Faint—far-off—near—deep—solemn and sublime!—
So, from the body of one guilty deed,
A thousand ghostly fears, and haunting thoughts, proceed!
MEMORIALS OF A TOUR ON THE CONTINENT, 1820, XXXI
PROCESSIONS SUGGESTED ON A SABBATH MORNING IN THE VALE OF CHAMOUNY
TO appease the Gods; or public thanks to yield;
Or to solicit knowledge of events,
Which in her breast Futurity concealed;
And that the past might have its true intents
Feelingly told by living monuments—
Mankind of yore were prompted to devise
Rites such as yet Persepolis presents
Graven on her cankered walls, solemnities
That moved in long array before admiring eyes.
The Hebrews thus, carrying in joyful state 10
Thick boughs of palm, and willows from the brook,
Marched round the altar—to commemorate
How, when their course they through the desert took,
Guided by signs which ne’er the sky forsook,
They lodged in leafy tents and cabins low;
Green boughs were borne, while, for the blast that shook
Down to the earth the walls of Jericho,
Shouts rise, and storms of sound from lifted trumpets blow!
And thus, in order, ‘mid the sacred grove
Fed in the Libyan waste by gushing wells, 20
The priests and damsels of Ammonian Jove
Provoked responses with shrill canticles;
While, in a ship begirt with silver bells,
They round his altar bore the horned God,
Old Cham, the solar Deity, who dwells
Aloft, yet in a tilting vessel rode,
When universal sea the mountains overflowed.
Why speak of Roman Pomps? the haughty claims
Of Chiefs triumphant after ruthless wars;
The feast of Neptune—and the Cereal Games, 30
With images, and crowns, and empty cars;
The dancing Salii—on the shields of Mars
Smiting with fury; and a deeper dread
Scattered on all sides by the hideous jars
Of Corybantian cymbals, while the head
Of Cybele was seen, sublimely turreted!
At length a Spirit more subdued and soft
Appeared—to govern Christian pageantries:
The Cross, in calm procession, borne aloft
Moved to the chant of sober litanies. 40
Even such, this day, came wafted on the breeze
From a long train—in hooded vestments fair
Enwrapt—and winding, between Alpine trees
Spiry and dark, around their House of prayer,
Below the icy bed of bright ARGENTIERE.
Still in the vivid freshness of a dream,
The pageant haunts me as it met our eyes!
Still, with those white-robed Shapes—a living Stream,
The glacier Pillars join in solemn guise
For the same service, by mysterious ties; 50
Numbers exceeding credible account
Of number, pure and silent Votaries
Issuing or issued from a wintry fount;
The impenetrable heart of that exalted Mount!
They, too, who send so far a holy gleam
While they the Church engird with motion slow,
A product of that awful Mountain seem,
Poured from his vaults of everlasting snow;
Not virgin lilies marshalled in bright row,
Not swans descending with the stealthy tide, 60
A livelier sisterly resemblance show
Than the fair Forms, that in long order glide,
Bear to the glacier band—those Shapes aloft descried.
Trembling, I look upon the secret springs
Of that licentious craving in the mind
To act the God among external things,
To bind, on apt suggestion, or unbind;
And marvel not that antique Faith inclined
To crowd the world with metamorphosis,
Vouchsafed in pity or in wrath assigned; 70
Such insolent temptations wouldst thou miss,
Avoid these sights; nor brood o’er Fable’s dark abyss!
MEMORIALS OF A TOUR ON THE CONTINENT, 1820, XXXII
ELEGIAC STANZAS
LULLED by the sound of pastoral bells,
Rude Nature’s Pilgrims did we go,
From the dread summit of the Queen
Of mountains, through a deep ravine,
Where, in her holy chapel, dwells
“Our Lady of the Snow.”
The sky was blue, the air was mild;
Free were the streams and green the bowers;
As if, to rough assaults unknown,
The genial spot had ‘ever’ shown 10
A countenance that as sweetly smiled—
The face of summer-hours.
And we were gay, our hearts at ease;
With pleasure dancing through the frame
We journeyed; all we knew of care—
Our path that straggled here and there;
Of trouble—but the fluttering breeze;
Of Winter—but a name.
If foresight could have rent the veil
Of three short days—but hush—no more! 20
Calm is the grave, and calmer none
Than that to which thy cares are gone,
Thou Victim of the stormy gale;
Asleep on ZURICH’S shore!
O GODDARD! what art thou?—a name—
A sunbeam followed by a shade!
Nor more, for aught that time supplies,
The great, the experienced, and the wise:
Too much from this frail earth we claim,
And therefore are betrayed. 30
We met, while festive mirth ran wild,
Where, from a deep lake’s mighty urn,
Forth slips, like an enfranchised slave,
A sea-green river, proud to lave,
With current swift and undefiled,
The towers of old LUCERNE.
We parted upon solemn ground
Far-lifted towards the unfading sky;
But all our thoughts were ‘then’ of Earth,
That gives to common pleasures birth; 40
And nothing in our hearts we found
That prompted even a sigh.
