ground,
  And up the craggy hill ascending                                  35
  Many a stop and stay he makes,
  Many a breathing-fit he takes;--[7]
  Steep the way and wearisome,
  Yet all the while his whip is dumb!

    The Horses have worked with right good-will,                    40
  And so [8] have gained the top of the hill;
  He was patient, they were strong,
  And now they smoothly glide along,
  Recovering [9] breath, and pleased to win
  The praises of mild Benjamin.                                     45
  Heaven shield him from mishap and snare!
  But why so early with this prayer?
  Is it for threatenings in the sky?
  Or for some other danger nigh?
  No; none is near him yet, though he                               50
  Be one of much infirmity; [10]
  For at the bottom of the brow,
  Where once the DOVE and OLIVE-BOUGH
  Offered a greeting of good ale
  To all who entered Grasmere Vale;                                 55
  And called on him who must depart
  To leave it with a jovial heart;
  There, where the DOVE and OLIVE-BOUGH
  Once hung, a Poet harbours now,
  A simple water-drinking Bard;                                     60
  Why need our Hero then (though frail
  His best resolves) be on his guard?
  He marches by, secure and bold;
  Yet while he thinks on times of old,
  It seems that all looks wondrous cold;                            65
  He shrugs his shoulders, shakes his head,
  And, for the honest folk within,
  It is a doubt with Benjamin
  Whether they be alive or dead!

    _Here_ is no danger,--none at all!                              70
  Beyond his wish he walks secure; [11]
  But pass a mile--and _then_ for trial,--
  Then for the pride of self-denial;
  If he resist that tempting door,
  Which with such friendly voice will call;                         75
  If he resist those casement panes,
  And that bright gleam which thence will fall
  Upon his Leaders' bells and manes,
  Inviting him with cheerful lure:
  For still, though all be dark elsewhere,                          80
  Some shining notice will be 'there'
  Of open house and ready fare.

    The place to Benjamin right well [12]
  Is known, and by as strong a spell
  As used to be that sign of love                                   85
  And hope--the OLIVE-BOUGH and DOVE;
  He knows it to his cost, good Man!
  Who does not know the famous SWAN?
  Object uncouth! and yet our boast, [13]
  For it was painted by the Host;                                   90
  His own conceit the figure planned,
  'Twas coloured all by his own hand;
  And that frail Child of thirsty clay,
  Of whom I sing [14] this rustic lay,
  Could tell with self-dissatisfaction                              95
  Quaint stories of the bird's attraction! [C]

    Well! that is past--and in despite
  Of open door and shining light.
  And now the conqueror essays
  The long ascent of Dunmail-raise;                                100
  And with his team is gentle here
  As when he clomb from Rydal Mere;
  His whip they do not dread--his voice
  They only hear it to rejoice.
  To stand or go is at _their_ pleasure;                           105
  Their efforts and their time they measure
  By generous pride within the breast;
  And, while they strain, and while they rest,
  He thus pursues his thoughts at leisure.

    Now am I fairly safe to-night--110
  And with proud cause my heart is light: [15]
  I trespassed lately worse than ever--
  But Heaven has blest [16] a good endeavour;
  And, to my soul's content, [17] I find
  The evil One is left behind.                                     115
  Yes, let my master fume and fret,
  Here am I--with my horses yet!
  My jolly team, he finds that ye
  Will work for nobody but me!
  Full proof of this the Country gained;                           120
  It knows how ye were vexed and strained,
  And forced unworthy stripes to bear,
  When trusted to another's care. [18]
  Here was it--on this rugged slope,
  Which now ye climb with heart and hope,                          125
  I saw you, between rage and fear,
  Plunge, and fling back a spiteful ear,
  And ever more and more confused,
  As ye were more and more abused: [19]
  As chance would have it, passing by                              130
  I saw you in that [20] jeopardy:
  A word from me was like a charm; [D]
  Ye pulled together with one mind; [21]
  And your huge burthen, safe from harm,
  Moved like a vessel in the wind!                                 135
  --Yes, without me, up hills so high
  'Tis vain to strive for mastery.
  Then grieve not, jolly team! though tough
  The road we travel, steep, and rough; [22]
  Though Rydal-heights and Dunmail-raise,                          140
  And all their fellow banks and braes,
  Full often make you stretch and strain,
  And halt for breath and halt again,
  Yet to their sturdiness 'tis owing
  That side by side we still are going!                            145

    While Benjamin in earnest mood
  His meditations thus pursued,
  A storm, which had been smothered long,
  Was growing inwardly more strong;
  And, in its struggles to get free,                               150
  Was busily employed as he.
  The thunder had begun to growl--
  He heard not, too intent of soul;
  The air was now without a breath--
  He marked not that 'twas still as death.                         155
  But soon large rain-drops on his head [23]
  Fell with the weight of drops of lead;--
  He starts--and takes, at the admonition,
  A sage survey of his condition. [24]
  The road is black before his eyes,                               160
  Glimmering faintly where it lies;
  Black is the sky--and every hill,
  Up to the sky, is blacker still--
  Sky, hill, and dale, one dismal room, [25]
  Hung round and overhung with gloom;                              165
  Save that above a single height
  Is to be seen a lurid light,
  Above Helm-crag [E]--a streak half dead,
  A burning of portentous red;
  And near that lurid light, full well                             170
  The ASTROLOGER, sage Sidrophel,
  Where at his desk and book he sits,
  Puzzling aloft [26] his curious wits;
  He whose domain is held in common
  With no one but the ANCIENT WOMAN,                               175
  Cowering beside her rifted cell,
  As if intent on magic spell;-
  Dread pair, that, spite of wind and weather,
  Still sit upon Helm-crag together!

    The ASTROLOGER was not unseen                                  180
  By solitary Benjamin;
  But total darkness came anon,
  And he and every thing was gone:
  And suddenly a ruffling breeze,
  (That would have rocked the sounding trees                       185
  Had aught of sylvan growth been there)
  Swept through the Hollow long and bare: [27]
  The rain rushed down--the road was battered,
  As with the force of billows shattered;
  The horses are dismayed, nor know                                190
  Whether they should stand or go;
  And Benjamin is groping near them,
  Sees nothing, and can scarcely hear them.
  He is astounded,--wonder not,--
  With such a charge in such a spot;                               195
  Astounded in the mountain gap
  With thunder-peals, clap after clap,
  Close-treading on the silent flashes--
  And somewhere, as he thinks, by crashes [28]
  Among the rocks; with weight of rain,                            200
  And sullen [29] motions long and slow,
  That to a dreary distance go--
  Till, breaking in upon the dying strain,
  A rending o'er his head begins the fray again.

    Meanwhile, uncertain what to do,                               205
  And oftentimes compelled to halt,
  The horses cautiously pursue
  Their way, without mishap or fault;
  And now have reached that pile of stones,
  Heaped over brave King Dunmail's bones;                          210
  He who had once supreme command,
  Last king of rocky Cumberland;
  His bones, and those of all his Power,
  Slain here in a disastrous hour!

    When, passing through this narrow strait,                      215
  Stony, and dark, and desolate,
  Benjamin can faintly hear
  A voice that comes from some one near,
  A female voice:--"Whoe'er you be,
  Stop," it exclaimed, "and pity me!"                              220
  And, less in pity than in wonder,
  Amid the darkness and the thunder,
  The Waggoner, with prompt command,
  Summons his horses to a stand.

    While, with increasing agitation,                              225
  The Woman urged her supplication,
  In rueful words, with sobs between--
  The voice of tears that fell unseen; [30]
  There came a flash--a startling glare,
  And all Seat-Sandal was laid bare!                               230
  'Tis not a time for nice suggestion,
  And Benjamin, without a question,
  Taking her for some way-worn rover, [31]
  Said, "Mount, and get you under cover!"
  Another voice, in tone as hoarse                                 235
  As a swoln brook with rugged course,
  Cried out, "Good brother, why so fast?
  I've had a glimpse of you--'avast!'
  Or, since it suits you to be civil,
  Take her at once--for good and evil!"                            240

  "It is my Husband," softly said
  The Woman, as if half afraid:
  By this time she was snug within,
  Through help of honest Benjamin;
  She and her Babe, which to her breast                            245
  With thankfulness the Mother pressed;
  And now the same strong voice more near
  Said cordially, "My Friend, what cheer?
  Rough doings these! as God's my judge,
  The sky owes somebody a grudge!                                  250
  We've had in half an hour or less
  A twelvemonth's terror [32] and distress!"

  Then Benjamin entreats the Man
  Would mount, too, quickly as he can:
  The Sailor--Sailor now no more,                                  255
  But such he had been heretofore--
  To courteous Benjamin replied,
  "Go you your way, and mind not me;
  For I must have, whate'er betide,
  My Ass and fifty things beside,--260
  Go, and I'll follow speedily!"

  The Waggon moves--and with its load
  Descends along the sloping road;
  And the rough Sailor instantly
  Turns to a little tent hard by: [33]                             265
  For when, at closing-in of day,
  The family had come that way,
  Green pasture and the soft warm air
  Tempted [34] them to settle there.--
  Green is the grass for beast to graze,                           270
  Around the stones of Dunmail-raise!

  The Sailor gathers up his bed,
  Takes down the canvass overhead;
  And, after farewell to the place,
  A parting word--though not of grace,                             275
  Pursues, with Ass and all his store,
  The way the Waggon went before.



CANTO SECOND


  If Wytheburn's modest House of prayer,
  As lowly as the lowliest dwelling,
  Had, with its belfry's humble stock,                             280
  A little pair that hang in air,
  Been mistress also of a clock,
  (And one, too, not in crazy plight)
  Twelve strokes that clock would have been telling
  Under the brow of old Helvellyn--285
  Its bead-roll of midnight,
  Then, when the Hero of my tale
  Was passing by, and, down the vale
  (The vale now silent, hushed I ween
  As if a storm had never been)                                    290
  Proceeding with a mind at ease;
  While the old Familiar of the seas [35]
  Intent to use his utmost haste,
  Gained ground upon the Waggon fast,
  And gives another lusty cheer;                                   295
  For spite of rumbling of the wheels,
  A welcome greeting he can hear;--
  It is a fiddle in its glee
  Dinning from the CHERRY TREE!

  Thence the sound--the light is there--300
  As Benjamin is now aware,
  Who, to his inward thoughts confined,
  Had almost reached the festive door,
  When, startled by the Sailor's roar, [36]
  He hears a sound and sees the light,                             305
  And in a moment calls to mind
  That 'tis the village MERRY-NIGHT! [F]

  Although before in no dejection,
  At this insidious recollection
  His heart with sudden joy is filled,--310
  His ears are by the music thrilled,
  His eyes take pleasure in the road
  Glittering before him bright and broad;
  And Benjamin is wet and cold,
  And there are reasons manifold                                   315
  That make the good, tow'rds which he's yearning,
  Look fairly like a lawful earning.

    Nor has thought time to come and go,
  To vibrate between yes and no;
  For, cries the Sailor, "Glorious chance                          320
  That blew us hither!--let him dance,
  Who can or will!--my honest soul,
  Our treat shall be a friendly bowl!" [37]
  He draws him to the door--"Come in,
  Come, come," cries he to Benjamin!                               325
  And Benjamin--ah, woe is me!
  Gave the word--the horses heard
  And halted, though reluctantly.

    "Blithe souls and lightsome hearts have we,
  Feasting at the CHERRY TREE!"                                    330
  This was the outside proclamation,
  This was the inside salutation;
  What bustling--jostling--high and low!
  A universal overflow!
  What tankards foaming from the tap!                              335
  What store of cakes in every lap!
  What thumping--stumping--overhead!
  The thunder had not been more busy:
  With such a stir you would have said,
  This little place may well be dizzy!                             340
  'Tis who can dance with greatest vigour--
  'Tis what can be most prompt and eager;
  As if it heard the fiddle's call,
  The pewter clatters on the wall;
  The very bacon shows its feeling,                                345
  Swinging from the smoky ceiling!

    A steaming bowl, a blazing fire,
  What greater good can heart desire?
  'Twere worth a wise man's while to try
  The utmost anger of the sky:                                     350
  To _seek_ for thoughts of a gloomy cast,
  If such the bright amends at last. [38]
  Now should you say [39] I judge amiss,
  The CHERRY TREE shows proof of this;
  For soon of all [40] the happy there,                            355
  Our Travellers are the happiest pair;
  All care with Benjamin is gone--
  A Caesar past the Rubicon!
  He thinks not of his long, long strife;--
  The Sailor, Man by nature gay,                                   360
  Hath no resolves to throw away; [41]
  And he hath now forgot his Wife,
  Hath quite forgotten her--or may be
  Thinks her the luckiest soul on earth,
  Within that warm and peaceful berth, [42]                        365
             Under cover,
             Terror over,
  Sleeping by her sleeping Baby.

    With bowl that sped from hand to hand,
  The gladdest of the gladsome band,                               370
  Amid their own delight and fun, [43]
  They hear--when every dance is done,
  When every whirling bout is o'er--[44]
  The fiddle's _squeak_ [G]--that call to bliss,
  Ever followed by a kiss;                                         375
  They envy not the happy lot,
  But enjoy their own the more!

    While thus our jocund Travellers fare,
  Up springs the Sailor from his chair--
  Limps (for I might have told before                              380
  That he was lame) across the floor--
  Is gone--returns--and with a prize;
  With what?--a Ship of lusty size;
  A gallant stately Man-of-war,
  Fixed on a smoothly-sliding car.                                 385
  Surprise to all, but most surprise
  To Benjamin, who rubs his eyes,
  Not knowing that he had befriended
  A Man so gloriously attended!

    "This," cries the Sailor, "a Third-rate is--390
  Stand back, and you shall see her gratis!
  This was the Flag-ship at the Nile,
  The Vanguard--you may smirk and smile,
  But, pretty Maid, if you look near,
  You'll find you've much in little here!                          395
  A nobler ship did never swim,
  And you shall see her in full trim:
  I'll set, my friends, to do you honour,
  Set every inch of sail upon her."
  So said, so done; and masts, sails, yards,                       400
  He names them all; and interlards
  His speech with uncouth terms of art,
  Accomplished in the showman's part;
  And then, as from a sudden check,
  Cries out--"'Tis there, the quarter-deck                         405
  On which brave Admiral Nelson stood--
  A sight that would have roused your blood!
  One eye he had, which, bright as ten,
  Burned like a fire among his men;
  Let this be land, and that be sea,                               410
  Here lay the French--and _thus_ came we!" [H]

    Hushed was by this the fiddle's sound,
  The dancers all were gathered round,
  And, such the stillness of the house,
  You might have heard a nibbling mouse;                           415
  While, borrowing helps where'er he may,
  The Sailor through the story runs
  Of ships to ships and guns to guns;
  And does his utmost to display
  The dismal conflict, and the might                               420
  And terror of that marvellous [45] night!
  "A bowl, a bowl of double measure,"
  Cries Benjamin, "a draught of length,
  To Nelson, England's pride and treasure,
  Her bulwark and her tower of strength!"                          425
  When Benjamin had seized the bowl,
  The mastiff, from beneath the waggon,
  Where he lay, watchful as a dragon,
  Rattled his chain;--'twas all in vain,
  For Benjamin, triumphant soul!                                   430
  He heard the monitory growl;
  Heard--and in opposition quaffed
  A deep, determined, desperate draught!
  Nor did the battered Tar forget,
  Or flinch from what he deemed his debt:                          435
  Then, like a hero crowned with laurel,
  Back to her place the ship he led;
  Wheeled her back in full apparel;
  And so, flag flying at mast head,
  Re-yoked her to the Ass:--anon,                                  440
  Cries Benjamin, "We must be gone."
  Thus, after two hours' hearty stay,
  Again behold them on their way!


CANTO THIRD

  Right gladly had the horses stirred,
  When they the wished-for greeting heard,                         445
  The whip's loud notice from the door,
  That they were free to move once more.
  You think, those [46] doings must have bred
  In them disheartening doubts and dread;
  No, not a horse of all the eight,                                450
  Although it be a moonless night,
  Fears either for himself or freight;
  For this they know (and let it hide,
  In part, the offences of their guide)
  That Benjamin, with clouded brains,                              455
  Is worth the best with all their pains;
  And, if they had a prayer to make,
  The prayer would be that they may take
  With him whatever comes in course,
  The better fortune or the worse;                                 460
  That no one else may have business near them,
  And, drunk or sober, he may steer them.

    So, forth in dauntless mood they fare,
  And with them goes the guardian pair.

    Now, heroes, for the true commotion,                           465
  The triumph of your late devotion!
  Can aught on earth impede delight,
  Still mounting to a higher height;
  And higher still--a greedy flight!
  Can any low-born care pursue her,                                470
  Can any mortal clog come to her? [J]
  No notion have they--not a thought,
  That is from joyless regions brought!
  And, while they coast the silent lake,
  Their inspiration I partake;                                     475
  Share their empyreal spirits--yea,
  With their enraptured vision, see--
  O fancy--what a jubilee!
  What shifting pictures--clad in gleams
  Of colour bright as feverish dreams!                             480
  Earth, spangled sky, and lake serene,
  Involved and restless all--a scene
  Pregnant with mutual exaltation,
  Rich change, and multiplied creation!
  This sight to me the Muse imparts;--485
  And then, what kindness in their hearts!
  What tears of rapture, what vow-making,
  Profound entreaties, and hand-shaking!
  What solemn, vacant, interlacing,
  As if they'd fall asleep embracing!                              490
  Then, in the turbulence of glee,
  And in the excess of amity,
  Says Benjamin, "That Ass of thine,
  He spoils thy sport, and hinders mine:
  If he were tethered to the waggon,                               495
  He'd drag as well what he is dragging;
  And we, as brother should with brother,
  Might trudge it alongside each other!"

    Forthwith, obedient to command,
  The horses made a quiet stand;                                   500
  And to the waggon's skirts was tied
  The Creature, by the Mastiff's side,
  The Mastiff wondering, and perplext
  With dread of what will happen next;
  And thinking it but sorry cheer,                                 505
  To have such company so near! [47]

    This new arrangement made, the Wain
  Through the still night proceeds again;
  No Moon hath risen her light to lend;
  But indistinctly may be kenned                                   510
  The VANGUARD, following close behind,
  Sails spread, as if to catch the wind!

    "Thy wife and child are snug and warm,
  Thy ship will travel without harm;
  I like," said Benjamin, "her shape and stature:                  515
  And this of mine--this bulky creature
  Of which I have the steering--this,
  Seen fairly, is not much amiss!
  We want your streamers, friend, you know;
  But, altogether [48] as we go,                                   520
  We make a kind of handsome show!
  Among these hills, from first to last,
  We've weathered many a furious blast;
  Hard passage forcing on, with head
  Against the storm, and canvass spread.                           525
  I hate a boaster; but to thee
  Will say't, who know'st both land and sea,
  The unluckiest hulk that stems [49] the brine
  Is hardly worse beset than mine,
  When cross-winds on her quarter beat;                            530
  And, fairly lifted from my feet,
  I stagger onward--heaven knows how;
  But not so pleasantly as now:
  Poor pilot I, by snows confounded,
  And many a foundrous pit surrounded!                             535
  Yet here we are, by night and day
  Grinding through rough and smooth our way;
  Through foul and fair our task fulfilling;
  And long shall be so yet--God willing!"

    "Ay," said the Tar, "through fair and foul--540
  But save us from yon screeching owl!"
  That instant was begun a fray
  Which called their thoughts another way:
  The mastiff, ill-conditioned carl!
  What must he do but growl and snarl,                             545
  Still more and more dissatisfied
  With the meek comrade at his side!
  Till, not incensed though put to proof,
  The Ass, uplifting a hind hoof,
  Salutes the Mastiff on the head;                                 550
  And so were better manners bred,
  And all was calmed and quieted.

    "Yon screech-owl," says the Sailor, turning
  Back to his former cause of mourning,
  "Yon owl!--pray God that all be well!                            555
  'Tis worse than any funeral bell;
  As sure as I've the gift of sight,
  We shall be meeting ghosts to-night!"
--Said Benjamin, "This whip shall lay
  A thousand, if they cross our way.                               560
  I know that Wanton's noisy station,
  I know him and his occupation;
  The jolly bird hath learned his cheer
  Upon [50] the banks of Windermere;
  Where a tribe of them make merry,                                565
  Mocking the Man that keeps the ferry;
  Hallooing from an open throat,
  Like travellers shouting for a boat.
--The tricks he learned at Windermere
  This vagrant owl is playing here--570
  That is the worst of his employment:
  He's at the top [51] of his enjoyment!"

    This explanation stilled the alarm,
  Cured the foreboder like a charm;
  This, and the manner, and the voice,                             575
  Summoned the Sailor to rejoice;
  His heart is up--he fears no evil
  From life or death, from man or devil;
  He wheels [52]--and, making many stops,
  Brandished his crutch against the mountain tops;                 580
  And, while he talked of blows and scars,
  Benjamin, among the stars,
  Beheld a dancing--and a glancing;
  Such retreating and advancing
  As, I ween, was never seen                                       585
  In bloodiest battle since the days of Mars!



CANTO FOURTH


  Thus they, with freaks of proud delight,
  Beguile the remnant of the night;
  And many a snatch of jovial song
  Regales them as they wind along;                                 590
  While to the music, from on high,
  The echoes make a glad reply.--
  But the sage Muse the revel heeds
  No farther than her story needs;
  Nor will she servilely attend                                    595
  The loitering journey to its end.
--Blithe spirits of her own impel
  The Muse, who scents the morning air,
  To take of this transported pair
  A brief and unreproved farewell;                                 600
  To quit the slow-paced waggon's side,
  And wander down yon hawthorn dell,
  With murmuring Greta for her guide.
--There doth she ken the awful form
  Of Raven-crag--black as a storm--605
  Glimmering through the twilight pale;
  And Ghimmer-crag, [K] his tall twin brother,
  Each peering forth to meet the other:--
  And, while she roves [53] through St. John's Vale,
  Along the smooth unpathwayed plain,                              610
  By sheep-track or through cottage lane,
  Where no disturbance comes to intrude
  Upon the pensive solitude,
  Her unsuspecting eye, perchance,
  With the rude shepherd's favoured glance,                        615
  Beholds the faeries in array,
  Whose party-coloured garments gay
  The silent company betray:
  Red, green, and blue; a moment's sight!
  For Skiddaw-top with rosy light                                  620
  Is touched--and all the band take flight.
--Fly also, Muse! and from the dell
  Mount to the ridge of Nathdale Fell;
  Thence, look thou forth o'er wood and lawn
  Hoar with the frost-like dews of dawn;                           625
  Across yon meadowy bottom look,
  Where close fogs hide their parent brook;
  And see, beyond that hamlet small,
  The ruined towers of Threlkeld-hall,
  Lurking in a double shade,                                       630
  By trees and lingering twilight made!
  There, at Blencathara's rugged feet,
  Sir Lancelot gave a safe retreat
  To noble Clifford; from annoy
  Concealed the persecuted boy,                                    635
  Well pleased in rustic garb to feed
  His flock, and pipe on shepherd's reed
  Among this multitude of hills,
  Crags, woodlands, waterfalls, and rills;
  Which soon the morning shall enfold,                             640
  From east to west, in ample vest
  Of massy gloom and radiance bold.

    The mists, that o'er the streamlet's bed
  Hung low, begin to rise and spread;
  Even while I speak, their skirts of grey                         645
  Are smitten by a silver ray;
  And lo!--up Castrigg's naked steep
  (Where, smoothly urged, the vapours sweep
  Along--and scatter and divide,
  Like fleecy clouds self-multiplied)                              650
  The stately waggon is ascending,
  With faithful Benjamin attending,
  Apparent now beside his team--
  Now lost amid a glittering steam: [54]
  And with him goes his Sailor-friend,                             655
  By this time near their journey's end;
  And, after their high-minded riot,
  Sickening into thoughtful quiet;
  As if the morning's pleasant hour,
  Had for their joys a killing power.                              660
  And, sooth, for Benjamin a vein
  Is opened of still deeper pain,
  As if his heart by notes were stung
  From out the lowly hedge-rows flung;
  As if the warbler lost in light [L]                              665
  Reproved his soarings of the night,
  In strains of rapture pure and holy
  Upbraided his distempered folly. [55]

    Drooping is he, his step is dull; [56]
  But the horses stretch and pull;                                 670
  With increasing vigour climb,
  Eager to repair lost time;
  Whether, by their own desert,
  Knowing what cause there is [57] for shame,
  They are labouring to avert                                      675
  As much as may be of the blame, [58]
  Which, they foresee, must soon alight
  Upon _his_ head, whom, in despite
  Of all his failings, they love best; [59]
  Whether for him they are distrest,                               680
  Or, by length of fasting roused,
  Are impatient to be housed:
  Up against the hill they strain
  Tugging at the iron chain,
  Tugging all with might and main,                                 685
  Last and foremost, every horse
  To the utmost of his force!
  And the smoke and respiration,
  Rising like an exhalation,
  Blend [60] with the mist--a moving shroud                        690
  To form, an undissolving cloud;
  Which, with slant ray, the merry sun
  Takes delight to play upon.
  Never golden-haired Apollo,
  Pleased some favourite chief to follow                           695
  Through accidents of peace or war,
  In a perilous moment threw
  Around the object of his care
  Veil of such celestial hue; [61]
  Interposed so bright a screen--700
  Him and his enemies between!

    Alas! what boots it?--who can hide,
  When the malicious Fates are bent
  On working out an ill intent?
  Can destiny be turned aside?                                     705
  No--sad progress of my story!
  Benjamin, this outward glory
  Cannot shield [62] thee from thy Master,
  Who from Keswick has pricked forth,
  Sour and surly as the north;                                     710
  And, in fear of some disaster,
  Comes to give what help he may,
  And [63] to hear what thou canst say;
  If, as needs he must forebode, [64]
  Thou hast been loitering [65] on the road!                       715
  His fears, his doubts, [66] may now take flight--
  The wished-for object is in sight;
  Yet, trust the Muse, it rather hath
  Stirred him up to livelier wrath;
  Which he stifles, moody man!                                     720
  With all the patience that he can;
  To the end that, at your meeting,
  He may give thee decent greeting.

    There he is--resolved to stop,
  Till the waggon gains the top;                                   725
  But stop he cannot--must advance:
  Him Benjamin, with lucky glance,
  Espies--and instantly is ready,
  Self-collected, poised, and steady:
  And, to be the better seen,                                      730
  Issues from his radiant shroud,
  From his close-attending cloud,
  With careless air and open mien.
  Erect his port, and firm his going;
  So struts yon cock that now is crowing;                          735
  And the morning light in grace
  Strikes upon his lifted face,
  Hurrying the pallid hue away
  That might his trespasses betray.
  But what can all avail to clear him,                             740
  Or what need of explanation,
  Parley or interrogation?
  For the Master sees, alas!
  That unhappy Figure near him,
  Limping o'er the dewy grass,                                     745
  Where the road it fringes, sweet,
  Soft and cool to way-worn feet;
  And, O indignity! an Ass,
  By his noble Mastiffs side,
  Tethered to the waggon's tail:                                   750
  And the ship, in all her pride,
  Following after in full sail!
  Not to speak of babe and mother;
  Who, contented with each other,
  And snug as birds in leafy arbour,                               755
  Find, within, a blessed harbour!

    With eager eyes the Master pries;
  Looks in and out, and through and through;
  Says nothing--till at last he spies
  A wound upon the Mastiff's head,                                 760
  A wound, where plainly might be read
  What feats an Ass's hoof can do!
  But drop the rest:--this aggravation,
  This complicated provocation,
  A hoard of grievances unsealed;                                  765
  All past forgiveness it repealed;
  And thus, and through distempered blood
  On both sides, Benjamin the good,
  The patient, and the tender-hearted,
  Was from his team and waggon parted;                             770
  When duty of that day was o'er,
  Laid down his whip--and served no more.--
  Nor could the waggon long survive,
  Which Benjamin had ceased to drive:
  It lingered on;--guide after guide                               775
  Ambitiously the office tried;
  But each unmanageable hill
  Called for _his_ patience and _his_ skill;--
  And sure it is, that through this night,
  And what the morning brought to light,                           780
  Two losses had we to sustain,
  We lost both WAGGONER and WAIN!

         *       *       *       *       *

  Accept, O Friend, for praise or blame,
  The gift of this adventurous song;
  A record which I dared to frame,                                 785
  Though timid scruples checked me long;
  They checked me--and I left the theme
  Untouched;--in spite of many a gleam
  Of fancy which thereon was shed,
  Like pleasant sunbeams shifting still                            790
  Upon the side of a distant hill:
  But Nature might not be gainsaid;
  For what I have and what I miss
  I sing of these;--it makes my bliss!
  Nor is it I who play the part,                                   795
  But a shy spirit in my heart,
  That comes and goes--will sometimes leap
  From hiding-places ten years deep;
  Or haunts me with familiar face, [67]
  Returning, like a ghost unlaid,                                  800
  Until the debt I owe be paid.
  Forgive me, then; for I had been
  On friendly terms with this Machine: [M]
  In him, while he was wont to trace
  Our roads, through many a long year's space,                     805
  A living almanack had we;
  We had a speaking diary,
  That in this uneventful place,
  Gave to the days a mark and name
  By which we knew them when they came.                            810
--Yes, I, and all about me here,
  Through all the changes of the year,
  Had seen him through the mountains go,
  In pomp of mist or pomp of snow,
  Majestically huge and slow:                                      815
  Or, with a milder grace [68] adorning
  The landscape of a summer's morning;
  While Grasmere smoothed her liquid plain
  The moving image to detain;
  And mighty Fairfield, with a chime                               820
  Of echoes, to his march kept time;
  When little other business stirred,
  And little other sound was heard;
  In that delicious hour of balm,
  Stillness, solitude, and calm,                                   825
  While yet the valley is arrayed,
  On this side with a sober shade;
  On that is prodigally bright--
  Crag, lawn, and wood--with rosy light.
--But most of all, thou lordly Wain!                             830
  I wish to have thee here again,
  When windows flap and chimney roars,
  And all is dismal out of doors;
  And, sitting by my fire, I see
  Eight sorry carts, no less a train!                              835
  Unworthy successors of thee,
  Come straggling through the wind and rain:
  And oft, as they pass slowly on,
  Beneath my windows, [69] one by one,
  See, perched upon the naked height                               840
  The summit of a cumbrous freight,
  A single traveller--and there
  Another; then perhaps a pair--
  The lame, the sickly, and the old;
  Men, women, heartless with the cold;                             845
  And babes in wet and starveling plight;
  Which once, [70] be weather as it might,
  Had still a nest within a nest,
  Thy shelter--and their mother's breast!
  Then most of all, then far the most,                             850
  Do I regret what we have lost;
  Am grieved for that unhappy sin
  Which robbed us of good Benjamin;--
  And of his stately Charge, which none
  Could keep alive when He was gone!                               855


       *       *       *       *       *

VARIANTS ON THE TEXT

[Variant 1:

1819.

  The Night-hawk is singing his frog-like tune,
  Twirling his watchman's rattle about--1805. MS. [a]

  The dor-hawk, solitary bird,
  Round the dim crags on heavy pinions wheeling,
  Buzzes incessantly, a tiresome tune;
  That constant voice is all that can be heard     1820.

  ... on heavy pinions wheeling,
  With untired voice sings an unvaried tune;
  Those burring notes are all that can be heard    1836.

The text of 1845 returns to the first version of 1819.]


[Variant 2:

1819.

    Now that the children are abed
  The little glow-worms nothing dread,
  Such prize as their bright lamps would be.
  Sooth they come in company,
  And shine in quietness secure,
  On the mossy bank by the cottage door,
  As safe as on the loneliest moor.
  In the play, or on the hill,
  Everything is hushed and still;
  The clouds show here and there a spot
  Of a star that twinkles not,
  The air as in ...

From a MS. copy of the poem in Henry Crabb Robinson's 'Diary, etc'.
1812.

    Now that the children's busiest schemes
  Do all lie buried in blank sleep,
  Or only live in stirring dreams,
  The glow-worms fearless watch may keep;
  Rich prize as their bright lamps would be,
  They shine, a quiet company,
  On mossy bank by cottage-door,
  As safe as on the loneliest moor.
  In hazy straits the clouds between,
  And in their stations twinkling not,
  Some thinly-sprinkled stars are seen,
  Each changed into a pallid spot.              1836.

The text of 1845 returns to that of 1819.]


[Variant 3:

1836.

  The mountains rise to wond'rous height,
  And in the heavens there is a weight;        1819.

  And in the heavens there hangs a weight;     1827.

In the editions of 1819 to 1832, these two lines follow the line "Like
the stifling of disease."]


[Variant 4:

1819.

  ... faint ...      1836.

The text of 1845 returns to that of 1819.]


[Variant 5:

1819.


  But welcome dews ...      1836.

The text of 1845 returns to that of 1819.]


[Variant 6:

1819.

  ... or ...      1836.

The text of 1845 returns to that of 1819.]


[Variant 7:

1819.

  Listen! you can hardly hear!
  Now he has left the lower ground,
  And up the hill his course is bending,
  With many a stop and stay ascending;--1836.

The text of 1845 returns to that of 1819.]


[Variant 8:

1836.

  And now ...       1819.]


[Variant 9:

1836.

  Gathering ...       1819.]


[Variant 10:

1819.

  No;--him infirmities beset,
  But danger is not near him yet;       1836.

The text of 1845 returns to that of 1819.]


[Variant 11:

1836.

  is he secure;     1819.]


[Variant 12:

1836.

  full well         1819.]


[Variant 13:

1836.

  Uncouth although the object be,
  An image of perplexity;
  Yet not the less it is our boast,    1819.]


[Variant 14:

1827.

  ... I frame ...    1819.]


[Variant 15:

1836

  And never was my heart more light.      1819.]


[Variant 16:

1836.

   ... will bless ...     1819.]


[Variant 17:

1836.

   ... delight, ...       1819.]


[Variant 18:

1836.

  Good proof of this the Country gain'd,
  One day, when ye were vex'd and strain'd--
  Entrusted to another's care,
  And forc'd unworthy stripes to bear.     1819.]


[Variant 19:

1836. (Expanding four lines into six.)

  Here was it--on this rugged spot
  Which now contented with our lot
  We climb--that piteously abused
  Ye plung'd in anger and confused:     1819.]


[Variant 20:

1836.

    ... in your ...       1819.]


[Variant 21:

1836.

  The ranks were taken with one mind;      1819.]


[Variant 22:

1819.

  Our road be, narrow, steep, and rough;      1836.

The text of 1845 returns to that of 1819.]


[Variant 23:

1836.

  large drops upon his head       1819.]


[Variant 24:

1836.

  He starts-and, at the admonition,
  Takes a survey of his condition.       1819.]


[Variant 25:

1836.

A huge and melancholy room,       1819.]


[Variant 26:

1836.

  ...  on high ...   1819.]


[Variant 27: 1836. The previous four lines were added in the edition of
1820, where they read as follows:

  And suddenly a ruffling breeze
  (That would have sounded through the trees
  Had aught of sylvan growth been there)
  Was felt throughout the region bare:       1820.]


[Variant 28:

1836.

  By peals of thunder, clap on clap!
  And many a terror-striking flash;--
  And somewhere, as it seems, a crash,     1819.]


[Variant 29:

1820.

  And rattling  ...      1819,]


[Variant 30:

1836. (Compressing six lines into four.)

  The voice, to move commiseration,
  Prolong'd its earnest supplication--
  "This storm that beats so furiously--
  This dreadful place! oh pity me!"

  While this was said, with sobs between,
  And many tears, by one unseen;         1819.]


[Variant 31:

1845.

  And Benjamin, without further question,
  Taking her for some way-worn rover,          1819.

  And, kind to every way-worn rover,
  Benjamin, without a question,                1836.]


[Variant 32:

1820.

  ... trouble ...      1819.]


[Variant 33:

1845.

  And to a little tent hard by
  Turns the Sailor instantly;         1819.

  And to his tent-like domicile,
  Built in a nook with cautious skill,
  The Sailor turns, well pleased to spy
  His shaggy friend who stood hard by
  Drenched--and, more fast than with a tether,
  Bound to the nook by that fierce weather,
  Which caught the vagrants unaware:
  For, when, ere closing-in ...       1836.]


[Variant 34:

1836.

  Had tempted ...      1819.]


[Variant 35:

1836.

  Proceeding with an easy mind;
  While he, who had been left behind,      1819.]


[Variant 36:

1820.

  Who neither heard nor saw--no more
  Than if he had been deaf and blind,
  Till, startled by the Sailor's roar,      1819.]


[Variant 37:

1819.

  That blew us hither! dance, boys, dance!
  Rare luck for us! my honest soul,
  I'll treat thee to a friendly bowl!"      1836.

The text of 1845 returns to that of 1819.]


[Variant 38:

1836.

  To _seek_ for thoughts of painful cast,
  If such be the amends at last.          1819.]


[Variant 39:

1836.

   ... think ...       1819.]


[Variant 40:

1819.

  For soon among ...        1836.

The text of 1845 returns to that of 1819.]


[Variant 41:

1819.

  And happiest far is he, the One
  No longer with himself at strife,
  A Caesar past the Rubicon!
  The Sailor, Man by nature gay,
  Found not a scruple in _his_ way;         1836.

The text of 1845 returns to that of 1819.]


[Variant 42:

1836.

  Deems that she is happier, laid
  Within that warm and peaceful bed;       1819.]


[Variant 43:

1845.

       With bowl in hand,
       (It may not stand)
  Gladdest of the gladsome band,
  Amid their own delight and fun,       1819.

    With bowl that sped from hand to hand,
  Refreshed, brimful of hearty fun,
  The gladdest of the gladsome band,       1836.]


[Variant 44:

1836.

  They hear--when every fit is o'er--1819.]


[Variant 45:

1836.

  ...  wondrous ...       1819.]


[Variant 46:

1836.

  ... these ...           1819.]


[Variant 47:

1836.

  ... the Mastiff's side,
  (The Mastiff not well pleased to be
  So very near such company.)     1819.]


[Variant 48:

1832.

  ... all together, ...     1819.]


[Variant 49:

1836

  ... sails ...     1819.]


[Variant 50:

1836.

  On ...          1819.]


[Variant 51:

1836.

  He's in the height ...       1819.]


[Variant 52:

1836.

  He wheel'd--...      1819.]


[Variant 53:

1827.

  And, rambling on ...        1819.]


[Variant 54:

1819.

  Now hidden by the glittering steam:        1836.

The text of 1845 returns to that of 1819.]


[Variant 55:

1845. The previous eight lines were added in 1836, when they read thus:

  Say more: for by that power a vein
  Seems opened of brow-saddening pain:
  As if their hearts by notes were stung
  From out the lowly hedge-rows flung;
  As if the warbler lost in light
  Reproved their soarings of the night;
  In strains of rapture pure and holy
  Upbraided their distempered folly.        1836.]


[Variant 56:

1845.

  They are drooping, weak, and dull;           1819.

  Drooping are they, and weak and dull;--1836.]


[Variant 57:

1836.

  Knowing that there's cause ...      1819.

  Knowing there is cause ...          1827.]


[Variant 58:

1845.

  They are labouring to avert
  At least a portion of the blame                1819.

  They now are labouring to avert
  (Kind creatures!) something of the blame,      1836.]


[Variant 59:

1836.

  Which full surely will alight
  Upon his head, whom, in despite
  Of all his faults, they love the best;      1819.

  Upon _his_ head, ...                        1820.]


[Variant 60:

1836.

  Blends ...      1819.]


[Variant 61:

1845.

  Never, surely, old Apollo,
  He, or other God as old,
  Of whom in story we are told,
  Who had a favourite to follow
  Through a battle or elsewhere,
  Round the object of his care,
  In a time of peril, threw
  Veil of such celestial hue;          1819.

  Never Venus or Apollo,
  Pleased a favourite chief to follow
  Through accidents of peace or war,
  In a time of peril threw,
  Round the object of his care,
  Veil of such celestial hue;          1832.

  Never golden-haired Apollo,
  Nor blue-eyed Pallas, nor the Idalian Queen,
  When each was pleased some favourite chief to follow
  Through accidents of peace or war,
  In a perilous moment threw
  Around the object of celestial care
  A veil so rich to mortal view.       1836.

  Never Venus or Apollo,
  Intent some favourite chief to follow
  Through accidents of peace or war,
  Round the object of their care
  In a perilous moment threw
  A veil of such celestial hue.        C.

  Round each object of their care      C.]


[Variant 62:

1819.

  Fails to shield ...      1836.

The text of 1845 returns to that of 1819.]


[Variant 63:

1836.

  Or ...       1819.]


[Variant 64:

1819.

  If, as he cannot but forebode,      1836.

The text of 1845 returns to that of 1819.]


[Variant 65:

1836.

  Thou hast loitered ...       1819.]


[Variant 66:

1836.

  His doubts--his fears ...       1819.]


[Variant 67:

1827. (Compressing two lines into one.)

  Sometimes, as in the present case,
  Will show a more familiar face;       1819.

  Or, proud all rivalship to chase,
  Will haunt me with familiar face;     1820.]


[Variant 68:

1819.

  Or, with milder grace ...      1832.

The edition of 1845 reverts to the text of 1819.]


[Variant 69:

1836.

  ...  window ...      1819.]


[Variant 70: "Once" 'italicised' in 1820 only.]


       *       *       *       *       *

FOOTNOTES ON THE TEXT

[Footnote A: The title page of the edition of 1819 runs as follows: The
Waggoner, A Poem. To which are added, Sonnets. By William Wordsworth.

  "What's in a NAME?"
  ...
  "Brutus will start a Spirit as soon as Caesar!"

London, etc. etc., 1819,--Ed.]


[Footnote B: See 'The Seasons' (Summer), ll. 977-79.--Ed.]


[Footnote C: Such is the progress of refinement, this rude piece of
self-taught art has been supplanted by a professional production.--W. W.
1819.

Mr. William Davies writes to me,

  "I spent a week there (the Swan Inn) early in the fifties, and well
  remember the sign over the door distinguishable from afar: the inn,
  little more than a cottage (the only one), with clean well-sanded
  floor, and rush-bottomed chairs: the landlady, good old soul, one day
  afraid of burdening me with some old coppers, insisted on retaining
  them till I should return from an uphill walk, when they were duly
  tendered to me. Here I learnt many particulars of Hartley Coleridge,
  dead shortly before, who had been a great favourite with the host and
  hostess. The grave of Wordsworth was at that time barely grassed
  over."--Ed.]


[Footnote D: See Wordsworth's note [Note I to this poem, below], p.
109.--Ed.]


[Footnote E: A mountain of Grasmere, the broken summit of which presents
two figures, full as distinctly shaped as that of the famous cobler,
near Arracher, in Scotland.--W. W. 1819.]


[Footnote F: A term well known in the North of England, as applied to
rural Festivals, where young persons meet in the evening for the purpose
of dancing.--W. W. 1819.]


[Footnote G: At the close of each strathspey, or jig, a particular note
from the fiddle summons the Rustic to the agreeable duty of saluting his
Partner.--W. W. 1819.]


[Footnote H: Compare in 'Tristram Shandy':

  "And this, said he, is the town of Namur, and this is the citadel: and
  there lay the French, and here lay his honour and myself."--Ed.]


[Footnote J: See Wordsworth's note [Note III to this poem, below], p.
109.--Ed.]


[Footnote K: The crag of the ewe lamb.--W. W. 1820.]


[Footnote L: Compare Tennyson's "Farewell, we lose ourselves in
light."--Ed.]


[Footnote M: Compare Wordsworth's lines, beginning, "She was a Phantom
of delight," p. i, and Hamlet, act II. sc. ii. l. 124.--Ed.]


       *       *       *       *       *

SUB-FOOTNOTE ON THE TEXT

[Sub-Footnote a: See Wordsworth's note [Note II to the poem, below], p.
109.--Ed.]


       *       *       *       *       *

NOTES ON THE TEXT

(Added in the edition of 1836)


I

Several years after the event that forms the subject of the foregoing
poem, in company with my friend, the late Mr. Coleridge, I happened to
fall in with the person to whom the name of Benjamin is given. Upon our
expressing regret that we had not, for a long time, seen upon the road
either him or his waggon, he said:--"They could not do without me; and
as to the man who was put in my place, no good could come out of him; he
was a man of no _ideas_."

The fact of my discarded hero's getting the horses out of a great
difficulty with a word, as related in the poem, was told me by an
eye-witness.


II

  'The Dor-hawk, solitary bird.'

When the Poem was first written the note of the bird was thus described:

  'The Night-hawk is singing his frog-like tune,
  Twirling his watchman's rattle about--'

but from unwillingness to startle the reader at the outset by so bold a
mode of expression, the passage was altered as it now stands.


III

After the line, 'Can any mortal clog come to her', followed in the MS.
an incident which has been kept back. Part of the suppressed verses
shall here be given as a gratification of private feeling, which the
well-disposed reader will find no difficulty in excusing. They are now
printed for the first time.

  Can any mortal clog come to her?
  It can: ...
  ...
  But Benjamin, in his vexation,
  Possesses inward consolation;
  He knows his ground, and hopes to find
  A spot with all things to his mind,
  An upright mural block of stone,
  Moist with pure water trickling down.
  A slender spring; but kind to man
  It is, a true Samaritan;
  Close to the highway, pouring out
  Its offering from a chink or spout;
  Whence all, howe'er athirst, or drooping
  With toil, may drink, and without stooping.

    Cries Benjamin, "Where is it, where?
  Voice it hath none, but must be near."
--A star, declining towards the west,
  Upon the watery surface threw
  Its image tremulously imprest,
  That just marked out the object and withdrew:
  Right welcome service! ...
  ...

                         ROCK OF NAMES!
  Light is the strain, but not unjust
  To Thee and thy memorial-trust,
  That once seemed only to express
  Love that was love in idleness;
  Tokens, as year hath followed year,
  How changed, alas, in character!
  For they were graven on thy smooth breast
  By hands of those my soul loved best;
  Meek women, men as true and brave
  As ever went to a hopeful grave:
  Their hands and mine, when side by side
  With kindred zeal and mutual pride,
  We worked until the Initials took
  Shapes that defied a scornful look.--
  Long as for us a genial feeling
  Survives, or one in need of healing,
  The power, dear Rock, around thee cast,
  Thy monumental power, shall last
  For me and mine! O thought of pain,
  That would impair it or profane!
  Take all in kindness then, as said
  With a staid heart but playful head;
  And fail not Thou, loved Rock! to keep
  Thy charge when we are laid asleep.

W. W.



There is no poem more closely identified with the Grasmere district of
the English Lakes--and with the road from Grasmere to Keswick--than 'The
Waggoner' is, and in none are the topographical allusions more minute
and faithful.

Wordsworth seemed at a loss to know in what "class" of his poems to
place 'The Waggoner;' and his frequent changes--removing it from one
group to another--shew the artificial character of these classes. Thus,
in the edition of 1820, it stood first among the "Poems of the Fancy."
In 1827 it was the last of the "Poems founded on the Affections." In
1832 it was reinstated among the "Poems of the Fancy." In 1836 it had a
place of its own, and was inserted between the "Poems of the Fancy" and
those "Founded on the Affections;" while in 1845 it was sent back to its
original place among the "Poems of the Fancy;" although in the table of
contents it was printed as an independent poem, closing the series.

The original text of 'The Waggoner' underwent little change, till the
year 1836, when it was carefully revised, and altered throughout. The
final edition of 1845, however, reverted, in many instances--especially
in the first canto--to the original text of 1819.

As this poem was dedicated to Charles Lamb, it may be of interest to
note that, some six months afterwards, Lamb presented Wordsworth with a
copy of the first edition of 'Paradise Regained' (the edition of 1671),
writing on it the following sentence,

  "Charles Lamb, to the best knower of Milton, and therefore the
  worthiest occupant of this pleasant edition.--Jan. 2nd, 1820."

The opening stanzas are unrivalled in their description of a sultry June
evening, with a thunder-storm imminent.

  ' 'Tis spent--this burning day of June!
  Soft darkness o'er its latest gleams is stealing;
  The buzzing dor-hawk, round and round, is wheeling,--
  That solitary bird
  Is all that can be heard
  In silence deeper far than that of deepest noon!
  ...
  ...
  The mountains against heaven's grave weight
  Rise up, and grow to wondrous height.
  The air, as in a lion's den,
  Is close and hot;--and now and then
  Comes a tired and sultry breeze
  With a haunting and a panting,
  Like the stifling of disease;
  But the dews allay the heat,
  And the silence makes it sweet.'


The Waggoner takes what is now the middle road, of the three leading
from Rydal to Grasmere (see the note to 'The Primrose of the Rock'). The
"craggy hill" referred to in the lines

  'Now he leaves the lower ground,
  And up the craggy hill ascending
  ...
  Steep the way and wearisome,'

is the road from Rydal Quarry up to White Moss Common, with the Glowworm
rock on the right, and the "two heath-clad rocks," referred to in the
last of the "Poems on the Naming of Places," on the left. He next passes
"The Wishing Gate" on the left, John's Grove on the right, and descends
by Dove Cottage--where Wordsworth lived--to Grasmere.

  '... at the bottom of the brow,
  Where once the DOVE and OLIVE-BOUGH
  Offered a greeting of good ale
  To all who entered Grasmere Vale;
  And called on him who must depart
  To leave it with a jovial heart;
  There, where the DOVE and OLIVE-BOUGH
  Once hung, a Poet harbours now,
  A simple water-drinking Bard.'

He goes through Grasmere, passes the Swan Inn,

  'He knows it to his cost, good Man!
  Who does not know the famous SWAN?
  Object uncouth! and yet our boast,
  For it was painted by the Host;
  His own conceit the figure planned,
  'Twas coloured all by his own hand.'

As early as 1819, when the poem was first published, "this rude piece of
self-taught art had been supplanted" by a more pretentious figure. The
Waggoner passes the Swan,

  'And now the conqueror essays
  The long ascent of Dunmail-raise.'

As he proceeds, the storm gathers, and "struggles to get free." Road,
hill, and sky are dark; and he barely sees the well-known rocks at the
summit of Helm-crag, where two figures seem to sit, like those on the
Cobbler, near Arrochar, in Argyle.

  'Black is the sky--and every hill,
  Up to the sky, is blacker still--
  Sky, hill, and dale, one dismal room,
  Hung round and overhung with gloom;
  Save that above a single height
  Is to be seen a lurid light,
  Above Helm-crag--a streak half dead,
  A burning of portentous red;
  And near that lurid light, full well
  The ASTROLOGER, sage Sidrophel,
  Where at his desk and book he sits,
  Puzzling aloft his curious wits;
  He whose domain is held in common
  With no one but the ANCIENT WOMAN,
  Cowering beside her rifted cell,
  As if intent on magic spell;--
  Dread pair, that, spite of wind and weather,
  Still sit upon Helm-crag together!'

At the top of the "raise"--the water-shed between the vales of Grasmere
and Wytheburn--he reaches the familiar pile of stones, at the boundary
between the shires of Westmoreland and Cumberland.

  '... that pile of stones,
  Heaped over brave King Dunmail's bones;
  ...
  Green is the grass for beast to graze,
  Around the stones of Dunmail-raise!'

The allusion to Seat-Sandal laid bare by the flash of lightning, and the
description, in the last canto, of the ascent of the Raise by the
Waggoner on a summer morning, are as true to the spirit of the place as
anything that Wordsworth has written. He tells his friend Lamb, fourteen
years after he wrote the poem of 'The Waggoner,'

  'Yes, I, and all about me here,
  Through all the changes of the year,
  Had seen him through the mountains go,
  In pomp of mist or pomp of snow,
  Majestically huge and slow:
  Or, with a milder grace adorning
  The landscape of a summer's morning;
  While Grasmere smoothed her liquid plain
  The moving image to detain;
  And mighty Fairfield, with a chime
  Of echoes, to his march kept time;
  When little other business stirred,
  And little other sound was heard;
  In that delicious hour of balm,
  Stillness, solitude, and calm,
  While yet the valley is arrayed,
  On this side with a sober shade;
  On that is prodigally bright--
  Crag, lawn, and wood--with rosy light.'

From Dunmail-raise the Waggoner descends to Wytheburn. Externally,

  '... Wytheburn's modest House of prayer,
  As lowly as the lowliest dwelling,'

remains very much as it was in 1805; but the primitive simplicity and
"lowliness" of the chapel was changed by the addition a few years ago of
an apse, by the removal of some of the old rafters, and by the reseating
of the pews.

The Cherry Tree Tavern, where "the village Merry-night" was being
celebrated, still stands on the eastern or Helvellyn side of the road.
It is now a farm-house; but it will be regarded with interest from the
description of the rustic dance, which recalls ('longo intervallo') 'The
Jolly Beggars' of Burns. After two hours' delay at the Cherry Tree, the
Waggoner and Sailor "coast the silent lake" of Thirlmere, and pass the
Rock of Names.

This rock was, until lately, one of the most interesting memorials of
Wordsworth and his friends that survived in the Lake District; but the
vale of Thirlmere is now a Manchester water-tank, and the place which
knew the Rock of Names now knows it no more. It was a sort of trysting
place of the poets of Grasmere and Keswick--being nearly half-way
between the two places--and there, Wordsworth, Coleridge, and other
members of their households often met. When Coleridge left Grasmere for
Keswick, the Wordsworths usually accompanied him as far as this rock;
and they often met him there on his way over from Keswick to Grasmere.
Compare the Hon. Mr. Justice Coleridge's Reminiscences. ('Memoirs of
Wordsworth,' vol. ii. p. 310.)

The rock was on the right hand of the road, a little way past Waterhead,
at the southern end of Thirlmere; and on it were cut the letters,

  W. W.
  M. H.
  D. W.
  S. T. C.
  J. W.
  S. H.

the initials of William Wordsworth, Mary Hutchinson, Dorothy Wordsworth,
Samuel Taylor Coleridge, John Wordsworth, and Sarah Hutchinson. The
Wordsworths settled at Grasmere at the close of the year 1799. As
mentioned in a previous note, John Wordsworth lived with his brother and
sister during most of that winter, and during the whole of the spring,
summer, and autumn of 1800, leaving it finally on September 29, 1800.
These names must therefore have been cut during the spring or summer of
1800. There is no record of the occurrence, and no allusion to the rock,
in Dorothy Wordsworth's Grasmere Journal of 1800. But that Journal, so
far as I have seen it, begins on the 14th of May 1800. Almost every
detail of the daily life and ways of the household at Dove Cottage is so
minutely recorded in it, that I am convinced that this incident of the
cutting of names in the Thirlmere Rock would have been mentioned, had it
happened between the 14th of May and John Wordsworth's departure from
Grasmere in September. Such references as this, for example, occur in
the Journal:

  "Saturday, August 2.--William and Coleridge went to Keswick. John went
  with them to Wytheburn, and staid all day fishing."

I therefore infer that it was in the spring or early summer of 1800 that
the names were cut.

I may add that the late Dean of Westminster--Dean Stanley--took much
interest in this Rock of Names; and doubt having been cast on the
accuracy of the place and the genuineness of the inscriptions, in a
letter from Dr. Fraser, then Bishop of Manchester, which he forwarded to
me, he entered into the question with all the interest with which he was
wont to track out details in the architecture or the history of a
Church.

There were few memorials connected with Wordsworth more worthy of
preservation than this "upright mural block of stone." When one
remembered that the initials on the rock were graven by the hands of
William and John Wordsworth, by Samuel Taylor Coleridge, possibly with
the assistance of Dorothy Wordsworth, the two Hutchinsons (Mary and
Sarah), and that Wordsworth says of it,

  'We worked until the Initials took
  Shapes that defied a scornful look,'

this Thirlmere Rock was felt to be a far more interesting memento of the
group of poets that used to meet beside it, than the Stone in the
grounds of Rydal Mount, which was spared at Wordsworth's suit, "from
some rude beauty of its own." There was simplicity, as well as strength,
in the way in which the initials were cut. But the stone was afterwards
desecrated by tourists, and others, who had the audacity to scratch
their own names or initials upon it. In 1877 I wrote, "The rock is as
yet wonderfully free from such; and its preservation is probably due to
the dark olive-coloured moss, with which the 'pure water trickling down'
has covered the face of the 'mural block,' and thus secured it from
observation, even on that highway;" but I found in the summer of 1882
that several other names had been ruthlessly added. When the Manchester
Thirlmere scheme was finally resolved upon, an effort was made to remove
the Stone, with the view of its being placed higher up the hill on the
side of the new roadway. In the course of this attempt, the Stone was
broken to pieces.

There is a very good drawing of "The Rock of Names" by Mr. Harry
Goodwin, in 'Through the Wordsworth Country, 1892'.

"The Muse" takes farewell of the Waggoner as he is proceeding with the
Sailor and his quaint model of the 'Vanguard' along the road toward
Keswick. She "scents the morning air," and

  'Quits the slow-paced waggon's side,
  To wander down yon hawthorn dell,
  With murmuring Greta for her guide.'

The "hawthorn dell" is the upper part of the Vale of St. John.

  '--There doth she ken the awful form
  Of Raven-crag--black as a storm--
  Glimmering through the twilight pale;
  And Ghimmer-crag, his tall twin brother,
  Each peering forth to meet the other.'

Raven-crag is well known,--H.C. Robinson writes of it in his 'Diary' in
1818, as "the most significant of the crags at a spot where there is not
one insignificant,"--a rock on the western side of Thirlmere, where the
Greta issues from the lake. But there is no rock in the district now
called by the name of Ghimmer-crag, or the crag of the Ewe-lamb. I am
inclined to think that Wordsworth referred to the "Fisher-crag" of the
Ordnance Survey and the Guide Books. No other rock round Thirlmere can
with any accuracy be called the "tall twin brother" of Raven-crag:
certainly not Great How, nor any spur of High Seat or Bleaberry Fell.
Fisher-crag resembles Raven-crag, as seen from Thirlmere Bridge, or from
the high road above it; and it is somewhat remarkable that Green--in his
Guide to the Lakes (a volume which the poet possessed)--makes use of the
same expression as that which Wordsworth adopts regarding these two
crags, Raven and Fisher.

  "The margin of the lake on the Dalehead side has its charms of wood
  and water; and Fischer Crag, twin brother to Raven Crag, is no bad
  object, when taken near the island called Buck's Holm"

('A Description of Sixty Studies from Nature', by William Green of
Ambleside, 1810, p. 57). I cannot find any topographical allusion to a
Ghimmer-crag in contemporary local writers. Clarke, in his 'Survey of
the Lakes', does not mention it.

The Castle Rock, in the Vale of Legberthwaite, between High Fell and
Great How, is the fairy castle of Sir Walter Scott's 'Bridal of
Triermain'. "Nathdale Fell" is the ridge between Naddle Vale (Nathdale
Vale) and that of St. John, now known as High Rigg. The old Hall of
Threlkeld has long been in a state of ruinous dilapidation, the only
habitable part of it having been for many years converted into a
farmhouse. The remaining local allusions in 'The Waggoner' are obvious
enough: Castrigg is the shortened form of Castlerigg, the ridge between
Naddle Valley and Keswick.

In the "Reminiscences" of Wordsworth, which the Hon. Mr. Justice
Coleridge wrote for the late Bishop of Lincoln, in 1850, there is the
following reference to 'The Waggoner'. (See 'Memoirs', vol. ii. p. 310.)

  "'The Waggoner' seems a very favourite poem of his. He said his object
  in it had not been understood. It was a play of the fancy on a
  domestic incident, and lowly character. He wished by the opening
  descriptive lines to put his reader into the state of mind in which he
  wished it to be read. If he failed in doing that, he wished him to lay
  it down. He pointed out with the same view, the glowing lines on the
  state of exultation in which Ben and his companions are under the
  influence of liquor. Then he read the sickening languor of the morning
  walk, contrasted with the glorious uprising of Nature, and the songs
  of the birds. Here he has added about six most exquisite lines."

The lines referred to are doubtless the eight (p. 101), beginning

  'Say more; for by that power a vein,'

which were added in the edition of 1836.

The following is Sara Coleridge's criticism of 'The Waggoner'. (See
'Biographia Literaria', vol. ii. pp. 183, 184, edition 1847.)

  "Due honour is done to 'Peter Bell', at this time, by students of
  poetry in general; but some, even of Mr. Wordsworth's greatest
  admirers, do not quite satisfy me in their admiration of 'The
  Waggoner', a poem which my dear uncle, Mr. Southey, preferred even to
  the former. 'Ich will meine Denkungs Art hierin niemandem aufdringen',
  as Lessing says: I will force my way of thinking on nobody, but take
  the liberty, for my own gratification, to express it. The sketches of
  hill and valley in this poem have a lightness, and spirit--an Allegro
  touch--distinguishing them from the grave and elevated splendour which
  characterises Mr. Wordsworth's representations of Nature in general,
  and from the passive tenderness of those in 'The White Doe', while it
  harmonises well with the human interest of the piece; indeed it is the
  harmonious sweetness of the composition which is most dwelt upon by
  its special admirers. In its course it describes, with bold brief
  touches, the striking mountain tract from Grasmere to Keswick; it
  commences with an evening storm among the mountains, presents a lively
  interior of a country inn during midnight, and concludes after
  bringing us in sight of St. John's Vale and the Vale of Keswick seen
  by day-break--'Skiddaw touched with rosy light,' and the prospect from
  Nathdale Fell 'hoar with the frost-like dews of dawn:' thus giving a
  beautiful and well-contrasted Panorama, produced by the most delicate
  and masterly strokes of the pencil. Well may Mr. Ruskin, a fine
  observer and eloquent describer of various classes of natural
  appearances, speak of Mr. Wordsworth as the great poetic landscape
  painter of the age. But Mr. Ruskin has found how seldom the great
  landscape painters are powerful in expressing human passions and
  affections on canvas, or even successful in the introduction of human
  figures into their foregrounds; whereas in the poetic paintings of Mr.
  Wordsworth the landscape is always subordinate to a higher interest;
  certainly, in 'The Waggoner', the little sketch of human nature which
  occupies, as it were, the front of that encircling background, the
  picture of Benjamin and his temptations, his humble friends and the
  mute companions of his way, has a character of its own, combining with
  sportiveness a homely pathos, which must ever be delightful to some of
  those who are thoroughly conversant with the spirit of Mr.
  Wordsworth's poetry. It may be compared with the ale-house scene in
  'Tam o'Shanter', parts of Voss's Luise, or Ovid's Baucis and Philemon;
  though it differs from each of them as much as they differ from each
  other. The Epilogue carries on the feeling of the piece very
  beautifully."

The editor of Southey's 'Life and Correspondence'--his son, the Rev.
Charles Cuthbert Southey--tells us, in a note to a letter from S.T.
Coleridge to his father, that the Waggoner's name was Jackson; and that
"all the circumstances of the poem are accurately correct." This
Jackson, after retiring from active work as waggoner, became the tenant
of Greta Hall, where first Coleridge, and afterwards Southey lived. The
Hall was divided into two houses, one of which Jackson occupied, and the
other of which he let to Coleridge, who speaks thus of him in the letter
to Southey, dated Greta Hall, Keswick, April 13, 1801:

  "My landlord, who dwells next door, has a very respectable library,
  which he has put with mine; histories, encyclopedias, and all the
  modern poetry, etc. etc. etc. A more truly disinterested man I never
  met with; severely frugal, yet almost carelessly generous; and yet he
  got all his money as a common carrier, by hard labour, and by pennies
  and pennies. He is one instance among many in this country of the
  salutary effect of the love of knowledge--he was from a boy a lover of
  learning."

(See 'Life and Correspondence of Robert Southey,' vol. ii. pp. 147,
148.)

Charles Lamb--to whom 'The Waggoner' was dedicated--wrote thus to
Wordsworth on 7th June 1819:

  "My dear Wordsworth,--You cannot imagine how proud we are here of the
  dedication. We read it twice for once that we do the poem. I mean all
  through; yet 'Benjamin' is no common favourite; there is a spirit of
  beautiful tolerance in it. It is as good as it was in 1806; and it
  will be as good in 1829, if our dim eyes shall be awake to peruse it.
  Methinks there is a kind of shadowing affinity between the subject of
  the narrative and the subject of the dedication.
   ...
  "I do not know which I like best,--the prologue (the latter part
  especially) to 'P. Bell,' or the epilogue to 'Benjamin.' Yes, I tell
  stories; I do know I like the last best; and the 'Waggoner' altogether
  is a pleasanter remembrance to me than the 'Itinerant.'
  ...
  "C. LAMB."

