Chapter 2

RETROSPECT--LOVE OF NATURE LEADING TO LOVE OF MAN

What sounds are those, Helvellyn, that [1] are heard Up to thy summit, through the depth of air Ascending, as if distance had the power To make the sounds more audible? What crowd Covers, or sprinkles o'er, yon village green? [2] 5 Crowd seems it, solitary hill! to thee, Though but a little family of men, Shepherds and tillers of the ground--betimes Assembled with their children and their wives, And here and there a stranger interspersed. 10 They hold a rustic fair--a festival, Such as, on this side now, and now on that, [3] Repeated through his tributary vales, Helvellyn, in the silence of his rest, Sees annually, [A] if clouds towards either ocean 15 Blown from their favourite resting-place, or mists Dissolved, have left him [4] an unshrouded head. Delightful day it is for all who dwell In this secluded glen, and eagerly They give it welcome. [5] Long ere heat of noon, 20 From byre or field the kine were brought; the sheep [6] Are penned in cotes; the chaffering is begun. The heifer lows, uneasy at the voice Of a new master; bleat the flocks aloud. Booths are there none; a stall or two is here; 25 A lame man or a blind, the one to beg, The other to make music; hither, too, From far, with basket, slung upon her arm, Of hawker's wares--books, pictures, combs, and pins-- Some aged woman finds her way again, 30 Year after year, a punctual visitant! There also stands a speech-maker by rote, Pulling the strings of his boxed raree-show; And in the lapse of many years may come [7] Prouder itinerant, mountebank, or he 35 Whose wonders in a covered wain lie hid. But one there is, [8] the loveliest of them all, Some sweet lass of the valley, looking out For gains, and who that sees her would not buy? Fruits of her father's orchard, are her wares, 40 And with the ruddy produce, she walks round [9] Among the crowd, half pleased with, half ashamed Of her new office, [10] blushing restlessly. The children now are rich, for the old to-day Are generous as the young; and, if content 45 With looking on, some ancient wedded pair Sit in the shade together, while they gaze, "A cheerful smile unbends the wrinkled brow, The days departed start again to life, And all the scenes of childhood reappear, 50 Faint, but more tranquil, like the changing sun To him who slept at noon and wakes at eve." [B] Thus gaiety and cheerfulness prevail, Spreading from young to old, from old to young, And no one seems to want his share.--Immense [11] 55 Is the recess, the circumambient world Magnificent, by which they are embraced: They move about upon the soft green turf: [12] How little they, they and their doings, seem, And all that they can further or obstruct! [13] 60 Through utter weakness pitiably dear, As tender infants are: and yet how great! For all things serve them: them the morning light Loves, as it glistens on the silent rocks; And them the silent rocks, which now from high 65 Look down upon them; the reposing clouds; The wild brooks prattling from [14] invisible haunts; And old Helvellyn, conscious of the stir Which animates this day [15] their calm abode.

With deep devotion, Nature, did I feel, 70 In that enormous City's turbulent world Of men and things, what benefit I owed To thee, and those domains of rural peace, Where to the sense of beauty first my heart Was opened; [C] tract more exquisitely fair 75 Than that famed paradise often thousand trees, [D] Or Gehol's matchless gardens, [E] for delight Of the Tartarian dynasty composed (Beyond that mighty wall, not fabulous, China's stupendous mound) by patient toil 80 Of myriads and boon nature's lavish help; [F] There, in a clime from widest empire chosen, Fulfilling (could enchantment have done more?) A sumptuous dream of flowery lawns, with domes Of pleasure [G] sprinkled over, shady dells 85 For eastern monasteries, sunny mounts With temples crested, bridges, gondolas, Rocks, dens, and groves of foliage taught to melt Into each other their obsequious hues, Vanished and vanishing in subtle chase, 90 Too fine to be pursued; or standing forth In no discordant opposition, strong And gorgeous as the colours side by side Bedded among rich plumes of tropic birds; And mountains over all, embracing all; 95 And all the landscape, endlessly enriched With waters running, falling, or asleep.

But lovelier far than this, the paradise Where I was reared; [H] in Nature's primitive gifts Favoured no less, and more to every sense 100 Delicious, seeing that the sun and sky, The elements, and seasons as they change, Do find a worthy fellow-labourer there-- Man free, man working for himself, with choice Of time, and place, and object; by his wants, 105 His comforts, native occupations, cares, Cheerfully led to individual ends Or social, and still followed by a train Unwooed, unthought-of even--simplicity, And beauty, and inevitable grace. 110

Yea, when a glimpse of those imperial bowers Would to a child be transport over-great, When but a half-hour's roam through such a place Would leave behind a dance of images, That shall break in upon his sleep for weeks; 115 Even then the common haunts of the green earth, And ordinary interests of man, Which they embosom, all without regard As both may seem, are fastening on the heart Insensibly, each with the other's help. 120 For me, when my affections first were led From kindred, friends, and playmates, to partake Love for the human creature's absolute self, That noticeable kindliness of heart Sprang out of fountains, there abounding most 125 Where sovereign Nature dictated the tasks And occupations which her beauty adorned, And Shepherds were the men that pleased me first; [I] Not such as Saturn ruled 'mid Latian wilds, With arts and laws so tempered, that their lives 130 Left, even to us toiling in this late day, A bright tradition of the golden age; [K] Not such as, 'mid Arcadian fastnesses Sequestered, handed down among themselves Felicity, in Grecian song renowned; [L] 135 Nor such as--when an adverse fate had driven, From house and home, the courtly band whose fortunes Entered, with Shakespeare's genius, the wild woods Of Arden--amid sunshine or in shade, Culled the best fruits of Time's uncounted hours, 140 Ere Phoebe sighed for the false Ganymede; [M] Or there where Perdita and Florizel Together danced, Queen of the feast, and King; [N] Nor such as Spenser fabled. True it is, That I had heard (what he perhaps had seen) 145 Of maids at sunrise bringing in from far Their May-bush [O], and along the streets in flocks Parading with a song of taunting rhymes, Aimed at the laggards slumbering within doors; Had also heard, from those who yet remembered, 150 Tales of the May-pole dance, and wreaths that decked Porch, door-way, or kirk-pillar; [O] and of youths, Each with his maid, before the sun was up, By annual custom, issuing forth in troops, To drink the waters of some sainted well, 155 And hang it round with garlands. Love survives; But, for such purpose, flowers no longer grow: The times, too sage, perhaps too proud, have dropped These lighter graces; and the rural ways And manners which my childhood looked upon 160 Were the unluxuriant produce of a life Intent on little but substantial needs, Yet rich in beauty, beauty that was felt. But images of danger and distress, Man suffering among awful Powers and Forms; 165 Of this I heard, and saw enough to make Imagination restless; nor was free Myself from frequent perils; nor were tales Wanting,--the tragedies of former times, Hazards and strange escapes, of which the rocks 170 Immutable and overflowing streams, Where'er I roamed, were speaking monuments.

Smooth life had flock and shepherd in old time, Long springs and tepid winters, on the banks Of delicate Galesus [P]; and no less 175 Those scattered along Adria's myrtle shores: [Q] Smooth life had herdsman, and his snow-white herd To triumphs and to sacrificial rites Devoted, on the inviolable stream Of rich Clitumnus [R]; and the goat-herd lived 180 As calmly, underneath the pleasant brows Of cool Lucretilis [S], where the pipe was heard Of Pan, Invisible God, thrilling the rocks With tutelary music, from all harm The fold protecting. I myself, mature 185 In manhood then, have seen a pastoral tract Like one of these, where Fancy might run wild, Though under skies less generous, less serene: There, for her own delight had Nature framed A pleasure-ground, diffused a fair expanse 190 Of level pasture, islanded with groves And banked with woody risings; but the Plain [T] Endless, here opening widely out, and there Shut up in lesser lakes or beds of lawn And intricate recesses, creek or bay 195 Sheltered within a shelter, where at large The shepherd strays, a rolling hut his home. Thither he comes with spring-time, there abides All summer, and at sunrise ye may hear His flageolet to liquid notes of love 200 Attuned, or sprightly fife resounding far. Nook is there none, nor tract of that vast space Where passage opens, but the same shall have In turn its visitant, telling there his hours In unlaborious pleasure, with no task 205 More toilsome than to carve a beechen bowl For spring or fountain, which the traveller finds, When through the region he pursues at will His devious course. A glimpse of such sweet life I saw when, from the melancholy walls 210 Of Goslar, once imperial, I renewed My daily walk along that wide champaign, [U] That, reaching to her gates, spreads east and west, And northwards, from beneath the mountainous verge Of the Hercynian forest, [V] Yet, hail to you 215 Moors, mountains, headlands, and ye hollow vales, Ye long deep channels for the Atlantic's voice, [W] Powers of my native region! Ye that seize The heart with firmer grasp! Your snows and streams Ungovernable, and your terrifying winds, 220 That howl so dismally for him who treads Companionless your awful solitudes! There, 'tis the shepherd's task the winter long To wait upon the storms: of their approach Sagacious, into sheltering coves he drives 225 His flock, and thither from the homestead bears A toilsome burden up the craggy ways, And deals it out, their regular nourishment Strewn on the frozen snow. And when the spring Looks out, and all the pastures dance with lambs, 230 And when the flock, with warmer weather, climbs Higher and higher, him his office leads To watch their goings, whatsoever track The wanderers choose. For this he quits his home At day-spring, and no sooner doth the sun 235 Begin to strike him with a fire-like heat, Than he lies down upon some shining rock, And breakfasts with his dog. When they have stolen, As is their wont, a pittance from strict time, For rest not needed or exchange of love, 240 Then from his couch he starts; and now his feet Crush out a livelier fragrance from the flowers Of lowly thyme, by Nature's skill enwrought In the wild turf: the lingering dews of morn Smoke round him, as from hill to hill he hies, 245 His staff protending like a hunter's spear, Or by its aid leaping from crag to crag, And o'er the brawling beds of unbridged streams. Philosophy, methinks, at Fancy's call, Might deign to follow him through what he does 250 Or sees in his day's march; himself he feels, In those vast regions where his service lies, A freeman, wedded to his life of hope And hazard, and hard labour interchanged With that majestic indolence so dear 255 To native man. A rambling school-boy, thus I felt his presence in his own domain, As of a lord and master, or a power, Or genius, under Nature, under God, Presiding; and severest solitude 260 Had more commanding looks when he was there. When up the lonely brooks on rainy days Angling I went, or trod the trackless hills By mists bewildered, [X] suddenly mine eyes Have glanced upon him distant a few steps, 265 In size a giant, stalking through thick fog, His sheep like Greenland bears; or, as he stepped Beyond the boundary line of some hill-shadow, His form hath flashed upon me, glorified By the deep radiance of the setting sun: 270 Or him have I descried in distant sky, A solitary object and sublime, Above all height! like an aerial cross Stationed alone upon a spiry rock Of the Chartreuse, for worship. [Y] Thus was man 275 Ennobled outwardly before my sight, And thus my heart was early introduced To an unconscious love and reverence Of human nature; hence the human form To me became an index of delight, 280 Of grace and honour, power and worthiness. Meanwhile this creature--spiritual almost As those of books, but more exalted far; Far more of an imaginative form Than the gay Corin of the groves, [Z] who lives 285 For his own fancies, or to dance by the hour, In coronal, with Phyllis in the midst--[Z] Was, for the purposes of kind, a man With the most common; husband, father; learned, Could teach, admonish; suffered with the rest 290 From vice and folly, wretchedness and fear; Of this I little saw, cared less for it, But something must have felt. Call ye these appearances Which I beheld of shepherds in my youth, This sanctity of Nature given to man, 295 A shadow, a delusion? ye who pore On the dead letter, miss the spirit of things; Whose truth is not a motion or a shape Instinct with vital functions, but a block Or waxen image which yourselves have made, 300 And ye adore! But blessed be the God Of Nature and of Man that this was so; That men before my inexperienced eyes Did first present themselves thus purified, Removed, and to a distance that was fit: 305 And so we all of us in some degree Are led to knowledge, wheresoever led, And howsoever; were it otherwise, And we found evil fast as we find good In our first years, or think that it is found, 310 How could the innocent heart bear up and live! But doubly fortunate my lot; not here Alone, that something of a better life Perhaps was round me than it is the privilege Of most to move in, but that first I looked 315 At Man through objects that were great or fair; First communed with him by their help. And thus Was founded a sure safeguard and defence Against the weight of meanness, selfish cares, Coarse manners, vulgar passions, that beat in 320 On all sides from the ordinary world In which we traffic. Starting from this point I had my face turned toward the truth, began With an advantage furnished by that kind Of prepossession, without which the soul 325 Receives no knowledge that can bring forth good, No genuine insight ever comes to her. From the restraint of over-watchful eyes Preserved, I moved about, year after year, Happy, [a] and now most thankful that my walk 330 Was guarded from too early intercourse With the deformities of crowded life, And those ensuing laughters and contempts, Self-pleasing, which, if we would wish to think With a due reverence on earth's rightful lord, 335 Here placed to be the inheritor of heaven, Will not permit us; but pursue the mind, That to devotion willingly would rise, Into the temple and the temple's heart.

Yet deem not, Friend! that human kind with me 340 Thus early took a place pre-eminent; Nature herself was, at this unripe time, But secondary to my own pursuits And animal activities, and all Their trivial pleasures; [b] and when these had drooped 345 And gradually expired, and Nature, prized For her own sake, became my joy, even then--[b] And upwards through late youth, until not less Than two-and-twenty summers had been told--[c] Was Man in my affections and regards 350 Subordinate to her, her visible forms And viewless agencies: a passion, she, A rapture often, and immediate love Ever at hand; he, only a delight Occasional, an accidental grace, 355 His hour being not yet come. Far less had then The inferior creatures, beast or bird, attuned My spirit to that gentleness of love (Though they had long been carefully observed), Won from me those minute obeisances 360 Of tenderness, [d] which I may number now With my first blessings. Nevertheless, on these The light of beauty did not fall in vain, Or grandeur circumfuse them to no end.

But when that first poetic faculty 365 Of plain Imagination and severe, No longer a mute influence of the soul, Ventured, at some rash Muse's earnest call, To try her strength among harmonious words; [e] And to book-notions and the rules of art 370 Did knowingly conform itself; there came Among the simple shapes of human life A wilfulness of fancy and conceit; [e] And Nature and her objects beautified These fictions, as in some sort, in their turn, 375 They burnished her. From touch of this new power Nothing was safe: the elder-tree that grew Beside the well-known charnel-house had then A dismal look: the yew-tree had its ghost, That took his station there for ornament: 380 The dignities of plain occurrence then Were tasteless, and truth's golden mean, a point Where no sufficient pleasure could be found. Then, if a widow, staggering with the blow Of her distress, was known to have turned her steps 385 To the cold grave in which her husband slept, One night, or haply more than one, through pain Or half-insensate impotence of mind, The fact was caught at greedily, and there She must be visitant the whole year through, 390 Wetting the turf with never-ending tears.

Through quaint obliquities I might pursue These cravings; when the fox-glove, one by one, Upwards through every stage of the tall stem, Had shed beside the public way its bells, 395 And stood of all dismantled, save the last Left at the tapering ladder's top, that seemed To bend as doth a slender blade of grass Tipped with a rain-drop, Fancy loved to seat, Beneath the plant despoiled, but crested still 400 With this last relic, soon itself to fall, Some vagrant mother, whose arch little ones, All unconcerned by her dejected plight, Laughed as with rival eagerness their hands Gathered the purple cups that round them lay, 405 Strewing the turf's green slope. A diamond light (Whene'er the summer sun, declining, smote A smooth rock wet with constant springs) was seen Sparkling from out a copse-clad bank that rose Fronting our cottage. [f] Oft beside the hearth 410 Seated, with open door, often and long Upon this restless lustre have I gazed, That made my fancy restless as itself. 'Twas now for me a burnished silver shield Suspended over a knight's tomb, who lay 415 Inglorious, buried in the dusky wood: An entrance now into some magic cave Or palace built by fairies of the rock; Nor could I have been bribed to disenchant The spectacle, by visiting the spot. 420 Thus wilful Fancy, in no hurtful mood, Engrafted far-fetched shapes on feelings bred By pure Imagination: busy Power [g] She was, and with her ready pupil turned Instinctively to human passions, then 425 Least understood. Yet, 'mid the fervent swarm Of these vagaries, with an eye so rich As mine was through the bounty of a grand And lovely region, [h] I had forms distinct To steady me: each airy thought revolved 430 Round a substantial centre, which at once Incited it to motion, and controlled. I did not pine like one in cities bred, As was thy melancholy lot, dear Friend! [i] Great Spirit as thou art, in endless dreams 435 Of sickliness, disjoining, joining, things Without the light of knowledge. Where the harm, If, when the woodman languished with disease Induced by sleeping nightly on the ground Within his sod-built cabin, Indian-wise, 440 I called the pangs of disappointed love, And all the sad etcetera of the wrong, To help him to his grave? Meanwhile the man, If not already from the woods retired To die at home, was haply as I knew, 445 Withering by slow degrees, 'mid gentle airs, Birds, running streams, and hills so beautiful On golden evenings, while the charcoal pile Breathed up its smoke, an image of his ghost Or spirit that full soon must take her flight. 450 Nor shall we not be tending towards that point Of sound humanity to which our Tale Leads, though by sinuous ways, if here I shew How Fancy, in a season when she wove Those slender cords, to guide the unconscious Boy 455 For the Man's sake, could feed at Nature's call Some pensive musings which might well beseem Maturer years. A grove there is whose boughs Stretch from the western marge of Thurston-mere, [k] With length of shade so thick, that whoso glides 460 Along the line of low-roofed water, moves As in a cloister. Once--while, in that shade Loitering, I watched the golden beams of light Flung from the setting sun, as they reposed In silent beauty on the naked ridge 465 Of a high eastern hill--thus flowed my thoughts In a pure stream of words fresh from the heart: Dear native Regions, [m] wheresoe'er shall close My mortal course, there will I think on you; Dying, will cast on you a backward look; 470 Even as this setting sun (albeit the Vale Is no where touched by one memorial gleam) Doth with the fond remains of his last power Still linger, and a farewell lustre sheds On the dear mountain-tops where first he rose. 475

Enough of humble arguments; recal, My Song! those high emotions which thy voice Has heretofore made known; that bursting forth Of sympathy, inspiring and inspired, When everywhere a vital pulse was felt, 480 And all the several frames of things, like stars, Through every magnitude distinguishable, Shone mutually indebted, or half lost Each in the other's blaze, a galaxy Of life and glory. In the midst stood Man, 485 Outwardly, inwardly contemplated, As, of all visible natures, crown, though born Of dust, and kindred to the worm; a Being, Both in perception and discernment, first In every capability of rapture, 490 Through the divine effect of power and love; As, more than anything we know, instinct With godhead, and, by reason and by will, Acknowledging dependency sublime.

Ere long, the lonely mountains left, I moved, 495 Begirt, from day to day, with temporal shapes Of vice and folly thrust upon my view, Objects of sport, and ridicule, and scorn, Manners and characters discriminate, And little bustling passions that eclipse, 500 As well they might, the impersonated thought, The idea, or abstraction of the kind.

An idler among academic bowers, Such was my new condition, as at large Has been set forth; [n] yet here the vulgar light 505 Of present, actual, superficial life, Gleaming through colouring of other times, Old usages and local privilege, Was welcome, softened, if not solemnised.

This notwithstanding, being brought more near 510 To vice and guilt, forerunning wretchedness I trembled,--thought, at times, of human life With an indefinite terror and dismay, Such as the storms and angry elements Had bred in me; but gloomier far, a dim 515 Analogy to uproar and misrule, Disquiet, danger, and obscurity.

It might be told (but wherefore speak of things Common to all?) that, seeing, I was led Gravely to ponder--judging between good 520 And evil, not as for the mind's delight But for her guidance--one who was to _act_, As sometimes to the best of feeble means I did, by human sympathy impelled: And, through dislike and most offensive pain, 525 Was to the truth conducted; of this faith Never forsaken, that, by acting well, And understanding, I should learn to love The end of life, and every thing we know.

Grave Teacher, stern Preceptress! for at times 530 Thou canst put on an aspect most severe; London, to thee I willingly return. Erewhile my verse played idly with the flowers Enwrought upon thy mantle; satisfied With that amusement, and a simple look 535 Of child-like inquisition now and then Cast upwards on thy countenance, to detect Some inner meanings which might harbour there. But how could I in mood so light indulge, Keeping such fresh remembrance of the day, 540 When, having thridded the long labyrinth Of the suburban villages, I first Entered thy vast dominion? [o] On the roof Of an itinerant vehicle I sate, With vulgar men about me, trivial forms 545 Of houses, pavement, streets, of men and things,-- Mean shapes on every side: but, at the instant, When to myself it fairly might be said, The threshold now is overpast, (how strange That aught external to the living mind 550 Should have such mighty sway! yet so it was), A weight of ages did at once descend Upon my heart; no thought embodied, no Distinct remembrances, but weight and power,-- Power growing under weight: alas! I feel 555 That I am trifling: 'twas a moment's pause,-- All that took place within me came and went As in a moment; yet with Time it dwells, And grateful memory, as a thing divine.

The curious traveller, who, from open day, 560 Hath passed with torches into some huge cave, The Grotto of Antiparos, [p] or the Den In old time haunted by that Danish Witch, Yordas; [q] he looks around and sees the vault Widening on all sides; sees, or thinks he sees, 565 Erelong, the massy roof above his head, That instantly unsettles and recedes,-- Substance and shadow, light and darkness, all Commingled, making up a canopy Of shapes and forms and tendencies to shape 570 That shift and vanish, change and interchange Like spectres,--ferment silent and sublime! That after a short space works less and less, Till, every effort, every motion gone, The scene before him stands in perfect view 575 Exposed, and lifeless as a written book!-- But let him pause awhile, and look again, And a new quickening shall succeed, at first Beginning timidly, then creeping fast, Till the whole cave, so late a senseless mass, 580 Busies the eye with images and forms Boldly assembled,--here is shadowed forth From the projections, wrinkles, cavities, A variegated landscape,--there the shape Of some gigantic warrior clad in mail, 585 The ghostly semblance of a hooded monk. Veiled nun, or pilgrim resting on his staff: Strange congregation! yet not slow to meet Eyes that perceive through minds that can inspire.

Even in such sort had I at first been moved, 590 Nor otherwise continued to be moved, As I explored the vast metropolis, Fount of my country's destiny and the world's; That great emporium, chronicle at once And burial-place of passions, and their home 595 Imperial, their chief living residence.

With strong sensations teeming as it did Of past and present, such a place must needs Have pleased me, seeking knowledge at that time Far less than craving power; yet knowledge came, 600 Sought or unsought, and influxes of power Came, of themselves, or at her call derived In fits of kindliest apprehensiveness, From all sides, when whate'er was in itself Capacious found, or seemed to find, in me 605 A correspondent amplitude of mind; Such is the strength and glory of our youth! The human nature unto which I felt That I belonged, and reverenced with love, Was not a punctual presence, but a spirit 610 Diffused through time and space, with aid derived Of evidence from monuments, erect, Prostrate, or leaning towards their common rest In earth, the widely scattered wreck sublime Of vanished nations, or more clearly drawn 615 From books and what they picture and record.

'Tis true, the history of our native land, With those of Greece compared and popular Rome, And in our high-wrought modern narratives Stript of their harmonising soul, the life 620 Of manners and familiar incidents, Had never much delighted me. And less Than other intellects had mine been used To lean upon extrinsic circumstance Of record or tradition; but a sense 625 Of what in the Great City had been done And suffered, and was doing, suffering, still, Weighed with me, could support the test of thought; And, in despite of all that had gone by, Or was departing never to return, 630 There I conversed with majesty and power Like independent natures. Hence the place Was thronged with impregnations like the Wilds In which my early feelings had been nursed-- Bare hills and valleys, full of caverns, rocks, 635 And audible seclusions, dashing lakes, Echoes and waterfalls, and pointed crags That into music touch the passing wind. Here then my young imagination found No uncongenial element; could here 640 Among new objects serve or give command, Even as the heart's occasions might require, To forward reason's else too scrupulous march. The effect was, still more elevated views Of human nature. Neither vice nor guilt, 645 Debasement undergone by body or mind, Nor all the misery forced upon my sight, Misery not lightly passed, but sometimes scanned Most feelingly, could overthrow my trust In what we _may_ become; induce belief 650 That I was ignorant, had been falsely taught, A solitary, who with vain conceits Had been inspired, and walked about in dreams. From those sad scenes when meditation turned, Lo! every thing that was indeed divine 655 Retained its purity inviolate, Nay brighter shone, by this portentous gloom Set off; such opposition as aroused The mind of Adam, yet in Paradise Though fallen from bliss, when in the East he saw 660 [r] Darkness ere day's mid course, and morning light More orient in the western cloud, that drew O'er the blue firmament a radiant white, Descending slow with something heavenly fraught. Add also, that among the multitudes 665 Of that huge city, oftentimes was seen Affectingly set forth, more than elsewhere Is possible, the unity of man, One spirit over ignorance and vice Predominant, in good and evil hearts; 670 One sense for moral judgments, as one eye For the sun's light. The soul when smitten thus By a sublime _idea_, whencesoe'er Vouchsafed for union or communion, feeds On the pure bliss, and takes her rest with God. 675 Thus from a very early age, O Friend! My thoughts by slow gradations had been drawn To human-kind, and to the good and ill Of human life: Nature had led me on; And oft amid the "busy hum" I seemed [s] 680 To travel independent of her help, As if I had forgotten her; but no, The world of human-kind outweighed not hers In my habitual thoughts; the scale of love, Though filling daily, still was light, compared 685 With that in which _her_ mighty objects lay.

