To quit my pleasure, and, from month to month, A flock that thirsts not to a pool disliked?
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, A winning power, beyond all other power. Not that I slighted books,—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, 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) 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
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.
The congregating temper that pervades
Our unripe years, not wasted, should be taught
To minister to works of high attempt
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 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, 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. 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 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 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
Works which the enthusiast would perform with For quiet things to wander in; a haunt
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; 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.
Those venerable Doctors saw of old,
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
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.
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, Sounding through Christian lands her trumpet, roused
And wisdom and the pledges interchanged 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,
Peasant and king; when boys and youths, the (At least from what we commonly so name,)
Of ragged villages and crazy huts, Forsook their homes, and, errant in the quest Of Patron, famous school or friendly nook, 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, Crying, "An obolus, a penny give To a poor scholar!"-when illustrious men, Lovers of truth, by penury constrained, Bucer, Erasmus, or Melancthon, read Before the doors or windows of their cells 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, 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, 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 gownèd youth, Who only misses what I missed, who falls 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 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. 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,
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 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, 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 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 (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 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 unscoured, grotesque 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 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, As some might seem, so aptly do they serve To illustrate Nature's book of rudimentsThat book upheld as with maternal care When she would enter on her tender scheme Of teaching comprehension with delight, 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; 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 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 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 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, 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- 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 Here sate in state, and fed with daily alms Retainers won away from solid good;
That never set the pains against the prize; Idleness halting with his weary clog, 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, (The idol weak as the idolator),
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 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 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 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, 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, 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
And here was Labour, his own bond-slave; Hope, Came and returned me to my native hills.
And many of them seeming yet my own' Why should I speak of what a thousand hearts
BRIGHT was the summer's noon when quickening Have felt, and every man alive can guess?
Followed each other till a dreary moor
Was crossed, a bare ridge clomb, upon whose top Standing alone, as from a rampart's edge, I overlooked the bed of Windermere, 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, 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, I did not step into the well-known boat Without a cordial greeting. Thence with speed Up the familiar hill I took my way
Towards that sweet Valley* where I had been reared;
'Twas but a short hour's walk, ere veering round I saw the snow-white church upon her hill Sit like a throned Lady, sending out A gracious look all over her domain. Yon azure smoke betrays the lurking town; With eager footsteps I advance and reach The cottage threshold where my journey closed. Glad welcome had I, with some tears, perhaps, From my old Dame, so kind and motherly, While she perused me with a parent's pride. The thoughts of gratitude shall fall like dew 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 Of calm enjoyments, after eighty years, And more than eighty, of untroubled life, Childless, yet by the strangers to thy blood Honoured with little less than filial love. What joy was mine to see thee once again, Thee and thy dwelling, and a crowd of things About its narrow precincts all beloved,
The rooms, the court, the garden were not left Long unsaluted, nor the sunny seat Round the stone table under the dark pine, Friendly to studious or to festive hours; Nor 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 (Without an effort and without a will) A channel paved by man's officious care.
I looked at him and smiled, and smiled again, And in the press of twenty thousand thoughts, "Ha," quoth I, "pretty prisoner, are you there!' Well might sarcastic Fancy then have whispered, "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; 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 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, The transformation wrought by gay attire. Not less delighted did I take my place At our domestic table: and, dear Friend! In this endeavour simply to relate A Poet's history, may I leave untold 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 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; Had watched her with fixed eyes while to and fro
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; 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 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 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, 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 loose 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 else 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 hushed 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.
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- 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, 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 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 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,
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, 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; 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 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 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 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, 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.
A freshness also found I at this time In human Life, the daily life of those
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