(See 'The Letters of Charles Lamb,' edited by Alfred Ainger, vol. ii.
pp. 24-26.)

To this may be added what Southey wrote to Mr. Wade Browne on 15th June
1819:

  "I think you will be pleased with Wordsworth's 'Waggoner', if it were
  only for the line of road which it describes. The master of the waggon
  was my poor landlord Jackson, and the cause of his exchanging it for
  the one-horse cart was just as is represented in the poem; nobody but
  Benjamin could manage it upon these hills, and Benjamin could not
  resist the temptations by the wayside."

(See 'The Life and Correspondence of Robert Southey', vol. iv. p.
318.)--Ed.





       *       *       *       *       *





THE PRELUDE,

OR, GROWTH OF A POET'S MIND;

AN AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL POEM


Composed 1799-1805.--Published 1850


ADVERTISEMENT

The following Poem was commenced in the beginning of the year 1799, and
completed in the summer of 1805.

The design and occasion of the work are described by the Author in his
Preface to the EXCURSION, first published in 1814, where he thus speaks:

  "Several years ago, when the Author retired to his native mountains
  with the hope of being enabled to construct a literary work that might
  live, it was a reasonable thing that he should take a review of his
  own mind, and examine how far Nature and Education had qualified him
  for such an employment.

  "As subsidiary to this preparation, he undertook to record, in verse,
  the origin and progress of his own powers, as far as he was acquainted
  with them.

  "That work, addressed to a dear friend, most distinguished for his
  knowledge and genius, and to whom the author's intellect is deeply
  indebted, has been long finished; and the result of the investigation
  which gave rise to it, was a determination to compose a philosophical
  Poem, containing views of Man, Nature, and Society, and to be entitled
  'The Recluse;' as having for its principal subject the sensations and
  opinions of a poet living in retirement.

  "The preparatory poem is biographical, and conducts the history of the
  Author's mind to the point when he was emboldened to hope that his
  faculties were sufficiently matured for entering upon the arduous
  labour which he had proposed to himself; and the two works have the
  same kind of relation to each other, if he may so express himself, as
  the Ante-chapel has to the body of a Gothic Church. Continuing this
  allusion, he may be permitted to add, that his minor pieces, which
  have been long before the public, when they shall be properly
  arranged, will be found by the attentive reader to have such
  connection with the main work as may give them claim to be likened to
  the little cells, oratories, and sepulchral recesses, ordinarily
  included in those edifices."

Such was the Author's language in the year 1814.

It will thence be seen, that the present Poem was intended to be
introductory to the RECLUSE, and that the RECLUSE, if completed, would
have consisted of Three Parts. Of these, the Second Part alone, viz. the
EXCURSION, was finished, and given to the world by the Author.

The First Book of the First Part of the RECLUSE still remains in
manuscript; but the Third Part was only planned. The materials of which
it would have been formed have, however, been incorporated, for the most
part, in the Author's other Publications, written subsequently to the
EXCURSION.

The Friend, to whom the present Poem is addressed, was the late SAMUEL
TAYLOR COLERIDGE, who was resident in Malta, for the restoration of his
health, when the greater part of it was composed.

Mr. Coleridge read a considerable portion of the Poem while he was
abroad; and his feelings, on hearing it recited by the Author (after his
return to his own country) are recorded in his Verses, addressed to Mr.
Wordsworth, which will be found in the 'Sibylline Leaves,' p. 197,
edition 1817, or 'Poetical Works, by S. T. Coleridge,' vol. i. p. 206.

RYDAL MOUNT, _July 13th_, 1850.


This "advertisement" to the first edition of 'The Prelude,' published in
1850--the year of Wordsworth's death--was written by Mr. Carter, who
edited the volume. Mr. Carter was for many years the poet's secretary,
and afterwards one of his literary executors. The poem was not only kept
back from publication during Wordsworth's life-time, but it remained
without a title; being alluded to by himself, when he spoke or wrote of
it, as "the poem on my own poetical education," the "poem on my own
life," etc.

As 'The Prelude' is autobiographical, a large part of Wordsworth's life
might be written in the notes appended to it; but, besides breaking up
the text of the poem unduly, this plan has many disadvantages, and would
render a subsequent and detailed life of the poet either unnecessary or
repetitive. The notes which follow will therefore be limited to the
explanation of local, historical, and chronological allusions, or to
references to Wordsworth's own career that are not obvious without them.
It has been occasionally difficult to decide whether some of the
allusions, to minute points in ancient history, mediaeval mythology, and
contemporary politics, should be explained or left alone; but I have
preferred to err on the side of giving a brief clue to details, with
which every scholar is familiar.

'The Prelude' was begun as Wordsworth left the imperial city of Goslar,
in Lower Saxony, where he spent part of the last winter of last century,
and which he left on the 10th of February 1799. Only lines 1 to 45,
however, were composed at that time; and the poem was continued at
desultory intervals after the settlement at Grasmere, during 1800, and
following years. Large portions of it were dictated to his devoted
amanuenses as he walked, or sat, on the terraces of Lancrigg. Six books
were finished by 1805.

  "The seventh was begun in the opening of that year; ... and the
  remaining seven were written before the end of June 1805, when his
  friend Coleridge was in the island of Malta, for the restoration of
  his health."

(The late Bishop of Lincoln.)

There is no uncertainty as to the year in which the later books were
written; but there is considerable difficulty in fixing the precise date
of the earlier ones. Writing from Grasmere to his friend Francis
Wrangham--the letter is undated--Wordsworth says,

  "I am engaged in writing a poem on my own earlier life, which will
  take five parts or books to complete, three of which are nearly
  finished."

The late Bishop of Lincoln supposed that this letter to Wrangham was
written "at the close of 1803, or beginning of 1804." (See 'Memoirs of
Wordsworth,' vol. i. p. 303.) There is evidence that it belongs to 1804.
At the commencement of the seventh book, p. 247, he says:

  _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,
  Then stopped for years; not audible again
  Before last primrose-time._

I have _italicised_ the clauses which give some clue to the dates of
composition. From these it would appear that the "glad preamble,"
written on leaving Goslar in 1799 (which, I think, included only the
first two paragraphs of book first), was a "short-lived transport"; but
that "soon" afterwards "a less impetuous stream" broke forth, which,
after the settlement at Grasmere, "flowed awhile with unabating
strength," and then "stopped for years." Now the above passage,
recording these things, was written in 1805, and in the late autumn of
that year; (as is evident from the reference which immediately follows
to the "choir of redbreasts" and the approach of winter). We must
therefore assign the flowing of the "less impetuous stream," to 1802; in
order to leave room for the intervening "years," in which it ceased to
flow, till it was audible again in the spring of 1804, "last
primrose-time."

A second reference to date occurs in the sixth book, p. 224, entitled
"Cambridge and the Alps," in which he says,

  _Four years and thirty, told, this very week,_
  Have I been now a sojourner on earth.

This fixes definitely enough the date of the composition of _that_ part
of the work, _viz._ April 1804, which corresponds exactly to the "last
primrose-time" of the previous extract from the seventh book, in which
he tells us that after its long silence, his Muse was heard again. So
far Wordsworth's own allusions to the date of 'The Prelude.'

But there are others supplied by his own, and his sister's letters, and
also by the Grasmere Journal. In the Dove Cottage household it was
known, and talked of, as "the Poem to Coleridge;" and Dorothy records,
on 11th January 1803, that her brother was working at it. On 13th
February 1804, she writes to Mrs. Clarkson that her brother was engaged
on a poem on his own life, and was "going on with great rapidity." On
the 6th of March 1804, Wordsworth wrote from Grasmere to De Quincey,

  "I am now writing a poem on my own earlier life: I have just finished
  that part of it in which I speak of my residence at the University."
  ... It is "better than half complete, viz. four books, amounting to
  about 2500 lines."[A]

On the 24th of March, Dorothy wrote to Mrs. Clarkson, that since
Coleridge left them (which was in January 1804), her brother had added
1500 lines to the poem on his own life. On the 29th of April 1804,
Wordsworth wrote to Richard Sharpe,

  "I have been very busy these last ten weeks: having written between
  two and three thousand lines--accurately near three thousand--in that
  time; namely, four books, and a third of another. I am at present at
  the Seventh Book."

On the 25th December 1804, he wrote to Sir George Beaumont,

  "I have written upwards of 2000 verses during the last ten weeks."

We thus find that Books I. to IV. had been written by the 6th of March
1804, that from the 19th February to the 29th of April nearly 3000 lines
were written, that March and April were specially productive months, for
by the 29th April he had reached Book VII. while from 16th October to
25th December he wrote over 2000 lines.

Dorothy and Mary Wordsworth transcribed the earlier books more than
once, and a copy of some of them was given to Coleridge to take with him
to Malta.

It is certain that the remaining books of 'The Prelude' were all written
in the spring and early summer of 1805; the seventh, eighth, ninth,
tenth, eleventh, and part of the twelfth being finished about the middle
of April; the last 300 lines of book twelfth in the last week of April;
and the two remaining books--the thirteenth and fourteenth--before the
20th of May. The following extracts from letters of Wordsworth to Sir
George Beaumont make this clear, and also cast light on matters much
more important than the mere dates of composition.

  GRASMERE, Dec. 25, 1804.

  "My dear Sir George,--You will be pleased to hear that I have been
  advancing with my work: I have written upwards of 2000 verses during
  the last ten weeks. I do not know if you are exactly acquainted with
  the plan of my poetical labour: It is twofold; first, a Poem, to be
  called 'The Recluse;' in which it will be my object to express in
  verse my most interesting feelings concerning man, nature, and
  society; and next, a poem (in which I am at present chiefly engaged)
  on _my earlier life, or the growth of my own mind,_ taken up upon a
  large scale. This latter work I expect to have finished before the
  month of May; and then I purpose to fall with all my might on the
  former, which is the chief object upon which my thoughts have been
  fixed these many years. Of this poem, that of 'The Pedlar,' which
  Coleridge read to you, is part; and I may have written of it
  altogether about 2000 lines. It will consist, I hope, of about ten or
  twelve thousand."


  GRASMERE, May 1, 1805.

  "Unable to proceed with this work, [B] I turned my thoughts again to
  the 'Poem on my own Life', and you will be glad to hear that I have
  added 300 lines to it in the course of last week. Two books more will
  conclude it. It will not be much less than 9000 lines,--not hundred
  but thousand lines long,--an alarming length! and a thing
  unprecedented in literary history that a man should talk so much about
  himself. It is not self-conceit, as you will know well, that has
  induced me to do this, but real humility. I began the work because I
  was _unprepared_ to treat _any more arduous subject_, and _diffident
  of my own powers_. Here, at least, I hoped that to a certain degree I
  should be sure of succeeding, as I had nothing to do but describe what
  I had felt and thought, and therefore could not easily be bewildered.
  This might have been done in narrower compass by a man of more
  address; but I have done my best. If, when the work shall be finished,
  it appears to the judicious to have redundancies, they shall be lopped
  off, if possible; but this is very difficult to do, when a man has
  written with thought; and this defect, whenever I have suspected it or
  found it to exist in any writings of mine, I have always found it
  incurable. The fault lies too deep, and is in the first conception."


  GRASMERE, June 3, 1805.

  "I have the pleasure to say that I _finished my poem_ about a
  fortnight ago. I had looked forward to the day as a most happy one;
  ... But it was not a happy day for me; I was dejected on many
  accounts: when I looked back upon the performance, it seemed to have a
  dead weight about it,--the reality so far short of the expectation. It
  was the first long labour that I had finished; and the doubt whether I
  should ever live to write 'The Recluse', and the sense which I had of
  this poem being so far below what I seemed capable of executing,
  depressed me much; above all, many heavy thoughts of my poor departed
  brother hung upon me, the joy which I should have had in showing him
  the manuscript, and a thousand other vain fancies and dreams. I have
  spoken of this, because it was a state of feeling new to me, the
  occasion being new. This work may be considered as a sort of _portico_
  to 'The Recluse', part of the same building, which I hope to be able,
  ere long, to begin with in earnest; and if I am permitted to bring it
  to a conclusion, and to write, further, a narrative poem of the epic
  kind, I shall consider the task of my life as over. I ought to add,
  that I have the satisfaction of finding the present poem not quite of
  so alarming a length as I apprehended."


These letters explain the delay in the publication of 'The Prelude'.
They show that what led Wordsworth to write so much about himself was
not self-conceit, but self-diffidence. He felt unprepared as yet for the
more arduous task he had set before himself. He saw its faults as
clearly, or more clearly, than the critics who condemned him. He knew
that its length was excessive. He tried to condense it; he kept it
beside him unpublished, and occasionally revised it, with a view to
condensation, in vain. The text received his final corrections in the
year 1832.

Wordsworth's reluctance to publish these portions of his great poem,
'The Recluse', other than 'The Excursion', during his lifetime, was a
matter of surprise to his friends; to whom he, or the ladies of his
household, had read portions of it. In the year 1819, Charles Lamb wrote
to him,

  "If, as you say, 'The Waggoner', in some sort, came at my call, oh for
  a potent voice to call forth 'The Recluse' from his profound
  dormitory, where he sleeps forgetful of his foolish charge--the
  world!"

('The Letters of Charles Lamb', edited by Alfred Ainger, vol. ii. p.
26.)

The admission made in the letter of May 1st, 1805, is note-worthy:

  "This defect" (of redundancy) "whenever I have suspected it or found
  it to exist in any writings of mine, _I have always found incurable.
  The fault lies too deep, and is in the first conception_."

The actual result--in the Poem he had at length committed to
writing--was so far inferior to the ideal he had tried to realise, that
he could never be induced to publish it. He spoke of the MS. as forming
a sort of _portico_ to his larger work--the poem on Man, Nature, and
Society--which he meant to call 'The Recluse', and of which one portion
only, _viz._ 'The Excursion', was finished. It is clear that throughout
the composition of 'The Prelude', he felt that he was experimenting with
his powers. He wished to find out whether he could construct "a literary
work that might live," on a larger scale than his Lyrics; and it was on
the writing of a "philosophical poem," dealing with Man and Nature, in
their deepest aspects, that his thoughts had been fixed for many years.
From the letter to Sir George Beaumont, December 25, 1804, it is evident
that he regarded the autobiographical poem as a mere prologue to this
larger work, to which he hoped to turn "with all his might" after 'The
Prelude' was finished, and of which he had already written about a fifth
or a sixth (see 'Memoirs', vol. i. p. 304). This was the part known in
the Grasmere household as "The Pedlar," a title given to it from the
character of the Wanderer, but afterwards happily set aside. He did not
devote himself, however, to the completion of his wider purpose,
immediately after 'The Prelude' was finished. He wrote one book of 'The
Recluse' which he called "Home at Grasmere"; and, though detached from
'The Prelude', it is a continuation of the narrative of his own life at
the point where it is left off in the latter poem. It consists of 733
lines. Two extracts from it were published in the 'Memoirs of
Wordsworth' in 1851 (vol. i. pp. 151 and 155), beginning,

  'On Nature's invitation do I come,'

and

  'Bleak season was it, turbulent and bleak.'

These will be found in vol. ii. of this edition, pp. 118 and 121
respectively.

The autobiographical poem remained, as already stated, during
Wordsworth's lifetime without a title. The name finally adopted--'The
Prelude'--was suggested by Mrs. Wordsworth, both to indicate its
relation to the larger work, and the fact of its having been written
comparatively early.

As the poem was addressed to Coleridge, it may be desirable to add in
this place his critical verdict upon it; along with the poem which he
wrote, on hearing Wordsworth read a portion of it to him, in the winter
of 1806, at Coleorton.

In his 'Table Talk' (London, 1835, vol. ii. p. 70), Coleridge's opinion
is recorded thus:

  "I cannot help regretting that Wordsworth did not first publish his
  thirteen (fourteen) books on the growth of an individual
  mind--superior, as I used to think, upon the whole to 'The Excursion'.
  You may judge how I felt about them by my own Poem upon the occasion.
  Then the plan laid out, and, I believe, partly suggested by me, was,
  that Wordsworth should assume the station of a man in mental repose,
  one whose principles were made up, and so prepared to deliver upon
  authority a system of philosophy. He was to treat man as man,--a
  subject of eye, ear, touch, and taste in contact with external nature,
  and informing the senses from the mind, and not compounding a mind out
  of the senses; then he was to describe the pastoral and other states
  of society, assuming something of the Juvenalian spirit as he
  approached the high civilisation of cities and towns, and opening a
  melancholy picture of the present state of degeneracy and vice; thence
  he was to infer and reveal the proof of, and necessity for, the whole
  state of man and society being subject to, and illustrative of a
  redemptive process in operation, showing how this idea reconciled all
  the anomalies, and promised future glory and restoration. Something of
  this sort was, I think, agreed on. It is, in substance, what I have
  been all my life doing in my system of philosophy.

  "I think Wordsworth possessed more of the genius of a great
  Philosopher than any man I ever knew, or, as I believe, has existed in
  England since Milton; but it seems to me that he ought never to have
  abandoned the contemplative position which is peculiarly--perhaps, I
  might say exclusively--fitted for him. His proper title is 'Spectator
  ab extra'."

The following are Coleridge's Lines addressed to Wordsworth:

  TO WILLIAM WORDSWORTH

  COMPOSED ON THE NIGHT AFTER HIS RECITATION OF A POEM ON THE GROWTH OF
  AN INDIVIDUAL MIND


  Friend of the wise! and teacher of the good!
  Into my heart have I received that lay
  More than historic, that prophetic lay
  Wherein (high theme by thee first sung aright)
  Of the foundations and the building up
  Of a Human Spirit thou hast dared to tell
  What may be told, to the understanding mind
  Revealable; and what within the mind
  By vital breathings secret as the soul
  Of vernal growth, oft quickens in the heart
  Thoughts all too deep for words!--
             Theme hard as high,
  Of smiles spontaneous, and mysterious fears
  (The first-born they of Reason and twin-birth),
  Of tides obedient to external force,
  And currents self-determined, as might seem,
  Or by some inner power; of moments awful,
  Now in thy inner life, and now abroad,
  When power streamed from thee, and thy soul received
  The Light reflected, as a light bestowed--
  Of fancies fair, and milder hours of youth,
  Hyblean murmurs of poetic thought
  Industrious in its joy, in vales and glens,
  Native or outland, lakes and famous hills!
  Or on the lonely high-road, when the stars
  Were rising; or by secret mountain-streams,
  The guides and the companions of thy way!
  Of more than Fancy, of the Social Sense
  Distending wide, and man beloved as man,
  Where France in all her towns lay vibrating
  Like some becalmed bark beneath the burst
  Of Heaven's immediate thunder, when no cloud
  Is visible, or shadow on the main.
  For thou wert there, thine own brows garlanded,
  Amid the tremor of a realm aglow,
  Amid a mighty nation jubilant,
  When from the general heart of humankind
  Hope sprang forth like a full-born Deity!
--Of that dear Hope afflicted and struck down,
  So summoned homeward, thenceforth calm and sure,
  From the dread watch-tower of man's absolute self,
  With light unwaning on her eyes, to look
  Far on--herself a glory to behold.
  The Angel of the vision! Then (last strain)
  Of Duty, chosen laws controlling choice,
  Action and joy!--An Orphic song indeed,
  A song divine of high and passionate thoughts
  To their own music chanted!
                             O great Bard!
  Ere yet that last strain dying awed the air,
  With stedfast eye I viewed thee in the choir
  Of ever-enduring men. The truly great
  Have all one age, and from one visible space
  Shed influence! They, both in power and act,
  Are permanent, and Time is not with them,
  Save as it worketh for them, they in it.
  Nor less a sacred roll, than those of old,
  And to be placed, as they, with gradual fame
  Among the archives of mankind, thy work
  Makes audible a linked lay of Truth,
  Of Truth profound a sweet continuous lay,
  Not learnt, but native, her own natural notes!
  Ah! as I listened with a heart forlorn,
  The pulses of my being beat anew:
  And even as life returns upon the drowned,
  Life's joy rekindling roused a throng of pains--
  Keen pangs of Love, awakening as a babe
  Turbulent, with an outcry in the heart;
  And fears self-willed, that shunned the eye of hope;
  And hope that scarce would know itself from fear;
  Sense of past youth, and manhood come in vain,
  And genius given, and knowledge won in vain;
  And all which I had culled in wood-walks wild,
  And all which patient toil had reared, and all,
  Commune with thee had opened out--but flowers
  Strewed on my corse, and borne upon my bier,
  In the same coffin, for the self-same grave!

  ...   Eve following eve,
  Dear tranquil time, when the sweet sense of Home
  Is sweetest! moments for their own sake hailed,
  And more desired, more precious for thy song,
  In silence listening, like a devout child,
  My soul lay passive, by thy various strain
  Driven as in surges now beneath the stars,
  With momentary stars of my own birth,
  Fair constellated foam, [C] still darting off
  Into the darkness; now a tranquil sea,
  Outspread and bright, yet swelling to the moon.

    And when--O Friend! my comforter and guide!
  Strong in thyself, and powerful to give strength!--
  Thy long-sustained Song finally closed,
  And thy deep voice had ceased--yet thou thyself
  Wert still before my eyes, and round us both
  That happy vision of beloved faces--
  Scarce conscious, and yet conscious of its close
  I sate, my being blended in one thought
  (Thought was it? or aspiration? or resolve?)
  Absorbed, yet hanging still upon the sound--
  And when I rose I found myself in prayer.


It was at Coleorton, in Leicestershire,--where the Wordsworths lived
during the winter of 1806-7, in a farm-house belonging to Sir George
Beaumont, and where Coleridge visited them,--that 'The Prelude' was read
aloud by its author, on the occasion which gave birth to these
lines.--Ed.


[Footnote A: See the 'De Quincey Memorials,' vol. i. p. 125.--Ed.]


[Footnote B: A poem on his brother John.--Ed.]


[Footnote C: Compare

  "A beautiful white cloud of foam at momentary intervals, coursed by
  the side of the vessel with a roar, and little stars of flame danced
  and sparkled and went out in it: and every now and then light
  detachments of this white cloud-like foam darted off from the vessel's
  side, each with its own small constellation, over the sea, and scoured
  out of sight like a Tartar troop over a wilderness."

S. T. C. in 'Biographia Literaria', Satyrane's Letters, letter i. p. 196
(edition 1817).--Ed.]





       *       *       *       *       *





BOOK FIRST


INTRODUCTION.--CHILDHOOD AND SCHOOL-TIME


  O there is blessing in this gentle breeze,
  A visitant that while it fans my cheek
  Doth seem half-conscious of the joy it brings
  From the green fields, and from yon azure sky.
  Whate'er its mission, the soft breeze can come                       5
  To none more grateful than to me; escaped
  From the vast city, [A] where I long had pined
  A discontented sojourner: now free,
  Free as a bird to settle where I will.
  What dwelling shall receive me? in what vale                        10
  Shall be my harbour? underneath what grove
  Shall I take up my home? and what clear stream
  Shall with its murmur lull me into rest?
  The earth is all before me. [B] With a heart
  Joyous, nor scared at its own liberty,                              15
  I look about; and should the chosen guide
  Be nothing better than a wandering cloud,
  I cannot miss my way. I breathe again!
  Trances of thought and mountings of the mind
  Come fast upon me: it is shaken off,                                20
  That burthen of my own unnatural self,
  The heavy weight of many a weary day [C]
  Not mine, and such as were not made for me.
  Long months of peace (if such bold word accord
  With any promises of human life),                                   25
  Long months of ease and undisturbed delight
  Are mine in prospect; whither shall I turn,
  By road or pathway, or through trackless field,
  Up hill or down, or shall some floating thing
  Upon the river point me out my course?                              30

    Dear Liberty! Yet what would it avail
  But for a gift that consecrates the joy?
  For I, methought, while the sweet breath of heaven
  Was blowing on my body, felt within
  A correspondent breeze, that gently moved                           35
  With quickening virtue, but is now become
  A tempest, a redundant energy,
  Vexing its own creation. Thanks to both,
  And their congenial powers, that, while they join
  In breaking up a long-continued frost,                              40
  Bring with them vernal promises, the hope
  Of active days urged on by flying hours,--
  Days of sweet leisure, taxed with patient thought
  Abstruse, nor wanting punctual service high,
  Matins and vespers of harmonious verse!                             45

    Thus far, O Friend! [D] did I, not used to make
  A present joy the matter of a song,
  Pour forth that day my soul in measured strains
  That would not be forgotten, and are here
  Recorded: to the open fields I told                                 50
  A prophecy: poetic numbers came
  Spontaneously to clothe in priestly robe
  A renovated spirit singled out,
  Such hope was mine, for holy services.
  My own voice cheered me, and, far more, the mind's                  55
  Internal echo of the imperfect sound;
  To both I listened, drawing from them both
  A cheerful confidence in things to come.

    Content and not unwilling now to give
  A respite to this passion, I paced on                               60
  With brisk and eager steps; and came, at length,
  To a green shady place, [E] where down I sate
  Beneath a tree, slackening my thoughts by choice,
  And settling into gentler happiness.
  'Twas autumn, and a clear and placid day,                           65
  With warmth, as much as needed, from a sun
  Two hours declined towards the west; a day
  With silver clouds, and sunshine on the grass,
  And in the sheltered and the sheltering grove
  A perfect stillness. Many were the thoughts                         70
  Encouraged and dismissed, till choice was made
  Of a known Vale, [F] whither my feet should turn,
  Nor rest till they had reached the very door
  Of the one cottage [G] which methought I saw.
  No picture of mere memory ever looked                               75
  So fair; and while upon the fancied scene
  I gazed with growing love, a higher power
  Than Fancy gave assurance of some work
  Of glory there forthwith to be begun,
  Perhaps too there performed. Thus long I mused,                     80
  Nor e'er lost sight of what I mused upon,
  Save when, amid the stately groves of oaks,
  Now here, now there, an acorn, from its cup
  Dislodged, through sere leaves rustled, or at once
  To the bare earth dropped with a startling sound.                   85
  From that soft couch I rose not, till the sun
  Had almost touched the horizon; casting then
  A backward glance upon the curling cloud
  Of city smoke, by distance ruralised;
  Keen as a Truant or a Fugitive,                                     90
  But as a Pilgrim resolute, I took,
  Even with the chance equipment of that hour,
  The road that pointed toward the chosen Vale. [F]
  It was a splendid evening, and my soul
  Once more made trial of her strength, nor lacked                    95
  AEolian visitations; but the harp
  Was soon defrauded, and the banded host
  Of harmony dispersed in straggling sounds,
  And lastly utter silence! "Be it so;
  Why think of any thing but present good?" [H]                      100
  So, like a home-bound labourer I pursued
  My way beneath the mellowing sun, that shed
  Mild influence; nor left in me one wish
  Again to bend the Sabbath of that time
  To a servile yoke. What need of many words?                        105
  A pleasant loitering journey, through three days
  Continued, brought me to my hermitage, [I]
  I spare to tell of what ensued, the life
  In common things--the endless store of things,
  Rare, or at least so seeming, every day                            110
  Found all about me in one neighbourhood--
  The self-congratulation, and, from morn
  To night, unbroken cheerfulness serene. [K]
  But speedily an earnest longing rose
  To brace myself to some determined aim,                            115
  Reading or thinking; either to lay up
  New stores, or rescue from decay the old
  By timely interference: and therewith
  Came hopes still higher, that with outward life
  I might endue some airy phantasies                                 120
  That had been floating loose about for years,
  And to such beings temperately deal forth
  The many feelings that oppressed my heart.
  That hope hath been discouraged; welcome light
  Dawns from the east, but dawns to disappear                        125
  And mock me with a sky that ripens not
  Into a steady morning: if my mind,
  Remembering the bold promise of the past,
  Would gladly grapple with some noble theme,
  Vain is her wish; where'er she turns she finds                     130
  Impediments from day to day renewed.

    And now it would content me to yield up
  Those lofty hopes awhile, for present gifts
  Of humbler industry. But, oh, dear Friend!
  The Poet, gentle creature as he is,                                135
  Hath, like the Lover, his unruly times;
  His fits when he is neither sick nor well,
  Though no distress be near him but his own
  Unmanageable thoughts: his mind, best pleased
  While she as duteous as the mother dove                            140
  Sits brooding, lives not always to that end,
  But like the innocent bird, hath goadings on
  That drive her as in trouble through the groves; [L]
  With me is now such passion, to be blamed
  No otherwise than as it lasts too long.                            145

    When, as becomes a man who would prepare
  For such an arduous work, I through myself
  Make rigorous inquisition, the report
  Is often cheering; for I neither seem
  To lack that first great gift, the vital soul,                     150
  Nor general Truths, which are themselves a sort
  Of Elements and Agents, Under-powers,
  Subordinate helpers of the living mind:
  Nor am I naked of external things,
  Forms, images, nor numerous other aids                             155
  Of less regard, though won perhaps with toil
  And needful to build up a Poet's praise.
  Time, place, and manners do I seek, and these
  Are found in plenteous store, but nowhere such
  As may be singled out with steady choice;                          160
  No little band of yet remembered names
  Whom I, in perfect confidence, might hope
  To summon back from lonesome banishment,
  And make them dwellers in the hearts of men
  Now living, or to live in future years.                            165
  Sometimes the ambitious Power of choice, mistaking
  Proud spring-tide swellings for a regular sea,
  Will settle on some British theme, some old
  Romantic tale by Milton left unsung;
  More often turning to some gentle place                            170
  Within the groves of Chivalry, I pipe
  To shepherd swains, or seated harp in hand,
  Amid reposing knights by a river side
  Or fountain, listen to the grave reports
  Of dire enchantments faced and overcome                            175
  By the strong mind, and tales of warlike feats,
  Where spear encountered spear, and sword with sword
  Fought, as if conscious of the blazonry
  That the shield bore, so glorious was the strife;
  Whence inspiration for a song that winds                           180
  Through ever changing scenes of votive quest
  Wrongs to redress, harmonious tribute paid
  To patient courage and unblemished truth,
  To firm devotion, zeal unquenchable,
  And Christian meekness hallowing faithful loves.                   185
  Sometimes, more sternly moved, I would relate
  How vanquished Mithridates northward passed,
  And, hidden in the cloud of years, became
  Odin, the Father of a race by whom
  Perished the Roman Empire: [M] how the friends                     190
  And followers of Sertorius, [N] out of Spain
  Flying, found shelter in the Fortunate Isles, [O]
  And left their usages, their arts and laws,
  To disappear by a slow gradual death,
  To dwindle and to perish one by one,                               195
  Starved in those narrow bounds: [P] but not the soul
  Of Liberty, which fifteen hundred years
  Survived, and, when the European came
  With skill and power that might not be withstood,
  Did, like a pestilence, maintain its hold                          200
  And wasted down by glorious death that race
  Of natural heroes: or I would record
  How, in tyrannic times, some high-souled man,
  Unnamed among the chronicles of kings,
  Suffered in silence for Truth's sake: or tell,                     205
  How that one Frenchman, [Q] through continued force
  Of meditation on the inhuman deeds
  Of those who conquered first the Indian Isles,
  Went single in his ministry across
  The Ocean; not to comfort the oppressed,                           210
  But, like a thirsty wind, to roam about
  Withering the Oppressor: how Gustavus sought
  Help at his need in Dalecarlia's mines: [R]
  How Wallace fought for Scotland; left the name
  Of Wallace to be found, like a wild flower,                        215
  All over his dear Country; [S] left the deeds
  Of Wallace, like a family of Ghosts,
  To people the steep rocks and river banks,
  Her natural sanctuaries, with a local soul
  Of independence and stern liberty.                                 220
  Sometimes it suits me better to invent
  A tale from my own heart, more near akin
  To my own passions and habitual thoughts;
  Some variegated story, in the main
  Lofty, but the unsubstantial structure melts                       225
  Before the very sun that brightens it,
  Mist into air dissolving! Then a wish,
  My best and favourite aspiration, mounts
  With yearning toward some philosophic song
  Of Truth that cherishes our daily life;                            230
  With meditations passionate from deep
  Recesses in man's heart, immortal verse [T]
  Thoughtfully fitted to the Orphean lyre; [U]
  But from this awful burthen I full soon
  Take refuge and beguile myself with trust                          235
  That mellower years will bring a riper mind
  And clearer insight. Thus my days are past
  In contradiction; with no skill to part
  Vague longing, haply bred by want of power,
  From paramount impulse not to be withstood,                        240
  A timorous capacity from prudence,
  From circumspection, infinite delay.
  Humility and modest awe themselves
  Betray me, serving often for a cloak
  To a more subtle selfishness; that now                             245
  Locks every function up in blank reserve,
  Now dupes me, trusting to an anxious eye
  That with intrusive restlessness beats off
  Simplicity and self-presented truth.
  Ah! better far than this, to stray about                           250
  Voluptuously through fields and rural walks,
  And ask no record of the hours, resigned
  To vacant musing, unreproved neglect
  Of all things, and deliberate holiday.
  Far better never to have heard the name                            255
  Of zeal and just ambition, than to live
  Baffled and plagued by a mind that every hour
  Turns recreant to her task; takes heart again,
  Then feels immediately some hollow thought
  Hang like an interdict upon her hopes.                             260
  This is my lot; for either still I find
  Some imperfection in the chosen theme,
  Or see of absolute accomplishment
  Much wanting, so much wanting, in myself,
  That I recoil and droop, and seek repose                           265
  In listlessness from vain perplexity,
  Unprofitably travelling toward the grave,
  Like a false steward who hath much received
  And renders nothing back.
                             Was it for this
  That one, the fairest of all rivers, [V] loved                     270
  To blend his murmurs with my nurse's song,
  And, from his alder shades and rocky falls,
  And from his fords and shallows, sent a voice
  That flowed along my dreams? For this, didst thou,
  O Derwent! winding among grassy holms                              275
  Where I was looking on, a babe in arms,
  Make ceaseless music that composed my thoughts
  To more than infant softness, giving me
  Amid the fretful dwellings of mankind
  A foretaste, a dim earnest, of the calm                            280
  That Nature breathes among the hills and groves?
  When he had left the mountains and received
  On his smooth breast the shadow of those towers [W]
  That yet survive, a shattered monument
  Of feudal sway, the bright blue river passed                       285
  Along the margin of our terrace walk; [X]
  A tempting playmate whom we dearly loved.
  Oh, many a time have I, a five years' child,
  In a small mill-race severed from his stream,
  Made one long bathing of a summer's day;                           290
  Basked in the sun, and plunged and basked again
  Alternate, all a summer's day, or scoured
  The sandy fields, leaping through flowery groves
  Of yellow ragwort; or when rock and hill,
  The woods, and distant Skiddaw's lofty height,                     295
  Were bronzed with deepest radiance, stood alone
  Beneath the sky, as if I had been born
  On Indian plains, and from my mother's hut
  Had run abroad in wantonness, to sport
  A naked savage, in the thunder shower.                             300

    Fair seed-time had my soul, and I grew up
  Fostered alike by beauty and by fear:
  Much favoured in my birth-place, and no less
  In that beloved Vale to which erelong
  We were transplanted [Y]--there were we let loose                  305
  For sports of wider range. Ere I had told
  Ten birth-days, [Z] when among the mountain slopes
  Frost, and the breath of frosty wind, had snapped
  The last autumnal crocus, [a] 'twas my joy
  With store of springes o'er my shoulder hung                       310
  To range the open heights where woodcocks run
  Along the smooth green turf. [b] Through half the night,
  Scudding away from snare to snare, I plied
  That anxious visitation;--moon and stars
  Were shining o'er my head. I was alone,                            315
  And seemed to be a trouble to the peace
  That dwelt among them. Sometimes it befel
  In these night wanderings, that a strong desire
  O'erpowered my better reason, and the bird
  Which was the captive of another's toil                            320
  Became my prey; and when the deed was done
  I heard among the solitary hills
  Low breathings coming after me, and sounds
  Of undistinguishable motion, steps
  Almost as silent as the turf they trod.                            325

  Nor less when spring had warmed the cultured Vale, [c]
  Moved we as plunderers where the mother-bird
  Had in high places built her lodge; though mean
  Our object and inglorious, yet the end
  Was not ignoble. Oh! when I have hung                              330
  Above the raven's nest, by knots of grass
  And half-inch fissures in the slippery rock
  But ill sustained, and almost (so it seemed)
  Suspended by the blast that blew amain,
  Shouldering the naked crag, [d] oh, at that time                    335
  While on the perilous ridge I hung alone,
  With what strange utterance did the loud dry wind
  Blow through my ear! the sky seemed not a sky
  Of earth--and with what motion moved the clouds!

    Dust as we are, the immortal spirit grows                         340
  Like harmony in music; there is a dark
  Inscrutable workmanship that reconciles
  Discordant elements, makes them cling together
  In one society. How strange that all
  The terrors, pains, and early miseries,                             345
  Regrets, vexations, lassitudes interfused
  Within my mind, should e'er have borne a part,
  And that a needful part, in making up
  The calm existence that is mine when I
  Am worthy of myself! Praise to the end!                             350
  Thanks to the means which Nature deigned to employ;
  Whether her fearless visitings, or those
  That came with soft alarm, like hurtless light
  Opening the peaceful clouds; or she may use
  Severer interventions, ministry                                     355
  More palpable, as best might suit her aim.

    One summer evening (led by her) I found
  A little boat tied to a willow tree
  Within a rocky cave, [e] its usual home.
  Straight I unloosed her chain, and stepping in                      360
  Pushed from the shore. It was an act of stealth
  And troubled pleasure, nor without the voice
  Of mountain-echoes did my boat move on;
  Leaving behind her still, on either side,
  Small circles glittering idly in the moon,                          365
  Until they melted all into one track
  Of sparkling light. But now, like one who rows,
  Proud of his skill, to reach a chosen point
  With an unswerving line, I fixed my view
  Upon the summit of a craggy ridge,                                  370
  The horizon's utmost boundary; far above
  Was nothing but the stars and the grey sky.
  She was an elfin pinnace; lustily
  I dipped my oars into the silent lake,
  And, as I rose upon the stroke, my boat                             375
  Went heaving through the water like a swan;
  When, from behind that craggy steep till then
  The horizon's bound, a huge peak, black and huge,
  As if with voluntary power instinct
  Upreared its head. [f] I struck and struck again,                   380
  And growing still in stature the grim shape
  Towered up between me and the stars, and still,
  For so it seemed, with purpose of its own
  And measured motion like a living thing,
  Strode after me. With trembling oars I turned,                      385
  And through the silent water stole my way
  Back to the covert of the willow tree;
  There in her mooring-place I left my bark,--
  And through the meadows homeward went, in grave
  And serious mood; but after I had seen                              390
  That spectacle, for many days, my brain
  Worked with a dim and undetermined sense
  Of unknown modes of being; o'er my thoughts
  There hung a darkness, call it solitude
  Or blank desertion. No familiar shapes                              395
  Remained, no pleasant images of trees,
  Of sea or sky, no colours of green fields;
  But huge and mighty forms, that do not live
  Like living men, moved slowly through the mind
  By day, and were a trouble to my dreams.                            400

    Wisdom and Spirit of the universe!
  Thou Soul that art the eternity of thought,
  That givest to forms and images a breath
  And everlasting motion, not in vain
  By day or star-light thus from my first dawn                        405
  Of childhood didst thou intertwine for me
  The passions that build up our human soul;
  Not with the mean and vulgar works of man,
  But with high objects, with enduring things--
  With life and nature, purifying thus                                410
  The elements of feeling and of thought,
  And sanctifying, by such discipline,
  Both pain and fear, until we recognise
  A grandeur in the beatings of the heart.
  Nor was this fellowship vouchsafed to me                            415
  With stinted kindness. In November days,
  When vapours rolling down the valley made
  A lonely scene more lonesome, among woods
  At noon, and 'mid the calm of summer nights,
  When, by the margin of the trembling lake,                          420
  Beneath the gloomy hills homeward I went
  In solitude, such intercourse was mine;
  Mine was it in the fields both day and night,
  And by the waters, all the summer long.

    And in the frosty season, when the sun                            425
  Was set, and visible for many a mile
  The cottage windows blazed through twilight gloom,
  I heeded not their summons: happy time
  It was indeed for all of us--for me
  It was a time of rapture! Clear and loud                            430
  The village clock tolled six,--I wheeled about,
  Proud and exulting like an untired horse
  That cares not for his home. All shod with steel,
  We hissed along the polished ice in games
  Confederate, imitative of the chase                                 435
  And woodland pleasures,--the resounding horn,
  The pack loud chiming, and the hunted hare.
  So through the darkness and the cold we flew,
  And not a voice was idle; with the din
  Smitten, the precipices rang aloud;                                 440
  The leafless trees and every icy crag
  Tinkled like iron; [g] while far distant hills
  Into the tumult sent an alien sound
  Of melancholy not unnoticed, while the stars
  Eastward were sparkling clear, and in the west                      445
  The orange sky of evening died away.
  Not seldom from the uproar I retired
  Into a silent bay, or sportively
  Glanced sideway, leaving the tumultuous throng,
  To cut across the reflex of a star                                  450
  That fled, and, flying still before me, gleamed
  Upon the glassy plain; and oftentimes,
  When we had given our bodies to the wind,
  And all the shadowy banks on either side
  Came sweeping through the darkness, spinning still                  455
  The rapid line of motion, then at once
  Have I, reclining back upon my heels,
  Stopped short; yet still the solitary cliffs
  Wheeled by me--even as if the earth had rolled
  With visible motion her diurnal round!                              460
  Behind me did they stretch in solemn train,
  Feebler and feebler, and I stood and watched
  Till all was tranquil as a dreamless sleep. [h]

    Ye Presences of Nature in the sky
  And on the earth! Ye Visions of the hills!                          465
  And Souls of lonely places! can I think
  A vulgar hope was yours when ye employed
  Such ministry, when ye through many a year
  Haunting me thus among my boyish sports,
  On caves and trees, upon the woods and hills,                       470
  Impressed upon all forms the characters
  Of danger or desire; and thus did make
  The surface of the universal earth
  With triumph and delight, with hope and fear,
  Work like a sea?
    Not uselessly employed,                                           475
  Might I pursue this theme through every change
  Of exercise and play, to which the year
  Did summon us in his delightful round.

    We were a noisy crew; the sun in heaven
  Beheld not vales more beautiful than ours;                          480
  Nor saw a band in happiness and joy
  Richer, or worthier of the ground they trod.
  I could record with no reluctant voice
  The woods of autumn, and their hazel bowers
  With milk-white clusters hung; the rod and line,                    485
  True symbol of hope's foolishness, whose strong
  And unreproved enchantment led us on
  By rocks and pools shut out from every star,
  All the green summer, to forlorn cascades
  Among the windings hid of mountain brooks. [i]                      490
  --Unfading recollections! at this hour
  The heart is almost mine with which I felt,
  From some hill-top on sunny afternoons, [j]
  The paper kite high among fleecy clouds
  Pull at her rein like an impetuous courser;                         495
  Or, from the meadows sent on gusty days,
  Beheld her breast the wind, then suddenly
  Dashed headlong, and rejected by the storm.

    Ye lowly cottages wherein we dwelt,
  A ministration of your own was yours;                               500
  Can I forget you, being as you were
  So beautiful among the pleasant fields
  In which ye stood? or can I here forget
  The plain and seemly countenance with which
  Ye dealt out your plain comforts? Yet had ye                        505
  Delights and exultations of your own. [k]
  Eager and never weary we pursued
  Our home-amusements by the warm peat-fire
  At evening, when with pencil, and smooth slate
  In square divisions parcelled out and all                           510
  With crosses and with cyphers scribbled o'er,
  We schemed and puzzled, head opposed to head
  In strife too humble to be named in verse:
  Or round the naked table, snow-white deal,
  Cherry or maple, sate in close array,                               515
  And to the combat, Loo or Whist, led on
  A thick-ribbed army; not, as in the world,
  Neglected and ungratefully thrown by
  Even for the very service they had wrought,
  But husbanded through many a long campaign.                         520
  Uncouth assemblage was it, where no few
  Had changed their functions; some, plebeian cards [l]
  Which Fate, beyond the promise of their birth, [m]
  Had dignified, and called to represent
  The persons of departed potentates.                                 525
  Oh, with what echoes on the board they fell!
  Ironic diamonds,--clubs, hearts, diamonds, spades,
  A congregation piteously akin!
  Cheap matter offered they to boyish wit,
  Those sooty knaves, precipitated down                               530
  With scoffs and taunts, like Vulcan out of heaven:
  The paramount ace, a moon in her eclipse,
  Queens gleaming through their splendour's last decay,
  And monarchs surly at the wrongs sustained
  By royal visages. Meanwhile abroad                                  535
  Incessant rain was falling, or the frost
  Raged bitterly, with keen and silent tooth;
  And, interrupting oft that eager game,
  From under Esthwaite's splitting fields of ice
  The pent-up air, struggling to free itself,                         540
  Gave out to meadow grounds and hills a loud
  Protracted yelling, like the noise of wolves
  Howling in troops along the Bothnic Main. [n]

    Nor, sedulous as I have been to trace
  How Nature by extrinsic passion first                               545
  Peopled the mind with forms sublime or fair,
  And made me love them, may I here omit
  How other pleasures have been mine, and joys
  Of subtler origin; how I have felt,
  Not seldom even in that tempestuous time,                           550
  Those hallowed and pure motions of the sense
  Which seem, in their simplicity, to own
  An intellectual charm; that calm delight
  Which, if I err not, surely must belong
  To those first-born affinities that fit                             555
  Our new existence to existing things,
  And, in our dawn of being, constitute
  The bond of union between life and joy.

    Yes, I remember when the changeful earth,
  And twice five summers on my mind had stamped                       560
  The faces of the moving year, even then
  I held unconscious intercourse with beauty
  Old as creation, drinking in a pure
  Organic pleasure from the silver wreaths
  Of curling mist, or from the level plain                            565
  Of waters coloured by impending clouds. [o]

    The sands of Westmoreland, the creeks and bays
  Of Cumbria's rocky limits, they can tell
  How, when the Sea threw off his evening shade,
  And to the shepherd's hut on distant hills                          570
  Sent welcome notice of the rising moon,
  How I have stood, to fancies such as these
  A stranger, linking with the spectacle
  No conscious memory of a kindred sight,
  And bringing with me no peculiar sense                              575
  Of quietness or peace; yet have I stood,
  Even while mine eye hath moved o'er many a league
  Of shining water, gathering as it seemed
  Through every hair-breadth in that field of light
  New pleasure like a bee among the flowers.                          580

    Thus oft amid those fits of vulgar joy
  Which, through all seasons, on a child's pursuits
  Are prompt attendants, 'mid that giddy bliss
  Which, like a tempest, works along the blood
  And is forgotten; even then I felt                                  585
  Gleams like the flashing of a shield;--the earth
  And common face of Nature spake to me
  Rememberable things; sometimes, 'tis true,
  By chance collisions and quaint accidents
  (Like those ill-sorted unions, work supposed                        590
  Of evil-minded fairies), yet not vain
  Nor profitless, if haply they impressed
  Collateral objects and appearances,
  Albeit lifeless then, and doomed to sleep
  Until maturer seasons called them forth                             595
  To impregnate and to elevate the mind.
--And if the vulgar joy by its own weight
  Wearied itself out of the memory,
  The scenes which were a witness of that joy
  Remained in their substantial lineaments                            600
  Depicted on the brain, and to the eye
  Were visible, a daily sight; and thus
  By the impressive discipline of fear,
  By pleasure and repeated happiness,
  So frequently repeated, and by force                                605
  Of obscure feelings representative
  Of things forgotten, these same scenes so bright,
  So beautiful, so majestic in themselves,
  Though yet the day was distant, did become
  Habitually dear, and all their forms                                610
  And changeful colours by invisible links
  Were fastened to the affections.

                                   I began
  My story early--not misled, I trust,
  By an infirmity of love for days
  Disowned by memory--ere the breath of spring                        615
  Planting my snowdrops among winter snows: [p]
  Nor will it seem to thee, O Friend! so prompt
  In sympathy, that I have lengthened out
  With fond and feeble tongue a tedious tale.
  Meanwhile, my hope has been, that I might fetch                     620
  Invigorating thoughts from former years;
  Might fix the wavering balance of my mind,
  And haply meet reproaches too, whose power
  May spur me on, in manhood now mature
  To honourable toil. Yet should these hopes                          625
  Prove vain, and thus should neither I be taught
  To understand myself, nor thou to know
  With better knowledge how the heart was framed
  Of him thou lovest; need I dread from thee
  Harsh judgments, if the song be loth to quit                        630
  Those recollected hours that have the charm
  Of visionary things, those lovely forms
  And sweet sensations that throw back our life,
  And almost make remotest infancy
  A visible scene, on which the sun is shining? [q]                   635

    One end at least hath been attained; my mind
  Hath been revived, and if this genial mood
  Desert me not, forthwith shall be brought down
  Through later years the story of my life.
  The road lies plain before me;--'tis a theme                        640
  Single and of determined bounds; and hence
  I choose it rather at this time, than work
  Of ampler or more varied argument,
  Where I might be discomfited and lost:
  And certain hopes are with me, that to thee                         645
  This labour will be welcome, honoured Friend!


       *       *       *       *       *

FOOTNOTES TO BOOK THE FIRST

[Footnote A: On the authority of the poet's nephew, and others, the
"city" here referred to has invariably been supposed to be Goslar, where
he spent the winter of 1799. Goslar, however, is as unlike a "vast city"
as it is possible to conceive. Wordsworth could have walked from end to
end of it in ten minutes.

One would think he was rather referring to London, but there is no
evidence to show that he visited the metropolis in the spring of 1799.
The lines which follow about "the open fields" (l. 50) are certainly
more appropriate to a journey from London to Sockburn, than from Goslar
to Gottingen; and what follows, the "green shady place" of l. 62, the
"known Vale" and the "cottage" of ll. 72 and 74, certainly refer to
English soil.--Ed.]


[Footnote B: Compare 'Paradise Lost', xii. l. 646.

  'The world was all before them, where to choose.'

Ed.]


[Footnote C: Compare 'Lines composed above Tintern Abbey', II. 52-5
(vol. ii. p. 53.)--Ed.]


[Footnote D: S. T. Coleridge.--Ed.]


[Footnote E: At Sockburn-on-Tees, county Durham, seven miles south-east
of Darlington.--Ed.]


[Footnote F: Grasmere.--Ed.]


[Footnote G: Dove Cottage at Town-end.--Ed.]


[Footnote H: This quotation I am unable to trace.--Ed.]

[Footnote I: Wordsworth spent most of the year 1799 (from March to
December) at Sockburn with the Hutchinsons. With Coleridge and his
brother John he went to Windermere, Rydal, Grasmere, etc., in the
autumn, returning afterwards to Sockburn. He left it again, with his
sister, on Dec. 19, to settle at Grasmere, and they reached Dove Cottage
on Dec. 21, 1799.--Ed.]


[Footnote K: See Dorothy Wordsworth's Grasmere Journal, _passim._--Ed.]


[Footnote L: Compare the 2nd and 3rd of the 'Stanzas written in my
pocket-copy of Thomson's Castle of Indolence', vol. ii. p. 306, and the
note appended to that poem.--Ed.]


[Footnote M: Mithridates (the Great) of Pontus, 131 B.C. to 63 B.C.
Vanquished by Pompey, B.C. 65, he fled to his son-in-law, Tigranes, in
Armenia. Being refused an asylum, he committed suicide. I cannot trace
the legend of Mithridates becoming Odin. Probably Wordsworth means that
he would invent, rather than "relate," the story. Gibbon ('Decline and
Fall of the Roman Empire', chap. x.) says,

  "It is supposed that Odin was the chief of a tribe of barbarians, who
  dwelt on the banks of Lake Maeotis, till the fall of Mithridates, and
  the arms of Pompey menaced the north with servitude; that Odin,
  yielding with indignant fury to a power which he was unable to resist,
  conducted his tribe from the frontiers of Asiatic Sarmatia into
  Sweden."

See also Mallet, 'Northern Antiquities', and Crichton and Wheaton's
'Scandinavia' (Edinburgh Cabinet Library):

  "Among the fugitive princes of Scythia, who were expelled from their
  country in the Mithridatic war, tradition has placed the name of Odin,
  the ruler of a potent tribe in Turkestan, between the Euxine and the
  Caspian."

Ed.]


[Footnote N: Sertorius, one of the Roman generals of the later
Republican era (see Plutarch's biography of him, and Corneille's
tragedy). On being proscribed by Sylla, he fled from Etruria to Spain;
there he became the leader of several bands of exiles, and repulsed the
Roman armies sent against him. Mithridates VI.--referred to in the
previous note--aided him, both with ships and money, being desirous of
establishing a new Roman Republic in Spain. From Spain he went to
Mauritania. In the Straits of Gibraltar he met some sailors, who had
been in the Atlantic Isles, and whose reports made him wish to visit
these islands.--Ed.]


[Footnote O: Supposed to be the Canaries.--Ed.]


[Footnote P:

  "In the early part of the fifteenth century there arrived at Lisbon an
  old bewildered pilot of the seas, who had been driven by tempests he
  knew not whither, and raved about an island in the far deep upon which
  he had landed, and which he had found peopled, and adorned with noble
  cities. The inhabitants told him that they were descendants of a band
  of Christians who fled from Spain when that country was conquered by
  the Moslems."

(See Washington Irving's 'Chronicles of Wolfert's Roost', etc.; and
Baring Gould's 'Curious Myths of the Middle Ages'.)--Ed.]


[Footnote Q: Dominique de Gourgues, a French gentleman, who went in 1568
to Florida, to avenge the massacre of the French by the Spaniards there.
(Mr. Carter, in the edition of 1850.)--Ed.]


[Footnote R: Gustavus I. of Sweden. In the course of his war with
Denmark he retreated to Dalecarlia, where he was a miner and field
labourer.--Ed.]


[Footnote S: The name--both as Christian and surname--is common in
Scotland, and towns (such as Wallacetown, Ayr) are named after him.

  "Passed two of Wallace's caves. There is scarcely a noted glen in
  Scotland that has not a cave for Wallace, or some other hero."

Dorothy Wordsworth's 'Recollections of a Tour made in Scotland in 1803'
(Sunday, August 21).--Ed.]


[Footnote T: Compare 'L'Allegro', l. 137.--Ed.]


[Footnote U: Compare 'Paradise Lost', iii. 17.--Ed.]


[Footnote V: The Derwent, on which the town of Cockermouth is built,
where Wordsworth was born on the 7th of April 1770.--Ed.]


[Footnote W: The towers of Cockermouth Castle.--Ed.]


[Footnote X: The "terrace walk" is at the foot of the garden, attached
to the old mansion in which Wordsworth's father, law-agent of the Earl
of Lonsdale, resided. This home of his childhood is alluded to in 'The
Sparrow's Nest', vol. ii. p. 236. Three of the "Poems, composed or
suggested during a Tour, in the Summer of 1833," refer to Cockermouth.
They are the fifth, sixth, and seventh in that series of Sonnets: and
are entitled respectively 'To the River Derwent'; 'In sight of the Town
of Cockermouth'; and the 'Address from the Spirit of Cockermouth
Castle'. It was proposed some time ago that this house--which is known
in Cockermouth as "Wordsworth House,"--should be purchased, and since
the Grammar School of the place is out of repair, that it should be
converted into a School, in memory of Wordsworth. This excellent
suggestion has not yet been carried out--Ed.]


[Footnote Y: The Vale of Esthwaite.--Ed.]


[Footnote Z: He went to Hawkshead School in 1778.--Ed.]


[Footnote a: About mid October the autumn crocus in the garden "snaps"
in that district.--Ed.]


[Footnote b: Possibly in the Claife and Colthouse heights to the east of
Esthwaite Water; but more probably the round-headed grassy hills that
lead up and on to the moor between Hawkshead and Coniston, where the
turf is always green and smooth.--Ed.]


[Footnote c: Yewdale: see next note. "Cultured Vale" exactly describes
the little oat-growing valley of Yewdale.--Ed.]


[Footnote d: As there are no "naked crags" with "half-inch fissures in
the slippery rocks" in the "cultured vale" of Esthwaite, the locality
referred to is probably the Hohne Fells above Yewdale, to the north of
Coniston, and only a few miles from Hawkshead, where a crag, now named
Raven's Crag, divides Tilberthwaite from Yewdale. In his 'Epistle to Sir
George Beaumont', Wordsworth speaks of Yewdale as a plain

             'spread
  Under a rock too steep for man to tread,
  Where sheltered from the north and bleak north-west
  Aloft the Raven hangs a visible nest,
  Fearless of all assaults that would her brood molest.'

Ed.]


[Footnote e: Dr. Cradock suggested the reading "rocky cove." Rocky cave
is tautological, and Wordsworth would hardly apply the epithet to an
ordinary boat-house.--Ed.]


[Footnote f: The "craggy steep till then the horizon's bound," is
probably the ridge of Ironkeld, reaching from high Arnside to the Tom
Heights above Tarn Hows; while the "huge peak, black and huge, as if
with voluntary power instinct," may he either the summit of Wetherlam,
or of Pike o'Blisco.  Mr. Rawnsley, however, is of opinion that if
Wordsworth rowed off from the west bank of Fasthwaite, he might see
beyond the craggy ridge of Loughrigg the mass of Nab-Scar, and Rydal
Head would rise up "black and huge." If he rowed from the east side,
then Pike o'Stickle, or Harrison Stickle, might rise above Ironkeld,
over Borwick Ground.--Ed.]


[Footnote g: Compare S. T. Coleridge.

  "When very many are skating together, the sounds and the noises give
  an impulse to the icy trees, and the woods all round the lake
  _tinkle_."

'The Friend', vol. ii. p. 325 (edition 1818).--Ed.]


[Footnote h: The two preceding paragraphs were published in 'The
Friend', December 28, 1809, under the title of the 'Growth of Genius
from the Influences of Natural Objects on the Imagination, in Boyhood
and Early Youth', and were afterwards inserted in all the collective
editions of Wordsworth's poems, from 1815 onwards. For the changes of
the text in these editions, see vol. ii. pp. 66-69.--Ed.]


[Footnote i: The becks amongst the Furness Fells, in Yewdale, and
elsewhere.--Ed.]


[Footnote j:  Possibly from the top of some of the rounded moraine hills
on the western side of the Hawkshead Valley.--Ed.]


[Footnote k: The pupils in the Hawkshead school, in Wordsworth's time,
boarded in the houses of village dames. Wordsworth lived with one Anne
Tyson, for whom he ever afterwards cherished the warmest regard, and
whose simple character he has immortalised. (See especially in the
fourth book of 'The Prelude', p. 187, etc.) Wordsworth lived in her
cottage at Hawkshead during nine eventful years. It still remains
externally unaltered, and little, if at all, changed in the interior. It
may be reached through a picturesque archway, near the principal inn of
the village (The Lion); and is on the right of a small open yard, which
is entered through this archway. To the left, a lane leads westwards to
the open country. It is a humble dwelling of two storeys. The floor of
the basement flat-paved with the blue flags of Coniston slate--is not
likely to have been changed since Wordsworth's time. The present door
with its "latch" (see book ii. l. 339), is probably the same as that
referred to in the poem, as in use in 1776, and onwards. For further
details see notes to book iv.--Ed.]


[Footnote l: Compare Pope's 'Rape of the Lock', canto iii. l. 54:

  'Gained but one trump, and one plebeian card.'

Ed.]


[Footnote m: Compare Walton's 'Compleat Angler', part i. 4:

  'I was for that time lifted above earth,
  And possess'd joys not promised in my birth.'

Ed.]


[Footnote n: The notes to this edition are explanatory rather than
critical; but as this image has been objected to--as inaccurate, and out
of all analogy with Wordsworth's use and wont--it may be mentioned that
the noise of the breaking up of the ice, after a severe winter in these
lakes, when it cracks and splits in all directions, is exactly as here
described. It is not of course, in any sense peculiar to the English
lakes; but there are probably few districts where the peculiar noise
referred to can be heard so easily or frequently. Compare Coleridge's
account of the Lake of Ratzeburg in winter, in 'The Friend', vol. ii. p.
323 (edition of 1818), and his reference to "the thunders and 'howlings'
of the breaking ice."--Ed.]


[Footnote o: I here insert a very remarkable MS. variation of the text,
or rather (I think) one of these experiments in dealing with his theme,
which were common with Wordsworth. I found it in a copy of the Poems
belonging to the poet's son:

  I tread the mazes of this argument, and paint
  How nature by collateral interest
  And by extrinsic passion peopled first
  My mind with beauteous objects: may I well
  Forget what might demand a loftier song,
  For oft the Eternal Spirit, He that has
  His Life in unimaginable things,
  And he who painting what He is in all
  The visible imagery of all the World
  Is yet apparent chiefly as the Soul
  Of our first sympathies--O bounteous power
  In Childhood, in rememberable days
  How often did thy love renew for me
  Those naked feelings which, when thou would'st form
  A living thing, thou sendest like a breeze
  Into its infant being! Soul of things
  How often did thy love renew for me
  Those hallowed and pure motions of the sense
  Which seem in their simplicity to own
  An intellectual charm: That calm delight
  Which, if I err not, surely must belong
  To those first-born affinities which fit
  Our new existence to existing things,
  And, in our dawn of being, constitute
  The bond of union betwixt life and joy.
  Yes, I remember, when the changeful youth
  And twice five seasons on my mind had stamped
  The faces of the moving year, even then
  A child, I held unconscious intercourse
  With the eternal beauty, drinking in
  A pure organic pleasure from the lines
  Of curling mist, or from the smooth expanse
  Of waters coloured by the clouds of Heaven.

Ed.]


[Footnote p: Snowdrops still grow abundantly in many an orchard and
meadow by the road which skirts the western side of Esthwaite
Lake.--Ed.]


[Footnote q: Compare the 'Ode, Intimations of Immortality', stanza
ix.--Ed.]





       *       *       *       *       *





BOOK SECOND


SCHOOL-TIME--continued ...


  Thus far, O Friend! have we, though leaving much
  Unvisited, endeavoured to retrace
  The simple ways in which my childhood walked;
  Those chiefly that first led me to the love
  Of rivers, woods, and fields. The passion yet                        5
  Was in its birth, sustained as might befal
  By nourishment that came unsought; for still
  From week to week, from month to month, we lived
  A round of tumult. Duly were our games
  Prolonged in summer till the day-light failed:                      10
  No chair remained before the doors; the bench
  And threshold steps were empty; fast asleep
  The labourer, and the old man who had sate
  A later lingerer; yet the revelry
  Continued and the loud uproar: at last,                             15
  When all the ground was dark, and twinkling stars
  Edged the black clouds, home and to bed we went,
  Feverish with weary joints and beating minds.
  Ah! is there one who ever has been young,
  Nor needs a warning voice to tame the pride                         20
  Of intellect and virtue's self-esteem?
  One is there, though the wisest and the best
  Of all mankind, who covets not at times
  Union that cannot be;--who would not give,
  If so he might, to duty and to truth                                25
  The eagerness of infantine desire?
  A tranquillising spirit presses now
  On my corporeal frame, so wide appears
  The vacancy between me and those days
  Which yet have such self-presence in my mind,                       30
  That, musing on them, often do I seem
  Two consciousnesses, conscious of myself
  And of some other Being. A rude mass
  Of native rock, left midway in the square
  Of our small market village, was the goal                           35
  Or centre of these sports; [A] and when, returned
  After long absence, thither I repaired,
  Gone was the old grey stone, and in its place
  A smart Assembly-room usurped the ground
  That had been ours. There let the fiddle scream,                    40
  And be ye happy! Yet, my Friends! I know
  That more than one of you will think with me
  Of those soft starry nights, and that old Dame
  From whom the stone was named, who there had sate,
  And watched her table with its huckster's wares                     45
  Assiduous, through the length of sixty years.

    We ran a boisterous course; the year span round
  With giddy motion. But the time approached
  That brought with it a regular desire
  For calmer pleasures, when the winning forms                        50
  Of Nature were collaterally attached
  To every scheme of holiday delight
  And every boyish sport, less grateful else
  And languidly pursued.
                         When summer came,
  Our pastime was, on bright half-holidays,                           55
  To sweep, along the plain of Windermere
  With rival oars; [B] and the selected bourne
  Was now an Island musical with birds
  That sang and ceased not; now a Sister Isle
  Beneath the oaks' umbrageous covert, sown                           60
  With lilies of the valley like a field; [C]
  And now a third small Island, where survived
  In solitude the ruins of a shrine
  Once to Our Lady dedicate, and served
  Daily with chaunted rites. [D] In such a race                       65
  So ended, disappointment could be none,
  Uneasiness, or pain, or jealousy:
  We rested in the shade, all pleased alike,
  Conquered and conqueror. Thus the pride of strength,
  And the vain-glory of superior skill,                               70
  Were tempered; thus was gradually produced
  A quiet independence of the heart;
  And to my Friend who knows me I may add,
  Fearless of blame, that hence for future days
  Ensued a diffidence and modesty,                                    75
  And I was taught to feel, perhaps too much,
  The self-sufficing power of Solitude.