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VARIANTS ON THE TEXT

[Variant 1:

... which ...

MS. letter to Sir George Beaumont, 1805.]

[Variant 2:

Is yon assembled in the gay green field?

MS. letter to Sir George Beaumont, 1805.]

[Variant 3:

... family of men, Twice twenty with their children and their wives, And here and there a stranger interspersed. Such show, on this side now, ...

MS. to Sir George Beaumont, 1805.]

[Variant 4:

Sees annually; if storms be not abroad And mists have left him ...

MS. to Sir George Beaumont, 1805.]

[Variant 5:

It is a summer Festival, a Fair, The only one which that secluded Glen Has to be proud of ...

MS. to Sir George Beaumont, 1805.]

[Variant 6:

... heat of noon, Behold! the cattle are driven down, the sheep That have for this day's traffic been call'd out

MS. to Sir George Beaumont, 1805.]

[Variant 7:

... visitant! The showman with his freight upon his back, And once, perchance, in lapse of many years

MS. to Sir George Beaumont, 1805.]

[Variant 8:

But one is here, ...

MS. to Sir George Beaumont, 1805.]

[Variant 9:

... orchard, apples, pears, (On this day only to such office stooping) She carries in her basket and walks round

MS. to Sir George Beaumont, 1805.]

[Variant 10:

... calling, ...

MS. to Sir George Beaumont, 1805.]

[Variant 11:

... rich, the old man now (l. 44) Is generous, so gaiety prevails Which all partake of, young and old. Immense (l. 55)

MS. to Sir George Beaumont, 1805.]

[Variant 12:

... green field:

MS. to Sir George Beaumont, 1805.]

[Variant 13:

... seem, Their herds and flocks about them, they themselves And all which they can further ...

MS. to Sir George Beaumont, 1805.]

[Variant 14:

The lurking brooks for their ...

MS. to Sir George Beaumont, 1805.]

[Variant 15:

And the blue sky that roofs ...

MS. to Sir George Beaumont, 1805.]

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FOOTNOTES ON THE TEXT

[Footnote A: Dorothy Wordsworth alludes to one of these "Fairs" in her Grasmere Journal, September 2, 1800. Her brothers William and John, with Coleridge, were all at Dove Cottage at that time.

"They all went to Stickle Tarn. A very fine, warm, sunny, beautiful morning. We walked to the fair. ... It was a lovely moonlight night. We talked much about our house on Helvellyn. The moonlight shone only upon the village. It did not eclipse the village lights; and the sound of dancing and merriment came along the still air. I walked with Coleridge and William up the lane and by the church...."

Ed.]

[Footnote B: These lines are from a descriptive Poem--'Malvern Hills'--by one of Wordsworth's oldest friends, Mr. Joseph Cottle of Bristol. Cottle was the publisher of the first edition of "Lyrical Ballads," 1798 (Mr. Carter 1850).--Ed.]

[Footnote C: The district round Cockermouth.--Ed.]

[Footnote D: Possibly an allusion to the hanging gardens of Babylon, said to have been constructed by Nebuchadnezzar for his Median queen. Berosus in Joseph, _contr. Ap._ I. 19, calls it a hanging _Paradise_ (though Diodorus Siculus uses the term [Greek: kaepos]).--Ed.

The park of the Emperor of China at Gehol, is called 'Van-shoo-yuen', "the paradise of ten thousand trees." Lord Macartney concludes his description of that "wonderful garden" by saying,

"If any place can be said in any respect to have similar features to the western park of 'Van-shoo-yuen,' which I have seen this day, it is at Lowther Hall in Westmoreland, which (when I knew it many years ago) ... I thought might be reckoned ... the finest scene in the British dominions."

See Barrow's 'Travels in China', p. 134.--Ed.]

[Footnote E: 150 miles north-east of Pekin. See a description of them in Sir George Stanton's 'Authentic Account of an Embassy from the King of Great Britain to the Emperor of China' (from the papers of Lord Macartney), London, 1797, vol. ii. ch. ii. See also 'Encyclopaedia Britannica', ninth edition, article "Gehol."--Ed.]

[Footnote F: Compare 'Paradise Lost', iv. l. 242.--Ed.]

[Footnote G: Compare 'Kubla Khan', ll. 1, 2:

'In Xanadu did Kubla Khan A stately pleasure-dome decree.'

Ed.]

[Footnote H: The Hawkshead district.--Ed.]

[Footnote I: Compare 'Michael', vol. ii. p. 215, 'Fidelity', p. 44 of this vol., etc.--Ed.]

[Footnote K: See Virgil, 'Æneid' viii. 319.--Ed.]

[Footnote L: See Polybius, 'Historiarum libri qui supersunt', vi. 20, 21; and Virgil, 'Eclogue' x. 32.--Ed.]

[Footnote M: See 'As You Like It', act III. scene v.--Ed.]

[Footnote N: See 'The Winter's Tale', act IV. scene iii.--Ed.]

[Footnote O: See Spenser, 'The Shepheard's Calendar (May)'.--Ed.]

[Footnote P: An Italian river in Calabria, famous for its groves and the fine-fleeced sheep that pastured on its banks. See Virgil, 'Georgics' iv. 126; Horace, 'Odes' II. vi. 10.--Ed.]

[Footnote Q: The Adriatic Sea. See Acts xxvii. 27.--Ed.]

[Footnote R: An Umbrian river whose waters, when drunk, were supposed to make oxen white. See Virgil, 'Georgics' ii. 146; Pliny, 'Historia Naturalis', ii. 103.--Ed.]

[Footnote S: A hill in the Sabine country, overhanging a pleasant valley. Near it were the house and farm of Horace. See his 'Odes' I. xvii. 1.--Ed.]

[Footnote T: The plain at the foot of the Harz Mountains, near Goslar.--Ed.]

[Footnote U: In the Fenwick note to the poem 'Written in Germany', vol. ii. p. 73, he says that he "walked daily on the ramparts."--Ed.]

[Footnote V: 'Hercynian forest'.--(See Cæsar, 'B. G.' vi. 24, 25.) According to Cæsar it commenced on the east bank of the Rhine, stretching east and north, its breadth being nine days' journey, and its length sixty. Strabo (iv. p. 292) included within the Hercynia Silva all the mountains of southern and central Germany, from the Danube to Transylvania. Later, it was limited to the mountains round Bohemia and extending to Hungary. (See Tacitus, 'Germania', 28, 30; and Pliny, 'Historia Naturalis', iv. 25, 28.) A trace of the ancient name is retained in the 'Harz' mountains, which are clothed everywhere with conifers, Harz=resin.--Ed.]

[Footnote W: Yewdale, Duddondale, Eskdale, Wastdale, Ennerdale.--Ed.]

[Footnote X: Compare the sonnet in "Yarrow Revisited," etc., No. XI., 'Suggested at Tyndrum in a Storm'.--Ed.]

[Footnote Y: See book vi. l. 485 and note [Footnote Z, below].--Ed.]

[Footnote Z: Corin=Corydon? the shepherd referred to in the pastorals of Virgil and Theocritus. Phyllis, see Virgil, 'Eclogue' x. 37, 41.--Ed.]

[Footnote a: While living in Anne Tyson's Cottage at Hawkshead.--Ed.]

[Footnote b: Compare 'Tintern Abbey', vol. ii. p. 54:

'Nature then, To me was all in all, etc.'

Ed.]

[Footnote c: He spent his twenty-second summer at Blois, in France.--Ed.]

[Footnote d: Compare 'Hart-Leap Well', vol. ii. p. 128, and 'The Green Linnet', vol. ii. p. 367.--Ed.]

[Footnote e: The 'Evening Walk', and 'Descriptive Sketches', published 1793. See especially the original text of the latter, in the appendix to vol. 1. p. 309.--Ed.]TWO FOOTNOTES

[Footnote f: It is difficult to say where this "smooth rock wet with constant springs" and the "copse-clad bank" were. There is no copse-clad bank fronting Anne Tyson's cottage at Hawkshead. It may have been a rock on the wooded slope of the rounded hill that rises west of Cowper Ground, north-west of Hawkshead. A rock "wet with springs" existed there, till it was quarried for road-metal a few years since. But it is quite possible that the cottage referred to is Dove Cottage, Grasmere. In that case the "rock" and "copse-clad bank" may have been on Loughrigg, or more probably on Silver How. The "summer sun" goes down behind Silver How, so that it might smite a wet rock either on Hammar Scar or on the wooded crags above Red Bank. These could be seen from the window of one of the rooms of Dove Cottage. Seated beside the hearth of the "half-kitchen and half-parlour fire" in that cottage, and looking along the passage through the low door, the eye would rest on Hammar Scar, the wooded hill behind Allan Bank. The context of the poem points to Hawkshead; but the details of the description suggest the Grasmere cottage rather than Anne Tyson's.--Ed.]

[Footnote g: See the distinction drawn by Wordsworth between Fancy and Imagination in the Preface to "Lyrical Ballads" (1800 and subsequent editions), and embodied in his classification of the Poems.--Ed.]

[Footnote h: Westmoreland.--Ed.]

[Footnote i: See note [Footnote a], book ii. l. 451.--Ed.]

[Footnote k: Coniston lake; see note [Footnote m below] on the following page.--Ed.]

[Footnote m: The eight lines which follow are a recast, in the blank verse of 'The Prelude', of the youthful lines entitled 'Extract from the Conclusion of a Poem, composed in Anticipation of leaving School'. These were composed in Wordsworth's sixteenth year. As the contrast is striking, the earlier lines may be transcribed:

'Dear native regions, I foretell, From what I feel at this farewell, That, wheresoe'er my steps may tend, And whensoe'er my course shall end, If in that hour a single tie Survive of local sympathy, My soul will cast the backward view, The longing look alone on you.

Thus, while the Sun sinks down to rest Far in the regions of the west, Though to the vale no parting beam Be given, not one memorial gleam, A lingering light he fondly throws On the dear hills where first he rose.'

The Fenwick note to this poem is as follows:

"The beautiful image with which this poem concludes suggested itself to me while I was resting in a boat along with my companions under the shade of a magnificent row of sycamores, which then extended their branches from the shore of the promontory upon with stands the ancient, and at that time the more picturesque, Hall of Coniston."

There is nothing in either poem definitely to connect "Thurstonmere" with Coniston, although their identity is suggested by the Fenwick note. I find, however, that Thurston was the ancient name of Coniston; and this carries us back to the time of the worship of Thor. (See Lewis's 'Topographical Dictionary of England', vol. i. p. 662; also the 'Edinburgh Gazetteer' (1822), articles "Thurston" and "Coniston.") The site of the grove "on the shore of the promontory" at Coniston Lake is easily identified, but the grove itself is gone.--Ed.]

[Footnote n: Compare book iii. ll. 30 and 321-26; also book vi, ll. 25 and 95, both text and notes.--Ed.]

[Footnote o: Probably in 1788. Compare book vii. ll. 61-68, and note [Footnote K].--Ed.]

[Footnote p: A stalactite cave, in a mountain in the south coast of the island of Antiparos, which is one of the Cyclades. It is six miles from Paros, was famous in ancient times, and was rediscovered in 1673.--Ed.]

[Footnote q: There is a cave, called Yordas Cave, four and a half miles from Ingleton in Lonsdale, Yorkshire. It is a limestone cavern, rich in stalactites, like the grotto of Antiparos; and is at the foot of the slopes of Gragreth, formerly called Greg-roof. It gets its name from a traditional giant 'Yordas'; some of its recesses being called "Yordas' bed-chamber," "Yordas' oven," etc. See Allen's 'County of York', iii. p. 359; also Bigland's "Yorkshire" in 'The Beauties of England and Wales', vol. xvi. p. 735, and Murray's 'Handbook for Yorkshire', p. 392.--Ed.]

[Footnote r: From Milton, 'Paradise Lost', book xi. 1. 204:

'Why in the East Darkness ere day's mid-course, and Morning light More orient in yon Western Cloud, that draws O'er the blue Firmament a radiant white, And slow descends, with something heav'nly fraught?'

Ed.]

[Footnote s: See 'L'Allegro', l. 118.--Ed.]

* * * * *

BOOK NINTH

RESIDENCE IN FRANCE

Even as a river,--partly (it might seem) Yielding to old remembrances, and swayed In part by fear to shape a way direct, That would engulph him soon in the ravenous sea-- Turns, and will measure back his course, far back, 5 Seeking the very regions which he crossed In his first outset; so have we, my Friend! Turned and returned with intricate delay. Or as a traveller, who has gained the brow Of some aerial Down, while there he halts 10 For breathing-time, is tempted to review The region left behind him; and, if aught Deserving notice have escaped regard, Or been regarded with too careless eye, Strives, from that height, with one and yet one more 15 Last look, to make the best amends he may: So have we lingered. Now we start afresh With courage, and new hope risen on our toil Fair greetings to this shapeless eagerness, Whene'er it comes! needful in work so long, 20 Thrice needful to the argument which now Awaits us! Oh, how much unlike the past!

Free as a colt at pasture on the hill, I ranged at large, through London's wide domain, Month after month [A]. Obscurely did I live, 25 Not seeking frequent intercourse with men, By literature, or elegance, or rank, Distinguished. Scarcely was a year thus spent [A] Ere I forsook the crowded solitude, With less regret for its luxurious pomp, 30 And all the nicely-guarded shows of art, Than for the humble book-stalls in the streets, Exposed to eye and hand where'er I turned.

France lured me forth; the realm that I had crossed So lately [B], journeying toward the snow-clad Alps. 35 But now, relinquishing the scrip and staff, And all enjoyment which the summer sun Sheds round the steps of those who meet the day With motion constant as his own, I went Prepared to sojourn in a pleasant town, [C] 40 Washed by the current of the stately Loire.

Through Paris lay my readiest course, and there Sojourning a few days, I visited, In haste, each spot of old or recent fame, The latter chiefly; from the field of Mars 45 Down to the suburbs of St. Antony, And from Mont Martyr southward to the Dome Of Geneviève [D]. In both her clamorous Halls, The National Synod and the Jacobins, I saw the Revolutionary Power 50 Toss like a ship at anchor, rocked by storms; [E] The Arcades I traversed, in the Palace huge Of Orléans; [F] coasted round and round the line Of Tavern, Brothel, Gaming-house, and Shop, Great rendezvous of worst and best, the walk 55 Of all who had a purpose, or had not; I stared and listened, with a stranger's ears, To Hawkers and Haranguers, hubbub wild! And hissing Factionists with ardent eyes, In knots, or pairs, or single. Not a look 60 Hope takes, or Doubt or Fear is forced to wear, But seemed there present; and I scanned them all, Watched every gesture uncontrollable, Of anger, and vexation, and despite, All side by side, and struggling face to face, 65 With gaiety and dissolute idleness.

Where silent zephyrs sported with the dust Of the Bastille, I sate in the open sun, And from the rubbish gathered up a stone, And pocketed the relic, [G] in the guise 70 Of an enthusiast; yet, in honest truth, I looked for something that I could not find, Affecting more emotion than I felt; For 'tis most certain, that these various sights, However potent their first shock, with me 75 Appeared to recompense the traveller's pains Less than the painted Magdalene of Le Brun, [H] A beauty exquisitely wrought, with hair Dishevelled, gleaming eyes, and rueful cheek Pale and bedropped with everflowing tears. 80

But hence to my more permanent abode I hasten; there, by novelties in speech, Domestic manners, customs, gestures, looks, And all the attire of ordinary life, Attention was engrossed; and, thus amused, 85 I stood, 'mid those concussions, unconcerned, Tranquil almost, and careless as a flower Glassed in a green-house, or a parlour shrub That spreads its leaves in unmolested peace, While every bush and tree, the country through, 90 Is shaking to the roots: indifference this Which may seem strange: but I was unprepared With needful knowledge, had abruptly passed Into a theatre, whose stage was filled And busy with an action far advanced. 95 Like others, I had skimmed, and sometimes read With care, the master pamphlets of the day; Nor wanted such half-insight as grew wild Upon that meagre soil, helped out by talk And public news; but having never seen 100 A chronicle that might suffice to show Whence the main organs of the public power Had sprung, their transmigrations, when and how Accomplished, giving thus unto events A form and body; all things were to me 105 Loose and disjointed, and the affections left Without a vital interest. At that time, Moreover, the first storm was overblown, And the strong hand of outward violence Locked up in quiet. For myself, I fear 110 Now in connection with so great a theme To speak (as I must be compelled to do) Of one so unimportant; night by night Did I frequent the formal haunts of men, Whom, in the city, privilege of birth 115 Sequestered from the rest, societies Polished in arts, and in punctilio versed; Whence, and from deeper causes, all discourse Of good and evil of the time was shunned With scrupulous care; but these restrictions soon 120 Proved tedious, and I gradually withdrew Into a noisier world, and thus ere long Became a patriot; and my heart was all Given to the people, and my love was theirs.

A band of military Officers, 125 Then stationed in the city, were the chief Of my associates: some of these wore swords That had been seasoned in the wars, and all Were men well-born; the chivalry of France. In age and temper differing, they had yet 130 One spirit ruling in each heart; alike (Save only one, hereafter to be named) [I] Were bent upon undoing what was done: This was their rest and only hope; therewith No fear had they of bad becoming worse, 135 For worst to them was come; nor would have stirred, Or deemed it worth a moment's thought to stir, In any thing, save only as the act Looked thitherward. One, reckoning by years, Was in the prime of manhood, and erewhile 140 He had sate lord in many tender hearts; Though heedless of such honours now, and changed: His temper was quite mastered by the times, And they had blighted him, had eaten away The beauty of his person, doing wrong 145 Alike to body and to mind: his port, Which once had been erect and open, now Was stooping and contracted, and a face, Endowed by Nature with her fairest gifts Of symmetry and light and bloom, expressed, 150 As much as any that was ever seen, A ravage out of season, made by thoughts Unhealthy and vexatious. With the hour, That from the press of Paris duly brought Its freight of public news, the fever came, 155 A punctual visitant, to shake this man, Disarmed his voice and fanned his yellow cheek Into a thousand colours; while he read, Or mused, his sword was haunted by his touch Continually, like an uneasy place 160 In his own body. 'Twas in truth an hour Of universal ferment; mildest men Were agitated; and commotions, strife Of passion and opinion, filled the walls Of peaceful houses with unquiet sounds. 165 The soil of common life, was, at that time, Too hot to tread upon. Oft said I then, And not then only, "What a mockery this Of history, the past and that to come! Now do I feel how all men are deceived, 170 Reading of nations and their works, in faith, Faith given to vanity and emptiness; Oh! laughter for the page that would reflect To future times the face of what now is!" The land all swarmed with passion, like a plain 175 Devoured by locusts,--Carra, Gorsas,--add A hundred other names, forgotten now, [K] Nor to be heard of more; yet, they were powers, Like earthquakes, shocks repeated day by day, And felt through every nook of town and field. 180

Such was the state of things. Meanwhile the chief Of my associates stood prepared for flight To augment the band of emigrants in arms [L] Upon the borders of the Rhine, and leagued With foreign foes mustered for instant war. 185 This was their undisguised intent, and they Were waiting with the whole of their desires The moment to depart. An Englishman, Born in a land whose very name appeared To license some unruliness of mind; 190 A stranger, with youth's further privilege, And the indulgence that a half-learnt speech Wins from the courteous; I, who had been else Shunned and not tolerated, freely lived With these defenders of the Crown, and talked, 195 And heard their notions; nor did they disdain The wish to bring me over to their cause.

But though untaught by thinking or by books To reason well of polity or law, And nice distinctions, then on every tongue, 200 Of natural rights and civil; and to acts Of nations and their passing interests, (If with unworldly ends and aims compared) Almost indifferent, even the historian's tale Prizing but little otherwise than I prized 205 Tales of the poets, as it made the heart Beat high, and filled the fancy with fair forms, Old heroes and their sufferings and their deeds; Yet in the regal sceptre, and the pomp Of orders and degrees, I nothing found 210 Then, or had ever, even in crudest youth, That dazzled me, but rather what I mourned And ill could brook, beholding that the best Ruled not, and feeling that they ought to rule.

For, born in a poor district, and which yet 215 Retaineth more of ancient homeliness, Than any other nook of English ground, It was my fortune scarcely to have seen, Through the whole tenor of my school-day time, The face of one, who, whether boy or man, 220 Was vested with attention or respect Through claims of wealth or blood; nor was it least Of many benefits, in later years Derived from academic institutes And rules, that they held something up to view 225 Of a Republic, where all stood thus far Upon equal ground; that we were brothers all In honour, as in one community, Scholars and gentlemen; where, furthermore, Distinction open lay to all that came, 230 And wealth and titles were in less esteem Than talents, worth, and prosperous industry. Add unto this, subservience from the first To presences of God's mysterious power Made manifest in Nature's sovereignty, 235 And fellowship with venerable books, To sanction the proud workings of the soul, And mountain liberty. It could not be But that one tutored thus should look with awe Upon the faculties of man, receive 240 Gladly the highest promises, and hail, As best, the government of equal rights And individual worth. And hence, O Friend! If at the first great outbreak I rejoiced Less than might well befit my youth, the cause 245 In part lay here, that unto me the events Seemed nothing out of nature's certain course, A gift that was come rather late than soon. No wonder, then, if advocates like these, Inflamed by passion, blind with prejudice, 250 And stung with injury, at this riper day, Were impotent to make my hopes put on The shape of theirs, my understanding bend In honour to their honour: zeal, which yet Had slumbered, now in opposition burst 255 Forth like a Polar summer: every word They uttered was a dart, by counter-winds Blown back upon themselves; their reason seemed Confusion-stricken by a higher power Than human understanding, their discourse 260 Maimed, spiritless; and, in their weakness strong, I triumphed.

Meantime, day by day, the roads Were crowded with the bravest youth of France, [M] And all the promptest of her spirits, linked In gallant soldiership, and posting on 265 To meet the war upon her frontier bounds. Yet at this very moment do tears start Into mine eyes: I do not say I weep-- I wept not then,--but tears have dimmed my sight, In memory of the farewells of that time, 270 Domestic severings, female fortitude At dearest separation, patriot love And self-devotion, and terrestrial hope, Encouraged with a martyr's confidence; Even files of strangers merely seen but once, 275 And for a moment, men from far with sound Of music, martial tunes, and banners spread, Entering the city, here and there a face, Or person singled out among the rest, Yet still a stranger and beloved as such; 280 Even by these passing spectacles my heart Was oftentimes uplifted, and they seemed Arguments sent from Heaven to prove the cause Good, pure, which no one could stand up against, Who was not lost, abandoned, selfish, proud, 285 Mean, miserable, wilfully depraved, Hater perverse of equity and truth.

