Distinctly manifested at this time,
A human-heartedness about my love
For objects hitherto the absolute wealth
Of my own private being and no more: 235
Which I had loved, even as a blessed spirit
Or Angel, if he were to dwell on earth,
Might love in individual happiness.
But now there opened on me other thoughts
Of change, congratulation or regret, 240
A pensive feeling! It spread far and wide;
The trees, the mountains shared it, and the brooks,
The stars of Heaven, now seen in their old haunts--
White Sirius glittering o'er the southern crags,
Orion with his belt, and those fair Seven, 245
Acquaintances of every little child,
And Jupiter, my own beloved star!
Whatever shadings of mortality,
Whatever imports from the world of death
Had come among these objects heretofore, 250
Were, in the main, of mood less tender: strong,
Deep, gloomy were they, and severe; the scatterings
Of awe or tremulous dread, that had given way
In later youth to yearnings of a love
Enthusiastic, to delight and hope. 255
As one who hangs down-bending from the side
Of a slow-moving boat, upon the breast
Of a still water, solacing himself
With such discoveries as his eye can make
Beneath him in the bottom of the deep, 260
Sees many beauteous sights--weeds, fishes, flowers.
Grots, pebbles, roots of trees, and fancies more,
Yet often is perplexed and cannot part
The shadow from the substance, rocks and sky,
Mountains and clouds, reflected in the depth 265
Of the clear flood, from things which there abide
In their true dwelling; now is crossed by gleam
Of his own image, by a sun-beam now,
And wavering motions sent he knows not whence,
Impediments that make his task more sweet; 270
Such pleasant office have we long pursued
Incumbent o'er the surface of past time
With like success, nor often have appeared
Shapes fairer or less doubtfully discerned
Than these to which the Tale, indulgent Friend! 275
Would now direct thy notice. Yet in spite
Of pleasure won, and knowledge not withheld,
There was an inner falling off--I loved,
Loved deeply all that had been loved before,
More deeply even than ever: but a swarm 280
Of heady schemes jostling each other, gawds,
And feast and dance, and public revelry,
And sports and games (too grateful in themselves,
Yet in themselves less grateful, I believe,
Than as they were a badge glossy and fresh 285
Of manliness and freedom) all conspired
To lure my mind from firm habitual quest
Of feeding pleasures, to depress the zeal
And damp those yearnings which had once been mine--
A wild, unworldly-minded youth, given up 290
To his own eager thoughts. It would demand
Some skill, and longer time than may be spared,
To paint these vanities, and how they wrought
In haunts where they, till now, had been unknown.
It seemed the very garments that I wore 295
Preyed on my strength, and stopped the quiet stream
Of self-forgetfulness.
Yes, that heartless chase
Of trivial pleasures was a poor exchange
For books and nature at that early age.
'Tis true, some casual knowledge might be gained 300
Of character or life; but at that time,
Of manners put to school I took small note,
And all my deeper passions lay elsewhere.
Far better had it been to exalt the mind
By solitary study, to uphold 305
Intense desire through meditative peace;
And yet, for chastisement of these regrets,
The memory of one particular hour
Doth here rise up against me. 'Mid a throng
Of maids and youths, old men, and matrons staid, 310
A medley of all tempers, I had passed
The night in dancing, gaiety, and mirth,
With din of instruments and shuffling feet,
And glancing forms, and tapers glittering,
And unaimed prattle flying up and down; [R] 315
Spirits upon the stretch, and here and there
Slight shocks of young love-liking interspersed,
Whose transient pleasure mounted to the head,
And tingled through the veins. Ere we retired,
The cock had crowed, and now the eastern sky 320
Was kindling, not unseen, from humble copse
And open field, through which the pathway wound,
And homeward led my steps. Magnificent
The morning rose, in memorable pomp,
Glorious as e'er I had beheld--in front, 325
The sea lay laughing at a distance; near,
The solid mountains shone, bright as the clouds,
Grain-tinctured, drenched in empyrean light;
And in the meadows and the lower grounds
Was all the sweetness of a common dawn--330
Dews, vapours, and the melody of birds, [S]
And labourers going forth to till the fields.
