Delphi Complete Works of William Wordsworth

by William Wordsworth

  Since that day forth the Place to him—’to me’

  (For I who live to register the truth

  Was that same young and happy Being) became

  As beautiful to thought, as it had been

  When present, to the bodily sense; a haunt 50

  Of pure affections, shedding upon joy

  A brighter joy; and through such damp and gloom

  Of the gay mind, as ofttimes splenetic youth

  Mistakes for sorrow, darting beams of light

  That no self-cherished sadness could withstand;

  And now ‘tis mine, perchance for life, dear Vale,

  Beloved Grasmere (let the wandering streams

  Take up, the cloud-capt hills repeat, the Name)

  One of thy lowly Dwellings is my Home.

  And was the cost so great? and could it seem 60

  An act of courage, and the thing itself

  A conquest? who must bear the blame? Sage man

  Thy prudence, thy experience, thy desires,

  Thy apprehensions—blush thou for them all.

  Yes the realities of life so cold,

  So cowardly, so ready to betray,

  So stinted in the measure of their grace

  As we pronounce them, doing them much wrong,

  Have been to me more bountiful than hope,

  Less timid than desire—but that is past. 70

  On Nature’s invitation do I come,

  By Reason sanctioned. Can the choice mislead,

  That made the calmest fairest spot of earth

  With all its unappropriated good

  My own; and not mine only, for with me

  Entrenched, say rather peacefully embowered,

  Under yon orchard, in yon humble cot,

  A younger Orphan of a home extinct,

  The only Daughter of my Parents dwells.

  Ay, think on that, my heart, and cease to stir, 80

  Pause upon that and let the breathing frame

  No longer breathe, but all be satisfied.

  —Oh, if such silence be not thanks to God

  For what hath been bestowed, then where, where then

  Shall gratitude find rest? Mine eyes did ne’er

  Fix on a lovely object, nor my mind

  Take pleasure in the midst of happy thoughts,

  But either She whom now I have, who now

  Divides with me this loved abode, was there,

  Or not far off. Where’er my footsteps turned, 90

  Her voice was like a hidden Bird that sang,

  The thought of her was like a flash of light,

  Or an unseen companionship, a breath

  Of fragrance independent of the Wind.

  In all my goings, in the new and old

  Of all my meditations, and in this

  Favourite of all, in this the most of all.

  —What being, therefore, since the birth of Man

  Had ever more abundant cause to speak

  Thanks, and if favours of the Heavenly Muse 100

  Make him more thankful, then to call on Verse

  To aid him and in song resound his joy?

  The boon is absolute; surpassing grace

  To me hath been vouchsafed; among the bowers

  Of blissful Eden this was neither given

  Nor could be given, possession of the good

  Which had been sighed for, ancient thought fulfilled,

  And dear Imaginations realised,

  Up to their highest measure, yea and more.

  Embrace me then, ye Hills, and close me in; 110

  Now in the clear and open day I feel

  Your guardianship; I take it to my heart;

  ‘Tis like the solemn shelter of the night.

  But I would call thee beautiful, for mild,

  And soft, and gay, and beautiful thou art

  Dear Valley, having in thy face a smile

  Though peaceful, full of gladness. Thou art pleased,

  Pleased with thy crags and woody steeps, thy Lake,

  Its one green island and its winding shores;

  The multitude of little rocky hills, 120

  Thy Church and cottages of mountain stone

  Clustered like stars some few, but single most,

  And lurking dimly in their shy retreats,

  Or glancing at each other cheerful looks

  Like separated stars with clouds between.

  What want we? have we not perpetual streams,

  Warm woods, and sunny hills, and fresh green fields,

  And mountains not less green, and flocks and herds,

  And thickets full of songsters, and the voice

  Of lordly birds, an unexpected sound 130

  Heard now and then from morn to latest eve,

  Admonishing the man who walks below

  Of solitude and silence in the sky?

  These have we, and a thousand nooks of earth

  Have also these, but nowhere else is found,

  Nowhere (or is it fancy?) can be found

  The one sensation that is here; ‘tis here,

  Here as it found its way into my heart

  In childhood, here as it abides by day,

  By night, here only; or in chosen minds 140

  That take it with them hence, where’er they go.

  —’Tis, but I cannot name it, ‘tis the sense

  Of majesty, and beauty, and repose,

  A blended holiness of earth and sky,

  Something that makes this individual spot,

  This small abiding-place of many men,

  A termination, and a last retreat,

  A centre, come from wheresoe’er you will,

  A whole without dependence or defect,

  Made for itself, and happy in itself, 150

  Perfect contentment, Unity entire.

  Bleak season was it, turbulent and bleak,

  When hitherward we journeyed side by side

  Through burst of sunshine and through flying showers;

  Paced the long vales—how long they were—and yet

  How fast that length of way was left behind,

  Wensley’s rich Vale, and Sedbergh’s naked heights.