Among that band of Officers was one, Already hinted at, [N] of other mould-- A patriot, thence rejected by the rest, 290 And with an oriental loathing spurned, As of a different caste. A meeker man Than this lived never, nor a more benign, Meek though enthusiastic. Injuries Made _him_ more gracious, and his nature then 295 Did breathe its sweetness out most sensibly, As aromatic flowers on Alpine turf, When foot hath crushed them. He through the events Of that great change wandered in perfect faith, As through a book, an old romance, or tale 300 Of Fairy, or some dream of actions wrought Behind the summer clouds. By birth he ranked With the most noble, but unto the poor Among mankind he was in service bound, As by some tie invisible, oaths professed 305 To a religious order. Man he loved As man; and, to the mean and the obscure, And all the homely in their homely works, Transferred a courtesy which had no air Of condescension; but did rather seem 310 A passion and a gallantry, like that Which he, a soldier, in his idler day Had paid to woman: somewhat vain he was, Or seemed so, yet it was not vanity, But fondness, and a kind of radiant joy 315 Diffused around him, while he was intent On works of love or freedom, or revolved Complacently the progress of a cause, Whereof he was a part: yet this was meek And placid, and took nothing from the man 320 That was delightful. Oft in solitude With him did I discourse about the end Of civil government, and its wisest forms; Of ancient loyalty, and chartered rights, Custom and habit, novelty and change; 325 Of self-respect, and virtue in the few For patrimonial honour set apart, And ignorance in the labouring multitude. For he, to all intolerance indisposed, Balanced these contemplations in his mind; 330 And I, who at that time was scarcely dipped Into the turmoil, bore a sounder judgment Than later days allowed; carried about me, With less alloy to its integrity, The experience of past ages, as, through help 335 Of books and common life, it makes sure way To youthful minds, by objects over near Not pressed upon, nor dazzled or misled By struggling with the crowd for present ends.

But though not deaf, nor obstinate to find 340 Error without excuse upon the side Of them who strove against us, more delight We took, and let this freely be confessed, In painting to ourselves the miseries Of royal courts, and that voluptuous life 345 Unfeeling, where the man who is of soul The meanest thrives the most; where dignity, True personal dignity, abideth not; A light, a cruel, and vain world cut off From the natural inlets of just sentiment, 350 From lowly sympathy and chastening truth; Where good and evil interchange their names, And thirst for bloody spoils abroad is paired With vice at home. We added dearest themes-- Man and his noble nature, as it is 355 The gift which God has placed within his power, His blind desires and steady faculties Capable of clear truth, the one to break Bondage, the other to build liberty On firm foundations, making social life, 360 Through knowledge spreading and imperishable, As just in regulation, and as pure As individual in the wise and good.

We summoned up the honourable deeds Of ancient Story, thought of each bright spot, 365 That would be found in all recorded time, Of truth preserved and error passed away; Of single spirits that catch the flame from Heaven, And how the multitudes of men will feed And fan each other; thought of sects, how keen 370 They are to put the appropriate nature on, Triumphant over every obstacle Of custom, language, country, love, or hate, And what they do and suffer for their creed; How far they travel, and how long endure; 375 How quickly mighty Nations have been formed, From least beginnings; how, together locked By new opinions, scattered tribes have made One body, spreading wide as clouds in heaven. To aspirations then of our own minds 380 Did we appeal; and, finally, beheld A living confirmation of the whole Before us, in a people from the depth Of shameful imbecility uprisen, Fresh as the morning star. Elate we looked 385 Upon their virtues; saw, in rudest men, Self-sacrifice the firmest; generous love, And continence of mind, and sense of right, Uppermost in the midst of fiercest strife.

Oh, sweet it is, in academic groves, 390 Or such retirement, Friend! as we have known In the green dales beside our Rotha's stream, Greta, or Derwent, or some nameless rill, To ruminate, with interchange of talk, On rational liberty, and hope in man, 395 Justice and peace. But far more sweet such toil-- Toil, say I, for it leads to thoughts abstruse-- If nature then be standing on the brink Of some great trial, and we hear the voice Of one devoted, one whom circumstance 400 Hath called upon to embody his deep sense In action, give it outwardly a shape, And that of benediction, to the world. Then doubt is not, and truth is more than truth,-- A hope it is, and a desire; a creed 405 Of zeal, by an authority Divine Sanctioned, of danger, difficulty, or death. Such conversation, under Attic shades, Did Dion hold with Plato; [O] ripened thus For a Deliverer's glorious task,--and such 410 He, on that ministry already bound, Held with Eudemus and Timonides, [P] Surrounded by adventurers in arms, When those two vessels with their daring freight, For the Sicilian Tyrant's overthrow, 415 Sailed from Zacynthus,--philosophic war, Led by Philosophers. [Q] With harder fate, Though like ambition, such was he, O Friend! Of whom I speak. So Beaupuis (let the name Stand near the worthiest of Antiquity) 420 Fashioned his life; and many a long discourse, With like persuasion honoured, we maintained: He, on his part, accoutred for the worst. He perished fighting, in supreme command, Upon the borders of the unhappy Loire, 425 For liberty, against deluded men, His fellow country-men; and yet most blessed In this, that he the fate of later times Lived not to see, nor what we now behold, Who have as ardent hearts as he had then. 430

Along that very Loire, with festal mirth Resounding at all hours, and innocent yet Of civil slaughter, was our frequent walk; Or in wide forests of continuous shade, Lofty and over-arched, with open space 435 Beneath the trees, clear footing many a mile-- A solemn region. Oft amid those haunts, From earnest dialogues I slipped in thought, And let remembrance steal to other times, When, o'er those interwoven roots, moss-clad, 440 And smooth as marble or a waveless sea, Some Hermit, from his cell forth-strayed, might pace In sylvan meditation undisturbed; As on the pavement of a Gothic church Walks a lone Monk, when service hath expired, 445 In peace and silence. But if e'er was heard,-- Heard, though unseen,--a devious traveller, Retiring or approaching from afar With speed and echoes loud of trampling hoofs From the hard floor reverberated, then 450 It was Angelica [R] thundering through the woods Upon her palfrey, or that gentle maid Erminia, [S] fugitive as fair as she. Sometimes methought I saw a pair of knights Joust underneath the trees, that as in storm 455 Rocked high above their heads; anon, the din Of boisterous merriment, and music's roar, In sudden proclamation, burst from haunt Of Satyrs in some viewless glade, with dance Rejoicing o'er a female in the midst, 460 A mortal beauty, their unhappy thrall. The width of those huge forests, unto me A novel scene, did often in this way Master my fancy while I wandered on With that revered companion. And sometimes--465 When to a convent in a meadow green, By a brook-side, we came, a roofless pile, And not by reverential touch of Time Dismantled, but by violence abrupt-- In spite of those heart-bracing colloquies, 470 In spite of real fervour, and of that Less genuine and wrought up within myself-- I could not but bewail a wrong so harsh, And for the Matin-bell to sound no more Grieved, and the twilight taper, and the cross 475 High on the topmost pinnacle, a sign (How welcome to the weary traveller's eyes!) Of hospitality and peaceful rest. And when the partner of those varied walks Pointed upon occasion to the site 480 Of Romorentin, home of ancient kings, [T] To the imperial edifice of Blois, [U] Or to that rural castle, name now slipped From my remembrance, where a lady lodged, [V] By the first Francis wooed, and bound to him 485 In chains of mutual passion, from the tower, As a tradition of the country tells, Practised to commune with her royal knight By cressets and love-beacons, intercourse 'Twixt her high-seated residence and his 490 Far off at Chambord on the plain beneath; [W] Even here, though less than with the peaceful house Religious, 'mid those frequent monuments Of Kings, their vices and their better deeds, Imagination, potent to inflame 495 At times with virtuous wrath and noble scorn, Did also often mitigate the force Of civic prejudice, the bigotry, So call it, of a youthful patriot's mind; And on these spots with many gleams I looked 500 Of chivalrous delight. Yet not the less, Hatred of absolute rule, where will of one Is law for all, and of that barren pride In them who, by immunities unjust, Between the sovereign and the people stand, 505 His helper and not theirs, laid stronger hold Daily upon me, mixed with pity too And love; for where hope is, there love will be For the abject multitude. And when we chanced One day to meet a hunger-bitten girl, 510 Who crept along fitting her languid gait Unto a heifer's motion, by a cord Tied to her arm, and picking thus from the lane Its sustenance, while the girl with pallid hands Was busy knitting in a heartless mood 515 Of solitude, and at the sight my friend In agitation said, "'Tis against 'that' That we are fighting," I with him believed That a benignant spirit was abroad Which might not be withstood, that poverty 520 Abject as this would in a little time Be found no more, that we should see the earth Unthwarted in her wish to recompense The meek, the lowly, patient child of toil, All institutes for ever blotted out 525 That legalised exclusion, empty pomp Abolished, sensual state and cruel power, Whether by edict of the one or few; And finally, as sum and crown of all, Should see the people having a strong hand 530 In framing their own laws; whence better days To all mankind. But, these things set apart, Was not this single confidence enough To animate the mind that ever turned A thought to human welfare? That henceforth 535 Captivity by mandate without law Should cease; and open accusation lead To sentence in the hearing of the world, And open punishment, if not the air Be free to breathe in, and the heart of man 540 Dread nothing. From this height I shall not stoop To humbler matter that detained us oft In thought or conversation, public acts, And public persons, and emotions wrought Within the breast, as ever-varying winds 545 Of record or report swept over us; But I might here, instead, repeat a tale, [X] Told by my Patriot friend, of sad events, That prove to what low depth had struck the roots, How widely spread the boughs, of that old tree 550 Which, as a deadly mischief, and a foul And black dishonour, France was weary of.

Oh, happy time of youthful lovers, (thus The story might begin). Oh, balmy time, In which a love-knot, on a lady's brow, 555 Is fairer than the fairest star in Heaven! [Y] So might--and with that prelude _did_ begin The record; and, in faithful verse, was given The doleful sequel.

But our little bark On a strong river boldly hath been launched; 560 And from the driving current should we turn To loiter wilfully within a creek, Howe'er attractive, Fellow voyager! Would'st thou not chide? Yet deem not my pains lost: For Vaudracour and Julia (so were named 565 The ill-fated pair) in that plain tale will draw Tears from the hearts of others, when their own Shall beat no more. Thou, also, there may'st read, At leisure, how the enamoured youth was driven, By public power abased, to fatal crime, 570 Nature's rebellion against monstrous law; How, between heart and heart, oppression thrust Her mandates, severing whom true love had joined, Harassing both; until he sank and pressed The couch his fate had made for him; supine, 575 Save when the stings of viperous remorse, Trying their strength, enforced him to start up, Aghast and prayerless. Into a deep wood He fled, to shun the haunts of human kind; There dwelt, weakened in spirit more and more; 580 Nor could the voice of Freedom, which through France Full speedily resounded, public hope, Or personal memory of his own worst wrongs, Rouse him; but, hidden in those gloomy shades, His days he wasted,--an imbecile mind. [Z] 585

* * * * *

FOOTNOTES ON THE TEXT

[Footnote A: This must either mean a year from the time at which he took his degree at Cambridge, or it is inaccurate as to date. He graduated in January 1791, and left Brighton for Paris in November 1791. In London he only spent four months, the February, March, April, and May of 1791. Then followed the Welsh tour with Jones, and his return to Cambridge in September 1791.--Ed.]

[Footnote B: With Jones in the previous year, 1790.--Ed.]

[Footnote C: Orléans.--Ed.]

[Footnote D: The Champ de Mars is in the west, the Rue du Faubourg St. Antoine (the old suburb of St. Antony) in the east, Montmartre in the north, and the dome of St. Geneviève, commonly called the Panthéon, in the south of Paris.--Ed.]

[Footnote E: The clergy, noblesse, and the 'tiers état' met at Notre Dame on the 4th May 1789. On the following day, at Versailles, the 'tiers état' assumed the title of the 'National Assembly'--constituting themselves the sovereign power--and invited others to join them. The club of the Jacobins was instituted the same year. It leased for itself the hall of the Jacobins' convent: hence the name.--Ed.]

[Footnote F: The Palais Royal, built by Cardinal Richelieu in 1636, presented by Louis XIV. to his brother, the Duke of Orléans, and thereafter the property of the house of Orléans (hence the name). The "arcades" referred to were removed in 1830, and the brilliant 'Galerie d'Orléans' built in their place.--Ed.]

[Footnote G: On the 14th July 1789, the Bastille was taken, and destroyed by the Revolutionists. The stones were used, for the most part, in the construction of the Pont de la Concorde.--Ed.]

[Footnote H: Charles Lebrun, Court painter to Louis XIV. of France (1619-1690)--Ed.]

[Footnote I: The Republican general, Michel Beaupuy. See p. 302 [Footnote N below], and the note upon him by Mons. Emile Legouis of Lyons, in the appendix [Note VII] to this volume, p. 401.--Ed.]

[Footnote K: Carra and Gorsas were journalist deputies in the first year of the French Republic. Gorsas was the first of the deputies who died on the scaffold. Carlyle thus refers to them, and to the "hundred other names forgotten now," in his 'French Revolution' (vol. iii. book i. chap. 7):

"The convention is getting chosen--really in a decisive spirit. Some two hundred of our best Legislators may be re-elected, the Mountain bodily. Robespierre, with Mayor Pétion, Buzot, Curate Grègoire and some threescore Old Constituents; though we men had only _thirty voices._ All these and along with them friends long known to the Revolutionary fame: Camille Desmoulins, though he stutters in speech, Manuel Tallein and Company; Journalists Gorsas, Carra, Mersier, Louvet of _Faubias_; Clootz, Speaker of Mankind, Collet d'Herbois, tearing a passion to rags; Fahre d'Egalantine Speculative Pamphleteer; Legendre, the solid Butcher; nay Marat though rural France can hardly believe it, or even believe there is a Marat, except in print." Ed.]

[Footnote L: Many of the old French Noblesse, and other supporters of Monarchy, fled across the Rhine, and with thousands of emigrés formed a special Legion, which co-operated with the German army under the Emperor Leopold and the King of Prussia.--Ed.]

[Footnote M: Compare book vi. l. 345, etc.--Ed.]

[Footnote N: Beaupuy. See p. 297 [Footnote I, above]:

"Save only one, hereafter to be named," [Line 132]

and the note on Beaupuy, in the appendix [Note VII] to this volume, p. 401.--Ed.]

[Footnote O: Compare Wordsworth's poem 'Dion', in volume vi. of this edition.--Ed.]

[Footnote P: When Plato visited Syracuse, in the reign of Dionysius, Dion became his disciple, and induced Dionysius to invite Plato a second time to Syracuse. But neither Plato nor Dion could succeed in their efforts to influence and elevate Dionysius. Dion withdrew to Athens, and lived in close intimacy with Plato, and with Speusippus. The latter urged him to return, and deliver Sicily from the tyrant Dionysius, who had become unpopular in the island. Dion got some of the Syracusan exiles in Greece to join him, and "sailed from Zacynthus," with two merchant ships, and about 800 troops. He took Syracuse, and became dictator of the district. But--as was the case with the tyrants of the French Revolution who took the place of those of the old regime (record later on in 'The Prelude')--the Syracusans found that they had only exchanged one form of rigour for another. It is thus that Plutarch refers to the occurrence.

"Many statesmen and philosophers assisted him (_i. e._ Dion); "as for instance, Eudemus, the Cyprian, on whose death Aristotle wrote his dialogue of the Soul, and Timonides the Leucadian."

(See Plutarch's 'Dion'.) Timonides wrote an account of Dion's campaign in Sicily in certain letters to Speusippus, which are referred to both by Plutarch and by Diogenes Laertius,--Ed.]

[Footnote Q: See the previous note [Footnote P directly above].--Ed.]

[Footnote R: See the 'Orlando Furioso' of Ariosto, canto i.:

'La donna il palafreno à dietro volta, E per la selva à tutta briglia il caccia; Ne per la rara più, che per la folta, La più sicura e miglior via procaccia.

The lady turned her palfrey round, And through the forest drove him on amain; Nor did she choose the glade before the thickest wood, Riding the safest ever, and the better way.'

Ed.]

[Footnote S: See the 'Gerusalemme Liberata' of Tasso, canto vi. Erminia is the heroine of 'Jerusalem Delivered'. An account of her flight occurs at the opening of the seventh canto.--Ed.]

[Footnote T:

"_Rivus Romentini_, petite ville du Blaisois, et capitale de la Sologne, aujourd'hui sous-préfecture du départ. de Loir-et-Cher."

It was taken in 1356 and in 1429 by the English, in 1562 by the Catholics, in 1567 by the Calvinists, and in 1589 by the Royalists.

"Henri IV. l'érigea en comté pour sa maîtresse Charlotte des Essarts, 1560. François I. y rendit un édit célèbre qui attribuait aux prélats la connaissance du crime d'hérésie, et la répression des assemblées illicites."

('Dictionnaire Historique de la France', par Ludovic Lalaune. Paris, 1872.)--Ed.]

[Footnote U: Blois,

"Louis XII., qui était né à Blois, y séjourna souvent, et reconstruisit complétement le château, où la cour habita fréquemment au XVI'e. siècle."

('Dict. Histor. de la France', Lalaune.) The town is full of historical reminiscences of Louis XII., Francis I., Henry III., and Catherine and Mary de Medici. Wordsworth went from Orleans to Blois, in the spring of 1792.--Ed.]

[Footnote V: Claude, the daughter of Louis XII.--Ed.]

[Footnote W: Chambord;

"célèbre château du Blaisois (Loir-et-Cher), construit par Francois I., sur l'emplacement d'une maison de plaisance des comtes de Blois. Donné par Louis XV. à son beau-père Stanislas, puis au Maréchal de Saxe, il revint ensuit à la couronne; et en 1777 Louis XVI. en accorda la jouissance à la famille de Polignac."

(Lalaune.)

A national subscription was got up in the 'twenties, under Charles X., to present the château to the posthumous son of the Duc de Berry, who afterwards became known as the Comte de Chambord, or Henri V.--Ed.]

[Footnote X: The tale of 'Vaudracour and Julia'. (Mr. Carter, 1850.)]

[Footnote Y: The previous four lines are the opening ones of the poem 'Vaudracour and Julia'. (See p. 24.)--Ed.]

[Footnote Z: The last five lines are almost a reproduction of the concluding five in 'Vaudracour and Julia'.--Ed.]

* * * * *

BOOK TENTH

RESIDENCE IN FRANCE--'continued'

It was a beautiful and silent day That overspread the countenance of earth, Then fading with unusual quietness,-- A day as beautiful as e'er was given To soothe regret, though deepening what it soothed, 5 When by the gliding Loire I paused, and cast Upon his rich domains, vineyard and tilth, Green meadow-ground, and many-coloured woods, Again, and yet again, a farewell look; Then from the quiet of that scene passed on, 10 Bound to the fierce Metropolis. [A] From his throne The King had fallen, [B] and that invading host-- Presumptuous cloud, on whose black front was written The tender mercies of the dismal wind That bore it--on the plains of Liberty 15 Had burst innocuous. Say in bolder words, They--who had come elate as eastern hunters Banded beneath the Great Mogul, when he Erewhile went forth from Agra or Lahore, Rajahs and Omrahs [C] in his train, intent 20 To drive their prey enclosed within a ring Wide as a province, but, the signal given, Before the point of the life-threatening spear Narrowing itself by moments--they, rash men, Had seen the anticipated quarry turned 25 Into avengers, from whose wrath they fled In terror. Disappointment and dismay Remained for all whose fancies had run wild With evil expectations; confidence And perfect triumph for the better cause. 30

The State, as if to stamp the final seal On her security, and to the world Show what she was, a high and fearless soul, Exulting in defiance, or heart-stung By sharp resentment, or belike to taunt 35 With spiteful gratitude the baffled League, That had stirred up her slackening faculties To a new transition, when the King was crushed, Spared not the empty throne, and in proud haste Assumed the body and venerable name 40 Of a Republic. [D] Lamentable crimes, 'Tis true, had gone before this hour, dire work Of massacre, [E] in which the senseless sword Was prayed to as a judge; but these were past, Earth free from them for ever, as was thought,--45 Ephemeral monsters, to be seen but once! Things that could only show themselves and die.

Cheered with this hope, to Paris I returned, [F] And ranged, with ardour heretofore unfelt, The spacious city, and in progress passed 50 The prison where the unhappy Monarch lay, Associate with his children and his wife In bondage; and the palace, lately stormed With roar of cannon by a furious host. I crossed the square (an empty area then!) [G] 55 Of the Carrousel, where so late had lain The dead, upon the dying heaped, and gazed On this and other spots, as doth a man Upon a volume whose contents he knows Are memorable, but from him locked up, 60 Being written in a tongue he cannot read, So that he questions the mute leaves with pain, And half upbraids their silence. But that night I felt most deeply in what world I was, What ground I trod on, and what air I breathed. 65 High was my room and lonely, near the roof Of a large mansion or hotel, a lodge That would have pleased me in more quiet times; Nor was it wholly without pleasure then. With unextinguished taper I kept watch, 70 Reading at intervals; the fear gone by Pressed on me almost like a fear to come. I thought of those September massacres, Divided from me by one little month, [H] Saw them and touched: the rest was conjured up 75 From tragic fictions or true history, Remembrances and dim admonishments. The horse is taught his manage, and no star Of wildest course but treads back his own steps; For the spent hurricane the air provides 80 As fierce a successor; the tide retreats But to return out of its hiding-place In the great deep; all things have second-birth; The earthquake is not satisfied at once; And in this way I wrought upon myself, 85 Until I seemed to hear a voice that cried, To the whole city, "Sleep no more." The trance Fled with the voice to which it had given birth; But vainly comments of a calmer mind Promised soft peace and sweet forgetfulness. 90 The place, all hushed and silent as it was, Appeared unfit for the repose of night, Defenceless as a wood where tigers roam.

With early morning towards the Palace-walk Of Orléans eagerly I turned; as yet 95 The streets were still; not so those long Arcades; There, 'mid a peal of ill-matched sounds and cries, That greeted me on entering, I could hear Shrill voices from the hawkers in the throng, Bawling, "Denunciation of the Crimes 100 Of Maximilian Robespierre;" the hand, Prompt as the voice, held forth a printed speech, The same that had been recently pronounced, When Robespierre, not ignorant for what mark Some words of indirect reproof had been 105 Intended, rose in hardihood, and dared The man who had an ill surmise of him To bring his charge in openness; whereat, When a dead pause ensued, and no one stirred, In silence of all present, from his seat 110 Louvet walked single through the avenue, And took his station in the Tribune, saying, "I, Robespierre, accuse thee!" [I] Well is known The inglorious issue of that charge, and how He, who had launched the startling thunderbolt, 115 The one bold man, whose voice the attack had sounded, Was left without a follower to discharge His perilous duty, and retire lamenting That Heaven's best aid is wasted upon men Who to themselves are false. [K] But these are things 120 Of which I speak, only as they were storm Or sunshine to my individual mind, No further. Let me then relate that now-- In some sort seeing with my proper eyes That Liberty, and Life, and Death would soon 125 To the remotest corners of the land Lie in the arbitrement of those who ruled The capital City; what was struggled for, And by what combatants victory must be won; The indecision on their part whose aim 130 Seemed best, and the straightforward path of those Who in attack or in defence were strong Through their impiety--my inmost soul Was agitated; yea, I could almost Have prayed that throughout earth upon all men, 135 By patient exercise of reason made Worthy of liberty, all spirits filled With zeal expanding in Truth's holy light, The gift of tongues might fall, and power arrive From the four quarters of the winds to do 140 For France, what without help she could not do, A work of honour; think not that to this I added, work of safety: from all doubt Or trepidation for the end of things Far was I, far as angels are from guilt. 145

Yet did I grieve, nor only grieved, but thought Of opposition and of remedies: An insignificant stranger and obscure, And one, moreover, little graced with power Of eloquence even in my native speech, 150 And all unfit for tumult or intrigue, Yet would I at this time with willing heart Have undertaken for a cause so great Service however dangerous. I revolved, How much the destiny of Man had still 155 Hung upon single persons; that there was, Transcendent to all local patrimony, One nature, as there is one sun in heaven; That objects, even as they are great, thereby Do come within the reach of humblest eyes; 160 That Man is only weak through his mistrust And want of hope where evidence divine Proclaims to him that hope should be most sure; Nor did the inexperience of my youth Preclude conviction, that a spirit strong, 165 In hope, and trained to noble aspirations, A spirit thoroughly faithful to itself, Is for Society's unreasoning herd A domineering instinct, serves at once For way and guide, a fluent receptacle 170 That gathers up each petty straggling rill And vein of water, glad to be rolled on In safe obedience; that a mind, whose rest Is where it ought to be, in self-restraint, In circumspection and simplicity, 175 Falls rarely in entire discomfiture Below its aim, or meets with, from without, A treachery that foils it or defeats; And, lastly, if the means on human will, Frail human will, dependent should betray 180 Him who too boldly trusted them, I felt That 'mid the loud distractions of the world A sovereign voice subsists within the soul, Arbiter undisturbed of right and wrong, Of life and death, in majesty severe 185 Enjoining, as may best promote the aims Of truth and justice, either sacrifice, From whatsoever region of our cares Or our infirm affections Nature pleads, Earnest and blind, against the stern decree. 190

On the other side, I called to mind those truths That are the common-places of the schools-- (A theme for boys, too hackneyed for their sires,) Yet, with a revelation's liveliness, In all their comprehensive bearings known 195 And visible to philosophers of old, Men who, to business of the world untrained, Lived in the shade; and to Harmodius known And his compeer Aristogiton, [L] known To Brutus--that tyrannic power is weak, 200 Hath neither gratitude, nor faith, nor love, Nor the support of good or evil men To trust in; that the godhead which is ours Can never utterly be charmed or stilled; That nothing hath a natural right to last 205 But equity and reason; that all else Meets foes irreconcilable, and at best Lives only by variety of disease.

