Delphi Complete Works of William Wordsworth

by William Wordsworth

  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,

  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, the hopes of men

  Who were content to barter short-lived pangs

  For a paradise of ages, the blind rage

  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.

  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

  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

  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. O Friend!

  It was a lamentable time for man,

  Whether a hope had e’er been his or not:

  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

  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,

  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.

  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,

  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,

  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,

  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,

  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,

  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

  By false philosophy had caused the woe,

  But a terrific reservoir of guilt

  And ignorance filled 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

  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; 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,

  Triumphal pomp for liberty confirmed,

  I paced, a dear companion at my side,

  The town of Arras, 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

  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. The day deserves

  A separate record. Over the smooth sands

  Of Leven’s ample estuary lay

  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

  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,

  And on the stone were graven by his desire

  Lines from the churchyard elegy of Gray.

  This faithful guide, speaking from his deathbed,

  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, 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,

  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.

  As I advanced, all that I saw or felt

  Was gentleness and peace. Upon a small

  And rocky island near, a fragment stood,

  (Itself like a sea rock) the low remains

  (With shells encrusted, dark with briny weeds)

  Of a dilapidated structure, once

  A Romish chapel, 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

  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.

  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

  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

  Along that very shore which I had skimmed

  In former days, when—spurring from the Vale

  Of Nightshade, and St. Mary’s mouldering fane,

  And the stone abbot, after circuit made

  In wantonness of heart, a joyous band 600

  Of schoolboys hastening to their distant home

  Along the margin of the moonlight sea—

  We beat with thundering hoofs the level sand.

  BOOK ELEVENTH

  FRANCE (concluded)

  FROM that time forth, Authority in France

  Put on a milder face; Terror had ceased,

  Yet everything was wanting that might give

  Courage to them who looked for good by light

  Of rational Experience, for the shoots

  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 virtue
s which mine eyes had seen,

  I knew that wound external could not take

  Life from the young Republic; that new foes

  Would only follow, in the path of shame,

  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

  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,

  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

  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

  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; they who ruled the State—