Ah! need I say, dear Friend! that to the brim
My heart was full; I made no vows, but vows
Were then made for me; bond unknown to me 335
Was given, that I should be, else sinning greatly,
A dedicated Spirit. On I walked
In thankful blessedness, which yet survives. [T]
Strange rendezvous! My mind was at that time
A parti-coloured show of grave and gay, 340
Solid and light, short-sighted and profound;
Of inconsiderate habits and sedate,
Consorting in one mansion unreproved.
The worth I knew of powers that I possessed,
Though slighted and too oft misused. Besides, 345
That summer, swarming as it did with thoughts
Transient and idle, lacked not intervals
When Folly from the frown of fleeting Time
Shrunk, and the mind experienced in herself
Conformity as just as that of old 350
To the end and written spirit of God's works,
Whether held forth in Nature or in Man,
Through pregnant vision, separate or conjoined.
When from our better selves we have too long
Been parted by the hurrying world, and droop, 355
Sick of its business, of its pleasures tired,
How gracious, how benign, is Solitude;
How potent a mere image of her sway;
Most potent when impressed upon the mind
With an appropriate human centre--hermit, 360
Deep in the bosom of the wilderness;
Votary (in vast cathedral, where no foot
Is treading, where no other face is seen)
Kneeling at prayers; or watchman on the top
Of lighthouse, beaten by Atlantic waves; 365
Or as the soul of that great Power is met
Sometimes embodied on a public road,
When, for the night deserted, it assumes
A character of quiet more profound
Than pathless wastes.
Once, when those summer months 370
Were flown, and autumn brought its annual show
Of oars with oars contending, sails with sails,
Upon Winander's spacious breast, it chanced
That--after I had left a flower-decked room
(Whose in-door pastime, lighted up, survived 375
To a late hour), and spirits overwrought
Were making night do penance for a day
Spent in a round of strenuous idleness--[U]
My homeward course led up a long ascent,
Where the road's watery surface, to the top 380
Of that sharp rising, glittered to the moon
And bore the semblance of another stream
Stealing with silent lapse to join the brook
That murmured in the vale. [V] All else was still;
No living thing appeared in earth or air, 385
And, save the flowing water's peaceful voice,
Sound there was none--but, lo! an uncouth shape,
Shown by a sudden turning of the road,
So near that, slipping back into the shade
Of a thick hawthorn, I could mark him well, 390
Myself unseen. He was of stature tall,
A span above man's common measure, tall,
Stiff, lank, and upright; a more meagre man
Was never seen before by night or day.
Long were his arms, pallid his hands; his mouth 395
Looked ghastly in the moonlight: from behind,
A mile-stone propped him; I could also ken
That he was clothed in military garb,
Though faded, yet entire. Companionless,
No dog attending, by no staff sustained, 400
He stood, and in his very dress appeared
A desolation, a simplicity,
To which the trappings of a gaudy world
Make a strange back-ground. From his lips, ere long,
Issued low muttered sounds, as if of pain 405
Or some uneasy thought; yet still his form
Kept the same awful steadiness--at his feet
His shadow lay, and moved not. From self-blame
Not wholly free, I watched him thus; at length
Subduing my heart's specious cowardice, 410
I left the shady nook where I had stood
And hailed him. Slowly from his resting-place
He rose, and with a lean and wasted arm
In measured gesture lifted to his head
Returned my salutation; then resumed 415
His station as before; and when I asked
His history, the veteran, in reply,
Was neither slow nor eager; but, unmoved,
And with a quiet uncomplaining voice,
A stately air of mild indifference, 420
He told in few plain words a soldier's tale--
That in the Tropic Islands he had served,
Whence he had landed scarcely three weeks past:
That on his landing he had been dismissed,
And now was travelling towards his native home. 425
This heard, I said, in pity, "Come with me."