Fetch, sympathising Powers of air,
Fetch, ye that post o’er seas and lands,
Herbs, moistened by Virginian dew,
A most untimely grave to strew,
Whose turf may never know the care
Of ‘kindred’ human hands!
Beloved by every gentle Muse
He left his Transatlantic home:50
Europe, a realised romance,
Had opened on his eager glance;
What present bliss!—what golden views!
What stores for years to come!
Though lodged within no vigorous frame,
His soul her daily tasks renewed,
Blithe as the lark on sun-gilt wings
High poised—or as the wren that sings
In shady places, to proclaim
Her modest gratitude. 60
Not vain is sadly-uttered praise;
The words of truth’s memorial vow
Are sweet as morning fragrance shed
From flowers ‘mid GOLDAU’S ruins bred;
As evening’s fondly-lingering rays,
On RIGHI’S silent brow.
Lamented Youth! to thy cold clay
Fit obsequies the Stranger paid;
And piety shall guard the Stone
Which hath not left the spot unknown 70
Where the wild waves resigned their prey—
And ‘that’ which marks thy bed.
And, when thy Mother weeps for Thee,
Lost Youth! a solitary Mother;
>
This tribute from a casual Friend
A not unwelcome aid may lend,
To feed the tender luxury,
The rising pang to smother.
MEMORIALS OF A TOUR ON THE CONTINENT, 1820, XXXIII
SKY-PROSPECT—FROM THE PLAIN OF FRANCE
LO! in the burning west, the craggy nape
Of a proud Ararat! and, thereupon,
The Ark, her melancholy voyage done!
Yon rampant cloud mimics a lion’s shape;
There, combats a huge crocodile—agape
A golden spear to swallow! and that brown
And massy grove, so near yon blazing town,
Stirs and recedes—destruction to escape!
Yet all is harmless—as the Elysian shades
Where Spirits dwell in undisturbed repose— 10
Silently disappears, or quickly fades:
Meek Nature’s evening comment on the shows
That for oblivion take their daily birth
From all the fuming vanities of Earth!
MEMORIALS OF A TOUR ON THE CONTINENT, 1820, XXXIV
ON BEING STRANDED NEAR THE HARBOUR OF BOULOGNE
WHY cast ye back upon the Gallic shore,
Ye furious waves! a patriotic Son
Of England—who in hope her coast had won,
His project crowned, his pleasant travel o’er?
Well—let him pace this noted beach once more,
That gave the Roman his triumphal shells;
That saw the Corsican his cap and bells
Haughtily shake, a dreaming Conqueror!—
Enough: my Country’s cliffs I can behold,
And proudly think, beside the chafing sea, 10
Of checked ambition, tyranny controlled,
And folly cursed with endless memory:
These local recollections ne’er can cloy;
Such ground I from my very heart enjoy!
MEMORIALS OF A TOUR ON THE CONTINENT, 1820, XXXV
AFTER LANDING—THE VALLEY OF DOVER, NOV. 1820
WHERE be the noisy followers of the game
Which faction breeds; the turmoil where? that passed
Through Europe, echoing from the newsman’s blast,
And filled our hearts with grief for England’s shame.
Peace greets us;—rambling on without an aim
We mark majestic herds of cattle, free
To ruminate, couched on the grassy lea;
And hear far-off the mellow horn proclaim
The Season’s harmless pastime. Ruder sound
Stirs not; enrapt I gaze with strange delight, 10
While consciousnesses, not to be disowned,
Here only serve a feeling to invite
That lifts the spirit to a calmer height,
And makes this rural stillness more profound.
MEMORIALS OF A TOUR ON THE CONTINENT, 1820, XXXVI
AT DOVER
FROM the Pier’s head, musing, and with increase
Of wonder, I have watched this sea-side Town,
Under the white cliff’s battlemented crown,
Hushed to a depth of more than Sabbath peace:
The streets and quays are thronged, but why disown
Their natural utterance: whence this strange release
From social noise—silence elsewhere unknown?—
A Spirit whispered, Let all wonder cease;
Ocean’s o’erpowering murmurs have set free
Thy sense from pressure of life’s common din; 10
As the dread Voice that speaks from out the sea
Of God’s eternal Word, the Voice of Time
Doth deaden, shocks of tumult, shrieks of crime,
The shouts of folly, and the groans of sin.
MEMORIALS OF A TOUR ON THE CONTINENT, 1820, XXXVII
DESULTORY STANZAS UPON RECEIVING THE PRECEDING SHEETS FROM THE PRESS
IS then the final page before me spread,
Nor further outlet left to mind or heart?
Presumptuous Book! too forward to be read,
How can I give thee licence to depart?
One tribute more: unbidden feelings start
Forth from their coverts; slighted objects rise;
My spirit is the scene of such wild art
As on Parnassus rules, when lightning flies,
Visibly leading on the thunder’s harmonies.