  The frosty wind, as if to make amends

  For its keen breath, was aiding to our steps,

  And drove us onward like two ships at sea, 160

  Or like two birds, companions in mid-air,

  Parted and reunited by the blast.

  Stern was the face of nature; we rejoiced

  In that stern countenance, for our souls thence drew

  A feeling of their strength. The naked trees,

  The icy brooks, as on we passed, appeared

  To question us. “Whence come ye, to what end?”

  They seemed to say, “What would ye,” said the shower,

  “Wild Wanderers, whither through my dark domain?”

  The sunbeam said, “Be happy.” When this vale 170

  We entered, bright and solemn was the sky

  That faced us with a passionate welcoming,

  And led us to our threshold. Daylight failed

  Insensibly, and round us gently fell

  Composing darkness, with a quiet load

  Of full contentment, in a little shed

  Disturbed, uneasy in itself as seemed,

  And wondering at its new inhabitants.

  It loves us now, this Vale so beautiful

  Begins to love us! by a sullen storm, 180

  Two months unwearied of severest storm,

  It put the temper of our minds to proof,

  And found us faithful through the gloom, and heard

  The poet mutter his prelusive songs

  With cheerful heart, an unknown voice of joy

  Among the silence of the woods and hills;

  Silent to any gladsomeness of sound

  With all their shepherds.

  But the gates of Spring

  Are opened; churlish winter hath given leave

 
That she should entertain for this one day, 190

  Perhaps for many genial days to come,

  His guests, and make them jocund.—They are pleased,

  But most of all the birds that haunt the flood

  With the mild summons; inmates though they be

  Of Winter’s household, they keep festival

  This day, who drooped, or seemed to droop, so long;

  They show their pleasure, and shall I do less?

  Happier of happy though I be, like them

  I cannot take possession of the sky,

  Mount with a thoughtless impulse, and wheel there 200

  One of a mighty multitude, whose way

  Is a perpetual harmony and dance

  Magnificent. Behold how with a grace

  Of ceaseless motion, that might scarcely seem

  Inferior to angelical, they prolong

  Their curious pastime, shaping in mid-air,

  And sometimes with ambitious wing that soars

  High as the level of the mountain tops,

  A circuit ampler than the lake beneath,

  Their own domain;—but ever, while intent 210

  On tracing and retracing that large round,

  Their jubilant activity evolves

  Hundreds of curves and circlets, to and fro,

  Upwards and downwards; progress intricate

  Yet unperplexed, as if one spirit swayed

  Their indefatigable flight. ‘Tis done,

  Ten times and more I fancied it had ceased,

  But lo! the vanished company again

  Ascending, they approach. I hear their wings

  Faint, faint at first; and then an eager sound 220

  Passed in a moment—and as faint again!

  They tempt the sun to sport among their plumes;

  Tempt the smooth water, or the gleaming ice,

  To show them a fair image,—’tis themselves,

  Their own fair forms upon the glimmering plain

  Painted more soft and fair as they descend,

  Almost to touch,—then up again aloft,

  Up with a sally and a flash of speed,

  As if they scorned both resting-place and rest!

  —This day is a thanksgiving, ‘tis a day 230

  Of glad emotion and deep quietness;

  Not upon me alone hath been bestowed,

  Me rich in many onward-looking thoughts,

  The penetrating bliss; oh surely these

  Have felt it, not the happy choirs of spring,

  Her own peculiar family of love

  That sport among green leaves, a blither train!

  But two are missing, two, a lonely pair

  Of milk-white Swans; wherefore are they not seen

  Partaking this day’s pleasure? From afar 240

  They came, to sojourn here in solitude,

  Choosing this Valley, they who had the choice

  Of the whole world. We saw them day by day,

  Through those two months of unrelenting storm,

  Conspicuous at the centre of the Lake

  Their safe retreat, we knew them well, I guess

  That the whole valley knew them; but to us

  They were more dear than may be well believed,

  Not only for their beauty, and their still

  And placid way of life, and constant love 250

  Inseparable, not for these alone,

  But that ‘their’ state so much resembled ours,

  They having also chosen this abode;

  They strangers, and we strangers, they a pair,

  And we a solitary pair like them.

  They should not have departed; many days

  Did I look forth in vain, nor on the wing

  Could see them, nor in that small open space

  Of blue unfrozen water, where they lodged

  And lived so long in quiet, side by side. 260

  Shall we behold them consecrated friends,

  Faithful companions, yet another year

  Surviving, they for us, and we for them,

  And neither pair be broken? nay perchance

  It is too late already for such hope;

  The Dalesmen may have aimed the deadly tube,

  And parted them; or haply both are gone

  One death, and that were mercy given to both.

  Recall, my song, the ungenerous thought; forgive,

  Thrice favoured Region, the conjecture harsh 270

  Of such inhospitable penalty

  Inflicted upon confidence so pure.