Well might my wishes be intense, my thoughts Strong and perturbed, not doubting at that time 210 But that the virtue of one paramount mind Would have abashed those impious crests--have quelled Outrage and bloody power, and, in despite Of what the People long had been and were Through ignorance and false teaching, sadder proof 215 Of immaturity, and in the teeth Of desperate opposition from without-- Have cleared a passage for just government, And left a solid birthright to the State, Redeemed, according to example given 220 By ancient lawgivers. In this frame of mind, Dragged by a chain of harsh necessity, So seemed it,--now I thankfully acknowledge, Forced by the gracious providence of Heaven,-- To England I returned, [M] else (though assured 225 That I both was and must be of small weight, No better than a landsman on the deck Of a ship struggling with a hideous storm) Doubtless, I should have then made common cause With some who perished; haply perished too, [N] 230 A poor mistaken and bewildered offering,-- Should to the breast of Nature have gone back, With all my resolutions, all my hopes, A Poet only to myself, to men Useless, and even, beloved Friend! a soul 235 To thee unknown!

Twice had the trees let fall Their leaves, as often Winter had put on His hoary crown, since I had seen the surge Beat against Albion's shore, [O] since ear of mine Had caught the accents of my native speech 240 Upon our native country's sacred ground. A patriot of the world, how could I glide Into communion with her sylvan shades, Erewhile my tuneful haunt? It pleased me more To abide in the great City, [P] where I found 245 The general air still busy with the stir Of that first memorable onset made By a strong levy of humanity Upon the traffickers in Negro blood; [Q] Effort which, though defeated, had recalled 250 To notice old forgotten principles, And through the nation spread a novel heat Of virtuous feeling. For myself, I own That this particular strife had wanted power To rivet my affections; nor did now 255 Its unsuccessful issue much excite My sorrow; for I brought with me the faith That, if France prospered, good men would not long Pay fruitless worship to humanity, And this most rotten branch of human shame, 260 Object, so seemed it, of superfluous pains, Would fall together with its parent tree. What, then, were my emotions, when in arms Britain put forth her free-born strength in league, Oh, pity and shame! with those confederate Powers! 265 Not in my single self alone I found, But in the minds of all ingenuous youth, Change and subversion from that hour. No shock Given to my moral nature had I known Down to that very moment; neither lapse 270 Nor turn of sentiment that might be named A revolution, save at this one time; All else was progress on the self-same path On which, with a diversity of pace, I had been travelling: this a stride at once 275 Into another region. As a light And pliant harebell, swinging in the breeze On some grey rock--its birth-place--so had I Wantoned, fast rooted on the ancient tower Of my beloved country, wishing not 280 A happier fortune than to wither there: Now was I from that pleasant station torn And tossed about in whirlwind. I rejoiced, Yea, afterwards--truth most painful to record!-- Exulted, in the triumph of my soul, 285 When Englishmen by thousands were o'erthrown, Left without glory on the field, or driven, Brave hearts! to shameful flight. It was a grief,-- Grief call it not, 'twas anything but that,-- A conflict of sensations without name, 290 Of which _he_ only, who may love the sight Of a village steeple, as I do, can judge, When, in the congregation bending all To their great Father, prayers were offered up, Or praises for our country's victories; 295 And, 'mid the simple worshippers, perchance I only, like an uninvited guest Whom no one owned, sate silent; shall I add, Fed on the day of vengeance yet to come.

Oh! much have they to account for, who could tear, 300 By violence, at one decisive rent, From the best youth in England their dear pride, Their joy, in England; this, too, at a time In which worst losses easily might wean The best of names, when patriotic love 305 Did of itself in modesty give way, Like the Precursor when the Deity Is come Whose harbinger he was; a time In which apostasy from ancient faith Seemed but conversion to a higher creed; 310 Withal a season dangerous and wild, A time when sage Experience would have snatched Flowers out of any hedge-row to compose A chaplet in contempt of his grey locks.

When the proud fleet that bears the red-cross flag [R] 315 In that unworthy service was prepared To mingle, I beheld the vessels lie, A brood of gallant creatures, on the deep; I saw them in their rest, a sojourner Through a whole month of calm and glassy days 320 In that delightful island which protects Their place of convocation [S]--there I heard, Each evening, pacing by the still sea-shore, A monitory sound that never failed,-- The sunset cannon. While the orb went down 325 In the tranquillity of nature, came That voice, ill requiem! seldom heard by me Without a spirit overcast by dark Imaginations, sense of woes to come, Sorrow for human kind, and pain of heart. 330

In France, the men, who, for their desperate ends, Had plucked up mercy by the roots, were glad Of this new enemy. Tyrants, strong before In wicked pleas, were strong as demons now; And thus, on every side beset with foes, 335 The goaded land waxed mad; the crimes of few Spread into madness of the many; blasts From hell came sanctified like airs from heaven. The sternness of the just, the faith of those Who doubted not that Providence had times 340 Of vengeful retribution, theirs who throned The human Understanding paramount And made of that their God, [T] the hopes of men Who were content to barter short-lived pangs For a paradise of ages, the blind rage 345 Of insolent tempers, the light vanity Of intermeddlers, steady purposes Of the suspicious, slips of the indiscreet, And all the accidents of life were pressed Into one service, busy with one work. 350 The Senate stood aghast, her prudence quenched, Her wisdom stifled, and her justice scared, Her frenzy only active to extol Past outrages, and shape the way for new, Which no one dared to oppose or mitigate. 355

Domestic carnage now filled the whole year With feast-days; old men from the chimney-nook, The maiden from the bosom of her love, The mother from the cradle of her babe, The warrior from the field--all perished, all--360 Friends, enemies, of all parties, ages, ranks, Head after head, and never heads enough For those that bade them fall. They found their joy, They made it proudly, eager as a child, (If like desires of innocent little ones 365 May with such heinous appetites be compared,) Pleased in some open field to exercise A toy that mimics with revolving wings The motion of a wind-mill; though the air Do of itself blow fresh, and make the vanes 370 Spin in his eyesight, _that_ contents him not, But, with the plaything at arm's length, he sets His front against the blast, and runs amain, That it may whirl the faster. Amid the depth Of those enormities, even thinking minds 375 Forgot, at seasons, whence they had their being; Forgot that such a sound was ever heard As Liberty upon earth: yet all beneath Her innocent authority was wrought, Nor could have been, without her blessed name. 380 The illustrious wife of Roland, in the hour Of her composure, felt that agony, And gave it vent in her last words. [U] O Friend! It was a lamentable time for man, Whether a hope had e'er been his or not; 385 A woful time for them whose hopes survived The shock; most woful for those few who still Were flattered, and had trust in human kind: They had the deepest feeling of the grief. Meanwhile the Invaders fared as they deserved: 390 The Herculean Commonwealth had put forth her arms, And throttled with an infant godhead's might The snakes about her cradle; that was well, And as it should be; yet no cure for them Whose souls were sick with pain of what would be 395 Hereafter brought in charge against mankind. Most melancholy at that time, O Friend! Were my day-thoughts,--my nights were miserable; Through months, through years, long after the last beat Of those atrocities, the hour of sleep 400 To me came rarely charged with natural gifts, Such ghastly visions had I of despair And tyranny, and implements of death; And innocent victims sinking under fear, And momentary hope, and worn-out prayer, 405 Each in his separate cell, or penned in crowds For sacrifice, and struggling with fond mirth And levity in dungeons, where the dust Was laid with tears. Then suddenly the scene Changed, and the unbroken dream entangled me 410 In long orations, which I strove to plead Before unjust tribunals,--with a voice Labouring, a brain confounded, and a sense, Death-like, of treacherous desertion, felt In the last place of refuge--my own soul. 415

When I began in youth's delightful prime To yield myself to Nature, when that strong And holy passion overcame me first, Nor day nor night, evening or morn, was free From its oppression. But, O Power Supreme! 420 Without Whose call this world would cease to breathe, Who from the fountain of Thy grace dost fill The veins that branch through every frame of life, Making man what he is, creature divine, In single or in social eminence, 425 Above the rest raised infinite ascents When reason that enables him to be Is not sequestered--what a change is here! How different ritual for this after-worship, What countenance to promote this second love! 430 The first was service paid to things which lie Guarded within the bosom of Thy will. Therefore to serve was high beatitude; Tumult was therefore gladness, and the fear Ennobling, venerable; sleep secure, 435 And waking thoughts more rich than happiest dreams.

But as the ancient Prophets, borne aloft In vision, yet constrained by natural laws With them to take a troubled human heart, Wanted not consolations, nor a creed 440 Of reconcilement, then when they denounced, On towns and cities, wallowing in the abyss Of their offences, punishment to come; Or saw, like other men, with bodily eyes, Before them, in some desolated place, 445 The wrath consummate and the threat fulfilled; So, with devout humility be it said, So, did a portion of that spirit fall On me uplifted from the vantage-ground Of pity and sorrow to a state of being 450 That through the time's exceeding fierceness saw Glimpses of retribution, terrible, And in the order of sublime behests: But, even if that were not, amid the awe Of unintelligible chastisement, 455 Not only acquiescences of faith Survived, but daring sympathies with power, Motions not treacherous or profane, else why Within the folds of no ungentle breast Their dread vibration to this hour prolonged? 460 Wild blasts of music thus could find their way Into the midst of turbulent events; So that worst tempests might be listened to. Then was the truth received into my heart, That, under heaviest sorrow earth can bring, 465 If from the affliction somewhere do not grow Honour which could not else have been, a faith, An elevation and a sanctity, If new strength be not given nor old restored, The blame is ours, not Nature's. When a taunt 470 Was taken up by scoffers in their pride, Saying, "Behold the harvest that we reap From popular government and equality," I clearly saw that neither these nor aught Of wild belief engrafted on their names 475 By false philosophy had caused the woe, But a terrific reservoir of guilt And ignorance rilled up from age to age, That could no longer hold its loathsome charge, But burst and spread in deluge through the land. 480

And as the desert hath green spots, the sea Small islands scattered amid stormy waves, So that disastrous period did not want Bright sprinklings of all human excellence, To which the silver wands of saints in Heaven 485 Might point with rapturous joy. Yet not the less, For those examples in no age surpassed Of fortitude and energy and love, And human nature faithful to herself Under worst trials, was I driven to think 490 Of the glad times when first I traversed France A youthful pilgrim; [V] above all reviewed That eventide, when under windows bright With happy faces and with garlands hung, And through a rainbow-arch that spanned the street, 495 Triumphal pomp for liberty confirmed, [W] I paced, a dear companion at my side, The town of Arras, [X] whence with promise high Issued, on delegation to sustain Humanity and right, _that_ Robespierre, 500 He who thereafter, and in how short time! Wielded the sceptre of the Atheist crew. When the calamity spread far and wide-- And this same city, that did then appear To outrun the rest in exultation, groaned 505 Under the vengeance of her cruel son, As Lear reproached the winds--I could almost Have quarrelled with that blameless spectacle For lingering yet an image in my mind To mock me under such a strange reverse. 510

O Friend! few happier moments have been mine Than that which told the downfall of this Tribe So dreaded, so abhorred. [Y] The day deserves A separate record. Over the smooth sands Of Leven's ample estuary lay 515 My journey, and beneath a genial sun, With distant prospect among gleams of sky And clouds, and intermingling mountain tops, In one inseparable glory clad, Creatures of one ethereal substance met 520 In consistory, like a diadem Or crown of burning seraphs as they sit In the empyrean. Underneath that pomp Celestial, lay unseen the pastoral vales Among whose happy fields I had grown up 525 From childhood. On the fulgent spectacle, That neither passed away nor changed, I gazed Enrapt; but brightest things are wont to draw Sad opposites out of the inner heart, As even their pensive influence drew from mine. 530 How could it otherwise? for not in vain That very morning had I turned aside To seek the ground where, 'mid a throng of graves, An honoured teacher of my youth was laid, [Z] And on the stone were graven by his desire 535 Lines from the churchyard elegy of Gray. [a] This faithful guide, speaking from his death-bed, Added no farewell to his parting counsel, But said to me, "My head will soon lie low;" And when I saw the turf that covered him, 540 After the lapse of full eight years, [b] those words, With sound of voice and countenance of the Man, Came back upon me, so that some few tears Fell from me in my own despite. But now I thought, still traversing that widespread plain, 545 With tender pleasure of the verses graven Upon his tombstone, whispering to myself: He loved the Poets, and, if now alive, Would have loved me, as one not destitute Of promise, nor belying the kind hope 550 That he had formed, when I, at his command, Began to spin, with toil, my earliest songs. [c]

As I advanced, all that I saw or felt Was gentleness and peace. Upon a small And rocky island near, a fragment stood 555 (Itself like a sea rock) the low remains (With shells encrusted, dark with briny weeds) Of a dilapidated structure, once A Romish chapel, [d] where the vested priest Said matins at the hour that suited those 560 Who crossed the sands with ebb of morning tide. Not far from that still ruin all the plain Lay spotted with a variegated crowd Of vehicles and travellers, horse and foot, Wading beneath the conduct of their guide 565 In loose procession through the shallow stream Of inland waters; the great sea meanwhile Heaved at safe distance, far retired. I paused, Longing for skill to paint a scene so bright And cheerful, but the foremost of the band 570 As he approached, no salutation given In the familiar language of the day, Cried, "Robespierre is dead!"--nor was a doubt, After strict question, left within my mind That he and his supporters all were fallen. 575

Great was my transport, deep my gratitude To everlasting Justice, by this fiat Made manifest. "Come now, ye golden times," Said I forth-pouring on those open sands A hymn of triumph: "as the morning comes 580 From out the bosom of the night, come ye: Thus far our trust is verified; behold! They who with clumsy desperation brought A river of Blood, and preached that nothing else Could cleanse the Augean stable, by the might 585 Of their own helper have been swept away; Their madness stands declared and visible; Elsewhere will safety now be sought, and earth March firmly towards righteousness and peace."-- Then schemes I framed more calmly, when and how 590 The madding factions might be tranquillised, And how through hardships manifold and long The glorious renovation would proceed. Thus interrupted by uneasy bursts Of exultation, I pursued my way 595 Along that very shore which I had skimmed In former days, when--spurring from the Vale Of Nightshade, and St. Mary's mouldering fane, [e] And the stone abbot, after circuit made In wantonness of heart, a joyous band 600 Of school-boys hastening to their distant home Along the margin of the moonlight sea-- We beat with thundering hoofs the level sand. [f]

* * * * *

FOOTNOTES ON THE TEXT

[Footnote A: He left Blois for Paris in the late autumn of 1792--Ed.]

[Footnote B: King Louis the Sixteenth, dethroned on August 10th, 1792.--Ed.]

[Footnote C: "The Ormrahs or lords of the Moghul's court." See François Besnier's letter 'Concerning Hindusthan'.--Ed.]

[Footnote D: The "Republic" was decreed on the 22nd of September 1792.--Ed.]

[Footnote E: The "September Massacres" lasted from the 2nd to the 6th of that month.--Ed.]

[Footnote F: He reached Paris in the beginning of October 1792.--Ed.]

[Footnote G: The Place du Carrousel.--Ed.]

[Footnote H: See notes [E] and [F].--Ed.]

[Footnote I:

"One day, among the last of October, Robespierre, being summoned to the tribune by some new hint of that old calumny of the Dictatorship, was speaking and pleading there, with more and more comfort to himself; till rising high in heart, he cried out valiantly: Is there any man here that dare specifically accuse me? ''Moi!'' exclaimed one. Pause of deep silence: a lean angry little Figure, with broad bald brow, strode swiftly towards the tribune, taking papers from its pocket: 'I accuse thee, Robespierre,--I, Jean Baptiste Louvet!' The Seagreen became tallow-green; shrinking to a corner of the tribune, Danton cried, 'Speak, Robespierre; there are many good citizens that listen;' but the tongue refused its office. And so Louvet, with a shrill tone, read and recited crime after crime: dictatorial temper, exclusive popularity, bullying at elections, mob-retinue, September Massacres;--till all the Convention shrieked again," etc. etc.

Carlyle's 'French Revolution', vol. iii. book ii. chap. 5.--Ed.]

[Footnote K: Robespierre got a week's delay to prepare a defence.

"That week he is not idle. He is ready at the day with his written Speech: smooth as a Jesuit Doctor's, and convinces some. And now?...poor Louvet, unprepared, can do little or nothing. Barrère proposes that these comparatively despicable _personalities_ be dismissed by order of the day! Order of the day it accordingly is."

Carlyle, _ut supra_.--Ed.]

[Footnote L: Harmodius and Aristogiton of Athens murdered the tyrant Hipparchus, 514 B.C., and delivered the city from the rule of the Pisistratidæ, much as Brutus rose against Cæsar.--Ed.]

[Footnote M: He crossed the Channel, and returned to England reluctantly, in December 1792. Compare p. 376, l. 349:

'Since I withdrew unwillingly from France.'

Ed.]

[Footnote N: Had he remained longer in Paris, he would probably have fallen a victim, amongst the Brissotins, to the reactionary fury of the Jacobin party.--Ed.]

[Footnote O: He left England in November 1791, and returned in December 1792.--Ed.]

[Footnote P: He stayed in London during the winter of 1792-3 and spring of 1793, probably with his elder brother Richard (who was a solicitor there), writing his remarkable letter on the French Revolution to the Bishop of Landaff, and doubtless making arrangements for the publication of the 'Evening Walk'. The 'Descriptive Sketches' were not written till the summer of 1793 (compare the thirteenth book of 'The Prelude', p. 366); but in a letter dated "Forncett, February 16th, 1793," his sister sends to a friend an interesting criticism of her brother's verses. The 'Evening Walk' must therefore have appeared in January 1793.--Ed.]

[Footnote Q: The movement for the abolition of slavery, led by Clarkson and Wilberforce. Compare the sonnet 'To Thomas Clarkson, on the final passing of the Bill for the Abolition of the Slave Trade, March' 1807, in vol. iv.--Ed.]

[Footnote R: The red-cross flag, i. e. the British ensign.

"On the union of the crowns of England and Scotland, James I. issued a proclamation that _all subjects of this isle and the kingdom of Great Britain should bear in the main-top the red cross commonly called St. George's Cross, and the white cross commonly called St. Andrew's Cross, joined together according to the form made by our own heralds._ This was the first Union Jack."

'Encyclopaedia Britannica' (ninth edition), article "Flag."--Ed.]

[Footnote S: In the Isle of Wight. Wordsworth spent a month of the summer of 1793 there, with William Calvert. (See the Advertisement to 'Guilt and Sorrow', vol. i. p. 77.)--Ed.]

[Footnote T: The goddess of Reason, enthroned in Paris, November 10th, 1793.--Ed.]

[Footnote U: Jeanne-Marie Phlipon--Madame Roland--was guillotined on the 8th of November 1793.

"Arrived at the foot of the scaffold, she asked for pen and paper _to write the strange thoughts that were rising in her_: a remarkable request; which was refused. Looking at the Statue of Liberty which stands there, she says bitterly: _O Liberty, what things are done in thy name!_ ... Like a white Grecian Statue, serenely complete," adds Carlyle, "she shines in that black wreck of things,--long memorable."

'French Revolution', vol. iii. book v. chap. 2.

Madame Roland's apostrophe was

'Ô Liberté, que de crimes l'on commet en ton nom!'

Ed.]

[Footnote V: In the long vacation of 1790, with his friend Jones.--Ed.]

[Footnote W: Compare the sonnet, vol. ii. p. 332, beginning:

'Jones! as from Calais southward you and I Went pacing side by side, this public Way Streamed with the pomp of a too-credulous day, When faith was pledged to new-born Liberty.'

Ed.]

[Footnote X: Robespierre was a native of Arras.--Ed.]

[Footnote Y: Robespierre was guillotined with his confederates on the 28th July 1794. Wordsworth lived in Cumberland--at Keswick, Whitehaven, and Penrith--from the winter of 1793-4 till the spring of 1795. He must have made this journey across the Ulverston Sands, in the first week of August 1794. Compare Wordsworth's remarks on Robespierre, in his 'Letter to a Friend of Burns',--Ed.]

[Footnote Z: The "honoured teacher" of his youth was the Rev. William Taylor, of Emmanuel College, Cambridge, who was master at Hawkshead School from 1782 to 1786, who died while Wordsworth was at school, and who was buried in Cartmell Churchyard. See the note to the 'Address to the Scholars of the Village School of----' (vol. ii. p. 85).--Ed.]

[Footnote a: The following is the inscription on the head-stone in Cartmell Churchyard:

'In memory of the Rev. William Taylor, A. M., son of John Taylor of Outerthwaite, who was some years a Fellow of Eman. Coll., Camb., and Master of the Free School at Hawkshead. He departed this life June the 12th 1786, aged 32 years 2 months and 13 days.

His Merits, stranger, seek not to disclose, Or draw his Frailties from their dread abode, There they alike in trembling Hope repose, The Bosom of his Father and his God.'

Ed.]

[Footnote b: This is exact. Taylor died in 1786. Robespierre was executed in 1794, eight years afterwards.--Ed.]

[Footnote c: He refers to the 'Lines written as a School Exercise at Hawkskead, anno ætatis' 14; and, probably, to 'The Summer Vacation', which is mentioned in the "Autobiographical Memoranda" as "a task imposed by my master," but whether by Taylor, or by his predecessors at Hawkshead School in Wordsworth's time--Parker and Christian--is uncertain.--Ed.]

[Footnote d: Compare Hausman's 'Guide to the Lakes' (1803), p. 209.

"Chapel Island on the right is a desolate object, where there are yet some remains of an oratory built by the monks of Furness, in which Divine Service was daily performed at a certain hour for passengers who crossed the sands with the morning tide."

This, evidently, is the ruin referred to by Wordsworth.--Ed.]

[Footnote e: See note, book ii. ll. 103-6.--Ed.]

[Footnote f: By Arrad Foot and Greenodd, beyond Ulverston, on the way to Hawkshead.--Ed.]

* * * * *

BOOK ELEVENTH.

FRANCE--concluded.

From that time forth, [A] Authority in France Put on a milder face; Terror had ceased, Yet every thing was wanting that might give Courage to them who looked for good by light Of rational Experience, for the shoots 5 And hopeful blossoms of a second spring: Yet, in me, confidence was unimpaired; The Senate's language, and the public acts And measures of the Government, though both Weak, and of heartless omen, had not power 10 To daunt me; in the People was my trust, And, in the virtues which mine eyes had seen. [1] I knew that wound external could not take Life from the young Republic; that new foes Would only follow, in the path of shame, 15 Their brethren, and her triumphs be in the end Great, universal, irresistible. This intuition led me to confound One victory with another, higher far,-- Triumphs of unambitious peace at home, 20 And noiseless fortitude. Beholding still Resistance strong as heretofore, I thought That what was in degree the same was likewise The same in quality,--that, as the worse Of the two spirits then at strife remained 25 Untired, the better, surely, would preserve The heart that first had roused him. Youth maintains, In all conditions of society, Communion more direct and intimate With Nature,--hence, ofttimes, with reason too--30 Than age or manhood, even. To Nature, then, Power had reverted: habit, custom, law, Had left an interregnum's open space For _her_ to move about in, uncontrolled. Hence could I see how Babel-like their task, 35 Who, by the recent deluge stupified, With their whole souls went culling from the day Its petty promises, to build a tower For their own safety; laughed with my compeers At gravest heads, by enmity to France 40 Distempered, till they found, in every blast Forced from the street-disturbing newsman's horn, For her great cause record or prophecy Of utter ruin. How might we believe That wisdom could, in any shape, come near 45 Men clinging to delusions so insane? And thus, experience proving that no few Of our opinions had been just, we took Like credit to ourselves where less was due, And thought that other notions were as sound, 50 Yea, could not but be right, because we saw That foolish men opposed them. To a strain More animated I might here give way, And tell, since juvenile errors are my theme, What in those days, through Britain, was performed 55 To turn _all_ judgments out of their right course; But this is passion over-near ourselves, Reality too close and too intense, And intermixed with something, in my mind, Of scorn and condemnation personal, 60 That would profane the sanctity of verse. Our Shepherds, this say merely, at that time Acted, or seemed at least to act, like men Thirsting to make the guardian crook of law A tool of murder; [B] they who ruled the State, 65 Though with such awful proof before their eyes That he, who would sow death, reaps death, or worse, And can reap nothing better, child-like longed To imitate, not wise enough to avoid; Or left (by mere timidity betrayed) 70 The plain straight road, for one no better chosen Than if their wish had been to undermine Justice, and make an end of Liberty. [B]

But from these bitter truths I must return To my own history. It hath been told 75 That I was led to take an eager part In arguments of civil polity, Abruptly, and indeed before my time: I had approached, like other youths, the shield Of human nature from the golden side, 80 And would have fought, even to the death, to attest The quality of the metal which I saw. What there is best in individual man, Of wise in passion, and sublime in power, Benevolent in small societies, 85 And great in large ones, I had oft revolved, Felt deeply, but not thoroughly understood By reason: nay, far from it; they were yet, As cause was given me afterwards to learn, Not proof against the injuries of the day; 90 Lodged only at the sanctuary's door, Not safe within its bosom. Thus prepared, And with such general insight into evil, And of the bounds which sever it from good, As books and common intercourse with life 95 Must needs have given--to the inexperienced mind, When the world travels in a beaten road, Guide faithful as is needed--I began To meditate with ardour on the rule And management of nations; what it is 100 And ought to be; and strove to learn how far Their power or weakness, wealth or poverty, Their happiness or misery, depends Upon their laws, and fashion of the State.