All that I saw returns upon my view, 10
All that I heard comes back upon my ear,
All that I felt this moment doth renew;
And where the foot with no unmanly fear
Recoiled—and wings alone could travel—there
I move at ease; and meet contending themes
That press upon me, crossing the career
Of recollections vivid as the dreams
Of midnight,—cities, plains, forests, and mighty streams.
Where Mortal never breathed I dare to sit
Among the interior Alps, gigantic crew, 20
Who triumphed o’er diluvian power!—and yet
What are they but a wreck and residue,
Whose only business is to perish?—true
To which sad course, these wrinkled Sons of Time
Labour their proper greatness to subdue;
Speaking of death alone, beneath a clime
Where life and rapture flow in plenitude sublime.
Fancy hath flung for me an airy bridge
Across thy long deep Valley, furious Rhone!
Arch that ‘here’ rests upon the granite ridge 30
Of Monte Rosa—’there’ on frailer stone
Of secondary birth, the Jung-frau’s cone;
And, from that arch, down-looking on the Vale
The aspect I behold of every zone;
A sea of foliage, tossing with the gale,
Blithe Autumn’s purple crown, and Winter’s icy mail!
Far as ST. MAURICE, from yon eastern FORKS,
Down the main avenue my sight can range:
And all its branchy vales, and all that lurks
Within them, church, and town, and hut, and grange, 40
For my enjoyment meet in vision strange;
Snows, torrents;—to the region’s utmost bound,
Life, Death, in amicable interchange;—
But list! the avalanche—the hush profound
That follows—yet more awful than that awful sound!
Is not the chamois suited to his place?
The eagle worthy of her ancestry?
—Let Empires fall; but ne’er shall Ye disgrace
Your noble birthright, ye that occupy
Your council-seats beneath the open sky, 50
On Sarnen’s Mount, there judge of fit and right,
In simple democratic majesty;
Soft breezes fanning your rough brows—the might
And purity of nature spread before your sight!
From this appropriate Court, renowned LUCERNE
Calls me to pace her honoured Bridge—that cheers
The Patriot’s heart with pictures rude and stern,
An uncouth Chronicle of glorious years.
Like portraiture, from loftier source, endears
That work of kindred frame, which spans the lake 60
Just at the point of issue, where it fears
The form and motion of a stream to take;
Where it begins to stir, ‘yet’ voiceless as a snake.
Volumes of sound, from the Cathedral rolled,
This long-roofed Vista penetrate—but see,
One after one, its tablets, that unfold
The whole design of Scripture history;
From the first tasting of the fatal Tree,
Till the bright Star appeared in eastern skies,
Announcing, ONE was born mankind to free; 70
His acts, his wrongs, his final sacrifice;
Lessons for every heart, a Bible for all eyes.
‘Our’ pride misleads, our timid liki
ngs kill.
—Long may these homely Works devised of old,
These simple efforts of Helvetian skill,
Aid, with congenial influence, to uphold
The State,—the Country’s destiny to mould;
Turning, for them who pass, the common dust
Of servile opportunity to gold;
Filling the soul with sentiments august— 80
The beautiful, the brave, the holy, and the just!
No more; Time halts not in his noiseless march—
Nor turns, nor winds, as doth the liquid flood;
Life slips from underneath us, like that arch
Of airy workmanship whereon we stood,
Earth stretched below, heaven in our neighbourhood.
Go forth, my little Book! pursue thy way;
Go forth, and please the gentle and the good;
Nor be a whisper stifled, if it say
That treasures, yet untouched, may grace some future Lay. 90
THE RIVER DUDDON A SERIES OF SONNETS, 1820.
TO THE REV. DR. WORDSWORTH (WITH THE SONNETS TO THE RIVER DUDDON, AND OTHER POEMS IN THIS COLLECTION, 1820)
THE Minstrels played their Christmas tune
To-night beneath my cottage-eaves;
While, smitten by a lofty moon,
The encircling laurels, thick with leaves,
Gave back a rich and dazzling sheen,
That overpowered their natural green.
Through hill and valley every breeze
Had sunk to rest with folded wings:
Keen was the air, but could not freeze,
Nor check, the music of the strings; 10
So stout and hardy were the band
That scraped the chords with strenuous hand;
And who but listened?—till was paid
Respect to every Inmate’s claim:
The greeting given, the music played,
In honour of each household name,
Duly pronounced with lusty call,
And “merry Christmas” wished to all!
O Brother! I revere the choice
That took thee from thy native hills; 20
And it is given thee to rejoice:
Though public care full often tills
(Heaven only witness of the toil)
A barren and ungrateful soil.
Yet, would that Thou, with me and mine,
Hadst heard this never-failing rite;
And seen on other faces shine
A true revival of the light
Which Nature and these rustic Powers,
In simple childhood, spread through ours. 30
For pleasure hath not ceased to wait
On these expected annual rounds;
Delphi Complete Works of William Wordsworth Page 267
