Is with infinitude, and only there; 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 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 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,
Entered a narrow chasm. *The brook and road Were fellow-travellers in this gloomy strait, And with them did we journey several hours At a slow pace. The immeasurable height Of woods decaying, never to be decayed, 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, 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- 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.
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,
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, 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 Keeps to herself, confined as in a depth Of Abyssinian privacy. I spake
Of thee, thy chestnut woods, and garden plots Of Indian corn tended by dark-eyed maids; Thy lofty steeps, and pathways roofed with vines, Winding from house to house, from town to town, Sole link that binds them to each other; walks, League after league, and cloistral avenues, Where silence dwells if music be not there: While yet a youth undisciplined in verse, Through fond ambition of that hour I strove To chant your praise; 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 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 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 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 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
With high and spacious rooms, deafened and By moonlight, doubting not that day was nigh,
By Loise of waters, making innocent sleep Lie melancholy among weary bones.
Uprisen betimes, our journey we renewed, Led by the stream, ere noon-day mag ified Into a lordly river, broad and deep,
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 with this hope; but soon 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 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, 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; 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; 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 Followed that pair of golden days that shed On Como's Lake, and all that round it lay, 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 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; 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 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, 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;
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 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 blackbird's whistle in a budding grove. We left the Swiss exulting in the fate
Of their near neighbours; and, when shortening
Our pilgrimage, nor distant far from home, We crossed the Brabant armies on the fret For battle in the cause of Liberty. 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 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, And the independent spirit of pure youth Called forth, at every season, new delights Spread round my steps like sunshine o'er green fields.
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. Beloved Friend! The assurance which then cheered some heavy thoughts
On thy departure to a foreign land
Has failed; too slowly moves the promised work. Through the whole summer have I been at rest, 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, A choir of red-breasts 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 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, 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 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 Of Winter that had warbled at my door,
The last night's genial feeling overflowed Upon this morning, and my favourite grove, Tossing in sunshine its dark boughs aloft, 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 That lies before us, needful to be told.
Returned from that excursion,* soon I bade Farewell for ever to the sheltered seats Of gowned students, quitted hall and bower, And every comfort of that privileged ground, 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 At full command, to London first I turned, 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
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 : Now, fixed amid that concourse of mankind Where Pleasure whirls about incessantly, 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, And all my young affections out of doors.
There was a time when whatsoe'er is feigned Of airy palaces, and gardens built By Geni of romance; or hath in grave Authentic history been set forth of Rome, Alcairo, Babylon, or Persepolis;
Or given upon report by pilgrim friars, Of golden cities ten months' journey deep
And the whole year breathed tenderness and love. Among Tartarian wilds-fell short, far short,
* The City of Goslar, in Lower Saxony.-Ed.
Of what my fond simplicity believed 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 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, 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 cars Fell flatter than a cagèd parrot's note,
That answers unexpectedly awry,
The Monument, and that Chamber of the Tower 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, 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,
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, Thou endless stream of men and moving things!
And mocks the prompter's listening. Marvellous Thy every-day appearance, as it strikes—
Had vanity (quick Spirit that appears
Almost as deeply seated and as strong In a Child's heart as fear itself) conceived 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 :
Dreams not unlike to those which once begat
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. Above all, one thought 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! Vauxhall and Ranelagh! I then had heard Of your green groves, and wilderness of lamps Dimming the stars, and fireworks magical, And gorgeous ladies, under splendid domes, Floating in dance, or warbling high in air 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 Of Westminster; the Giants of Guildhall; Bedlam, and those carved maniacs at the gates, Perpetually recumbent; Statues—man, And the horse under him—in gilded pomp Adorning flowery gardens, 'mid vast squares;
With wonder heightened, or sublimed by awe-- On strangers, of all ages; the quick dance Of colours, lights, and forms; the deafening din; 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, 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, Boyle, Shakspeare, 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, 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 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, 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, 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, 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; 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 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
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,
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 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 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, 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,
The Sibyl's mouldering Temple ! every tree, Villa, or cottage, lurking among rocks Throughout the landscape; tuft, stone scratch minute-
That field-ward takes her walk with decent steps. All that the traveller sees when he is there.
Add to these exhibitions, mute and still, 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, Yet richly graced with honours of her own, Half-rural Sadler's Wells? 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, 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; 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! 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." Delusion bold! and how can it be wrought? The garb he wears is black as death, the word "Invisible" flames forth upon his chest.
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