He stooped, and straightway from the ground took up
An oaken staff by me yet unobserved--
A staff which must have dropt from his slack hand
And lay till now neglected in the grass. 430
Though weak his step and cautious, he appeared
To travel without pain, and I beheld,
With an astonishment but ill suppressed,
His ghostly figure moving at my side;
Nor could I, while we journeyed thus, forbear 435
To turn from present hardships to the past,
And speak of war, battle, and pestilence,
Sprinkling this talk with questions, better spared,
On what he might himself have seen or felt.
He all the while was in demeanour calm, 440
Concise in answer; solemn and sublime
He might have seemed, but that in all he said
There was a strange half-absence, as of one
Knowing too well the importance of his theme,
But feeling it no longer. Our discourse 445
Soon ended, and together on we passed
In silence through a wood gloomy and still.
Up-turning, then, along an open field,
We reached a cottage. At the door I knocked,
And earnestly to charitable care 450
Commended him as a poor friendless man,
Belated and by sickness overcome.
Assured that now the traveller would repose
In comfort, I entreated that henceforth
He would not linger in the public ways, 455
But ask for timely furtherance and help
Such as his state required. At this reproof,
With the same ghastly mildness in his look,
He said, "My trust is in the God of Heaven,
And in the eye of him who passes me!" 460
The cottage door was speedily unbarred,
And now the soldier touched his hat once more
With his lean hand, and in a faltering voice,
Whose tone bespake reviving interests
Till then unfelt, he thanked me; I returned 465
The farewell blessing of the patient man,
And so we parted. Back I cast a look,
And lingered near the door a little space,
Then sought with quiet heart my distant home.
* * * * *
FOOTNOTES ON THE TEXT
[Footnote A: On the road from Kendal to Windermere.--Ed.]
[Footnote B: At the Ferry below Bowness.--Ed.]
[Footnote C: From the Ferry over the ridge to Sawrey.--Ed.]
[Footnote D: The Vale of Esthwaite.--Ed.]
[Footnote E: Hawkshead Church; an old Norman structure, built in 1160,
the year of the foundation of Furness Abbey. It is no longer
"snow-white," a so-called Restoration having taken place within recent
years, on architectural principles. The plaster is stripped from the
outside of the church, which is now of a dull stone colour.
"Apart from poetic sentiment," wrote Dr. Cradock (the late Principal
of Brasenose College, Oxford), "it may be doubted whether the pale
colour, still preserved at Grasmere and other churches in the
district, does not better harmonize with the scenery and atmosphere of
the Lake country.".
The most interesting feature in the interior is the private chapel of
Archbishop Sandys.--Ed.]
[Footnote F: Hawkshead Church is a conspicuous object as you approach
the town, whether by the Ambleside road, or from Sawrey. It is the
latter approach that is here described.--Ed.]
[Footnote G: Anne Tyson,--Ed.]
[Footnote H: Anne Tyson seems to have removed from Hawkshead village to
Colthouse, on the opposite side of the Vale, and lived there for some
time before her death. Along with Dr. Cradock I examined the Parish
Registers of Hawkshead in the autumn of 1882, and we found the following
entry belonging to the year 1796.
"Anne Tyson of Colthouse, widow, died May 25th buried 28th, in
Churchyard, aged 83."
Her removal to Colthouse is confirmed, in a curious way, by a
reminiscence of William Wordsworth's (the poet's son), who told me that
if asked where the dame's house was, he would have pointed to a spot on
the eastern side of the valley, and out of the village altogether; his
father having taken him from Rydal Mount to Hawkshead when a mere boy,
and pointed out that spot. Doubtless Wordsworth took his son to the
cottage at Colthouse, where Anne Tyson died, as the earlier abode in
Hawkshead village is well known, and its site is indisputable.--Ed.]
[Footnote I: Compare book i. ll. 499-506, p. 148.--Ed.]
[Footnote K: There is no trace and no tradition at Hawkshead of the
"stone table under the dark pine," For a curious parallel to this
'sunny seat
Round the stone table under the dark pine,'
I am indebted to Dr. Cradock. He points out that in the prologue to
'Peter Bell', vol. ii p.9, we have the lines,
'To the stone-table in my garden,
Loved haunt of many a summer hour,'
Ed.]