    Our daily meals were frugal, Sabine fare!
  More than we wished we knew the blessing then
  Of vigorous hunger--hence corporeal strength                        80
  Unsapped by delicate viands; for, exclude
  A little weekly stipend, and we lived
  Through three divisions of the quartered year
  In penniless poverty. But now to school
  From the half-yearly holidays returned,                             85
  We came with weightier purses, that sufficed
  To furnish treats more costly than the Dame
  Of the old grey stone, from her scant board, supplied.
  Hence rustic dinners on the cool green ground,
  Or in the woods, or by a river side                                 90
  Or shady fountains, while among the leaves
  Soft airs were stirring, and the mid-day sun
  Unfelt shone brightly round us in our joy.
  Nor is my aim neglected if I tell
  How sometimes, in the length of those half-years,                   95
  We from our funds drew largely;--proud to curb,
  And eager to spur on, the galloping steed;
  And with the courteous inn-keeper, whose stud
  Supplied our want, we haply might employ
  Sly subterfuge, if the adventure's bound                           100
  Were distant: some famed temple where of yore
  The Druids worshipped, [E] or the antique walls
  Of that large abbey, where within the Vale
  Of Nightshade, to St. Mary's honour built, [F]
  Stands yet a mouldering pile with fractured arch,                  105
  Belfry, [G] and images, and living trees,
  A holy scene! Along the smooth green turf
  Our horses grazed. To more than inland peace
  Left by the west wind sweeping overhead
  From a tumultuous ocean, trees and towers                          110
  In that sequestered valley may be seen,
  Both silent and both motionless alike;
  Such the deep shelter that is there, and such
  The safeguard for repose and quietness.

    Our steeds remounted and the summons given,                      115
  With whip and spur we through the chauntry flew
  In uncouth race, and left the cross-legged knight,
  And the stone-abbot, [H] and that single wren
  Which one day sang so sweetly in the nave
  Of the old church, that--though from recent showers                120
  The earth was comfortless, and touched by faint
  Internal breezes, sobbings of the place
  And respirations, from the roofless walls
  The shuddering ivy dripped large drops--yet still
  So sweetly 'mid the gloom the invisible bird                       125
  Sang to herself, that there I could have made
  My dwelling-place, and lived for ever there
  To hear such music. Through the walls we flew
  And down the valley, and, a circuit made
  In wantonness of heart, through rough and smooth                   130
  We scampered homewards. Oh, ye rocks and streams,
  And that still spirit shed from evening air!
  Even in this joyous time I sometimes felt
  Your presence, when with slackened step we breathed
  Along the sides of the steep hills, or when                        135
  Lighted by gleams of moonlight from the sea
  We beat with thundering hoofs the level sand.

    Midway on long Winander's eastern shore,
  Within the crescent of a pleasant bay, [I]
  A tavern stood; [K] no homely-featured house,                      140
  Primeval like its neighbouring cottages,
  But 'twas a splendid place, the door beset
  With chaises, grooms, and liveries, and within
  Decanters, glasses, and the blood-red wine.
  In ancient times, and ere the Hall was built                       145
  On the large island, had this dwelling been
  More worthy of a poet's love, a hut,
  Proud of its own bright fire and sycamore shade.
  But--though the rhymes were gone that once inscribed
  The threshold, and large golden characters,                        150
  Spread o'er the spangled sign-board, had dislodged
  The old Lion and usurped his place, in slight
  And mockery of the rustic painter's hand--[L]
  Yet, to this hour, the spot to me is dear
  With all its foolish pomp. The garden lay                          155
  Upon a slope surmounted by a plain
  Of a small bowling-green; beneath us stood
  A grove, with gleams of water through the trees
  And over the tree-tops; [M] nor did we want
  Refreshment, strawberries and mellow cream.                        160
  There, while through half an afternoon we played
  On the smooth platform, whether skill prevailed
  Or happy blunder triumphed, bursts of glee
  Made all the mountains ring. But, ere night-fall,
  When in our pinnace we returned at leisure                         165
  Over the shadowy lake, and to the beach
  Of some small island steered our course with one,
  The Minstrel of the Troop, and left him there, [N]
  And rowed off gently, while he blew his flute
  Alone upon the rock--oh, then, the calm                            170
  And dead still water lay upon my mind
  Even with a weight of pleasure, and the sky,
  Never before so beautiful, sank down
  Into my heart, and held me like a dream!
  Thus were my sympathies enlarged, and thus                         175
  Daily the common range of visible things
  Grew dear to me: already I began
  To love the sun; a boy I loved the sun,
  Not as I since have loved him, as a pledge
  And surety of our earthly life, a light                            180
  Which we behold and feel we are alive; [O]
  Nor for his bounty to so many worlds--
  But for this cause, that I had seen him lay
  His beauty on the morning hills, had seen
  The western mountain [P] touch his setting orb,                    185
  In many a thoughtless hour, when, from excess
  Of happiness, my blood appeared to flow
  For its own pleasure, and I breathed with joy.
  And, from like feelings, humble though intense,
  To patriotic and domestic love                                     190
  Analogous, the moon to me was dear;
  For I could dream away my purposes,
  Standing to gaze upon her while she hung
  Midway between the hills, as if she knew
  No other region, but belonged to thee, [Q]                         195
  Yea, appertained by a peculiar right
  To thee and thy grey huts, thou one dear Vale! [R]

    Those incidental charms which first attached
  My heart to rural objects, day by day
  Grew weaker, and I hasten on to tell                               200
  How Nature, intervenient till this time
  And secondary, now at length was sought
  For her own sake. But who shall parcel out
  His intellect by geometric rules,
  Split like a province into round and square?                       205
  Who knows the individual hour in which
  His habits were first sown, even as a seed?
  Who that shall point as with a wand and say
  "This portion of the river of my mind
  Came from yon fountain?" [S] Thou, my Friend! art one              210
  More deeply read in thy own thoughts; to thee
  Science appears but what in truth she is,
  Not as our glory and our absolute boast,
  But as a succedaneum, and a prop
  To our infirmity. No officious slave                               215
  Art thou of that false secondary power
  By which we multiply distinctions; then,
  Deem that our puny boundaries are things
  That we perceive, and not that we have made.
  To thee, unblinded by these formal arts,                           220
  The unity of all hath been revealed,
  And thou wilt doubt, with me less aptly skilled
  Than many are to range the faculties
  In scale and order, class the cabinet
  Of their sensations, and in voluble phrase                         225
  Run through the history and birth of each
  As of a single independent thing.
  Hard task, vain hope, to analyse the mind,
  If each most obvious and particular thought,
  Not in a mystical and idle sense,                                  230
  But in the words of Reason deeply weighed,
  Hath no beginning.
                      Blest the infant Babe,
  (For with my best conjecture I would trace
  Our Being's earthly progress,) blest the Babe,
  Nursed in his Mother's arms, who sinks to sleep                    235
  Rocked on his Mother's breast; who with his soul
  Drinks in the feelings of his Mother's eye!
  For him, in one dear Presence, there exists
  A virtue which irradiates and exalts
  Objects through widest intercourse of sense.                       240
  No outcast he, bewildered and depressed:
  Along his infant veins are interfused
  The gravitation and the filial bond
  Of nature that connect him with the world.
  Is there a flower, to which he points with hand                    245
  Too weak to gather it, already love
  Drawn from love's purest earthly fount for him
  Hath beautified that flower; already shades
  Of pity cast from inward tenderness
  Do fall around him upon aught that bears                           250
  Unsightly marks of violence or harm.
  Emphatically such a Being lives,
  Frail creature as he is, helpless as frail,
  An inmate of this active universe.
  For feeling has to him imparted power                              255
  That through the growing faculties of sense
  Doth like an agent of the one great Mind
  Create, creator and receiver both,
  Working but in alliance with the works
  Which it beholds. Such, verily, is the first                       260
  Poetic spirit of our human life,
  By uniform control of after years,
  In most, abated or suppressed; in some,
  Through every change of growth and of decay,
  Pre-eminent till death.

                         From early days,                            265
  Beginning not long after that first time
  In which, a Babe, by intercourse of touch
  I held mute dialogues with my Mother's heart,
  I have endeavoured to display the means
  Whereby this infant sensibility,                                   270
  Great birthright of our being, was in me
  Augmented and sustained. Yet is a path
  More difficult before me; and I fear
  That in its broken windings we shall need
  The chamois' sinews, and the eagle's wing:                         275
  For now a trouble came into my mind
  From unknown causes. I was left alone
  Seeking the visible world, nor knowing why.
  The props of my affections were removed,
  And yet the building stood, as if sustained                        280
  By its own spirit! All that I beheld
  Was dear, and hence to finer influxes
  The mind lay open to a more exact
  And close communion. Many are our joys
  In youth, but oh! what happiness to live                           285
  When every hour brings palpable access
  Of knowledge, when all knowledge is delight,
  And sorrow is not there! The seasons came,
  And every season wheresoe'er I moved
  Unfolded transitory qualities,                                     290
  Which, but for this most watchful power of love,
  Had been neglected; left a register
  Of permanent relations, else unknown.
  Hence life, and change, and beauty, solitude
  More active even than "best society"--[T]                          295
  Society made sweet as solitude
  By silent inobtrusive sympathies--
  And gentle agitations of the mind
  From manifold distinctions, difference
  Perceived in things, where, to the unwatchful eye,                 300
  No difference is, and hence, from the same source,
  Sublimer joy; for I would walk alone,
  Under the quiet stars, and at that time
  Have felt whate'er there is of power in sound
  To breathe an elevated mood, by form                               305
  Or image unprofaned; and I would stand,
  If the night blackened with a coming storm,
  Beneath some rock, listening to notes that are
  The ghostly language of the ancient earth,
  Or make their dim abode in distant winds.                          310
  Thence did I drink the visionary power;
  And deem not profitless those fleeting moods
  Of shadowy exultation: not for this,
  That they are kindred to our purer mind
  And intellectual life; but that the soul,                          315
  Remembering how she felt, but what she felt
  Remembering not, retains an obscure sense
  Of possible sublimity, whereto
  With growing faculties she doth aspire,
  With faculties still growing, feeling still                        320
  That whatsoever point they gain, they yet
  Have something to pursue.

                                  And not alone,
  'Mid gloom and tumult, but no less 'mid fair
  And tranquil scenes, that universal power
  And fitness in the latent qualities                                325
  And essences of things, by which the mind
  Is moved with feelings of delight, to me
  Came, strengthened with a superadded soul,
  A virtue not its own. My morning walks
  Were early;--oft before the hours of school [U]                    330
  I travelled round our little lake, [V] five miles
  Of pleasant wandering. Happy time! more dear
  For this, that one was by my side, a Friend, [W]
  Then passionately loved; with heart how full
  Would he peruse these lines! For many years                        335
  Have since flowed in between us, and, our minds
  Both silent to each other, at this time
  We live as if those hours had never been.
  Nor seldom did I lift--our cottage latch [X]
  Far earlier, ere one smoke-wreath had risen                        340
  From human dwelling, or the vernal thrush
  Was audible; and sate among the woods
  Alone upon some jutting eminence, [Y]
  At the first gleam of dawn-light, when the Vale,
  Yet slumbering, lay in utter solitude.                             345
  How shall I seek the origin? where find
  Faith in the marvellous things which then I felt?
  Oft in these moments such a holy calm
  Would overspread my soul, that bodily eyes
  Were utterly forgotten, and what I saw                             350
  Appeared like something in myself, a dream,
  A prospect in the mind. [Z]
                    'Twere long to tell
  What spring and autumn, what the winter snows,
  And what the summer shade, what day and night,
  Evening and morning, sleep and waking, thought                     355
  From sources inexhaustible, poured forth
  To feed the spirit of religious love
  In which I walked with Nature. But let this
  Be not forgotten, that I still retained
  My first creative sensibility;                                     360
  That by the regular action of the world
  My soul was unsubdued. A plastic power
  Abode with me; a forming hand, at times
  Rebellious, acting in a devious mood;
  A local spirit of his own, at war                                  365
  With general tendency, but, for the most,
  Subservient strictly to external things
  With which it communed. An auxiliar light
  Came from my mind, which on the setting sun
  Bestowed new splendour; the melodious birds,                       370
  The fluttering breezes, fountains that run on
  Murmuring so sweetly in themselves, obeyed
  A like dominion, and the midnight storm
  Grew darker in the presence of my eye:
  Hence my obeisance, my devotion hence,                             375
  And hence my transport.
           Nor should this, perchance,
  Pass unrecorded, that I still had loved
  The exercise and produce of a toil,
  Than analytic industry to me
  More pleasing, and whose character I deem                          380
  Is more poetic as resembling more
  Creative agency. The song would speak
  Of that interminable building reared
  By observation of affinities
  In objects where no brotherhood exists                             385
  To passive minds. My seventeenth year was come;
  And, whether from this habit rooted now
  So deeply in my mind; or from excess
  In the great social principle of life
  Coercing all things into sympathy,                                 390
  To unorganic ratures were transferred
  My own enjoyments; or the power of truth
  Coming in revelation, did converse
  With things that really are; I, at this time,
  Saw blessings spread around me like a sea.                         395
  Thus while the days flew by, and years passed on,
  From Nature and her overflowing soul,
  I had received so much, that all my thoughts
  Were steeped in feeling; I was only then
  Contented, when with bliss ineffable                               400
  I felt the sentiment of Being spread
  O'er all that moves and all that seemeth still;
  O'er all that, lost beyond the reach of thought
  And human knowledge, to the human eye
  Invisible, yet liveth to the heart;                                405
  O'er all that leaps and runs, and shouts and sings,
  Or beats the gladsome air; o'er all that glides
  Beneath the wave, yea, in the wave itself,
  And mighty depth of waters. Wonder not
  If high the transport, great the joy I felt,                       410
  Communing in this sort through earth and heaven
  With every form of creature, as it looked
  Towards the Uncreated with a countenance
  Of adoration, with an eye of love.
  One song they sang, and it was audible,                            415
  Most audible, then, when the fleshly ear,
  O'ercome by humblest prelude of that strain,
  Forgot her functions, and slept undisturbed.

    If this be error, and another faith
  Find easier access to the pious mind,                              420
  Yet were I grossly destitute of all
  Those human sentiments that make this earth
  So dear, if I should fail with grateful voice
  To speak of you, ye mountains, and ye lakes
  And sounding cataracts, ye mists and winds                         425
  That dwell among the hills where I was born.
  If in my youth I have been pure in heart,
  If, mingling with the world, I am content
  With my own modest pleasures, and have lived
  With God and Nature communing, removed                             430
  From little enmities and low desires,
  The gift is yours; if in these times of fear,
  This melancholy waste of hopes o'erthrown,
  If, 'mid indifference and apathy,
  And wicked exultation when good men                                435
  On every side fall off, we know not how,
  To selfishness, disguised in gentle names
  Of peace and quiet and domestic love,
  Yet mingled not unwillingly with sneers
  On visionary minds; if, in this time                               440
  Of dereliction and dismay, I yet
  Despair not of our nature, but retain
  A more than Roman confidence, a faith
  That fails not, in all sorrow my support,
  The blessing of my life; the gift is yours,                        445
  Ye winds and sounding cataracts! 'tis yours,
  Ye mountains! thine, O Nature! Thou hast fed
  My lofty speculations; and in thee,
  For this uneasy heart of ours, I find
  A never-failing principle of joy                                   450
  And purest passion.
                       Thou, my Friend! wert reared
  In the great city, 'mid far other scenes; [a]
  But we, by different roads, at length have gained
  The self-same bourne. And for this cause to thee
  I speak, unapprehensive of contempt,                               455
  The insinuated scoff of coward tongues,
  And all that silent language which so oft
  In conversation between man and man
  Blots from the human countenance all trace
  Of beauty and of love. For thou hast sought                        460
  The truth in solitude, and, since the days
  That gave thee liberty, full long desired,
  To serve in Nature's temple, thou hast been
  The most assiduous of her ministers;
  In many things my brother, chiefly here                            465
  In this our deep devotion.
                              Fare thee well!
  Health and the quiet of a healthful mind
  Attend thee! seeking oft the haunts of men,
  And yet more often living with thyself,
  And for thyself, so haply shall thy days                           470
  Be many, and a blessing to mankind. [b]


       *       *       *       *       *

FOOTNOTES ON THE TEXT

[Footnote A: The "square" of the "small market village" of Hawkshead
still remains; and the presence of the new "assembly-room" does not
prevent us from realising it as open, with the "rude mass of native rock
left midway" in it--the "old grey stone," which was the centre of the
village sports.--Ed.]


[Footnote B: Compare 'The Excursion', book ix. ll. 487-90:

  'When, on thy bosom, spacious Windermere!
  A Youth, I practised this delightful art;
  Tossed on the waves alone, or 'mid a crew
  Of joyous comrades.'

Ed.]


[Footnote C: Compare 'The Excursion', book ix. l. 544, describing "a
fair Isle with birch-trees fringed," where they gathered leaves of that
shy plant (its flower was shed), the lily of the vale.--Ed.]


[Footnote D: These islands in Windermere are easily identified. In the
Lily of the Valley Island the plant still grows, though not abundantly;
but from Lady Holme the

          'ruins of a shrine
  Once to Our Lady dedicate'

have disappeared as completely as the shrine in St. Herbert's Island,
Derwentwater. The third island:

        'musical with birds,
  That sang and ceased not--'

may have been House Holme, or that now called Thomson's Holme. It could
hardly have been Belle Isle; since, from its size, it could not be
described as a "Sister Isle" to the one where the lily of the valley
grew "beneath the oaks' umbrageous covert."--Ed.]


[Footnote E: Doubtless the circle was at Conishead Priory, on the
Cartmell Sands; or that in the vale of Swinside, on the north-east side
of Black Combe; more probably the former. The whole district is rich in
Druidical remains, but Wordsworth would not refer to the Keswick circle,
or to Long Meg and her Daughters in this connection; and the proximity
of the temple on the Cartmell Shore to the Furness Abbey ruins, and the
ease with which it could be visited on holidays by the boys from
Hawkshead school, make it almost certain that he refers to it.--Ed.]


[Footnote F: Furness Abbey, founded by Stephen in 1127, in the glen of
the deadly Nightshade--Bekansghyll--so called from the luxuriant
abundance of the plant, and dedicated to St. Mary. (Compare West's
'Antiquities of Furness'.)--Ed.]


[Footnote G: What was the belfry is now a mass of detached ruins.--Ed.]


[Footnote H: Doubtless the Cartmell Sands beyond Ulverston, at the
estuary of the Leven.--Ed.]


[Footnote I: At Bowness.--Ed.]


[Footnote K: The White Lion Inn at Bowness.--Ed.]


[Footnote L: Compare the reference to the "rude piece of self-taught
art," at the Swan Inn, in the first canto of 'The Waggoner', p. 81.
William Hutchinson, in his 'Excursion to the Lakes in 1773 and 1774'
(second edition, 1776, p. 185), mentions "the White Lion Inn at
Bownas."--Ed.]


[Footnote M: Dr. Cradock told me that William Hutchinson--referred to in
the previous note--describes "Bownas church and its cottages," as seen
from the lake, arising "'above the trees'." Wordsworth, reversing the
view, sees "gleams of water through the trees and 'over the tree
tops'"--another instance of minutely exact description.--Ed.]


[Footnote N: Robert Greenwood, afterwards Senior Fellow of Trinity
College, Cambridge.--Ed.]


[Footnote O: Compare 'Lines composed a few miles above Tintern Abbey',
vol. ii. p. 51.--Ed.]


[Footnote P: Wetherlam, or Coniston Old Man, or both.--Ed.]


[Footnote Q:

  "The moon, as it hung over the southernmost shore of Esthwaite, with
  Gunner's How, as seen from Hawkshead rising up boldly to the
  spectator's left hand, would be thus described."

(H. D. Rawnsley.)--Ed.]


[Footnote R: Esthwaite. Compare 'Peter Bell' (vol. ii. p. 13):

  'Where deep and low the hamlets lie
  Beneath their little patch of sky
  And little lot of stars.'

Ed.]


[Footnote S: See in the Appendix to this volume, Note II, p. 388.--Ed.]


[Footnote T: See 'Paradise Lost', ix. l. 249.--Ed.]


[Footnote U: The daily work in Hawkshead School began--by Archbishop
Sandys' ordinance--at 6 A.M. in summer, and 7 A.M. in winter.--Ed.]


[Footnote V: Esthwaite.--Ed.]


[Footnote W: The Rev. John Fleming, of Rayrigg, Windermere, or,
possibly, the Rev. Charles Farish, author of 'The Minstrels of
Winandermere' and 'Black Agnes'. Mr. Carter, who edited 'The Prelude' in
1850, says it was the former, but this is not absolutely certain.--Ed.]


[Footnote X: A "cottage latch"--probably the same as that in use in Dame
Tyson's time--is still on the door of the house where she lived at
Hawkshead.--Ed.]


[Footnote Y: Probably on the western side of the Vale, above the
village. There is but one "'jutting' eminence" on this side of the
valley. It is an old moraine, now grass-covered; and, from this point,
the view both of the village and of the vale is noteworthy. The jutting
eminence, however, may have been a crag, amongst the Colthouse heights,
to the north-east of Hawkshead.--Ed.]


[Footnote Z: Compare in the 'Ode, Intimations of Immortality':

  '... those obstinate questionings
  Of sense and outward things,
  Fallings from us, vanishings,' etc.

Ed.]


[Footnote a: Coleridge's school days were spent at Christ's Hospital in
London. With the above line compare S. T. C.'s 'Frost at Midnight':

                          'I was reared
  In the great city, pent 'mid cloisters dim.'

Ed.]


[Footnote b: Compare 'Stanzas written in my Pocket Copy of Thomsons
"Castle of Indolence,"' vol. ii. p. 305.--Ed.]





       *       *       *       *       *





BOOK THIRD


RESIDENCE AT CAMBRIDGE


  It was a dreary morning when the wheels
  Rolled over a wide plain o'erhung with clouds,
  And nothing cheered our way till first we saw
  The long-roofed chapel of King's College lift
  Turrets and pinnacles in answering files,                            5
  Extended high above a dusky grove, [A]

    Advancing, we espied upon the road
  A student clothed in gown and tasselled cap,
  Striding along as if o'ertasked by Time,
  Or covetous of exercise and air;                                    10
  He passed--nor was I master of my eyes
  Till he was left an arrow's flight behind.
  As near and nearer to the spot we drew,
  It seemed to suck us in with an eddy's force.
  Onward we drove beneath the Castle; caught,                         15
  While crossing Magdalene Bridge, a glimpse of Cam;
  And at the 'Hoop' alighted, famous Inn. [B]

    My spirit was up, my thoughts were full of hope;
  Some friends I had, acquaintances who there
  Seemed friends, poor simple school-boys, now hung round             20
  With honour and importance: in a world
  Of welcome faces up and down I roved;
  Questions, directions, warnings and advice,
  Flowed in upon me, from all sides; fresh day
  Of pride and pleasure! to myself I seemed                           25
  A man of business and expense, and went
  From shop to shop about my own affairs,
  To Tutor or to Tailor, as befel,
  From street to street with loose and careless mind.

    I was the Dreamer, they the Dream; I roamed                       30
  Delighted through the motley spectacle;
  Gowns, grave, or gaudy, doctors, students, streets,
  Courts, cloisters, flocks of churches, gateways, towers:
  Migration strange for a stripling of the hills,
  A northern villager.
                         As if the change                             35
  Had waited on some Fairy's wand, at once
  Behold me rich in monies, and attired
  In splendid garb, with hose of silk, and hair
  Powdered like rimy trees, when frost is keen.
  My lordly dressing-gown, I pass it by,                              40
  With other signs of manhood that supplied
  The lack of beard.--The weeks went roundly on,
  With invitations, suppers, wine and fruit,
  Smooth housekeeping within, and all without
  Liberal, and suiting gentleman's array.                             45

    The Evangelist St. John my patron was:
  Three Gothic courts are his, and in the first
  Was my abiding-place, a nook obscure; [C]
  Right underneath, the College kitchens made
  A humming sound, less tuneable than bees,                           50
  But hardly less industrious; with shrill notes
  Of sharp command and scolding intermixed.
  Near me hung Trinity's loquacious clock,
  Who never let the quarters, night or day,
  Slip by him unproclaimed, and told the hours                        55
  Twice over with a male and female voice.
  Her pealing organ was my neighbour too;
  And from my pillow, looking forth by light
  Of moon or favouring stars, I could behold
  The antechapel where the statue stood                               60
  Of Newton with his prism and silent face,
  The marble index of a mind for ever
  Voyaging through strange seas of Thought, alone.

    Of College labours, of the Lecturer's room
  All studded round, as thick as chairs could stand,                  65
  With loyal students faithful to their books,
  Half-and-half idlers, hardy recusants,
  And honest dunces--of important days,
  Examinations, when the man was weighed
  As in a balance! of excessive hopes,                                70
  Tremblings withal and commendable fears,
  Small jealousies, and triumphs good or bad,
  Let others that know more speak as they know.
  Such glory was but little sought by me,
  And little won. Yet from the first crude days                       75
  Of settling time in this untried abode,
  I was disturbed at times by prudent thoughts,
  Wishing to hope without a hope, some fears
  About my future worldly maintenance,
  And, more than all, a strangeness in the mind,                      80
  A feeling that I was not for that hour,
  Nor for that place. But wherefore be cast down?
  For (not to speak of Reason and her pure
  Reflective acts to fix the moral law
  Deep in the conscience, nor of Christian Hope,                      85
  Bowing her head before her sister Faith
  As one far mightier), hither I had come,
  Bear witness Truth, endowed with holy powers
  And faculties, whether to work or feel.
  Oft when the dazzling show no longer new                            90
  Had ceased to dazzle, ofttimes did I quit
  My comrades, leave the crowd, buildings and groves,
  And as I paced alone the level fields
  Far from those lovely sights and sounds sublime
  With which I had been conversant, the mind                          95
  Drooped not; but there into herself returning,
  With prompt rebound seemed fresh as heretofore.
  At least I more distinctly recognised
  Her native instincts: let me dare to speak
  A higher language, say that now I felt                             100
  What independent solaces were mine,
  To mitigate the injurious sway of place
  Or circumstance, how far soever changed
  In youth, or to be changed in manhood's prime;
  Or for the few who shall be called to look                         105
  On the long shadows in our evening years,
  Ordained precursors to the night of death.
  As if awakened, summoned, roused, constrained,
  I looked for universal things; perused
  The common countenance of earth and sky:                           110
  Earth, nowhere unembellished by some trace
  Of that first Paradise whence man was driven;
  And sky, whose beauty and bounty are expressed
  By the proud name she bears--the name of Heaven.
  I called on both to teach me what they might;                      115
  Or turning the mind in upon herself
  Pored, watched, expected, listened, spread my thoughts
  And spread them with a wider creeping; felt
  Incumbencies more awful, visitings
  Of the Upholder of the tranquil soul,                              120
  That tolerates the indignities of Time,
  And, from the centre of Eternity
  All finite motions overruling, lives
  In glory immutable. But peace! enough
  Here to record that I was mounting now                             125
  To such community with highest truth--
  A track pursuing, not untrod before,
  From strict analogies by thought supplied
  Or consciousnesses not to be subdued.
  To every natural form, rock, fruit or flower,                      130
  Even the loose stones that cover the high-way,
  I gave a moral life: I saw them feel,
  Or linked them to some feeling: the great mass
  Lay bedded in a quickening soul, and all
  That I beheld respired with inward meaning.                        135
  Add that whate'er of Terror or of Love
  Or Beauty, Nature's daily face put on
  From transitory passion, unto this
  I was as sensitive as waters are
  To the sky's influence in a kindred mood                           140
  Of passion; was obedient as a lute
  That waits upon the touches of the wind.
  Unknown, unthought of, yet I was most rich--
  I had a world about me--'twas my own;
  I made it, for it only lived to me,                                145
  And to the God who sees into the heart.
  Such sympathies, though rarely, were betrayed
  By outward gestures and by visible looks:
  Some called it madness--so indeed it was,
  If child-like fruitfulness in passing joy,                         150
  If steady moods of thoughtfulness matured
  To inspiration, sort with such a name;
  If prophecy be madness; if things viewed
  By poets in old time, and higher up
  By the first men, earth's first inhabitants,                       155
  May in these tutored days no more be seen
  With undisordered sight. But leaving this,
  It was no madness, for the bodily eye
  Amid my strongest workings evermore
  Was searching out the lines of difference                          160
  As they lie hid in all external forms,
  Near or remote, minute or vast, an eye
  Which from a tree, a stone, a withered leaf,
  To the broad ocean and the azure heavens
  Spangled with kindred multitudes of stars,                         165
  Could find no surface where its power might sleep;
  Which spake perpetual logic to my soul,
  And by an unrelenting agency
  Did bind my feelings even as in a chain.

    And here, O Friend! have I retraced my life                      170
  Up to an eminence, and told a tale
  Of matters which not falsely may be called
  The glory of my youth. Of genius, power,
  Creation and divinity itself
  I have been speaking, for my theme has been                        175
  What passed within me. Not of outward things
  Done visibly for other minds, words, signs,
  Symbols or actions, but of my own heart
  Have I been speaking, and my youthful mind.
  O Heavens! how awful is the might of souls,                        180
  And what they do within themselves while yet
  The yoke of earth is new to them, the world
  Nothing but a wild field where they were sown.
  This is, in truth, heroic argument,
  This genuine prowess, which I wished to touch                      185
  With hand however weak, but in the main
  It lies far hidden from the reach of words.
  Points have we all of us within our souls
  Where all stand single; this I feel, and make
  Breathings for incommunicable powers;                              190
  But is not each a memory to himself?
  And, therefore, now that we must quit this theme,
  I am not heartless, for there's not a man
  That lives who hath not known his god-like hours,
  And feels not what an empire we inherit                            195
  As natural beings in the strength of Nature.

    No more: for now into a populous plain
  We must descend. A Traveller I am,
  Whose tale is only of himself; even so,
  So be it, if the pure of heart be prompt                           200
  To follow, and if thou, my honoured Friend!
  Who in these thoughts art ever at my side,
  Support, as heretofore, my fainting steps.

    It hath been told, that when the first delight
  That flashed upon me from this novel show                          205
  Had failed, the mind returned into herself;
  Yet true it is, that I had made a change
  In climate, and my nature's outward coat
  Changed also slowly and insensibly.
  Full oft the quiet and exalted thoughts                            210
  Of loneliness gave way to empty noise
  And superficial pastimes; now and then
  Forced labour, and more frequently forced hopes;
  And, worst of all, a treasonable growth
  Of indecisive judgments, that impaired                             215
  And shook the mind's simplicity.--And yet
  This was a gladsome time. Could I behold--
  Who, less insensible than sodden clay
  In a sea-river's bed at ebb of tide,
  Could have beheld,--with undelighted heart,                        220
  So many happy youths, so wide and fair
  A congregation in its budding-time
  Of health, and hope, and beauty, all at once
  So many divers samples from the growth
  Of life's sweet season--could have seen unmoved                    225
  That miscellaneous garland of wild flowers
  Decking the matron temples of a place
  So famous through the world? To me, at least,
  It was a goodly prospect: for, in sooth,
  Though I had learnt betimes to stand unpropped,                    230
  And independent musings pleased me so
  That spells seemed on me when I was alone,
  Yet could I only cleave to solitude
  In lonely places; if a throng was near
  That way I leaned by nature; for my heart                          235
  Was social, and loved idleness and joy.

    Not seeking those who might participate
  My deeper pleasures (nay, I had not once,
  Though not unused to mutter lonesome songs,
  Even with myself divided such delight,                             240
  Or looked that way for aught that might be clothed
  In human language), easily I passed
  From the remembrances of better things,
  And slipped into the ordinary works
  Of careless youth, unburthened, unalarmed.                         245
  _Caverns_ there were within my mind which sun
  Could never penetrate, yet did there not
  Want store of leafy _arbours_ where the light
  Might enter in at will. Companionships,
  Friendships, acquaintances, were welcome all.                      250
  We sauntered, played, or rioted; we talked
  Unprofitable talk at morning hours;
  Drifted about along the streets and walks,
  Read lazily in trivial books, went forth
  To gallop through the country in blind zeal                        255
  Of senseless horsemanship, or on the breast
  Of Cam sailed boisterously, and let the stars
  Come forth, perhaps without one quiet thought.

    Such was the tenor of the second act
  In this new life. Imagination slept,                               260
  And yet not utterly. I could not print
  Ground where the grass had yielded to the steps
  Of generations of illustrious men,
  Unmoved. I could not always lightly pass
  Through the same gateways, sleep where they had slept,             265
  Wake where they waked, range that inclosure old,
  That garden of great intellects, undisturbed.
  Place also by the side of this dark sense
  Of noble feeling, that those spiritual men,
  Even the great Newton's own ethereal self,                         270
  Seemed humbled in these precincts thence to be
  The more endeared. Their several memories here
  (Even like their persons in their portraits clothed
  With the accustomed garb of daily life)
  Put on a lowly and a touching grace                                275
  Of more distinct humanity, that left
  All genuine admiration unimpaired.

    Beside the pleasant Mill of Trompington [D]
  I laughed with Chaucer in the hawthorn shade;
  Heard him, while birds were warbling, tell his tales               280
  Of amorous passion. And that gentle Bard,
  Chosen by the Muses for their Page of State--
  Sweet Spenser, moving through his clouded heaven
  With the moon's beauty and the moon's soft pace,
  I called him Brother, Englishman, and Friend!                      285
  Yea, our blind Poet, who, in his later day,
  Stood almost single; uttering odious truth--
  Darkness before, and danger's voice behind,
  Soul awful--if the earth has ever lodged
  An awful soul--I seemed to see him here                            290
  Familiarly, and in his scholar's dress
  Bounding before me, yet a stripling youth--
  A boy, no better, with his rosy cheeks
  Angelical, keen eye, courageous look,
  And conscious step of purity and pride.                            295
  Among the band of my compeers was one
  Whom chance had stationed in the very room
  Honoured by Milton's name. O temperate Bard!
  Be it confest that, for the first time, seated
  Within thy innocent lodge and oratory,                             300
  One of a festive circle, I poured out
  Libations, to thy memory drank, till pride
  And gratitude grew dizzy in a brain
  Never excited by the fumes of wine
  Before that hour, or since. Then, forth I ran                      305
  From the assembly; through a length of streets,
  Ran, ostrich-like, to reach our chapel door
  In not a desperate or opprobrious time,
  Albeit long after the importunate bell
  Had stopped, with wearisome Cassandra voice                        310
  No longer haunting the dark winter night.
  Call back, O Friend! [E] a moment to thy mind,
  The place itself and fashion of the rites.
  With careless ostentation shouldering up
  My surplice, [F] through the inferior throng I clove               315
  Of the plain Burghers, who in audience stood
  On the last skirts of their permitted ground,
  Under the pealing organ. Empty thoughts!
  I am ashamed of them: and that great Bard,
  And thou, O Friend! who in thy ample mind                          320
  Hast placed me high above my best deserts,
  Ye will forgive the weakness of that hour,
  In some of its unworthy vanities,
  Brother to many more.
                            In this mixed sort
  The months passed on, remissly, not given up                       325
  To wilful alienation from the right,
  Or walks of open scandal, but in vague
  And loose indifference, easy likings, aims
  Of a low pitch--duty and zeal dismissed,
  Yet Nature, or a happy course of things                            330
  Not doing in their stead the needful work.
  The memory languidly revolved, the heart
  Reposed in noontide rest, the inner pulse
  Of contemplation almost failed to beat.
  Such life might not inaptly be compared                            335
  To a floating island, an amphibious spot
  Unsound, of spongy texture, yet withal
  Not wanting a fair face of water weeds
  And pleasant flowers. [G] The thirst of living praise,
  Fit reverence for the glorious Dead, the sight                     340
  Of those long vistas, sacred catacombs,
  Where mighty minds lie visibly entombed,
  Have often stirred the heart of youth, and bred
  A fervent love of rigorous discipline.--
  Alas! such high emotion touched not me.                            345
  Look was there none within these walls to shame
  My easy spirits, and discountenance
  Their light composure, far less to instil
  A calm resolve of mind, firmly addressed
  To puissant efforts. Nor was this the blame                        350
  Of others, but my own; I should, in truth,
  As far as doth concern my single self,
  Misdeem most widely, lodging it elsewhere:
  For I, bred up 'mid Nature's luxuries,
  Was a spoiled child, and rambling like the wind,                   355
  As I had done in daily intercourse
  With those crystalline rivers, solemn heights,
  And mountains, ranging like a fowl of the air,
  I was ill-tutored for captivity;
  To quit my pleasure, and, from month to month,                     360
  Take up a station calmly on the perch
  Of sedentary peace. Those lovely forms
  Had also left less space within my mind,
  Which, wrought upon instinctively, had found
  A freshness in those objects of her love,                          365
  A winning power, beyond all other power.
  Not that I slighted books, [H]--that were to lack
  All sense,--but other passions in me ruled,
  Passions more fervent, making me less prompt
  To in-door study than was wise or well,                            370
  Or suited to those years. Yet I, though used
  In magisterial liberty to rove,
  Culling such flowers of learning as might tempt
  A random choice, could shadow forth a place
  (If now I yield not to a flattering dream)                         375
  Whose studious aspect should have bent me down
  To instantaneous service; should at once
  Have made me pay to science and to arts
  And written lore, acknowledged my liege lord,
  A homage frankly offered up, like that                             380
  Which I had paid to Nature. Toil and pains
  In this recess, by thoughtful Fancy built,
  Should spread from heart to heart; and stately groves,
  Majestic edifices, should not want
  A corresponding dignity within.                                    385
  The congregating temper that pervades
  Our unripe years, not wasted, should be taught
  To minister to works of high attempt--
  Works which the enthusiast would perform with love.
  Youth should be awed, religiously possessed                        390
  With a conviction of the power that waits
  On knowledge, when sincerely sought and prized
  For its own sake, on glory and on praise
  If but by labour won, and fit to endure
  The passing day; should learn to put aside                         395
  Her trappings here, should strip them off abashed
  Before antiquity and stedfast truth
  And strong book-mindedness; and over all
  A healthy sound simplicity should reign,
  A seemly plainness, name it what you will,                         400
  Republican or pious.
                         If these thoughts
  Are a gratuitous emblazonry
  That mocks the recreant age _we_ live in, then
  Be Folly and False-seeming free to affect
  Whatever formal gait of discipline                                 405
  Shall raise them highest in their own esteem--
  Let them parade among the Schools at will,
  But spare the House of God. Was ever known
  The witless shepherd who persists to drive
  A flock that thirsts not to a pool disliked?                       410
  A weight must surely hang on days begun
  And ended with such mockery. Be wise,
  Ye Presidents and Deans, and, till the spirit
  Of ancient times revive, and youth be trained
  At home in pious service, to your bells                            415
  Give seasonable rest, for 'tis a sound
  Hollow as ever vexed the tranquil air;
  And your officious doings bring disgrace
  On the plain steeples of our English Church,
  Whose worship, 'mid remotest village trees,                        420
  Suffers for this. Even Science, too, at hand
  In daily sight of this irreverence,
  Is smitten thence with an unnatural taint,
  Loses her just authority, falls beneath
  Collateral suspicion, else unknown.                                425
  This truth escaped me not, and I confess,
  That having 'mid my native hills given loose
  To a schoolboy's vision, I had raised a pile
  Upon the basis of the coming time,
  That fell in ruins round me. Oh, what joy                          430
  To see a sanctuary for our country's youth
  Informed with such a spirit as might be
  Its own protection; a primeval grove,
  Where, though the shades with cheerfulness were filled,
  Nor indigent of songs warbled from crowds                          435
  In under-coverts, yet the countenance
  Of the whole place should bear a stamp of awe;
  A habitation sober and demure
  For ruminating creatures; a domain
  For quiet things to wander in; a haunt                             440
  In which the heron should delight to feed
  By the shy rivers, and the pelican
  Upon the cypress spire in lonely thought
  Might sit and sun himself.--Alas! Alas!
  In vain for such solemnity I looked;                               445
  Mine eyes were crossed by butterflies, ears vexed
  By chattering popinjays; the inner heart
  Seemed trivial, and the impresses without
  Of a too gaudy region.
                            Different sight
  Those venerable Doctors saw of old,                                450
  When all who dwelt within these famous walls
  Led in abstemiousness a studious life;
  When, in forlorn and naked chambers cooped
  And crowded, o'er the ponderous books they hung
  Like caterpillars eating out their way                             455
  In silence, or with keen devouring noise
  Not to be tracked or fathered. Princes then
  At matins froze, and couched at curfew-time,
  Trained up through piety and zeal to prize
  Spare diet, patient labour, and plain weeds.                       460
  O seat of Arts! renowned throughout the world!
  Far different service in those homely days
  The Muses' modest nurslings underwent
  From their first childhood: in that glorious time
  When Learning, like a stranger come from far,                      465
  Sounding through Christian lands her trumpet, roused
  Peasant and king; when boys and youths, the growth
  Of ragged villages and crazy huts,
  Forsook their homes, and, errant in the quest
  Of Patron, famous school or friendly nook,                         470
  Where, pensioned, they in shelter might sit down,
  From town to town and through wide scattered realms
  Journeyed with ponderous folios in their hands;
  And often, starting from some covert place,
  Saluted the chance comer on the road,                              475
  Crying, "An obolus, a penny give
  To a poor scholar!" [I]--when illustrious men,
  Lovers of truth, by penury constrained,
  Bucer, Erasmus, or Melancthon, read
  Before the doors or windows of their cells                         480
  By moonshine through mere lack of taper light.

    But peace to vain regrets! We see but darkly
  Even when we look behind us, and best things
  Are not so pure by nature that they needs
  Must keep to all, as fondly all believe,                           485
  Their highest promise. If the mariner,
  When at reluctant distance he hath passed
  Some tempting island, could but know the ills
  That must have fallen upon him had he brought
  His bark to land upon the wished-for shore,                        490
  Good cause would oft be his to thank the surf
  Whose white belt scared him thence, or wind that blew
  Inexorably adverse: for myself
  I grieve not; happy is the gowned youth,
  Who only misses what I missed, who falls                           495
  No lower than I fell.

                           I did not love,
  Judging not ill perhaps, the timid course
  Of our scholastic studies; could have wished
  To see the river flow with ampler range
  And freer pace; but more, far more, I grieved                      500
  To see displayed among an eager few,
  Who in the field of contest persevered,
  Passions unworthy of youth's generous heart
  And mounting spirit, pitiably repaid,
  When so disturbed, whatever palms are won.                         505
  From these I turned to travel with the shoal
  Of more unthinking natures, easy minds
  And pillowy; yet not wanting love that makes
  The day pass lightly on, when foresight sleeps,
  And wisdom and the pledges interchanged                            510
  With our own inner being are forgot.

    Yet was this deep vacation not given up
  To utter waste. Hitherto I had stood
  In my own mind remote from social life,
  (At least from what we commonly so name,)                          515
  Like a lone shepherd on a promontory
  Who lacking occupation looks far forth
  Into the boundless sea, and rather makes
  Than finds what he beholds. And sure it is,
  That this first transit from the smooth delights                   520
  And wild outlandish walks of simple youth
  To something that resembles an approach
  Towards human business, to a privileged world
  Within a world, a midway residence
  With all its intervenient imagery,                                 525
  Did better suit my visionary mind,
  Far better, than to have been bolted forth;
  Thrust out abruptly into Fortune's way
  Among the conflicts of substantial life;
  By a more just gradation did lead on                               530
  To higher things; more naturally matured,
  For permanent possession, better fruits,
  Whether of truth or virtue, to ensue.
  In serious mood, but oftener, I confess,
  With playful zest of fancy did we note                             535
  (How could we less?) the manners and the ways
  Of those who lived distinguished by the badge
  Of good or ill report; or those with whom
  By frame of Academic discipline
  We were perforce connected, men whose sway                         540
  And known authority of office served
  To set our minds on edge, and did no more.
  Nor wanted we rich pastime of this kind,
  Found everywhere, but chiefly in the ring
  Of the grave Elders, men unsecured, grotesque                      545
  In character, tricked out like aged trees
  Which through the lapse of their infirmity
  Give ready place to any random seed
  That chooses to be reared upon their trunks.

    Here on my view, confronting vividly                             550
  Those shepherd swains whom I had lately left,
  Appeared a different aspect of old age;
  How different! yet both distinctly marked,
  Objects embossed to catch the general eye,
  Or portraitures for special use designed,                          555
  As some might seem, so aptly do they serve
  To illustrate Nature's book of rudiments--
  That book upheld as with maternal care
  When she would enter on her tender scheme
  Of teaching comprehension with delight,                            560
  And mingling playful with pathetic thoughts.

    The surfaces of artificial life
  And manners finely wrought, the delicate race
  Of colours, lurking, gleaming up and down
  Through that state arras woven with silk and gold;                 565
  This wily interchange of snaky hues,
  Willingly or unwillingly revealed,
  I neither knew nor cared for; and as such
  Were wanting here, I took what might be found
  Of less elaborate fabric. At this day                              570
  I smile, in many a mountain solitude
  Conjuring up scenes as obsolete in freaks
  Of character, in points of wit as broad,
  As aught by wooden images performed
  For entertainment of the gaping crowd                              575
  At wake or fair. And oftentimes do flit
  Remembrances before me of old men--
  Old humourists, who have been long in their graves,
  And having almost in my mind put off
  Their human names, have into phantoms passed                       580
  Of texture midway between life and books.

    I play the loiterer: 'tis enough to note
  That here in dwarf proportions were expressed
  The limbs of the great world; its eager strifes
  Collaterally pourtrayed, as in mock fight,                         585
  A tournament of blows, some hardly dealt
  Though short of mortal combat; and whate'er
  Might in this pageant be supposed to hit
  An artless rustic's notice, this way less,
  More that way, was not wasted upon me--590
  And yet the spectacle may well demand
  A more substantial name, no mimic show,
  Itself a living part of a live whole,
  A creek in the vast sea; for, all degrees
  And shapes of spurious fame and short-lived praise                 595
  Here sate in state, and fed with daily alms
  Retainers won away from solid good;
  And here was Labour, his own bond-slave; Hope,
  That never set the pains against the prize;
  Idleness halting with his weary clog,                              600
  And poor misguided Shame, and witless Fear,
  And simple Pleasure foraging for Death;
  Honour misplaced, and Dignity astray;
  Feuds, factions, flatteries, enmity, and guile
  Murmuring submission, and bald government,                         605
  (The idol weak as the idolater),
  And Decency and Custom starving Truth,
  And blind Authority beating with his staff
  The child that might have led him; Emptiness
  Followed as of good omen, and meek Worth                           610
  Left to herself unheard of and unknown.

    Of these and other kindred notices
  I cannot say what portion is in truth
  The naked recollection of that time,
  And what may rather have been called to life                       615
  By after-meditation. But delight
  That, in an easy temper lulled asleep,
  Is still with Innocence its own reward,
  This was not wanting. Carelessly I roamed
  As through a wide museum from whose stores                         620
  A casual rarity is singled out
  And has its brief perusal, then gives way
  To others, all supplanted in their turn;
  Till 'mid this crowded neighbourhood of things
  That are by nature most unneighbourly,                             625
  The head turns round and cannot right itself;
  And though an aching and a barren sense
  Of gay confusion still be uppermost,
  With few wise longings and but little love,
  Yet to the memory something cleaves at last,                       630
  Whence profit may be drawn in times to come.

    Thus in submissive idleness, my Friend!
  The labouring time of autumn, winter, spring,
  Eight months! rolled pleasingly away; the ninth
  Came and returned me to my native hills.                           635


       *       *       *       *       *

FOOTNOTES ON THE TEXT

[Footnote A: Wordsworth went from York to Cambridge, entering it by the
coach road from the north-west. This was doubtless the road which now
leads to the city from Girton. "The long-roofed chapel of King's
College" must have been seen from that road.--Ed.]


[Footnote B: The Hoop Inn still exists, not now so famous as in the end
of last century.--Ed.]


[Footnote C: He entered St. John's College in October 1787. His rooms in
the College were unknown to the officials a dozen years ago, although
they are pretty clearly indicated by Wordsworth in this passage. They
were in the first of the three courts of St. John's; they were above the
College kitchens; and from the window of his bedroom he could look into
the antechapel of Trinity, with its statue of Newton. They have been
recently removed in connection with sundry improvements in the college
kitchen. For details, see the 'Life of Wordsworth' which will follow
this edition of his Works.--Ed.]


[Footnote D: A village two and a half miles south of Cambridge.

  "There are still some remains of the mill here celebrated by Chaucer
  in his Reve's Tale."

(Lewis' 'Topographical Dictionary of England', vol. iv. p. 390.)--Ed.]


[Footnote E: S. T. C., who entered Cambridge when Wordsworth left
it.--Ed.]


[Footnote F: On certain days a surplice is worn, instead of a gown, by
the undergraduates.--Ed.]


[Footnote G: Compare the poem 'Floating Island', by Dorothy
Wordsworth.--Ed.]


[Footnote H: The following extract from a letter of Dorothy Wordsworth's
illustrates the above and other passages of this book. It was written
from Forncett, on the 26th of June, 1791. She is speaking of her two
brothers, William and Christopher. Of Christopher she says:

  "His abilities, though not so great, perhaps, as his brother's, may be
  of more use to him, as he has not fixed his mind upon any particular
  species of reading or conceived an aversion to any. He is not fond of
  mathematics, but has resolution sufficient to study them; because it
  will be impossible for him to obtain a fellowship without them.
  William lost the chance, indeed the certainty, of a fellowship, by not
  combating his inclinations. He gave way to his natural dislike to
  studies so dry as many parts of the mathematics, consequently could
  not succeed in Cambridge. He reads Italian, Spanish, French, Greek,
  Latin, and English; but never opens a mathematical book.... Do not
  think from what I have said that he reads not at all; for he does read
  a great deal, and not only poetry, in these languages he is acquainted
  with, but History also," etc. etc.

Ed.]


[Footnote I: 'Date obolum Belisario'. Belisarius, a general of the
Emperor Justinian's, died 564 A.D. The story of his begging charity is
probably a legend, but the "begging scholar" was common in Christendom
throughout the Middle Ages, and was met with in the last century.--Ed.]





       *       *       *       *       *





BOOK FOURTH


SUMMER VACATION


  Bright was the summer's noon when quickening steps
  Followed each other till a dreary moor
  Was crossed, a bare ridge clomb, upon whose top [A]
  Standing alone, as from a rampart's edge,
  I overlooked the bed of Windermere,                                  5
  Like a vast river, stretching in the sun.
  With exultation, at my feet I saw
  Lake, islands, promontories, gleaming bays,
  A universe of Nature's fairest forms
  Proudly revealed with instantaneous burst,                          10
  Magnificent, and beautiful, and gay.
  I bounded down the hill shouting amain
  For the old Ferryman; to the shout the rocks
  Replied, and when the Charon of the flood
  Had staid his oars, and touched the jutting pier, [B]               15
  I did not step into the well-known boat
  Without a cordial greeting. Thence with speed
  Up the familiar hill I took my way [C]
  Towards that sweet Valley [D] where I had been reared;
  'Twas but a short hour's walk, ere veering round                    20
  I saw the snow-white church upon her hill [E]
  Sit like a throned Lady, sending out
  A gracious look all over her domain. [F]
  Yon azure smoke betrays the lurking town;
  With eager footsteps I advance and reach                            25
  The cottage threshold where my journey closed.
  Glad welcome had I, with some tears, perhaps,
  From my old Dame, so kind and motherly, [G]
  While she perused me with a parent's pride.
  The thoughts of gratitude shall fall like dew                       30
  Upon thy grave, good creature! While my heart
  Can beat never will I forget thy name.
  Heaven's blessing be upon thee where thou liest
  After thy innocent and busy stir
  In narrow cares, thy little daily growth                            35
  Of calm enjoyments, after eighty years,
  And more than eighty, of untroubled life, [H]
  Childless, yet by the strangers to thy blood
  Honoured with little less than filial love.
  What joy was mine to see thee once again,                           40
  Thee and thy dwelling, and a crowd of things
  About its narrow precincts all beloved, [I]
  And many of them seeming yet my own!
  Why should I speak of what a thousand hearts
  Have felt, and every man alive can guess?                           45
  The rooms, the court, the garden were not left
  Long unsaluted, nor the sunny seat
  Round the stone table under the dark pine, [K]
  Friendly to studious or to festive hours;
  Nor that unruly child of mountain birth,                            50
  The famous brook, who, soon as he was boxed
  Within our garden, [L] found himself at once,
  As if by trick insidious and unkind,
  Stripped of his voice [M] and left to dimple down
  (Without an effort and without a will)                              55
  A channel paved by man's officious care. [N]
  I looked at him and smiled, and smiled again,
  And in the press of twenty thousand thoughts, [O]
  "Ha," quoth I, "pretty prisoner, are you there!"
  Well might sarcastic Fancy then have whispered,                     60
  "An emblem here behold of thy own life;
  In its late course of even days with all
  Their smooth enthralment;" but the heart was full,
  Too full for that reproach. My aged Dame
  Walked proudly at my side: she guided me;                           65
  I willing, nay--nay, wishing to be led.
--The face of every neighbour whom I met
  Was like a volume to me; some were hailed
  Upon the road, some busy at their work,
  Unceremonious greetings interchanged                                70
  With half the length of a long field between.
  Among my schoolfellows I scattered round
  Like recognitions, but with some constraint
  Attended, doubtless, with a little pride,
  But with more shame, for my habiliments,                            75
  The transformation wrought by gay attire.
  Not less delighted did I take my place
  At our domestic table: and, [P] dear Friend
  In this endeavour simply to relate
  A Poet's history, may I leave untold                                80
  The thankfulness with which I laid me down
  In my accustomed bed, more welcome now
  Perhaps than if it had been more desired
  Or been more often thought of with regret;
  That lowly bed whence I had heard the wind                          85
  Roar and the rain beat hard, where I so oft
  Had lain awake on summer nights to watch
  The moon in splendour couched among the leaves
  Of a tall ash, that near our cottage stood; [Q]
  Had watched her with fixed eyes while to and fro                    90
  In the dark summit of the waving tree
  She rocked with every impulse of the breeze.

    Among the favourites whom it pleased me well
  To see again, was one by ancient right
  Our inmate, a rough terrier of the hills;                           95
  By birth and call of nature pre-ordained
  To hunt the badger and unearth the fox
  Among the impervious crags, but having been
  From youth our own adopted, he had passed
  Into a gentler service. And when first                             100
  The boyish spirit flagged, and day by day
  Along my veins I kindled with the stir,
  The fermentation, and the vernal heat
  Of poesy, affecting private shades
  Like a sick Lover, then this dog was used                          105
  To watch me, an attendant and a friend,
  Obsequious to my steps early and late,
  Though often of such dilatory walk
  Tired, and uneasy at the halts I made.
  A hundred times when, roving high and low                          110
  I have been harassed with the toil of verse,
  Much pains and little progress, and at once
  Some lovely Image in the song rose up
  Full-formed, like Venus rising from the sea;
  Then have I darted forwards to let                                 115
  My hand upon his back with stormy joy,
  Caressing him again and yet again.
  And when at evening on the public way
  I sauntered, like a river murmuring
  And talking to itself when all things                              120
  Are still, the creature trotted on before;
  Such was his custom; but whene'er he met
  A passenger approaching, he would turn
  To give me timely notice, and straightway,
  Grateful for that admonishment, I                                  125
  My voice, composed my gait, and, with the air
  And mien of one whose thoughts are free, advanced
  To give and take a greeting that might save
  My name from piteous rumours, such as wait
  On men suspected to be crazed in brain.                            130

  Those walks well worthy to be prized and loved--
  Regretted!--that word, too, was on my tongue,
  But they were richly laden with all good,
  And cannot be remembered but with thanks
  And gratitude, and perfect joy of heart--135
  Those walks in all their freshness now came back
  Like a returning Spring. When first I made
  Once more the circuit of our little lake,
  If ever happiness hath lodged with man,
  That day consummate happiness was mine,                            140
  Wide-spreading, steady, calm, contemplative.
  The sun was set, or setting, when I left
  Our cottage door, and evening soon brought on
  A sober hour, not winning or serene,
  For cold and raw the air was, and untuned;                         145
  But as a face we love is sweetest then
  When sorrow damps it, or, whatever look
  It chance to wear, is sweetest if the heart
  Have fulness in herself; even so with me
  It fared that evening. Gently did my soul                          150
  Put off her veil, and, self-transmuted, stood
  Naked, as in the presence of her God.
  While on I walked, a comfort seemed to touch
  A heart that had not been disconsolate:
  Strength came where weakness was not known to be,                  155
  At least not felt; and restoration came
  Like an intruder knocking at the door
  Of unacknowledged weariness. I took
  The balance, and with firm hand weighed myself.
--Of that external scene which round me lay,                       160
  Little, in this abstraction, did I see;
  Remembered less; but I had inward hopes
  And swellings of the spirit, was rapt and soothed,
  Conversed with promises, had glimmering views
  How life pervades the undecaying mind;                             165
  How the immortal soul with God-like power
  Informs, creates, and thaws the deepest sleep
  That time can lay upon her; how on earth,
  Man, if he do but live within the light
  Of high endeavours, daily spreads abroad                           170
  His being armed with strength that cannot fail.
  Nor was there want of milder thoughts, of love
  Of innocence, and holiday repose;
  And more than pastoral quiet, 'mid the stir
  Of boldest projects, and a peaceful end                            175
  At last, or glorious, by endurance won.
  Thus musing, in a wood I sate me down
  Alone, continuing there to muse: the slopes
  And heights meanwhile were slowly overspread
  With darkness, and before a rippling breeze                        180
  The long lake lengthened out its hoary line,
  And in the sheltered coppice where I sate,
  Around me from among the hazel leaves,
  Now here, now there, moved by the straggling wind,
  Came ever and anon a breath-like sound,                            185
  Quick as the pantings of the faithful dog,
  The off and on companion of my walk;
  And such, at times, believing them to be,
  I turned my head to look if he were there;
  Then into solemn thought I passed once more.                       190

  A freshness also found I at this time
  In human Life, the daily life of those
  Whose occupations really I loved;
  The peaceful scene oft filled me with surprise
  Changed like a garden in the heat of spring                        195
  After an eight-days' absence. For (to omit
  The things which were the same and yet appeared
  Fair otherwise) amid this rural solitude,
  A narrow Vale where each was known to all,
  'Twas not indifferent to a youthful mind                           200
  To mark some sheltering bower or sunny nook,
  Where an old man had used to sit alone,
  Now vacant; pale-faced babes whom I had left
  In arms, now rosy prattlers at the feet
  Of a pleased grandame tottering up and down;                       205
  And growing girls whose beauty, filched away
  With all its pleasant promises, was gone
  To deck some slighted playmate's homely cheek.

    Yes, I had something of a subtler sense,
  And often looking round was moved to smiles                        210
  Such as a delicate work of humour breeds;
  I read, without design, the opinions, thoughts,
  Of those plain-living people now observed
  With clearer knowledge; with another eye
  I saw the quiet woodman in the woods,                              215
  The shepherd roam the hills. With new delight,
  This chiefly, did I note my grey-haired Dame;
  Saw her go forth to church or other work
  Of state, equipped in monumental trim;
  Short velvet cloak, (her bonnet of the like),                      220
  A mantle such as Spanish Cavaliers
  Wore in old time. Her smooth domestic life,
  Affectionate without disquietude,
  Her talk, her business, pleased me; and no less
  Her clear though shallow stream of piety                           225
  That ran on Sabbath days a fresher course;
  With thoughts unfelt till now I saw her read
  Her Bible on hot Sunday afternoons,
  And loved the book, when she had dropped asleep
  And made of it a pillow for her head.                              230

    Nor less do I remember to have felt,
  Distinctly manifested at this time,
  A human-heartedness about my love
  For objects hitherto the absolute wealth
  Of my own private being and no more:                               235
  Which I had loved, even as a blessed spirit
  Or Angel, if he were to dwell on earth,
  Might love in individual happiness.
  But now there opened on me other thoughts
  Of change, congratulation or regret,                               240
  A pensive feeling! It spread far and wide;
  The trees, the mountains shared it, and the brooks,
  The stars of Heaven, now seen in their old haunts--
  White Sirius glittering o'er the southern crags,
  Orion with his belt, and those fair Seven,                         245
  Acquaintances of every little child,
  And Jupiter, my own beloved star!
  Whatever shadings of mortality,
  Whatever imports from the world of death
  Had come among these objects heretofore,                           250
  Were, in the main, of mood less tender: strong,
  Deep, gloomy were they, and severe; the scatterings
  Of awe or tremulous dread, that had given way
  In later youth to yearnings of a love
  Enthusiastic, to delight and hope.                                 255

    As one who hangs down-bending from the side
  Of a slow-moving boat, upon the breast
  Of a still water, solacing himself
  With such discoveries as his eye can make
  Beneath him in the bottom of the deep,                             260
  Sees many beauteous sights--weeds, fishes, flowers.
  Grots, pebbles, roots of trees, and fancies more,
  Yet often is perplexed and cannot part
  The shadow from the substance, rocks and sky,
  Mountains and clouds, reflected in the depth                       265
  Of the clear flood, from things which there abide
  In their true dwelling; now is crossed by gleam
  Of his own image, by a sun-beam now,
  And wavering motions sent he knows not whence,
  Impediments that make his task more sweet;                         270
  Such pleasant office have we long pursued
  Incumbent o'er the surface of past time
  With like success, nor often have appeared
  Shapes fairer or less doubtfully discerned
  Than these to which the Tale, indulgent Friend!                    275
  Would now direct thy notice. Yet in spite
  Of pleasure won, and knowledge not withheld,
  There was an inner falling off--I loved,
  Loved deeply all that had been loved before,
  More deeply even than ever: but a swarm                            280
  Of heady schemes jostling each other, gawds,
  And feast and dance, and public revelry,
  And sports and games (too grateful in themselves,
  Yet in themselves less grateful, I believe,
  Than as they were a badge glossy and fresh                         285
  Of manliness and freedom) all conspired
  To lure my mind from firm habitual quest
  Of feeding pleasures, to depress the zeal
  And damp those yearnings which had once been mine--
  A wild, unworldly-minded youth, given up                           290
  To his own eager thoughts. It would demand
  Some skill, and longer time than may be spared,
  To paint these vanities, and how they wrought
  In haunts where they, till now, had been unknown.
  It seemed the very garments that I wore                            295
  Preyed on my strength, and stopped the quiet stream
  Of self-forgetfulness.
                         Yes, that heartless chase
  Of trivial pleasures was a poor exchange
  For books and nature at that early age.
  'Tis true, some casual knowledge might be gained                   300
  Of character or life; but at that time,
  Of manners put to school I took small note,
  And all my deeper passions lay elsewhere.
  Far better had it been to exalt the mind
  By solitary study, to uphold                                       305
  Intense desire through meditative peace;
  And yet, for chastisement of these regrets,
  The memory of one particular hour
  Doth here rise up against me. 'Mid a throng
  Of maids and youths, old men, and matrons staid,                   310
  A medley of all tempers, I had passed
  The night in dancing, gaiety, and mirth,
  With din of instruments and shuffling feet,
  And glancing forms, and tapers glittering,
  And unaimed prattle flying up and down; [R]                        315
  Spirits upon the stretch, and here and there
  Slight shocks of young love-liking interspersed,
  Whose transient pleasure mounted to the head,
  And tingled through the veins. Ere we retired,
  The cock had crowed, and now the eastern sky                       320
  Was kindling, not unseen, from humble copse
  And open field, through which the pathway wound,
  And homeward led my steps. Magnificent
  The morning rose, in memorable pomp,
  Glorious as e'er I had beheld--in front,                           325
  The sea lay laughing at a distance; near,
  The solid mountains shone, bright as the clouds,
  Grain-tinctured, drenched in empyrean light;
  And in the meadows and the lower grounds
  Was all the sweetness of a common dawn--330
  Dews, vapours, and the melody of birds, [S]
  And labourers going forth to till the fields.
  Ah! need I say, dear Friend! that to the brim
  My heart was full; I made no vows, but vows
  Were then made for me; bond unknown to me                          335
  Was given, that I should be, else sinning greatly,
  A dedicated Spirit. On I walked
  In thankful blessedness, which yet survives. [T]

    Strange rendezvous! My mind was at that time
  A parti-coloured show of grave and gay,                            340
  Solid and light, short-sighted and profound;
  Of inconsiderate habits and sedate,
  Consorting in one mansion unreproved.
  The worth I knew of powers that I possessed,
  Though slighted and too oft misused. Besides,                      345
  That summer, swarming as it did with thoughts
  Transient and idle, lacked not intervals
  When Folly from the frown of fleeting Time
  Shrunk, and the mind experienced in herself
  Conformity as just as that of old                                  350
  To the end and written spirit of God's works,
  Whether held forth in Nature or in Man,
  Through pregnant vision, separate or conjoined.