O pleasant exercise of hope and joy! [C] 105 For mighty were the auxiliars which then stood Upon our side, us who were strong in love! Bliss was it in that dawn to be alive, But to be young was very Heaven! [D] O times, In which the meagre, stale, forbidding ways 110 Of custom, law, and statute, took at once The attraction of a country in romance! When Reason seemed the most to assert her rights When most intent on making of herself A prime enchantress--to assist the work, 115 Which then was going forward in her name! Not favoured spots alone, but the whole Earth, The beauty wore of promise--that which sets (As at some moments might not be unfelt Among the bowers of Paradise itself) 120 The budding rose above the rose full blown. What temper at the prospect did not wake To happiness unthought of? The inert Were roused, and lively natures rapt away! They who had fed their childhood upon dreams, 125 The play-fellows of fancy, who had made All powers of swiftness, subtilty, and strength Their ministers,--who in lordly wise had stirred Among the grandest objects of the sense, And dealt with whatsoever they found there 130 As if they had within some lurking right To wield it;--they, too, who of gentle mood Had watched all gentle motions, and to these Had fitted their own thoughts, schemers more mild, And in the region of their peaceful selves;--135 Now was it that _both_ found, the meek and lofty Did both find helpers to their hearts' desire, And stuff at hand, plastic as they could wish,-- Were called upon to exercise their skill, Not in Utopia,--subterranean fields,--140 Or some secreted island, Heaven knows where! But in the very world, which is the world Of all of us,--the place where, in the end, We find our happiness, or not at all!

Why should I not confess that Earth was then 145 To me, what an inheritance, new-fallen, Seems, when the first time visited, to one Who thither comes to find in it his home? He walks about and looks upon the spot With cordial transport, moulds it and remoulds, 150 And is half pleased with things that are amiss, 'Twill be such joy to see them disappear.

An active partisan, I thus convoked From every object pleasant circumstance To suit my ends; I moved among mankind 155 With genial feelings still predominant; When erring, erring on the better part, And in the kinder spirit; placable, Indulgent, as not uninformed that men See as they have been taught--Antiquity 160 Gives rights to error; and aware, no less, That throwing off oppression must be work As well of License as of Liberty; And above all--for this was more than all-- Not caring if the wind did now and then 165 Blow keen upon an eminence that gave Prospect so large into futurity; In brief, a child of Nature, as at first, Diffusing only those affections wider That from the cradle had grown up with me, 170 And losing, in no other way than light Is lost in light, the weak in the more strong.

In the main outline, such it might be said Was my condition, till with open war Britain opposed the liberties of France. [E] 175 This threw me first out of the pale of love; Soured and corrupted, upwards to the source, My sentiments; was not, as hitherto, A swallowing up of lesser things in great, But change of them into their contraries; 180 And thus a way was opened for mistakes And false conclusions, in degree as gross, In kind more dangerous. What had been a pride, Was now a shame; my likings and my loves Ran in new channels, leaving old ones dry; 185 And hence a blow that, in maturer age, Would but have touched the judgment, struck more deep Into sensations near the heart: meantime, As from the first, wild theories were afloat, To whose pretensions, sedulously urged, 190 I had but lent a careless ear, assured That time was ready to set all things right, And that the multitude, so long oppressed, Would be oppressed no more.

But when events Brought less encouragement, and unto these 195 The immediate proof of principles no more Could be entrusted, while the events themselves, Worn out in greatness, stripped of novelty, Less occupied the mind, and sentiments Could through my understanding's natural growth 200 No longer keep their ground, by faith maintained Of inward consciousness, and hope that laid Her hand upon her object--evidence Safer, of universal application, such As could not be impeached, was sought elsewhere. 205

But now, become oppressors in their turn, Frenchmen had changed a war of self-defence For one of conquest, [F] losing sight of all Which they had struggled for: now mounted up, Openly in the eye of earth and heaven, 210 The scale of liberty. I read her doom, With anger vexed, with disappointment sore, But not dismayed, nor taking to the shame Of a false prophet. While resentment rose Striving to hide, what nought could heal, the wounds 215 Of mortified presumption, I adhered More firmly to old tenets, and, to prove Their temper, strained them more; and thus, in heat Of contest, did opinions every day Grow into consequence, till round my mind 220 They clung, as if they were its life, nay more, The very being of the immortal soul.

This was the time, when, all things tending fast To depravation, speculative schemes-- That promised to abstract the hopes of Man 225 Out of his feelings, to be fixed thenceforth For ever in a purer element-- Found ready welcome. Tempting region _that_ For Zeal to enter and refresh herself, Where passions had the privilege to work, 230 And never hear the sound of their own names. But, speaking more in charity, the dream Flattered the young, pleased with extremes, nor least With that which makes our Reason's naked self The object of its fervour. What delight! 235 How glorious! in self-knowledge and self-rule, To look through all the frailties of the world, And, with a resolute mastery shaking off Infirmities of nature, time, and place, Build social upon personal Liberty, 240 Which, to the blind restraints of general laws Superior, magisterially adopts One guide, the light of circumstances, flashed Upon an independent intellect. Thus expectation rose again; thus hope, 245 From her first ground expelled, grew proud once more. Oft, as my thoughts were turned to human kind, I scorned indifference; but, inflamed with thirst Of a secure intelligence, and sick Of other longing, I pursued what seemed 250 A more exalted nature; wished that Man Should start out of his earthy, worm-like state, And spread abroad the wings of Liberty, Lord of himself, in undisturbed delight-- A noble aspiration! _yet_ I feel 255 (Sustained by worthier as by wiser thoughts) The aspiration, nor shall ever cease To feel it;--but return we to our course.

Enough, 'tis true--could such a plea excuse Those aberrations--had the clamorous friends 260 Of ancient Institutions said and done To bring disgrace upon their very names; Disgrace, of which, custom and written law, And sundry moral sentiments as props Or emanations of those institutes, 265 Too justly bore a part. A veil had been Uplifted; why deceive ourselves? in sooth, 'Twas even so; and sorrow for the man Who either had not eyes wherewith to see, Or, seeing, had forgotten! A strong shock 270 Was given to old opinions; all men's minds Had felt its power, and mine was both let loose, Let loose and goaded. After what hath been Already said of patriotic love, Suffice it here to add, that, somewhat stern 275 In temperament, withal a happy man, And therefore bold to look on painful things, Free likewise of the world, and thence more bold, I summoned my best skill, and toiled, intent To anatomise the frame of social life, 280 Yea, the whole body of society Searched to its heart. Share with me, Friend! the wish That some dramatic tale, endued with shapes Livelier, and flinging out less guarded words Than suit the work we fashion, might set forth 285 What then I learned, or think I learned, of truth, And the errors into which I fell, betrayed By present objects, and by reasonings false From their beginnings, inasmuch as drawn Out of a heart that had been turned aside 290 From Nature's way by outward accidents, And which was thus confounded, more and more Misguided, and misguiding. So I fared, Dragging all precepts, judgments, maxims, creeds, Like culprits to the bar; calling the mind, 295 Suspiciously, to establish in plain day Her titles and her honours; now believing, Now disbelieving; endlessly perplexed With impulse, motive, right and wrong, the ground Of obligation, what the rule and whence 300 The sanction; till, demanding formal _proof_, And seeking it in every thing, I lost All feeling of conviction, and, in fine, Sick, wearied out with contrarieties, Yielded up moral questions in despair. 305

This was the crisis of that strong disease, This the soul's last and lowest ebb; I drooped, Deeming our blessed reason of least use Where wanted most: "The lordly attributes Of will and choice," I bitterly exclaimed, 310 "What are they but a mockery of a Being Who hath in no concerns of his a test Of good and evil; knows not what to fear Or hope for, what to covet or to shun; And who, if those could be discerned, would yet 315 Be little profited, would see, and ask Where is the obligation to enforce? And, to acknowledged law rebellious, still, As selfish passion urged, would act amiss; The dupe of folly, or the slave of crime." 320

Depressed, bewildered thus, I did not walk With scoffers, seeking light and gay revenge From indiscriminate laughter, nor sate down In reconcilement with an utter waste Of intellect; such sloth I could not brook, 325 (Too well I loved, in that my spring of life, Pains-taking thoughts, and truth, their dear reward) But turned to abstract science, and there sought Work for the reasoning faculty enthroned Where the disturbances of space and time--330 Whether in matters various, properties Inherent, or from human will and power Derived--find no admission. [G] Then it was-- Thanks to the bounteous Giver of all good!-- That the beloved Sister in whose sight 335 Those days were passed, [H] now speaking in a voice Of sudden admonition--like a brook [I] That did but _cross_ a lonely road, and now Is seen, heard, felt, and caught at every turn, Companion never lost through many a league--340 Maintained for me a saving intercourse With my true self; for, though bedimmed and changed Much, as it seemed, I was no further changed Than as a clouded and a waning moon: She whispered still that brightness would return, 345 She, in the midst of all, preserved me still A Poet, made me seek beneath that name, And that alone, my office upon earth; And, lastly, as hereafter will be shown, If willing audience fail not, Nature's self, 350 By all varieties of human love Assisted, led me back through opening day To those sweet counsels between head and heart Whence grew that genuine knowledge, fraught with peace, Which, through the later sinkings of this cause, 355 Hath still upheld me, and upholds me now In the catastrophe (for so they dream, And nothing less), when, finally to close And seal up all the gains of France, a Pope Is summoned in, to crown an Emperor--[K] 360 This last opprobrium, when we see a people, That once looked up in faith, as if to Heaven For manna, take a lesson from the dog Returning to his vomit; when the sun That rose in splendour, was alive, and moved 365 In exultation with a living pomp Of clouds--his glory's natural retinue-- Hath dropped all functions by the gods bestowed, And, turned into a gewgaw, a machine, Sets like an Opera phantom. Thus, O Friend! 370 Through times of honour and through times of shame Descending, have I faithfully retraced The perturbations of a youthful mind Under a long-lived storm of great events-- A story destined for thy ear, who now, 375 Among the fallen of nations, dost abide Where Etna, over hill and valley, casts His shadow stretching towards Syracuse, [L] The city of Timoleon! [M] Righteous Heaven! How are the mighty prostrated! They first, 380 They first of all that breathe should have awaked When the great voice was heard from out the tombs Of ancient heroes. If I suffered grief For ill-requited France, by many deemed A trifler only in her proudest day; 385 Have been distressed to think of what she once Promised, now is; a far more sober cause Thine eyes must see of sorrow in a land. To the reanimating influence lost Of memory, to virtue lost and hope, 390 Though with the wreck of loftier years bestrewn.

But indignation works where hope is not, And thou, O Friend! wilt be refreshed. There is One great society alone on earth: The noble Living and the noble Dead. 395

Thine be such converse strong and sanative, A ladder for thy spirit to reascend To health and joy and pure contentedness; To me the grief confined, that thou art gone From this last spot of earth, where Freedom now 400 Stands single in her only sanctuary; A lonely wanderer art gone, by pain Compelled and sickness, [N] at this latter day, This sorrowful reverse for all mankind. I feel for thee, must utter what I feel: 405 The sympathies erewhile in part discharged, Gather afresh, and will have vent again: My own delights do scarcely seem to me My own delights; the lordly Alps themselves, Those rosy peaks, from which the Morning looks 410 Abroad on many nations, are no more For me that image of pure gladsomeness Which they were wont to be. Through kindred scenes, For purpose, at a time, how different! Thou tak'st thy way, carrying the heart and soul 415 That Nature gives to Poets, now by thought Matured, and in the summer of their strength. Oh! wrap him in your shades, ye giant woods, On Etna's side; and thou, O flowery field Of Enna! [O] is there not some nook of thine, 420 From the first play-time of the infant world Kept sacred to restorative delight, When from afar invoked by anxious love?

Child of the mountains, among shepherds reared, Ere yet familiar with the classic page, 425 I learnt to dream of Sicily; and lo, The gloom, that, but a moment past, was deepened At thy command, at her command gives way; A pleasant promise, wafted from her shores, Comes o'er my heart: in fancy I behold 430 Her seas yet smiling, her once happy vales; Nor can my tongue give utterance to a name Of note belonging to that honoured isle, Philosopher or Bard, Empedocles, [P] Or Archimedes, [Q] pure abstracted soul! 435 That doth not yield a solace to my grief: And, O Theocritus, [R] so far have some Prevailed among the powers of heaven and earth, By their endowments, good or great, that they Have had, as thou reportest, miracles 440 Wrought for them in old time: yea, not unmoved, When thinking on my own beloved friend, I hear thee tell how bees with honey fed Divine Comates, [S] by his impious lord Within a chest imprisoned; how they came 445 Laden from blooming grove or flowery field, And fed him there, alive, month after month, Because the goatherd, blessed man! had lips Wet with the Muses' nectar. Thus I soothe The pensive moments by this calm fire-side, 450 And find a thousand bounteous images To cheer the thoughts of those I love, and mine. Our prayers have been accepted; thou wilt stand On Etna's summit, above earth and sea, Triumphant, winning from the invaded heavens 455 Thoughts without bound, magnificent designs, Worthy of poets who attuned their harps In wood or echoing cave, for discipline Of heroes; or, in reverence to the gods, 'Mid temples, served by sapient priests, and choirs 460 Of virgins crowned with roses. Not in vain Those temples, where they in their ruins yet Survive for inspiration, shall attract Thy solitary steps: and on the brink Thou wilt recline of pastoral Arethuse; 465 Or, if that fountain be in truth no more, Then, near some other spring--which, by the name Thou gratulatest, willingly deceived-- I see thee linger a glad votary, And not a captive pining for his home. 470

* * * * *

VARIANTS ON THE TEXT

[Variant 1: In the editions of 1850 and 1857, the punctuation is as follows, but is evidently wrong:

in the People was my trust: And, in the virtues which mine eyes had seen, I knew ...

Ed.]

* * * * *

FOOTNOTES ON THE TEXT

[Footnote A: The Reign of Terror ended with the downfall of Robespierre and his "Tribe."--Ed.]

[Footnote B: He refers doubtless to the effect, upon the Government of the day, of the dread of Revolution in England. There were a few partisans of France and of the Revolution in England; and the panic which followed, though irrational, was widespread. The Habeas Corpus Act was suspended, a Bill was passed against seditious Assemblies, the Press was prosecuted, some Scottish Whigs who clamoured for reform were sentenced to transportation, while one Judge expressed regret that the practice of torture for sedition had fallen into disuse.--Ed.] TWO

[Footnote C: See p. 35 ['French Revolution'].--Ed.]

[Footnote D: Compare 'Ruth', in vol. ii. p. 112:

'Before me shone a glorious world-- Fresh as a banner bright, unfurled To music suddenly: I looked upon those hills and plains, And seemed as if let loose from chains, To live at liberty.'

Ed.]

[Footnote E: In 1795.--Ed.]

[Footnote F: Referring probably to Napoleon's Italian campaign in 1796.--Ed.]

[Footnote G: In 1794 he returned, with intermittent ardour, to the study of mathematics and physics.--Ed.]

[Footnote H: In the winter of 1794 he went to Halifax, and there joined his sister, whom he accompanied in the same winter to Kendal, Grasmere, and Keswick. They stayed for several weeks at Windybrow farm-house, near Keswick. The brother and sister had not met since the Christmas of 1791. It is to those "days," in 1794, that he refers.--Ed.]

[Footnote I: Compare in the first book of 'The Recluse', l. 91:

Her voice was like a hidden Bird that sang; The thought of her was like a flash of light, Or an unseen companionship.

Ed.]

[Footnote K: In 1804 Bonaparte sent for the Pope to anoint him as 'Empereur des Français'. Napoleon wished the title to be as remote as possible from "King of France."--Ed.]

[Footnote L: Coleridge was then living in Sicily, whither he had gone from Malta. He ascended Etna. See Cottles' 'Early Recollections, chiefly relating to the late Samuel Taylor Coleridge' (vol. ii. p. 77), and also compare note [Book 6, Footnote U], p. 230 of this volume.--Ed.]

[Footnote M: Timoleon, one of the greatest of the Greeks, was sent in command of an expedition to reduce Sicily to order; and was afterwards the Master, but not the Tyrant, of Syracuse. He colonised it afresh from Corinth, and from the rest of Sicily; and enacted new laws of a democratic character, being ultimately the ruler of the whole island; although he refused office and declined titles, remaining a private citizen to the end. (See Plutarch's Life of him.)--Ed.]

[Footnote N: See book vi. l. 240.--Ed.]

[Footnote O: Compare 'Paradise Lost', book iv. l. 269.--Ed.]

[Footnote P: Empedpocles, the philosopher of Agrigentum, physicist, metaphysician, poet, musician, and hierophant.--Ed.]

[Footnote Q: The geometrician of Syracuse.--Ed.]

[Footnote R: The pastoral poet of Syracuse.--Ed.]

[Footnote S: Theocrit. Idyll vii. 78. (Mr. Carter, 1850.)]

* * * * *

BOOK TWELFTH

IMAGINATION AND TASTE, HOW IMPAIRED AND RESTORED

Long time have human ignorance and guilt Detained us, on what spectacles of woe Compelled to look, and inwardly oppressed With sorrow, disappointment, vexing thoughts, Confusion of the judgment, zeal decayed, 5 And, lastly, utter loss of hope itself And things to hope for! Not with these began Our song, and not with these our song must end.-- Ye motions of delight, that haunt the sides Of the green hills; ye breezes and soft airs, 10 Whose subtle intercourse with breathing flowers, Feelingly watched, might teach Man's haughty race How without injury to take, to give Without offence [A]; ye who, as if to show The wondrous influence of power gently used, 15 Bend the complying heads of lordly pines, And, with a touch, shift the stupendous clouds Through the whole compass of the sky; ye brooks, Muttering along the stones, a busy noise By day, a quiet sound in silent night; 20 Ye waves, that out of the great deep steal forth In a calm hour to kiss the pebbly shore, Not mute, and then retire, fearing no storm; And you, ye groves, whose ministry it is To interpose the covert of your shades, 25 Even as a sleep, between the heart of man And outward troubles, between man himself, Not seldom, and his own uneasy heart: Oh! that I had a music and a voice Harmonious as your own, that I might tell 30 What ye have done for me. The morning shines, Nor heedeth Man's perverseness; Spring returns,-- I saw the Spring return, and could rejoice, In common with the children of her love, Piping on boughs, or sporting on fresh fields, 35 Or boldly seeking pleasure nearer heaven On wings that navigate cerulean skies. So neither were complacency, nor peace, Nor tender yearnings, wanting for my good Through these distracted times; in Nature still 40 Glorying, I found a counterpoise in her, Which, when the spirit of evil reached its height. Maintained for me a secret happiness.

This narrative, my Friend! hath chiefly told Of intellectual power, fostering love, 45 Dispensing truth, and, over men and things, Where reason yet might hesitate, diffusing Prophetic sympathies of genial faith: So was I favoured--such my happy lot-- Until that natural graciousness of mind 50 Gave way to overpressure from the times And their disastrous issues. What availed, When spells forbade the voyager to land, That fragrant notice of a pleasant shore Wafted, at intervals, from many a bower 55 Of blissful gratitude and fearless love? Dare I avow that wish was mine to see, And hope that future times _would_ surely see, The man to come, parted, as by a gulph, From him who had been; that I could no more 60 Trust the elevation which had made me one With the great family that still survives To illuminate the abyss of ages past, Sage, warrior, patriot, hero; for it seemed That their best virtues were not free from taint 65 Of something false and weak, that could not stand The open eye of Reason. Then I said, "Go to the Poets, they will speak to thee More perfectly of purer creatures;--yet If reason be nobility in man, 70 Can aught be more ignoble than the man Whom they delight in, blinded as he is By prejudice, the miserable slave Of low ambition or distempered love?"

In such strange passion, if I may once more 75 Review the past, I warred against myself-- A bigot to a new idolatry-- Like a cowled monk who hath forsworn the world, Zealously laboured to cut off my heart From all the sources of her former strength; 80 And as, by simple waving of a wand, The wizard instantaneously dissolves Palace or grove, even so could I unsoul As readily by syllogistic words Those mysteries of being which have made, 85 And shall continue evermore to make, Of the whole human race one brotherhood.

What wonder, then, if, to a mind so far Perverted, even the visible Universe Fell under the dominion of a taste 90 Less spiritual, with microscopic view Was scanned, as I had scanned the moral world?

O Soul of Nature! excellent and fair! That didst rejoice with me, with whom I, too, Rejoiced through early youth, before the winds 95 And roaring waters, and in lights and shades That marched and countermarched about the hills In glorious apparition, Powers on whom I daily waited, now all eye and now All ear; but never long without the heart 100 Employed, and man's unfolding intellect: O Soul of Nature! that, by laws divine Sustained and governed, still dost overflow With an impassioned life, what feeble ones Walk on this earth! how feeble have I been 105 When thou wert in thy strength! Nor this through stroke Of human suffering, such as justifies Remissness and inaptitude of mind, But through presumption; even in pleasure pleased Unworthily, disliking here, and there 110 Liking; by rules of mimic art transferred To things above all art; but more,--for this, Although a strong infection of the age, Was never much my habit--giving way To a comparison of scene with scene, 115 Bent overmuch on superficial things, Pampering myself with meagre novelties Of colour and proportion; to the moods Of time and season, to the moral power, The affections and the spirit of the place, 120 Insensible. Nor only did the love Of sitting thus in judgment interrupt My deeper feelings, but another cause, More subtle and less easily explained, That almost seems inherent in the creature, 125 A twofold frame of body and of mind. I speak in recollection of a time When the bodily eye, in every stage of life The most despotic of our senses, gained Such strength in _me_ as often held my mind 130 In absolute dominion. Gladly here, Entering upon abstruser argument, Could I endeavour to unfold the means Which Nature studiously employs to thwart This tyranny, summons all the senses each 135 To counteract the other, and themselves, And makes them all, and the objects with which all Are conversant, subservient in their turn To the great ends of Liberty and Power. But leave we this: enough that my delights 140 (Such as they were) were sought insatiably. Vivid the transport, vivid though not profound; I roamed from hill to hill, from rock to rock, Still craving combinations of new forms, New pleasure, wider empire for the sight, 145 Proud of her own endowments, and rejoiced To lay the inner faculties asleep. Amid the turns and counterturns, the strife And various trials of our complex being, As we grow up, such thraldom of that sense 150 Seems hard to shun. And yet I knew a maid, [B] A young enthusiast, who escaped these bonds; Her eye was not the mistress of her heart; Far less did rules prescribed by passive taste, Or barren intermeddling subtleties, 155 Perplex her mind; but, wise as women are When genial circumstance hath favoured them, She welcomed what was given, and craved no more; Whate'er the scene presented to her view, That was the best, to that she was attuned 160 By her benign simplicity of life, And through a perfect happiness of soul, Whose variegated feelings were in this Sisters, that they were each some new delight. Birds in the bower, and lambs in the green field, 165 Could they have known her, would have loved; methought Her very presence such a sweetness breathed, That flowers, and trees, and even the silent hills, And every thing she looked on, should have had An intimation how she bore herself 170 Towards them and to all creatures. God delights In such a being; for her common thoughts Are piety, her life is gratitude.