  Ah! if I wished to follow where the sight

  Of all that is before my eyes, the voice

  Which speaks from a presiding spirit here,

  Would lead me, I should whisper to myself:

  They who are dwellers in this holy place

  Must needs themselves be hallowed, they require

  No benediction from the stranger’s lips,

  For they are blessed already; none would give 280

  The greeting “peace be with you” unto them,

  For peace they have; it cannot but be theirs,

  And mercy, and forbearance—nay—not these—

  ‘Their’ healing offices a pure good-will

  Precludes, and charity beyond the bounds

  Of charity—an overflowing love;

  Not for the creature only, but for all

  That is around them; love for everything

  Which in their happy Region they behold!

  Thus do we soothe ourselves, and when the thought 290

  Is passed, we blame it not for having come.

  —What if I floated down a pleasant stream,

  And now am landed, and the motion gone,

  Shall I reprove myself? Ah no, the stream

  Is flowing, and will never cease to flow,

  And I shall float upon that stream again.

  By such forgetfulness the soul becomes,

  Words cannot say how beautiful: then hail,

  Hail to the visible Presence, hail to thee,

  Delightful Valley, habitation fair! 300

  And to whatever else of outward form

  Can give an inward help, can purify,

  And elevate, and harmonise, and soothe,

  And steal away, and for a while deceive

  And lap in pleasing rest, and bear us on

  Without desire in full complacency,

  Contemplating perfection absolute,

  And entertained as in a placid sleep.

  But not betrayed by tenderness of mind

  That feared, or wholly overlooked the truth, 310

  Did we come hither, with romantic hope

  To find in midst of so much loveliness

  Love, perfect love: of so much majesty

  A like majestic-frame of mind in those

  Who here abide, the persons like the place.

  Not from such hope, or aught of such belief,

  Hath issued any portion of the joy

  Which I have felt this day. An awful voice

  ‘Tis true hath in my walks been often heard,

  Sent from the mountains or the sheltered fields, 320

  Shout after shout—reiterated whoop,

  In manner of a bird that takes delight

  In answering to itself: or like a hound

  Single at chase among the lonely woods,

  His yell repeating; yet it was in truth

  A human voice—a spirit of coming night;

  How solemn when the sky is dark, and earth

  Not dark, nor yet enlightened, but by snow

  Made visible, amid a noise of winds

  And bleatings manifold of mountain sheep, 330

  Which in that iteration recognise

  Their summons, and are gathering round for food,

  Devoured with keenness, ere to grove or bank

  Or rocky bield with patience they retire.

  That very voice, which, in some timid mood

  Of superstitious fancy, might have
seemed

  Awful as ever stray demoniac uttered,

  His steps to govern in the wilderness;

  Or as the Norman Curfew’s regular beat

  To hearths when first they darkened at the knell: 340

  That shepherd’s voice, it may have reached mine ear

  Debased and under profanation, made

  The ready organ of articulate sounds

  From ribaldry, impiety, or wrath,

  Issuing when shame hath ceased to check the brawls

  Of some abused Festivity—so be it.

  I came not dreaming of unruffled life,

  Untainted manners; born among the hills,

  Bred also there, I wanted not a scale

  To regulate my hopes; pleased with the good 350

  I shrink not from the evil with disgust,

  Or with immoderate pain. I look for Man,

  The common creature of the brotherhood,

  Differing but little from the Man elsewhere,

  For selfishness and envy and revenge,

  Ill neighbourhood—pity that this should be—

  Flattery and double-dealing, strife and wrong.

  Yet is it something gained, it is in truth

  A mighty gain, that Labour here preserves

  His rosy face, a servant only here 360

  Of the fireside or of the open field,

  A Freeman therefore sound and unimpaired:

  That extreme penury is here unknown,

  And cold and hunger’s abject wretchedness

  Mortal to body and the heaven-born mind:

  That they who want are not too great a weight

  For those who can relieve; here may the heart

  Breathe in the air of fellow-suffering

  Dreadless, as in a kind of fresher breeze

  Of her own native element, the hand 370

  Be ready and unwearied without plea,

  From tasks too frequent or beyond its power,

  For languor or indifference or despair.

  And as these lofty barriers break the force

  Of winds,—this deep Vale, as it doth in part

  Conceal us from the storm, so here abides

  A power and a protection for the mind,

  Dispensed indeed to other solitudes

  Favoured by noble privilege like this,

  Where kindred independence of estate 380

  Is prevalent, where he who tills the field,

  He, happy man! is master of the field,

  And treads the mountains which his Fathers trod.

  Not less than halfway up yon mountain’s side,

  Behold a dusky spot, a grove of Firs

  That seems still smaller than it is; this grove

  Is haunted—by what ghost? a gentle spirit

  Of memory faithful to the call of love;

  For, as reports the Dame, whose fire sends up

  Yon curling smoke from the grey cot below, 390

  The trees (her first-born child being then a babe)