    When from our better selves we have too long
  Been parted by the hurrying world, and droop,                      355
  Sick of its business, of its pleasures tired,
  How gracious, how benign, is Solitude;
  How potent a mere image of her sway;
  Most potent when impressed upon the mind
  With an appropriate human centre--hermit,                          360
  Deep in the bosom of the wilderness;
  Votary (in vast cathedral, where no foot
  Is treading, where no other face is seen)
  Kneeling at prayers; or watchman on the top
  Of lighthouse, beaten by Atlantic waves;                           365
  Or as the soul of that great Power is met
  Sometimes embodied on a public road,
  When, for the night deserted, it assumes
  A character of quiet more profound
  Than pathless wastes.
                      Once, when those summer months                 370
  Were flown, and autumn brought its annual show
  Of oars with oars contending, sails with sails,
  Upon Winander's spacious breast, it chanced
  That--after I had left a flower-decked room
  (Whose in-door pastime, lighted up, survived                       375
  To a late hour), and spirits overwrought
  Were making night do penance for a day
  Spent in a round of strenuous idleness--[U]
  My homeward course led up a long ascent,
  Where the road's watery surface, to the top                        380
  Of that sharp rising, glittered to the moon
  And bore the semblance of another stream
  Stealing with silent lapse to join the brook
  That murmured in the vale. [V] All else was still;
  No living thing appeared in earth or air,                          385
  And, save the flowing water's peaceful voice,
  Sound there was none--but, lo! an uncouth shape,
  Shown by a sudden turning of the road,
  So near that, slipping back into the shade
  Of a thick hawthorn, I could mark him well,                        390
  Myself unseen. He was of stature tall,
  A span above man's common measure, tall,
  Stiff, lank, and upright; a more meagre man
  Was never seen before by night or day.
  Long were his arms, pallid his hands; his mouth                    395
  Looked ghastly in the moonlight: from behind,
  A mile-stone propped him; I could also ken
  That he was clothed in military garb,
  Though faded, yet entire. Companionless,
  No dog attending, by no staff sustained,                           400
  He stood, and in his very dress appeared
  A desolation, a simplicity,
  To which the trappings of a gaudy world
  Make a strange back-ground. From his lips, ere long,
  Issued low muttered sounds, as if of pain                          405
  Or some uneasy thought; yet still his form
  Kept the same awful steadiness--at his feet
  His shadow lay, and moved not. From self-blame
  Not wholly free, I watched him thus; at length
  Subduing my heart's specious cowardice,                            410
  I left the shady nook where I had stood
  And hailed him. Slowly from his resting-place
  He rose, and with a lean and wasted arm
  In measured gesture lifted to his head
  Returned my salutation; then resumed                               415
  His station as before; and when I asked
  His history, the veteran, in reply,
  Was neither slow nor eager; but, unmoved,
  And with a quiet uncomplaining voice,
  A stately air of mild indifference,                                420
  He told in few plain words a soldier's tale--
  That in the Tropic Islands he had served,
  Whence he had landed scarcely three weeks past:
  That on his landing he had been dismissed,
  And now was travelling towards his native home.                    425
  This heard, I said, in pity, "Come with me."
  He stooped, and straightway from the ground took up
  An oaken staff by me yet unobserved--
  A staff which must have dropt from his slack hand
  And lay till now neglected in the grass.                           430
  Though weak his step and cautious, he appeared
  To travel without pain, and I beheld,
  With an astonishment but ill suppressed,
  His ghostly figure moving at my side;
  Nor could I, while we journeyed thus, forbear                      435
  To turn from present hardships to the past,
  And speak of war, battle, and pestilence,
  Sprinkling this talk with questions, better spared,
  On what he might himself have seen or felt.
  He all the while was in demeanour calm,                            440
  Concise in answer; solemn and sublime
  He might have seemed, but that in all he said
  There was a strange half-absence, as of one
  Knowing too well the importance of his theme,
  But feeling it no longer. Our discourse                            445
  Soon ended, and together on we passed
  In silence through a wood gloomy and still.
  Up-turning, then, along an open field,
  We reached a cottage. At the door I knocked,
  And earnestly to charitable care                                   450
  Commended him as a poor friendless man,
  Belated and by sickness overcome.
  Assured that now the traveller would repose
  In comfort, I entreated that henceforth
  He would not linger in the public ways,                            455
  But ask for timely furtherance and help
  Such as his state required. At this reproof,
  With the same ghastly mildness in his look,
  He said, "My trust is in the God of Heaven,
  And in the eye of him who passes me!"                              460

    The cottage door was speedily unbarred,
  And now the soldier touched his hat once more
  With his lean hand, and in a faltering voice,
  Whose tone bespake reviving interests
  Till then unfelt, he thanked me; I returned                        465
  The farewell blessing of the patient man,
  And so we parted. Back I cast a look,
  And lingered near the door a little space,
  Then sought with quiet heart my distant home.


       *       *       *       *       *

FOOTNOTES ON THE TEXT

[Footnote A: On the road from Kendal to Windermere.--Ed.]


[Footnote B: At the Ferry below Bowness.--Ed.]


[Footnote C: From the Ferry over the ridge to Sawrey.--Ed.]


[Footnote D: The Vale of Esthwaite.--Ed.]


[Footnote E: Hawkshead Church; an old Norman structure, built in 1160,
the year of the foundation of Furness Abbey. It is no longer
"snow-white," a so-called Restoration having taken place within recent
years, on architectural principles. The plaster is stripped from the
outside of the church, which is now of a dull stone colour.

  "Apart from poetic sentiment," wrote Dr. Cradock (the late Principal
  of Brasenose College, Oxford), "it may be doubted whether the pale
  colour, still preserved at Grasmere and other churches in the
  district, does not better harmonize with the scenery and atmosphere of
  the Lake country.".

The most interesting feature in the interior is the private chapel of
Archbishop Sandys.--Ed.]


[Footnote F: Hawkshead Church is a conspicuous object as you approach
the town, whether by the Ambleside road, or from Sawrey. It is the
latter approach that is here described.--Ed.]


[Footnote G: Anne Tyson,--Ed.]


[Footnote H: Anne Tyson seems to have removed from Hawkshead village to
Colthouse, on the opposite side of the Vale, and lived there for some
time before her death. Along with Dr. Cradock I examined the Parish
Registers of Hawkshead in the autumn of 1882, and we found the following
entry belonging to the year 1796.

  "Anne Tyson of Colthouse, widow, died May 25th buried 28th, in
  Churchyard, aged 83."

Her removal to Colthouse is confirmed, in a curious way, by a
reminiscence of William Wordsworth's (the poet's son), who told me that
if asked where the dame's house was, he would have pointed to a spot on
the eastern side of the valley, and out of the village altogether; his
father having taken him from Rydal Mount to Hawkshead when a mere boy,
and pointed out that spot. Doubtless Wordsworth took his son to the
cottage at Colthouse, where Anne Tyson died, as the earlier abode in
Hawkshead village is well known, and its site is indisputable.--Ed.]


[Footnote I: Compare book i. ll. 499-506, p. 148.--Ed.]


[Footnote K: There is no trace and no tradition at Hawkshead of the
"stone table under the dark pine," For a curious parallel to this

             'sunny seat
  Round the stone table under the dark pine,'

I am indebted to Dr. Cradock. He points out that in the prologue to
'Peter Bell', vol. ii p.9, we have the lines,

  'To the stone-table in my garden,
  Loved haunt of many a summer hour,'

Ed.]


[Footnote L: There can be little doubt as to the identity of "the famous
brook" "within our garden" boxed, which gives the name of Flag Street to
one of the alleys of Hawkshead.

  "Persons have visited the cottage," wrote Dr. Cradock, "without
  discovering it; and yet it is not forty yards distant, and is still
  exactly as described. On the opposite side of the lane leading to the
  cottage, and a few steps above it, is a narrow passage through some
  new stone buildings. On emerging from this, you meet a small garden,
  the farther side of which is bounded by the brook, confined on both
  sides by larger flags, and also covered by flags of the same Coniston
  formation, through the interstices of which you may see and hear the
  stream running freely. The upper flags are now used as a footpath, and
  lead by another passage back into the village. No doubt the garden has
  been reduced in size, by the use of that part of it fronting the lane
  for building purposes. The stream, before it enters the area of
  buildings and gardens, is open by the lane side, and seemingly comes
  from the hills to the westwards. The large flags are extremely hard
  and durable, and it is probably that the very flags which paved the
  channel in Wordsworth's time may still be doing the same duty."

The house adjoining this garden was not Dame Tyson's but a Mr. Watson's.
Possibly, however, some of the boys had free access to the latter, so
that Wordsworth could speak of it as "our garden;" or, Dame Tyson may
have rented it. See Note II. in the Appendix to this volume, p.
386.--Ed.]


[Footnote M: Not wholly so.--Ed.]


[Footnote N: See note  on preceding page.--Ed.]


[Footnote O: Compare the sonnet in vol. iv.:

  'Beloved Vale!' I said, 'when I shall con
  ...
  By doubts and thousand petty fancies crost.'

There can be little doubt that it is to the "famous brook" of 'The
Prelude' that reference is made in the later sonnet, and still more
significantly in the earlier poem 'The Fountain', vol. ii. p. 91.
Compare the MS. variants of that poem, printed as footnotes, from Lord
Coleridge's copy of the Poems:

  'Down to the vale with eager speed
  Behold this streamlet run,
  From subterranean bondage freed,
  And glittering in the sun.'

with the lines in 'The Prelude':

  'The famous brook, who, soon as he was boxed
  Within our garden, found himself at once,
  ...
  Stripped of his voice and left to dimple down, etc.'

This is doubtless the streamlet called Town Beck; and it is perhaps the
most interesting of all the spots alluded to by Wordsworth which can be
traced out in the Hawkshead district, I am indebted to Mr. Rawnsley for
the following note:

  "From the village, nay, from the poet's very door when he lived at
  Anne Tyson's, a good path leads on, past the vicarage, quite to its
  upland place of birth. It has eaten its way deeply into the soil; in
  one place there is a series of still pools, that overflow and fall
  into others, with quiet sound; at other spots, it is bustling and
  busy. Fine timber is found on either side of it, the roots of the
  trees often laid bare by the passing current. In one or two places by
  the side of this beck, and beneath the shadow of lofty oaks, may be
  found boulder stones, grey and moss-covered. Birds make hiding-places
  for themselves in these oak and hazel bushes by the stream. Following
  it up, we find it receives, at a tiny ford, the tribute of another
  stream from the north-west, and comes down between the adjacent hills
  (well wooded to the summit) from meadows of short-cropped grass, and
  to these from the open moorland, where it takes its rise. Every
  conceivable variety of beauty of sound and sight in streamlet life is
  found as we follow the course of this Town Beck. We owe much of
  Wordsworth's intimate acquaintance with streamlet beauty to it."

Compare 'The Fountain' in detail with this passage in 'The Prelude'.--Ed.]


[Footnote P: So it is in the editions of 1850 and 1857; but it should
evidently be "nor, dear Friend!"--Ed.]


[Footnote Q: The ash tree is gone, but there is no doubt as to the place
where it grew. Mr. Watson, whose father owned and inhabited the house
immediately opposite to Mrs. Tyson's cottage in Wordsworth's time (see a
previous note), told me that a tall ash tree grew on the proper right
front of the cottage, where an outhouse is now built. If this be so,
Wordsworth's bedroom must have been that on the proper left, with the
smaller of the two windows. The cottage faces nearly south-west. In the
upper flat there are two bedrooms to the front, with oak flooring, one
of which must have been Wordsworth's. See Note II. (p. 386) in Appendix
to this volume.--Ed.]


[Footnote R: In one of the small mountain farm-houses near
Hawkshead.--Ed.]


[Footnote S: Compare 'Paradise Lost', book viii. l. 528:

  'Walks, and the melody of birds.'

Ed.]


[Footnote T: Dr. Cradock has suggested to me the probable course of that
morning walk.

  "All that can be safely said as to the course of that memorable
  morning walk is that, in that neighbourhood, a view of the sea can
  only be obtained at a considerable elevation; also that if the words
  'in _front_ the sea lay laughing' are to be taken as rigidly exact,
  the poet's progress towards Hawkshead must have been in a direction
  mainly southerly, and therefore from the country north of that place.
  These and all other conditions of the description are answered in
  several parts of the range of hills lying between Elterwater and
  Hawkshead."

See Appendix, Note III. p. 389.--Ed.]


[Footnote U: Compare the sixth line of the poem, beginning

  'This Lawn, a carpet all alive.'

(1829.) And Horace, 'Epistolae', lib. i. ep. xi. l. 28:

  'Strenua nos exercet inertia.'

Ed.]


[Footnote V: The "brook" is Sawrey beck, and the "long ascent" is the
second of the two, in crossing from Windermere to Hawkshead, and going
over the ridge between the two Sawreys. It is only at that point that a
brook can be heard "murmuring in the vale." The road is the old one,
above the ferry, marked in the Ordnance Survey Map, by the Briers, not
the new road which makes a curve to the south, and cannot be described
as a "sharp rising."--Ed.]





       *       *       *       *       *





BOOK FIFTH


BOOKS


  When Contemplation, like the night-calm felt
  Through earth and sky, spreads widely, and sends deep
  Into the soul its tranquillising power,
  Even then I sometimes grieve for thee, O Man,
  Earth's paramount Creature! not so much for woes                     5
  That thou endurest; heavy though that weight be,
  Cloud-like it mounts, or touched with light divine
  Doth melt away; but for those palms achieved,
  Through length of time, by patient exercise
  Of study and hard thought; there, there, it is                      10
  That sadness finds its fuel. Hitherto,
  In progress through this Verse, my mind hath looked
  Upon the speaking face of earth and heaven
  As her prime teacher, intercourse with man
  Established by the sovereign Intellect,                             15
  Who through that bodily image hath diffused,
  As might appear to the eye of fleeting time,
  A deathless spirit. Thou also, man! hast wrought,
  For commerce of thy nature with herself,
  Things that aspire to unconquerable life;                           20
  And yet we feel--we cannot choose but feel--
  That they must perish. Tremblings of the heart
  It gives, to think that our immortal being
  No more shall need such garments; and yet man,
  As long as he shall be the child of earth,                          25
  Might almost "weep to have" [A] what he may lose,
  Nor be himself extinguished, but survive,
  Abject, depressed, forlorn, disconsolate.
  A thought is with me sometimes, and I say,--
  Should the whole frame of earth by inward throes                    30
  Be wrenched, or fire come down from far to scorch
  Her pleasant habitations, and dry up
  Old Ocean, in his bed left singed and bare,
  Yet would the living Presence still subsist
  Victorious, and composure would ensue,                              35
  And kindlings like the morning--presage sure
  Of day returning and of life revived. [B]
  But all the meditations of mankind,
  Yea, all the adamantine holds of truth
  By reason built, or passion, which itself                           40
  Is highest reason in a soul sublime;
  The consecrated works of Bard and Sage,
  Sensuous or intellectual, wrought by men,
  Twin labourers and heirs of the same hopes;
  Where would they be? Oh! why hath not the Mind                      45
  Some element to stamp her image on
  In nature somewhat nearer to her own? [C]
  Why, gifted with such powers to send abroad
  Her spirit, must it lodge in shrines so frail?

    One day, when from my lips a like complaint                       50
  Had fallen in presence of a studious friend,
  He with a smile made answer, that in truth
  'Twas going far to seek disquietude;
  But on the front of his reproof confessed
  That he himself had oftentimes given way                            55
  To kindred hauntings. Whereupon I told,
  That once in the stillness of a summer's noon,
  While I was seated in a rocky cave
  By the sea-side, perusing, so it chanced,
  The famous history of the errant knight                             60
  Recorded by Cervantes, these same thoughts
  Beset me, and to height unusual rose,
  While listlessly I sate, and, having closed
  The book, had turned my eyes toward the wide sea.
  On poetry and geometric truth,                                      65
  And their high privilege of lasting life,
  From all internal injury exempt,
  I mused, upon these chiefly: and at length,
  My senses yielding to the sultry air,
  Sleep seized me, and I passed into a dream.                         70
  I saw before me stretched a boundless plain
  Of sandy wilderness, all black and void,
  And as I looked around, distress and fear
  Came creeping over me, when at my side,
  Close at my side, an uncouth shape appeared                         75
  Upon a dromedary, mounted high.
  He seemed an Arab of the Bedouin tribes:
  A lance he bore, and underneath one arm
  A stone, and in the opposite hand a shell
  Of a surpassing brightness. At the sight                            80
  Much I rejoiced, not doubting but a guide
  Was present, one who with unerring skill
  Would through the desert lead me; and while yet
  I looked and looked, self-questioned what this freight
  Which the new-comer carried through the waste                       85
  Could mean, the Arab told me that the stone
  (To give it in the language of the dream)
  Was "Euclid's Elements;" and "This," said he,
  "Is something of more worth;" and at the word
  Stretched forth the shell, so beautiful in shape,                   90
  In colour so resplendent, with command
  That I should hold it to my ear. I did so,
  And heard that instant in an unknown tongue,
  Which yet I understood, articulate sounds,
  A loud prophetic blast of harmony;                                  95
  An Ode, in passion uttered, which foretold
  Destruction to the children of the earth
  By deluge, now at hand. No sooner ceased
  The song, than the Arab with calm look declared
  That all would come to pass of which the voice                     100
  Had given forewarning, and that he himself
  Was going then to bury those two books:
  The one that held acquaintance with the stars,
  And wedded soul to soul in purest bond
  Of reason, undisturbed by space or time;                           105
  The other that was a god, yea many gods,
  Had voices more than all the winds, with power
  To exhilarate the spirit, and to soothe,
  Through every clime, the heart of human kind.
  While this was uttering, strange as it may seem,                   110
  I wondered not, although I plainly saw
  The one to be a stone, the other a shell;
  Nor doubted once but that they both were books,
  Having a perfect faith in all that passed.
  Far stronger, now, grew the desire I felt                          115
  To cleave unto this man; but when I prayed
  To share his enterprise, he hurried on
  Reckless of me: I followed, not unseen,
  For oftentimes he cast a backward look,
  Grasping his twofold treasure.--Lance in rest,                     120
  He rode, I keeping pace with him; and now
  He, to my fancy, had become the knight
  Whose tale Cervantes tells; yet not the knight,
  But was an Arab of the desert too;
  Of these was neither, and was both at once.                        125
  His countenance, meanwhile, grew more disturbed;
  And, looking backwards when he looked, mine eyes
  Saw, over half the wilderness diffused,
  A bed of glittering light: I asked the cause:
  "It is," said he, "the waters of the deep                          130
  Gathering upon us;" quickening then the pace
  Of the unwieldy creature he bestrode,
  He left me: I called after him aloud;
  He heeded not; but, with his twofold charge
  Still in his grasp, before me, full in view,                       135
  Went hurrying o'er the illimitable waste,
  With the fleet waters of a drowning world
  In chase of him; whereat I waked in terror,
  And saw the sea before me, and the book,
  In which I had been reading, at my side. [D]                       140

    Full often, taking from the world of sleep
  This Arab phantom, which I thus beheld,
  This semi-Quixote, I to him have given
  A substance, fancied him a living man,
  A gentle dweller in the desert, crazed                             145
  By love and feeling, and internal thought
  Protracted among endless solitudes;
  Have shaped him wandering upon this quest!
  Nor have I pitied him; but rather felt
  Reverence was due to a being thus employed;                        150
  And thought that, in the blind and awful lair
  Of such a madness, reason did lie couched.
  Enow there are on earth to take in charge
  Their wives, their children, and their virgin loves,
  Or whatsoever else the heart holds dear;                           155
  Enow to stir for these; yea, will I say,
  Contemplating in soberness the approach
  Of an event so dire, by signs in earth
  Or heaven made manifest, that I could share
  That maniac's fond anxiety, and go                                 160
  Upon like errand. Oftentimes at least
  Me hath such strong enhancement overcome,
  When I have held a volume in my hand,
  Poor earthly casket of immortal verse,
  Shakespeare, or Milton, labourers divine!                          165

    Great and benign, indeed, must be the power
  Of living nature, which could thus so long
  Detain me from the best of other guides
  And dearest helpers, left unthanked, unpraised,
  Even in the time of lisping infancy;                               170
  And later down, in prattling childhood even,
  While I was travelling back among those days,
  How could I ever play an ingrate's part?
  Once more should I have made those bowers resound,
  By intermingling strains of thankfulness                           175
  With their own thoughtless melodies; at least
  It might have well beseemed me to repeat
  Some simply fashioned tale, to tell again,
  In slender accents of sweet verse, some tale
  That did bewitch me then, and soothes me now.                      180
  O Friend! O Poet! brother of my soul,
  Think not that I could pass along untouched
  By these remembrances. Yet wherefore speak?
  Why call upon a few weak words to say
  What is already written in the hearts                              185
  Of all that breathe?--what in the path of all
  Drops daily from the tongue of every child,
  Wherever man is found? The trickling tear
  Upon the cheek of listening Infancy
  Proclaims it, and the insuperable look                             190
  That drinks as if it never could be full.

    That portion of my story I shall leave
  There registered: whatever else of power
  Or pleasure sown, or fostered thus, may be
  Peculiar to myself, let that remain                                195
  Where still it works, though hidden from all search
  Among the depths of time. Yet is it just
  That here, in memory of all books which lay
  Their sure foundations in the heart of man,
  Whether by native prose, or numerous verse, [E]                    200
  That in the name of all inspired souls--
  From Homer the great Thunderer, from the voice
  That roars along the bed of Jewish song,
  And that more varied and elaborate,
  Those trumpet-tones of harmony that shake                          205
  Our shores in England,--from those loftiest notes
  Down to the low and wren-like warblings, made
  For cottagers and spinners at the wheel,
  And sun-burnt travellers resting their tired limbs,
  Stretched under wayside hedge-rows, ballad tunes,                  210
  Food for the hungry ears of little ones,
  And of old men who have survived their joys--
  'Tis just that in behalf of these, the works,
  And of the men that framed them, whether known,
  Or sleeping nameless in their scattered graves,                    215
  That I should here assert their rights, attest
  Their honours, and should, once for all, pronounce
  Their benediction; speak of them as Powers
  For ever to be hallowed; only less,
  For what we are and what we may become,                            220
  Than Nature's self, which is the breath of God,
  Or His pure Word by miracle revealed.

    Rarely and with reluctance would I stoop
  To transitory themes; yet I rejoice,
  And, by these thoughts admonished, will pour out                   225
  Thanks with uplifted heart, that I was reared
  Safe from an evil which these days have laid
  Upon the children of the land, a pest
  That might have dried me up, body and soul.
  This verse is dedicate to Nature's self,                           230
  And things that teach as Nature teaches: then,
  Oh! where had been the Man, the Poet where,
  Where had we been, we two, beloved Friend!
  If in the season of unperilous choice,
  In lieu of wandering, as we did, through vales                     235
  Rich with indigenous produce, open ground
  Of Fancy, happy pastures ranged at will,
  We had been followed, hourly watched, and noosed,
  Each in his several melancholy walk
  Stringed like a poor man's heifer at its feed,                     240
  Led through the lanes in forlorn servitude;
  Or rather like a stalled ox debarred
  From touch of growing grass, that may not taste
  A flower till it have yielded up its sweets
  A prelibation to the mower's scythe. [F]                           245

    Behold the parent hen amid her brood,
  Though fledged and feathered, and well pleased to part
  And straggle from her presence, still a brood,
  And she herself from the maternal bond
  Still undischarged; yet doth she little more                       250
  Than move with them in tenderness and love,
  A centre to the circle which they make;
  And now and then, alike from need of theirs
  And call of her own natural appetites,
  She scratches, ransacks up the earth for food,                     255
  Which they partake at pleasure. Early died
  My honoured Mother, she who was the heart
  And hinge of all our learnings and our loves: [G]
  She left us destitute, and, as we might,
  Trooping together. Little suits it me                              260
  To break upon the sabbath of her rest
  With any thought that looks at others' blame;
  Nor would I praise her but in perfect love.
  Hence am I checked: but let me boldly say,
  In gratitude, and for the sake of truth,                           265
  Unheard by her, that she, not falsely taught,
  Fetching her goodness rather from times past,
  Than shaping novelties for times to come,
  Had no presumption, no such jealousy,
  Nor did by habit of her thoughts mistrust                          270
  Our nature, but had virtual faith that He
  Who fills the mother's breast with innocent milk,
  Doth also for our nobler part provide,
  Under His great correction and control,
  As innocent instincts, and as innocent food;                       275
  Or draws for minds that are left free to trust
  In the simplicities of opening life
  Sweet honey out of spurned or dreaded weeds.
  This was her creed, and therefore she was pure
  From anxious fear of error or mishap,                              280
  And evil, overweeningly so called;
  Was not puffed up by false unnatural hopes,
  Nor selfish with unnecessary cares,
  Nor with impatience from the season asked
  More than its timely produce; rather loved                         285
  The hours for what they are, than from regard
  Glanced on their promises in restless pride.
  Such was she--not from faculties more strong
  Than others have, but from the times, perhaps,
  And spot in which she lived, and through a grace                   290
  Of modest meekness, simple-mindedness,
  A heart that found benignity and hope,
  Being itself benign.
                                     My drift I fear
  Is scarcely obvious; but, that common sense
  May try this modern system by its fruits,                          295
  Leave let me take to place before her sight
  A specimen pourtrayed with faithful hand.
  Full early trained to worship seemliness,
  This model of a child is never known
  To mix in quarrels; that were far beneath                          300
  Its dignity; with gifts he bubbles o'er
  As generous as a fountain; selfishness
  May not come near him, nor the little throng
  Of flitting pleasures tempt him from his path;
  The wandering beggars propagate his name,                          305
  Dumb creatures find him tender as a nun,
  And natural or supernatural fear,
  Unless it leap upon him in a dream,
  Touches him not. To enhance the wonder, see
  How arch his notices, how nice his sense                           310
  Of the ridiculous; not blind is he
  To the broad follies of the licensed world,
  Yet innocent himself withal, though shrewd,
  And can read lectures upon innocence;
  A miracle of scientific lore,                                      315
  Ships he can guide across the pathless sea,
  And tell you all their cunning; he can read
  The inside of the earth, and spell the stars;
  He knows the policies of foreign lands;
  Can string you names of districts, cities, towns,                  320
  The whole world over, tight as beads of dew
  Upon a gossamer thread; he sifts, he weighs;
  All things are put to question; he must live
  Knowing that he grows wiser every day
  Or else not live at all, and seeing too                            325
  Each little drop of wisdom as it falls
  Into the dimpling cistern of his heart:
  For this unnatural growth the trainer blame,
  Pity the tree.--Poor human vanity,
  Wert thou extinguished, little would be left                       330
  Which he could truly love; but how escape?
  For, ever as a thought of purer, birth
  Rises to lead him toward a better clime,
  Some intermeddler still is on the watch
  To drive him back, and pound him, like a stray,                    335
  Within the pinfold of his own conceit.
  Meanwhile old grandame earth is grieved to find
  The playthings, which her love designed for him,
  Unthought of: in their woodland beds the flowers
  Weep, and the river sides are all forlorn.                         340
  Oh! give us once again the wishing cap
  Of Fortunatus, and the invisible coat
  Of Jack the Giant-killer, Robin Hood,
  And Sabra in the forest with St. George!
  The child, whose love is here, at least, doth reap                 345
  One precious gain, that he forgets himself.

    These mighty workmen of our later age,
  Who, with a broad highway, have overbridged
  The froward chaos of futurity,
  Tamed to their bidding; they who have the skill                    350
  To manage books, and things, and make them act
  On infant minds as surely as the sun
  Deals with a flower; the keepers of our time,
  The guides and wardens of our faculties,
  Sages who in their prescience would control                        355
  All accidents, and to the very road
  Which they have fashioned would confine us down,
  Like engines; when will their presumption learn,
  That in the unreasoning progress of the world
  A wiser spirit is at work for us,                                  360
  A better eye than theirs, most prodigal
  Of blessings, and most studious of our good,
  Even in what seem our most unfruitful hours? [H]

  There was a Boy: ye knew him well, ye cliffs
  And islands of Winander!--many a time                              365
  At evening, when the earliest stars began
  To move along the edges of the hills,
  Rising or setting, would he stand alone
  Beneath the trees or by the glimmering lake,
  And there, with fingers interwoven, both hands                     370
  Pressed closely palm to palm, and to his mouth
  Uplifted, he, as through an instrument,
  Blew mimic hootings to the silent owls,
  That they might answer him [I]; and they would shout
  Across the watery vale, and shout again,                           375
  Responsive to his call, with quivering peals,
  And long halloos and screams, and echoes loud,
  Redoubled and redoubled, concourse wild
  Of jocund din; and, when a lengthened pause
  Of silence came and baffled his best skill,                        380
  Then sometimes, in that silence while he hung
  Listening, a gentle shock of mild surprise
  Has carried far into his heart the voice
  Of mountain torrents; or the visible scene
  Would enter unawares into his mind,                                385
  With all its solemn imagery, its rocks,
  Its woods, and that uncertain heaven, received
  Into the bosom of the steady lake.

  This Boy was taken from his mates, and died
  In childhood, ere he was full twelve years old.                    390
  Fair is the spot, most beautiful the vale
  Where he was born; the grassy churchyard hangs
  Upon a slope above the village school, [K]
  And through that churchyard when my way has led
  On summer evenings, I believe that there                           395
  A long half hour together I have stood
  Mute, looking at the grave in which he lies! [L]
  Even now appears before the mind's clear eye
  That self-same village church; I see her sit
  (The throned Lady whom erewhile we hailed)                         400
  On her green hill, forgetful of this Boy
  Who slumbers at her feet,--forgetful, too,
  Of all her silent neighbourhood of graves,
  And listening only to the gladsome sounds
  That, from the rural school ascending, [M] play                    405
  Beneath her and about her. May she long
  Behold a race of young ones like to those
  With whom I herded!--(easily, indeed,
  We might have fed upon a fatter soil
  Of arts and letters--but be that forgiven)--410
  A race of real children; not too wise,
  Too learned, or too good; [N] but wanton, fresh,
  And bandied up and down by love and hate;
  Not unresentful where self-justified;
  Fierce, moody, patient, venturous, modest, shy;                    415
  Mad at their sports like withered leaves in winds;
  Though doing wrong and suffering, and full oft
  Bending beneath our life's mysterious weight
  Of pain, and doubt, and fear, yet yielding not
  In happiness to the happiest upon earth.                           420
  Simplicity in habit, truth in speech,
  Be these the daily strengtheners of their minds;
  May books and Nature be their early joy!
  And knowledge, rightly honoured with that name--
  Knowledge not purchased by the loss of power!                      425

    Well do I call to mind the very week
  When I was first intrusted to the care
  Of that sweet Valley; when its paths, its shores,
  And brooks [O] were like a dream of novelty
  To my half-infant thoughts; that very week,                        430
  While I was roving up and down alone,
  Seeking I knew not what, I chanced to cross
  One of those open fields, which, shaped like ears,
  Make green peninsulas on Esthwaite's Lake:
  Twilight was coming on, yet through the gloom                      435
  Appeared distinctly on the opposite shore
  A heap of garments, as if left by one
  Who might have there been bathing. Long I watched,
  But no one owned them; meanwhile the calm lake
  Grew dark with all the shadows on its breast,                      440
  And, now and then, a fish up-leaping snapped
  The breathless stillness. [P] The succeeding day,
  Those unclaimed garments telling a plain tale
  Drew to the spot an anxious crowd; some looked
  In passive expectation from the shore,                             445
  While from a boat others hung o'er the deep,
  Sounding with grappling irons and long poles.
  At last, the dead man, 'mid that beauteous scene
  Of trees and hills and water, bolt upright
  Rose, with his ghastly face, a spectre shape                       450
  Of terror; yet no soul-debasing fear,
  Young as I was, a child not nine years old,
  Possessed me, for my inner eye had seen
  Such sights before, among the shining streams
  Of faery land, the forest of romance.                              455
  Their spirit hallowed the sad spectacle
  With decoration of ideal grace;
  A dignity, a smoothness, like the works
  Of Grecian art, and purest poesy.

    A precious treasure had I long possessed,                        460
  A little yellow, canvas-covered book,
  A slender abstract of the Arabian tales;
  And, from companions in a new abode,
  When first I learnt, that this dear prize of mine
  Was but a block hewn from a mighty quarry--465
  That there were four large volumes, laden all
  With kindred matter, 'twas to me, in truth,
  A promise scarcely earthly. Instantly,
  With one not richer than myself, I made
  A covenant that each should lay aside                              470
  The moneys he possessed, and hoard up more,
  Till our joint savings had amassed enough
  To make this book our own. Through several months,
  In spite of all temptation, we preserved
  Religiously that vow; but firmness failed,                         475
  Nor were we ever masters of our wish.

    And when thereafter to my father's house
  The holidays returned me, there to find
  That golden store of books which I had left,
  What joy was mine! How often in the course                         480
  Of those glad respites, though a soft west wind
  Ruffled the waters to the angler's wish
  For a whole day together, have I lain
  Down by thy side, O Derwent! murmuring stream,
  On the hot stones, and in the glaring sun,                         485
  And there have read, devouring as I read,
  Defrauding the day's glory, desperate!
  Till with a sudden bound of smart reproach,
  Such as an idler deals with in his shame,
  I to the sport betook myself again.                                490

    A gracious spirit o'er this earth presides,
  And o'er the heart of man: invisibly
  It comes, to works of unreproved delight,
  And tendency benign, directing those
  Who care not, know not, think not what they do.                    495
  The tales that charm away the wakeful night
  In Araby, romances; legends penned
  For solace by dim light of monkish lamps;
  Fictions, for ladies of their love, devised
  By youthful squires; adventures endless, spun                      500
  By the dismantled warrior in old age,
  Out of the bowels of those very schemes
  In which his youth did first extravagate;
  These spread like day, and something in the shape
  Of these will live till man shall be no more.                      505
  Dumb yearnings, hidden appetites, are ours,
  And _they must_ have their food. Our childhood sits,
  Our simple childhood, sits upon a throne
  That hath more power than all the elements.
  I guess not what this tells of Being past,                         510
  Nor what it augurs of the life to come; [Q]
  But so it is, and, in that dubious hour,
  That twilight when we first begin to see
  This dawning earth, to recognise, expect,
  And in the long probation that ensues,                             515
  The time of trial, ere we learn to live
  In reconcilement with our stinted powers;
  To endure this state of meagre vassalage,
  Unwilling to forego, confess, submit,
  Uneasy and unsettled, yoke-fellows                                 520
  To custom, mettlesome, and not yet tamed
  And humbled down; oh! then we feel, we feel,
  We know where we have friends. Ye dreamers, then,
  Forgers of daring tales! we bless you then,
  Impostors, drivellers, dotards, as the ape                         525
  Philosophy will call you: _then_ we feel
  With what, and how great might ye are in league,
  Who make our wish, our power, our thought a deed,
  An empire, a possession,--ye whom time
  And seasons serve; all Faculties to whom                           530
  Earth crouches, the elements are potter's clay,
  Space like a heaven filled up with northern lights,
  Here, nowhere, there, and everywhere at once.

    Relinquishing this lofty eminence
  For ground, though humbler, not the less a tract                   535
  Of the same isthmus, which our spirits cross
  In progress from their native continent
  To earth and human life, the Song might dwell
  On that delightful time of growing youth,
  When craving for the marvellous gives way                          540
  To strengthening love for things that we have seen;
  When sober truth and steady sympathies,
  Offered to notice by less daring pens,
  Take firmer hold of us, and words themselves
  Move us with conscious pleasure.

                                   I am sad                          545
  At thought of raptures now for ever flown; [R]
  Almost to tears I sometimes could be sad
  To think of, to read over, many a page,
  Poems withal of name, which at that time
  Did never fail to entrance me, and are now                         550
  Dead in my eyes, dead as a theatre
  Fresh emptied of spectators. Twice five years
  Or less I might have seen, when first my mind
  With conscious pleasure opened to the charm
  Of words in tuneful order, found them sweet                        555
  For their own _sakes_, a passion, and a power;
  And phrases pleased me chosen for delight,
  For pomp, or love. Oft, in the public roads
  Yet unfrequented, while the morning light
  Was yellowing the hill tops, I went abroad                         560
  With a dear friend, [S] and for the better part
  Of two delightful hours we strolled along
  By the still borders of the misty lake, [T]
  Repeating favourite verses with one voice,
  Or conning more, as happy as the birds                             565
  That round us chaunted. Well might we be glad,
  Lifted above the ground by airy fancies,
  More bright than madness or the dreams of wine;
  And, though full oft the objects of our love
  Were false, and in their splendour overwrought, [U]                570
  Yet was there surely then no vulgar power
  Working within us,--nothing less, in truth,
  Than that most noble attribute of man,
  Though yet untutored and inordinate,
  That wish for something loftier, more adorned,                     575
  Than is the common aspect, daily garb,
  Of human life. What wonder, then, if sounds
  Of exultation echoed through the groves!
  For, images, and sentiments, and words,
  And everything encountered or pursued                              580
  In that delicious world of poesy,
  Kept holiday, a never-ending show,
  With music, incense, festival, and flowers!

    Here must we pause: this only let me add,
  From heart-experience, and in humblest sense                       585
  Of modesty, that he, who in his youth
  A daily wanderer among woods and fields
  With living Nature hath been intimate,
  Not only in that raw unpractised time
  Is stirred to extasy, as others are,                               590
  By glittering verse; but further, doth receive,
  In measure only dealt out to himself,
  Knowledge and increase of enduring joy
  From the great Nature that exists in works
  Of mighty Poets. Visionary power                                   595
  Attends the motions of the viewless winds,
  Embodied in the mystery of words:
  There, darkness makes abode, and all the host
  Of shadowy things work endless changes,--there,
  As in a mansion like their proper home,                            600
  Even forms and substances are circumfused
  By that transparent veil with light divine,
  And, through the turnings intricate of verse,
  Present themselves as objects recognised,
  In flashes, and with glory not their own.                          605


       *       *       *       *       *

VARIANTS ON THE TEXT

[Footnote A: This quotation I am unable to trace.--Ed.]


[Footnote B: Compare Emily Bronte's statement of the same, in the last
verse she wrote:

    'Though Earth and Man were gone,
  And suns and universes ceased to be,
    And Thou wert left alone,
  Every existence would exist in Thee.

    There is not room for Death,
  Nor atom that His might could render void;
   Thou--THOU art Being and Breath,
  And what THOU art may never be destroyed.'

Ed.]


[Footnote C:

  "Because she would then become farther and farther removed from the
  source of essential life and being, diffused instead of concentrated."

(William Davies).--Ed.]


[Footnote D: Mr. A. J. Duffield, the translator of Don Quixote, wrote me
the following letter on Wordsworth and Cervantes, which I transcribe in
full.

  "So far as I can learn Wordsworth had not read any critical work on
  Don Quixote before he wrote the fifth book of 'The Prelude', [a] nor
  for that matter had any criticism of the master-piece of Cervantes
  then appeared. Yet Wordsworth,

                     'by patient exercise
    Of study and hard thought,'

  has given us not only a most poetical insight into the real nature of
  the 'Illustrious Hidalgo of La Mancha'; he has shown us that it was a
  nature compacted of the madman and the poet, and this in language so
  appropriate, that the consideration of it cannot fail to give pleasure
  to all who have found a reason for weighing Wordsworth's words.

  "He demands

           'Oh! why hath not the Mind
    Some element to stamp her image on?'

  then falls asleep, 'his senses yielding to the sultry air,' and he
  sees before him

                'stretched a boundless plain
    Of sandy wilderness, all black and void,
    And as I looked around, distress and fear
    Came creeping over me, when at my side,
    Close at my side, an uncouth shape appeared
    Upon a dromedary, mounted high.
    He seemed an Arab ...'

  Here we have the plains of Montiel, and the poet realising all that
  Don Quixote felt on that day of July, 'the hottest of the year,' when
  he first set out on his quest and met with nothing worth recording.

    'The uncouth shape'

  is of course the Don himself,

    the 'dromedary'

  is Rozinante, and

    the 'Arab'

  doubtless is Cid Hamete Benengeli.

  "Taking such an one for the guide,

             'who with unerring skill
    Would through the desert lead me,'

  is a most sweet play of humour like to the lambent flame of his whose
  satire was as a summer breath, and who smiled all the time he wrote,
  although he wrote chiefly in a prison.

    'The loud prophetic blast of harmony'

  is doubtless a continuation of this humour, down to the lines

    'Nor doubted once but that they both were books,
    Having a perfect faith in all that passed.'

  "Our poet now becomes positive,

                           'Lance in rest,
    He rode, I keeping pace with him; and now
    He, to my fancy, had become the knight
    Whose tale Cervantes tells; _yet not the knight
    But was an Arab of the desert too_,
    Of these was neither, and was both at once.'

  This is absolutely true, and was one of the earliest complaints made a
  century and a half ago, when Spaniards began to criticise their one
  great book. They could not tell at times whether Don Quixote was
  speaking, or Cervantes, or Cid Hamete Benengeli.

    'A bed of glittering light'

  is a delightful description of the attitude of Don Quixote's mind
  towards external nature while passing through the desert.

    'It is,' said he, 'the waters of the deep
    Gathering upon us.'

  "It was, of course, only the mirage; but this he changed to suit his
  own purpose into the 'waters of the deep,' as he changed the row of
  Castilian wind-mills into giants, and the roar of the fulling mills
  into the din of war.

  "Wordsworth is now awake from his dream, but turning all he saw in it
  into a reality, as only the poet can, he feels that

    'Reverence was due to a being thus employed;
    And thought that, _in the blind and awful lair
    Of such a madness, reason did lie couched._'

  Here again is a most profound description of the creation of
  Cervantes. Don Quixote was mad, but his was a madness that proceeded
  from that 'blind and awful lair,' a disordered stomach, rather than
  from an injured brain. Had Don Quixote not forsaken the exercise of
  the chase and early rising, if he had not taken to eating chestnuts at
  night, cold spiced meat, together with onions and 'ollas podridas',
  then proceeding to read exciting, unnatural tales of love and war, he
  would not have gone mad.

  "But his reason only lay 'couched,' not overthrown. Only give him a
  dose of the balsam of Fierabras, his reason shall spring out of its
  lair, like a lion from out its hiding-place, as indeed it did; and you
  then have that wonderful piece of rhetoric, which describes the army
  of Alifanfaron in the eighteenth chapter, Part I.

  "There are many other things worthy of note, such as

                               'crazed
    By love and feeling, and internal thought
    Protracted among endless solitudes,'

  all of which are 'fit epithets blessed in the marriage of pure words,'
  which the author of 'The Prelude', without any special learning, or
  personal knowledge of Spain, has given us, and are so striking as to
  compel us once again to go to Wordsworth and say, 'we do not all
  understand thee yet, not all that thou hast given us.'

  Very truly yours, A. J. Duffield."

Ed.]


[Footnote E: Compare 'Paradise Lost', v. 1. 150:

  'In prose or numerous verse.'

Ed.]


[Footnote F: Wordsworth's earliest teachers, before he was sent to
Hawkshead School, were his mother and the Rev. Mr. Gilbanks at
Cockermouth, and Mrs. Anne Birkett at Penrith. His mother and Dame
Birkett taught him to read, and trained his infant memory. Mr. Gilbanks
also gave him elementary instruction; while his father made him commit
to memory portions of the English poets. At Hawkshead he read English
literature, learned Latin and Mathematics, and wrote both English and
Latin verse. There was little or no method, and no mechanical or
artificial drill in his early education. Though he was taught both
languages and mathematics he was left as free to range the "happy
pastures" of literature, as to range the Hawkshead woods on autumn
nights in pursuit of woodcocks. It is likely that the reference in the
above passage is to his education both in childhood and in youth,
although specially to the former. In his 'Autobiographical Memoranda',
Wordsworth says,

  "Of my earliest days at School I have little to say, but that they
  were very happy ones, chiefly because I was left at liberty, then and
  in the vacations, to read whatever books I liked. For example, I read
  all Fielding's works, 'Don Quixote',  'Gil Blas', and any part of
  Swift that I liked; 'Gulliver's Travels' and the 'Tale of a Tub' being
  both much to my taste."

As Wordsworth alludes to Coleridge's education, along with his own, "in
the season of unperilous choice," the reference is probably to
Coleridge's early time at the vicarage of Ottery St. Mary's, Devonshire,
and at the Grammar School there, as well as at Christ's Hospital in
London, where (with Charles Lamb as school-companion) he was as
enthusiastic in his exploits in the New River, as he was an eager
student of books.--Ed.]


[Footnote G: Mrs. Wordsworth died at Penrith, in the year 1778, the
poet's eighth year.--Ed.]


[Footnote H: Compare, in 'Expostulation and Reply' (vol. i. p. 273),

  'Think you, 'mid all this mighty sum
  Of things for ever speaking,
  That nothing of itself will come,
  But we must still be seeking?'

Ed.]


[Footnote I: See the Fenwick note to the poem, 'There was a Boy', vol.
ii. p. 57, and Wordsworth's reference to his schoolfellow William
Raincock.--Ed.]


[Footnote K: Hawkshead Grammar School.--Ed.]


[Footnote L: Lines 364-97 were first published in "Lyrical Ballads,"
1800, and appeared in all the subsequent collective editions of the
poems, standing first in the group of "Poems of the Imagination."

The grave of this "immortal boy" cannot be identified. His name, and
everything about him except what is here recorded, is unknown; but he
was, in all likelihood, a school companion of Wordsworth's at Hawkshead.

  'And through that churchyard when my way has led
  On summer evenings.'

One may localize the above description almost anywhere at
Hawkshead--Ed.]


[Footnote M: Hawkshead School, in which Wordsworth was taught for eight
years--from 1778 to 1786--was founded by Archbishop Sandys of York, in
1585, and the building is still very much as it was in Wordsworth's
time. The main school-room is on the ground floor. One small chamber on
the first floor was used, in the end of last century, by the head
master, as a private class-room, for teaching a few advanced pupils. In
another is a small library, formed in part by the donations of the
scholars; it having been a custom for each pupil to present a volume on
leaving the school, or to send one afterwards. Very probably one of the
volumes now in the library was presented by Wordsworth. There are
several which were presented by his school-fellows, during the years in
which Wordsworth was at Hawkshead. The master, in 1877, promised me that
he would search through his somewhat musty treasures, to see if he could
discover a book with the poet's autograph; but I never heard of his
success. On the wall of the room containing the library is a tablet,
recording the names of several masters. There also, in an old oak chest,
is kept the original charter of the school. The oak benches downstairs
are covered with the names or initials of the boys, deeply cut; and,
amongst them, the name of William Wordsworth--but not those of his
brothers Richard, John, or Christopher--may be seen. For further details
as to the Hawkshead School, see the 'Life' of the Poet in this edition.
Towards the close of last century, when Wordsworth and his three
brothers were educated there, the school was one of the best educational
institutions in the north of England.--Ed.]


[Footnote N: Compare in the lines beginning "She was a Phantom of
delight" p. 2:

  'Creature not too bright or good
  For human nature's daily food.'

Ed.]


[Footnote O: Compare book iv. ll. 50 and 383, with relative notes--Ed.]


[Footnote P: Compare in 'Fidelity', p. 45:

  'There sometimes doth a leaping fish
  Send through the tarn a lonely cheer.'

Ed.]


[Footnote Q: Compare the 'Ode, Intimations of Immortality', stanza
v.--Ed.]


[Footnote R: Compare, in 'Tintern Abbey', vol. ii. p.54:

                      'That time is past,
  And all its aching joys are now no more,
  And all its dizzy raptures.'

And in the 'Ode, Intimations of Immortality', vol. viii.:

  'What though the radiance which was once so bright
  Be now for ever taken from my sight.'

Ed.]


[Footnote S: This friend of his boyhood, with whom Wordsworth spent
these "delightful hours," is as unknown as is the immortal Boy of
Windermere, who blew "mimic hootings to the silent owls," and who sleeps
in the churchyard "above the village school" of Hawkshead, and the Lucy
of the Goslar poems. Compare, however, p. 163. Wordsworth _may_ refer to
John Fleming of Rayrigg, with whom he used to take morning walks round
Esthwaite:

    '... five miles
  Of pleasant wandering ...'

Ed.]


[Footnote T: Esthwaite.--Ed.]


[Footnote U: Probably they were passages from Goldsmith, or Pope, or
writers of their school. The verses which he wrote upon the completion
of the second century of the foundation of the school were, as he
himself tells us, "a tame imitation of Pope's versification, and a
little in his style."--Ed.]


       *       *       *       *       *

SUB-FOOTNOTE ON THE TEXT

[Sub-Footnote a: Wordsworth studied Spanish during the winter he spent
at Orleans (1792). Don Quixote was one of the books he had read when at
the Hawkshead school.--Ed.]





       *       *       *       *       *





BOOK SIXTH


CAMBRIDGE AND THE ALPS


  The leaves were fading when to Esthwaite's banks
  And the simplicities of cottage life
  I bade farewell; and, one among the youth
  Who, summoned by that season, reunite
  As scattered birds troop to the fowler's lure,                       5
  Went back to Granta's cloisters, [A] not so prompt
  Or eager, though as gay and undepressed
  In mind, as when I thence had taken flight
  A few short months before. I turned my face
  Without repining from the coves and heights                         10
  Clothed in the sunshine of the withering fern; [B]
  Quitted, not both, the mild magnificence
  Of calmer lakes and louder streams; and you,
  Frank-hearted maids of rocky Cumberland,
  You and your not unwelcome days of mirth,                           15
  Relinquished, and your nights of revelry,
  And in my own unlovely cell sate down
  In lightsome mood--such privilege has youth
  That cannot take long leave of pleasant thoughts.
  The bonds of indolent society                                       20
  Relaxing in their hold, henceforth I lived
  More to myself. Two winters may be passed
  Without a separate notice: many books
  Were skimmed, devoured, or studiously perused,
  But with no settled plan. [C] I was detached                        25
  Internally from academic cares;
  Yet independent study seemed a course
  Of hardy disobedience toward friends
  And kindred, proud rebellion and unkind.
  This spurious virtue, rather let it bear                            30
  A name it now deserves, this cowardice,
  Gave treacherous sanction to that over-love
  Of freedom which encouraged me to turn
  From regulations even of my own
  As from restraints and bonds. Yet who can tell--35
  Who knows what thus may have been gained, both then
  And at a later season, or preserved;
  What love of nature, what original strength
  Of contemplation, what intuitive truths,
  The deepest and the best, what keen research,                       40
  Unbiassed, unbewildered, and unawed?

  The Poet's soul was with me at that time;
  Sweet meditations, the still overflow
  Of present happiness, while future years
  Lacked not anticipations, tender dreams,                            45
  No few of which have since been realised;
  And some remain, hopes for my future life.
  Four years and thirty, told this very week, [D]
  Have I been now a sojourner on earth,
  By sorrow not unsmitten; yet for me                                 50
  Life's morning radiance hath not left the hills,
  Her dew is on the flowers. Those were the days
  Which also first emboldened me to trust
  With firmness, hitherto but lightly touched
  By such a daring thought, that I might leave                        55
  Some monument behind me which pure hearts
  Should reverence. The instinctive humbleness,
  Maintained even by the very name and thought
  Of printed books and authorship, began
  To melt away; and further, the dread awe                            60
  Of mighty names was softened down and seemed
  Approachable, admitting fellowship
  Of modest sympathy. Such aspect now,
  Though not familiarly, my mind put on,
  Content to observe, to achieve, and to enjoy.                       65

    All winter long, whenever free to choose,
  Did I by night frequent the College groves
  And tributary walks; the last, and oft
  The only one, who had been lingering there
  Through hours of silence, till the porter's bell,                   70
  A punctual follower on the stroke of nine,
  Rang with its blunt unceremonious voice,
  Inexorable summons! Lofty elms,
  Inviting shades of opportune recess,
  Bestowed composure on a neighbourhood                               75
  Unpeaceful in itself. A single tree
  With sinuous trunk, boughs exquisitely wreathed,
  Grew there; [E] an ash which Winter for himself
  Decked out with pride, and with outlandish grace:
  Up from the ground, and almost to the top,                          80
  The trunk and every master branch were green
  With clustering ivy, and the lightsome twigs
  And outer spray profusely tipped with seeds
  That hung in yellow tassels, while the air
  Stirred them, not voiceless. Often have I stood                     85
  Foot-bound uplooking at this lovely tree
  Beneath a frosty moon. The hemisphere
  Of magic fiction, verse of mine perchance
  May never tread; but scarcely Spenser's self
  Could have more tranquil visions in his youth,                      90
  Or could more bright appearances create
  Of human forms with superhuman powers,
  Than I beheld loitering on calm clear nights
  Alone, beneath this fairy work of earth.

    On the vague reading of a truant youth [F]                        95
  'Twere idle to descant. My inner judgment
  Not seldom differed from my taste in books.
  As if it appertained to another mind,
  And yet the books which then I valued most
  Are dearest to me _now_; for, having scanned,                      100
  Not heedlessly, the laws, and watched the forms
  Of Nature, in that knowledge I possessed
  A standard, often usefully applied,
  Even when unconsciously, to things removed
  From a familiar sympathy.--In fine,                                105
  I was a better judge of thoughts than words,
  Misled in estimating words, not only
  By common inexperience of youth,
  But by the trade in classic niceties,
  The dangerous craft of culling term and phrase                     110
  From languages that want the living voice
  To carry meaning to the natural heart;
  To tell us what is passion, what is truth,
  What reason, what simplicity and sense.

    Yet may we not entirely overlook                                 115
  The pleasure gathered from the rudiments
  Of geometric science. Though advanced
  In these inquiries, with regret I speak,
  No farther than the threshold, [G] there I found
  Both elevation and composed delight:                               120
  With Indian awe and wonder, ignorance pleased
  With its own struggles, did I meditate
  On the relation those abstractions bear
  To Nature's laws, and by what process led,
  Those immaterial agents bowed their heads                          125
  Duly to serve the mind of earth-born man;
  From star to star, from kindred sphere to sphere,
  From system on to system without end.

    More frequently from the same source I drew
  A pleasure quiet and profound, a sense                             130
  Of permanent and universal sway,
  And paramount belief; there, recognised
  A type, for finite natures, of the one
  Supreme Existence, the surpassing life
  Which--to the boundaries of space and time,                        135
  Of melancholy space and doleful time,
  Superior, and incapable of change,
  Nor touched by welterings of passion--is,
  And hath the name of, God. Transcendent peace
  And silence did await upon these thoughts                          140
  That were a frequent comfort to my youth.

    'Tis told by one whom stormy waters threw,
  With fellow-sufferers by the shipwreck spared,
  Upon a desert coast, that having brought
  To land a single volume, saved by chance,                          145
  A treatise of Geometry, he wont,
  Although of food and clothing destitute,
  And beyond common wretchedness depressed,
  To part from company and take this book
  (Then first a self-taught pupil in its truths)                     150
  To spots remote, and draw his diagrams
  With a long staff upon the sand, and thus
  Did oft beguile his sorrow, and almost
  Forget his feeling: so (if like effect
  From the same cause produced, 'mid outward things                  155
  So different, may rightly be compared),
  So was it then with me, and so will be
  With Poets ever. Mighty is the charm
  Of those abstractions to a mind beset
  With images, and haunted by herself,                               160
  And specially delightful unto me
  Was that clear synthesis built up aloft
  So gracefully; even then when it appeared
  Not more than a mere plaything, or a toy
  To sense embodied: not the thing it is                             165
  In verity, an independent world,
  Created out of pure intelligence.

    Such dispositions then were mine unearned
  By aught, I fear, of genuine desert--
  Mine, through heaven's grace and inborn aptitudes.                 170
  And not to leave the story of that time
  Imperfect, with these habits must be joined,
  Moods melancholy, fits of spleen, that loved
  A pensive sky, sad days, and piping winds,
  The twilight more than dawn, autumn than spring; [H]               175
  A treasured and luxurious gloom of choice
  And inclination mainly, and the mere
  Redundancy of youth's contentedness.
--To time thus spent, add multitudes of hours
  Pilfered away, by what the Bard who sang                           180
  Of the Enchanter Indolence hath called
  "Good-natured lounging," [I] and behold a map
  Of my collegiate life--far less intense
  Than duty called for, or, without regard
  To duty, _might_ have sprung up of itself                          185
  By change of accidents, or even, to speak
  Without unkindness, in another place.
  Yet why take refuge in that plea?--the fault,
  This I repeat, was mine; mine be the blame.

    In summer, making quest for works of art,                        190
  Or scenes renowned for beauty, I explored
  That streamlet whose blue current works its way
  Between romantic Dovedale's spiry rocks; [K]
  Pried into Yorkshire dales, [L] or hidden tracts
  Of my own native region, and was blest                             195
  Between these sundry wanderings with a joy
  Above all joys, that seemed another morn
  Risen on mid noon; [M] blest with the presence, Friend!
  Of that sole Sister, her who hath been long
  Dear to thee also, thy true friend and mine, [N]                   200
  Now, after separation desolate,
  Restored to me--such absence that she seemed
  A gift then first bestowed. [O] The varied banks
  Of Emont, hitherto unnamed in song, [P]
  And that monastic castle, 'mid tall trees,                         205
  Low-standing by the margin of the stream, [Q]
  A mansion visited (as fame reports)
  By Sidney, [R] where, in sight of our Helvellyn,
  Or stormy Cross-fell, snatches he might pen
  Of his Arcadia, by fraternal love                                  210
  Inspired;--that river and those mouldering towers
  Have seen us side by side, when, having clomb
  The darksome windings of a broken stair,
  And crept along a ridge of fractured wall,
  Not without trembling, we in safety looked                         215
  Forth, through some Gothic window's open space,
  And gathered with one mind a rich reward
  From the far-stretching landscape, by the light
  Of morning beautified, or purple eve;
  Or, not less pleased, lay on some turret's head,                   220
  Catching from tufts of grass and hare-bell flowers
  Their faintest whisper to the passing breeze,
  Given out while mid-day heat oppressed the plains.

    Another maid there was, [S] who also shed
  A gladness o'er that season, then to me,                           225
  By her exulting outside look of youth
  And placid under-countenance, first endeared;
  That other spirit, Coleridge! who is now
  So near to us, that meek confiding heart,
  So reverenced by us both. O'er paths and fields                    230
  In all that neighbourhood, through narrow lanes
  Of eglantine, and through the shady woods,
  And o'er the Border Beacon, and the waste [T]
  Of naked pools, and common crags that lay
  Exposed on the bare felt, were scattered love,                     235
  The spirit of pleasure, and youth's golden gleam.
  O Friend! we had not seen thee at that time,
  And yet a power is on me, and a strong
  Confusion, and I seem to plant thee there.
  Far art thou wandered now in search of health                      240
  And milder breezes,--melancholy lot! [U]
  But thou art with us, with us in the past,
  The present, with us in the times to come.
  There is no grief, no sorrow, no despair,
  No languor, no dejection, no dismay,                               245
  No absence scarcely can there be, for those
  Who love as we do. Speed thee well! divide
  With us thy pleasure; thy returning strength,
  Receive it daily as a joy of ours;
  Share with us thy fresh spirits, whether gift                      250
  Of gales Etesian or of tender thoughts. [V]

    I, too, have been a wanderer; but, alas!
  How different the fate of different men.
  Though mutually unknown, yea nursed and reared
  As if in several elements, we were framed                          255
  To bend at last to the same discipline,
  Predestined, if two beings ever were,
  To seek the same delights, and have one health,
  One happiness. Throughout this narrative,
  Else sooner ended, I have borne in mind                            260
  For whom it registers the birth, and marks the growth,
  Of gentleness, simplicity, and truth,
  And joyous loves, that hallow innocent days
  Of peace and self-command. Of rivers, fields,
  And groves I speak to thee, my Friend! to thee,                    265
  Who, yet a liveried schoolboy, in the depths
  Of the huge city, [W] on the leaded roof
  Of that wide edifice, [X] thy school and home,
  Wert used to lie and gaze upon the clouds
  Moving in heaven; or, of that pleasure tired,                      270
  To shut thine eyes, and by internal light
  See trees, and meadows, and thy native stream, [Y]
  Far distant, thus beheld from year to year
  Of a long exile. Nor could I forget,
  In this late portion of my argument,                               275
  That scarcely, as my term of pupilage
  Ceased, had I left those academic bowers
  When thou wert thither guided. [Z] From the heart
  Of London, and from cloisters there, thou camest,
  And didst sit down in temperance and peace,                        280
  A rigorous student. [a] What a stormy course
  Then followed. [b] Oh! it is a pang that calls
  For utterance, to think what easy change
  Of circumstances might to thee have spared
  A world of pain, ripened a thousand hopes,                         285
  For ever withered. Through this retrospect
  Of my collegiate life I still have had
  Thy after-sojourn in the self-same place
  Present before my eyes, have played with times
  And accidents as children do with cards,                           290
  Or as a man, who, when his house is built,
  A frame locked up in wood and stone, doth still,
  As impotent fancy prompts, by his fireside,
  Rebuild it to his liking. I have thought
  Of thee, thy learning, gorgeous eloquence,                         295
  And all the strength and plumage of thy youth,
  Thy subtle speculations, toils abstruse
  Among the schoolmen, and Platonic forms
  Of wild ideal pageantry, shaped out
  From things well-matched or ill, and words for things,             300
  The self-created sustenance of a mind
  Debarred from Nature's living images,
  Compelled to be a life unto herself,
  And unrelentingly possessed by thirst
  Of greatness, love, and beauty. Not alone,                         305
  Ah! surely not in singleness of heart
  Should I have seen the light of evening fade
  From smooth Cam's silent waters: had we met,
  Even at that early time, needs must I trust
  In the belief, that my maturer age,                                310
  My calmer habits, and more steady voice,
  Would with an influence benign have soothed,
  Or chased away, the airy wretchedness
  That battened on thy youth. But thou hast trod
  A march of glory, which doth put to shame                          315
  These vain regrets; health suffers in thee, else
  Such grief for thee would be the weakest thought
  That ever harboured in the breast of man.

    A passing word erewhile did lightly touch
  On wanderings of my own, that now embraced                         320
  With livelier hope a region wider far.