Even like this maid, before I was called forth From the retirement of my native hills, 175 I loved whate'er I saw: nor lightly loved, But most intensely; never dreamt of aught More grand, more fair, more exquisitely framed Than those few nooks to which my happy feet Were limited. I had not at that time 180 Lived long enough, nor in the least survived The first diviner influence of this world, As it appears to unaccustomed eyes. Worshipping then among the depth of things, As piety ordained; could I submit 185 To measured admiration, or to aught That should preclude humility and love? I felt, observed, and pondered; did not judge, Yea, never thought of judging; with the gift Of all this glory filled and satisfied. 190 And afterwards, when through the gorgeous Alps Roaming, I carried with me the same heart: In truth, the degradation--howsoe'er Induced, effect, in whatsoe'er degree, Of custom that prepares a partial scale 195 In which the little oft outweighs the great; Or any other cause that hath been named; Or lastly, aggravated by the times And their impassioned sounds, which well might make The milder minstrelsies of rural scenes 200 Inaudible--was transient; I had known Too forcibly, too early in my life, Visitings of imaginative power For this to last: I shook the habit off Entirely and for ever, and again 205 In Nature's presence stood, as now I stand, A sensitive being, a _creative_ soul.

There are in our existence spots of time, That with distinct pre-eminence retain A renovating virtue, whence, depressed 210 By false opinion and contentious thought, Or aught of heavier or more deadly weight, In trivial occupations, and the round Of ordinary intercourse, our minds Are nourished and invisibly repaired; 215 A virtue, by which pleasure is enhanced, That penetrates, enables us to mount, When high, more high, and lifts us up when fallen. This efficacious spirit chiefly lurks Among those passages of life that give 220 Profoundest knowledge to what point, and how, The mind is lord and master--outward sense The obedient servant of her will. Such moments Are scattered everywhere, taking their date From our first childhood. [C] I remember well, 225 That once, while yet my inexperienced hand Could scarcely hold a bridle, with proud hopes I mounted, and we journeyed towards the hills: [D] An ancient servant of my father's house Was with me, my encourager and guide: 230 We had not travelled long, ere some mischance Disjoined me from my comrade; and, through fear Dismounting, down the rough and stony moor I led my horse, and, stumbling on, at length Came to a bottom, where in former times 235 A murderer had been hung in iron chains. The gibbet-mast had mouldered down, the bones And iron case were gone; but on the turf, Hard by, soon after that fell deed was wrought, Some unknown hand had carved the murderer's name. 240 The monumental letters were inscribed In times long past; but still, from year to year, By superstition of the neighbourhood, The grass is cleared away, and to this hour The characters are fresh and visible: 245 A casual glance had shown them, and I fled, Faltering and faint, and ignorant of the road: Then, reascending the bare common, saw A naked pool that lay beneath the hills, The beacon on the summit, and, more near, 250 A girl, who bore a pitcher on her head, And seemed with difficult steps to force her way Against the blowing wind. It was, in truth, An ordinary sight; but I should need Colours and words that are unknown to man, 255 To paint the visionary dreariness Which, while I looked all round for my lost guide, Invested moorland waste, and naked pool, The beacon crowning the lone eminence, The female and her garments vexed and tossed 260 By the strong wind. When, in the blessed hours Of early love, the loved one at my side, [E] I roamed, in daily presence of this scene, Upon the naked pool and dreary crags, And on the melancholy beacon, fell 265 A spirit of pleasure and youth's golden gleam; And think ye not with radiance more sublime For these remembrances, and for the power They had left behind? So feeling comes in aid Of feeling, and diversity of strength 270 Attends us, if but once we have been strong. Oh! mystery of man, from what a depth Proceed thy honours. I am lost, but see In simple childhood something of the base On which thy greatness stands; but this I feel, 275 That from thyself it comes, that thou must give, Else never canst receive. The days gone by Return upon me almost from the dawn Of life: the hiding-places of man's power Open; I would approach them, but they close. 280 I see by glimpses now; when age comes on, May scarcely see at all; and I would give, While yet we may, as far as words can give, Substance and life to what I feel, enshrining, Such is my hope, the spirit of the Past 285 For future restoration.--Yet another Of these memorials;-- One Christmas-time, [F] On the glad eve of its dear holidays, Feverish, and tired, and restless, I went forth Into the fields, impatient for the sight 290 Of those led palfreys that should bear us home; My brothers and myself. There rose a crag, That, from the meeting-point of two highways [F] Ascending, overlooked them both, far stretched; Thither, uncertain on which road to fix 295 My expectation, thither I repaired, Scout-like, and gained the summit; 'twas a day Tempestuous, dark, and wild, and on the grass I sate half-sheltered by a naked wall; Upon my right hand couched a single sheep, 300 Upon my left a blasted hawthorn stood; With those companions at my side, I watched, Straining my eyes intensely, as the mist Gave intermitting prospect of the copse And plain beneath. Ere we to school returned,--305 That dreary time,--ere we had been ten days Sojourners in my father's house, he died, And I and my three brothers, orphans then, Followed his body to the grave. The event, With all the sorrow that it brought, appeared 310 A chastisement; and when I called to mind That day so lately past, when from the crag I looked in such anxiety of hope; With trite reflections of morality, Yet in the deepest passion, I bowed low 315 To God, Who thus corrected my desires; And, afterwards, the wind and sleety rain, And all the business of the elements, The single sheep, and the one blasted tree, And the bleak music from that old stone wall, 320 The noise of wood and water, and the mist That on the line of each of those two roads Advanced in such indisputable shapes; All these were kindred spectacles and sounds To which I oft repaired, and thence would drink, 325 As at a fountain; and on winter nights, Down to this very time, when storm and rain Beat on my roof, or, haply, at noon-day, While in a grove I walk, whose lofty trees, Laden with summer's thickest foliage, rock 330 In a strong wind, some working of the spirit, Some inward agitations thence are brought, Whate'er their office, whether to beguile Thoughts over busy in the course they took, Or animate an hour of vacant ease. 335

* * * * *

FOOTNOTES ON THE TEXT

[Footnote A: Compare Shakespeare's "Stealing and giving odour." ('Twelfth Night', act I. scene i. l. 7.)--Ed.]

[Footnote B: Mary Hutchinson.--Ed.]

[Footnote C: Compare the 'Ode, Intimations of Immortality', stanzas v. and ix.--Ed.]

[Footnote D: Either amongst the Lorton Fells, or the north-western slopes of Skiddaw.--Ed.]

[Footnote E: His sister.--Ed.]

[Footnote F: The year was evidently 1783, but the locality is difficult to determine. It may have been one or other of two places. Wordsworth's father died at Penrith, and it was there that the sons went for their Christmas holiday. The road from Penrith to Hawkshead was by Kirkstone Pass, and Ambleside; and the "led palfreys" sent to take the boys home would certainly come through the latter town. Now there are only two roads from Ambleside to Hawkshead, which meet at a point about a mile north of Hawkshead, called in the Ordnance map "Outgate." The eastern road is now chiefly used by carriages, being less hilly and better made than the western one. The latter would be quite as convenient as the former for horses. If one were to walk out from Hawkshead village to the place where the two roads separate at "Outgate," and then ascend the ridge between them, he would find several places from which he could overlook _both_ roads "far stretched," were the view not now intercepted by numerous plantations. (The latter are of comparatively recent growth.) Dr. Cradock,--to whom I am indebted for this, and for many other suggestions as to localities alluded to by Wordsworth,--thinks that

"a point, marked on the map as 'High Crag' between the two roads, and about three-quarters of a mile from their point of divergence, answers the description as well as any other. It may be nearly two miles from Hawkshead, a distance of which an active eager school-boy would think nothing. The 'blasted hawthorn' and the 'naked wall' are probably things of the past as much as the 'single sheep.'"

Doubtless this may be the spot,--a green, rocky knoll with a steep face to the north, where a quarry is wrought, and with a plantation to the east. It commands a view of both roads. The other possible place is a crag, not a quarter of a mile from Outgate, a little to the right of the place where the two roads divide. A low wall runs up across it to the top, dividing a plantation of oak, hazel, and ash, from the firs that crown the summit. These firs, which are larch and spruce, seem all of this century. The top of the crag may have been bare when Wordsworth lived at Hawkshead. But at the foot of the path along the dividing wall there are a few (probably older) trees; and a solitary walk beneath them, at noon or dusk, is almost as suggestive to the imagination, as repose under the yews of Borrowdale, listening to "the mountain flood" on Glaramara. There one may still hear the bleak music from the old stone wall, and "the noise of wood and water," while the loud dry wind whistles through the underwood, or moans amid the fir trees of the Crag, on the summit of which there is a "blasted hawthorn" tree. It may be difficult now to determine the precise spot to which the boy Wordsworth climbed on that eventful day--afterwards so significant to him, and from the events of which, he says, he drank "as at a fountain"--but I think it may have been to one or other of these two crags. (See, however, Mr. Rawnsley's conjecture in Note V. in the Appendix to this volume, p. 391.)--Ed.]

* * * * *

BOOK THIRTEENTH

IMAGINATION AND TASTE, HOW IMPAIRED AND RESTORED--concluded.

From Nature doth emotion come, and moods Of calmness equally are Nature's gift: This is her glory; these two attributes Are sister horns that constitute her strength. Hence Genius, born to thrive by interchange 5 Of peace and excitation, finds in her His best and purest friend; from her receives That energy by which he seeks the truth, From her that happy stillness of the mind Which fits him to receive it when unsought. [A] 10

Such benefit the humblest intellects Partake of, each in their degree; 'tis mine To speak, what I myself have known and felt; Smooth task! for words find easy way, inspired By gratitude, and confidence in truth. 15 Long time in search of knowledge did I range The field of human life, in heart and mind Benighted; but, the dawn beginning now To re-appear, 'twas proved that not in vain I had been taught to reverence a Power 20 That is the visible quality and shape And image of right reason; that matures Her processes by steadfast laws; gives birth To no impatient or fallacious hopes, No heat of passion or excessive zeal, 25 No vain conceits; provokes to no quick turns Of self-applauding intellect; but trains To meekness, and exalts by humble faith; Holds up before the mind intoxicate With present objects, and the busy dance 30 Of things that pass away, a temperate show Of objects that endure; and by this course Disposes her, when over-fondly set On throwing off incumbrances, to seek In man, and in the frame of social life, 35 Whate'er there is desirable and good Of kindred permanence, unchanged in form And function, or, through strict vicissitude Of life and death, revolving. Above all Were re-established now those watchful thoughts 40 Which, seeing little worthy or sublime In what the Historian's pen so much delights To blazon--power and energy detached From moral purpose--early tutored me To look with feelings of fraternal love 45 Upon the unassuming things that hold A silent station in this beauteous world.

Thus moderated, thus composed, I found Once more in Man an object of delight, Of pure imagination, and of love; 50 And, as the horizon of my mind enlarged, Again I took the intellectual eye For my instructor, studious more to see Great truths, than touch and handle little ones. Knowledge was given accordingly; my trust 55 Became more firm in feelings that had stood The test of such a trial; clearer far My sense of excellence--of right and wrong: The promise of the present time retired Into its true proportion; sanguine schemes, 60 Ambitious projects, pleased me less; I sought For present good in life's familiar face, And built thereon my hopes of good to come.

With settling judgments now of what would last And what would disappear; prepared to find 65 Presumption, folly, madness, in the men Who thrust themselves upon the passive world As Rulers of the world; to see in these, Even when the public welfare is their aim, Plans without thought, or built on theories 70 Vague and unsound; and having brought the books Of modern statists to their proper test, Life, human life, with all its sacred claims Of sex and age, and heaven-descended rights, Mortal, or those beyond the reach of death; 75 And having thus discerned how dire a thing Is worshipped in that idol proudly named "The Wealth of Nations," _where_ alone that wealth Is lodged, and how increased; and having gained A more judicious knowledge of the worth 80 And dignity of individual man, No composition of the brain, but man Of whom we read, the man whom we behold With our own eyes--I could not but inquire-- Not with less interest than heretofore, 85 But greater, though in spirit more subdued-- Why is this glorious creature to be found One only in ten thousand? What one is, Why may not millions be? What bars are thrown By Nature in the way of such a hope? 90 Our animal appetites and daily wants, Are these obstructions insurmountable? If not, then others vanish into air. "Inspect the basis of the social pile: Inquire," said I, "how much of mental power 95 And genuine virtue they possess who live By bodily toil, labour exceeding far Their due proportion, under all the weight Of that injustice which upon ourselves Ourselves entail." Such estimate to frame 100 I chiefly looked (what need to look beyond?) Among the natural abodes of men, Fields with their rural works; [B] recalled to mind My earliest notices; with these compared The observations made in later youth, 105 And to that day continued.--For, the time Had never been when throes of mighty Nations And the world's tumult unto me could yield, How far soe'er transported and possessed, Full measure of content; but still I craved 110 An intermingling of distinct regards And truths of individual sympathy Nearer ourselves. Such often might be gleaned From the great City, else it must have proved To me a heart-depressing wilderness; 115 But much was wanting: therefore did I turn To you, ye pathways, and ye lonely roads; Sought you enriched with everything I prized, With human kindnesses and simple joys.

Oh! next to one dear state of bliss, vouchsafed 120 Alas! to few in this untoward world, The bliss of walking daily in life's prime Through field or forest with the maid we love, While yet our hearts are young, while yet we breathe Nothing but happiness, in some lone nook, 125 Deep vale, or any where, the home of both, From which it would be misery to stir: Oh! next to such enjoyment of our youth, In my esteem, next to such dear delight, Was that of wandering on from day to day 130 Where I could meditate in peace, and cull Knowledge that step by step might lead me on To wisdom; or, as lightsome as a bird Wafted upon the wind from distant lands, Sing notes of greeting to strange fields or groves, 135 Which lacked not voice to welcome me in turn: And, when that pleasant toil had ceased to please, Converse with men, where if we meet a face We almost meet a friend, on naked heaths With long long ways before, by cottage bench, 140 Or well-spring where the weary traveller rests.

Who doth not love to follow with his eye The windings of a public way? the sight, Familiar object as it is, hath wrought On my imagination since the morn 145 Of childhood, when a disappearing line, One daily present to my eyes, that crossed The naked summit of a far-off hill Beyond the limits that my feet had trod, Was like an invitation into space 150 Boundless, or guide into eternity. [C] Yes, something of the grandeur which invests The mariner who sails the roaring sea Through storm and darkness, early in my mind Surrounded, too, the wanderers of the earth; 155 Grandeur as much, and loveliness far more. Awed have I been by strolling Bedlamites; From many other uncouth vagrants (passed In fear) have walked with quicker step; but why Take note of this? When I began to enquire, 160 To watch and question those I met, and speak Without reserve to them, the lonely roads Were open schools in which I daily read With most delight the passions of mankind, Whether by words, looks, sighs, or tears, revealed; 165 There saw into the depth of human souls, Souls that appear to have no depth at all To careless eyes. And-now convinced at heart How little those formalities, to which With overweening trust alone we give 170 The name of Education, have to do With real feeling and just sense; how vain A correspondence with the talking world Proves to the most; and called to make good search If man's estate, by doom of Nature yoked 175 With toil, be therefore yoked with ignorance; If virtue be indeed so hard to rear, And intellectual strength so rare a boon-- I prized such walks still more, for there I found Hope to my hope, and to my pleasure peace 180 And steadiness, and healing and repose To every angry passion. There I heard, From mouths of men obscure and lowly, truths Replete with honour; sounds in unison With loftiest promises of good and fair. 185

There are who think that strong affection, love [D] Known by whatever name, is falsely deemed A gift, to use a term which they would use, Of vulgar nature; that its growth requires Retirement, leisure, language purified 190 By manners studied and elaborate; That whoso feels such passion in its strength Must live within the very light and air Of courteous usages refined by art. True is it, where oppression worse than death 195 Salutes the being at his birth, where grace Of culture hath been utterly unknown, And poverty and labour in excess From day to day pre-occupy the ground Of the affections, and to Nature's self 200 Oppose a deeper nature; there, indeed, Love cannot be; nor does it thrive with ease Among the close and overcrowded haunts Of cities, where the human heart is sick, And the eye feeds it not, and cannot feed. 205 --Yes, in those wanderings deeply did I feel How we mislead each other; above all, How books mislead us, seeking their reward From judgments of the wealthy Few, who see By artificial lights; how they debase 210 The Many for the pleasure of those Few; Effeminately level down the truth To certain general notions, for the sake Of being understood at once, or else Through want of better knowledge in the heads 215 That framed them; nattering self-conceit with words, That, while they most ambitiously set forth Extrinsic differences, the outward marks Whereby society has parted man From man, neglect the universal heart. 220

Here, calling up to mind what then I saw, A youthful traveller, and see daily now In the familiar circuit of my home, Here might I pause, and bend in reverence To Nature, and the power of human minds, 225 To men as they are men within themselves. How oft high service is performed within, When all the external man is rude in show,-- Not like a temple rich with pomp and gold, But a mere mountain chapel, that protects 230 Its simple worshippers from sun and shower. Of these, said I, shall be my song; of these, If future years mature me for the task, Will I record the praises, making verse Deal boldly with substantial things; in truth 235 And sanctity of passion, speak of these, That justice may be done, obeisance paid Where it is due: thus haply shall I teach, Inspire, through unadulterated ears Pour rapture, tenderness, and hope,--my theme 240 No other than the very heart of man, As found among the best of those who live, Not unexalted by religious faith, Nor uninformed by books, good books, though few, In Nature's presence: thence may I select 245 Sorrow, that is not sorrow, but delight; And miserable love, that is not pain To hear of, for the glory that redounds Therefrom to human kind, and what we are. Be mine to follow with no timid step 250 Where knowledge leads me: it shall be my pride That I have dared to tread this holy ground, Speaking no dream, but things oracular; Matter not lightly to be heard by those Who to the letter of the outward promise 255 Do read the invisible soul; by men adroit In speech, and for communion with the world Accomplished; minds whose faculties are then Most active when they are most eloquent, And elevated most when most admired. 260 Men may be found of other mould than these, Who are their own upholders, to themselves Encouragement, and energy, and will, Expressing liveliest thoughts in lively words As native passion dictates. Others, too, 265 There are among the walks of homely life Still higher, men for contemplation framed, Shy, and unpractised in the strife of phrase; Meek men, whose very souls perhaps would sink Beneath them, summoned to such intercourse: 270 Theirs is the language of the heavens, the power, The thought, the image, and the silent joy: Words are but under-agents in their souls; When they are grasping with their greatest strength, They do not breathe among them: this I speak 275 In gratitude to God, Who feeds our hearts For His own service; knoweth, loveth us, When we are unregarded by the world.

Also, about this time did I receive Convictions still more strong than heretofore, 280 Not only that the inner frame is good, And graciously composed, but that, no less, Nature for all conditions wants not power To consecrate, if we have eyes to see, The outside of her creatures, and to breathe 285 Grandeur upon the very humblest face Of human life. I felt that the array Of act and circumstance, and visible form, Is mainly to the pleasure of the mind What passion makes them; that meanwhile the forms 290 Of Nature have a passion in themselves, That intermingles with those works of man To which she summons him; although the works Be mean, have nothing lofty of their own; And that the Genius of the Poet hence 295 May boldly take his way among mankind Wherever Nature leads; that he hath stood By Nature's side among the men of old, And so shall stand for ever. Dearest Friend! If thou partake the animating faith 300 That Poets, even as Prophets, each with each Connected in a mighty scheme of truth, Have each his own peculiar faculty, Heaven's gift, a sense that fits him to perceive Objects unseen before, thou wilt not blame 305 The humblest of this band who dares to hope That unto him hath also been vouchsafed An insight that in some sort he possesses, A privilege whereby a work of his, Proceeding from a source of untaught things, 310 Creative and enduring, may become A power like one of Nature's. To a hope Not less ambitious once among the wilds Of Sarum's Plain, [E] my youthful spirit was raised; There, as I ranged at will the pastoral downs 315 Trackless and smooth, or paced the bare white roads Lengthening in solitude their dreary line, Time with his retinue of ages fled Backwards, nor checked his flight until I saw Our dim ancestral Past in vision clear; 320 Saw multitudes of men, and, here and there, A single Briton clothed in wolf-skin vest, With shield and stone-axe, stride across the wold; The voice of spears was heard, the rattling spear Shaken by arms of mighty bone, in strength, 325 Long mouldered, of barbaric majesty. I called on Darkness--but before the word Was uttered, midnight darkness seemed to take All objects from my sight; and lo! again The Desert visible by dismal flames; 330 It is the sacrificial altar, fed With living men--how deep the groans! the voice Of those that crowd the giant wicker thrills The monumental hillocks, and the pomp Is for both worlds, the living and the dead. 335 At other moments (for through that wide waste Three summer days I roamed) where'er the Plain Was figured o'er with circles, lines, or mounds, [F] That yet survive, a work, as some divine, Shaped by the Druids, so to represent 340 Their knowledge of the heavens, and image forth The constellations; gently was I charmed Into a waking dream, a reverie That, with believing eyes, where'er I turned, Beheld long-bearded teachers, with white wands 345 Uplifted, pointing to the starry sky, Alternately, and plain below, while breath Of music swayed their motions, and the waste Rejoiced with them and me in those sweet sounds.

This for the past, and things that may be viewed 350 Or fancied in the obscurity of years From monumental hints: and thou, O Friend! Pleased with some unpremeditated strains That served those wanderings to beguile, [G] hast said That then and there my mind had exercised 355 Upon the vulgar forms of present things, The actual world of our familiar days, Yet higher power; had caught from them a tone, An image, and a character, by books Not hitherto reflected. [H] Call we this 360 A partial judgment--and yet why? for _then_ We were as strangers; and I may not speak Thus wrongfully of verse, however rude, Which on thy young imagination, trained In the great City, broke like light from far. 365 Moreover, each man's Mind is to herself Witness and judge; and I remember well That in life's every-day appearances I seemed about this time to gain clear sight Of a new world--a world, too, that was fit 370 To be transmitted, and to other eyes Made visible; as ruled by those fixed laws Whence spiritual dignity originates, Which do both give it being and maintain A balance, an ennobling interchange 375 Of action from without and from within; The excellence, pure function, and best power Both of the object seen, and eye that sees.

* * * * *

FOOTNOTES ON THE TEXT

[Footnote A: Compare 'Expostulation and Reply', vol. i. p. 273:

'Nor less I deem that there are Powers Which of themselves our minds impress; That we can feed this mind of ours In a wise passiveness.

Think you, 'mid all this mighty sum Of things for ever speaking, That nothing of itself will come, But we must still be seeking?'

Mr. William Davies writes:

"Is he absolutely right in attributing these powers to the objects of Nature, which are only symbols after all? Is there not a more penetrative and ethereal perceptive power in the human mind, which is able to transfer itself immediately to the spiritual plane, transcending that of visible Nature? Plato saw it; the old Vedantist still more clearly--and what is more--reached it. He arrived at the knowledge and perception of essential Being: though he could neither define nor limit, in a human formula, because it is undefinable and illimitable, but positive and abstract, universally diffused, 'smaller than small, greater than great,' the internal Light, Monitor, Guide, Rest, waiting to be seen, recognised, and known in every heart; not depending on the powers of Nature for enlightenment and instruction, but itself enlightening and instructing: not merely a receptive, but the motive power of Nature; which bestows _itself_ upon Nature, and only receives from it that which it bestows. Is it not, as he says farther on, better 'to see great truths,' even if not so strictly in line and form, 'touch and handle little ones,' to take the highest point of view we can reach, not a lower one? And surely it is a higher thing to rule over and subdue Nature, than to lie ruled and subdued by it? The highest form of Religion has always done this."

Ed.]

[Footnote B: Compare 'The Old Cumberland Beggar', l. 49 (vol. i. p. 301).--Ed.]

[Footnote C: For a hint in reference to this road, I am indebted to the late Dr. Henry Dodgson of Cockermouth. Referring to my suggestion that it might be the road from Cockermouth to Bridekirk, he wrote (July 1878),

"I scarcely think that road answers to the description. The hill over which it goes is not naked but well wooded, and has probably been so for many years. Besides, it is not visible from Wordsworth's house, nor from the garden behind it. This garden extends from the house to the river Derwent, from which it is separated by a wall, with a raised terraced walk on the inner side, and nearly on a level with the top. I understand that this terrace was in existence in the poet's time.... Its direction is nearly due east and west; and looking eastward from it, there is a hill which bounds the view in that direction, and which fully corresponds to the description in 'The Prelude'. It is from one and a half to two miles distant, of considerable height, is bare and destitute of trees, and has a road going directly over its summit, as seen from the terrace in Wordsworth's garden. This road is now used only as a footpath; but, fifty or sixty years ago it was the highroad to Isel, a hamlet on the Derwent, about three and a half miles from Cockermouth, in the direction of Bassenthwaite Lake. The hill is locally called 'the Hay,' but on the Ordnance map it is marked 'Watch Hill.'"