[Footnote L: There can be little doubt as to the identity of "the famous
brook" "within our garden" boxed, which gives the name of Flag Street to
one of the alleys of Hawkshead.
"Persons have visited the cottage," wrote Dr. Cradock, "without
discovering it; and yet it is not forty yards distant, and is still
exactly as described. On the opposite side of the lane leading to the
cottage, and a few steps above it, is a narrow passage through some
new stone buildings. On emerging from this, you meet a small garden,
the farther side of which is bounded by the brook, confined on both
sides by larger flags, and also covered by flags of the same Coniston
formation, through the interstices of which you may see and hear the
stream running freely. The upper flags are now used as a footpath, and
lead by another passage back into the village. No doubt the garden has
been reduced in size, by the use of that part of it fronting the lane
for building purposes. The stream, before it enters the area of
buildings and gardens, is open by the lane side, and seemingly comes
from the hills to the westwards. The large flags are extremely hard
and durable, and it is probably that the very flags which paved the
channel in Wordsworth's time may still be doing the same duty."
The house adjoining this garden was not Dame Tyson's but a Mr. Watson's.
Possibly, however, some of the boys had free access to the latter, so
that Wordsworth could speak of it as "our garden;" or, Dame Tyson may
have rented it. See Note II. in the Appendix to this volume, p.
386.--Ed.]
[Footnote M: Not wholly so.--Ed.]
[Footnote N: See note on preceding page.--Ed.]
[Footnote O: Compare the sonnet in vol. iv.:
'Beloved Vale!' I said, 'when I shall con
...
By doubts and thousand petty fancies crost.'
There can be little doubt that it is to the "famous brook" of 'The
Prelude' that reference is made in the later sonnet, and still more
significantly in the earlier poem 'The Fountain', vol. ii. p. 91.
Compare the MS. variants of that poem, printed as footnotes, from Lord
Coleridge's copy of the Poems:
'Down to the vale with eager speed
Behold this streamlet run,
From subterranean bondage freed,
And glittering in the sun.'
with the lines in 'The Prelude':
'The famous brook, who, soon as he was boxed
Within our garden, found himself at once,
...
Stripped of his voice and left to dimple down, etc.'
This is doubtless the streamlet called Town Beck; and it is perhaps the
most interesting of all the spots alluded to by Wordsworth which can be
traced out in the Hawkshead district, I am indebted to Mr. Rawnsley for
the following note:
"From the village, nay, from the poet's very door when he lived at
Anne Tyson's, a good path leads on, past the vicarage, quite to its
upland place of birth. It has eaten its way deeply into the soil; in
one place there is a series of still pools, that overflow and fall
into others, with quiet sound; at other spots, it is bustling and
busy. Fine timber is found on either side of it, the roots of the
trees often laid bare by the passing current. In one or two places by
the side of this beck, and beneath the shadow of lofty oaks, may be
found boulder stones, grey and moss-covered. Birds make hiding-places
for themselves in these oak and hazel bushes by the stream. Following
it up, we find it receives, at a tiny ford, the tribute of another
stream from the north-west, and comes down between the adjacent hills
(well wooded to the summit) from meadows of short-cropped grass, and
to these from the open moorland, where it takes its rise. Every
conceivable variety of beauty of sound and sight in streamlet life is
found as we follow the course of this Town Beck. We owe much of
Wordsworth's intimate acquaintance with streamlet beauty to it."
Compare 'The Fountain' in detail with this passage in 'The Prelude'.--Ed.]
[Footnote P: So it is in the editions of 1850 and 1857; but it should
evidently be "nor, dear Friend!"--Ed.]