    When the third summer freed us from restraint,
  A youthful friend, he too a mountaineer, [c]
  Not slow to share my wishes, took his staff,
  And sallying forth, we journeyed side by side,                     325
  Bound to the distant Alps. [d] A hardy slight
  Did this unprecedented course imply
  Of college studies and their set rewards;
  Nor had, in truth, the scheme been formed by me
  Without uneasy forethought of the pain,                            330
  The censures, and ill-omening of those
  To whom my worldly interests were dear.
  But Nature then was sovereign in my mind,
  And mighty forms, seizing a youthful fancy,
  Had given a charter to irregular hopes.                            335
  In any age of uneventful calm
  Among the nations, surely would my heart
  Have been possessed by similar desire;
  But Europe at that time was thrilled with joy,
  France standing on the top of golden hours, [e]                    340
  And human nature seeming born again. [f]

    Lightly equipped, [g] and but a few brief looks
  Cast on the white cliffs of our native shore
  From the receding vessel's deck, we chanced
  To land at Calais on the very eve                                  345
  Of that great federal day; [h] and there we saw,
  In a mean city, and among a few,
  How bright a face is worn when joy of one
  Is joy for tens of millions. [h] Southward thence
  We held our way, direct through hamlets, towns, [i]                350
  Gaudy with reliques of that festival,
  Flowers left to wither on triumphal arcs,
  And window-garlands. On the public roads,
  And, once, three days successively, through paths
  By which our toilsome journey was abridged, [k]                    355
  Among sequestered villages we walked
  And found benevolence and blessedness
  Spread like a fragrance everywhere, when spring
  Hath left no corner of the land untouched:
  Where elms for many and many a league in files                     360
  With their thin umbrage, on the stately roads
  Of that great kingdom, rustled o'er our heads, [m]
  For ever near us as we paced along:
  How sweet at such a time, with such delight
  On every side, in prime of youthful strength,                      365
  To feed a Poet's tender melancholy
  And fond conceit of sadness, with the sound
  Of undulations varying as might please
  The wind that swayed them; once, and more than once,
  Unhoused beneath the evening star we saw                           370
  Dances of liberty, and, in late hours
  Of darkness, dances in the open air
  Deftly prolonged, though grey-haired lookers on
  Might waste their breath in chiding.
                                       Under hills--
  The vine-clad hills and slopes of Burgundy,                        375
  Upon the bosom of the gentle Saone
  We glided forward with the flowing stream, [n]
  Swift Rhone! thou wert the _wings_ on which we cut
  A winding passage with majestic ease
  Between thy lofty rocks. [o] Enchanting show                       380
  Those woods and farms and orchards did present
  And single cottages and lurking towns,
  Reach after reach, succession without end
  Of deep and stately vales! A lonely pair
  Of strangers, till day closed, we sailed along,                    385
  Clustered together with a merry crowd
  Of those emancipated, a blithe host
  Of travellers, chiefly delegates returning
  From the great spousals newly solemnised
  At their chief city, in the sight of Heaven.                       390
  Like bees they swarmed, gaudy and gay as bees;
  Some vapoured in the unruliness of joy,
  And with their swords flourished as if to fight
  The saucy air. In this proud company
  We landed--took with them our evening meal,                        395
  Guests welcome almost as the angels were
  To Abraham of old. The supper done,
  With flowing cups elate and happy thoughts
  We rose at signal given, and formed a ring
  And, hand in hand, danced round and round the board;               400
  All hearts were open, every tongue was loud
  With amity and glee; we bore a name
  Honoured in France, the name of Englishmen,
  And hospitably did they give us hail,
  As their forerunners in a glorious course;                         405
  And round and round the board we danced again.
  With these blithe friends our voyage we renewed
  At early dawn. The monastery bells
  Made a sweet jingling in our youthful ears;
  The rapid river flowing without noise,                             410
  And each uprising or receding spire
  Spake with a sense of peace, at intervals
  Touching the heart amid the boisterous crew
  By whom we were encompassed. Taking leave
  Of this glad throng, foot-travellers side by side,                 415
  Measuring our steps in quiet, we pursued
  Our journey, and ere twice the sun had set
  Beheld the Convent of Chartreuse, and there
  Rested within an awful _solitude_: [p]
  Yes, for even then no other than a place                           420
  Of soul-affecting _solitude_ appeared
  That far-famed region, though our eyes had seen,
  As toward the sacred mansion we advanced,
  Arms flashing, and a military glare
  Of riotous men commissioned to expel                               425
  The blameless inmates, and belike subvert
  That frame of social being, which so long
  Had bodied forth the ghostliness of things
  In silence visible and perpetual calm.

--"Stay, stay your sacrilegious hands!"--The voice                 430
  Was Nature's, uttered from her Alpine throne;
  I heard it then and seem to hear it now--
  "Your impious work forbear, perish what may,
  Let this one temple last, be this one spot
  Of earth devoted to eternity!"                                     435
  She ceased to speak, but while St. Bruno's pines [q]
  Waved their dark tops, not silent as they waved,
  And while below, along their several beds,
  Murmured the sister streams of Life and Death, [r]
  Thus by conflicting passions pressed, my heart                     440
  Responded; "Honour to the patriot's zeal!
  Glory and hope to new-born Liberty!
  Hail to the mighty projects of the time!
  Discerning sword that Justice wields, do thou
  Go forth and prosper; and, ye purging fires,                       445
  Up to the loftiest towers of Pride ascend,
  Fanned by the breath of angry Providence.
  But oh! if Past and Future be the wings,
  On whose support harmoniously conjoined
  Moves the great spirit of human knowledge, spare                   450
  These courts of mystery, where a step advanced
  Between the portals of the shadowy rocks
  Leaves far behind life's treacherous vanities,
  For penitential tears and trembling hopes
  Exchanged--to equalise in God's pure sight                         455
  Monarch and peasant: be the house redeemed
  With its unworldly votaries, for the sake
  Of conquest over sense, hourly achieved
  Through faith and meditative reason, resting
  Upon the word of heaven-imparted truth,                            460
  Calmly triumphant; and for humbler claim
  Of that imaginative impulse sent
  From these majestic floods, yon shining cliffs,
  The untransmuted shapes of many worlds,
  Cerulean ether's pure inhabitants,                                 465
  These forests unapproachable by death,
  That shall endure as long as man endures,
  To think, to hope, to worship, and to feel,
  To struggle, to be lost within himself
  In trepidation, from the blank abyss                               470
  To look with bodily eyes, and be consoled."
  Not seldom since that moment have I wished
  That thou, O Friend! the trouble or the calm
  Hadst shared, when, from profane regards apart,
  In sympathetic reverence we trod                                   475
  The floors of those dim cloisters, till that hour,
  From their foundation, strangers to the presence
  Of unrestricted and unthinking man.
  Abroad, how cheeringly the sunshine lay
  Upon the open lawns! Vallombre's groves                            480
  Entering, [s] we fed the soul with darkness; thence
  Issued, and with uplifted eyes beheld,
  In different quarters of the bending sky,
  The cross of Jesus stand erect, as if
  Hands of angelic powers had fixed it there, [t]                    485
  Memorial reverenced by a thousand storms;
  Yet then, from the undiscriminating sweep
  And rage of one State-whirlwind, insecure.

    'Tis not my present purpose to retrace
  That variegated journey step by step.                              490
  A march it was of military speed, [u]
  And Earth did change her images and forms
  Before us, fast as clouds are changed in heaven.
  Day after day, up early and down late,
  From hill to vale we dropped, from vale to hill                    495
  Mounted--from province on to province swept,
  Keen hunters in a chase of fourteen weeks, [u]
  Eager as birds of prey, or as a ship
  Upon the stretch, when winds are blowing fair:
  Sweet coverts did we cross of pastoral life,                       500
  Enticing valleys, greeted them and left
  Too soon, while yet the very flash and gleam [v]
  Of salutation were not passed away.
  Oh! sorrow for the youth who could have seen
  Unchastened, unsubdued, unawed, unraised                           505
  To patriarchal dignity of mind,
  And pure simplicity of wish and will,
  Those sanctified abodes of peaceful man,
  Pleased (though to hardship born, and compassed round
  With danger, varying as the seasons change),                       510
  Pleased with his daily task, or, if not pleased,
  Contented, from the moment that the dawn
  (Ah! surely not without attendant gleams
  Of soul-illumination) calls him forth
  To industry, by glistenings flung on rocks,                        515
  Whose evening shadows lead him to repose, [w]
  Well might a stranger look with bounding heart
  Down on a green recess, [x] the first I saw
  Of those deep haunts, an aboriginal vale,
  Quiet and lorded over and possessed                                520
  By naked huts, wood-built, and sown like tents
  Or Indian cabins over the fresh lawns
  And by the river side.

                             That very day,
  From a bare ridge [y] we also first beheld
  Unveiled the summit of Mont Blanc, and grieved                     525
  To have a soulless image on the eye
  That had usurped upon a living thought
  That never more could be. The wondrous Vale
  Of Chamouny stretched far below, and soon
  With its dumb cataracts and streams of ice,                        530
  A motionless array of mighty waves,
  Five rivers broad and vast, [z] made rich amends,
  And reconciled us to realities;
  There small birds warble from the leafy trees,
  The eagle soars high in the element,                               535
  There doth the reaper bind the yellow sheaf,
  The maiden spread the haycock in the sun,
  While Winter like a well-tamed lion walks,
  Descending from the mountain to make sport
  Among the cottages by beds of flowers.                             540

    Whate'er in this wide circuit we beheld,
  Or heard, was fitted to our unripe state
  Of intellect and heart. With such a book
  Before our eyes, we could not choose but read
  Lessons of genuine brotherhood, the plain                          545
  And universal reason of mankind,
  The truths of young and old. Nor, side by side
  Pacing, two social pilgrims, or alone
  Each with his humour, could we fail to abound
  In dreams and fictions, pensively composed:                        550
  Dejection taken up for pleasure's sake,
  And gilded sympathies, the willow wreath,
  And sober posies of funereal flowers,
  Gathered among those solitudes sublime
  From formal gardens of the lady Sorrow,                            555
  Did sweeten many a meditative hour.

    Yet still in me with those soft luxuries
  Mixed something of stem mood, an under-thirst
  Of vigour seldom utterly allayed.
  And from that source how different a sadness                       560
  Would issue, let one incident make known.
  When from the Vallais we had turned, and clomb
  Along the Simplon's steep and rugged road, [Aa]
  Following a band of muleteers, we reached
  A halting-place, where all together took                           565
  Their noon-tide meal. Hastily rose our guide,
  Leaving us at the board; awhile we lingered,
  Then paced the beaten downward way that led
  Right to a rough stream's edge, and there broke off;
  The only track now visible was one                                 570
  That from the torrent's further brink held forth
  Conspicuous invitation to ascend
  A lofty mountain. After brief delay
  Crossing the unbridged stream, that road we took,
  And clomb with eagerness, till anxious fears                       575
  Intruded, for we failed to overtake
  Our comrades gone before. By fortunate chance,
  While every moment added doubt to doubt,
  A peasant met us, from whose mouth we learned
  That to the spot which had perplexed us first                      580
  We must descend, and there should find the road,
  Which in the stony channel of the stream
  Lay a few steps, and then along its banks;
  And, that our future course, all plain to sight,
  Was downwards, with the current of that stream.                    585
  Loth to believe what we so grieved to hear,
  For still we had hopes that pointed to the clouds,
  We questioned him again, and yet again;
  But every word that from the peasant's lips
  Came in reply, translated by our feelings,                         590
  Ended in this,--'that we had crossed the Alps'.

    Imagination--here the Power so called
  Through sad incompetence of human speech,
  That awful Power rose from the mind's abyss
  Like an unfathered vapour that enwraps,                            595
  At once, some lonely traveller. I was lost;
  Halted without an effort to break through;
  But to my conscious soul I now can say--
  "I recognise thy glory:" in such strength
  Of usurpation, when the light of sense                             600
  Goes out, but with a flash that has revealed
  The invisible world, doth greatness make abode,
  There harbours; whether we be young or old,
  Our destiny, our being's heart and home,
  Is with infinitude, and only there;                                605
  With hope it is, hope that can never die,
  Effort, and expectation, and desire,
  And something evermore about to be.
  Under such banners militant, the soul
  Seeks for no trophies, struggles for no spoils                     610
  That may attest her prowess, blest in thoughts
  That are their own perfection and reward,
  Strong in herself and in beatitude
  That hides her, like the mighty flood of Nile
  Poured from his fount of Abyssinian clouds                         615
  To fertilise the whole Egyptian plain.

    The melancholy slackening that ensued
  Upon those tidings by the peasant given
  Was soon dislodged. Downwards we hurried fast,
  And, with the half-shaped road which we had missed,                620
  Entered a narrow chasm. The brook and road [1]
  Were fellow-travellers in this gloomy strait, [Bb]
  And with them did we journey several hours
  At a slow pace. [2] The immeasurable height
  Of woods decaying, never to be decayed,                            625
  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--635
  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, [Cc]                      645
  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, [Dd]                        655
  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, [Ee] and garden plots
  Of Indian corn tended by dark-eyed maids;
  Thy lofty steeps, and pathways roofed with vines,                  665
  Winding from house to house, from town to town,
  Sole link that binds them to each other; [Ff] 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; [Gg] 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                         675
  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                         685
  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,                      695
  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 [Hh] 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                              705
  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;                        715
  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 [Ii]
  Followed that pair of golden days that shed
  On Como's Lake, and all that round it lay,                         725
  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;                           735
  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,                          745
  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                            755
  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 black-bird'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 [Kk]
  For battle in the cause of Liberty.                                765
  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 bird                             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,                   775
  And the independent spirit of pure youth
  Called forth, at every season, new delights
  Spread round my steps like sunshine o'er green fields.


       *       *       *       *       *

VARIANTS ON THE TEXT

[Variant 1:

... gloomy Pass,    1845.]


[Variant 2:

At a slow step      1845.]


       *       *       *       *       *

FOOTNOTES ON THE TEXT

[Footnote A: To Cambridge. The Anglo-Saxons called it 'Grantabridge', of
which Cambridge may be a corruption, Granta and Cam being different
names for the same stream. Grantchester is still the name of a village
near Cambridge. It is uncertain whether the village or the city itself
is the spot of which Bede writes, "venerunt ad civitatulam quandam
desolatam, quae lingua Anglorum 'Grantachester' vocatur." If it was
Cambridge itself it had already an alternative name, _viz._
'Camboricum'. Compare 'Cache-cache', a Tale in Verse, by William D.
Watson. London: Smith, Elder, and Co. 1862:

  "Leaving our woods and mountains for the plains
  Of treeless level Granta." (p. 103.)
         ...
                     "'Twas then the time
  When in two camps, like Pope and Emperor,
  Byron and Wordsworth parted Granta's sons."

(p. 121.) Ed.]


[Footnote B: Note the meaning, as well as the 'curiosa felicitas', of
this phrase.--Ed.]


[Footnote C: His Cambridge studies were very miscellaneous, partly owing
to his strong natural disinclination to work by rule, partly to
unmethodic training at Hawkshead, and to the fact that he had already
mastered so much of Euclid and Algebra as to have a twelvemonth's start
of the freshmen of his year.

  "Accordingly," he tells us, "I got into rather an idle way, reading
  nothing but Classic authors, according to my fancy, and Italian
  poetry. As I took to these studies with much interest my Italian
  master was proud of the progress I made. Under his correction I
  translated the Vision of Mirza, and two or three other papers of the
  'Spectator' into Italian."

Speaking of her brother Christopher, then at Cambridge, Dorothy
Wordsworth wrote thus in 1793:

  "He is not so ardent in any of his pursuits as William is, but he is
  yet particularly attached to the same pursuits which have so
  irresistible an influence over William, _and deprive him of the power
  of chaining his attention to others discordant to his feelings._"

Ed.]


[Footnote D: April 1804.--Ed.]


[Footnote E: There is no ash tree now in the grove of St. John's
College, Cambridge, and no tradition as to where it stood. Covered as it
was--trunk and branch--with "clustering ivy" in 1787, it survived till
1808 at any rate. See Note IV. in the Appendix to this volume, p.
390.--Ed.]


[Footnote F: See notes on pp. 210 [Footnote F to Book V] and 223
Footnote C to this Book, above].--Ed.]


[Footnote G: Before leaving Hawkshead he had mastered five books of
Euclid, and in Algebra, simple and quadratic equations. See note, p. 223
[Footnote C to this Book, above].--Ed.]


[Footnote H: Compare the second stanza of the 'Ode to Lycoris':

  'Then, Twilight is preferred to Dawn,
  And Autumn to the Spring.'

Ed.]


[Footnote I: Thomson. See the 'Castle of Indolence', canto I. stanza
xv.--Ed.]


[Footnote K: Dovedale, a rocky chasm, rather more than two miles long,
not far from Ashburn, in Derbyshire. Thomas Potts writes of it
thus:

  "The rugged, dissimilar, and frequently grotesque and fanciful
  appearance of the rocks distinguish the scenery of this valley from
  perhaps every other in the kingdom. In some places they shoot up in
  detached masses, in the form of spires or conical pyramids, to the
  height of 30 or 40 yards.... One rock, distinguished by the name of
  the Pike, from its spiry form and situation in the midst of the
  stream, was noticed in the second part of 'The Complete Angler', by
  Charles Cotton," etc. etc.

('The Beauties of England and Wales,' Derbyshire, vol. iii, pp. 425,
426, and 431. London, 1810.) Potts speaks of the "pellucid waters" of
the Dove. "It is transparent to the bottom." (See Whately, 'Observations
on Modern Gardening', p. 114.)--Ed.]


[Footnote L: Doubtless Wharfedale, Wensleydale, and Swaledale.--Ed.]


[Footnote M: Compare 'Paradise Lost', v. 310, and in Chapman's 'Blind
Beggar of Alexandria':

  'Now see a morning in an evening rise.'

Ed.]


[Footnote N: For glimpses of the friendship of Dorothy Wordsworth and
Coleridge, see the 'Life' of the poet in the last volume of this
edition.--Ed.]


[Footnote O: The absence referred to--"separation desolate"--may refer
both to the Hawkshead years, and to those spent at Cambridge; but
doubtless the brother and sister met at Penrith, in vacation time from
Hawkshead School; and, after William Wordsworth had gone to the
university, Dorothy visited Cambridge, while the brother spent the
Christmas holidays of 1790 at Forncett Rectory in Norfolk, where his
sister was then staying, and where she spent several years with their
uncle Cookson, the Canon of Windsor. It is more probable that the
"separation desolate" refers to the interval between this Christmas of
1790 and their reunion at Halifax in 1794. In a letter dated Forncett,
August 30, 1793, Dorothy says, referring to her brother, "It is nearly
three years since we parted."--Ed.]


[Footnote P: Thomas Wilkinson's poem on the River Emont had been written
in 1787, but was not published till 1824.--Ed.]


[Footnote Q: Brougham Castle, at the junction of the Lowther and the
Emont, about a mile out of Penrith, south-east, on the Appleby road.
This castle is associated with other poems. See the 'Song at the Feast
of Brougham Castle'.--Ed.]


[Footnote R: Sir Philip Sidney, author of 'Arcadia'.--Ed.]


[Footnote S: Mary Hutchinson.--Ed.]


[Footnote T: The Border Beacon is the hill to the north-east of Penrith.
It is now covered with wood, but was in Wordsworth's time a "bare
fell."--Ed.]


[Footnote U: He had gone to Malta, "in search of health."--Ed.]


[Footnote V: The Etesian gales are the mild north winds of the
Mediterranean, which are periodical, lasting about six weeks in spring
and autumn.--Ed.]


[Footnote W: A blue-coat boy in London.--Ed.]


[Footnote X: Christ's Hospital. Compare Charles Lamb's 'Christ's
Hospital Five and Thirty Years Ago'.

  "Come back into memory, like as thou wert in the dayspring of thy
  fancies, with hope like a fiery column before thee--the dark pillar
  not yet turned--Samuel Taylor Coleridge--Logician, Metaphysician,
  Bard!--How have I seen the casual passer through the cloisters stand
  still, entranced with admiration (while he weighed the disproportion
  between the _speech_ and the _garb_ of the young Mirandula), to hear
  thee unfold, in thy deep and sweet intonations, the mysteries of
  Jamblichus, or Plotinus (for even in those years thou waxedst not pale
  at such philosophic draughts), or reciting Homer in his Greek, or
  Pindar--while the walls of the old Grey Friars re-echoed to the
  accents of the _inspired charity boy_!"

('Essays of Elia.')--Ed.]


[Footnote Y: The river Otter, in Devon, thus addressed by Coleridge in
one of his early poems:

  'Dear native Brook! wild Streamlet of the West!
    How many various-fated years have passed,
    What blissful and what anguished hours, since last
  I skimmed the smooth thin stone along thy breast,
    Numbering its light leaps! Yet so deep imprest
  Sink the sweet scenes of Childhood, that mine eyes
  I never shut amid the sunny haze,
    But straight with all their tints, thy waters rise,
  Thy crowning plank, thy margin's willowy maze,
    And bedded sand that veined with various dyes
  Gleamed through thy bright transparence to the gaze!
    Visions of childhood! oft have ye beguiled
  Lone Manhood's cares, yet waking fondest sighs,
    Ah! that once more I were a careless child!'

Ed.]


[Footnote Z: Coleridge entered Jesus College, Cambridge, in February
1791, just a month after Wordsworth had taken his B. A. degree, and left
the university.--Ed.]


[Footnote a: Coleridge worked laboriously but unmethodically at
Cambridge, studying philosophy and politics, besides classics and
mathematics. He lost his scholarship however.--Ed.]


[Footnote b: Debt and despondency; flight to London; enlistment in the
Dragoons; residence in Bristol; Republican lectures; scheme, along with
Southey, for founding a new community in America; its abandonment; his
marriage; life at Nether Stowey; editing 'The Watchman'; lecturing on
Shakespeare; contributing to 'The Morning Chronicle'; preaching in
Unitarian pulpits; publishing his 'Juvenile Poems', etc. etc.; and
throughout eccentric, impetuous, original--with contagious enthusiasm
and overflowing genius--but erratic, self-confident, and unstable.--Ed.]


[Footnote c: Robert Jones, of Plas-yn-llan, near Ruthin, Denbighshire,
to whom the 'Descriptive Sketches', which record the tour, were
dedicated.--Ed.]


[Footnote d: See 'Descriptive Sketches', vol. i. p. 35.--Ed.]


[Footnote e: Compare Shakespeare, 'Sonnets', 16:

  'Now stand you on the top of happy hours.'

Ed.]


[Footnote f: In 1790, most of what could be shaken in the order of
European, and especially of French society and government, _was_ shaken
and changed. By the new constitution of 1790, to which the French king
took an oath of fidelity, his power was reduced to a shadow, and two
years later France became a Republic.

  "We crossed at the time," wrote Wordsworth to his sister, "when the
  whole nation was mad with joy in consequence of the Revolution."

Ed.]


[Footnote g:

  "We went staff in hand, without knapsacks, and carrying each his
  needments tied up in a pocket handkerchief, with about twenty pounds
  a-piece in our pockets."

W. W. ('Autobiographical Memoranda.)--Ed.]


[Footnote h: July 14, 1790.

  "We crossed from Dover and landed at Calais, on the eve of the day
  when the King was to swear fidelity to the new constitution: an event
  which was solemnised with due pomp at Calais."

W. W. ('Autobiographical Memoranda.') See also the sonnet "dedicated to
National Independence and Liberty," vol. ii. p. 332. beginning,

      'Jones! as from Calais southward you and I,
  and compare the human nature seeming born again'

of 'The Prelude', book vi. I, 341, with "the pomp of a too-credulous
day" and the "homeless sound of joy" of the sonnet.--Ed.]


[Footnote i: They went by Ardres, Peronne, Soissons, Chateau Thierry,
Sezanne, Bar le Duc, Chatillon-sur-Seine, Nuits, to Chalons-sur-Saone;
and thence sailed down to Lyons. See Fenwick note to 'Stray Pleasures'
(vol. iv.)

  "The town of Chalons, where my friend Jones and I halted a day, when
  we crossed France, so far on foot. There we embarqued, and floated
  down to Lyons."

Ed.]


[Footnote k: Compare 'Descriptive Sketches', vol. i. p 40:

  'Or where her pathways straggle as they please
  By lonely farms and secret villages.'

Ed.]


[Footnote m:

  "Her road elms rustling thin above my head."

(See 'Descriptive Sketches', vol. i. pp. 39, 40, and compare the two
passages in detail.)--Ed.]


[Footnote n: On the 29th July 1790.--Ed.]


[Footnote o: They were at Lyons on the 30th July.--Ed.]


[Footnote p: They reached the Chartreuse on the 4th of August, and spent
two days there "contemplating, with increasing pleasure," says
Wordsworth, "its wonderful scenery."--Ed.]


[Footnote q: The forest of St. Bruno, near the Chartreuse.--Ed.]


[Footnote r: "Names of rivers at the Chartreuse."--W. W. 1793.

They are called in 'Descriptive Sketches', vol. i. p. 41, "the mystic
streams of Life and Death."--Ed.]


[Footnote s: "Name of one of the vallies of the Chartreuse."--W. W.
1793.]


[Footnote t: "Alluding to crosses seen on the spiry rocks of the
Chartreuse, which have every appearance of being inaccessible."--W. W.
1793.]


[Footnote u: It extended from July 13 to September 29. See the detailed
Itinerary, vol. i. p. 332, and Wordsworth's letter to his sister, from
Keswill, describing the trip.--Ed.]


[Footnote v: See the account of "Urseren's open vale serene," and the
paragraph which follows it in 'Descriptive Sketches', vol. i. pp. 50,
51.--Ed.]


[Footnote w: See the account of these "abodes of peaceful man," in
'Descriptive Sketches', ll. 208-253.--Ed.]


[Footnote x: Probably the valley between Martigny and the Col de
Balme.--Ed.]


[Footnote y: Wordsworth and Jones crossed from Martigny to Chamouni on
the 11th of August. The "bare ridge," from which they first "beheld
unveiled the summit of Mont Blanc," and were disenchanted, was doubtless
the Col de Balme. The first view of the great mountain is not impressive
as seen from that point, or indeed from any of the possible routes to
Chamouni from the Rhone valley, until the village is almost reached. The
best approach is from Sallanches by St. Gervais.--Ed.]


[Footnote z: Compare Coleridge's 'Hymn before sun-rise in the Vale of
Chamouni', and Shelley's 'Mont Blanc', with Wordsworth's description of
the Alps, here in 'The Prelude', in 'Descriptive Sketches', and in the
'Memorials of a Tour on the Continent'.--Ed.]


[Footnote Aa: August 17, 1790.--Ed.]


[Footnote Bb: This passage beginning, "The brook and road," was first
published, amongst the "Poems of the Imagination," in the edition of
1845, under the title of 'The Simplon Pass' (see vol. ii. p. 69). It is
doubtless to this walk down the Italian side of the Simplon route that
Wordsworth refers in the letter to his sister from Keswill, in which he
says,

  "The impression of there hours of our walk among these Alps will never
  be effaced."

Ed.]


[Footnote Cc: The old hospice in the Simplon, which is beside a torrent
below the level of the road, about 22 miles from Duomo d'Ossola.--Ed.]


[Footnote Dd:

  "From Duomo d'Ossola we proceeded to the lake of Locarno,
to visit the Boromean Islands, and thence to Como."

(W. W. to his sister.) The lake of Locarno is now called Lago
Maggiore.--Ed.]


[Footnote Ee:

  "The shores of the lake consist of steeps, covered with large sweeping
  woods of chestnut, spotted with villages."

(W. W. to his sister.)--Ed.]


[Footnote Ff:

  "A small footpath is all the communication by land between one village
  and another on the side along which we passed, for upwards of thirty
  miles. We entered on this path about noon, and, owing to the steepness
  of the banks, were soon unmolested by the sun, which illuminated the
  woods, rocks, and villages of the opposite shore."

(See letter of W. W. from Keswill.)--Ed.]


[Footnote Gg: See 'Descriptive Sketches', vol. i. pp. 42-46.--Ed.]


[Footnote Hh: They followed the lake of Como to its head, leaving
Gravedona on the 20th August.--Ed.]


[Footnote Ii: August 21, 1790.--Ed.]


[Footnote Kk: They reached Cologne on the 28th September, having floated
down the Rhine in a small boat; and from Cologne went to Calais, through
Belgium.--Ed.]





       *       *       *       *       *





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 [A] walls)
  A glad preamble to this Verse: [B] I sang
  Aloud, with fervour irresistible                                     5
  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, [C] Beloved Friend!
  The assurance which then cheered some heavy thoughts
  On thy departure to a foreign land [D]
  Has failed; too slowly moves the promised work.                     15
  Through the whole summer have I been at rest, [E]
  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                        25
  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                           35
  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, [F]                      45
  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, [G] soon I bade
  Farewell for ever to the sheltered seats [H]
  Of gowned students, quitted hall and bower,
  And every comfort of that privileged ground,                        55
  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, [I]
  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 [K]             65
  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: [K]
  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,                              75
  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                                 85
  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,                        95
  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                       105
  For my enjoyment. Would that I could now
  Recal 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. [L] Above all, one thought                       115
  Baffled my understanding: how men lived
  Even next-door neighbours, as we say, yet still
  Strangers, not knowing each the other's name.

    O, wond'rous 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, [M] and wilderness of lamps
  Dimming the stars, and fireworks magical,
  And gorgeous ladies, under splendid domes,
  Floating in dance, or warbling high in air                         125
  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, [N]
  Perpetually recumbent; Statues--man,
  And the horse under him--in gilded pomp
  Adorning flowery gardens, 'mid vast squares;                       135
  The Monument, [O] and that Chamber of the Tower [P]
  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,                                 145
  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;                  155
  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,                      165
  Boyle, Shakespeare, 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                       175
  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,                      185
  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,
  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;                       195
  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                             205
  Of well-formed characters, with chalk inscribed
  Upon the smooth flat 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                             215
  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                        225
  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 shew.                       235
  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                               245
  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,                              255
  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,                           265
  Yet richly graced with honours of her own,
  Half-rural Sadler's Wells? [Q] 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;                      275
  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." [R]
  Delusion bold! and how can it be wrought?                          285
  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," [S]
  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--295
  I mean, O distant Friend! a story drawn
  From our own ground,--the Maid of Buttermere,--[T]
  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. [U] 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,                             305
  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.                               315

    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                            325
  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                               335
  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                       345
  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                        355
  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                           365
  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,                             375
  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 [V]
  Since, travelling southward from our pastoral hills,
  I heard, and for the first time in my life,
  The voice of woman utter blasphemy--385
  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                              395
  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                         405
  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                           415
  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,                              425
  Stumping upon a cane with which he smites,
  From time to time, the solid boards, and makes them
  Prate somewhat loudly of the whereabout [W]
  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                           435
  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,                                   445
  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,                                 455
  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,                        465
  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                       475
  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 grandeur, 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 Shakespeare's page,
  I mused, and thought, and felt, in solitude.                       485

  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 [X]
  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                     495
  Familiarly, a household term, like those,
  The Bedfords, Glosters, Salsburys, of old
  Whom the fifth Harry talks of. [Y] 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,                     505
  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,                       515
  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                               525
  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,
  Galled by their monarch's chain. The times were big
  With ominous change, which, night by night, provoked               535
  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                          545
  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                      555
  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, [Z] Shakespeare, and the Bard
  Whose genius spangled o'er a gloomy theme                          565
  With fancies thick as his inspiring stars, [a]
  And Ossian (doubt not, 'tis the naked truth)
  Summoned from streamy Morven [b]--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,                              575
  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,                           585
  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,                     595
  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,                              605
  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,                           615
  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.                           625
  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                       635
  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; an apt type
  This label seemed of the utmost we can know,                       645
  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                          655
  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                               665
  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                      675
  Take one,--that ancient festival, the Fair,
  Holden where martyrs suffered in past time,
  And named of St. Bartholomew; [c] 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                         685
  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;                        695
  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.--705
  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                      715
  Of man, his dullness, 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                               725
  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. [d]                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                         735
  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,                      745
  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                              755
  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.                          765
  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.


       *       *       *       *       *

FOOTNOTES ON THE TEXT

[Footnote A: Goslar, February 10th, 1799. Compare Mr. Carter's note to
'The Prelude', book vii. l. 3.--Ed.]


[Footnote B: The first two paragraphs of book i.--Ed.]


[Footnote C: April 1804: see the reference in book vi. l. 48.--Ed.]


[Footnote D: Before he left for Malta, Coleridge had urged Wordsworth to
complete this work.--Ed.]


[Footnote E: The summer of 1804.--Ed.]


[Footnote F: Doubtless John's Grove, below White Moss Common. On
November 24, 1801, Dorothy Wordsworth wrote in her Journal,

  "As we were going along, we were stopped at once, at the distance
  perhaps of fifty yards from our favourite birch tree. It was yielding
  to the gusty wind with all its tender twigs. The sun shone upon it,
  and it glanced in the wind like a flying sunshiny shower. It was a
  tree in shape, with stem and branches, but it was like a spirit of
  water. The sun went in, and it resumed its purplish appearance, the
  twigs still yielding to the wind, but not so visibly to us. The other
  birch trees that were near it looked bright and cheerful, but it was a
  Creation by itself amongst them."

This does not refer to John's Grove, but it may be interesting to
compare the sister's description of a birch tree "tossing in sunshine,"
with the brother's account of a grove of fir trees similarly
moved.--Ed.]


[Footnote G: The visit to Switzerland with Jones in 1790, described in
book vi.--Ed.]


[Footnote H: He took his B. A. degree in January 1791, and immediately
afterwards left Cambridge.--Ed.]


[Footnote I: Going to Forncett Rectory, near Norwich, he spent six weeks
with his sister, and then went to London, where he stayed four
months.--Ed.]


[Footnote K: From the hint given in this passage, it would seem that he
had gone up to London for a few days in 1788. Compare book viii. l. 543,
and note [Footnote o].--Ed.]


[Footnote L: The story of Whittington, hearing the bells ring out the
prosperity in store for him,

  'Turn again, Whittington,
  Thrice Lord Mayor of London,'

is well known.--Ed.]


[Footnote M: Tea-gardens, till well on in this century; now built
over.--Ed.]


[Footnote N: Bedlam, a popular corruption of Bethlehem, a lunatic
hospital, founded in 1246. The old building, with its "carved maniacs at
the gates," was taken down in 1675, and the hospital removed to
Moorfields. The second building--the one to which Wordsworth
refers--was demolished in 1814.--Ed.]


[Footnote O: The London "Monument," erected from a design by Sir
Christopher Wren, on the spot where the great London Fire of 1666
began.--Ed.]


[Footnote P: The historic Tower of London.--Ed.]


[Footnote Q: A theatre in St. John's Street Road, Clerkenwell, erected
in 1765.--Ed.]


[Footnote R: See 'Samson Agonistes', l. 88.--Ed.]


[Footnote S: See 'Hamlet', act I. sc. v. l. 100.--Ed.]


[Footnote T: The story of Mary, "The Maid of Buttermere," as told in the
guidebooks, is as follows:

  'She was the daughter of the inn-keeper at the Fish Inn. She was much
  admired, and many suitors sought her hand in vain. At last a stranger,
  named Hatfield, who called himself the Hon. Colonel Hope, brother of
  Lord Hopetoun, won her heart, and married her. Soon after the
  marriage, he was apprehended on a charge of forgery, surreptitiously
  franking a letter in the name of a Member of Parliament, tried at
  Carlisle, convicted, and hanged. It was discovered during the trial,
  that he had a wife and family, and had fled to these sequestered parts
  to escape the arm of the law.'

See 'Essays on his own Times', by S. T. Coleridge, edited by his
daughter Sara. A melodrama on the story of the Maid of Buttermere was
produced in all the suburban London theatres; and in 1843 a novel was
published in London by Henry Colburn, entitled 'James Hatfield and the
Beauty of Buttermere, a Story of Modern Times', with illustrations by
Robert Cruikshank.--Ed.]


[Footnote U: Compare S. T. C.'s 'Essays on his own Times', p. 585.--Ed.]


[Footnote V: He first went south to Cambridge, in October 1787; and he
left London, at the close of his second visit to Town, in the end of May
1791.--Ed.]


[Footnote W: Compare 'Macbeth', act II. sc. i. l. 58:

  'Thy very stones prate of my whereabout.'

Ed.]


[Footnote X: The Houses of Parliament.--Ed.]


[Footnote Y: See Shakespeare's 'King Henry the Fifth', act IV. sc. iii.
l. 53.--Ed.]


[Footnote Z: Solomon Gesner (or Gessner), a landscape artist, etcher,
and poet, born at Zuerich in 1730, died in 1787. His 'Tod Abels' (the
death of Abel), though the poorest of all his works, became a favourite
in Germany, France, and England. It was translated into English by Mary
Collyer, a 12th edition of her version appearing in 1780. As 'The Death
of Abel' was written before 1760, in the line "he who penned, the other
day," Wordsworth probably refers to some new edition of the
translation.--Ed.]


[Footnote a: Edward Young, author of 'Night Thoughts, on Life, Death,
and Immortality'.--Ed.]


[Footnote b: In Argyleshire.--Ed.]


[Footnote c: Permission was given by Henry I. to hold a "Fair" on St.
Bartholomew's day.--Ed.]


[Footnote d: In one of the MS. books in Dorothy Wordsworth's
handwriting, on the outside leather cover of which is written, "May to
December 1802," there are some lines which were evidently dictated to
her, or copied by her, from the numerous experimental efforts of her
brother in connection with this autobiographical poem. They are as
follows:

  'Shall he who gives his days to low pursuits
  Amid the undistinguishable crowd
  Of cities, 'mid the same eternal flow
  Of the same objects, melted and reduced
  To one identity, by differences
  That have no law, no meaning, and no end,
  Shall he feel yearning to those lifeless forms,
  And shall we think that Nature is less kind
  To those, who all day long, through a busy life,
  Have walked within her sight? It cannot be.'

Ed.]





       *       *       *       *       *





BOOK EIGHT


RETROSPECT--LOVE OF NATURE LEADING TO LOVE OF MAN


  What sounds are those, Helvellyn, that [1] 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? [2]                    5
  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, [3]
  Repeated through his tributary vales,
  Helvellyn, in the silence of his rest,
  Sees annually, [A] if clouds towards either ocean                   15
  Blown from their favourite resting-place, or mists
  Dissolved, have left him [4] an unshrouded head.
  Delightful day it is for all who dwell
  In this secluded glen, and eagerly
  They give it welcome. [5] Long ere heat of noon,                    20
  From byre or field the kine were brought; the sheep [6]
  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;                      25
  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 [7]
  Prouder itinerant, mountebank, or he                                35
  Whose wonders in a covered wain lie hid.
  But one there is, [8] 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 [9]
  Among the crowd, half pleased with, half ashamed
  Of her new office, [10] blushing restlessly.
  The children now are rich, for the old to-day
  Are generous as the young; and, if content                          45
  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." [B]
  Thus gaiety and cheerfulness prevail,
  Spreading from young to old, from old to young,
  And no one seems to want his share.--Immense [11]                   55
  Is the recess, the circumambient world
  Magnificent, by which they are embraced:
  They move about upon the soft green turf: [12]
  How little they, they and their doings, seem,
  And all that they can further or obstruct! [13]                     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                      65
  Look down upon them; the reposing clouds;
  The wild brooks prattling from [14] invisible haunts;
  And old Helvellyn, conscious of the stir
  Which animates this day [15] 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; [C] tract more exquisitely fair                         75
  Than that famed paradise often thousand trees, [D]
  Or Gehol's matchless gardens, [E] 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; [F]
  There, in a clime from widest empire chosen,
  Fulfilling (could enchantment have done more?)
  A sumptuous dream of flowery lawns, with domes
  Of pleasure [G] sprinkled over, shady dells                         85
  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;                              95
  And all the landscape, endlessly enriched
  With waters running, falling, or asleep.

  But lovelier far than this, the paradise
  Where I was reared; [H] 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
  Of time, and place, and object; by his wants,                      105
  His comforts, native occupations, cares,
  Cheerfully led to individual ends
  Or social, and still followed by a train
  Unwooed, unthought-of even--simplicity,
  And beauty, and inevitable grace.                                  110

  Yea, when a glimpse of those imperial bowers
  Would to a child be transport over-great,
  When but a half-hour's roam through such a place
  Would leave behind a dance of images,
  That shall break in upon his sleep for weeks;                      115
  Even then the common haunts of the green earth,
  And ordinary interests of man,
  Which they embosom, all without regard
  As both may seem, are fastening on the heart
  Insensibly, each with the other's help.                            120
  For me, when my affections first were led
  From kindred, friends, and playmates, to partake
  Love for the human creature's absolute self,
  That noticeable kindliness of heart
  Sprang out of fountains, there abounding most                      125
  Where sovereign Nature dictated the tasks
  And occupations which her beauty adorned,
  And Shepherds were the men that pleased me first; [I]
  Not such as Saturn ruled 'mid Latian wilds,
  With arts and laws so tempered, that their lives                   130
  Left, even to us toiling in this late day,
  A bright tradition of the golden age; [K]
  Not such as, 'mid Arcadian fastnesses
  Sequestered, handed down among themselves
  Felicity, in Grecian song renowned; [L]                            135
  Nor such as--when an adverse fate had driven,
  From house and home, the courtly band whose fortunes
  Entered, with Shakespeare's genius, the wild woods
  Of Arden--amid sunshine or in shade,
  Culled the best fruits of Time's uncounted hours,                  140
  Ere Phoebe sighed for the false Ganymede; [M]
  Or there where Perdita and Florizel
  Together danced, Queen of the feast, and King; [N]
  Nor such as Spenser fabled. True it is,
  That I had heard (what he perhaps had seen)                        145
  Of maids at sunrise bringing in from far
  Their May-bush [O], and along the streets in flocks
  Parading with a song of taunting rhymes,
  Aimed at the laggards slumbering within doors;
  Had also heard, from those who yet remembered,                     150
  Tales of the May-pole dance, and wreaths that decked
  Porch, door-way, or kirk-pillar; [O] and of youths,
  Each with his maid, before the sun was up,
  By annual custom, issuing forth in troops,
  To drink the waters of some sainted well,                          155
  And hang it round with garlands. Love survives;
  But, for such purpose, flowers no longer grow:
  The times, too sage, perhaps too proud, have dropped
  These lighter graces; and the rural ways
  And manners which my childhood looked upon                         160
  Were the unluxuriant produce of a life
  Intent on little but substantial needs,
  Yet rich in beauty, beauty that was felt.
  But images of danger and distress,
  Man suffering among awful Powers and Forms;                        165
  Of this I heard, and saw enough to make
  Imagination restless; nor was free
  Myself from frequent perils; nor were tales
  Wanting,--the tragedies of former times,
  Hazards and strange escapes, of which the rocks                    170
  Immutable and overflowing streams,
  Where'er I roamed, were speaking monuments.

    Smooth life had flock and shepherd in old time,
  Long springs and tepid winters, on the banks
  Of delicate Galesus [P]; and no less                               175
  Those scattered along Adria's myrtle shores: [Q]
  Smooth life had herdsman, and his snow-white herd
  To triumphs and to sacrificial rites
  Devoted, on the inviolable stream
  Of rich Clitumnus [R]; and the goat-herd lived                     180
  As calmly, underneath the pleasant brows
  Of cool Lucretilis [S], where the pipe was heard
  Of Pan, Invisible God, thrilling the rocks
  With tutelary music, from all harm
  The fold protecting. I myself, mature                              185
  In manhood then, have seen a pastoral tract
  Like one of these, where Fancy might run wild,
  Though under skies less generous, less serene:
  There, for her own delight had Nature framed
  A pleasure-ground, diffused a fair expanse                         190
  Of level pasture, islanded with groves
  And banked with woody risings; but the Plain [T]
  Endless, here opening widely out, and there
  Shut up in lesser lakes or beds of lawn
  And intricate recesses, creek or bay                               195
  Sheltered within a shelter, where at large
  The shepherd strays, a rolling hut his home.
  Thither he comes with spring-time, there abides
  All summer, and at sunrise ye may hear
  His flageolet to liquid notes of love                              200
  Attuned, or sprightly fife resounding far.
  Nook is there none, nor tract of that vast space
  Where passage opens, but the same shall have
  In turn its visitant, telling there his hours
  In unlaborious pleasure, with no task                              205
  More toilsome than to carve a beechen bowl
  For spring or fountain, which the traveller finds,
  When through the region he pursues at will
  His devious course. A glimpse of such sweet life
  I saw when, from the melancholy walls                              210
  Of Goslar, once imperial, I renewed
  My daily walk along that wide champaign, [U]
  That, reaching to her gates, spreads east and west,
  And northwards, from beneath the mountainous verge
  Of the Hercynian forest, [V] Yet, hail to you                      215
  Moors, mountains, headlands, and ye hollow vales,
  Ye long deep channels for the Atlantic's voice, [W]
  Powers of my native region! Ye that seize
  The heart with firmer grasp! Your snows and streams
  Ungovernable, and your terrifying winds,                           220
  That howl so dismally for him who treads
  Companionless your awful solitudes!
  There, 'tis the shepherd's task the winter long
  To wait upon the storms: of their approach
  Sagacious, into sheltering coves he drives                         225
  His flock, and thither from the homestead bears
  A toilsome burden up the craggy ways,
  And deals it out, their regular nourishment
  Strewn on the frozen snow. And when the spring
  Looks out, and all the pastures dance with lambs,                  230
  And when the flock, with warmer weather, climbs
  Higher and higher, him his office leads
  To watch their goings, whatsoever track
  The wanderers choose. For this he quits his home
  At day-spring, and no sooner doth the sun                          235
  Begin to strike him with a fire-like heat,
  Than he lies down upon some shining rock,
  And breakfasts with his dog. When they have stolen,
  As is their wont, a pittance from strict time,
  For rest not needed or exchange of love,                           240
  Then from his couch he starts; and now his feet
  Crush out a livelier fragrance from the flowers
  Of lowly thyme, by Nature's skill enwrought
  In the wild turf: the lingering dews of morn
  Smoke round him, as from hill to hill he hies,                     245
  His staff protending like a hunter's spear,
  Or by its aid leaping from crag to crag,
  And o'er the brawling beds of unbridged streams.
  Philosophy, methinks, at Fancy's call,
  Might deign to follow him through what he does                     250
  Or sees in his day's march; himself he feels,
  In those vast regions where his service lies,
  A freeman, wedded to his life of hope
  And hazard, and hard labour interchanged
  With that majestic indolence so dear                               255
  To native man. A rambling school-boy, thus
  I felt his presence in his own domain,
  As of a lord and master, or a power,
  Or genius, under Nature, under God,
  Presiding; and severest solitude                                   260
  Had more commanding looks when he was there.
  When up the lonely brooks on rainy days
  Angling I went, or trod the trackless hills
  By mists bewildered, [X] suddenly mine eyes
  Have glanced upon him distant a few steps,                         265
  In size a giant, stalking through thick fog,
  His sheep like Greenland bears; or, as he stepped
  Beyond the boundary line of some hill-shadow,
  His form hath flashed upon me, glorified
  By the deep radiance of the setting sun:                           270
  Or him have I descried in distant sky,
  A solitary object and sublime,
  Above all height! like an aerial cross
  Stationed alone upon a spiry rock
  Of the Chartreuse, for worship. [Y] Thus was man                   275
  Ennobled outwardly before my sight,
  And thus my heart was early introduced
  To an unconscious love and reverence
  Of human nature; hence the human form
  To me became an index of delight,                                  280
  Of grace and honour, power and worthiness.
  Meanwhile this creature--spiritual almost
  As those of books, but more exalted far;
  Far more of an imaginative form
  Than the gay Corin of the groves, [Z] who lives                    285
  For his own fancies, or to dance by the hour,
  In coronal, with Phyllis in the midst--[Z]
  Was, for the purposes of kind, a man
  With the most common; husband, father; learned,
  Could teach, admonish; suffered with the rest                      290
  From vice and folly, wretchedness and fear;
  Of this I little saw, cared less for it,
  But something must have felt.
                               Call ye these appearances
  Which I beheld of shepherds in my youth,
  This sanctity of Nature given to man,                              295
  A shadow, a delusion? ye who pore
  On the dead letter, miss the spirit of things;
  Whose truth is not a motion or a shape
  Instinct with vital functions, but a block
  Or waxen image which yourselves have made,                         300
  And ye adore! But blessed be the God
  Of Nature and of Man that this was so;
  That men before my inexperienced eyes
  Did first present themselves thus purified,
  Removed, and to a distance that was fit:                           305
  And so we all of us in some degree
  Are led to knowledge, wheresoever led,
  And howsoever; were it otherwise,
  And we found evil fast as we find good
  In our first years, or think that it is found,                     310
  How could the innocent heart bear up and live!
  But doubly fortunate my lot; not here
  Alone, that something of a better life
  Perhaps was round me than it is the privilege
  Of most to move in, but that first I looked                        315
  At Man through objects that were great or fair;
  First communed with him by their help. And thus
  Was founded a sure safeguard and defence
  Against the weight of meanness, selfish cares,
  Coarse manners, vulgar passions, that beat in                      320
  On all sides from the ordinary world
  In which we traffic. Starting from this point
  I had my face turned toward the truth, began
  With an advantage furnished by that kind
  Of prepossession, without which the soul                           325
  Receives no knowledge that can bring forth good,
  No genuine insight ever comes to her.
  From the restraint of over-watchful eyes
  Preserved, I moved about, year after year,
  Happy, [a] and now most thankful that my walk                      330
  Was guarded from too early intercourse
  With the deformities of crowded life,
  And those ensuing laughters and contempts,
  Self-pleasing, which, if we would wish to think
  With a due reverence on earth's rightful lord,                     335
  Here placed to be the inheritor of heaven,
  Will not permit us; but pursue the mind,
  That to devotion willingly would rise,
  Into the temple and the temple's heart.

    Yet deem not, Friend! that human kind with me                    340
  Thus early took a place pre-eminent;
  Nature herself was, at this unripe time,
  But secondary to my own pursuits
  And animal activities, and all
  Their trivial pleasures; [b] and when these had drooped            345
  And gradually expired, and Nature, prized
  For her own sake, became my joy, even then--[b]
  And upwards through late youth, until not less
  Than two-and-twenty summers had been told--[c]
  Was Man in my affections and regards                               350
  Subordinate to her, her visible forms
  And viewless agencies: a passion, she,
  A rapture often, and immediate love
  Ever at hand; he, only a delight
  Occasional, an accidental grace,                                   355
  His hour being not yet come. Far less had then
  The inferior creatures, beast or bird, attuned
  My spirit to that gentleness of love
  (Though they had long been carefully observed),
  Won from me those minute obeisances                                360
  Of tenderness, [d] which I may number now
  With my first blessings. Nevertheless, on these
  The light of beauty did not fall in vain,
  Or grandeur circumfuse them to no end.

    But when that first poetic faculty                               365
  Of plain Imagination and severe,
  No longer a mute influence of the soul,
  Ventured, at some rash Muse's earnest call,
  To try her strength among harmonious words; [e]
  And to book-notions and the rules of art                           370
  Did knowingly conform itself; there came
  Among the simple shapes of human life
  A wilfulness of fancy and conceit; [e]
  And Nature and her objects beautified
  These fictions, as in some sort, in their turn,                    375
  They burnished her. From touch of this new power
  Nothing was safe: the elder-tree that grew
  Beside the well-known charnel-house had then
  A dismal look: the yew-tree had its ghost,
  That took his station there for ornament:                          380
  The dignities of plain occurrence then
  Were tasteless, and truth's golden mean, a point
  Where no sufficient pleasure could be found.
  Then, if a widow, staggering with the blow
  Of her distress, was known to have turned her steps                385
  To the cold grave in which her husband slept,
  One night, or haply more than one, through pain
  Or half-insensate impotence of mind,
  The fact was caught at greedily, and there
  She must be visitant the whole year through,                       390
  Wetting the turf with never-ending tears.

    Through quaint obliquities I might pursue
  These cravings; when the fox-glove, one by one,
  Upwards through every stage of the tall stem,
  Had shed beside the public way its bells,                          395
  And stood of all dismantled, save the last
  Left at the tapering ladder's top, that seemed
  To bend as doth a slender blade of grass
  Tipped with a rain-drop, Fancy loved to seat,
  Beneath the plant despoiled, but crested still                     400
  With this last relic, soon itself to fall,
  Some vagrant mother, whose arch little ones,
  All unconcerned by her dejected plight,
  Laughed as with rival eagerness their hands
  Gathered the purple cups that round them lay,                      405
  Strewing the turf's green slope.
                                  A diamond light
  (Whene'er the summer sun, declining, smote
  A smooth rock wet with constant springs) was seen
  Sparkling from out a copse-clad bank that rose
  Fronting our cottage. [f] Oft beside the hearth                    410
  Seated, with open door, often and long
  Upon this restless lustre have I gazed,
  That made my fancy restless as itself.
  'Twas now for me a burnished silver shield
  Suspended over a knight's tomb, who lay                            415
  Inglorious, buried in the dusky wood:
  An entrance now into some magic cave
  Or palace built by fairies of the rock;
  Nor could I have been bribed to disenchant
  The spectacle, by visiting the spot.                               420
  Thus wilful Fancy, in no hurtful mood,
  Engrafted far-fetched shapes on feelings bred
  By pure Imagination: busy Power [g]
  She was, and with her ready pupil turned
  Instinctively to human passions, then                              425
  Least understood. Yet, 'mid the fervent swarm
  Of these vagaries, with an eye so rich
  As mine was through the bounty of a grand
  And lovely region, [h] I had forms distinct
  To steady me: each airy thought revolved                           430
  Round a substantial centre, which at once
  Incited it to motion, and controlled.
  I did not pine like one in cities bred,
  As was thy melancholy lot, dear Friend! [i]
  Great Spirit as thou art, in endless dreams                        435
  Of sickliness, disjoining, joining, things
  Without the light of knowledge. Where the harm,
  If, when the woodman languished with disease
  Induced by sleeping nightly on the ground
  Within his sod-built cabin, Indian-wise,                           440
  I called the pangs of disappointed love,
  And all the sad etcetera of the wrong,
  To help him to his grave? Meanwhile the man,
  If not already from the woods retired
  To die at home, was haply as I knew,                               445
  Withering by slow degrees, 'mid gentle airs,
  Birds, running streams, and hills so beautiful
  On golden evenings, while the charcoal pile
  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 shew
  How Fancy, in a season when she wove
  Those slender cords, to guide the unconscious Boy                  455
  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 Thurston-mere, [k]
  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                                465
  Of a high eastern hill--thus flowed my thoughts
  In a pure stream of words fresh from the heart:
  Dear native Regions, [m] 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.                     475

  Enough of humble arguments; recal,
  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,                         485
  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,                      495
  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; [n] yet here the vulgar light                  505
  Of present, actual, superficial life,
  Gleaming through colouring of other times,
  Old usages and local privilege,
  Was welcome, 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                            515
  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,                      525
  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 every thing 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                             535
  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? [o] On the roof
  Of an itinerant vehicle I sate,
  With vulgar men about me, trivial forms                            545
  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                           555
  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, [p] or the Den
  In old time haunted by that Danish Witch,
  Yordas; [q] he looks around and sees the vault
  Widening on all sides; sees, or thinks he sees,                    565
  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                        575
  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,                             585
  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, chronicle at once
  And burial-place of passions, and their home                       595
  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                          605
  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                         615
  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                                625
  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,                    635
  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,                           645
  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! every thing that was indeed divine                             655
  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
  [r] 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                                665
  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.                    675
  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 [s]                           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                    685
  With that in which _her_ mighty objects lay.


       *       *       *       *       *

VARIANTS ON THE TEXT

[Variant 1:

  ... which ...

MS. letter to Sir George Beaumont, 1805.]


[Variant 2:

  Is yon assembled in the gay green field?

MS. letter to Sir George Beaumont, 1805.]


[Variant 3:

  ... family of men,
  Twice twenty with their children and their wives,
  And here and there a stranger interspersed.
  Such show, on this side now, ...

MS. to Sir George Beaumont, 1805.]


[Variant 4:

  Sees annually; if storms be not abroad
  And mists have left him  ...

MS. to Sir George Beaumont, 1805.]


[Variant 5:

  It is a summer Festival, a Fair,
  The only one which that secluded Glen
  Has to be proud of ...

MS. to Sir George Beaumont, 1805.]


[Variant 6:

  ...    heat of noon,
  Behold! the cattle are driven down, the sheep
  That have for this day's traffic been call'd out

MS. to Sir George Beaumont, 1805.]


[Variant 7:

  ...    visitant!
  The showman with his freight upon his back,
  And once, perchance, in lapse of many years

MS. to Sir George Beaumont, 1805.]


[Variant 8:

  But one is here,   ...

MS. to Sir George Beaumont, 1805.]


[Variant 9:

  ... orchard, apples, pears,
  (On this day only to such office stooping)
  She carries in her basket and walks round

MS. to Sir George Beaumont, 1805.]


[Variant 10:

  ... calling, ...

MS. to Sir George Beaumont, 1805.]


[Variant 11:

  ... rich, the old man now                    (l. 44)
  Is generous, so gaiety prevails
  Which all partake of, young and old. Immense (l. 55)

MS. to Sir George Beaumont, 1805.]


[Variant 12:

  ... green field:

MS. to Sir George Beaumont, 1805.]


[Variant 13:

  ... seem,
  Their herds and flocks about them, they themselves
  And all which they can further ...

MS. to Sir George Beaumont, 1805.]


[Variant 14:

  The lurking brooks for their ...

MS. to Sir George Beaumont, 1805.]


[Variant 15:

  And the blue sky that roofs ...

MS. to Sir George Beaumont, 1805.]


       *       *       *       *       *

FOOTNOTES ON THE TEXT

[Footnote A: Dorothy Wordsworth alludes to one of these "Fairs" in her
Grasmere Journal, September 2, 1800. Her brothers William and John, with
Coleridge, were all at Dove Cottage at that time.

  "They all went to Stickle Tarn. A very fine, warm, sunny, beautiful
  morning. We walked to the fair. ... It was a lovely moonlight night.
  We talked much about our house on Helvellyn. The moonlight shone only
  upon the village. It did not eclipse the village lights; and the sound
  of dancing and merriment came along the still air. I walked with
  Coleridge and William up the lane and by the church...."

Ed.]


[Footnote B: These lines are from a descriptive Poem--'Malvern
Hills'--by one of Wordsworth's oldest friends, Mr. Joseph Cottle of
Bristol. Cottle was the publisher of the first edition of "Lyrical
Ballads," 1798 (Mr. Carter 1850).--Ed.]


[Footnote C: The district round Cockermouth.--Ed.]


[Footnote D: Possibly an allusion to the hanging gardens of Babylon,
said to have been constructed by Nebuchadnezzar for his Median queen.
Berosus in Joseph, _contr. Ap._ I. 19, calls it a hanging _Paradise_
(though Diodorus Siculus uses the term [Greek: kaepos]).--Ed.

The park of the Emperor of China at Gehol, is called 'Van-shoo-yuen',
"the paradise of ten thousand trees." Lord Macartney concludes his
description of that "wonderful garden" by saying,

  "If any place can be said in any respect to have similar features to
  the western park of 'Van-shoo-yuen,' which I have seen this day, it is
  at Lowther Hall in Westmoreland, which (when I knew it many years ago)
  ... I thought might be reckoned ... the finest scene in the British
  dominions."

See Barrow's 'Travels in China', p. 134.--Ed.]


[Footnote E: 150 miles north-east of Pekin. See a description of them in
Sir George Stanton's 'Authentic Account of an Embassy from the King of
Great Britain to the Emperor of China' (from the papers of Lord
Macartney), London, 1797, vol. ii. ch. ii. See also 'Encyclopaedia
Britannica', ninth edition, article "Gehol."--Ed.]


[Footnote F: Compare 'Paradise Lost', iv. l. 242.--Ed.]


[Footnote G: Compare 'Kubla Khan', ll. 1, 2:

  'In Xanadu did Kubla Khan
  A stately pleasure-dome decree.'

Ed.]


[Footnote H: The Hawkshead district.--Ed.]


[Footnote I: Compare 'Michael', vol. ii. p. 215, 'Fidelity', p. 44 of
this vol., etc.--Ed.]


[Footnote K: See Virgil, 'AEneid' viii. 319.--Ed.]


[Footnote L: See Polybius, 'Historiarum libri qui supersunt', vi. 20,
21; and Virgil, 'Eclogue' x. 32.--Ed.]


[Footnote M: See 'As You Like It', act III. scene v.--Ed.]


[Footnote N: See 'The Winter's Tale', act IV. scene iii.--Ed.]


[Footnote O: See Spenser, 'The Shepheard's Calendar (May)'.--Ed.]


[Footnote P: An Italian river in Calabria, famous for its groves and the
fine-fleeced sheep that pastured on its banks. See Virgil, 'Georgics'
iv. 126; Horace, 'Odes' II. vi. 10.--Ed.]


[Footnote Q: The Adriatic Sea. See Acts xxvii. 27.--Ed.]


[Footnote R: An Umbrian river whose waters, when drunk, were supposed to
make oxen white. See Virgil, 'Georgics' ii. 146; Pliny, 'Historia
Naturalis', ii. 103.--Ed.]


[Footnote S: A hill in the Sabine country, overhanging a pleasant
valley. Near it were the house and farm of Horace. See his 'Odes' I.
xvii. 1.--Ed.]


[Footnote T: The plain at the foot of the Harz Mountains, near
Goslar.--Ed.]


[Footnote U: In the Fenwick note to the poem 'Written in Germany', vol.
ii. p. 73, he says that he "walked daily on the ramparts."--Ed.]


[Footnote V: 'Hercynian forest'.--(See Caesar, 'B. G.'  vi. 24, 25.)
According to Caesar it commenced on the east bank of the Rhine,
stretching east and north, its breadth being nine days' journey, and its
length sixty. Strabo (iv. p. 292) included within the Hercynia Silva all
the mountains of southern and central Germany, from the Danube to
Transylvania. Later, it was limited to the mountains round Bohemia and
extending to Hungary. (See Tacitus, 'Germania', 28, 30; and Pliny,
'Historia Naturalis', iv. 25, 28.) A trace of the ancient name is
retained in the 'Harz' mountains, which are clothed everywhere with
conifers, Harz=resin.--Ed.]


[Footnote W: Yewdale, Duddondale, Eskdale, Wastdale, Ennerdale.--Ed.]


[Footnote X: Compare the sonnet in "Yarrow Revisited," etc., No. XI.,
'Suggested at Tyndrum in a Storm'.--Ed.]


[Footnote Y: See book vi. l. 485 and note [Footnote Z, below].--Ed.]


[Footnote Z: Corin=Corydon? the shepherd referred to in the pastorals of
Virgil and Theocritus. Phyllis, see Virgil, 'Eclogue' x. 37, 41.--Ed.]


[Footnote a: While living in Anne Tyson's Cottage at Hawkshead.--Ed.]


[Footnote b: Compare 'Tintern Abbey', vol. ii. p. 54:

       'Nature then,
  To me was all in all, etc.'

Ed.]


[Footnote c: He spent his twenty-second summer at Blois, in
France.--Ed.]


[Footnote d: Compare 'Hart-Leap Well', vol. ii. p. 128, and 'The Green
Linnet', vol. ii. p. 367.--Ed.]


[Footnote e: The 'Evening Walk', and 'Descriptive Sketches', published
1793. See especially the original text of the latter, in the appendix to
vol. 1. p. 309.--Ed.]TWO FOOTNOTES


[Footnote f: It is difficult to say where this "smooth rock wet with
constant springs" and the "copse-clad bank" were. There is no copse-clad
bank fronting Anne Tyson's cottage at Hawkshead. It may have been a rock
on the wooded slope of the rounded hill that rises west of Cowper
Ground, north-west of Hawkshead. A rock "wet with springs" existed
there, till it was quarried for road-metal a few years since. But it is
quite possible that the cottage referred to is Dove Cottage, Grasmere.
In that case the "rock" and "copse-clad bank" may have been on
Loughrigg, or more probably on Silver How. The "summer sun" goes down
behind Silver How, so that it might smite a wet rock either on Hammar
Scar or on the wooded crags above Red Bank. These could be seen from the
window of one of the rooms of Dove Cottage. Seated beside the hearth of
the "half-kitchen and half-parlour fire" in that cottage, and looking
along the passage through the low door, the eye would rest on Hammar
Scar, the wooded hill behind Allan Bank. The context of the poem points
to Hawkshead; but the details of the description suggest the Grasmere
cottage rather than Anne Tyson's.--Ed.]


[Footnote g: See the distinction drawn by Wordsworth between Fancy and
Imagination in the Preface to "Lyrical Ballads" (1800 and subsequent
editions), and embodied in his classification of the Poems.--Ed.]


[Footnote h: Westmoreland.--Ed.]


[Footnote i: See note [Footnote a], book ii. l. 451.--Ed.]


[Footnote k: Coniston lake; see note [Footnote m below] on the following
page.--Ed.]


[Footnote m: The eight lines which follow are a recast, in the blank
verse of 'The Prelude', of the youthful lines entitled 'Extract from the
Conclusion of a Poem, composed in Anticipation of leaving School'. These
were composed in Wordsworth's sixteenth year. As the contrast is
striking, the earlier lines may be transcribed:

  'Dear native regions, I foretell,
  From what I feel at this farewell,
  That, wheresoe'er my steps may tend,
  And whensoe'er my course shall end,
  If in that hour a single tie
  Survive of local sympathy,
  My soul will cast the backward view,
  The longing look alone on you.