There can be little doubt as to the accuracy of this suggestion. No other hill-road is visible from the house or garden at Cockermouth. The view from the front of the old mansion is limited by houses, doubtless more so now than in last century; but there is no hill towards the Lorton Fells on the south or south-east, with a road over it, visible from any part of the town. Besides, as this was a very early experience of Wordsworth's--it was in "the morn of childhood" that the road was "daily present to his sight"--it must have been seen, either from the house or from the garden. It is almost certain that he refers to the path over the Hay or Watch Hill, which he and his "sister Emmeline" could see daily from the high terrace, at the foot of their garden in Cockermouth, where they used to "chase the butterfly" and visit the "sparrow's nest" in the "impervious shelter" of privet and roses.

Dr. Cradock wrote to me (January 1886),

"an old map of the county round about Keswick, including Cockermouth, dated 1789, entirely confirms Dr. Dodgson's statement. The road over 'Hay Hill' is marked clearly as a carriage road to Isel. The miles are marked on the map. The 'summit' of the hill is 'naked': for the map marks woods, where they existed, and none are marked on Hay Hill."--Ed.]

[Footnote D: A part of the following paragraph is written with sundry variations of text, in Dorothy Wordsworth's MS. book, dated May to December 1802.--Ed.]

[Footnote E: In the summer of 1793, on his return from the Isle of Wight, and before proceeding to Bristol and Wales, he wandered with his friend William Calvert over Salisbury plain for three days.--Ed.]

[Footnote F: Compare the reference to "Sarum's naked plain" in the third book of 'The Excursion', l. 148.--Ed.]

[Footnote G: The reference is to 'Guilt and Sorrow'. See the introductory, and the Fenwick, note to this poem, in vol. i. pp. 77-79.--Ed.]

[Footnote H: Coleridge read 'Descriptive Sketches' when an undergraduate at Cambridge in 1793--before the two men had met--and wrote thus of them:

"Seldom, if ever, was the emergence of a great and original poetic genius above the literary horizon more evidently announced."

See 'Biographia Literaria', i. p. 25 (edition 1842).--Ed.]

* * * * *

BOOK FOURTEENTH

CONCLUSION

In one of those excursions (may they ne'er Fade from remembrance!) through the Northern tracts Of Cambria ranging with a youthful friend, [A] I left Bethgelert's huts at couching-time, And westward took my way, to see the sun 5 Rise from the top of Snowdon. To the door Of a rude cottage at the mountain's base We came, and roused the shepherd who attends The adventurous stranger's steps, a trusty guide; Then, cheered by short refreshment, sallied forth. 10

It was a close, warm, breezeless summer night, Wan, dull, and glaring, with a dripping fog Low-hung and thick that covered all the sky; But, undiscouraged, we began to climb The mountain-side. The mist soon girt us round, 15 And, after ordinary travellers' talk With our conductor, pensively we sank Each into commerce with his private thoughts: Thus did we breast the ascent, and by myself Was nothing either seen or heard that checked 20 Those musings or diverted, save that once The shepherd's lurcher, who, among the crags, Had to his joy unearthed a hedgehog, teased His coiled-up prey with barkings turbulent. This small adventure, for even such it seemed 25 In that wild place and at the dead of night, Being over and forgotten, on we wound In silence as before. With forehead bent Earthward, as if in opposition set Against an enemy, I panted up 30 With eager pace, and no less eager thoughts. Thus might we wear a midnight hour away, Ascending at loose distance each from each, And I, as chanced, the foremost of the band; When at my feet the ground appeared to brighten, 35 And with a step or two seemed brighter still; Nor was time given to ask or learn the cause, For instantly a light upon the turf Fell like a flash, and lo! as I looked up, The Moon hung naked in a firmament 40 Of azure without cloud, and at my feet Rested a silent sea of hoary mist. A hundred hills their dusky backs upheaved All over this still ocean; and beyond, Far, far beyond, the solid vapours stretched, 45 In headlands, tongues, and promontory shapes, Into the main Atlantic, that appeared To dwindle, and give up his majesty, Usurped upon far as the sight could reach. Not so the ethereal vault; encroachment none 50 Was there, nor loss; only the inferior stars Had disappeared, or shed a fainter light In the clear presence of the full-orbed Moon, Who, from her sovereign elevation, gazed Upon the billowy ocean, as it lay 55 All meek and silent, save that through a rift-- Not distant from the shore whereon we stood, A fixed, abysmal, gloomy, breathing-place-- Mounted the roar of waters, torrents, streams Innumerable, roaring with one voice! 60 Heard over earth and sea, and, in that hour, For so it seemed, felt by the starry heavens.

When into air had partially dissolved That vision, given to spirits of the night And three chance human wanderers, in calm thought 65 Reflected, it appeared to me the type Of a majestic intellect, its acts And its possessions, what it has and craves, What in itself it is, and would become. There I beheld the emblem of a mind 70 That feeds upon infinity, that broods Over the dark abyss, [B] intent to hear Its voices issuing forth to silent light In one continuous stream; a mind sustained By recognitions of transcendent power, 75 In sense conducting to ideal form, In soul of more than mortal privilege. One function, above all, of such a mind Had Nature shadowed there, by putting forth, 'Mid circumstances awful and sublime, 80 That mutual domination which she loves To exert upon the face of outward things, So moulded, joined, abstracted, so endowed With interchangeable supremacy, That men, least sensitive, see, hear, perceive, 85 And cannot choose but feel. The power, which all Acknowledge when thus moved, which Nature thus To bodily sense exhibits, is the express Resemblance of that glorious faculty That higher minds bear with them as their own. 90 This is the very spirit in which they deal With the whole compass of the universe: They from their native selves can send abroad Kindred mutations; for themselves create A like existence; and, whene'er it dawns 95 Created for them, catch it, or are caught By its inevitable mastery, Like angels stopped upon the wind by sound Of harmony from Heaven's remotest spheres. Them the enduring and the transient both 100 Serve to exalt; they build up greatest things From least suggestions; ever on the watch, Willing to work and to be wrought upon, They need not extraordinary calls To rouse them; in a world of life they live, 105 By sensible impressions not enthralled, But by their quickening impulse made more prompt To hold fit converse with the spiritual world, And with the generations of mankind Spread over time, past, present, and to come, 110 Age after age, till Time shall be no more. Such minds are truly from the Deity, For they are Powers; and hence the highest bliss That flesh can know is theirs--the consciousness Of Whom they are, habitually infused 115 Through every image and through every thought, And all affections by communion raised From earth to heaven, from human to divine; Hence endless occupation for the Soul, Whether discursive or intuitive; [C] 120 Hence cheerfulness for acts of daily life, Emotions which best foresight need not fear, Most worthy then of trust when most intense Hence, amid ills that vex and wrongs that crush Our hearts--if here the words of Holy Writ 125 May with fit reverence be applied--that peace Which passeth understanding, that repose In moral judgments which from this pure source Must come, or will by man be sought in vain.

Oh! who is he that hath his whole life long 130 Preserved, enlarged, this freedom in himself? For this alone is genuine liberty: Where is the favoured being who hath held That course unchecked, unerring, and untired, In one perpetual progress smooth and bright?--135 A humbler destiny have we retraced, And told of lapse and hesitating choice, And backward wanderings along thorny ways: Yet--compassed round by mountain solitudes, Within whose solemn temple I received 140 My earliest visitations, careless then Of what was given me; and which now I range, A meditative, oft a suffering man-- Do I declare--in accents which, from truth Deriving cheerful confidence, shall blend 145 Their modulation with these vocal streams-- That, whatsoever falls my better mind, Revolving with the accidents of life, May have sustained, that, howsoe'er misled, Never did I, in quest of right and wrong, 150 Tamper with conscience from a private aim; Nor was in any public hope the dupe Of selfish passions; nor did ever yield Wilfully to mean cares or low pursuits, But shrunk with apprehensive jealousy 155 From every combination which might aid The tendency, too potent in itself, Of use and custom to bow down the soul Under a growing weight of vulgar sense, And substitute a universe of death 160 For that which moves with light and life informed, Actual, divine, and true. To fear and love, To love as prime and chief, for there fear ends, Be this ascribed; to early intercourse, In presence of sublime or beautiful forms, 165 With the adverse principles of pain and joy-- Evil, as one is rashly named by men Who know not what they speak. By love subsists All lasting grandeur, by pervading love; That gone, we are as dust.--Behold the fields 170 In balmy spring-time full of rising flowers And joyous creatures; see that pair, the lamb And the lamb's mother, and their tender ways Shall touch thee to the heart; thou callest this love, And not inaptly so, for love it is, 175 Far as it carries thee. In some green bower Rest, and be not alone, but have thou there The One who is thy choice of all the world: There linger, listening, gazing, with delight Impassioned, but delight how pitiable! 180 Unless this love by a still higher love Be hallowed, love that breathes not without awe; Love that adores, but on the knees of prayer, By heaven inspired; that frees from chains the soul, Lifted, in union with the purest, best, 185 Of earth-born passions, on the wings of praise Bearing a tribute to the Almighty's Throne.

This spiritual Love acts not nor can exist Without Imagination, which, in truth, Is but another name for absolute power 190 And clearest insight, amplitude of mind, And Reason in her most exalted mood. This faculty hath been the feeding source Of our long labour: we have traced the stream From the blind cavern whence is faintly heard 195 Its natal murmur; followed it to light And open day; accompanied its course Among the ways of Nature, for a time Lost sight of it bewildered and engulphed: Then given it greeting as it rose once more 200 In strength, reflecting from its placid breast The works of man and face of human life; And lastly, from its progress have we drawn Faith in life endless, the sustaining thought Of human Being, Eternity, and God. 205

Imagination having been our theme, So also hath that intellectual Love, For they are each in each, and cannot stand Dividually.--Here must thou be, O Man! Power to thyself; no Helper hast thou here; 210 Here keepest thou in singleness thy state: No other can divide with thee this work: No secondary hand can intervene To fashion this ability; 'tis thine, The prime and vital principle is thine 215 In the recesses of thy nature, far From any reach of outward fellowship, Else is not thine at all. But joy to him, Oh, joy to him who here hath sown, hath laid Here, the foundation of his future years! 220 For all that friendship, all that love can do, All that a darling countenance can look Or dear voice utter, to complete the man, Perfect him, made imperfect in himself, All shall be his: and he whose soul hath risen 225 Up to the height of feeling intellect Shall want no humbler tenderness; his heart Be tender as a nursing mother's heart; Of female softness shall his life be full, Of humble cares and delicate desires, 230 Mild interests and gentlest sympathies.

Child of my parents! Sister of my soul! Thanks in sincerest verse have been elsewhere Poured out [D] for all the early tenderness Which I from thee imbibed: and 'tis most true 235 That later seasons owed to thee no less; For, spite of thy sweet influence and the touch Of kindred hands that opened out the springs Of genial thought in childhood, and in spite Of all that unassisted I had marked 240 In life or nature of those charms minute That win their way into the heart by stealth (Still to the very going-out of youth), I too exclusively esteemed _that_ love, And sought _that_ beauty, which, as Milton sings, 245 Hath terror in it. [E] Thou didst soften down This over-sternness; but for thee, dear Friend! My soul, too reckless of mild grace, had stood In her original self too confident, Retained too long a countenance severe; 250 A rock with torrents roaring, with the clouds Familiar, and a favourite of the stars: But thou didst plant its crevices with flowers, Hang it with shrubs that twinkle in the breeze, And teach the little birds to build their nests 255 And warble in its chambers. At a time When Nature, destined to remain so long Foremost in my affections, had fallen back Into a second place, pleased to become A handmaid to a nobler than herself, 260 When every day brought with it some new sense Of exquisite regard for common things, And all the earth was budding with these gifts Of more refined humanity, thy breath, Dear Sister! was a kind of gentler spring 265 That went before my steps. Thereafter came One whom with thee friendship had early paired; She came, no more a phantom to adorn A moment, [F] but an inmate of the heart, And yet a spirit, there for me enshrined 270 To penetrate the lofty and the low; Even as one essence of pervading light Shines, in the brightest of ten thousand stars, And the meek worm that feeds her lonely lamp Couched in the dewy grass. With such a theme, 275 Coleridge! with this my argument, of thee Shall I be silent? O capacious Soul! Placed on this earth to love and understand, And from thy presence shed the light of love, Shall I be mute, ere thou be spoken of? 280 Thy kindred influence to my heart of hearts Did also find its way. Thus fear relaxed Her over-weening grasp; thus thoughts and things In the self-haunting spirit learned to take More rational proportions; mystery, 285 The incumbent mystery of sense and soul, Of life and death, time and eternity, Admitted more habitually a mild Interposition--a serene delight In closelier gathering cares, such as become 290 A human creature, howsoe'er endowed, Poet, or destined for a humbler name; And so the deep enthusiastic joy, The rapture of the hallelujah sent From all that breathes and is, was chastened, stemmed 295 And balanced by pathetic truth, by trust In hopeful reason, leaning on the stay Of Providence; and in reverence for duty, Here, if need be, struggling with storms, and there Strewing in peace life's humblest ground with herbs, 300 At every season green, sweet at all hours.

And now, O Friend! this history is brought To its appointed close: the discipline And consummation of a Poet's mind, In everything that stood most prominent, 305 Have faithfully been pictured; we have reached The time (our guiding object from the first) When we may, not presumptuously, I hope, Suppose my powers so far confirmed, and such My knowledge, as to make me capable 310 Of building up a Work that shall endure. [G] Yet much hath been omitted, as need was; Of books how much! and even of the other wealth That is collected among woods and fields, Far more: for Nature's secondary grace 315 Hath hitherto been barely touched upon, The charm more superficial that attends Her works, as they present to Fancy's choice Apt illustrations of the moral world, Caught at a glance, or traced with curious pains. 320

Finally, and above all, O Friend! (I speak With due regret) how much is overlooked In human nature and her subtle ways, As studied first in our own hearts, and then In life among the passions of mankind, 325 Varying their composition and their hue, Where'er we move, under the diverse shapes That individual character presents To an attentive eye. For progress meet, Along this intricate and difficult path, 330 Whate'er was wanting, something had I gained, As one of many schoolfellows compelled, In hardy independence, to stand up Amid conflicting interests, and the shock Of various tempers; to endure and note 335 What was not understood, though known to be; Among the mysteries of love and hate, Honour and shame, looking to right and left, Unchecked by innocence too delicate, And moral notions too intolerant, 340 Sympathies too contracted. Hence, when called To take a station among men, the step Was easier, the transition more secure, More profitable also; for, the mind Learns from such timely exercise to keep 345 In wholesome separation the two natures, The one that feels, the other that observes.

Yet one word more of personal concern-- Since I withdrew unwillingly from France, I led an undomestic wanderer's life, 350 In London chiefly harboured, whence I roamed, Tarrying at will in many a pleasant spot Of rural England's cultivated vales Or Cambrian solitudes. [H] A youth--(he bore The name of Calvert [I]--it shall live, if words 355 Of mine can give it life,) in firm belief That by endowments not from me withheld Good might be furthered--in his last decay By a bequest sufficient for my needs Enabled me to pause for choice, and walk 360 At large and unrestrained, nor damped too soon By mortal cares. Himself no Poet, yet Far less a common follower of the world, He deemed that my pursuits and labours lay Apart from all that leads to wealth, or even 365 A necessary maintenance insures, Without some hazard to the finer sense; He cleared a passage for me, and the stream Flowed in the bent of Nature. [K] Having now Told what best merits mention, further pains 370 Our present purpose seems not to require, And I have other tasks. Recall to mind The mood in which this labour was begun, O Friend! The termination of my course Is nearer now, much nearer; yet even then, 375 In that distraction and intense desire, I said unto the life which I had lived, Where art thou? Hear I not a voice from thee Which 'tis reproach to hear? Anon I rose As if on wings, and saw beneath me stretched 380 Vast prospect of the world which I had been And was; and hence this Song, which like a lark I have protracted, in the unwearied heavens Singing, and often with more plaintive voice To earth attempered and her deep-drawn sighs, 385 Yet centring all in love, and in the end All gratulant, if rightly understood.

Whether to me shall be allotted life, And, with life, power to accomplish aught of worth, That will be deemed no insufficient plea 390 For having given the story of myself, Is all uncertain: but, beloved Friend! When, looking back, thou seest, in clearer view Than any liveliest sight of yesterday, That summer, under whose indulgent skies, 395 Upon smooth Quantock's airy ridge we roved Unchecked, or loitered 'mid her sylvan combs, [L] Thou in bewitching words, with happy heart, Didst chaunt the vision of that Ancient Man, The bright-eyed Mariner, [L] and rueful woes 400 Didst utter of the Lady Christabel; [L] And I, associate with such labour, steeped In soft forgetfulness the livelong hours, Murmuring of him who, joyous hap, was found, After the perils of his moonlight ride, 405 Near the loud waterfall; [L] or her who sate In misery near the miserable Thorn; [L] When thou dost to that summer turn thy thoughts, And hast before thee all which then we were, To thee, in memory of that happiness, 410 It will be known, by thee at least, my Friend! Felt, that the history of a Poet's mind Is labour not unworthy of regard: To thee the work shall justify itself.

The last and later portions of this gift 415 Have been prepared, not with the buoyant spirits That were our daily portion when we first Together wantoned in wild Poesy, But, under pressure of a private grief, [M] Keen and enduring, which the mind and heart, 420 That in this meditative history Have been laid open, needs must make me feel More deeply, yet enable me to bear More firmly; and a comfort now hath risen From hope that thou art near, and wilt be soon 425 Restored to us in renovated health; When, after the first mingling of our tears, 'Mong other consolations, we may draw Some pleasure from this offering of my love.

Oh! yet a few short years of useful life, 430 And all will be complete, thy race be run, Thy monument of glory will be raised; Then, though (too weak to tread the ways of truth) This age fall back to old idolatry, Though men return to servitude as fast 435 As the tide ebbs, to ignominy and shame By nations sink together, we shall still Find solace--knowing what we have learnt to know, Rich in true happiness if allowed to be Faithful alike in forwarding a day 440 Of firmer trust, joint labourers in the work (Should Providence such grace to us vouchsafe) Of their deliverance, surely yet to come. Prophets of Nature, we to them will speak A lasting inspiration, sanctified 445 By reason, blest by faith: what we have loved, Others will love, and we will teach them how; Instruct them how the mind of man becomes A thousand times more beautiful than the earth On which he dwells, above this frame of things 450 (Which, 'mid all revolution in the hopes And fears of men, doth still remain unchanged) In beauty exalted, as it is itself Of quality and fabric more divine.

* * * * *

FOOTNOTES ON THE TEXT

[Footnote A: With Robert Jones, in the summer of 1793.--Ed.]

[Footnote B: Compare 'Paradise Lost', book i. l. 21.--Ed.]

[Footnote C: Compare 'Paradise Lost', book v. l. 488.--Ed.]

[Footnote D: Compare 'The Sparrow's Nest', vol. ii. p. 236.--Ed.]

[Footnote E: See 'Paradise Lost', book ix. ll. 490, 491.--Ed.]

[Footnote F: Mary Hutchinson. Compare the lines, p. 2, beginning:

'She was a Phantom of delight.'

Ed.]

[Footnote G: Compare the preface to 'The Excursion'. "Several years ago, when the author retired to his native mountains, with the hope of being enabled to construct a literary work that might live," etc.--Ed.]

[Footnote H: After leaving London, he went to the Isle of Wight and to Salisbury Plain with Calvert; then to Bristol, the Valley of the Wye, and Tintern Abbey, alone on foot; thence to Jones' residence in North Wales at Plas-yn-llan in Denbighshire; with him to other places in North Wales, thence to Halifax; and with his sister to Kendal, Grasmere, Keswick, Whitehaven, and Penrith.--Ed.]

[Footnote I: Raisley Calvert.-Ed.]

[Footnote K: His friend, dying in January 1795, bequeathed to Wordsworth a legacy of £900. Compare the sonnet, in vol. iv., beginning

'Calvert! it must not be unheard by them,'

and the 'Life of Wordsworth' in this edition.--Ed.]

[Footnote L: The Wordsworths went to Alfoxden in the end of July, 1797. It was in the autumn of that year that, with Coleridge,

'Upon smooth Quantock's airy ridge they roved Unchecked, or loitered 'mid her sylvan combs;'

when the latter chaunted his 'Ancient Mariner' and 'Christabel', and Wordsworth composed 'The Idiot Boy' and 'The Thorn'. The plan of a joint publication was sketched out in November 1797. (See the Fenwick note to 'We are Seven', vol. i. p. 228.)--Ed.]

[Footnote M: The death of his brother John. Compare the 'Elegiac Verses' in memory of him, p. 58.--Ed.]

* * * * *

FROM THE ITALIAN OF MICHAEL ANGELO

Translated 1805?--Published 1807

[Translations from Michael Angelo, done at the request of Mr. Duppa, whose acquaintance I made through Mr. Southey. Mr. Duppa was engaged in writing the life of Michael Angelo, and applied to Mr. Southey and myself to furnish some specimens of his poetic genius.--I. F.]

Compare the two sonnets entitled 'At Florence--from Michael Angelo', in the "Memorials of a Tour in Italy" in 1837.

The following extract from a letter of Wordsworth's to Sir George Beaumont, dated October 17, 1805, will cast light on the next three sonnets.

"I mentioned Michael Angelo's poetry some time ago; it is the most difficult to construe I ever met with, but just what you would expect from such a man, shewing abundantly how conversant his soul was with great things. There is a mistake in the world concerning the Italian language; the poetry of Dante and Michael Angelo proves, that if there be little majesty and strength in Italian verse, the fault is in the authors, and not in the tongue. I can translate, and have translated two books of Ariosto, at the rate, nearly, of one hundred lines a day; but so much meaning has been put by Michael Angelo into so little room, and that meaning sometimes so excellent in itself, that I found the difficulty of translating him insurmountable. I attempted, at least, fifteen of the sonnets, but could not anywhere succeed. I have sent you the only one I was able to finish; it is far from being the best, or most characteristic, but the others were too much for me."

The last of the three sonnets probably belongs to the year 1804, as it is quoted in a letter to Sir George Beaumont, dated Grasmere, August 6. The year is not given, but I think it must have been 1804, as he says that "within the last month," he had written, "700 additional lines" of 'The Prelude'; and that poem was finished in May 1805.

The titles given to them make it necessary to place these Sonnets in the order which follows.

One of the "Miscellaneous Sonnets."--Ed.

I

Yes! hope may with my strong desire keep pace, And I be undeluded, unbetrayed; For if of our affections none finds [1] grace In sight of Heaven, then, wherefore hath God made The world which we inhabit? Better plea 5 Love cannot have, than that in loving thee Glory to that eternal Peace is paid, Who such divinity to thee imparts As hallows and makes pure all gentle hearts. His hope is treacherous only whose love dies 10 With beauty, which is varying every hour; But, in chaste hearts uninfluenced by the power Of outward change, there blooms a deathless flower, That breathes on earth the air of paradise.

* * * * *

VARIANT ON THE TEXT

[Variant 1:

1849.

... find ... 1807.]

* * * * *

FROM THE SAME

Translated 1805?--Published 1807

One of the "Miscellaneous Sonnets."--Ed.

II

No mortal object did these eyes behold When first they met the placid light of thine, And my Soul felt her destiny divine, [1] And hope of endless peace in me grew bold: Heaven-born, the Soul a heaven-ward course must hold; 5 Beyond the visible world she soars to seek (For what delights the sense is false and weak) Ideal Form, the universal mould. The wise man, I affirm, can find no rest In that which perishes: nor will he lend 10 His heart to aught which doth on time depend. 'Tis sense, unbridled will, and not true love, That [2] kills the soul: love betters what is best, Even here below, but more in heaven above.

* * * * *

VARIANTS ON THE TEXT

[Variant 1:

1807.

When first saluted by the light of thine, When my soul ...

MS. letter to Sir George Beaumont.]

[Variant 2:

1827.

Which ... 1807.]

* * * * *

FROM THE SAME. TO THE SUPREME BEING

Translated 1804?--Published 1807

One of the "Miscellaneous Sonnets."--Ed.

