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, 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, (At least from what we commonly so name,) 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 portrayed, 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;
And here was Labour, his own bond-slave; Hope, 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 idolater),
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 Came and returned me to my native hills.
BRIGHT was the summer's noon when quickening steps
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 stayed his oars, and touched the jutting pier,† I did not step into the well-known boat
Without a cordial greeting.
* On the road from Kendal to Windermere.-ED. At the Ferry below Bowness.-ED.
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