  Thus, while the Sun sinks down to rest
  Far in the regions of the west,
  Though to the vale no parting beam
  Be given, not one memorial gleam,
  A lingering light he fondly throws
  On the dear hills where first he rose.'

The Fenwick note to this poem is as follows:

  "The beautiful image with which this poem concludes suggested itself
  to me while I was resting in a boat along with my companions under the
  shade of a magnificent row of sycamores, which then extended their
  branches from the shore of the promontory upon with stands the
  ancient, and at that time the more picturesque, Hall of Coniston."

There is nothing in either poem definitely to connect "Thurstonmere"
with Coniston, although their identity is suggested by the Fenwick note.
I find, however, that Thurston was the ancient name of Coniston; and
this carries us back to the time of the worship of Thor. (See Lewis's
'Topographical Dictionary of England', vol. i. p. 662; also the
'Edinburgh Gazetteer' (1822), articles "Thurston" and "Coniston.") The
site of the grove "on the shore of the promontory" at Coniston Lake is
easily identified, but the grove itself is gone.--Ed.]


[Footnote n: Compare book iii. ll. 30 and 321-26; also book vi, ll. 25
and 95, both text and notes.--Ed.]


[Footnote o: Probably in 1788. Compare book vii. ll. 61-68, and note
[Footnote K].--Ed.]


[Footnote p: A stalactite cave, in a mountain in the south coast of the
island of Antiparos, which is one of the Cyclades. It is six miles from
Paros, was famous in ancient times, and was rediscovered in 1673.--Ed.]


[Footnote q: There is a cave, called Yordas Cave, four and a half miles
from Ingleton in Lonsdale, Yorkshire. It is a limestone cavern, rich in
stalactites, like the grotto of Antiparos; and is at the foot of the
slopes of Gragreth, formerly called Greg-roof. It gets its name from a
traditional giant 'Yordas'; some of its recesses being called "Yordas'
bed-chamber," "Yordas' oven," etc. See Allen's 'County of York', iii. p.
359; also Bigland's "Yorkshire" in 'The Beauties of England and Wales',
vol. xvi. p. 735, and Murray's 'Handbook for Yorkshire', p. 392.--Ed.]


[Footnote r: From Milton, 'Paradise Lost', book xi. 1. 204:

  'Why in the East
  Darkness ere day's mid-course, and Morning light
  More orient in yon Western Cloud, that draws
  O'er the blue Firmament a radiant white,
  And slow descends, with something heav'nly fraught?'

Ed.]


[Footnote s: See 'L'Allegro', l. 118.--Ed.]





       *       *       *       *       *





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,                   5
  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                15
  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 [A]. Obscurely did I live,                        25
  Not seeking frequent intercourse with men,
  By literature, or elegance, or rank,
  Distinguished. Scarcely was a year thus spent [A]
  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 [B], journeying toward the snow-clad Alps.                35
  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, [C]                         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                          45
  Down to the suburbs of St. Antony,
  And from Mont Martyr southward to the Dome
  Of Genevieve [D]. 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; [E]
  The Arcades I traversed, in the Palace huge
  Of Orleans; [F] coasted round and round the line
  Of Tavern, Brothel, Gaming-house, and Shop,
  Great rendezvous of worst and best, the walk                        55
  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,                      65
  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, [G] 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                           75
  Appeared to recompense the traveller's pains
  Less than the painted Magdalene of Le Brun, [H]
  A beauty exquisitely wrought, with hair
  Dishevelled, gleaming eyes, and rueful cheek
  Pale and bedropped with everflowing 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,                          85
  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.                               95
  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                             105
  Loose and disjointed, and the affections left
  Without a vital interest. At that time,
  Moreover, the first storm was overblown,
  And the strong hand of outward violence
  Locked up in quiet. For myself, I fear                             110
  Now in connection with so great a theme
  To speak (as I must be compelled to do)
  Of one so unimportant; night by night
  Did I frequent the formal haunts of men,
  Whom, in the city, privilege of birth                              115
  Sequestered from the rest, societies
  Polished in arts, and in punctilio versed;
  Whence, and from deeper causes, all discourse
  Of good and evil of the time was shunned
  With scrupulous care; but these restrictions soon                  120
  Proved tedious, and I gradually withdrew
  Into a noisier world, and thus ere long
  Became a patriot; and my heart was all
  Given to the people, and my love was theirs.

  A band of military Officers,                                       125
  Then stationed in the city, were the chief
  Of my associates: some of these wore swords
  That had been seasoned in the wars, and all
  Were men well-born; the chivalry of France.
  In age and temper differing, they had yet                          130
  One spirit ruling in each heart; alike
  (Save only one, hereafter to be named) [I]
  Were bent upon undoing what was done:
  This was their rest and only hope; therewith
  No fear had they of bad becoming worse,                            135
  For worst to them was come; nor would have stirred,
  Or deemed it worth a moment's thought to stir,
  In any thing, save only as the act
  Looked thitherward. One, reckoning by years,
  Was in the prime of manhood, and erewhile                          140
  He had sate lord in many tender hearts;
  Though heedless of such honours now, and changed:
  His temper was quite mastered by the times,
  And they had blighted him, had eaten away
  The beauty of his person, doing wrong                              145
  Alike to body and to mind: his port,
  Which once had been erect and open, now
  Was stooping and contracted, and a face,
  Endowed by Nature with her fairest gifts
  Of symmetry and light and bloom, expressed,                        150
  As much as any that was ever seen,
  A ravage out of season, made by thoughts
  Unhealthy and vexatious. With the hour,
  That from the press of Paris duly brought
  Its freight of public news, the fever came,                        155
  A punctual visitant, to shake this man,
  Disarmed his voice and fanned his yellow cheek
  Into a thousand colours; while he read,
  Or mused, his sword was haunted by his touch
  Continually, like an uneasy place                                  160
  In his own body. 'Twas in truth an hour
  Of universal ferment; mildest men
  Were agitated; and commotions, strife
  Of passion and opinion, filled the walls
  Of peaceful houses with unquiet sounds.                            165
  The soil of common life, was, at that time,
  Too hot to tread upon. Oft said I then,
  And not then only, "What a mockery this
  Of history, the past and that to come!
  Now do I feel how all men are deceived,                            170
  Reading of nations and their works, in faith,
  Faith given to vanity and emptiness;
  Oh! laughter for the page that would reflect
  To future times the face of what now is!"
  The land all swarmed with passion, like a plain                    175
  Devoured by locusts,--Carra, Gorsas,--add
  A hundred other names, forgotten now, [K]
  Nor to be heard of more; yet, they were powers,
  Like earthquakes, shocks repeated day by day,
  And felt through every nook of town and field.                     180

  Such was the state of things. Meanwhile the chief
  Of my associates stood prepared for flight
  To augment the band of emigrants in arms [L]
  Upon the borders of the Rhine, and leagued
  With foreign foes mustered for instant war.                        185
  This was their undisguised intent, and they
  Were waiting with the whole of their desires
  The moment to depart.
                       An Englishman,
  Born in a land whose very name appeared
  To license some unruliness of mind;                                190
  A stranger, with youth's further privilege,
  And the indulgence that a half-learnt speech
  Wins from the courteous; I, who had been else
  Shunned and not tolerated, freely lived
  With these defenders of the Crown, and talked,                     195
  And heard their notions; nor did they disdain
  The wish to bring me over to their cause.

    But though untaught by thinking or by books
  To reason well of polity or law,
  And nice distinctions, then on every tongue,                       200
  Of natural rights and civil; and to acts
  Of nations and their passing interests,
  (If with unworldly ends and aims compared)
  Almost indifferent, even the historian's tale
  Prizing but little otherwise than I prized                         205
  Tales of the poets, as it made the heart
  Beat high, and filled the fancy with fair forms,
  Old heroes and their sufferings and their deeds;
  Yet in the regal sceptre, and the pomp
  Of orders and degrees, I nothing found                             210
  Then, or had ever, even in crudest youth,
  That dazzled me, but rather what I mourned
  And ill could brook, beholding that the best
  Ruled not, and feeling that they ought to rule.

    For, born in a poor district, and which yet                      215
  Retaineth more of ancient homeliness,
  Than any other nook of English ground,
  It was my fortune scarcely to have seen,
  Through the whole tenor of my school-day time,
  The face of one, who, whether boy or man,                          220
  Was vested with attention or respect
  Through claims of wealth or blood; nor was it least
  Of many benefits, in later years
  Derived from academic institutes
  And rules, that they held something up to view                     225
  Of a Republic, where all stood thus far
  Upon equal ground; that we were brothers all
  In honour, as in one community,
  Scholars and gentlemen; where, furthermore,
  Distinction open lay to all that came,                             230
  And wealth and titles were in less esteem
  Than talents, worth, and prosperous industry.
  Add unto this, subservience from the first
  To presences of God's mysterious power
  Made manifest in Nature's sovereignty,                             235
  And fellowship with venerable books,
  To sanction the proud workings of the soul,
  And mountain liberty. It could not be
  But that one tutored thus should look with awe
  Upon the faculties of man, receive                                 240
  Gladly the highest promises, and hail,
  As best, the government of equal rights
  And individual worth. And hence, O Friend!
  If at the first great outbreak I rejoiced
  Less than might well befit my youth, the cause                     245
  In part lay here, that unto me the events
  Seemed nothing out of nature's certain course,
  A gift that was come rather late than soon.
  No wonder, then, if advocates like these,
  Inflamed by passion, blind with prejudice,                         250
  And stung with injury, at this riper day,
  Were impotent to make my hopes put on
  The shape of theirs, my understanding bend
  In honour to their honour: zeal, which yet
  Had slumbered, now in opposition burst                             255
  Forth like a Polar summer: every word
  They uttered was a dart, by counter-winds
  Blown back upon themselves; their reason seemed
  Confusion-stricken by a higher power
  Than human understanding, their discourse                          260
  Maimed, spiritless; and, in their weakness strong,
  I triumphed.

               Meantime, day by day, the roads
  Were crowded with the bravest youth of France, [M]
  And all the promptest of her spirits, linked
  In gallant soldiership, and posting on                             265
  To meet the war upon her frontier bounds.
  Yet at this very moment do tears start
  Into mine eyes: I do not say I weep--
  I wept not then,--but tears have dimmed my sight,
  In memory of the farewells of that time,                           270
  Domestic severings, female fortitude
  At dearest separation, patriot love
  And self-devotion, and terrestrial hope,
  Encouraged with a martyr's confidence;
  Even files of strangers merely seen but once,                      275
  And for a moment, men from far with sound
  Of music, martial tunes, and banners spread,
  Entering the city, here and there a face,
  Or person singled out among the rest,
  Yet still a stranger and beloved as such;                          280
  Even by these passing spectacles my heart
  Was oftentimes uplifted, and they seemed
  Arguments sent from Heaven to prove the cause
  Good, pure, which no one could stand up against,
  Who was not lost, abandoned, selfish, proud,                       285
  Mean, miserable, wilfully depraved,
  Hater perverse of equity and truth.

    Among that band of Officers was one,
  Already hinted at, [N] of other mould--
  A patriot, thence rejected by the rest,                            290
  And with an oriental loathing spurned,
  As of a different caste. A meeker man
  Than this lived never, nor a more benign,
  Meek though enthusiastic. Injuries
  Made _him_ more gracious, and his nature then                      295
  Did breathe its sweetness out most sensibly,
  As aromatic flowers on Alpine turf,
  When foot hath crushed them. He through the events
  Of that great change wandered in perfect faith,
  As through a book, an old romance, or tale                         300
  Of Fairy, or some dream of actions wrought
  Behind the summer clouds. By birth he ranked
  With the most noble, but unto the poor
  Among mankind he was in service bound,
  As by some tie invisible, oaths professed                          305
  To a religious order. Man he loved
  As man; and, to the mean and the obscure,
  And all the homely in their homely works,
  Transferred a courtesy which had no air
  Of condescension; but did rather seem                              310
  A passion and a gallantry, like that
  Which he, a soldier, in his idler day
  Had paid to woman: somewhat vain he was,
  Or seemed so, yet it was not vanity,
  But fondness, and a kind of radiant joy                            315
  Diffused around him, while he was intent
  On works of love or freedom, or revolved
  Complacently the progress of a cause,
  Whereof he was a part: yet this was meek
  And placid, and took nothing from the man                          320
  That was delightful. Oft in solitude
  With him did I discourse about the end
  Of civil government, and its wisest forms;
  Of ancient loyalty, and chartered rights,
  Custom and habit, novelty and change;                              325
  Of self-respect, and virtue in the few
  For patrimonial honour set apart,
  And ignorance in the labouring multitude.
  For he, to all intolerance indisposed,
  Balanced these contemplations in his mind;                         330
  And I, who at that time was scarcely dipped
  Into the turmoil, bore a sounder judgment
  Than later days allowed; carried about me,
  With less alloy to its integrity,
  The experience of past ages, as, through help                      335
  Of books and common life, it makes sure way
  To youthful minds, by objects over near
  Not pressed upon, nor dazzled or misled
  By struggling with the crowd for present ends.

    But though not deaf, nor obstinate to find                       340
  Error without excuse upon the side
  Of them who strove against us, more delight
  We took, and let this freely be confessed,
  In painting to ourselves the miseries
  Of royal courts, and that voluptuous life                          345
  Unfeeling, where the man who is of soul
  The meanest thrives the most; where dignity,
  True personal dignity, abideth not;
  A light, a cruel, and vain world cut off
  From the natural inlets of just sentiment,                         350
  From lowly sympathy and chastening truth;
  Where good and evil interchange their names,
  And thirst for bloody spoils abroad is paired
  With vice at home. We added dearest themes--
  Man and his noble nature, as it is                                 355
  The gift which God has placed within his power,
  His blind desires and steady faculties
  Capable of clear truth, the one to break
  Bondage, the other to build liberty
  On firm foundations, making social life,                           360
  Through knowledge spreading and imperishable,
  As just in regulation, and as pure
  As individual in the wise and good.

    We summoned up the honourable deeds
  Of ancient Story, thought of each bright spot,                     365
  That would be found in all recorded time,
  Of truth preserved and error passed away;
  Of single spirits that catch the flame from Heaven,
  And how the multitudes of men will feed
  And fan each other; thought of sects, how keen                     370
  They are to put the appropriate nature on,
  Triumphant over every obstacle
  Of custom, language, country, love, or hate,
  And what they do and suffer for their creed;
  How far they travel, and how long endure;                          375
  How quickly mighty Nations have been formed,
  From least beginnings; how, together locked
  By new opinions, scattered tribes have made
  One body, spreading wide as clouds in heaven.
  To aspirations then of our own minds                               380
  Did we appeal; and, finally, beheld
  A living confirmation of the whole
  Before us, in a people from the depth
  Of shameful imbecility uprisen,
  Fresh as the morning star. Elate we looked                         385
  Upon their virtues; saw, in rudest men,
  Self-sacrifice the firmest; generous love,
  And continence of mind, and sense of right,
  Uppermost in the midst of fiercest strife.

    Oh, sweet it is, in academic groves,                             390
  Or such retirement, Friend! as we have known
  In the green dales beside our Rotha's stream,
  Greta, or Derwent, or some nameless rill,
  To ruminate, with interchange of talk,
  On rational liberty, and hope in man,                              395
  Justice and peace. But far more sweet such toil--
  Toil, say I, for it leads to thoughts abstruse--
  If nature then be standing on the brink
  Of some great trial, and we hear the voice
  Of one devoted, one whom circumstance                              400
  Hath called upon to embody his deep sense
  In action, give it outwardly a shape,
  And that of benediction, to the world.
  Then doubt is not, and truth is more than truth,--
  A hope it is, and a desire; a creed                                405
  Of zeal, by an authority Divine
  Sanctioned, of danger, difficulty, or death.
  Such conversation, under Attic shades,
  Did Dion hold with Plato; [O] ripened thus
  For a Deliverer's glorious task,--and such                         410
  He, on that ministry already bound,
  Held with Eudemus and Timonides, [P]
  Surrounded by adventurers in arms,
  When those two vessels with their daring freight,
  For the Sicilian Tyrant's overthrow,                               415
  Sailed from Zacynthus,--philosophic war,
  Led by Philosophers. [Q] With harder fate,
  Though like ambition, such was he, O Friend!
  Of whom I speak. So Beaupuis (let the name
  Stand near the worthiest of Antiquity)                             420
  Fashioned his life; and many a long discourse,
  With like persuasion honoured, we maintained:
  He, on his part, accoutred for the worst.
  He perished fighting, in supreme command,
  Upon the borders of the unhappy Loire,                             425
  For liberty, against deluded men,
  His fellow country-men; and yet most blessed
  In this, that he the fate of later times
  Lived not to see, nor what we now behold,
  Who have as ardent hearts as he had then.                          430

  Along that very Loire, with festal mirth
  Resounding at all hours, and innocent yet
  Of civil slaughter, was our frequent walk;
  Or in wide forests of continuous shade,
  Lofty and over-arched, with open space                             435
  Beneath the trees, clear footing many a mile--
  A solemn region. Oft amid those haunts,
  From earnest dialogues I slipped in thought,
  And let remembrance steal to other times,
  When, o'er those interwoven roots, moss-clad,                      440
  And smooth as marble or a waveless sea,
  Some Hermit, from his cell forth-strayed, might pace
  In sylvan meditation undisturbed;
  As on the pavement of a Gothic church
  Walks a lone Monk, when service hath expired,                      445
  In peace and silence. But if e'er was heard,--
  Heard, though unseen,--a devious traveller,
  Retiring or approaching from afar
  With speed and echoes loud of trampling hoofs
  From the hard floor reverberated, then                             450
  It was Angelica [R] thundering through the woods
  Upon her palfrey, or that gentle maid
  Erminia, [S] fugitive as fair as she.
  Sometimes methought I saw a pair of knights
  Joust underneath the trees, that as in storm                       455
  Rocked high above their heads; anon, the din
  Of boisterous merriment, and music's roar,
  In sudden proclamation, burst from haunt
  Of Satyrs in some viewless glade, with dance
  Rejoicing o'er a female in the midst,                              460
  A mortal beauty, their unhappy thrall.
  The width of those huge forests, unto me
  A novel scene, did often in this way
  Master my fancy while I wandered on
  With that revered companion. And sometimes--465
  When to a convent in a meadow green,
  By a brook-side, we came, a roofless pile,
  And not by reverential touch of Time
  Dismantled, but by violence abrupt--
  In spite of those heart-bracing colloquies,                        470
  In spite of real fervour, and of that
  Less genuine and wrought up within myself--
  I could not but bewail a wrong so harsh,
  And for the Matin-bell to sound no more
  Grieved, and the twilight taper, and the cross                     475
  High on the topmost pinnacle, a sign
  (How welcome to the weary traveller's eyes!)
  Of hospitality and peaceful rest.
  And when the partner of those varied walks
  Pointed upon occasion to the site                                  480
  Of Romorentin, home of ancient kings, [T]
  To the imperial edifice of Blois, [U]
  Or to that rural castle, name now slipped
  From my remembrance, where a lady lodged, [V]
  By the first Francis wooed, and bound to him                       485
  In chains of mutual passion, from the tower,
  As a tradition of the country tells,
  Practised to commune with her royal knight
  By cressets and love-beacons, intercourse
  'Twixt her high-seated residence and his                           490
  Far off at Chambord on the plain beneath; [W]
  Even here, though less than with the peaceful house
  Religious, 'mid those frequent monuments
  Of Kings, their vices and their better deeds,
  Imagination, potent to inflame                                     495
  At times with virtuous wrath and noble scorn,
  Did also often mitigate the force
  Of civic prejudice, the bigotry,
  So call it, of a youthful patriot's mind;
  And on these spots with many gleams I looked                       500
  Of chivalrous delight. Yet not the less,
  Hatred of absolute rule, where will of one
  Is law for all, and of that barren pride
  In them who, by immunities unjust,
  Between the sovereign and the people stand,                        505
  His helper and not theirs, laid stronger hold
  Daily upon me, mixed with pity too
  And love; for where hope is, there love will be
  For the abject multitude. And when we chanced
  One day to meet a hunger-bitten girl,                              510
  Who crept along fitting her languid gait
  Unto a heifer's motion, by a cord
  Tied to her arm, and picking thus from the lane
  Its sustenance, while the girl with pallid hands
  Was busy knitting in a heartless mood                              515
  Of solitude, and at the sight my friend
  In agitation said, "'Tis against 'that'
  That we are fighting," I with him believed
  That a benignant spirit was abroad
  Which might not be withstood, that poverty                         520
  Abject as this would in a little time
  Be found no more, that we should see the earth
  Unthwarted in her wish to recompense
  The meek, the lowly, patient child of toil,
  All institutes for ever blotted out                                525
  That legalised exclusion, empty pomp
  Abolished, sensual state and cruel power,
  Whether by edict of the one or few;
  And finally, as sum and crown of all,
  Should see the people having a strong hand                         530
  In framing their own laws; whence better days
  To all mankind. But, these things set apart,
  Was not this single confidence enough
  To animate the mind that ever turned
  A thought to human welfare? That henceforth                        535
  Captivity by mandate without law
  Should cease; and open accusation lead
  To sentence in the hearing of the world,
  And open punishment, if not the air
  Be free to breathe in, and the heart of man                        540
  Dread nothing. From this height I shall not stoop
  To humbler matter that detained us oft
  In thought or conversation, public acts,
  And public persons, and emotions wrought
  Within the breast, as ever-varying winds                           545
  Of record or report swept over us;
  But I might here, instead, repeat a tale, [X]
  Told by my Patriot friend, of sad events,
  That prove to what low depth had struck the roots,
  How widely spread the boughs, of that old tree                     550
  Which, as a deadly mischief, and a foul
  And black dishonour, France was weary of.

    Oh, happy time of youthful lovers, (thus
  The story might begin). Oh, balmy time,
  In which a love-knot, on a lady's brow,                            555
  Is fairer than the fairest star in Heaven! [Y]
  So might--and with that prelude _did_ begin
  The record; and, in faithful verse, was given
  The doleful sequel.

                        But our little bark
  On a strong river boldly hath been launched;                       560
  And from the driving current should we turn
  To loiter wilfully within a creek,
  Howe'er attractive, Fellow voyager!
  Would'st thou not chide?  Yet deem not my pains lost:
  For Vaudracour and Julia (so were named                            565
  The ill-fated pair) in that plain tale will draw
  Tears from the hearts of others, when their own
  Shall beat no more.  Thou, also, there may'st read,
  At leisure, how the enamoured youth was driven,
  By public power abased, to fatal crime,                            570
  Nature's rebellion against monstrous law;
  How, between heart and heart, oppression thrust
  Her mandates, severing whom true love had joined,
  Harassing both; until he sank and pressed
  The couch his fate had made for him; supine,                       575
  Save when the stings of viperous remorse,
  Trying their strength, enforced him to start up,
  Aghast and prayerless. Into a deep wood
  He fled, to shun the haunts of human kind;
  There dwelt, weakened in spirit more and more;                     580
  Nor could the voice of Freedom, which through France
  Full speedily resounded, public hope,
  Or personal memory of his own worst wrongs,
  Rouse him; but, hidden in those gloomy shades,
  His days he wasted,--an imbecile mind. [Z]                         585


       *       *       *       *       *

FOOTNOTES ON THE TEXT

[Footnote A: This must either mean a year from the time at which he took
his degree at Cambridge, or it is inaccurate as to date. He graduated in
January 1791, and left Brighton for Paris in November 1791. In London he
only spent four months, the February, March, April, and May of 1791.
Then followed the Welsh tour with Jones, and his return to Cambridge in
September 1791.--Ed.]


[Footnote B: With Jones in the previous year, 1790.--Ed.]


[Footnote C: Orleans.--Ed.]


[Footnote D: The Champ de Mars is in the west, the Rue du Faubourg St.
Antoine (the old suburb of St. Antony) in the east, Montmartre in the
north, and the dome of St. Genevieve, commonly called the Pantheon, in
the south of Paris.--Ed.]


[Footnote E: The clergy, noblesse, and the 'tiers etat' met at Notre
Dame on the 4th May 1789. On the following day, at Versailles, the
'tiers etat' assumed the title of the 'National Assembly'--constituting
themselves the sovereign power--and invited others to join them. The
club of the Jacobins was instituted the same year. It leased for itself
the hall of the Jacobins' convent: hence the name.--Ed.]


[Footnote F: The Palais Royal, built by Cardinal Richelieu in 1636,
presented by Louis XIV. to his brother, the Duke of Orleans, and
thereafter the property of the house of Orleans (hence the name). The
"arcades" referred to were removed in 1830, and the brilliant 'Galerie
d'Orleans' built in their place.--Ed.]


[Footnote G: On the 14th July 1789, the Bastille was taken, and
destroyed by the Revolutionists. The stones were used, for the most
part, in the construction of the Pont de la Concorde.--Ed.]


[Footnote H: Charles Lebrun, Court painter to Louis XIV. of France
(1619-1690)--Ed.]


[Footnote I: The Republican general, Michel Beaupuy. See p. 302
[Footnote N below], and the note upon him by Mons. Emile Legouis of
Lyons, in the appendix [Note VII] to this volume, p. 401.--Ed.]


[Footnote K:  Carra and Gorsas were journalist deputies in the first
year of the French Republic. Gorsas was the first of the deputies who
died on the scaffold. Carlyle thus refers to them, and to the "hundred
other names forgotten now," in his 'French Revolution' (vol. iii. book
i. chap. 7):

  "The convention is getting chosen--really in a decisive spirit. Some
  two hundred of our best Legislators may be re-elected, the Mountain
  bodily. Robespierre, with Mayor Petion, Buzot, Curate Gregoire and
  some threescore Old Constituents; though we men had only _thirty
  voices._ All these and along with them friends long known to the
  Revolutionary fame: Camille Desmoulins, though he stutters in speech,
  Manuel Tallein and Company; Journalists Gorsas, Carra, Mersier, Louvet
  of _Faubias_; Clootz, Speaker of Mankind, Collet d'Herbois, tearing a
  passion to rags; Fahre d'Egalantine Speculative Pamphleteer; Legendre,
  the solid Butcher; nay Marat though rural France can hardly believe
  it, or even believe there is a Marat, except in print." Ed.]


[Footnote L: Many of the old French Noblesse, and other supporters of
Monarchy, fled across the Rhine, and with thousands of emigres formed a
special Legion, which co-operated with the German army under the Emperor
Leopold and the King of Prussia.--Ed.]


[Footnote M: Compare book vi. l. 345, etc.--Ed.]


[Footnote N: Beaupuy. See p. 297 [Footnote I, above]:

  "Save only one, hereafter to be named," [Line 132]

and the note on Beaupuy, in the appendix [Note VII] to this volume, p.
401.--Ed.]


[Footnote O: Compare Wordsworth's poem 'Dion', in volume vi. of this
edition.--Ed.]


[Footnote P: When Plato visited Syracuse, in the reign of Dionysius,
Dion became his disciple, and induced Dionysius to invite Plato a second
time to Syracuse. But neither Plato nor Dion could succeed in their
efforts to influence and elevate Dionysius. Dion withdrew to Athens, and
lived in close intimacy with Plato, and with Speusippus. The latter
urged him to return, and deliver Sicily from the tyrant Dionysius, who
had become unpopular in the island. Dion got some of the Syracusan
exiles in Greece to join him, and "sailed from Zacynthus," with two
merchant ships, and about 800 troops. He took Syracuse, and became
dictator of the district. But--as was the case with the tyrants of the
French Revolution who took the place of those of the old regime (record
later on in 'The Prelude')--the Syracusans found that they had only
exchanged one form of rigour for another. It is thus that Plutarch
refers to the occurrence.

  "Many statesmen and philosophers assisted him (_i. e._ Dion); "as for
  instance, Eudemus, the Cyprian, on whose death Aristotle wrote his
  dialogue of the Soul, and Timonides the Leucadian."

(See Plutarch's 'Dion'.) Timonides wrote an account of Dion's campaign
in Sicily in certain letters to Speusippus, which are referred to both
by Plutarch and by Diogenes Laertius,--Ed.]


[Footnote Q: See the previous note [Footnote P directly above].--Ed.]


[Footnote R: See the 'Orlando Furioso' of Ariosto, canto i.:

  'La donna il palafreno a dietro volta,
  E per la selva a tutta briglia il caccia;
  Ne per la rara piu, che per la folta,
  La piu sicura e miglior via procaccia.

  The lady turned her palfrey round,
  And through the forest drove him on amain;
  Nor did she choose the glade before the thickest wood,
  Riding the safest ever, and the better way.'

Ed.]


[Footnote S: See the 'Gerusalemme Liberata' of Tasso, canto vi. Erminia
is the heroine of 'Jerusalem Delivered'. An account of her flight occurs
at the opening of the seventh canto.--Ed.]


[Footnote T:

  "_Rivus Romentini_, petite ville du Blaisois, et capitale de la
  Sologne, aujourd'hui sous-prefecture du depart. de Loir-et-Cher."

It was taken in 1356 and in 1429 by the English, in 1562 by the
Catholics, in 1567 by the Calvinists, and in 1589 by the Royalists.

  "Henri IV. l'erigea en comte pour sa maitresse Charlotte des Essarts,
  1560. Francois I. y rendit un edit celebre qui attribuait aux prelats
  la connaissance du crime d'heresie, et la repression des assemblees
  illicites."

('Dictionnaire Historique de la France', par Ludovic Lalaune. Paris,
1872.)--Ed.]


[Footnote U: Blois,

  "Louis XII., qui etait ne a Blois, y sejourna souvent, et
  reconstruisit completement le chateau, ou la cour habita frequemment
  au XVI'e. siecle."

('Dict. Histor. de la France', Lalaune.) The town is full of historical
reminiscences of Louis XII., Francis I., Henry III., and Catherine and
Mary de Medici. Wordsworth went from Orleans to Blois, in the spring of
1792.--Ed.]


[Footnote V: Claude, the daughter of Louis XII.--Ed.]


[Footnote W: Chambord;

  "celebre chateau du Blaisois (Loir-et-Cher), construit par Francois
  I., sur l'emplacement d'une maison de plaisance des comtes de Blois.
  Donne par Louis XV. a son beau-pere Stanislas, puis au Marechal de
  Saxe, il revint ensuit a la couronne; et en 1777 Louis XVI. en accorda
  la jouissance a la famille de Polignac."

(Lalaune.)

A national subscription was got up in the 'twenties, under Charles X.,
to present the chateau to the posthumous son of the Duc de Berry, who
afterwards became known as the Comte de Chambord, or Henri V.--Ed.]


[Footnote X: The tale of 'Vaudracour and Julia'. (Mr. Carter, 1850.)]


[Footnote Y: The previous four lines are the opening ones of the poem
'Vaudracour and Julia'. (See p. 24.)--Ed.]


[Footnote Z: The last five lines are almost a reproduction of the
concluding five in 'Vaudracour and Julia'.--Ed.]





       *       *       *       *       *





BOOK TENTH


RESIDENCE IN FRANCE--'continued'


  It was a beautiful and silent day
  That overspread the countenance of earth,
  Then fading with unusual quietness,--
  A day as beautiful as e'er was given
  To soothe regret, though deepening what it soothed,                  5
  When by the gliding Loire I paused, and cast
  Upon his rich domains, vineyard and tilth,
  Green meadow-ground, and many-coloured woods,
  Again, and yet again, a farewell look;
  Then from the quiet of that scene passed on,                        10
  Bound to the fierce Metropolis. [A] From his throne
  The King had fallen, [B] and that invading host--
  Presumptuous cloud, on whose black front was written
  The tender mercies of the dismal wind
  That bore it--on the plains of Liberty                              15
  Had burst innocuous. Say in bolder words,
  They--who had come elate as eastern hunters
  Banded beneath the Great Mogul, when he
  Erewhile went forth from Agra or Lahore,
  Rajahs and Omrahs [C] in his train, intent                          20
  To drive their prey enclosed within a ring
  Wide as a province, but, the signal given,
  Before the point of the life-threatening spear
  Narrowing itself by moments--they, rash men,
  Had seen the anticipated quarry turned                              25
  Into avengers, from whose wrath they fled
  In terror. Disappointment and dismay
  Remained for all whose fancies had run wild
  With evil expectations; confidence
  And perfect triumph for the better cause.                           30

    The State, as if to stamp the final seal
  On her security, and to the world
  Show what she was, a high and fearless soul,
  Exulting in defiance, or heart-stung
  By sharp resentment, or belike to taunt                             35
  With spiteful gratitude the baffled League,
  That had stirred up her slackening faculties
  To a new transition, when the King was crushed,
  Spared not the empty throne, and in proud haste
  Assumed the body and venerable name                                 40
  Of a Republic. [D] Lamentable crimes,
  'Tis true, had gone before this hour, dire work
  Of massacre, [E] in which the senseless sword
  Was prayed to as a judge; but these were past,
  Earth free from them for ever, as was thought,--45
  Ephemeral monsters, to be seen but once!
  Things that could only show themselves and die.

    Cheered with this hope, to Paris I returned, [F]
  And ranged, with ardour heretofore unfelt,
  The spacious city, and in progress passed                           50
  The prison where the unhappy Monarch lay,
  Associate with his children and his wife
  In bondage; and the palace, lately stormed
  With roar of cannon by a furious host.
  I crossed the square (an empty area then!) [G]                      55
  Of the Carrousel, where so late had lain
  The dead, upon the dying heaped, and gazed
  On this and other spots, as doth a man
  Upon a volume whose contents he knows
  Are memorable, but from him locked up,                              60
  Being written in a tongue he cannot read,
  So that he questions the mute leaves with pain,
  And half upbraids their silence. But that night
  I felt most deeply in what world I was,
  What ground I trod on, and what air I breathed.                     65
  High was my room and lonely, near the roof
  Of a large mansion or hotel, a lodge
  That would have pleased me in more quiet times;
  Nor was it wholly without pleasure then.
  With unextinguished taper I kept watch,                             70
  Reading at intervals; the fear gone by
  Pressed on me almost like a fear to come.
  I thought of those September massacres,
  Divided from me by one little month,  [H]
  Saw them and touched: the rest was conjured up                      75
  From tragic fictions or true history,
  Remembrances and dim admonishments.
  The horse is taught his manage, and no star
  Of wildest course but treads back his own steps;
  For the spent hurricane the air provides                            80
  As fierce a successor; the tide retreats
  But to return out of its hiding-place
  In the great deep; all things have second-birth;
  The earthquake is not satisfied at once;
  And in this way I wrought upon myself,                              85
  Until I seemed to hear a voice that cried,
  To the whole city, "Sleep no more." The trance
  Fled with the voice to which it had given birth;
  But vainly comments of a calmer mind
  Promised soft peace and sweet forgetfulness.                        90
  The place, all hushed and silent as it was,
  Appeared unfit for the repose of night,
  Defenceless as a wood where tigers roam.

    With early morning towards the Palace-walk
  Of Orleans eagerly I turned; as yet                                 95
  The streets were still; not so those long Arcades;
  There, 'mid a peal of ill-matched sounds and cries,
  That greeted me on entering, I could hear
  Shrill voices from the hawkers in the throng,
  Bawling, "Denunciation of the Crimes                               100
  Of Maximilian Robespierre;" the hand,
  Prompt as the voice, held forth a printed speech,
  The same that had been recently pronounced,
  When Robespierre, not ignorant for what mark
  Some words of indirect reproof had been                            105
  Intended, rose in hardihood, and dared
  The man who had an ill surmise of him
  To bring his charge in openness; whereat,
  When a dead pause ensued, and no one stirred,
  In silence of all present, from his seat                           110
  Louvet walked single through the avenue,
  And took his station in the Tribune, saying,
  "I, Robespierre, accuse thee!" [I] Well is known
  The inglorious issue of that charge, and how
  He, who had launched the startling thunderbolt,                    115
  The one bold man, whose voice the attack had sounded,
  Was left without a follower to discharge
  His perilous duty, and retire lamenting
  That Heaven's best aid is wasted upon men
  Who to themselves are false. [K]
                  But these are things                               120
  Of which I speak, only as they were storm
  Or sunshine to my individual mind,
  No further. Let me then relate that now--
  In some sort seeing with my proper eyes
  That Liberty, and Life, and Death would soon                       125
  To the remotest corners of the land
  Lie in the arbitrement of those who ruled
  The capital City; what was struggled for,
  And by what combatants victory must be won;
  The indecision on their part whose aim                             130
  Seemed best, and the straightforward path of those
  Who in attack or in defence were strong
  Through their impiety--my inmost soul
  Was agitated; yea, I could almost
  Have prayed that throughout earth upon all men,                    135
  By patient exercise of reason made
  Worthy of liberty, all spirits filled
  With zeal expanding in Truth's holy light,
  The gift of tongues might fall, and power arrive
  From the four quarters of the winds to do                          140
  For France, what without help she could not do,
  A work of honour; think not that to this
  I added, work of safety: from all doubt
  Or trepidation for the end of things
  Far was I, far as angels are from guilt.                           145

    Yet did I grieve, nor only grieved, but thought
  Of opposition and of remedies:
  An insignificant stranger and obscure,
  And one, moreover, little graced with power
  Of eloquence even in my native speech,                             150
  And all unfit for tumult or intrigue,
  Yet would I at this time with willing heart
  Have undertaken for a cause so great
  Service however dangerous. I revolved,
  How much the destiny of Man had still                              155
  Hung upon single persons; that there was,
  Transcendent to all local patrimony,
  One nature, as there is one sun in heaven;
  That objects, even as they are great, thereby
  Do come within the reach of humblest eyes;                         160
  That Man is only weak through his mistrust
  And want of hope where evidence divine
  Proclaims to him that hope should be most sure;
  Nor did the inexperience of my youth
  Preclude conviction, that a spirit strong,                         165
  In hope, and trained to noble aspirations,
  A spirit thoroughly faithful to itself,
  Is for Society's unreasoning herd
  A domineering instinct, serves at once
  For way and guide, a fluent receptacle                             170
  That gathers up each petty straggling rill
  And vein of water, glad to be rolled on
  In safe obedience; that a mind, whose rest
  Is where it ought to be, in self-restraint,
  In circumspection and simplicity,                                  175
  Falls rarely in entire discomfiture
  Below its aim, or meets with, from without,
  A treachery that foils it or defeats;
  And, lastly, if the means on human will,
  Frail human will, dependent should betray                          180
  Him who too boldly trusted them, I felt
  That 'mid the loud distractions of the world
  A sovereign voice subsists within the soul,
  Arbiter undisturbed of right and wrong,
  Of life and death, in majesty severe                               185
  Enjoining, as may best promote the aims
  Of truth and justice, either sacrifice,
  From whatsoever region of our cares
  Or our infirm affections Nature pleads,
  Earnest and blind, against the stern decree.                       190

  On the other side, I called to mind those truths
  That are the common-places of the schools--
  (A theme for boys, too hackneyed for their sires,)
  Yet, with a revelation's liveliness,
  In all their comprehensive bearings known                          195
  And visible to philosophers of old,
  Men who, to business of the world untrained,
  Lived in the shade; and to Harmodius known
  And his compeer Aristogiton, [L] known
  To Brutus--that tyrannic power is weak,                            200
  Hath neither gratitude, nor faith, nor love,
  Nor the support of good or evil men
  To trust in; that the godhead which is ours
  Can never utterly be charmed or stilled;
  That nothing hath a natural right to last                          205
  But equity and reason; that all else
  Meets foes irreconcilable, and at best
  Lives only by variety of disease.

  Well might my wishes be intense, my thoughts
  Strong and perturbed, not doubting at that time                    210
  But that the virtue of one paramount mind
  Would have abashed those impious crests--have quelled
  Outrage and bloody power, and, in despite
  Of what the People long had been and were
  Through ignorance and false teaching, sadder proof                 215
  Of immaturity, and in the teeth
  Of desperate opposition from without--
  Have cleared a passage for just government,
  And left a solid birthright to the State,
  Redeemed, according to example given                               220
  By ancient lawgivers.
                  In this frame of mind,
  Dragged by a chain of harsh necessity,
  So seemed it,--now I thankfully acknowledge,
  Forced by the gracious providence of Heaven,--
  To England I returned, [M] else (though assured                    225
  That I both was and must be of small weight,
  No better than a landsman on the deck
  Of a ship struggling with a hideous storm)
  Doubtless, I should have then made common cause
  With some who perished; haply perished too, [N]                    230
  A poor mistaken and bewildered offering,--
  Should to the breast of Nature have gone back,
  With all my resolutions, all my hopes,
  A Poet only to myself, to men
  Useless, and even, beloved Friend! a soul                          235
  To thee unknown!

      Twice had the trees let fall
  Their leaves, as often Winter had put on
  His hoary crown, since I had seen the surge
  Beat against Albion's shore, [O] since ear of mine
  Had caught the accents of my native speech                         240
  Upon our native country's sacred ground.
  A patriot of the world, how could I glide
  Into communion with her sylvan shades,
  Erewhile my tuneful haunt? It pleased me more
  To abide in the great City, [P] where I found                      245
  The general air still busy with the stir
  Of that first memorable onset made
  By a strong levy of humanity
  Upon the traffickers in Negro blood; [Q]
  Effort which, though defeated, had recalled                        250
  To notice old forgotten principles,
  And through the nation spread a novel heat
  Of virtuous feeling. For myself, I own
  That this particular strife had wanted power
  To rivet my affections; nor did now                                255
  Its unsuccessful issue much excite
  My sorrow; for I brought with me the faith
  That, if France prospered, good men would not long
  Pay fruitless worship to humanity,
  And this most rotten branch of human shame,                        260
  Object, so seemed it, of superfluous pains,
  Would fall together with its parent tree.
  What, then, were my emotions, when in arms
  Britain put forth her free-born strength in league,
  Oh, pity and shame! with those confederate Powers!                 265
  Not in my single self alone I found,
  But in the minds of all ingenuous youth,
  Change and subversion from that hour. No shock
  Given to my moral nature had I known
  Down to that very moment; neither lapse                            270
  Nor turn of sentiment that might be named
  A revolution, save at this one time;
  All else was progress on the self-same path
  On which, with a diversity of pace,
  I had been travelling: this a stride at once                       275
  Into another region. As a light
  And pliant harebell, swinging in the breeze
  On some grey rock--its birth-place--so had I
  Wantoned, fast rooted on the ancient tower
  Of my beloved country, wishing not                                 280
  A happier fortune than to wither there:
  Now was I from that pleasant station torn
  And tossed about in whirlwind. I rejoiced,
  Yea, afterwards--truth most painful to record!--
  Exulted, in the triumph of my soul,                                285
  When Englishmen by thousands were o'erthrown,
  Left without glory on the field, or driven,
  Brave hearts! to shameful flight. It was a grief,--
  Grief call it not, 'twas anything but that,--
  A conflict of sensations without name,                             290
  Of which _he_ only, who may love the sight
  Of a village steeple, as I do, can judge,
  When, in the congregation bending all
  To their great Father, prayers were offered up,
  Or praises for our country's victories;                            295
  And, 'mid the simple worshippers, perchance
  I only, like an uninvited guest
  Whom no one owned, sate silent; shall I add,
  Fed on the day of vengeance yet to come.

  Oh! much have they to account for, who could tear,                 300
  By violence, at one decisive rent,
  From the best youth in England their dear pride,
  Their joy, in England; this, too, at a time
  In which worst losses easily might wean
  The best of names, when patriotic love                             305
  Did of itself in modesty give way,
  Like the Precursor when the Deity
  Is come Whose harbinger he was; a time
  In which apostasy from ancient faith
  Seemed but conversion to a higher creed;                           310
  Withal a season dangerous and wild,
  A time when sage Experience would have snatched
  Flowers out of any hedge-row to compose
  A chaplet in contempt of his grey locks.

  When the proud fleet that bears the red-cross flag [R]             315
  In that unworthy service was prepared
  To mingle, I beheld the vessels lie,
  A brood of gallant creatures, on the deep;
  I saw them in their rest, a sojourner
  Through a whole month of calm and glassy days                      320
  In that delightful island which protects
  Their place of convocation [S]--there I heard,
  Each evening, pacing by the still sea-shore,
  A monitory sound that never failed,--
  The sunset cannon. While the orb went down                         325
  In the tranquillity of nature, came
  That voice, ill requiem! seldom heard by me
  Without a spirit overcast by dark
  Imaginations, sense of woes to come,
  Sorrow for human kind, and pain of heart.                          330

    In France, the men, who, for their desperate ends,
  Had plucked up mercy by the roots, were glad
  Of this new enemy. Tyrants, strong before
  In wicked pleas, were strong as demons now;
  And thus, on every side beset with foes,                           335
  The goaded land waxed mad; the crimes of few
  Spread into madness of the many; blasts
  From hell came sanctified like airs from heaven.
  The sternness of the just, the faith of those
  Who doubted not that Providence had times                          340
  Of vengeful retribution, theirs who throned
  The human Understanding paramount
  And made of that their God, [T] the hopes of men
  Who were content to barter short-lived pangs
  For a paradise of ages, the blind rage                             345
  Of insolent tempers, the light vanity
  Of intermeddlers, steady purposes
  Of the suspicious, slips of the indiscreet,
  And all the accidents of life were pressed
  Into one service, busy with one work.                              350
  The Senate stood aghast, her prudence quenched,
  Her wisdom stifled, and her justice scared,
  Her frenzy only active to extol
  Past outrages, and shape the way for new,
  Which no one dared to oppose or mitigate.                          355

    Domestic carnage now filled the whole year
  With feast-days; old men from the chimney-nook,
  The maiden from the bosom of her love,
  The mother from the cradle of her babe,
  The warrior from the field--all perished, all--360
  Friends, enemies, of all parties, ages, ranks,
  Head after head, and never heads enough
  For those that bade them fall. They found their joy,
  They made it proudly, eager as a child,
  (If like desires of innocent little ones                           365
  May with such heinous appetites be compared,)
  Pleased in some open field to exercise
  A toy that mimics with revolving wings
  The motion of a wind-mill; though the air
  Do of itself blow fresh, and make the vanes                        370
  Spin in his eyesight, _that_ contents him not,
  But, with the plaything at arm's length, he sets
  His front against the blast, and runs amain,
  That it may whirl the faster.
                                 Amid the depth
  Of those enormities, even thinking minds                           375
  Forgot, at seasons, whence they had their being;
  Forgot that such a sound was ever heard
  As Liberty upon earth: yet all beneath
  Her innocent authority was wrought,
  Nor could have been, without her blessed name.                     380
  The illustrious wife of Roland, in the hour
  Of her composure, felt that agony,
  And gave it vent in her last words. [U] O Friend!
  It was a lamentable time for man,
  Whether a hope had e'er been his or not;                           385
  A woful time for them whose hopes survived
  The shock; most woful for those few who still
  Were flattered, and had trust in human kind:
  They had the deepest feeling of the grief.
  Meanwhile the Invaders fared as they deserved:                     390
  The Herculean Commonwealth had put forth her arms,
  And throttled with an infant godhead's might
  The snakes about her cradle; that was well,
  And as it should be; yet no cure for them
  Whose souls were sick with pain of what would be                   395
  Hereafter brought in charge against mankind.
  Most melancholy at that time, O Friend!
  Were my day-thoughts,--my nights were miserable;
  Through months, through years, long after the last beat
  Of those atrocities, the hour of sleep                             400
  To me came rarely charged with natural gifts,
  Such ghastly visions had I of despair
  And tyranny, and implements of death;
  And innocent victims sinking under fear,
  And momentary hope, and worn-out prayer,                           405
  Each in his separate cell, or penned in crowds
  For sacrifice, and struggling with fond mirth
  And levity in dungeons, where the dust
  Was laid with tears. Then suddenly the scene
  Changed, and the unbroken dream entangled me                       410
  In long orations, which I strove to plead
  Before unjust tribunals,--with a voice
  Labouring, a brain confounded, and a sense,
  Death-like, of treacherous desertion, felt
  In the last place of refuge--my own soul.                          415

    When I began in youth's delightful prime
  To yield myself to Nature, when that strong
  And holy passion overcame me first,
  Nor day nor night, evening or morn, was free
  From its oppression. But, O Power Supreme!                         420
  Without Whose call this world would cease to breathe,
  Who from the fountain of Thy grace dost fill
  The veins that branch through every frame of life,
  Making man what he is, creature divine,
  In single or in social eminence,                                   425
  Above the rest raised infinite ascents
  When reason that enables him to be
  Is not sequestered--what a change is here!
  How different ritual for this after-worship,
  What countenance to promote this second love!                      430
  The first was service paid to things which lie
  Guarded within the bosom of Thy will.
  Therefore to serve was high beatitude;
  Tumult was therefore gladness, and the fear
  Ennobling, venerable; sleep secure,                                435
  And waking thoughts more rich than happiest dreams.

    But as the ancient Prophets, borne aloft
  In vision, yet constrained by natural laws
  With them to take a troubled human heart,
  Wanted not consolations, nor a creed                               440
  Of reconcilement, then when they denounced,
  On towns and cities, wallowing in the abyss
  Of their offences, punishment to come;
  Or saw, like other men, with bodily eyes,
  Before them, in some desolated place,                              445
  The wrath consummate and the threat fulfilled;
  So, with devout humility be it said,
  So, did a portion of that spirit fall
  On me uplifted from the vantage-ground
  Of pity and sorrow to a state of being                             450
  That through the time's exceeding fierceness saw
  Glimpses of retribution, terrible,
  And in the order of sublime behests:
  But, even if that were not, amid the awe
  Of unintelligible chastisement,                                    455
  Not only acquiescences of faith
  Survived, but daring sympathies with power,
  Motions not treacherous or profane, else why
  Within the folds of no ungentle breast
  Their dread vibration to this hour prolonged?                      460
  Wild blasts of music thus could find their way
  Into the midst of turbulent events;
  So that worst tempests might be listened to.
  Then was the truth received into my heart,
  That, under heaviest sorrow earth can bring,                       465
  If from the affliction somewhere do not grow
  Honour which could not else have been, a faith,
  An elevation and a sanctity,
  If new strength be not given nor old restored,
  The blame is ours, not Nature's. When a taunt                      470
  Was taken up by scoffers in their pride,
  Saying, "Behold the harvest that we reap
  From popular government and equality,"
  I clearly saw that neither these nor aught
  Of wild belief engrafted on their names                            475
  By false philosophy had caused the woe,
  But a terrific reservoir of guilt
  And ignorance rilled up from age to age,
  That could no longer hold its loathsome charge,
  But burst and spread in deluge through the land.                   480

    And as the desert hath green spots, the sea
  Small islands scattered amid stormy waves,
  So that disastrous period did not want
  Bright sprinklings of all human excellence,
  To which the silver wands of saints in Heaven                      485
  Might point with rapturous joy. Yet not the less,
  For those examples in no age surpassed
  Of fortitude and energy and love,
  And human nature faithful to herself
  Under worst trials, was I driven to think                          490
  Of the glad times when first I traversed France
  A youthful pilgrim; [V] above all reviewed
  That eventide, when under windows bright
  With happy faces and with garlands hung,
  And through a rainbow-arch that spanned the street,                495
  Triumphal pomp for liberty confirmed, [W]
  I paced, a dear companion at my side,
  The town of Arras, [X] whence with promise high
  Issued, on delegation to sustain
  Humanity and right, _that_ Robespierre,                            500
  He who thereafter, and in how short time!
  Wielded the sceptre of the Atheist crew.
  When the calamity spread far and wide--
  And this same city, that did then appear
  To outrun the rest in exultation, groaned                          505
  Under the vengeance of her cruel son,
  As Lear reproached the winds--I could almost
  Have quarrelled with that blameless spectacle
  For lingering yet an image in my mind
  To mock me under such a strange reverse.                           510

    O Friend! few happier moments have been mine
  Than that which told the downfall of this Tribe
  So dreaded, so abhorred. [Y] The day deserves
  A separate record. Over the smooth sands
  Of Leven's ample estuary lay                                       515
  My journey, and beneath a genial sun,
  With distant prospect among gleams of sky
  And clouds, and intermingling mountain tops,
  In one inseparable glory clad,
  Creatures of one ethereal substance met                            520
  In consistory, like a diadem
  Or crown of burning seraphs as they sit
  In the empyrean. Underneath that pomp
  Celestial, lay unseen the pastoral vales
  Among whose happy fields I had grown up                            525
  From childhood. On the fulgent spectacle,
  That neither passed away nor changed, I gazed
  Enrapt; but brightest things are wont to draw
  Sad opposites out of the inner heart,
  As even their pensive influence drew from mine.                    530
  How could it otherwise? for not in vain
  That very morning had I turned aside
  To seek the ground where, 'mid a throng of graves,
  An honoured teacher of my youth was laid, [Z]
  And on the stone were graven by his desire                         535
  Lines from the churchyard elegy of Gray. [a]
  This faithful guide, speaking from his death-bed,
  Added no farewell to his parting counsel,
  But said to me, "My head will soon lie low;"
  And when I saw the turf that covered him,                          540
  After the lapse of full eight years, [b] those words,
  With sound of voice and countenance of the Man,
  Came back upon me, so that some few tears
  Fell from me in my own despite. But now
  I thought, still traversing that widespread plain,                 545
  With tender pleasure of the verses graven
  Upon his tombstone, whispering to myself:
  He loved the Poets, and, if now alive,
  Would have loved me, as one not destitute
  Of promise, nor belying the kind hope                              550
  That he had formed, when I, at his command,
  Began to spin, with toil, my earliest songs. [c]

  As I advanced, all that I saw or felt
  Was gentleness and peace. Upon a small
  And rocky island near, a fragment stood                            555
  (Itself like a sea rock) the low remains
  (With shells encrusted, dark with briny weeds)
  Of a dilapidated structure, once
  A Romish chapel, [d] where the vested priest
  Said matins at the hour that suited those                          560
  Who crossed the sands with ebb of morning tide.
  Not far from that still ruin all the plain
  Lay spotted with a variegated crowd
  Of vehicles and travellers, horse and foot,
  Wading beneath the conduct of their guide                          565
  In loose procession through the shallow stream
  Of inland waters; the great sea meanwhile
  Heaved at safe distance, far retired. I paused,
  Longing for skill to paint a scene so bright
  And cheerful, but the foremost of the band                         570
  As he approached, no salutation given
  In the familiar language of the day,
  Cried, "Robespierre is dead!"--nor was a doubt,
  After strict question, left within my mind
  That he and his supporters all were fallen.                        575

    Great was my transport, deep my gratitude
  To everlasting Justice, by this fiat
  Made manifest. "Come now, ye golden times,"
  Said I forth-pouring on those open sands
  A hymn of triumph: "as the morning comes                           580
  From out the bosom of the night, come ye:
  Thus far our trust is verified; behold!
  They who with clumsy desperation brought
  A river of Blood, and preached that nothing else
  Could cleanse the Augean stable, by the might                      585
  Of their own helper have been swept away;
  Their madness stands declared and visible;
  Elsewhere will safety now be sought, and earth
  March firmly towards righteousness and peace."--
  Then schemes I framed more calmly, when and how                    590
  The madding factions might be tranquillised,
  And how through hardships manifold and long
  The glorious renovation would proceed.
  Thus interrupted by uneasy bursts
  Of exultation, I pursued my way                                    595
  Along that very shore which I had skimmed
  In former days, when--spurring from the Vale
  Of Nightshade, and St. Mary's mouldering fane, [e]
  And the stone abbot, after circuit made
  In wantonness of heart, a joyous band                              600
  Of school-boys hastening to their distant home
  Along the margin of the moonlight sea--
  We beat with thundering hoofs the level sand. [f]


       *       *       *       *       *

FOOTNOTES ON THE TEXT

[Footnote A: He left Blois for Paris in the late autumn of 1792--Ed.]


[Footnote B: King Louis the Sixteenth, dethroned on August 10th,
1792.--Ed.]


[Footnote C: "The Ormrahs or lords of the Moghul's court." See Francois
Besnier's letter 'Concerning Hindusthan'.--Ed.]


[Footnote D: The "Republic" was decreed on the 22nd of September
1792.--Ed.]


[Footnote E: The "September Massacres" lasted from the 2nd to the 6th of
that month.--Ed.]


[Footnote F: He reached Paris in the beginning of October 1792.--Ed.]


[Footnote G: The Place du Carrousel.--Ed.]


[Footnote H: See notes [E] and [F].--Ed.]


[Footnote I:

  "One day, among the last of October, Robespierre, being summoned to
  the tribune by some new hint of that old calumny of the Dictatorship,
  was speaking and pleading there, with more and more comfort to
  himself; till rising high in heart, he cried out valiantly: Is there
  any man here that dare specifically accuse me? ''Moi!'' exclaimed one.
  Pause of deep silence: a lean angry little Figure, with broad bald
  brow, strode swiftly towards the tribune, taking papers from its
  pocket: 'I accuse thee, Robespierre,--I, Jean Baptiste Louvet!' The
  Seagreen became tallow-green; shrinking to a corner of the tribune,
  Danton cried, 'Speak, Robespierre; there are many good citizens that
  listen;' but the tongue refused its office. And so Louvet, with a
  shrill tone, read and recited crime after crime: dictatorial temper,
  exclusive popularity, bullying at elections, mob-retinue, September
  Massacres;--till all the Convention shrieked again," etc. etc.

Carlyle's 'French Revolution', vol. iii. book ii. chap. 5.--Ed.]


[Footnote K: Robespierre got a week's delay to prepare a defence.

  "That week he is not idle. He is ready at the day with his written
  Speech: smooth as a Jesuit Doctor's, and convinces some. And
  now?...poor Louvet, unprepared, can do little or nothing. Barrere
  proposes that these comparatively despicable _personalities_ be
  dismissed by order of the day! Order of the day it accordingly is."

Carlyle, _ut supra_.--Ed.]


[Footnote L: Harmodius and Aristogiton of Athens murdered the tyrant
Hipparchus, 514 B.C., and delivered the city from the rule of the
Pisistratidae, much as Brutus rose against Caesar.--Ed.]


[Footnote M: He crossed the Channel, and returned to England
reluctantly, in December 1792. Compare p. 376, l. 349:

  'Since I withdrew unwillingly from France.'

Ed.]


[Footnote N: Had he remained longer in Paris, he would probably have
fallen a victim, amongst the Brissotins, to the reactionary fury of the
Jacobin party.--Ed.]


[Footnote O: He left England in November 1791, and returned in December
1792.--Ed.]


[Footnote P: He stayed in London during the winter of 1792-3 and spring
of 1793, probably with his elder brother Richard (who was a solicitor
there), writing his remarkable letter on the French Revolution to the
Bishop of Landaff, and doubtless making arrangements for the publication
of the 'Evening Walk'. The 'Descriptive Sketches' were not written till
the summer of 1793 (compare the thirteenth book of 'The Prelude', p.
366); but in a letter dated "Forncett, February 16th, 1793," his sister
sends to a friend an interesting criticism of her brother's verses. The
'Evening Walk' must therefore have appeared in January 1793.--Ed.]


[Footnote Q: The movement for the abolition of slavery, led by Clarkson
and Wilberforce. Compare the sonnet 'To Thomas Clarkson, on the final
passing of the Bill for the Abolition of the Slave Trade, March' 1807,
in vol. iv.--Ed.]


[Footnote R: The red-cross flag, i. e. the British ensign.

  "On the union of the crowns of England and Scotland, James I. issued a
  proclamation that _all subjects of this isle and the kingdom of Great
  Britain should bear in the main-top the red cross commonly called St.
  George's Cross, and the white cross commonly called St. Andrew's
  Cross, joined together according to the form made by our own heralds._
  This was the first Union Jack."

'Encyclopaedia Britannica' (ninth edition), article "Flag."--Ed.]


[Footnote S: In the Isle of Wight. Wordsworth spent a month of the
summer of 1793 there, with William Calvert. (See the Advertisement to
'Guilt and Sorrow', vol. i. p. 77.)--Ed.]


[Footnote T: The goddess of Reason, enthroned in Paris, November 10th,
1793.--Ed.]


[Footnote U: Jeanne-Marie Phlipon--Madame Roland--was guillotined on the
8th of November 1793.

  "Arrived at the foot of the scaffold, she asked for pen and paper _to
  write the strange thoughts that were rising in her_: a remarkable
  request; which was refused. Looking at the Statue of Liberty which
  stands there, she says bitterly: _O Liberty, what things are done in
  thy name!_ ... Like a white Grecian Statue, serenely complete," adds
  Carlyle, "she shines in that black wreck of things,--long memorable."

'French Revolution', vol. iii. book v. chap. 2.

 Madame Roland's apostrophe was

  'O Liberte, que de crimes l'on commet en ton nom!'

 Ed.]


[Footnote V: In the long vacation of 1790, with his friend Jones.--Ed.]


[Footnote W: Compare the sonnet, vol. ii. p. 332, beginning:

  'Jones! as from Calais southward you and I
  Went pacing side by side, this public Way
  Streamed with the pomp of a too-credulous day,
  When faith was pledged to new-born Liberty.'

Ed.]


[Footnote X: Robespierre was a native of Arras.--Ed.]


[Footnote Y: Robespierre was guillotined with his confederates on the
28th July 1794. Wordsworth lived in Cumberland--at Keswick, Whitehaven,
and Penrith--from the winter of 1793-4 till the spring of 1795. He must
have made this journey across the Ulverston Sands, in the first week of
August 1794. Compare Wordsworth's remarks on Robespierre, in his 'Letter
to a Friend of Burns',--Ed.]


[Footnote Z: The "honoured teacher" of his youth was the Rev. William
Taylor, of Emmanuel College, Cambridge, who was master at Hawkshead
School from 1782 to 1786, who died while Wordsworth was at school, and
who was buried in Cartmell Churchyard. See the note to the 'Address to
the Scholars of the Village School of----' (vol. ii. p. 85).--Ed.]


[Footnote a: The following is the inscription on the head-stone in
Cartmell Churchyard:

  'In memory of the Rev. William Taylor, A. M., son of John Taylor of
  Outerthwaite, who was some years a Fellow of Eman. Coll., Camb., and
  Master of the Free School at Hawkshead. He departed this life June the
  12th 1786, aged 32 years 2 months and 13 days.

    His Merits, stranger, seek not to disclose,
    Or draw his Frailties from their dread abode,
    There they alike in trembling Hope repose,
    The Bosom of his Father and his God.'

Ed.]


[Footnote b: This is exact. Taylor died in 1786. Robespierre was
executed in 1794, eight years afterwards.--Ed.]


[Footnote c: He refers to the 'Lines written as a School Exercise at
Hawkskead, anno aetatis' 14; and, probably, to 'The Summer Vacation',
which is mentioned in the "Autobiographical Memoranda" as "a task
imposed by my master," but whether by Taylor, or by his predecessors at
Hawkshead School in Wordsworth's time--Parker and Christian--is
uncertain.--Ed.]


[Footnote d: Compare Hausman's 'Guide to the Lakes' (1803), p. 209.

  "Chapel Island on the right is a desolate object, where there are yet
  some remains of an oratory built by the monks of Furness, in which
  Divine Service was daily performed at a certain hour for passengers
  who crossed the sands with the morning tide."

This, evidently, is the ruin referred to by Wordsworth.--Ed.]


[Footnote e: See note, book ii. ll. 103-6.--Ed.]


[Footnote f: By Arrad Foot and Greenodd, beyond Ulverston, on the way to
Hawkshead.--Ed.]





       *       *       *       *       *





BOOK ELEVENTH.


FRANCE--concluded.