[Footnote Q: The ash tree is gone, but there is no doubt as to the place
where it grew. Mr. Watson, whose father owned and inhabited the house
immediately opposite to Mrs. Tyson's cottage in Wordsworth's time (see a
previous note), told me that a tall ash tree grew on the proper right
front of the cottage, where an outhouse is now built. If this be so,
Wordsworth's bedroom must have been that on the proper left, with the
smaller of the two windows. The cottage faces nearly south-west. In the
upper flat there are two bedrooms to the front, with oak flooring, one
of which must have been Wordsworth's. See Note II. (p. 386) in Appendix
to this volume.--Ed.]
[Footnote R: In one of the small mountain farm-houses near
Hawkshead.--Ed.]
[Footnote S: Compare 'Paradise Lost', book viii. l. 528:
'Walks, and the melody of birds.'
Ed.]
[Footnote T: Dr. Cradock has suggested to me the probable course of that
morning walk.
"All that can be safely said as to the course of that memorable
morning walk is that, in that neighbourhood, a view of the sea can
only be obtained at a considerable elevation; also that if the words
'in _front_ the sea lay laughing' are to be taken as rigidly exact,
the poet's progress towards Hawkshead must have been in a direction
mainly southerly, and therefore from the country north of that place.
These and all other conditions of the description are answered in
several parts of the range of hills lying between Elterwater and
Hawkshead."
See Appendix, Note III. p. 389.--Ed.]
[Footnote U: Compare the sixth line of the poem, beginning
'This Lawn, a carpet all alive.'
(1829.) And Horace, 'Epistolæ', lib. i. ep. xi. l. 28:
'Strenua nos exercet inertia.'
Ed.]
[Footnote V: The "brook" is Sawrey beck, and the "long ascent" is the
second of the two, in crossing from Windermere to Hawkshead, and going
over the ridge between the two Sawreys. It is only at that point that a
brook can be heard "murmuring in the vale." The road is the old one,
above the ferry, marked in the Ordnance Survey Map, by the Briers, not
the new road which makes a curve to the south, and cannot be described
as a "sharp rising."--Ed.]
* * * * *
BOOK FIFTH
BOOKS
When Contemplation, like the night-calm felt
Through earth and sky, spreads widely, and sends deep
Into the soul its tranquillising power,
Even then I sometimes grieve for thee, O Man,
Earth's paramount Creature! not so much for woes 5
That thou endurest; heavy though that weight be,
Cloud-like it mounts, or touched with light divine
Doth melt away; but for those palms achieved,
Through length of time, by patient exercise
Of study and hard thought; there, there, it is 10
That sadness finds its fuel. Hitherto,
In progress through this Verse, my mind hath looked
Upon the speaking face of earth and heaven
As her prime teacher, intercourse with man
Established by the sovereign Intellect, 15
Who through that bodily image hath diffused,
As might appear to the eye of fleeting time,
A deathless spirit. Thou also, man! hast wrought,
For commerce of thy nature with herself,
Things that aspire to unconquerable life; 20
And yet we feel--we cannot choose but feel--
That they must perish. Tremblings of the heart
It gives, to think that our immortal being
No more shall need such garments; and yet man,
As long as he shall be the child of earth, 25
Might almost "weep to have" [A] what he may lose,
Nor be himself extinguished, but survive,
Abject, depressed, forlorn, disconsolate.
A thought is with me sometimes, and I say,--
Should the whole frame of earth by inward throes 30
Be wrenched, or fire come down from far to scorch
Her pleasant habitations, and dry up
Old Ocean, in his bed left singed and bare,
Yet would the living Presence still subsist
Victorious, and composure would ensue, 35
And kindlings like the morning--presage sure
Of day returning and of life revived. [B]
But all the meditations of mankind,
Yea, all the adamantine holds of truth
By reason built, or passion, which itself 40
Is highest reason in a soul sublime;
The consecrated works of Bard and Sage,
Sensuous or intellectual, wrought by men,
Twin labourers and heirs of the same hopes;
Where would they be? Oh! why hath not the Mind 45
Some element to stamp her image on
In nature somewhat nearer to her own? [C]
Why, gifted with such powers to send abroad
Her spirit, must it lodge in shrines so frail?