  From that time forth, [A] Authority in France
  Put on a milder face; Terror had ceased,
  Yet every thing was wanting that might give
  Courage to them who looked for good by light
  Of rational Experience, for the shoots                               5
  And hopeful blossoms of a second spring:
  Yet, in me, confidence was unimpaired;
  The Senate's language, and the public acts
  And measures of the Government, though both
  Weak, and of heartless omen, had not power                          10
  To daunt me; in the People was my trust,
  And, in the virtues which mine eyes had seen. [1]
  I knew that wound external could not take
  Life from the young Republic; that new foes
  Would only follow, in the path of shame,                            15
  Their brethren, and her triumphs be in the end
  Great, universal, irresistible.
  This intuition led me to confound
  One victory with another, higher far,--
  Triumphs of unambitious peace at home,                              20
  And noiseless fortitude. Beholding still
  Resistance strong as heretofore, I thought
  That what was in degree the same was likewise
  The same in quality,--that, as the worse
  Of the two spirits then at strife remained                          25
  Untired, the better, surely, would preserve
  The heart that first had roused him. Youth maintains,
  In all conditions of society,
  Communion more direct and intimate
  With Nature,--hence, ofttimes, with reason too--30
  Than age or manhood, even. To Nature, then,
  Power had reverted: habit, custom, law,
  Had left an interregnum's open space
  For _her_ to move about in, uncontrolled.
  Hence could I see how Babel-like their task,                        35
  Who, by the recent deluge stupified,
  With their whole souls went culling from the day
  Its petty promises, to build a tower
  For their own safety; laughed with my compeers
  At gravest heads, by enmity to France                               40
  Distempered, till they found, in every blast
  Forced from the street-disturbing newsman's horn,
  For her great cause record or prophecy
  Of utter ruin. How might we believe
  That wisdom could, in any shape, come near                          45
  Men clinging to delusions so insane?
  And thus, experience proving that no few
  Of our opinions had been just, we took
  Like credit to ourselves where less was due,
  And thought that other notions were as sound,                       50
  Yea, could not but be right, because we saw
  That foolish men opposed them.
                                   To a strain
  More animated I might here give way,
  And tell, since juvenile errors are my theme,
  What in those days, through Britain, was performed                  55
  To turn _all_ judgments out of their right course;
  But this is passion over-near ourselves,
  Reality too close and too intense,
  And intermixed with something, in my mind,
  Of scorn and condemnation personal,                                 60
  That would profane the sanctity of verse.
  Our Shepherds, this say merely, at that time
  Acted, or seemed at least to act, like men
  Thirsting to make the guardian crook of law
  A tool of murder; [B] they who ruled the State,                     65
  Though with such awful proof before their eyes
  That he, who would sow death, reaps death, or worse,
  And can reap nothing better, child-like longed
  To imitate, not wise enough to avoid;
  Or left (by mere timidity betrayed)                                 70
  The plain straight road, for one no better chosen
  Than if their wish had been to undermine
  Justice, and make an end of Liberty. [B]

    But from these bitter truths I must return
  To my own history. It hath been told                                75
  That I was led to take an eager part
  In arguments of civil polity,
  Abruptly, and indeed before my time:
  I had approached, like other youths, the shield
  Of human nature from the golden side,                               80
  And would have fought, even to the death, to attest
  The quality of the metal which I saw.
  What there is best in individual man,
  Of wise in passion, and sublime in power,
  Benevolent in small societies,                                      85
  And great in large ones, I had oft revolved,
  Felt deeply, but not thoroughly understood
  By reason: nay, far from it; they were yet,
  As cause was given me afterwards to learn,
  Not proof against the injuries of the day;                          90
  Lodged only at the sanctuary's door,
  Not safe within its bosom. Thus prepared,
  And with such general insight into evil,
  And of the bounds which sever it from good,
  As books and common intercourse with life                           95
  Must needs have given--to the inexperienced mind,
  When the world travels in a beaten road,
  Guide faithful as is needed--I began
  To meditate with ardour on the rule
  And management of nations; what it is                              100
  And ought to be; and strove to learn how far
  Their power or weakness, wealth or poverty,
  Their happiness or misery, depends
  Upon their laws, and fashion of the State.

    O pleasant exercise of hope and joy! [C]                         105
  For mighty were the auxiliars which then stood
  Upon our side, us who were strong in love!
  Bliss was it in that dawn to be alive,
  But to be young was very Heaven! [D] O times,
  In which the meagre, stale, forbidding ways                        110
  Of custom, law, and statute, took at once
  The attraction of a country in romance!
  When Reason seemed the most to assert her rights
  When most intent on making of herself
  A prime enchantress--to assist the work,                           115
  Which then was going forward in her name!
  Not favoured spots alone, but the whole Earth,
  The beauty wore of promise--that which sets
  (As at some moments might not be unfelt
  Among the bowers of Paradise itself)                               120
  The budding rose above the rose full blown.
  What temper at the prospect did not wake
  To happiness unthought of? The inert
  Were roused, and lively natures rapt away!
  They who had fed their childhood upon dreams,                      125
  The play-fellows of fancy, who had made
  All powers of swiftness, subtilty, and strength
  Their ministers,--who in lordly wise had stirred
  Among the grandest objects of the sense,
  And dealt with whatsoever they found there                         130
  As if they had within some lurking right
  To wield it;--they, too, who of gentle mood
  Had watched all gentle motions, and to these
  Had fitted their own thoughts, schemers more mild,
  And in the region of their peaceful selves;--135
  Now was it that _both_ found, the meek and lofty
  Did both find helpers to their hearts' desire,
  And stuff at hand, plastic as they could wish,--
  Were called upon to exercise their skill,
  Not in Utopia,--subterranean fields,--140
  Or some secreted island, Heaven knows where!
  But in the very world, which is the world
  Of all of us,--the place where, in the end,
  We find our happiness, or not at all!

    Why should I not confess that Earth was then                     145
  To me, what an inheritance, new-fallen,
  Seems, when the first time visited, to one
  Who thither comes to find in it his home?
  He walks about and looks upon the spot
  With cordial transport, moulds it and remoulds,                    150
  And is half pleased with things that are amiss,
  'Twill be such joy to see them disappear.

    An active partisan, I thus convoked
  From every object pleasant circumstance
  To suit my ends; I moved among mankind                             155
  With genial feelings still predominant;
  When erring, erring on the better part,
  And in the kinder spirit; placable,
  Indulgent, as not uninformed that men
  See as they have been taught--Antiquity                            160
  Gives rights to error; and aware, no less,
  That throwing off oppression must be work
  As well of License as of Liberty;
  And above all--for this was more than all--
  Not caring if the wind did now and then                            165
  Blow keen upon an eminence that gave
  Prospect so large into futurity;
  In brief, a child of Nature, as at first,
  Diffusing only those affections wider
  That from the cradle had grown up with me,                         170
  And losing, in no other way than light
  Is lost in light, the weak in the more strong.

    In the main outline, such it might be said
  Was my condition, till with open war
  Britain opposed the liberties of France. [E]                       175
  This threw me first out of the pale of love;
  Soured and corrupted, upwards to the source,
  My sentiments; was not, as hitherto,
  A swallowing up of lesser things in great,
  But change of them into their contraries;                          180
  And thus a way was opened for mistakes
  And false conclusions, in degree as gross,
  In kind more dangerous. What had been a pride,
  Was now a shame; my likings and my loves
  Ran in new channels, leaving old ones dry;                         185
  And hence a blow that, in maturer age,
  Would but have touched the judgment, struck more deep
  Into sensations near the heart: meantime,
  As from the first, wild theories were afloat,
  To whose pretensions, sedulously urged,                            190
  I had but lent a careless ear, assured
  That time was ready to set all things right,
  And that the multitude, so long oppressed,
  Would be oppressed no more.

                              But when events
  Brought less encouragement, and unto these                         195
  The immediate proof of principles no more
  Could be entrusted, while the events themselves,
  Worn out in greatness, stripped of novelty,
  Less occupied the mind, and sentiments
  Could through my understanding's natural growth                    200
  No longer keep their ground, by faith maintained
  Of inward consciousness, and hope that laid
  Her hand upon her object--evidence
  Safer, of universal application, such
  As could not be impeached, was sought elsewhere.                   205

  But now, become oppressors in their turn,
  Frenchmen had changed a war of self-defence
  For one of conquest, [F] losing sight of all
  Which they had struggled for: now mounted up,
  Openly in the eye of earth and heaven,                             210
  The scale of liberty. I read her doom,
  With anger vexed, with disappointment sore,
  But not dismayed, nor taking to the shame
  Of a false prophet. While resentment rose
  Striving to hide, what nought could heal, the wounds               215
  Of mortified presumption, I adhered
  More firmly to old tenets, and, to prove
  Their temper, strained them more; and thus, in heat
  Of contest, did opinions every day
  Grow into consequence, till round my mind                          220
  They clung, as if they were its life, nay more,
  The very being of the immortal soul.

    This was the time, when, all things tending fast
  To depravation, speculative schemes--
  That promised to abstract the hopes of Man                         225
  Out of his feelings, to be fixed thenceforth
  For ever in a purer element--
  Found ready welcome. Tempting region _that_
  For Zeal to enter and refresh herself,
  Where passions had the privilege to work,                          230
  And never hear the sound of their own names.
  But, speaking more in charity, the dream
  Flattered the young, pleased with extremes, nor least
  With that which makes our Reason's naked self
  The object of its fervour. What delight!                           235
  How glorious! in self-knowledge and self-rule,
  To look through all the frailties of the world,
  And, with a resolute mastery shaking off
  Infirmities of nature, time, and place,
  Build social upon personal Liberty,                                240
  Which, to the blind restraints of general laws
  Superior, magisterially adopts
  One guide, the light of circumstances, flashed
  Upon an independent intellect.
  Thus expectation rose again; thus hope,                            245
  From her first ground expelled, grew proud once more.
  Oft, as my thoughts were turned to human kind,
  I scorned indifference; but, inflamed with thirst
  Of a secure intelligence, and sick
  Of other longing, I pursued what seemed                            250
  A more exalted nature; wished that Man
  Should start out of his earthy, worm-like state,
  And spread abroad the wings of Liberty,
  Lord of himself, in undisturbed delight--
  A noble aspiration! _yet_ I feel                                   255
  (Sustained by worthier as by wiser thoughts)
  The aspiration, nor shall ever cease
  To feel it;--but return we to our course.

    Enough, 'tis true--could such a plea excuse
  Those aberrations--had the clamorous friends                       260
  Of ancient Institutions said and done
  To bring disgrace upon their very names;
  Disgrace, of which, custom and written law,
  And sundry moral sentiments as props
  Or emanations of those institutes,                                 265
  Too justly bore a part. A veil had been
  Uplifted; why deceive ourselves? in sooth,
  'Twas even so; and sorrow for the man
  Who either had not eyes wherewith to see,
  Or, seeing, had forgotten! A strong shock                          270
  Was given to old opinions; all men's minds
  Had felt its power, and mine was both let loose,
  Let loose and goaded. After what hath been
  Already said of patriotic love,
  Suffice it here to add, that, somewhat stern                       275
  In temperament, withal a happy man,
  And therefore bold to look on painful things,
  Free likewise of the world, and thence more bold,
  I summoned my best skill, and toiled, intent
  To anatomise the frame of social life,                             280
  Yea, the whole body of society
  Searched to its heart. Share with me, Friend! the wish
  That some dramatic tale, endued with shapes
  Livelier, and flinging out less guarded words
  Than suit the work we fashion, might set forth                     285
  What then I learned, or think I learned, of truth,
  And the errors into which I fell, betrayed
  By present objects, and by reasonings false
  From their beginnings, inasmuch as drawn
  Out of a heart that had been turned aside                          290
  From Nature's way by outward accidents,
  And which was thus confounded, more and more
  Misguided, and misguiding. So I fared,
  Dragging all precepts, judgments, maxims, creeds,
  Like culprits to the bar; calling the mind,                        295
  Suspiciously, to establish in plain day
  Her titles and her honours; now believing,
  Now disbelieving; endlessly perplexed
  With impulse, motive, right and wrong, the ground
  Of obligation, what the rule and whence                            300
  The sanction; till, demanding formal _proof_,
  And seeking it in every thing, I lost
  All feeling of conviction, and, in fine,
  Sick, wearied out with contrarieties,
  Yielded up moral questions in despair.                             305

  This was the crisis of that strong disease,
  This the soul's last and lowest ebb; I drooped,
  Deeming our blessed reason of least use
  Where wanted most: "The lordly attributes
  Of will and choice," I bitterly exclaimed,                         310
  "What are they but a mockery of a Being
  Who hath in no concerns of his a test
  Of good and evil; knows not what to fear
  Or hope for, what to covet or to shun;
  And who, if those could be discerned, would yet                    315
  Be little profited, would see, and ask
  Where is the obligation to enforce?
  And, to acknowledged law rebellious, still,
  As selfish passion urged, would act amiss;
  The dupe of folly, or the slave of crime."                         320

    Depressed, bewildered thus, I did not walk
  With scoffers, seeking light and gay revenge
  From indiscriminate laughter, nor sate down
  In reconcilement with an utter waste
  Of intellect; such sloth I could not brook,                        325
  (Too well I loved, in that my spring of life,
  Pains-taking thoughts, and truth, their dear reward)
  But turned to abstract science, and there sought
  Work for the reasoning faculty enthroned
  Where the disturbances of space and time--330
  Whether in matters various, properties
  Inherent, or from human will and power
  Derived--find no admission. [G] Then it was--
  Thanks to the bounteous Giver of all good!--
  That the beloved Sister in whose sight                             335
  Those days were passed, [H] now speaking in a voice
  Of sudden admonition--like a brook [I]
  That did but _cross_ a lonely road, and now
  Is seen, heard, felt, and caught at every turn,
  Companion never lost through many a league--340
  Maintained for me a saving intercourse
  With my true self; for, though bedimmed and changed
  Much, as it seemed, I was no further changed
  Than as a clouded and a waning moon:
  She whispered still that brightness would return,                  345
  She, in the midst of all, preserved me still
  A Poet, made me seek beneath that name,
  And that alone, my office upon earth;
  And, lastly, as hereafter will be shown,
  If willing audience fail not, Nature's self,                       350
  By all varieties of human love
  Assisted, led me back through opening day
  To those sweet counsels between head and heart
  Whence grew that genuine knowledge, fraught with peace,
  Which, through the later sinkings of this cause,                   355
  Hath still upheld me, and upholds me now
  In the catastrophe (for so they dream,
  And nothing less), when, finally to close
  And seal up all the gains of France, a Pope
  Is summoned in, to crown an Emperor--[K]                           360
  This last opprobrium, when we see a people,
  That once looked up in faith, as if to Heaven
  For manna, take a lesson from the dog
  Returning to his vomit; when the sun
  That rose in splendour, was alive, and moved                       365
  In exultation with a living pomp
  Of clouds--his glory's natural retinue--
  Hath dropped all functions by the gods bestowed,
  And, turned into a gewgaw, a machine,
  Sets like an Opera phantom.
                              Thus, O Friend!                        370
  Through times of honour and through times of shame
  Descending, have I faithfully retraced
  The perturbations of a youthful mind
  Under a long-lived storm of great events--
  A story destined for thy ear, who now,                             375
  Among the fallen of nations, dost abide
  Where Etna, over hill and valley, casts
  His shadow stretching towards Syracuse, [L]
  The city of Timoleon! [M] Righteous Heaven!
  How are the mighty prostrated! They first,                         380
  They first of all that breathe should have awaked
  When the great voice was heard from out the tombs
  Of ancient heroes. If I suffered grief
  For ill-requited France, by many deemed
  A trifler only in her proudest day;                                385
  Have been distressed to think of what she once
  Promised, now is; a far more sober cause
  Thine eyes must see of sorrow in a land.
  To the reanimating influence lost
  Of memory, to virtue lost and hope,                                390
  Though with the wreck of loftier years bestrewn.

    But indignation works where hope is not,
  And thou, O Friend! wilt be refreshed. There is
  One great society alone on earth:
  The noble Living and the noble Dead.                               395

    Thine be such converse strong and sanative,
  A ladder for thy spirit to reascend
  To health and joy and pure contentedness;
  To me the grief confined, that thou art gone
  From this last spot of earth, where Freedom now                    400
  Stands single in her only sanctuary;
  A lonely wanderer art gone, by pain
  Compelled and sickness, [N] at this latter day,
  This sorrowful reverse for all mankind.
  I feel for thee, must utter what I feel:                           405
  The sympathies erewhile in part discharged,
  Gather afresh, and will have vent again:
  My own delights do scarcely seem to me
  My own delights; the lordly Alps themselves,
  Those rosy peaks, from which the Morning looks                     410
  Abroad on many nations, are no more
  For me that image of pure gladsomeness
  Which they were wont to be. Through kindred scenes,
  For purpose, at a time, how different!
  Thou tak'st thy way, carrying the heart and soul                   415
  That Nature gives to Poets, now by thought
  Matured, and in the summer of their strength.
  Oh! wrap him in your shades, ye giant woods,
  On Etna's side; and thou, O flowery field
  Of Enna! [O] is there not some nook of thine,                      420
  From the first play-time of the infant world
  Kept sacred to restorative delight,
  When from afar invoked by anxious love?

    Child of the mountains, among shepherds reared,
  Ere yet familiar with the classic page,                            425
  I learnt to dream of Sicily; and lo,
  The gloom, that, but a moment past, was deepened
  At thy command, at her command gives way;
  A pleasant promise, wafted from her shores,
  Comes o'er my heart: in fancy I behold                             430
  Her seas yet smiling, her once happy vales;
  Nor can my tongue give utterance to a name
  Of note belonging to that honoured isle,
  Philosopher or Bard, Empedocles, [P]
  Or Archimedes, [Q] pure abstracted soul!                           435
  That doth not yield a solace to my grief:
  And, O Theocritus, [R] so far have some
  Prevailed among the powers of heaven and earth,
  By their endowments, good or great, that they
  Have had, as thou reportest, miracles                              440
  Wrought for them in old time: yea, not unmoved,
  When thinking on my own beloved friend,
  I hear thee tell how bees with honey fed
  Divine Comates, [S] by his impious lord
  Within a chest imprisoned; how they came                           445
  Laden from blooming grove or flowery field,
  And fed him there, alive, month after month,
  Because the goatherd, blessed man! had lips
  Wet with the Muses' nectar.
                              Thus I soothe
  The pensive moments by this calm fire-side,                        450
  And find a thousand bounteous images
  To cheer the thoughts of those I love, and mine.
  Our prayers have been accepted; thou wilt stand
  On Etna's summit, above earth and sea,
  Triumphant, winning from the invaded heavens                       455
  Thoughts without bound, magnificent designs,
  Worthy of poets who attuned their harps
  In wood or echoing cave, for discipline
  Of heroes; or, in reverence to the gods,
  'Mid temples, served by sapient priests, and choirs                460
  Of virgins crowned with roses. Not in vain
  Those temples, where they in their ruins yet
  Survive for inspiration, shall attract
  Thy solitary steps: and on the brink
  Thou wilt recline of pastoral Arethuse;                            465
  Or, if that fountain be in truth no more,
  Then, near some other spring--which, by the name
  Thou gratulatest, willingly deceived--
  I see thee linger a glad votary,
  And not a captive pining for his home.                             470


       *       *       *       *       *

VARIANTS ON THE TEXT

[Variant 1: In the editions of 1850 and 1857, the punctuation is as
follows, but is evidently wrong:

               in the People was my trust:
  And, in the virtues which mine eyes had seen,
  I knew ...

Ed.]


       *       *       *       *       *

FOOTNOTES ON THE TEXT

[Footnote A: The Reign of Terror ended with the downfall of Robespierre
and his "Tribe."--Ed.]


[Footnote B: He refers doubtless to the effect, upon the Government of
the day, of the dread of Revolution in England. There were a few
partisans of France and of the Revolution in England; and the panic
which followed, though irrational, was widespread. The Habeas Corpus Act
was suspended, a Bill was passed against seditious Assemblies, the Press
was prosecuted, some Scottish Whigs who clamoured for reform were
sentenced to transportation, while one Judge expressed regret that the
practice of torture for sedition had fallen into disuse.--Ed.] TWO


[Footnote C: See p. 35 ['French Revolution'].--Ed.]


[Footnote D: Compare 'Ruth', in vol. ii. p. 112:

  'Before me shone a glorious world--
  Fresh as a banner bright, unfurled
  To music suddenly:
  I looked upon those hills and plains,
  And seemed as if let loose from chains,
  To live at liberty.'

Ed.]


[Footnote E: In 1795.--Ed.]


[Footnote F: Referring probably to Napoleon's Italian campaign in
1796.--Ed.]


[Footnote G: In 1794 he returned, with intermittent ardour, to the study
of mathematics and physics.--Ed.]


[Footnote H: In the winter of 1794 he went to Halifax, and there joined
his sister, whom he accompanied in the same winter to Kendal, Grasmere,
and Keswick. They stayed for several weeks at Windybrow farm-house, near
Keswick. The brother and sister had not met since the Christmas of 1791.
It is to those "days," in 1794, that he refers.--Ed.]


[Footnote I: Compare in the first book of 'The Recluse', l. 91:

  Her voice was like a hidden Bird that sang;
  The thought of her was like a flash of light,
  Or an unseen companionship.

Ed.]


[Footnote K: In 1804 Bonaparte sent for the Pope to anoint him as
'Empereur des Francais'. Napoleon wished the title to be as remote as
possible from "King of France."--Ed.]


[Footnote L: Coleridge was then living in Sicily, whither he had gone
from Malta. He ascended Etna. See Cottles' 'Early Recollections, chiefly
relating to the late Samuel Taylor Coleridge' (vol. ii. p. 77), and also
compare note [Book 6, Footnote U], p. 230 of this volume.--Ed.]


[Footnote M: Timoleon, one of the greatest of the Greeks, was sent in
command of an expedition to reduce Sicily to order; and was afterwards
the Master, but not the Tyrant, of Syracuse. He colonised it afresh from
Corinth, and from the rest of Sicily; and enacted new laws of a
democratic character, being ultimately the ruler of the whole island;
although he refused office and declined titles, remaining a private
citizen to the end. (See Plutarch's Life of him.)--Ed.]


[Footnote N: See book vi. l. 240.--Ed.]


[Footnote O: Compare 'Paradise Lost', book iv. l. 269.--Ed.]


[Footnote P: Empedpocles, the philosopher of Agrigentum, physicist,
metaphysician, poet, musician, and hierophant.--Ed.]


[Footnote Q: The geometrician of Syracuse.--Ed.]


[Footnote R: The pastoral poet of Syracuse.--Ed.]


[Footnote S: Theocrit. Idyll vii. 78. (Mr. Carter, 1850.)]





       *       *       *       *       *





BOOK TWELFTH


IMAGINATION AND TASTE, HOW IMPAIRED AND RESTORED


  Long time have human ignorance and guilt
  Detained us, on what spectacles of woe
  Compelled to look, and inwardly oppressed
  With sorrow, disappointment, vexing thoughts,
  Confusion of the judgment, zeal decayed,                             5
  And, lastly, utter loss of hope itself
  And things to hope for! Not with these began
  Our song, and not with these our song must end.--
  Ye motions of delight, that haunt the sides
  Of the green hills; ye breezes and soft airs,                       10
  Whose subtle intercourse with breathing flowers,
  Feelingly watched, might teach Man's haughty race
  How without injury to take, to give
  Without offence [A]; ye who, as if to show
  The wondrous influence of power gently used,                        15
  Bend the complying heads of lordly pines,
  And, with a touch, shift the stupendous clouds
  Through the whole compass of the sky; ye brooks,
  Muttering along the stones, a busy noise
  By day, a quiet sound in silent night;                              20
  Ye waves, that out of the great deep steal forth
  In a calm hour to kiss the pebbly shore,
  Not mute, and then retire, fearing no storm;
  And you, ye groves, whose ministry it is
  To interpose the covert of your shades,                             25
  Even as a sleep, between the heart of man
  And outward troubles, between man himself,
  Not seldom, and his own uneasy heart:
  Oh! that I had a music and a voice
  Harmonious as your own, that I might tell                           30
  What ye have done for me. The morning shines,
  Nor heedeth Man's perverseness; Spring returns,--
  I saw the Spring return, and could rejoice,
  In common with the children of her love,
  Piping on boughs, or sporting on fresh fields,                      35
  Or boldly seeking pleasure nearer heaven
  On wings that navigate cerulean skies.
  So neither were complacency, nor peace,
  Nor tender yearnings, wanting for my good
  Through these distracted times; in Nature still                     40
  Glorying, I found a counterpoise in her,
  Which, when the spirit of evil reached its height.
  Maintained for me a secret happiness.

    This narrative, my Friend! hath chiefly told
  Of intellectual power, fostering love,                              45
  Dispensing truth, and, over men and things,
  Where reason yet might hesitate, diffusing
  Prophetic sympathies of genial faith:
  So was I favoured--such my happy lot--
  Until that natural graciousness of mind                             50
  Gave way to overpressure from the times
  And their disastrous issues. What availed,
  When spells forbade the voyager to land,
  That fragrant notice of a pleasant shore
  Wafted, at intervals, from many a bower                             55
  Of blissful gratitude and fearless love?
  Dare I avow that wish was mine to see,
  And hope that future times _would_ surely see,
  The man to come, parted, as by a gulph,
  From him who had been; that I could no more                         60
  Trust the elevation which had made me one
  With the great family that still survives
  To illuminate the abyss of ages past,
  Sage, warrior, patriot, hero; for it seemed
  That their best virtues were not free from taint                    65
  Of something false and weak, that could not stand
  The open eye of Reason. Then I said,
  "Go to the Poets, they will speak to thee
  More perfectly of purer creatures;--yet
  If reason be nobility in man,                                       70
  Can aught be more ignoble than the man
  Whom they delight in, blinded as he is
  By prejudice, the miserable slave
  Of low ambition or distempered love?"

    In such strange passion, if I may once more                       75
  Review the past, I warred against myself--
  A bigot to a new idolatry--
  Like a cowled monk who hath forsworn the world,
  Zealously laboured to cut off my heart
  From all the sources of her former strength;                        80
  And as, by simple waving of a wand,
  The wizard instantaneously dissolves
  Palace or grove, even so could I unsoul
  As readily by syllogistic words
  Those mysteries of being which have made,                           85
  And shall continue evermore to make,
  Of the whole human race one brotherhood.

    What wonder, then, if, to a mind so far
  Perverted, even the visible Universe
  Fell under the dominion of a taste                                  90
  Less spiritual, with microscopic view
  Was scanned, as I had scanned the moral world?

    O Soul of Nature! excellent and fair!
  That didst rejoice with me, with whom I, too,
  Rejoiced through early youth, before the winds                      95
  And roaring waters, and in lights and shades
  That marched and countermarched about the hills
  In glorious apparition, Powers on whom
  I daily waited, now all eye and now
  All ear; but never long without the heart                          100
  Employed, and man's unfolding intellect:
  O Soul of Nature! that, by laws divine
  Sustained and governed, still dost overflow
  With an impassioned life, what feeble ones
  Walk on this earth! how feeble have I been                         105
  When thou wert in thy strength! Nor this through stroke
  Of human suffering, such as justifies
  Remissness and inaptitude of mind,
  But through presumption; even in pleasure pleased
  Unworthily, disliking here, and there                              110
  Liking; by rules of mimic art transferred
  To things above all art; but more,--for this,
  Although a strong infection of the age,
  Was never much my habit--giving way
  To a comparison of scene with scene,                               115
  Bent overmuch on superficial things,
  Pampering myself with meagre novelties
  Of colour and proportion; to the moods
  Of time and season, to the moral power,
  The affections and the spirit of the place,                        120
  Insensible. Nor only did the love
  Of sitting thus in judgment interrupt
  My deeper feelings, but another cause,
  More subtle and less easily explained,
  That almost seems inherent in the creature,                        125
  A twofold frame of body and of mind.
  I speak in recollection of a time
  When the bodily eye, in every stage of life
  The most despotic of our senses, gained
  Such strength in _me_ as often held my mind                        130
  In absolute dominion. Gladly here,
  Entering upon abstruser argument,
  Could I endeavour to unfold the means
  Which Nature studiously employs to thwart
  This tyranny, summons all the senses each                          135
  To counteract the other, and themselves,
  And makes them all, and the objects with which all
  Are conversant, subservient in their turn
  To the great ends of Liberty and Power.
  But leave we this: enough that my delights                         140
  (Such as they were) were sought insatiably.
  Vivid the transport, vivid though not profound;
  I roamed from hill to hill, from rock to rock,
  Still craving combinations of new forms,
  New pleasure, wider empire for the sight,                          145
  Proud of her own endowments, and rejoiced
  To lay the inner faculties asleep.
  Amid the turns and counterturns, the strife
  And various trials of our complex being,
  As we grow up, such thraldom of that sense                         150
  Seems hard to shun. And yet I knew a maid, [B]
  A young enthusiast, who escaped these bonds;
  Her eye was not the mistress of her heart;
  Far less did rules prescribed by passive taste,
  Or barren intermeddling subtleties,                                155
  Perplex her mind; but, wise as women are
  When genial circumstance hath favoured them,
  She welcomed what was given, and craved no more;
  Whate'er the scene presented to her view,
  That was the best, to that she was attuned                         160
  By her benign simplicity of life,
  And through a perfect happiness of soul,
  Whose variegated feelings were in this
  Sisters, that they were each some new delight.
  Birds in the bower, and lambs in the green field,                  165
  Could they have known her, would have loved; methought
  Her very presence such a sweetness breathed,
  That flowers, and trees, and even the silent hills,
  And every thing she looked on, should have had
  An intimation how she bore herself                                 170
  Towards them and to all creatures. God delights
  In such a being; for her common thoughts
  Are piety, her life is gratitude.

    Even like this maid, before I was called forth
  From the retirement of my native hills,                            175
  I loved whate'er I saw: nor lightly loved,
  But most intensely; never dreamt of aught
  More grand, more fair, more exquisitely framed
  Than those few nooks to which my happy feet
  Were limited. I had not at that time                               180
  Lived long enough, nor in the least survived
  The first diviner influence of this world,
  As it appears to unaccustomed eyes.
  Worshipping then among the depth of things,
  As piety ordained; could I submit                                  185
  To measured admiration, or to aught
  That should preclude humility and love?
  I felt, observed, and pondered; did not judge,
  Yea, never thought of judging; with the gift
  Of all this glory filled and satisfied.                            190
  And afterwards, when through the gorgeous Alps
  Roaming, I carried with me the same heart:
  In truth, the degradation--howsoe'er
  Induced, effect, in whatsoe'er degree,
  Of custom that prepares a partial scale                            195
  In which the little oft outweighs the great;
  Or any other cause that hath been named;
  Or lastly, aggravated by the times
  And their impassioned sounds, which well might make
  The milder minstrelsies of rural scenes                            200
  Inaudible--was transient; I had known
  Too forcibly, too early in my life,
  Visitings of imaginative power
  For this to last: I shook the habit off
  Entirely and for ever, and again                                   205
  In Nature's presence stood, as now I stand,
  A sensitive being, a _creative_ soul.

    There are in our existence spots of time,
  That with distinct pre-eminence retain
  A renovating virtue, whence, depressed                             210
  By false opinion and contentious thought,
  Or aught of heavier or more deadly weight,
  In trivial occupations, and the round
  Of ordinary intercourse, our minds
  Are nourished and invisibly repaired;                              215
  A virtue, by which pleasure is enhanced,
  That penetrates, enables us to mount,
  When high, more high, and lifts us up when fallen.
  This efficacious spirit chiefly lurks
  Among those passages of life that give                             220
  Profoundest knowledge to what point, and how,
  The mind is lord and master--outward sense
  The obedient servant of her will. Such moments
  Are scattered everywhere, taking their date
  From our first childhood. [C] I remember well,                     225
  That once, while yet my inexperienced hand
  Could scarcely hold a bridle, with proud hopes
  I mounted, and we journeyed towards the hills: [D]
  An ancient servant of my father's house
  Was with me, my encourager and guide:                              230
  We had not travelled long, ere some mischance
  Disjoined me from my comrade; and, through fear
  Dismounting, down the rough and stony moor
  I led my horse, and, stumbling on, at length
  Came to a bottom, where in former times                            235
  A murderer had been hung in iron chains.
  The gibbet-mast had mouldered down, the bones
  And iron case were gone; but on the turf,
  Hard by, soon after that fell deed was wrought,
  Some unknown hand had carved the murderer's name.                  240
  The monumental letters were inscribed
  In times long past; but still, from year to year,
  By superstition of the neighbourhood,
  The grass is cleared away, and to this hour
  The characters are fresh and visible:                              245
  A casual glance had shown them, and I fled,
  Faltering and faint, and ignorant of the road:
  Then, reascending the bare common, saw
  A naked pool that lay beneath the hills,
  The beacon on the summit, and, more near,                          250
  A girl, who bore a pitcher on her head,
  And seemed with difficult steps to force her way
  Against the blowing wind. It was, in truth,
  An ordinary sight; but I should need
  Colours and words that are unknown to man,                         255
  To paint the visionary dreariness
  Which, while I looked all round for my lost guide,
  Invested moorland waste, and naked pool,
  The beacon crowning the lone eminence,
  The female and her garments vexed and tossed                       260
  By the strong wind. When, in the blessed hours
  Of early love, the loved one at my side, [E]
  I roamed, in daily presence of this scene,
  Upon the naked pool and dreary crags,
  And on the melancholy beacon, fell                                 265
  A spirit of pleasure and youth's golden gleam;
  And think ye not with radiance more sublime
  For these remembrances, and for the power
  They had left behind? So feeling comes in aid
  Of feeling, and diversity of strength                              270
  Attends us, if but once we have been strong.
  Oh! mystery of man, from what a depth
  Proceed thy honours. I am lost, but see
  In simple childhood something of the base
  On which thy greatness stands; but this I feel,                    275
  That from thyself it comes, that thou must give,
  Else never canst receive. The days gone by
  Return upon me almost from the dawn
  Of life: the hiding-places of man's power
  Open; I would approach them, but they close.                       280
  I see by glimpses now; when age comes on,
  May scarcely see at all; and I would give,
  While yet we may, as far as words can give,
  Substance and life to what I feel, enshrining,
  Such is my hope, the spirit of the Past                            285
  For future restoration.--Yet another
  Of these memorials;--
                        One Christmas-time, [F]
  On the glad eve of its dear holidays,
  Feverish, and tired, and restless, I went forth
  Into the fields, impatient for the sight                           290
  Of those led palfreys that should bear us home;
  My brothers and myself. There rose a crag,
  That, from the meeting-point of two highways [F]
  Ascending, overlooked them both, far stretched;
  Thither, uncertain on which road to fix                            295
  My expectation, thither I repaired,
  Scout-like, and gained the summit; 'twas a day
  Tempestuous, dark, and wild, and on the grass
  I sate half-sheltered by a naked wall;
  Upon my right hand couched a single sheep,                         300
  Upon my left a blasted hawthorn stood;
  With those companions at my side, I watched,
  Straining my eyes intensely, as the mist
  Gave intermitting prospect of the copse
  And plain beneath. Ere we to school returned,--305
  That dreary time,--ere we had been ten days
  Sojourners in my father's house, he died,
  And I and my three brothers, orphans then,
  Followed his body to the grave. The event,
  With all the sorrow that it brought, appeared                      310
  A chastisement; and when I called to mind
  That day so lately past, when from the crag
  I looked in such anxiety of hope;
  With trite reflections of morality,
  Yet in the deepest passion, I bowed low                            315
  To God, Who thus corrected my desires;
  And, afterwards, the wind and sleety rain,
  And all the business of the elements,
  The single sheep, and the one blasted tree,
  And the bleak music from that old stone wall,                      320
  The noise of wood and water, and the mist
  That on the line of each of those two roads
  Advanced in such indisputable shapes;
  All these were kindred spectacles and sounds
  To which I oft repaired, and thence would drink,                   325
  As at a fountain; and on winter nights,
  Down to this very time, when storm and rain
  Beat on my roof, or, haply, at noon-day,
  While in a grove I walk, whose lofty trees,
  Laden with summer's thickest foliage, rock                         330
  In a strong wind, some working of the spirit,
  Some inward agitations thence are brought,
  Whate'er their office, whether to beguile
  Thoughts over busy in the course they took,
  Or animate an hour of vacant ease.                                 335


       *       *       *       *       *

FOOTNOTES ON THE TEXT

[Footnote A: Compare Shakespeare's "Stealing and giving odour."
('Twelfth Night', act I. scene i. l. 7.)--Ed.]


[Footnote B: Mary Hutchinson.--Ed.]


[Footnote C: Compare the 'Ode, Intimations of Immortality', stanzas v.
and ix.--Ed.]


[Footnote D: Either amongst the Lorton Fells, or the north-western
slopes of Skiddaw.--Ed.]


[Footnote E: His sister.--Ed.]


[Footnote F: The year was evidently 1783, but the locality is difficult
to determine. It may have been one or other of two places. Wordsworth's
father died at Penrith, and it was there that the sons went for their
Christmas holiday. The road from Penrith to Hawkshead was by Kirkstone
Pass, and Ambleside; and the "led palfreys" sent to take the boys home
would certainly come through the latter town. Now there are only two
roads from Ambleside to Hawkshead, which meet at a point about a mile
north of Hawkshead, called in the Ordnance map "Outgate." The eastern
road is now chiefly used by carriages, being less hilly and better made
than the western one. The latter would be quite as convenient as the
former for horses. If one were to walk out from Hawkshead village to the
place where the two roads separate at "Outgate," and then ascend the
ridge between them, he would find several places from which he could
overlook _both_ roads "far stretched," were the view not now intercepted
by numerous plantations. (The latter are of comparatively recent
growth.) Dr. Cradock,--to whom I am indebted for this, and for many
other suggestions as to localities alluded to by Wordsworth,--thinks
that

  "a point, marked on the map as 'High Crag' between the two roads, and
  about three-quarters of a mile from their point of divergence, answers
  the description as well as any other. It may be nearly two miles from
  Hawkshead, a distance of which an active eager school-boy would think
  nothing. The 'blasted hawthorn' and the 'naked wall' are probably
  things of the past as much as the 'single sheep.'"

Doubtless this may be the spot,--a green, rocky knoll with a steep face
to the north, where a quarry is wrought, and with a plantation to the
east. It commands a view of both roads. The other possible place is a
crag, not a quarter of a mile from Outgate, a little to the right of the
place where the two roads divide. A low wall runs up across it to the
top, dividing a plantation of oak, hazel, and ash, from the firs that
crown the summit. These firs, which are larch and spruce, seem all of
this century. The top of the crag may have been bare when Wordsworth
lived at Hawkshead. But at the foot of the path along the dividing wall
there are a few (probably older) trees; and a solitary walk beneath
them, at noon or dusk, is almost as suggestive to the imagination, as
repose under the yews of Borrowdale, listening to "the mountain flood"
on Glaramara. There one may still hear the bleak music from the old
stone wall, and "the noise of wood and water," while the loud dry wind
whistles through the underwood, or moans amid the fir trees of the Crag,
on the summit of which there is a "blasted hawthorn" tree. It may be
difficult now to determine the precise spot to which the boy Wordsworth
climbed on that eventful day--afterwards so significant to him, and from
the events of which, he says, he drank "as at a fountain"--but I think
it may have been to one or other of these two crags. (See, however, Mr.
Rawnsley's conjecture in Note V. in the Appendix to this volume, p.
391.)--Ed.]





       *       *       *       *       *





BOOK THIRTEENTH


IMAGINATION AND TASTE, HOW IMPAIRED AND RESTORED--concluded.


  From Nature doth emotion come, and moods
  Of calmness equally are Nature's gift:
  This is her glory; these two attributes
  Are sister horns that constitute her strength.
  Hence Genius, born to thrive by interchange                          5
  Of peace and excitation, finds in her
  His best and purest friend; from her receives
  That energy by which he seeks the truth,
  From her that happy stillness of the mind
  Which fits him to receive it when unsought. [A]                     10

    Such benefit the humblest intellects
  Partake of, each in their degree; 'tis mine
  To speak, what I myself have known and felt;
  Smooth task! for words find easy way, inspired
  By gratitude, and confidence in truth.                              15
  Long time in search of knowledge did I range
  The field of human life, in heart and mind
  Benighted; but, the dawn beginning now
  To re-appear, 'twas proved that not in vain
  I had been taught to reverence a Power                              20
  That is the visible quality and shape
  And image of right reason; that matures
  Her processes by steadfast laws; gives birth
  To no impatient or fallacious hopes,
  No heat of passion or excessive zeal,                               25
  No vain conceits; provokes to no quick turns
  Of self-applauding intellect; but trains
  To meekness, and exalts by humble faith;
  Holds up before the mind intoxicate
  With present objects, and the busy dance                            30
  Of things that pass away, a temperate show
  Of objects that endure; and by this course
  Disposes her, when over-fondly set
  On throwing off incumbrances, to seek
  In man, and in the frame of social life,                            35
  Whate'er there is desirable and good
  Of kindred permanence, unchanged in form
  And function, or, through strict vicissitude
  Of life and death, revolving. Above all
  Were re-established now those watchful thoughts                     40
  Which, seeing little worthy or sublime
  In what the Historian's pen so much delights
  To blazon--power and energy detached
  From moral purpose--early tutored me
  To look with feelings of fraternal love                             45
  Upon the unassuming things that hold
  A silent station in this beauteous world.

    Thus moderated, thus composed, I found
  Once more in Man an object of delight,
  Of pure imagination, and of love;                                   50
  And, as the horizon of my mind enlarged,
  Again I took the intellectual eye
  For my instructor, studious more to see
  Great truths, than touch and handle little ones.
  Knowledge was given accordingly; my trust                           55
  Became more firm in feelings that had stood
  The test of such a trial; clearer far
  My sense of excellence--of right and wrong:
  The promise of the present time retired
  Into its true proportion; sanguine schemes,                         60
  Ambitious projects, pleased me less; I sought
  For present good in life's familiar face,
  And built thereon my hopes of good to come.

    With settling judgments now of what would last
  And what would disappear; prepared to find                          65
  Presumption, folly, madness, in the men
  Who thrust themselves upon the passive world
  As Rulers of the world; to see in these,
  Even when the public welfare is their aim,
  Plans without thought, or built on theories                         70
  Vague and unsound; and having brought the books
  Of modern statists to their proper test,
  Life, human life, with all its sacred claims
  Of sex and age, and heaven-descended rights,
  Mortal, or those beyond the reach of death;                         75
  And having thus discerned how dire a thing
  Is worshipped in that idol proudly named
  "The Wealth of Nations," _where_ alone that wealth
  Is lodged, and how increased; and having gained
  A more judicious knowledge of the worth                             80
  And dignity of individual man,
  No composition of the brain, but man
  Of whom we read, the man whom we behold
  With our own eyes--I could not but inquire--
  Not with less interest than heretofore,                             85
  But greater, though in spirit more subdued--
  Why is this glorious creature to be found
  One only in ten thousand? What one is,
  Why may not millions be? What bars are thrown
  By Nature in the way of such a hope?                                90
  Our animal appetites and daily wants,
  Are these obstructions insurmountable?
  If not, then others vanish into air.
  "Inspect the basis of the social pile:
  Inquire," said I, "how much of mental power                         95
  And genuine virtue they possess who live
  By bodily toil, labour exceeding far
  Their due proportion, under all the weight
  Of that injustice which upon ourselves
  Ourselves entail." Such estimate to frame                          100
  I chiefly looked (what need to look beyond?)
  Among the natural abodes of men,
  Fields with their rural works; [B] recalled to mind
  My earliest notices; with these compared
  The observations made in later youth,                              105
  And to that day continued.--For, the time
  Had never been when throes of mighty Nations
  And the world's tumult unto me could yield,
  How far soe'er transported and possessed,
  Full measure of content; but still I craved                        110
  An intermingling of distinct regards
  And truths of individual sympathy
  Nearer ourselves. Such often might be gleaned
  From the great City, else it must have proved
  To me a heart-depressing wilderness;                               115
  But much was wanting: therefore did I turn
  To you, ye pathways, and ye lonely roads;
  Sought you enriched with everything I prized,
  With human kindnesses and simple joys.

    Oh! next to one dear state of bliss, vouchsafed                  120
  Alas! to few in this untoward world,
  The bliss of walking daily in life's prime
  Through field or forest with the maid we love,
  While yet our hearts are young, while yet we breathe
  Nothing but happiness, in some lone nook,                          125
  Deep vale, or any where, the home of both,
  From which it would be misery to stir:
  Oh! next to such enjoyment of our youth,
  In my esteem, next to such dear delight,
  Was that of wandering on from day to day                           130
  Where I could meditate in peace, and cull
  Knowledge that step by step might lead me on
  To wisdom; or, as lightsome as a bird
  Wafted upon the wind from distant lands,
  Sing notes of greeting to strange fields or groves,                135
  Which lacked not voice to welcome me in turn:
  And, when that pleasant toil had ceased to please,
  Converse with men, where if we meet a face
  We almost meet a friend, on naked heaths
  With long long ways before, by cottage bench,                      140
  Or well-spring where the weary traveller rests.

    Who doth not love to follow with his eye
  The windings of a public way? the sight,
  Familiar object as it is, hath wrought
  On my imagination since the morn                                   145
  Of childhood, when a disappearing line,
  One daily present to my eyes, that crossed
  The naked summit of a far-off hill
  Beyond the limits that my feet had trod,
  Was like an invitation into space                                  150
  Boundless, or guide into eternity. [C]
  Yes, something of the grandeur which invests
  The mariner who sails the roaring sea
  Through storm and darkness, early in my mind
  Surrounded, too, the wanderers of the earth;                       155
  Grandeur as much, and loveliness far more.
  Awed have I been by strolling Bedlamites;
  From many other uncouth vagrants (passed
  In fear) have walked with quicker step; but why
  Take note of this? When I began to enquire,                        160
  To watch and question those I met, and speak
  Without reserve to them, the lonely roads
  Were open schools in which I daily read
  With most delight the passions of mankind,
  Whether by words, looks, sighs, or tears, revealed;                165
  There saw into the depth of human souls,
  Souls that appear to have no depth at all
  To careless eyes. And-now convinced at heart
  How little those formalities, to which
  With overweening trust alone we give                               170
  The name of Education, have to do
  With real feeling and just sense; how vain
  A correspondence with the talking world
  Proves to the most; and called to make good search
  If man's estate, by doom of Nature yoked                           175
  With toil, be therefore yoked with ignorance;
  If virtue be indeed so hard to rear,
  And intellectual strength so rare a boon--
  I prized such walks still more, for there I found
  Hope to my hope, and to my pleasure peace                          180
  And steadiness, and healing and repose
  To every angry passion. There I heard,
  From mouths of men obscure and lowly, truths
  Replete with honour; sounds in unison
  With loftiest promises of good and fair.                           185

    There are who think that strong affection, love [D]
  Known by whatever name, is falsely deemed
  A gift, to use a term which they would use,
  Of vulgar nature; that its growth requires
  Retirement, leisure, language purified                             190
  By manners studied and elaborate;
  That whoso feels such passion in its strength
  Must live within the very light and air
  Of courteous usages refined by art.
  True is it, where oppression worse than death                      195
  Salutes the being at his birth, where grace
  Of culture hath been utterly unknown,
  And poverty and labour in excess
  From day to day pre-occupy the ground
  Of the affections, and to Nature's self                            200
  Oppose a deeper nature; there, indeed,
  Love cannot be; nor does it thrive with ease
  Among the close and overcrowded haunts
  Of cities, where the human heart is sick,
  And the eye feeds it not, and cannot feed.                         205
  --Yes, in those wanderings deeply did I feel
  How we mislead each other; above all,
  How books mislead us, seeking their reward
  From judgments of the wealthy Few, who see
  By artificial lights; how they debase                              210
  The Many for the pleasure of those Few;
  Effeminately level down the truth
  To certain general notions, for the sake
  Of being understood at once, or else
  Through want of better knowledge in the heads                      215
  That framed them; nattering self-conceit with words,
  That, while they most ambitiously set forth
  Extrinsic differences, the outward marks
  Whereby society has parted man
  From man, neglect the universal heart.                             220

    Here, calling up to mind what then I saw,
  A youthful traveller, and see daily now
  In the familiar circuit of my home,
  Here might I pause, and bend in reverence
  To Nature, and the power of human minds,                           225
  To men as they are men within themselves.
  How oft high service is performed within,
  When all the external man is rude in show,--
  Not like a temple rich with pomp and gold,
  But a mere mountain chapel, that protects                          230
  Its simple worshippers from sun and shower.
  Of these, said I, shall be my song; of these,
  If future years mature me for the task,
  Will I record the praises, making verse
  Deal boldly with substantial things; in truth                      235
  And sanctity of passion, speak of these,
  That justice may be done, obeisance paid
  Where it is due: thus haply shall I teach,
  Inspire, through unadulterated ears
  Pour rapture, tenderness, and hope,--my theme                      240
  No other than the very heart of man,
  As found among the best of those who live,
  Not unexalted by religious faith,
  Nor uninformed by books, good books, though few,
  In Nature's presence: thence may I select                          245
  Sorrow, that is not sorrow, but delight;
  And miserable love, that is not pain
  To hear of, for the glory that redounds
  Therefrom to human kind, and what we are.
  Be mine to follow with no timid step                               250
  Where knowledge leads me: it shall be my pride
  That I have dared to tread this holy ground,
  Speaking no dream, but things oracular;
  Matter not lightly to be heard by those
  Who to the letter of the outward promise                           255
  Do read the invisible soul; by men adroit
  In speech, and for communion with the world
  Accomplished; minds whose faculties are then
  Most active when they are most eloquent,
  And elevated most when most admired.                               260
  Men may be found of other mould than these,
  Who are their own upholders, to themselves
  Encouragement, and energy, and will,
  Expressing liveliest thoughts in lively words
  As native passion dictates. Others, too,                           265
  There are among the walks of homely life
  Still higher, men for contemplation framed,
  Shy, and unpractised in the strife of phrase;
  Meek men, whose very souls perhaps would sink
  Beneath them, summoned to such intercourse:                        270
  Theirs is the language of the heavens, the power,
  The thought, the image, and the silent joy:
  Words are but under-agents in their souls;
  When they are grasping with their greatest strength,
  They do not breathe among them: this I speak                       275
  In gratitude to God, Who feeds our hearts
  For His own service; knoweth, loveth us,
  When we are unregarded by the world.

    Also, about this time did I receive
  Convictions still more strong than heretofore,                     280
  Not only that the inner frame is good,
  And graciously composed, but that, no less,
  Nature for all conditions wants not power
  To consecrate, if we have eyes to see,
  The outside of her creatures, and to breathe                       285
  Grandeur upon the very humblest face
  Of human life. I felt that the array
  Of act and circumstance, and visible form,
  Is mainly to the pleasure of the mind
  What passion makes them; that meanwhile the forms                  290
  Of Nature have a passion in themselves,
  That intermingles with those works of man
  To which she summons him; although the works
  Be mean, have nothing lofty of their own;
  And that the Genius of the Poet hence                              295
  May boldly take his way among mankind
  Wherever Nature leads; that he hath stood
  By Nature's side among the men of old,
  And so shall stand for ever. Dearest Friend!
  If thou partake the animating faith                                300
  That Poets, even as Prophets, each with each
  Connected in a mighty scheme of truth,
  Have each his own peculiar faculty,
  Heaven's gift, a sense that fits him to perceive
  Objects unseen before, thou wilt not blame                         305
  The humblest of this band who dares to hope
  That unto him hath also been vouchsafed
  An insight that in some sort he possesses,
  A privilege whereby a work of his,
  Proceeding from a source of untaught things,                       310
  Creative and enduring, may become
  A power like one of Nature's. To a hope
  Not less ambitious once among the wilds
  Of Sarum's Plain, [E] my youthful spirit was raised;
  There, as I ranged at will the pastoral downs                      315
  Trackless and smooth, or paced the bare white roads
  Lengthening in solitude their dreary line,
  Time with his retinue of ages fled
  Backwards, nor checked his flight until I saw
  Our dim ancestral Past in vision clear;                            320
  Saw multitudes of men, and, here and there,
  A single Briton clothed in wolf-skin vest,
  With shield and stone-axe, stride across the wold;
  The voice of spears was heard, the rattling spear
  Shaken by arms of mighty bone, in strength,                        325
  Long mouldered, of barbaric majesty.
  I called on Darkness--but before the word
  Was uttered, midnight darkness seemed to take
  All objects from my sight; and lo! again
  The Desert visible by dismal flames;                               330
  It is the sacrificial altar, fed
  With living men--how deep the groans! the voice
  Of those that crowd the giant wicker thrills
  The monumental hillocks, and the pomp
  Is for both worlds, the living and the dead.                       335
  At other moments (for through that wide waste
  Three summer days I roamed) where'er the Plain
  Was figured o'er with circles, lines, or mounds, [F]
  That yet survive, a work, as some divine,
  Shaped by the Druids, so to represent                              340
  Their knowledge of the heavens, and image forth
  The constellations; gently was I charmed
  Into a waking dream, a reverie
  That, with believing eyes, where'er I turned,
  Beheld long-bearded teachers, with white wands                     345
  Uplifted, pointing to the starry sky,
  Alternately, and plain below, while breath
  Of music swayed their motions, and the waste
  Rejoiced with them and me in those sweet sounds.

    This for the past, and things that may be viewed                 350
  Or fancied in the obscurity of years
  From monumental hints: and thou, O Friend!
  Pleased with some unpremeditated strains
  That served those wanderings to beguile, [G] hast said
  That then and there my mind had exercised                          355
  Upon the vulgar forms of present things,
  The actual world of our familiar days,
  Yet higher power; had caught from them a tone,
  An image, and a character, by books
  Not hitherto reflected. [H] Call we this                           360
  A partial judgment--and yet why? for _then_
  We were as strangers; and I may not speak
  Thus wrongfully of verse, however rude,
  Which on thy young imagination, trained
  In the great City, broke like light from far.                      365
  Moreover, each man's Mind is to herself
  Witness and judge; and I remember well
  That in life's every-day appearances
  I seemed about this time to gain clear sight
  Of a new world--a world, too, that was fit                         370
  To be transmitted, and to other eyes
  Made visible; as ruled by those fixed laws
  Whence spiritual dignity originates,
  Which do both give it being and maintain
  A balance, an ennobling interchange                                375
  Of action from without and from within;
  The excellence, pure function, and best power
  Both of the object seen, and eye that sees.


       *       *       *       *       *

FOOTNOTES ON THE TEXT

[Footnote A: Compare 'Expostulation and Reply', vol. i. p. 273:

  'Nor less I deem that there are Powers
  Which of themselves our minds impress;
  That we can feed this mind of ours
  In a wise passiveness.

  Think you, 'mid all this mighty sum
  Of things for ever speaking,
  That nothing of itself will come,
  But we must still be seeking?'

Mr. William Davies writes:

  "Is he absolutely right in attributing these powers to the objects of
  Nature, which are only symbols after all? Is there not a more
  penetrative and ethereal perceptive power in the human mind, which is
  able to transfer itself immediately to the spiritual plane,
  transcending that of visible Nature? Plato saw it; the old Vedantist
  still more clearly--and what is more--reached it. He arrived at the
  knowledge and perception of essential Being: though he could neither
  define nor limit, in a human formula, because it is undefinable and
  illimitable, but positive and abstract, universally diffused, 'smaller
  than small, greater than great,' the internal Light, Monitor, Guide,
  Rest, waiting to be seen, recognised, and known in every heart; not
  depending on the powers of Nature for enlightenment and instruction,
  but itself enlightening and instructing: not merely a receptive, but
  the motive power of Nature; which bestows _itself_ upon Nature, and
  only receives from it that which it bestows. Is it not, as he says
  farther on, better 'to see great truths,' even if not so strictly in
  line and form, 'touch and handle little ones,' to take the highest
  point of view we can reach, not a lower one? And surely it is a higher
  thing to rule over and subdue Nature, than to lie ruled and subdued by
  it? The highest form of Religion has always done this."

Ed.]


[Footnote B: Compare 'The Old Cumberland Beggar', l. 49 (vol. i. p.
301).--Ed.]


[Footnote C: For a hint in reference to this road, I am indebted to the
late Dr. Henry Dodgson of Cockermouth. Referring to my suggestion that
it might be the road from Cockermouth to Bridekirk, he wrote (July
1878),

  "I scarcely think that road answers to the description. The hill over
  which it goes is not naked but well wooded, and has probably been so
  for many years. Besides, it is not visible from Wordsworth's house,
  nor from the garden behind it. This garden extends from the house to
  the river Derwent, from which it is separated by a wall, with a raised
  terraced walk on the inner side, and nearly on a level with the top. I
  understand that this terrace was in existence in the poet's time....
  Its direction is nearly due east and west; and looking eastward from
  it, there is a hill which bounds the view in that direction, and which
  fully corresponds to the description in 'The Prelude'. It is from one
  and a half to two miles distant, of considerable height, is bare and
  destitute of trees, and has a road going directly over its summit, as
  seen from the terrace in Wordsworth's garden. This road is now used
  only as a footpath; but, fifty or sixty years ago it was the highroad
  to Isel, a hamlet on the Derwent, about three and a half miles from
  Cockermouth, in the direction of Bassenthwaite Lake. The hill is
  locally called 'the Hay,' but on the Ordnance map it is marked 'Watch
  Hill.'"

There can be little doubt as to the accuracy of this suggestion. No
other hill-road is visible from the house or garden at Cockermouth. The
view from the front of the old mansion is limited by houses, doubtless
more so now than in last century; but there is no hill towards the
Lorton Fells on the south or south-east, with a road over it, visible
from any part of the town. Besides, as this was a very early experience
of Wordsworth's--it was in "the morn of childhood" that the road was
"daily present to his sight"--it must have been seen, either from the
house or from the garden. It is almost certain that he refers to the
path over the Hay or Watch Hill, which he and his "sister Emmeline"
could see daily from the high terrace, at the foot of their garden in
Cockermouth, where they used to "chase the butterfly" and visit the
"sparrow's nest" in the "impervious shelter" of privet and roses.

Dr. Cradock wrote to me (January 1886),

  "an old map of the county round about Keswick, including Cockermouth,
  dated 1789, entirely confirms Dr. Dodgson's statement. The road over
  'Hay Hill' is marked clearly as a carriage road to Isel. The miles are
  marked on the map. The 'summit' of the hill is 'naked': for the map
  marks woods, where they existed, and none are marked on Hay
  Hill."--Ed.]


[Footnote D: A part of the following paragraph is written with sundry
variations of text, in Dorothy Wordsworth's MS. book, dated May to
December 1802.--Ed.]


[Footnote E: In the summer of 1793, on his return from the Isle of
Wight, and before proceeding to Bristol and Wales, he wandered with his
friend William Calvert over Salisbury plain for three days.--Ed.]


[Footnote F: Compare the reference to "Sarum's naked plain" in the third
book of 'The Excursion', l. 148.--Ed.]


[Footnote G: The reference is to 'Guilt and Sorrow'. See the
introductory, and the Fenwick, note to this poem, in vol. i. pp.
77-79.--Ed.]


[Footnote H: Coleridge read 'Descriptive Sketches' when an undergraduate
at Cambridge in 1793--before the two men had met--and wrote thus of
them:

  "Seldom, if ever, was the emergence of a great and original poetic
  genius above the literary horizon more evidently announced."

See 'Biographia Literaria', i. p. 25 (edition 1842).--Ed.]





       *       *       *       *       *





BOOK FOURTEENTH


CONCLUSION


  In one of those excursions (may they ne'er
  Fade from remembrance!) through the Northern tracts
  Of Cambria ranging with a youthful friend, [A]
  I left Bethgelert's huts at couching-time,
  And westward took my way, to see the sun                             5
  Rise from the top of Snowdon. To the door
  Of a rude cottage at the mountain's base
  We came, and roused the shepherd who attends
  The adventurous stranger's steps, a trusty guide;
  Then, cheered by short refreshment, sallied forth.                  10

    It was a close, warm, breezeless summer night,
  Wan, dull, and glaring, with a dripping fog
  Low-hung and thick that covered all the sky;
  But, undiscouraged, we began to climb
  The mountain-side. The mist soon girt us round,                     15
  And, after ordinary travellers' talk
  With our conductor, pensively we sank
  Each into commerce with his private thoughts:
  Thus did we breast the ascent, and by myself
  Was nothing either seen or heard that checked                       20
  Those musings or diverted, save that once
  The shepherd's lurcher, who, among the crags,
  Had to his joy unearthed a hedgehog, teased
  His coiled-up prey with barkings turbulent.
  This small adventure, for even such it seemed                       25
  In that wild place and at the dead of night,
  Being over and forgotten, on we wound
  In silence as before. With forehead bent
  Earthward, as if in opposition set
  Against an enemy, I panted up                                       30
  With eager pace, and no less eager thoughts.
  Thus might we wear a midnight hour away,
  Ascending at loose distance each from each,
  And I, as chanced, the foremost of the band;
  When at my feet the ground appeared to brighten,                    35
  And with a step or two seemed brighter still;
  Nor was time given to ask or learn the cause,
  For instantly a light upon the turf
  Fell like a flash, and lo! as I looked up,
  The Moon hung naked in a firmament                                  40
  Of azure without cloud, and at my feet
  Rested a silent sea of hoary mist.
  A hundred hills their dusky backs upheaved
  All over this still ocean; and beyond,
  Far, far beyond, the solid vapours stretched,                       45
  In headlands, tongues, and promontory shapes,
  Into the main Atlantic, that appeared
  To dwindle, and give up his majesty,
  Usurped upon far as the sight could reach.
  Not so the ethereal vault; encroachment none                        50
  Was there, nor loss; only the inferior stars
  Had disappeared, or shed a fainter light
  In the clear presence of the full-orbed Moon,
  Who, from her sovereign elevation, gazed
  Upon the billowy ocean, as it lay                                   55
  All meek and silent, save that through a rift--
  Not distant from the shore whereon we stood,
  A fixed, abysmal, gloomy, breathing-place--
  Mounted the roar of waters, torrents, streams
  Innumerable, roaring with one voice!                                60
  Heard over earth and sea, and, in that hour,
  For so it seemed, felt by the starry heavens.

    When into air had partially dissolved
  That vision, given to spirits of the night
  And three chance human wanderers, in calm thought                   65
  Reflected, it appeared to me the type
  Of a majestic intellect, its acts
  And its possessions, what it has and craves,
  What in itself it is, and would become.
  There I beheld the emblem of a mind                                 70
  That feeds upon infinity, that broods
  Over the dark abyss, [B] intent to hear
  Its voices issuing forth to silent light
  In one continuous stream; a mind sustained
  By recognitions of transcendent power,                              75
  In sense conducting to ideal form,
  In soul of more than mortal privilege.
  One function, above all, of such a mind
  Had Nature shadowed there, by putting forth,
  'Mid circumstances awful and sublime,                               80
  That mutual domination which she loves
  To exert upon the face of outward things,
  So moulded, joined, abstracted, so endowed
  With interchangeable supremacy,
  That men, least sensitive, see, hear, perceive,                     85
  And cannot choose but feel. The power, which all
  Acknowledge when thus moved, which Nature thus
  To bodily sense exhibits, is the express
  Resemblance of that glorious faculty
  That higher minds bear with them as their own.                      90
  This is the very spirit in which they deal
  With the whole compass of the universe:
  They from their native selves can send abroad
  Kindred mutations; for themselves create
  A like existence; and, whene'er it dawns                            95
  Created for them, catch it, or are caught
  By its inevitable mastery,
  Like angels stopped upon the wind by sound
  Of harmony from Heaven's remotest spheres.
  Them the enduring and the transient both                           100
  Serve to exalt; they build up greatest things
  From least suggestions; ever on the watch,
  Willing to work and to be wrought upon,
  They need not extraordinary calls
  To rouse them; in a world of life they live,                       105
  By sensible impressions not enthralled,
  But by their quickening impulse made more prompt
  To hold fit converse with the spiritual world,
  And with the generations of mankind
  Spread over time, past, present, and to come,                      110
  Age after age, till Time shall be no more.
  Such minds are truly from the Deity,
  For they are Powers; and hence the highest bliss
  That flesh can know is theirs--the consciousness
  Of Whom they are, habitually infused                               115
  Through every image and through every thought,
  And all affections by communion raised
  From earth to heaven, from human to divine;
  Hence endless occupation for the Soul,
  Whether discursive or intuitive; [C]                               120
  Hence cheerfulness for acts of daily life,
  Emotions which best foresight need not fear,
  Most worthy then of trust when most intense
  Hence, amid ills that vex and wrongs that crush
  Our hearts--if here the words of Holy Writ                         125
  May with fit reverence be applied--that peace
  Which passeth understanding, that repose
  In moral judgments which from this pure source
  Must come, or will by man be sought in vain.

    Oh! who is he that hath his whole life long                      130
  Preserved, enlarged, this freedom in himself?
  For this alone is genuine liberty:
  Where is the favoured being who hath held
  That course unchecked, unerring, and untired,
  In one perpetual progress smooth and bright?--135
  A humbler destiny have we retraced,
  And told of lapse and hesitating choice,
  And backward wanderings along thorny ways:
  Yet--compassed round by mountain solitudes,
  Within whose solemn temple I received                              140
  My earliest visitations, careless then
  Of what was given me; and which now I range,
  A meditative, oft a suffering man--
  Do I declare--in accents which, from truth
  Deriving cheerful confidence, shall blend                          145
  Their modulation with these vocal streams--
  That, whatsoever falls my better mind,
  Revolving with the accidents of life,
  May have sustained, that, howsoe'er misled,
  Never did I, in quest of right and wrong,                          150
  Tamper with conscience from a private aim;
  Nor was in any public hope the dupe
  Of selfish passions; nor did ever yield
  Wilfully to mean cares or low pursuits,
  But shrunk with apprehensive jealousy                              155
  From every combination which might aid
  The tendency, too potent in itself,
  Of use and custom to bow down the soul
  Under a growing weight of vulgar sense,
  And substitute a universe of death                                 160
  For that which moves with light and life informed,
  Actual, divine, and true. To fear and love,
  To love as prime and chief, for there fear ends,
  Be this ascribed; to early intercourse,
  In presence of sublime or beautiful forms,                         165
  With the adverse principles of pain and joy--
  Evil, as one is rashly named by men
  Who know not what they speak. By love subsists
  All lasting grandeur, by pervading love;
  That gone, we are as dust.--Behold the fields                      170
  In balmy spring-time full of rising flowers
  And joyous creatures; see that pair, the lamb
  And the lamb's mother, and their tender ways
  Shall touch thee to the heart; thou callest this love,
  And not inaptly so, for love it is,                                175
  Far as it carries thee. In some green bower
  Rest, and be not alone, but have thou there
  The One who is thy choice of all the world:
  There linger, listening, gazing, with delight
  Impassioned, but delight how pitiable!                             180
  Unless this love by a still higher love
  Be hallowed, love that breathes not without awe;
  Love that adores, but on the knees of prayer,
  By heaven inspired; that frees from chains the soul,
  Lifted, in union with the purest, best,                            185
  Of earth-born passions, on the wings of praise
  Bearing a tribute to the Almighty's Throne.

    This spiritual Love acts not nor can exist
  Without Imagination, which, in truth,
  Is but another name for absolute power                             190
  And clearest insight, amplitude of mind,
  And Reason in her most exalted mood.
  This faculty hath been the feeding source
  Of our long labour: we have traced the stream
  From the blind cavern whence is faintly heard                      195
  Its natal murmur; followed it to light
  And open day; accompanied its course
  Among the ways of Nature, for a time
  Lost sight of it bewildered and engulphed:
  Then given it greeting as it rose once more                        200
  In strength, reflecting from its placid breast
  The works of man and face of human life;
  And lastly, from its progress have we drawn
  Faith in life endless, the sustaining thought
  Of human Being, Eternity, and God.                                 205

    Imagination having been our theme,
  So also hath that intellectual Love,
  For they are each in each, and cannot stand
  Dividually.--Here must thou be, O Man!
  Power to thyself; no Helper hast thou here;                        210
  Here keepest thou in singleness thy state:
  No other can divide with thee this work:
  No secondary hand can intervene
  To fashion this ability; 'tis thine,
  The prime and vital principle is thine                             215
  In the recesses of thy nature, far
  From any reach of outward fellowship,
  Else is not thine at all. But joy to him,
  Oh, joy to him who here hath sown, hath laid
  Here, the foundation of his future years!                          220
  For all that friendship, all that love can do,
  All that a darling countenance can look
  Or dear voice utter, to complete the man,
  Perfect him, made imperfect in himself,
  All shall be his: and he whose soul hath risen                     225
  Up to the height of feeling intellect
  Shall want no humbler tenderness; his heart
  Be tender as a nursing mother's heart;
  Of female softness shall his life be full,
  Of humble cares and delicate desires,                              230
  Mild interests and gentlest sympathies.

  Child of my parents! Sister of my soul!
  Thanks in sincerest verse have been elsewhere
  Poured out [D] for all the early tenderness
  Which I from thee imbibed: and 'tis most true                      235
  That later seasons owed to thee no less;
  For, spite of thy sweet influence and the touch
  Of kindred hands that opened out the springs
  Of genial thought in childhood, and in spite
  Of all that unassisted I had marked                                240
  In life or nature of those charms minute
  That win their way into the heart by stealth
  (Still to the very going-out of youth),
  I too exclusively esteemed _that_ love,
  And sought _that_ beauty, which, as Milton sings,                  245
  Hath terror in it. [E] Thou didst soften down
  This over-sternness; but for thee, dear Friend!
  My soul, too reckless of mild grace, had stood
  In her original self too confident,
  Retained too long a countenance severe;                            250
  A rock with torrents roaring, with the clouds
  Familiar, and a favourite of the stars:
  But thou didst plant its crevices with flowers,
  Hang it with shrubs that twinkle in the breeze,
  And teach the little birds to build their nests                    255
  And warble in its chambers. At a time
  When Nature, destined to remain so long
  Foremost in my affections, had fallen back
  Into a second place, pleased to become
  A handmaid to a nobler than herself,                               260
  When every day brought with it some new sense
  Of exquisite regard for common things,
  And all the earth was budding with these gifts
  Of more refined humanity, thy breath,
  Dear Sister! was a kind of gentler spring                          265
  That went before my steps. Thereafter came
  One whom with thee friendship had early paired;
  She came, no more a phantom to adorn
  A moment, [F] but an inmate of the heart,
  And yet a spirit, there for me enshrined                           270
  To penetrate the lofty and the low;
  Even as one essence of pervading light
  Shines, in the brightest of ten thousand stars,
  And the meek worm that feeds her lonely lamp
  Couched in the dewy grass.
                            With such a theme,                       275
  Coleridge! with this my argument, of thee
  Shall I be silent? O capacious Soul!
  Placed on this earth to love and understand,
  And from thy presence shed the light of love,
  Shall I be mute, ere thou be spoken of?                            280
  Thy kindred influence to my heart of hearts
  Did also find its way. Thus fear relaxed
  Her over-weening grasp; thus thoughts and things
  In the self-haunting spirit learned to take
  More rational proportions; mystery,                                285
  The incumbent mystery of sense and soul,
  Of life and death, time and eternity,
  Admitted more habitually a mild
  Interposition--a serene delight
  In closelier gathering cares, such as become                       290
  A human creature, howsoe'er endowed,
  Poet, or destined for a humbler name;
  And so the deep enthusiastic joy,
  The rapture of the hallelujah sent
  From all that breathes and is, was chastened, stemmed              295
  And balanced by pathetic truth, by trust
  In hopeful reason, leaning on the stay
  Of Providence; and in reverence for duty,
  Here, if need be, struggling with storms, and there
  Strewing in peace life's humblest ground with herbs,               300
  At every season green, sweet at all hours.

    And now, O Friend! this history is brought
  To its appointed close: the discipline
  And consummation of a Poet's mind,
  In everything that stood most prominent,                           305
  Have faithfully been pictured; we have reached
  The time (our guiding object from the first)
  When we may, not presumptuously, I hope,
  Suppose my powers so far confirmed, and such
  My knowledge, as to make me capable                                310
  Of building up a Work that shall endure. [G]
  Yet much hath been omitted, as need was;
  Of books how much! and even of the other wealth
  That is collected among woods and fields,
  Far more: for Nature's secondary grace                             315
  Hath hitherto been barely touched upon,
  The charm more superficial that attends
  Her works, as they present to Fancy's choice
  Apt illustrations of the moral world,
  Caught at a glance, or traced with curious pains.                  320

    Finally, and above all, O Friend! (I speak
  With due regret) how much is overlooked
  In human nature and her subtle ways,
  As studied first in our own hearts, and then
  In life among the passions of mankind,                             325
  Varying their composition and their hue,
  Where'er we move, under the diverse shapes
  That individual character presents
  To an attentive eye. For progress meet,
  Along this intricate and difficult path,                           330
  Whate'er was wanting, something had I gained,
  As one of many schoolfellows compelled,
  In hardy independence, to stand up
  Amid conflicting interests, and the shock
  Of various tempers; to endure and note                             335
  What was not understood, though known to be;
  Among the mysteries of love and hate,
  Honour and shame, looking to right and left,
  Unchecked by innocence too delicate,
  And moral notions too intolerant,                                  340
  Sympathies too contracted. Hence, when called
  To take a station among men, the step
  Was easier, the transition more secure,
  More profitable also; for, the mind
  Learns from such timely exercise to keep                           345
  In wholesome separation the two natures,
  The one that feels, the other that observes.

    Yet one word more of personal concern--
  Since I withdrew unwillingly from France,
  I led an undomestic wanderer's life,                               350
  In London chiefly harboured, whence I roamed,
  Tarrying at will in many a pleasant spot
  Of rural England's cultivated vales
  Or Cambrian solitudes. [H] A youth--(he bore
  The name of Calvert [I]--it shall live, if words                   355
  Of mine can give it life,) in firm belief
  That by endowments not from me withheld
  Good might be furthered--in his last decay
  By a bequest sufficient for my needs
  Enabled me to pause for choice, and walk                           360
  At large and unrestrained, nor damped too soon
  By mortal cares. Himself no Poet, yet
  Far less a common follower of the world,
  He deemed that my pursuits and labours lay
  Apart from all that leads to wealth, or even                       365
  A necessary maintenance insures,
  Without some hazard to the finer sense;
  He cleared a passage for me, and the stream
  Flowed in the bent of Nature. [K]
                                 Having now
  Told what best merits mention, further pains                       370
  Our present purpose seems not to require,
  And I have other tasks. Recall to mind
  The mood in which this labour was begun,
  O Friend! The termination of my course
  Is nearer now, much nearer; yet even then,                         375
  In that distraction and intense desire,
  I said unto the life which I had lived,
  Where art thou? Hear I not a voice from thee
  Which 'tis reproach to hear? Anon I rose
  As if on wings, and saw beneath me stretched                       380
  Vast prospect of the world which I had been
  And was; and hence this Song, which like a lark
  I have protracted, in the unwearied heavens
  Singing, and often with more plaintive voice
  To earth attempered and her deep-drawn sighs,                      385
  Yet centring all in love, and in the end
  All gratulant, if rightly understood.

    Whether to me shall be allotted life,
  And, with life, power to accomplish aught of worth,
  That will be deemed no insufficient plea                           390
  For having given the story of myself,
  Is all uncertain: but, beloved Friend!
  When, looking back, thou seest, in clearer view
  Than any liveliest sight of yesterday,
  That summer, under whose indulgent skies,                          395
  Upon smooth Quantock's airy ridge we roved
  Unchecked, or loitered 'mid her sylvan combs, [L]
  Thou in bewitching words, with happy heart,
  Didst chaunt the vision of that Ancient Man,
  The bright-eyed Mariner, [L] and rueful woes                       400
  Didst utter of the Lady Christabel; [L]
  And I, associate with such labour, steeped
  In soft forgetfulness the livelong hours,
  Murmuring of him who, joyous hap, was found,
  After the perils of his moonlight ride,                            405
  Near the loud waterfall; [L] or her who sate
  In misery near the miserable Thorn; [L]
  When thou dost to that summer turn thy thoughts,
  And hast before thee all which then we were,
  To thee, in memory of that happiness,                              410
  It will be known, by thee at least, my Friend!
  Felt, that the history of a Poet's mind
  Is labour not unworthy of regard:
  To thee the work shall justify itself.

    The last and later portions of this gift                         415
  Have been prepared, not with the buoyant spirits
  That were our daily portion when we first
  Together wantoned in wild Poesy,
  But, under pressure of a private grief, [M]
  Keen and enduring, which the mind and heart,                       420
  That in this meditative history
  Have been laid open, needs must make me feel
  More deeply, yet enable me to bear
  More firmly; and a comfort now hath risen
  From hope that thou art near, and wilt be soon                     425
  Restored to us in renovated health;
  When, after the first mingling of our tears,
  'Mong other consolations, we may draw
  Some pleasure from this offering of my love.

    Oh! yet a few short years of useful life,                        430
  And all will be complete, thy race be run,
  Thy monument of glory will be raised;
  Then, though (too weak to tread the ways of truth)
  This age fall back to old idolatry,
  Though men return to servitude as fast                             435
  As the tide ebbs, to ignominy and shame
  By nations sink together, we shall still
  Find solace--knowing what we have learnt to know,
  Rich in true happiness if allowed to be
  Faithful alike in forwarding a day                                 440
  Of firmer trust, joint labourers in the work
  (Should Providence such grace to us vouchsafe)
  Of their deliverance, surely yet to come.
  Prophets of Nature, we to them will speak
  A lasting inspiration, sanctified                                  445
  By reason, blest by faith: what we have loved,
  Others will love, and we will teach them how;
  Instruct them how the mind of man becomes
  A thousand times more beautiful than the earth
  On which he dwells, above this frame of things                     450
  (Which, 'mid all revolution in the hopes
  And fears of men, doth still remain unchanged)
  In beauty exalted, as it is itself
  Of quality and fabric more divine.


       *       *       *       *       *

FOOTNOTES ON THE TEXT

[Footnote A: With Robert Jones, in the summer of 1793.--Ed.]


[Footnote B: Compare 'Paradise Lost', book i. l. 21.--Ed.]


[Footnote C: Compare 'Paradise Lost', book v. l. 488.--Ed.]


[Footnote D: Compare 'The Sparrow's Nest', vol. ii. p. 236.--Ed.]


[Footnote E: See 'Paradise Lost', book ix. ll. 490, 491.--Ed.]


[Footnote F: Mary Hutchinson. Compare the lines, p. 2, beginning:

  'She was a Phantom of delight.'

Ed.]


[Footnote G: Compare the preface to 'The Excursion'. "Several years ago,
when the author retired to his native mountains, with the hope of being
enabled to construct a literary work that might live," etc.--Ed.]


[Footnote H: After leaving London, he went to the Isle of Wight and to
Salisbury Plain with Calvert; then to Bristol, the Valley of the Wye,
and Tintern Abbey, alone on foot; thence to Jones' residence in North
Wales at Plas-yn-llan in Denbighshire; with him to other places in North
Wales, thence to Halifax; and with his sister to Kendal, Grasmere,
Keswick, Whitehaven, and Penrith.--Ed.]


[Footnote I: Raisley Calvert.-Ed.]


[Footnote K: His friend, dying in January 1795, bequeathed to Wordsworth
a legacy of L900. Compare the sonnet, in vol. iv., beginning

  'Calvert! it must not be unheard by them,'

and the 'Life of Wordsworth' in this edition.--Ed.]


[Footnote L: The Wordsworths went to Alfoxden in the end of July, 1797.
It was in the autumn of that year that, with Coleridge,

  'Upon smooth Quantock's airy ridge they roved
  Unchecked, or loitered 'mid her sylvan combs;'

when the latter chaunted his 'Ancient Mariner' and 'Christabel', and
Wordsworth composed 'The Idiot Boy' and 'The Thorn'. The plan of a joint
publication was sketched out in November 1797. (See the Fenwick note to
'We are Seven', vol. i. p. 228.)--Ed.]


[Footnote M: The death of his brother John. Compare the 'Elegiac Verses'
in memory of him, p. 58.--Ed.]





       *       *       *       *       *





FROM THE ITALIAN OF MICHAEL ANGELO


Translated 1805?--Published 1807


[Translations from Michael Angelo, done at the request of Mr. Duppa,
whose acquaintance I made through Mr. Southey. Mr. Duppa was engaged in
writing the life of Michael Angelo, and applied to Mr. Southey and
myself to furnish some specimens of his poetic genius.--I. F.]


Compare the two sonnets entitled 'At Florence--from Michael Angelo', in
the "Memorials of a Tour in Italy" in 1837.

The following extract from a letter of Wordsworth's to Sir George
Beaumont, dated October 17, 1805, will cast light on the next three
sonnets.

  "I mentioned Michael Angelo's poetry some time ago; it is the most
  difficult to construe I ever met with, but just what you would expect
  from such a man, shewing abundantly how conversant his soul was with
  great things. There is a mistake in the world concerning the Italian
  language; the poetry of Dante and Michael Angelo proves, that if there
  be little majesty and strength in Italian verse, the fault is in the
  authors, and not in the tongue. I can translate, and have translated
  two books of Ariosto, at the rate, nearly, of one hundred lines a day;
  but so much meaning has been put by Michael Angelo into so little
  room, and that meaning sometimes so excellent in itself, that I found
  the difficulty of translating him insurmountable. I attempted, at
  least, fifteen of the sonnets, but could not anywhere succeed. I have
  sent you the only one I was able to finish; it is far from being the
  best, or most characteristic, but the others were too much for me."

The last of the three sonnets probably belongs to the year 1804, as it
is quoted in a letter to Sir George Beaumont, dated Grasmere, August 6.
The year is not given, but I think it must have been 1804, as he says
that "within the last month," he had written, "700 additional lines" of
'The Prelude'; and that poem was finished in May 1805.

The titles given to them make it necessary to place these Sonnets in the
order which follows.

One of the "Miscellaneous Sonnets."--Ed.


I

  Yes! hope may with my strong desire keep pace,
  And I be undeluded, unbetrayed;
  For if of our affections none finds [1] grace
  In sight of Heaven, then, wherefore hath God made
  The world which we inhabit? Better plea                             5
  Love cannot have, than that in loving thee
  Glory to that eternal Peace is paid,
  Who such divinity to thee imparts
  As hallows and makes pure all gentle hearts.
  His hope is treacherous only whose love dies                       10
  With beauty, which is varying every hour;
  But, in chaste hearts uninfluenced by the power
  Of outward change, there blooms a deathless flower,
  That breathes on earth the air of paradise.


       *       *       *       *       *

VARIANT ON THE TEXT

[Variant 1:

1849.

  ... find ...      1807.]





       *       *       *       *       *





FROM THE SAME


Translated 1805?--Published 1807


One of the "Miscellaneous Sonnets."--Ed.



II

  No mortal object did these eyes behold
  When first they met the placid light of thine,
  And my Soul felt her destiny divine, [1]
  And hope of endless peace in me grew bold:
  Heaven-born, the Soul a heaven-ward course must hold;            5
  Beyond the visible world she soars to seek
  (For what delights the sense is false and weak)
  Ideal Form, the universal mould.
  The wise man, I affirm, can find no rest
  In that which perishes: nor will he lend                        10
  His heart to aught which doth on time depend.
  'Tis sense, unbridled will, and not true love,
  That [2] kills the soul: love betters what is best,
  Even here below, but more in heaven above.


       *       *       *       *       *

VARIANTS ON THE TEXT

[Variant 1:

1807.

  When first saluted by the light of thine,
  When my soul ...

MS. letter to Sir George Beaumont.]


[Variant 2:

1827.

  Which ...    1807.]





       *       *       *       *       *





FROM THE SAME. TO THE SUPREME BEING


Translated 1804?--Published 1807


One of the "Miscellaneous Sonnets."--Ed.



III

  The prayers I make will then be sweet indeed
  If Thou the spirit give by which I pray:
  My unassisted heart is barren clay,
  That [1] of its native self can nothing feed:
  Of good and pious works thou art the seed,                     5
  That [2] quickens only where thou say'st it may.
  Unless Thou shew to us thine own true way
  No man can find it: Father! Thou must lead.
  Do Thou, then, breathe those thoughts into my mind
  By which such virtue may in me be bred                        10
  That in thy holy footsteps I may tread;
  The fetters of my tongue do Thou unbind,
  That I may have the power to sing of thee,
  And sound thy praises everlastingly.


       *       *       *       *       *

VARIANTS ON THE TEXT

[Variant 1:

1827.

  Which ...      1807.]


[Variant 2:

1827.

  Which ...      1807.]



The sonnet from which the above is translated, is not wholly by Michael
Angelo, the sculptor and painter, but is taken from patched-up versions
of his poem by his nephew of the same name. Michael Angelo only wrote
the first eight lines, and these have been garbled in his nephew's
edition. The original lines are thus given by Guasti in his edition of
Michael Angelo's Poems (1863) restored to their true reading, from the
autograph MSS. in Rome and Florence.


  Imperfect Sonnet transcribed from "Le Rime di Michelangelo Buonarroti
  Cavate dagli Autografi da Cesare Guasti. Firenze. 1863."



  SONNET LXXXIX. [Vatican].


  Ben sarien dolce le preghiere mie,
    Se virtu mi prestassi da pregarte:
    Nel mio fragil terren non e gia parte
    Da frutto buon, che da se nato sie.

  Tu sol se' seme d' opre caste e pie,
    Che la germoglian dove ne fa' parte:
    Nessun proprio valor puo seguitarte,
    Se no gli mostri le tue sante vie.


The lines are thus paraphrased in prose by the Editor:

  Le mie preghiere sarebbero grate, se tu mi prestassi quella virtu che
  rende efficace il pregare: ma io sono un terreno sterile, in cui non
  nasce spontaneamente frutto che sia buono. Tu solamente sei seme di
  opere caste e pie, le quali germogliano la dove tu ti spargi: e
  nessuna virtu vi ha che da per se possa venirti dietro, se tu stesso
  non le mostri le vie che conducono al bene, e che sono le tue....


The Sonnet as published by the Nephew is as follows:

  Ben sarian dolci le preghiere mie,
    Se virtu mi prestassi da pregarte:
    Nel mio terreno infertil non e parte
    Da produr frutto di virtu natie.

  Tu il seme se' dell' opre giuste e pie,
    Che la germoglian dove ne fai parte:
    Nessun proprio valor puo seguitarte,
    Se non gli mostri le tue belle vie.

  Tu nella mente mia pensieri infondi,
    Che producano in me si vivi effetti,
    Signor, ch' io segua i tuoi vestigi santi.

  E dalla lingua mia chiari, e facondi
    Sciogli della tua gloria ardenti detti,
    Perche sempre io ti lodi, esalti, e canti.


('Le Rime di Michelangelo Buonarroti, Pittore, Scultor e Architetto
cavate degli autografi, e pubblicate da Cesare Guasti'. Firenze,
1863.)-Ed.





       *       *       *       *       *





APPENDIX.


NOTE I


"POEMS ON THE NAMING OF PLACES"

'When, to the attractions of the busy world', p. 66

The following variants occur in a MS. Book containing 'Yew Trees',
'Artegal' and 'Elidure', 'Laodamia', 'Black Comb,' etc.--Ed.


  When from the restlessness of crowded life
  Back to my native vales I turned, and fixed
  My habitation in this peaceful spot,
  Sharp season was it of continuous storm
  In deepest winter; and, from week to week,
  Pathway, and lane, and public way were clogged
  With frequent showers of snow ...

  When first attracted by this happy Vale
  Hither I came, among old Shepherd Swains
  To fix my habitation,'t was a time
  Of deepest winter, and from week to week
  Pathway, and lane, and public way were clogged

  When to the { cares and pleasures of the world
              { attractions of the busy world

  Preferring {ease and liberty   }  I chose
             {peace and liberty  }  I chose
             {studious leisure I had chosen
  A habitation in this peaceful vale
  Sharp season {was it of    } continuous storm
               {followed by  } continuous storm





       *       *       *       *       *





NOTE II.--THE HAWKSHEAD BECK


(See pp. 188-89, 'The Prelude', book iv.)


Mr. Rawnsley, formerly of Wray Vicarage--now Canon Rawnsley of
Crosthwaite Vicarage, Keswick--sent me the following letter in reference
to:


  ... that unruly child of mountain birth,
  The famous brook, who, soon as he was boxed
  Within our garden, found himself at once,
  As if by trick insidious and unkind,
  Stripped of his voice and left to dimple down
   ...
  I looked at him and smiled, and smiled again,
   ...
  'Ha,' quoth I, 'pretty prisoner, are you there!'


  "I was not quite content with Dr. Cradock's identification of this
  brook, or of the garden; partly because, beyond the present garden
  square I found, on going up the brook, other garden squares, which
  were much more likely to have been the garden belonging to Anne
  Tyson's cottage, and because in these garden plots the stream was not
  'stripped of his voice,' by the covering of Coniston flags, as is the
  case lower down towards the market place; and partly because--as you
  notice--you can both hear and see the stream through the interstices
  of the flags, and that it can hardly be described (by one who will
  listen) as stripped of its voice.

  At the same time I was bound to admit that in comparing the voice of
  the stream here in the 'channel paved by man's officious care' with
  the sound of it up in the fields beyond the vicarage, nearer its
  birth-place, it certainly might be said to be softer voiced; and as
  the poet speaks of it as 'that unruly child of mountain birth,' it
  looks as if he too had realised the difference.

  But whilst I thought that the identification of Dr. Cradock and
  yourself was very happy (in absence of other possibilities), I had not
  thought that Wordsworth would describe the stream as 'dimpling down,'
  or address it as a 'pretty prisoner.' A smaller stream seemed
  necessary.

  It was, therefore, not a little curious that, in poking about among
  the garden plots on the west bank of the stream, fronting (as nearly
  as I could judge) Anne Tyson's cottage, to seek for remains of the ash
  tree, in which so often the poet--as he lay awake on summer
  nights--had watched 'the moon in splendour couched among the leaves,'
  rocking 'with every impulse of the breeze,' I not only stumbled upon
  the remains of an ash tree--now a 'pollard'--which is evidently
  sprung from a larger tree since decayed (and which for all I know may
  be one of the actual parts of the ancient tree itself); but also had
  the good luck to fall into conversation with a certain Isaac Hodgson,
  who volunteered the following information.

  First, that Wordsworth, it was commonly said, had lodged part of his
  time with one Betty Braithwaite, in the very house called Church Hill
  House.

  She was a widow, and kept a confectionery shop, and 'did a deal of
  baking,' he believed.

  Secondly, that there was a little patch of garden at the back of the
  house, with a famous spring well--still called Old Betty's Well--in
  it, and that only a few paces from where I was then standing by the
  pollard ash.

  On jumping over the fence I found myself on the western side of the
  quaint old Church Hill House, with magnificent views of the whole of
  the western side of Hawkshead Vale; grassy swell and wooded rises
  taking the eye up to the moorland ridge between us and Coniston.

  'But,' said I, 'what about Betty's Well.' 'Oh,' said my friend,
  'that's a noted spring, that never freezes, and always runs; we all
  drink of it, and neighbours send to it. Here it is,' he continued;
  and, gazing down, I saw a little dripping well of water, lustrous,
  clear, coming evidently in continuous force from the springs or secret
  channels up hill, pausing for a moment at the trough, thence falling
  into a box or 'channel paved by man's officious care,' and in a moment
  out of sight and soundless, to pursue its way, 'stripped of its
  voice,' towards the main Town beck, that ran at the north-east border
  of the garden plot. 'Ha, pretty prisoner,' and the words 'dimple down'
  came to my mind at once as appropriate. 'Old Betty's Well gave the
  key-note of the 'famous brook'; and 'boxed within our garden' seemed
  an appropriate and exact description.

  Trace of
                              'the sunny seat
    Round the stone table under the dark pine,'

  was there none. Not so, however, the Ash tree, the remains of which I
  have spoken of. From the bedroom of Betty Braithwaite's house the boy
  could have watched the moon,

                             'while to and fro
    In the dark summit of the waving tree
    She rocked with every impulse of the breeze.'

  'In old times,' said my friend, 'the wall fence ran across the garden,
  just beyond this spring well, so you see it was but a small spot, was
  this garden close.' Yes; but the

                          'crowd of things
    About its narrow precincts all beloved,'

  were known the better, and loved the more on that account. Certainly,
  thought I to myself, here is the famous spring; a brook that
  Wordsworth must have known, and that may have been the centre of
  memory to him in his description of those early Hawkshead days, with
  its metaphor of fountain life.

  May we not, as we gaze on this little fountain well, in a garden plot
  at the back of one of the grey huts of this 'one dear vale,' point as
  with a wand, and say,

    'This portion of the river of his mind
    Came from yon fountain.'

  Is it not possible that the old dame whose

    'Clear though shallow stream of piety,
    Ran on the Sabbath days a fresher course,'

  was Betty Braithwaite, the aged dame who owned the cottage hard by?"


The following additional extract from a letter of Mr. Rawnsley's
(Christmas, 1882) casts light, both on the Hawkshead beck and fountain,
and on the stone seat in the market square, referred to in the fourth
book of 'The Prelude'.

  "Postlethwaite of the Sun Inn at Hawkshead, has a father aged 82, who
  can remember that there was a _stone_ bench, not called old Betty's,
  but Old Jane's Stone, on which she used to spread nuts and cakes for
  the scholars of the Grammar School, but that it did not stand where
  the Market Hall now is, and no one ever remembers a stone or
  stone-bench standing there. This stone or stone-bench stood about
  opposite the Red Lion inn, in front of the little row of houses that
  run east and west, just as you pass out of the village in a northerly
  direction by the Red Lion. This stone or stone-bench is not associated
  with dark pine trees, but they may have passed away root and branch in
  an earlier generation.

  Next and most interesting, I think, as showing that I was right in the
  matter of the _famous fountain,_ or spring in the garden, behind Betty
  Braithwaite's house. There exists in Hawkshead near this house a
  covered-in place or shed, to which all the village repair for their
  drinking-water, and always have done so. It is known by the name of
  the Spout House, and the water--which flows all the year from a
  longish spout, with an overflow one by its side--comes direct from the
  little drop well in Betty B.'s garden, after having its voice stripped
  and boxed therein; and, falling out of the spout into a deep stone
  basin and culvert, runs through the town to join the Town Beck.

  So wedded are the Hawkshead folk to this, their familiar fountainhead,
  that though water is supplied in stand-pipes now from a Reservoir, the
  folks won't have it, and come here to this spout-house, bucket and jug
  in hand, morn, noon and night. I have never seen anything so like a
  continental scene at the gathering at Hawkshead spout-house.

  Lastly, there is a very aged thorn-tree in the churchyard--blown over
  but propped up--in which the forefathers of the hamlet used to sit as
  boys (in the thorn, that is, not the churchyard), and which has been
  worn smooth by many Hawkshead generations. The tradition is, that
  _Wordsworth used to sit a deal in it when at school._"

Ed.





       *       *       *       *       *





NOTE III.--THE HAWKSHEAD MORNING WALK: SUMMER VACATION


(See p. 197, 'The Prelude', book iv. ll. 323-38)


If the farm-house where Wordsworth spent the evening before this
memorable morning walk was either at Elterwater or High Arnside, and the
homeward pathway led across the ridge of Ironkeld, either by the old
mountain road (now almost disused), or over the pathless fells, there
are two points from either of which the sea might be seen in the
distance. The one is from the heights looking down to the Duddon
estuary, across the Coniston valley; the other is from a spot nearer
Hawkshead, where Morecambe Bay is visible. In the former case "the
meadows and the lower grounds" would be those in Yewdale; in the latter
case, they would be those between Latterbarrow and Hawkshead; and, on
either alternative, the "solid mountains" would be those of the Coniston
group--the Old Man and Wetherlam. It is also possible that the course of
the walk was over the Latterbarrow fells, or heights of Colthouse; but,
from the reference to the sunrise "not unseen" from the copse and field,
through which the "homeward pathway wound," it may be supposed that the
course was south-east, and therefore not over these fells, when his back
would have been to the sun. Dr. Cradock's note [Footnote T to book iv]
to the text (p. 197) sums up all that can "be safely said"; but Mr.
Rawnsley has supplied me with the following interesting remarks:

  "After a careful reading of the passage describing the poet's return
  from a festal night, spent in some farm-house beyond the hills, I am
  quite unable to say that the path from High Arnside over the Ironkeld
  range entirely suits the description. Is it not possible that the lad
  had school-fellows whose parents lived in Yewdale? If he had, and was
  returning from the party in one of the Yewdale farms, he would, as he
  ascended towards Tarn Howes, and faced about south, to gain the main
  Coniston road, by traversing the meadows between Berwick ground and
  the top of the Hawkshead and Coniston Hill, command a view of the sea
  that 'lay laughing at a distance'; and 'near, the solid
  mountains'--Wetherlam and Coniston Old Man--would shine 'bright as the
  clouds.' I think this is likely to have been the poet's track, because
  he speaks of labourers going forth to till the fields; and the Yewdale
  valley is one that is (at its head) chiefly arable, so that he would
  be likelier to have gazed on them there than in the vale of Hawkshead
  itself. One is here, however--as in a former passage, when we fixed on
  Yewdale as the one described as being a 'cultured vale'--obliged to
  remember that in Wordsworth's boyhood wheat was grown more extensively
  than is now the case in these parts. Of course, the Furness Fell,
  above Colthouse, might have been the scene. It is eminently suited to
  the description."

Ed.





       *       *       *       *       *





NOTE IV.--DOROTHY WORDSWORTH AT CAMBRIDGE IN 1808. THE ASH TREE AT ST.
JOHN'S COLLEGE


(See p. 224, 'The Prelude', book vi. ll. 76-94)


The following is an extract from a letter of Dorothy Wordsworth's to
Lady Beaumont at Coleorton, dated "14th August," probably in 1808:


  "We reached Cambridge at half-past nine. In our way to the Inn we
  stopped at the gate of St. John's College to set down one of our
  passengers. The stopping of the carriage roused me from a sleepy
  musing, and I was awe-stricken with the solemnity of the old gateway,
  and the light from a great distance within streaming along the
  pavement. When they told me it was the entrance to 'St. John's'
  College, I was still more affected by the gloomy yet beautiful sight
  before me, for I thought of my dearest brother in his youthful days
  passing through that gateway to his home, and I could have believed
  that I saw him there even then, as I had seen him in the first year of
  his residence. I met with Mr. Clarkson at the Inn, and was, you may
  believe, rejoiced to hear his voice at the coach door. We supped
  together, and immediately after supper I went to bed, and slept well,
  and at 8 o'clock next morning went to Trinity Chapel. There I stood
  for many minutes in silence before the statue of Newton, while the
  organ sounded. I never saw a statue that gave me one hundredth part so
  much pleasure--but pleasure, that is not the word, it is a sublime
  sensation--in harmony with sentiments of devotion to the Divine Being,
  and reverence for the holy places where He is worshipped. We walked in
  the groves all the morning and visited the Colleges. I sought out a
  favourite ash tree which my brother speaks of in his poem on his own
  life--a tree covered with ivy. We dined with a fellow of Peter-House
  in his rooms, and after dinner I went to King's College Chapel. There,
  and everywhere else at Cambridge, I was even much more impressed with
  the effect of the buildings than I had been formerly, and I do believe
  that this power of receiving an enlarged enjoyment from the sight of
  buildings is one of the privileges of our later years. I have this
  moment received a letter from William...."

Ed.





       *       *       *       *       *





NOTE V.--"THE MEETING-POINT OF TWO HIGHWAYS"


(See p. 353, 'The Prelude', book xii. l. 293)


The following extract from a letter of Mr. Rawnsley's casts important
light on a difficult question of localization. Dr. Cradock is inclined
now to select the Outgate Crag, the second of the four places referred
to by Mr. Rawnsley. But the first may have been the place, and the
extract which follows will show how much is yet to be done in this
matter of localizing poetical allusions.

  "As to

                                'the crag,
    That, from the meeting-point of two highways
    Ascending, overlooked them both, far stretched,'

  there seems to be no doubt but that we have four competitors for the
  honour of being the place to which the poet:

                  'impatient for the sight
    Of those led palfreys that should bear them home'

  repaired with his brothers

                       'one Christmas-time,
    On the glad eve of its dear holidays.'

  And unless, as it seems is quite possible, from what one sees in other
  of Wordsworth's poems, he really stood on one of the crags, and then
  in his description drew the picture of the landscape at his feet from
  his memory of what it was as seen from another of the vantage places,
  we need a high crag, rising gradually or abruptly from the actual
  meeting-place of two highways, with, if possible at this distance of
  time, a wall--or traces of it--quite at its summit. (I may mention
  that the wallers in this country still give two hundred years as the
  length of time that a dry wall will stand.) We need also traces of an
  old thorn tree close by. The wall, too, must be so placed on the
  summit of the crag that, as it faces the direction in which the lad is
  looking for his palfrey, it shall afford shelter to him against

                  'the sleety rain,
    And all the business of the elements.'

  It is evident that the lad would be looking out in a north-easterly
  direction, i. e. towards the head of Windermere and Ambleside. So that

                       'the mist,
    That on the line of each of those two roads
    Advanced in such indisputable shapes,'

  was urged by a wind that found the poet at his look-out station, glad
  to have the wall between him and it. Further, there must be in close
  proximity wood and the sound of rushing water, or the lapping of a
  lake wind-driven against the marge, for the boy remembers that 'the
  bleak music from that old stone wall' was mingled with 'the noise of
  wood and water.' The roads spoken of must be two highways, and must be
  capable of being seen for some distance; unless, as it is just
  possible, the epithet 'far-stretched' may be taken as applying not so
  much to the roads, as to the gradual ascent of the crag from the
  meeting-place of the two highways.

  The scene from the crag must be extended, and half plain half
  wood-land; at least one gathers as much from the lines:

                  'as the mist
    Gave intermitting prospect of the copse
    And plain beneath.'

  Lastly, it was a day of driving sleet and mist, and this of itself
  would necessitate that the poet and his brothers should only go to the
  place close to which the ponies must pass, or from which most plainly
  the roads were visible.

  The boys too were

            'feverish, and tired, and restless,'

  and a schoolboy, to gain his point on such a day and on such an
  errand, does not take much account of a mile of country to be
  travelled over.

  So that it is immaterial, I think, to make the distance from Hawkshead
  of either of the four crags or vantage grounds a factor in decision.

  The farther the lads were from home when they met their ponies, the
  longer ride back they would have, and this to schoolboys is matter of
  consideration at such times.

  Taking then a survey of the ground of choice, we have to decide
  whether the crag in question is situated at the first division or main
  split of the road from Ambleside furthest from Hawkshead, or whether
  at the place where the two roads converge again into one nearer
  Hawkshead.

  Whether, that is, the crag above the Pullwyke quarry, at the junction
  of the road to Water Barngates and the road to Wray and Outgate is to
  be selected, about two miles from Hawkshead; or whether we are to fix
  on the spot you have chosen, at the point about a mile north-east of
  Hawkshead, 'called in the ordnance map Outgate.'

  Of the two I incline to the former, for these reasons. The boys could
  not be so certain of 'not missing the ponies', at any other place than
  here at Pullwyke.

  The crag exactly answers the poet's description, a rising ground, the
  meeting-place of two highways. For in the poet's time the old
  Hawkshead and Outgate road at the Pullwyke corner ran at the very foot
  of the rising ground (roughly speaking) parallel to and some 60 to 100
  yards west of the present road from the Pull to Wray.

  It is true that no trace of wall is visible at its summit, but the
  summit has been planted since with trees, and walls are often removed
  at time of planting.

  The poet would have a full view of the main road, down to, and round,
  the Pullwyke Bay; he would see the branch road from the fork, as it
  mounted the Water Barngates Hill, to the west, and would see the other
  road of the fork far-stretched and going south.

  He would also have an extended view of copse and meadow land. He
  might, if the wind were south-easterly, hear the noise of Windermere,
  sobbing in the Pullwyke Bay, and would without doubt hear also the
  roar of the Pull Beck water, as it passed down from the Ironkeld
  slopes on his left towards the lake.

  It might be objected that the poem gives us the idea of a crag which,
  from the Hawkshead side at any rate, would require to be of more
  difficult ascent than this is, to justify the idea of difficulty as
  suggested in the lines:

                'thither I repaired,
    Scout-like, and gained the summit;'

  but I do not think we need read more into the lines than that the boy
  felt--as he scanned the country with his eyes, on the 'qui vive' at
  every rise in the ground--the feelings of a scout, who questions
  constantly the distant prospect.

  And certainly the Pullwyke quarry crag rises most steeply from the
  meeting-point of the two highways.

  Next as to the Outgate crag, which you have chosen. I am out of love
  with it. First, if the lads wanted to make sure of the ponies, they
  would not have ascended it, but would have stayed just at the
  Hawkshead side of Outgate, or at the village itself, at the point of
  convergence of the ways.

  Secondly, the crag can hardly be described as rising from the
  meeting-point of two highways; only one highway passes near it.

  The crag is of so curious a formation geologically, that I can't fancy
  the poet describing his memory of it, without calling it a terraced
  hill, or an ascent by natural terraces.

  Then, again, the prospect is not sufficiently extended from it. The
  stream not near enough, or rather not of size enough, to be heard.
  Blelham Tarn is not too far to have added to the watery sound, it is
  true, but the wind we suppose to have been north-east, and the sound
  of the Blelham Tarn would be much carried away from him.

  The present stone wall is not near the summit, and is of comparatively
  recent date. It is difficult to believe from the slope of the outcrop
  of rock that a wall could ever have been at the summit.

  But there are two other vantage grounds intermediate between those
  extremes, both of which were probably in the mind and memory of the
  poet as he described the scene, and

    'The intermitting prospect of the copse.
    And plain beneath,'

  allowed him by the mist. One of these is the High Crag, about
  three-quarters of a mile from the divergence or convergence of the two
  highways, which Dr. Cradock has selected.

  There can be no doubt that this is the crag 'par excellence' for a
  wide and extended look-out over all the country between Outgate and
  Ambleside. Close at its summit there remain aged thorn trees, but no
  trace of a wall.

  But High Crag can hardly be said to have risen at 'the meeting-point
  of two highways,' unless we are to understand the epithet
  'far-stretched' as applying to the south-western slopes or skirts of
  the hill; and the two highways, the roads between Water Barngates on
  the west, and the bridle road between Pullwyke and Outgate at their
  Outgate junction, and this is rather too far a stretch.

  It is quite true that if bridle paths can be described as highways,
  there may be said to be a meeting-point of these close at the
  north-eastern side of the crag.

  But, remembering that the ponies came from Penrith, the driver was not
  likely to have had any intimate knowledge of these bridle paths;
  while, at the same time, on that misty day, I much question whether
  the boys on the look-out at High Crag could have seen ponies creeping
  along between walled roads at so great a distance as half a mile or
  more.

  And this would seem to have been the problem for them on that day.

  I ought in fairness to say that it is not likely that the roads were
  then (as to-day) walled up high on either side. To-day, even from the
  summit of High Crag, only the head and ears of a pony could be seen as
  it passed up the Water Barngates Road; but at the end of last century
  many of the roads were only partially walled off from the moorlands
  they passed over in the Lake Country.

  Still, as I said, High Crag was a point of vantage that the poet, as a
  lad, must have often climbed, in this part of the country, if he
  wanted to indulge in the delights of panoramic scene.

  There is a wall some hundred yards from the summit, on the
  south-westerly flank of High Crag; near this--at a point close by, two
  large holly trees--the boy might have sheltered himself against the
  north-eastern wind, and have got a closer and better view of the road
  between Barngates and Outgate, and Randy Pike and Outgate.

  Here, too, he could possibly hear the sound of the stream in the
  dingle or woody hollow immediately at his feet; but I am far from
  content with this as being the spot the poet watched from.

  There is again a fourth possible look-out place, to which you will
  remember I directed your attention, nearer Randy Pike. The slope,
  covered with larches, rises up from the Randy Pike Road to a
  precipitous crag which faces north and east.

  From this, a grand view of the country between Randy Pike and Pullwyke
  is obtained, and if the bridle paths might--as is possible, but
  unlikely--be called two highways, then this crag could be spoken of as
  rising from the meeting place of the two highways. For the old
  Hawkshead Road passed along to the east, within calling distance (say
  ninety yards), and a bridle road from Pullwyke, now used chiefly by
  the quarrymen, passed within eighty yards to the west; while it is
  certain that the brook below, when swollen by winter rains, might be
  loud enough to be heard from the copse. This crag is known as Coldwell
  or Caudwell Crag, and is situated about half a mile east-south-east of
  the High Crag.

  It has this much in its favour, that a wall of considerable age crests
  its summit, and one can whilst sitting down on a rock close behind it
  be sheltered from the north and east, and yet obtain an extensive view
  of the subadjacent country. IF it were certain that the ponies when
  they got to Pullwyke did not go up towards Water Barngates, and so to
  Hawkshead, then there is no crag in the district which would so
  thoroughly answer to all the needs of the boys, and to all the points
  of description the poet has placed on record.

  But it is just this IF that makes me decide on the Pullwyke Crag--the
  one first described--as being the actual spot to which, scout-like,
  the schoolboys clomb, on that eventful 'eve of their dear holidays;'
  while, at the same time, it is my firm conviction that Wordsworth--as
  he painted the memories of that event--had also before his mind's eye
  the scene as viewed from Coldwell and High Crag."

Ed.





       *       *       *       *       *





NOTE VI.--COLERIDGE'S LINES TO WORDSWORTH, ON HEARING 'THE PRELUDE'
RECITED BY HIM AT COLEORTON, IN 1806


The following is a copy of a version of these 'Lines', sent by Coleridge
to Sir George Beaumont, at Dunmow, Essex, in January, 1807. The
variations, both in the title and in the text, from that which Coleridge
finally adopted (see p. 129), are interesting in many ways:


LINES

To William Wordsworth: Composed for the greater part on the same night
after the finishing of his recitation of the Poem, in Thirteen Books, on
the growth of his own mind.


  O Friend! O Teacher! God's great Gift to me!
  Into my Heart have I received that Lay
  More than historic, that prophetic Lay
  Wherein (high theme by thee first sung aright)
  Of the foundations and the building up                           5
  Of thine own spirit thou hast loved to tell
  What _may_ be told, by words revealable:
  With heavenly breathings, like the secret soul
  Of vernal growth, oft quickening in the heart
  Thoughts, that obey no mastery of words,                        10
  Pure Self-beholdings! Theme as hard as high,
  Of Smiles spontaneous and mysterious Fear!
  The first born they of Reason and twin birth!
  Of tides obedient to external force,
  And currents self-determin'd, as might seem,                    15
  Or by some inner power! Of moments awful,
  Now in thy hidden life, and now abroad,
  When power stream'd from thee, and thy soul receiv'd
  The light reflected, as a light bestow'd!
  Of fancies fair, and milder hours of youth,                     20
  Hybloean murmurs of poetic thought
  Industrious in its joy, in vales and glens
  Native or outland, Lakes and famous Hills;
  Or on the lonely high-road, when the stars
  Were rising; or by secret mountain streams,                     25
  The guides and the companions of thy way!
  Of more than Fancy--of the SOCIAL SENSE
  Distending, and of Man belov'd as Man,
  Where France in all her Towns lay vibrating,
  Even as a Bark becalm'd on sultry seas                          30
  Quivers beneath the voice from Heaven, the burst
  Of Heaven's immediate thunder, when no cloud
  Is visible, or shadow on the main!
  For thou wert there, thy own brows garlanded,
  Amid the tremor of a Realm aglow!                               35
  Amid a mighty nation jubilant!
  When from the general Heart of Human Kind
  Hope sprang forth, like an armed Deity!
  Of that dear Hope afflicted and struck down,
  So summon'd homeward; thenceforth calm and sure,                40
  As from the Watch-tower of Man's absolute Self,
  With light unwaning on her eyes, to look
  Far on--herself a Glory to behold,
  The Angel of the Vision! Then (last strain)
  Of Duty, chosen Laws controlling choice,                        45
  Action and Joy!--an Orphic Tale indeed,
  A Tale divine of high and passionate Thoughts,
  To their own Music chaunted!--

                                A great Bard!
  Ere yet the last strain dying awed the air,
  With steadfast eyes I saw thee in the choir                     50
  Of ever-enduring men. The truly Great
  Have all one age, and from one visible space
  Shed influence: for they, both power and act,
  Are permanent, and Time is not with them,
  Save as it worketh for them, they in it.                        55
  Nor less a sacred Roll, than those of old,
  And to be plac'd, as they, with gradual fame
  Among the Archives of Mankind, thy Work
  Makes audible a linked Song of Truth,
  Of Truth profound a sweet continuous Song                       60
  Not learnt, but native, her own natural notes!
  Dear shall it be to every human heart,
  To me how more than dearest! Me, on whom
  Comfort from thee, and utterance of thy Love,
  Come with such Heights and Depths of Harmony                    65
  Such sense of Wings uplifting, that its might
  Scatter'd and quell'd me, till my Thoughts became
  A bodily Tumult; and thy faithful Hopes,
  Thy Hopes of me, dear Friend! by me unfelt!
  Were troublous to me, almost as a Voice                         70
  Familiar once and more than musical;
  As a dear Woman's Voice to one cast forth, [A]
  A Wanderer with a worn-out heart forlorn,
  Mid Strangers pining with untended wounds.

  O Friend! too well thou know'st, of what sad years              75
  The long suppression had benumbed my soul,
  That, even as Life returns upon the Drown'd,
  The unusual Joy awoke a throng of Pains--
  Keen Pangs of LOVE, awakening, as a Babe,
  Turbulent, with an outcry in the Heart!                         80
  And Fears self-will'd, that shunn'd the eye of Hope,
  And Hope, that scarce would know itself from Fear;
  Sense of past youth, and manhood come in vain,
  And Genius given and Knowledge won in vain;
  And all, which I had cull'd in wood-walks wild,                 85
  And all, which patient Toil had rear'd, and all,
  Commune with THEE had open'd out--but Flowers
  Strew'd on my Corse, and borne upon my Bier,
  In the same Coffin, for the self-same Grave!

  That way no more! and ill beseems it me,                        90
  Who came a Welcomer, in Herald's Guise,
  Singing of Glory and Futurity,
  To wander back on such unhealthful road
  Plucking the Poisons of Self-harm! And ill
  Such intertwine beseems triumphal wreaths                       95
  Strew'd before thy advancing! Thou too, Friend!
  Impair thou not the memory of that hour
  Of thy Communion with my nobler mind
  By pity or grief, already felt too long!
  Nor let my words import more blame than needs.                 100
  The tumult rose and ceas'd: for Peace is nigh
  Where Wisdom's voice has found a list'ning Heart.
  Amid the howl of more than wintry storms
  The Halcyon hears the Voice of vernal Hours,
  Already on the wing!

                       Eve following Eve                         105
  Dear tranquil Time, when the sweet sense of Home
  Is sweetest! Moments, for their own sake hail'd,
  And more desired, more precious for thy Song!
  In silence listening, like a devout child,
  My soul lay passive, by the various strain                     110
  Driven as in surges now, beneath the stars
  With momentary [B] stars of her [C] own birth,
  Fair constellated Foam, still darting off
  Into the Darkness; now a tranquil Sea,
  Outspread and bright, yet swelling to the Moon.                115

  And when--O Friend! my Comforter! my [D] Guide!
  Strong in thyself and powerful to give strength!--
  Thy long sustained Song finally clos'd,
  And thy deep voice had ceas'd--yet thou thyself
  Wert still before mine eyes, and round us both                 120
  That happy Vision of beloved Faces--
  (All whom, I deepliest love--in one room all!)
  Scarce conscious and yet conscious of its close
  I sate, my Being blended in one Thought,
  (Thought was it? or aspiration? or resolve?)                   125
  Absorb'd; yet hanging still upon the Sound--
  And when I rose, I found myself in Prayer.


S. T. COLERIDGE.

'Jany'. 1807.


       *       *       *       *       *

FOOTNOTES ON THE TEXT

[Footnote A: Different reading on same MS.:

  'To one cast forth, whose Hope had seem'd to die.'

Ed.]


[Footnote B: Compare, as an illustrative note, the descriptive passage
in Satyrane's first Letter in 'Biographia Literaria', beginning, "A
beautiful white cloud of foam," etc.--S.T.C.]


[Footnote C: Different reading on same MS., "'my'."--Ed.]


[Footnote D: Different reading on same MS., "'and'."--Ed.]



In a MS. copy of 'Dejection, An Ode', transcribed for Sir George
Beaumont on the 4th of April 1802--and sent to him, when living with
Lord Lowther at Lowther Hall--there is evidence that the poem was
originally addressed to Wordsworth.

The following lines in this copy can be compared with those finally
adopted:

  'O dearest William! in this heartless mood,
  To other thoughts by yonder throstle woo'd
  All this long eve so balmy and serene
  Have I been gazing on the western sky,'

  ...

  'O William, we _receive_ but what we _give_:
  And in our life alone does Nature live.'

  ...

         'Yes, dearest William! Yes!
  There was a time when though my Path was rough
  This Joy within me dallied with distress.'


The MS. copy is described by Coleridge as "imperfect"; and it breaks off
abruptly at the lines:

  'Suspends what Nature gave me at my birth
  My shaping spirit of Imagination.'

And he continues:

  'I am so weary of this doleful poem, that I must leave off....'

Another MS. copy of this poem, amongst the Coleorton papers, is signed
"S. T. Coleridge to William Wordsworth."    Ed.





       *       *       *       *       *





NOTE VII.--GENERAL BEAUPUY


(See pp. 297 and 302, 'The Prelude', book ix.)


Professor Emile Legouis of Lyons--a thorough student, and a very
competent expounder, of our modern English Literature--supplied me, some
years ago, with numerous facts in reference to Wordsworth's friend
General Beaupuy, and his family, from which I extract the following:

  'The Prelude' gives us very little precise information about the
  republican officer with whom Wordsworth became acquainted in France,
  and on whom he bestowed more praise than on almost any other of his
  contemporaries. We only gather the following facts:--That his name was
  'Beaupuy', that he was quartered at Orleans, with royalist officers,
  sometime between November 1791 and the spring of 1792, and that

    'He perished fighting, _in supreme command_,
    Upon the borders of the unhappy Loire,
    For liberty, against deluded men,
    His fellow-countrymen....'

  Though it seems very easy to identify a general even with such scanty
  data, the task is rendered more difficult by two inaccuracies in
  Wordsworth's statement, which, however, can be explained and redressed
  without much difficulty.

  The first inaccuracy is in the spelling of the name, which is
  'Beaupuy' and not 'Beaupuis'--a slight mistake considering that
  Wordsworth was a foreigner, and, besides, wrote down his friend's name
  ten years and perhaps more after losing sight of him. Moreover, the
  name of the general who, I think, was meant by Wordsworth, I have
  found spelt 'Beaupuy' in one instance, viz. the signature of a letter
  of his, as printed in 'Vie et Correspondance de Merlin de Thionville',
  publiee par Jean Reynaud, Paris, 1860 (2'e partie p. 241).

  The spelling of proper names was not so fixed then as it is nowadays,
  and this irregularity is not to be wondered at.

  The second inaccuracy consists in stating that General Beaupuy died on
  the banks of the Loire during the Vendean war. Indeed, he was
  grievously wounded at the Battle of Chateau-Gonthier, on the 26th of
  October 1793, and reported as dead. His soldiers thought he had been
  killed, and the rumour must have spread abroad, as it was recorded by
  A. Thiers himself in his 'Histoire de la Revolution', and by A.
  Challemel in his 'Histoire Musee de la Republique Francaise'.

  It is no wonder that Wordsworth, who was then in England, and could
  only read imperfect accounts of what took place in France, should have
  been mistaken too.

  No other General Beaupuy is recorded in the history of the Revolution,
  so far as I have been able to ascertain. The moral character of the
  officer, whose life I shall relate, answers to Wordsworth's
  description, and is worthy of his high estimate.

  Armand Michel de Bachelier, Chevalier de Beaupuy, was born at
  Mussidan, in Perigord, on the 15th of July 1757. He belonged to a
  noble family, less proud of its antiquity than of the blood it had
  shed for France on many battlefields. On his mother's side (Mlle. de
  Villars), he reckoned Montaigne, the celebrated essayist, among his
  ancestors. His parents having imbibed the philanthropic ideas of the
  time, educated him according to their principles.

  He had four brothers, who were all destined to turn republicans and do
  good service to the new cause, though their interest certainly lay in
  the opposite direction.

  ...

  He was made sub-lieutenant in the regiment of Bassigny (33rd division
  of foot) on the 2nd of March 1773, and lieutenant of grenadiers on the
  1st of October of the same year.

  In 1791 he was first lieutenant in the same regiment. Having sided
  with the Revolution, he was appointed commander of a battalion of
  national volunteers in the department of Dordogne. I have not found
  the exact date of this appointment, but it must have taken place
  immediately after his stay at Orleans with Wordsworth.

  I have found no further mention of his name till September 1792, when
  he is known to have served in the "Armee du Rhin," under General
  Custine, and contributed to the taking of Spire.

  He took an important part in the taking of Worms, 4th October; of
  Mayence (Maenz) 21st October. He was among the garrison of Mayence
  when this place was besieged by the Prussians, and obliged to
  capitulate after a long and famous siege (from 6th April 1793 to 22nd
  July 1793). [A]

  During the siege he wrote a journal of all the operations.
  Unfortunately, this journal is very short, and purely military. It has
  been handed down to us, and is found in the Bibliotheque Nationale of
  Paris in the 'Papiers de Merlin de Thionville', n. acq. fr. Nos.
  244-252, 8 vol. in-8 deg.. Beaupuy's journal is in the 3rd volume, fol.
  213-228.

  ...

  In the Vendean war, the "Mayencais," or soldiers returned from
  Mayence, made themselves conspicuous, and bore almost all the brunt of
  the campaign. But none of them distinguished himself more than
  Beaupuy, then a General of Brigade.

  The Mayencais arrived in Vendee at the end of August or beginning of
  September 1793. To Beaupuy's skill the victory of Chollet (Oct. 17,
  1793) is attributed by Jomini. In this battle he fought hand to hand
  with and overcame a Vendean cavalier. He himself had three horses
  killed, and had a very narrow escape. On the battlefield he was made
  'general of division' by the "Representants du peuple." It was after
  Chollet that the Vendeans made the memorable crossing of the Loire at
  St. Florent.

  At Laval and Chateau-Gonthier (Oct. 26) a terrible defeat was
  inflicted on the Republicans, owing to the incapacity of their
  commander-in-chief, Lechelle. The whole corps commanded by General
  Beaupuy was crushed by a terrible fire, He himself, after withstanding
  for two or three hours with 2000 or 3000 men all the attacks of the
  royalists, was disabled by a shot, and fell, crying out, "'Laissez-moi
  la, et portez a mes grenadiers ma chemise sanglante'." His soldiers
  thought he was dead, and then the error was spread, which was repeated
  by Wordsworth, Thiers, and Challamel. Wordsworth's mistake is so far
  interesting, as it seems to prove that very little or no
  correspondence passed between the two friends after they had parted.
  Beaupuy, moreover, had too much work upon his hands to give much of
  his time to letter-writing.

  Though severely wounded, Beaupuy lived on, and less than six weeks
  after the battle of Chateau-Gonthier, he was seen on the ramparts of
  Angers, where he required himself to be carried to animate his
  soldiers and head the defenders of the place, from which the Vendeans
  were driven after a severe contest (Dec. 5 and 6).

  On the 22nd of December 1793 he shared in the victory of Savenay with
  his celebrated friends, Marceau, Kleber, and Westermann. After this
  battle, which put an end to the great Vendean war, he wrote the
  following letter to his friend Merlin de Thionville, the celebrated
  "representant du peuple."

    "SAVENAY, le 4 Nivose au 2'e (25 Dec. 73).

    "Enfin, enfin, mon cher Merlin, elle n'est plus cette armee royale
    ou catholique, comme tu voudras! J'en ai vu, avec tes braves
    collegues Prieur et Eurreau, les debris, consistant en 150 cavaliers
    battant l'eau dans le marais de Montaire; et comme tu connais ma
    veracite tu peux dire avec assurance que les deux combats de Savenay
    ont mis fin a la guerre de la nouvelle Vendee et aux chimeriques
    esperances des royalists.

    L'histoire ne vous presente point de combat dont le suites aient ete
    plus decisives. Ah! mon brave, comme tu aurais joui! quelle attaque!
    mais quelle deroute aussi! Il fallait les voir ces soldats de Jesus
    et de Louis XVII, se jetant dans les marais ou obliges de se rendre
    par 5 ou 600 a la fois; et Langreniere pris et les autres generaux
    disperses et aux abois!

    Cette armee, dont tu avais vu les restes de la terrasse de St.
    Florent, etait redevenue formidable par son recrutement dans les
    departements envahis. Je les ai bien vus, bien examines, j'ai
    reconnu meme de mes figures de Chollet et de Laval, et a leur
    contenance et a leur mine, je l'assure qu'il ne leur manquait du
    soldat que l'habit. Des troupes qui ont battu de tels Francais
    peuvent se flatter ainsi de vainere des peuples assez laaches pour
    se reunir centre un seul et encore pour la cause des rois! Enfin, je
    ne sais si je me trompe, mais cette guerre de brigands, de paysans,
    sur laquelle on a jete tant de ridicule, que l'on dedaignait, que
    l'on affectait de regarder comme meprisable, m'a toujours paru, pour
    la republique, la grande partie, et il me semble a present qu'avec
    nos autres ennemis, nous ne ferrons plus que peloter.

    Adieu, brave montagnard, adieu! Actuellement que cette execrable
    guerre est terminee, que les manes de nos freres sont satisfaits, je
    vais guerir. J'ai obtenu de tes confreres un conge qui finira au
    moment ou la guerre recommencera.

    LE GENERAL DE BRIGADE BEAUPUY.


  I think I can recognize in this letter some traits of Beaupuy's
  character as pointed out by Wordsworth, not excepting the
  half-suppressed criticism:

      '... somewhat vain he was,
    Or seemed so, yet it was not vanity,
    But fondness, and a kind of radiant joy
    Diffused around him ...'

  Passing over numerous military incidents, on the 26th of June 1796
  Beaupuy received seven or eight sabre-cuts at Jorich-Wildstadt. But on
  the 8th of July he was already back at his post.

  He again greatly distinguished himself on the 1st of September 1796 at
  Greisenfeld and Langenbruck, where the victory of the French was owing
  to a timely attack made by Desaix and himself.

  He was one of the generals under Moreau when the latter achieved his
  well-known retreat through the Black Forest, begun on the 15th of
  September 1796, and during which many battles were fought. In one of
  the actions on the banks of the Elz, Beaupuy was killed by a
  cannon-ball, while opposing General Latour on the heights of
  Malterdingen. His soldiers, who loved him passionately, fought
  desperately to avenge his death (Oct. 19, 1796).

  One of Beaupuy's colleagues, General Duhem, in his account of the
  battle to the Government, thus expressed himself on General Beaupuy:

    "Ecrivains patriotes, orateurs chaleureux, je vous propose un noble
    sujet, l'eloge du General Beaupuy, de Beaupuy, le Nestor et
    l'Achille de notre armee. Vous n'avez pas de recherches a faire;
    interrogez le premier soldat de l'armee du Rhin-et-Moselle, ses
    larmes exciteront les votres. Ecrivez alors ce que est vous en dira,
    et vous peindrez le Bayard de la Republique Francaise."

  Such bombastic style was then common, but what we have seen of Beaupuy
  in this sketch shows that he had through his career united Nestor's
  prudence [B] with Achilles' bodily courage and Bayard's chivalric
  spirit,--to use the language of the time.

  General Moreau had Beaupuy's remains transported to Brisach, where a
  monument was erected to his memory in 1802, after the peace of
  Luneville.

  In short, Beaupuy seems to have always remained worthy of the high
  praise bestowed on him by Wordsworth. His name is to be remembered
  along with those of the unspotted generals of the first years of the
  Revolution--Hoche, Marceau, etc.--before the craving for conquest had
  developed, and the love of liberty yielded to a fond admiration of
  Bonaparte as it did in the case of Kleber, Desaix, and so many others.
  [C]

  N. B.--The great influence which Beaupuy exercised at that time on
  Wordsworth will be easily understood, if we take into account not only
  his real qualities, but also his age. When they met, Wordsworth was
  only twenty-one, Beaupuy nearly thirty-five. The grown-up man could
  impart much of his knowledge of life, and of the favourite authors of
  the time, to a youth fresh from the University--though that youth was
  Wordsworth.

  EMILE LEGOUIS.


       *       *       *       *       *

FOOTNOTES ON THE TEXT


[Footnote A: His bravery shone forth at Coethen, where he was left alone
in a group of Prussians. He fought with their chief and disarmed him. A
few days after he was named General of Brigade.--8th March 1793.]


[Footnote B: The pacification of Vendee was for a great part owing to
his valour and prudence.]

[Footnote C: Beaupuy is said to have united civic virtues with military
talents. A good son and a good brother, he showed in many a circumstance
that true valour does not exclude humanity, and that the soul can be
both strong and full of feeling.]


These notes (B and C) are taken from 'Biographic Nouvelle de
Contemporains'.









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