III

The prayers I make will then be sweet indeed If Thou the spirit give by which I pray: My unassisted heart is barren clay, That [1] of its native self can nothing feed: Of good and pious works thou art the seed, 5 That [2] quickens only where thou say'st it may. Unless Thou shew to us thine own true way No man can find it: Father! Thou must lead. Do Thou, then, breathe those thoughts into my mind By which such virtue may in me be bred 10 That in thy holy footsteps I may tread; The fetters of my tongue do Thou unbind, That I may have the power to sing of thee, And sound thy praises everlastingly.

* * * * *

VARIANTS ON THE TEXT

[Variant 1:

1827.

Which ... 1807.]

[Variant 2:

1827.

Which ... 1807.]

The sonnet from which the above is translated, is not wholly by Michael Angelo, the sculptor and painter, but is taken from patched-up versions of his poem by his nephew of the same name. Michael Angelo only wrote the first eight lines, and these have been garbled in his nephew's edition. The original lines are thus given by Guasti in his edition of Michael Angelo's Poems (1863) restored to their true reading, from the autograph MSS. in Rome and Florence.

Imperfect Sonnet transcribed from "Le Rime di Michelangelo Buonarroti Cavate dagli Autografi da Cesare Guasti. Firenze. 1863."

SONNET LXXXIX. [Vatican].

Ben sarien dolce le preghiere mie, Se virtù mi prestassi da pregarte: Nel mio fragil terren non è già parte Da frutto buon, che da sè nato sie.

Tu sol se' seme d' opre caste e pie, Che là germoglian dove ne fa' parte: Nessun proprio valor può seguitarte, Se no gli mostri le tue sante vie.

The lines are thus paraphrased in prose by the Editor:

Le mie preghiere sarebbero grate, se tu mi prestassi quella virtù che rende efficace il pregare: ma io sono un terreno sterile, in cui non nasce spontaneamente frutto che sia buono. Tu solamente sei seme di opere caste e pie, le quali germogliano là dove tu ti spargi: e nessuna virtù vi ha che da per se possa venirti dietro, se tu stesso non le mostri le vie che conducono al bene, e che sono le tue....

The Sonnet as published by the Nephew is as follows:

Ben sarian dolci le preghiere mie, Se virtù mi prestassi da pregarte: Nel mio terreno infertil non è parte Da produr frutto di virtu natie.

Tu il seme se' dell' opre giuste e pie, Che là germoglian dove ne fai parte: Nessun proprio valor puo seguitarte, Se non gli mostri le tue belle vie.

Tu nella mente mia pensieri infondi, Che producano in me si vivi effetti, Signor, ch' io segua i tuoi vestigi santi.

E dalla lingua mia chiari, e facondi Sciogli della tua gloria ardenti detti, Perche sempre io ti lodi, esalti, e canti.

('Le Rime di Michelangelo Buonarroti, Pittore, Scultor e Architetto cavate degli autografi, e pubblicate da Cesare Guasti'. Firenze, 1863.)-Ed.

* * * * *

APPENDIX.

NOTE I

"POEMS ON THE NAMING OF PLACES"

'When, to the attractions of the busy world', p. 66

The following variants occur in a MS. Book containing 'Yew Trees', 'Artegal' and 'Elidure', 'Laodamia', 'Black Comb,' etc.--Ed.

When from the restlessness of crowded life Back to my native vales I turned, and fixed My habitation in this peaceful spot, Sharp season was it of continuous storm In deepest winter; and, from week to week, Pathway, and lane, and public way were clogged With frequent showers of snow ...

When first attracted by this happy Vale Hither I came, among old Shepherd Swains To fix my habitation,'t was a time Of deepest winter, and from week to week Pathway, and lane, and public way were clogged

When to the { cares and pleasures of the world { attractions of the busy world

Preferring {ease and liberty } I chose {peace and liberty } I chose {studious leisure I had chosen A habitation in this peaceful vale Sharp season {was it of } continuous storm {followed by } continuous storm

* * * * *

NOTE II.--THE HAWKSHEAD BECK

(See pp. 188-89, 'The Prelude', book iv.)

Mr. Rawnsley, formerly of Wray Vicarage--now Canon Rawnsley of Crosthwaite Vicarage, Keswick--sent me the following letter in reference to:

... 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 ... I looked at him and smiled, and smiled again, ... 'Ha,' quoth I, 'pretty prisoner, are you there!'

"I was not quite content with Dr. Cradock's identification of this brook, or of the garden; partly because, beyond the present garden square I found, on going up the brook, other garden squares, which were much more likely to have been the garden belonging to Anne Tyson's cottage, and because in these garden plots the stream was not 'stripped of his voice,' by the covering of Coniston flags, as is the case lower down towards the market place; and partly because--as you notice--you can both hear and see the stream through the interstices of the flags, and that it can hardly be described (by one who will listen) as stripped of its voice.

At the same time I was bound to admit that in comparing the voice of the stream here in the 'channel paved by man's officious care' with the sound of it up in the fields beyond the vicarage, nearer its birth-place, it certainly might be said to be softer voiced; and as the poet speaks of it as 'that unruly child of mountain birth,' it looks as if he too had realised the difference.

But whilst I thought that the identification of Dr. Cradock and yourself was very happy (in absence of other possibilities), I had not thought that Wordsworth would describe the stream as 'dimpling down,' or address it as a 'pretty prisoner.' A smaller stream seemed necessary.

It was, therefore, not a little curious that, in poking about among the garden plots on the west bank of the stream, fronting (as nearly as I could judge) Anne Tyson's cottage, to seek for remains of the ash tree, in which so often the poet--as he lay awake on summer nights--had watched 'the moon in splendour couched among the leaves,' rocking 'with every impulse of the breeze,' I not only stumbled upon the remains of an ash tree--now a 'pollard'--which is evidently sprung from a larger tree since decayed (and which for all I know may be one of the actual parts of the ancient tree itself); but also had the good luck to fall into conversation with a certain Isaac Hodgson, who volunteered the following information.

First, that Wordsworth, it was commonly said, had lodged part of his time with one Betty Braithwaite, in the very house called Church Hill House.

She was a widow, and kept a confectionery shop, and 'did a deal of baking,' he believed.

Secondly, that there was a little patch of garden at the back of the house, with a famous spring well--still called Old Betty's Well--in it, and that only a few paces from where I was then standing by the pollard ash.

On jumping over the fence I found myself on the western side of the quaint old Church Hill House, with magnificent views of the whole of the western side of Hawkshead Vale; grassy swell and wooded rises taking the eye up to the moorland ridge between us and Coniston.

'But,' said I, 'what about Betty's Well.' 'Oh,' said my friend, 'that's a noted spring, that never freezes, and always runs; we all drink of it, and neighbours send to it. Here it is,' he continued; and, gazing down, I saw a little dripping well of water, lustrous, clear, coming evidently in continuous force from the springs or secret channels up hill, pausing for a moment at the trough, thence falling into a box or 'channel paved by man's officious care,' and in a moment out of sight and soundless, to pursue its way, 'stripped of its voice,' towards the main Town beck, that ran at the north-east border of the garden plot. 'Ha, pretty prisoner,' and the words 'dimple down' came to my mind at once as appropriate. 'Old Betty's Well gave the key-note of the 'famous brook'; and 'boxed within our garden' seemed an appropriate and exact description.

Trace of 'the sunny seat Round the stone table under the dark pine,'

was there none. Not so, however, the Ash tree, the remains of which I have spoken of. From the bedroom of Betty Braithwaite's house the boy could have watched the moon,

'while to and fro In the dark summit of the waving tree She rocked with every impulse of the breeze.'

'In old times,' said my friend, 'the wall fence ran across the garden, just beyond this spring well, so you see it was but a small spot, was this garden close.' Yes; but the

'crowd of things About its narrow precincts all beloved,'

were known the better, and loved the more on that account. Certainly, thought I to myself, here is the famous spring; a brook that Wordsworth must have known, and that may have been the centre of memory to him in his description of those early Hawkshead days, with its metaphor of fountain life.

May we not, as we gaze on this little fountain well, in a garden plot at the back of one of the grey huts of this 'one dear vale,' point as with a wand, and say,

'This portion of the river of his mind Came from yon fountain.'

Is it not possible that the old dame whose

'Clear though shallow stream of piety, Ran on the Sabbath days a fresher course,'

was Betty Braithwaite, the aged dame who owned the cottage hard by?"

The following additional extract from a letter of Mr. Rawnsley's (Christmas, 1882) casts light, both on the Hawkshead beck and fountain, and on the stone seat in the market square, referred to in the fourth book of 'The Prelude'.

"Postlethwaite of the Sun Inn at Hawkshead, has a father aged 82, who can remember that there was a _stone_ bench, not called old Betty's, but Old Jane's Stone, on which she used to spread nuts and cakes for the scholars of the Grammar School, but that it did not stand where the Market Hall now is, and no one ever remembers a stone or stone-bench standing there. This stone or stone-bench stood about opposite the Red Lion inn, in front of the little row of houses that run east and west, just as you pass out of the village in a northerly direction by the Red Lion. This stone or stone-bench is not associated with dark pine trees, but they may have passed away root and branch in an earlier generation.

Next and most interesting, I think, as showing that I was right in the matter of the _famous fountain,_ or spring in the garden, behind Betty Braithwaite's house. There exists in Hawkshead near this house a covered-in place or shed, to which all the village repair for their drinking-water, and always have done so. It is known by the name of the Spout House, and the water--which flows all the year from a longish spout, with an overflow one by its side--comes direct from the little drop well in Betty B.'s garden, after having its voice stripped and boxed therein; and, falling out of the spout into a deep stone basin and culvert, runs through the town to join the Town Beck.

So wedded are the Hawkshead folk to this, their familiar fountainhead, that though water is supplied in stand-pipes now from a Reservoir, the folks won't have it, and come here to this spout-house, bucket and jug in hand, morn, noon and night. I have never seen anything so like a continental scene at the gathering at Hawkshead spout-house.

Lastly, there is a very aged thorn-tree in the churchyard--blown over but propped up--in which the forefathers of the hamlet used to sit as boys (in the thorn, that is, not the churchyard), and which has been worn smooth by many Hawkshead generations. The tradition is, that _Wordsworth used to sit a deal in it when at school._"

Ed.

* * * * *

NOTE III.--THE HAWKSHEAD MORNING WALK: SUMMER VACATION

(See p. 197, 'The Prelude', book iv. ll. 323-38)

If the farm-house where Wordsworth spent the evening before this memorable morning walk was either at Elterwater or High Arnside, and the homeward pathway led across the ridge of Ironkeld, either by the old mountain road (now almost disused), or over the pathless fells, there are two points from either of which the sea might be seen in the distance. The one is from the heights looking down to the Duddon estuary, across the Coniston valley; the other is from a spot nearer Hawkshead, where Morecambe Bay is visible. In the former case "the meadows and the lower grounds" would be those in Yewdale; in the latter case, they would be those between Latterbarrow and Hawkshead; and, on either alternative, the "solid mountains" would be those of the Coniston group--the Old Man and Wetherlam. It is also possible that the course of the walk was over the Latterbarrow fells, or heights of Colthouse; but, from the reference to the sunrise "not unseen" from the copse and field, through which the "homeward pathway wound," it may be supposed that the course was south-east, and therefore not over these fells, when his back would have been to the sun. Dr. Cradock's note [Footnote T to book iv] to the text (p. 197) sums up all that can "be safely said"; but Mr. Rawnsley has supplied me with the following interesting remarks:

"After a careful reading of the passage describing the poet's return from a festal night, spent in some farm-house beyond the hills, I am quite unable to say that the path from High Arnside over the Ironkeld range entirely suits the description. Is it not possible that the lad had school-fellows whose parents lived in Yewdale? If he had, and was returning from the party in one of the Yewdale farms, he would, as he ascended towards Tarn Howes, and faced about south, to gain the main Coniston road, by traversing the meadows between Berwick ground and the top of the Hawkshead and Coniston Hill, command a view of the sea that 'lay laughing at a distance'; and 'near, the solid mountains'--Wetherlam and Coniston Old Man--would shine 'bright as the clouds.' I think this is likely to have been the poet's track, because he speaks of labourers going forth to till the fields; and the Yewdale valley is one that is (at its head) chiefly arable, so that he would be likelier to have gazed on them there than in the vale of Hawkshead itself. One is here, however--as in a former passage, when we fixed on Yewdale as the one described as being a 'cultured vale'--obliged to remember that in Wordsworth's boyhood wheat was grown more extensively than is now the case in these parts. Of course, the Furness Fell, above Colthouse, might have been the scene. It is eminently suited to the description."

Ed.

* * * * *

NOTE IV.--DOROTHY WORDSWORTH AT CAMBRIDGE IN 1808. THE ASH TREE AT ST. JOHN'S COLLEGE

(See p. 224, 'The Prelude', book vi. ll. 76-94)

The following is an extract from a letter of Dorothy Wordsworth's to Lady Beaumont at Coleorton, dated "14th August," probably in 1808:

"We reached Cambridge at half-past nine. In our way to the Inn we stopped at the gate of St. John's College to set down one of our passengers. The stopping of the carriage roused me from a sleepy musing, and I was awe-stricken with the solemnity of the old gateway, and the light from a great distance within streaming along the pavement. When they told me it was the entrance to 'St. John's' College, I was still more affected by the gloomy yet beautiful sight before me, for I thought of my dearest brother in his youthful days passing through that gateway to his home, and I could have believed that I saw him there even then, as I had seen him in the first year of his residence. I met with Mr. Clarkson at the Inn, and was, you may believe, rejoiced to hear his voice at the coach door. We supped together, and immediately after supper I went to bed, and slept well, and at 8 o'clock next morning went to Trinity Chapel. There I stood for many minutes in silence before the statue of Newton, while the organ sounded. I never saw a statue that gave me one hundredth part so much pleasure--but pleasure, that is not the word, it is a sublime sensation--in harmony with sentiments of devotion to the Divine Being, and reverence for the holy places where He is worshipped. We walked in the groves all the morning and visited the Colleges. I sought out a favourite ash tree which my brother speaks of in his poem on his own life--a tree covered with ivy. We dined with a fellow of Peter-House in his rooms, and after dinner I went to King's College Chapel. There, and everywhere else at Cambridge, I was even much more impressed with the effect of the buildings than I had been formerly, and I do believe that this power of receiving an enlarged enjoyment from the sight of buildings is one of the privileges of our later years. I have this moment received a letter from William...."

Ed.

* * * * *

NOTE V.--"THE MEETING-POINT OF TWO HIGHWAYS"

(See p. 353, 'The Prelude', book xii. l. 293)

The following extract from a letter of Mr. Rawnsley's casts important light on a difficult question of localization. Dr. Cradock is inclined now to select the Outgate Crag, the second of the four places referred to by Mr. Rawnsley. But the first may have been the place, and the extract which follows will show how much is yet to be done in this matter of localizing poetical allusions.

"As to

'the crag, That, from the meeting-point of two highways Ascending, overlooked them both, far stretched,'

there seems to be no doubt but that we have four competitors for the honour of being the place to which the poet:

'impatient for the sight Of those led palfreys that should bear them home'

repaired with his brothers

'one Christmas-time, On the glad eve of its dear holidays.'

And unless, as it seems is quite possible, from what one sees in other of Wordsworth's poems, he really stood on one of the crags, and then in his description drew the picture of the landscape at his feet from his memory of what it was as seen from another of the vantage places, we need a high crag, rising gradually or abruptly from the actual meeting-place of two highways, with, if possible at this distance of time, a wall--or traces of it--quite at its summit. (I may mention that the wallers in this country still give two hundred years as the length of time that a dry wall will stand.) We need also traces of an old thorn tree close by. The wall, too, must be so placed on the summit of the crag that, as it faces the direction in which the lad is looking for his palfrey, it shall afford shelter to him against

'the sleety rain, And all the business of the elements.'

It is evident that the lad would be looking out in a north-easterly direction, i. e. towards the head of Windermere and Ambleside. So that

'the mist, That on the line of each of those two roads Advanced in such indisputable shapes,'

was urged by a wind that found the poet at his look-out station, glad to have the wall between him and it. Further, there must be in close proximity wood and the sound of rushing water, or the lapping of a lake wind-driven against the marge, for the boy remembers that 'the bleak music from that old stone wall' was mingled with 'the noise of wood and water.' The roads spoken of must be two highways, and must be capable of being seen for some distance; unless, as it is just possible, the epithet 'far-stretched' may be taken as applying not so much to the roads, as to the gradual ascent of the crag from the meeting-place of the two highways.

The scene from the crag must be extended, and half plain half wood-land; at least one gathers as much from the lines:

'as the mist Gave intermitting prospect of the copse And plain beneath.'

Lastly, it was a day of driving sleet and mist, and this of itself would necessitate that the poet and his brothers should only go to the place close to which the ponies must pass, or from which most plainly the roads were visible.

The boys too were

'feverish, and tired, and restless,'

and a schoolboy, to gain his point on such a day and on such an errand, does not take much account of a mile of country to be travelled over.

So that it is immaterial, I think, to make the distance from Hawkshead of either of the four crags or vantage grounds a factor in decision.

The farther the lads were from home when they met their ponies, the longer ride back they would have, and this to schoolboys is matter of consideration at such times.

Taking then a survey of the ground of choice, we have to decide whether the crag in question is situated at the first division or main split of the road from Ambleside furthest from Hawkshead, or whether at the place where the two roads converge again into one nearer Hawkshead.

Whether, that is, the crag above the Pullwyke quarry, at the junction of the road to Water Barngates and the road to Wray and Outgate is to be selected, about two miles from Hawkshead; or whether we are to fix on the spot you have chosen, at the point about a mile north-east of Hawkshead, 'called in the ordnance map Outgate.'

Of the two I incline to the former, for these reasons. The boys could not be so certain of 'not missing the ponies', at any other place than here at Pullwyke.

The crag exactly answers the poet's description, a rising ground, the meeting-place of two highways. For in the poet's time the old Hawkshead and Outgate road at the Pullwyke corner ran at the very foot of the rising ground (roughly speaking) parallel to and some 60 to 100 yards west of the present road from the Pull to Wray.

It is true that no trace of wall is visible at its summit, but the summit has been planted since with trees, and walls are often removed at time of planting.

The poet would have a full view of the main road, down to, and round, the Pullwyke Bay; he would see the branch road from the fork, as it mounted the Water Barngates Hill, to the west, and would see the other road of the fork far-stretched and going south.

He would also have an extended view of copse and meadow land. He might, if the wind were south-easterly, hear the noise of Windermere, sobbing in the Pullwyke Bay, and would without doubt hear also the roar of the Pull Beck water, as it passed down from the Ironkeld slopes on his left towards the lake.

It might be objected that the poem gives us the idea of a crag which, from the Hawkshead side at any rate, would require to be of more difficult ascent than this is, to justify the idea of difficulty as suggested in the lines:

'thither I repaired, Scout-like, and gained the summit;'

but I do not think we need read more into the lines than that the boy felt--as he scanned the country with his eyes, on the 'qui vive' at every rise in the ground--the feelings of a scout, who questions constantly the distant prospect.

And certainly the Pullwyke quarry crag rises most steeply from the meeting-point of the two highways.

Next as to the Outgate crag, which you have chosen. I am out of love with it. First, if the lads wanted to make sure of the ponies, they would not have ascended it, but would have stayed just at the Hawkshead side of Outgate, or at the village itself, at the point of convergence of the ways.

Secondly, the crag can hardly be described as rising from the meeting-point of two highways; only one highway passes near it.

The crag is of so curious a formation geologically, that I can't fancy the poet describing his memory of it, without calling it a terraced hill, or an ascent by natural terraces.

Then, again, the prospect is not sufficiently extended from it. The stream not near enough, or rather not of size enough, to be heard. Blelham Tarn is not too far to have added to the watery sound, it is true, but the wind we suppose to have been north-east, and the sound of the Blelham Tarn would be much carried away from him.

The present stone wall is not near the summit, and is of comparatively recent date. It is difficult to believe from the slope of the outcrop of rock that a wall could ever have been at the summit.

But there are two other vantage grounds intermediate between those extremes, both of which were probably in the mind and memory of the poet as he described the scene, and

'The intermitting prospect of the copse. And plain beneath,'

allowed him by the mist. One of these is the High Crag, about three-quarters of a mile from the divergence or convergence of the two highways, which Dr. Cradock has selected.

There can be no doubt that this is the crag 'par excellence' for a wide and extended look-out over all the country between Outgate and Ambleside. Close at its summit there remain aged thorn trees, but no trace of a wall.

But High Crag can hardly be said to have risen at 'the meeting-point of two highways,' unless we are to understand the epithet 'far-stretched' as applying to the south-western slopes or skirts of the hill; and the two highways, the roads between Water Barngates on the west, and the bridle road between Pullwyke and Outgate at their Outgate junction, and this is rather too far a stretch.

It is quite true that if bridle paths can be described as highways, there may be said to be a meeting-point of these close at the north-eastern side of the crag.

But, remembering that the ponies came from Penrith, the driver was not likely to have had any intimate knowledge of these bridle paths; while, at the same time, on that misty day, I much question whether the boys on the look-out at High Crag could have seen ponies creeping along between walled roads at so great a distance as half a mile or more.

And this would seem to have been the problem for them on that day.

I ought in fairness to say that it is not likely that the roads were then (as to-day) walled up high on either side. To-day, even from the summit of High Crag, only the head and ears of a pony could be seen as it passed up the Water Barngates Road; but at the end of last century many of the roads were only partially walled off from the moorlands they passed over in the Lake Country.

Still, as I said, High Crag was a point of vantage that the poet, as a lad, must have often climbed, in this part of the country, if he wanted to indulge in the delights of panoramic scene.

There is a wall some hundred yards from the summit, on the south-westerly flank of High Crag; near this--at a point close by, two large holly trees--the boy might have sheltered himself against the north-eastern wind, and have got a closer and better view of the road between Barngates and Outgate, and Randy Pike and Outgate.

Here, too, he could possibly hear the sound of the stream in the dingle or woody hollow immediately at his feet; but I am far from content with this as being the spot the poet watched from.

There is again a fourth possible look-out place, to which you will remember I directed your attention, nearer Randy Pike. The slope, covered with larches, rises up from the Randy Pike Road to a precipitous crag which faces north and east.

From this, a grand view of the country between Randy Pike and Pullwyke is obtained, and if the bridle paths might--as is possible, but unlikely--be called two highways, then this crag could be spoken of as rising from the meeting place of the two highways. For the old Hawkshead Road passed along to the east, within calling distance (say ninety yards), and a bridle road from Pullwyke, now used chiefly by the quarrymen, passed within eighty yards to the west; while it is certain that the brook below, when swollen by winter rains, might be loud enough to be heard from the copse. This crag is known as Coldwell or Caudwell Crag, and is situated about half a mile east-south-east of the High Crag.

It has this much in its favour, that a wall of considerable age crests its summit, and one can whilst sitting down on a rock close behind it be sheltered from the north and east, and yet obtain an extensive view of the subadjacent country. IF it were certain that the ponies when they got to Pullwyke did not go up towards Water Barngates, and so to Hawkshead, then there is no crag in the district which would so thoroughly answer to all the needs of the boys, and to all the points of description the poet has placed on record.

But it is just this IF that makes me decide on the Pullwyke Crag--the one first described--as being the actual spot to which, scout-like, the schoolboys clomb, on that eventful 'eve of their dear holidays;' while, at the same time, it is my firm conviction that Wordsworth--as he painted the memories of that event--had also before his mind's eye the scene as viewed from Coldwell and High Crag."

Ed.

* * * * *

NOTE VI.--COLERIDGE'S LINES TO WORDSWORTH, ON HEARING 'THE PRELUDE' RECITED BY HIM AT COLEORTON, IN 1806

The following is a copy of a version of these 'Lines', sent by Coleridge to Sir George Beaumont, at Dunmow, Essex, in January, 1807. The variations, both in the title and in the text, from that which Coleridge finally adopted (see p. 129), are interesting in many ways:

LINES

To William Wordsworth: Composed for the greater part on the same night after the finishing of his recitation of the Poem, in Thirteen Books, on the growth of his own mind.

O Friend! O Teacher! God's great Gift to me! Into my Heart have I received that Lay More than historic, that prophetic Lay Wherein (high theme by thee first sung aright) Of the foundations and the building up 5 Of thine own spirit thou hast loved to tell What _may_ be told, by words revealable: With heavenly breathings, like the secret soul Of vernal growth, oft quickening in the heart Thoughts, that obey no mastery of words, 10 Pure Self-beholdings! Theme as hard as high, Of Smiles spontaneous and mysterious Fear! The first born they of Reason and twin birth! Of tides obedient to external force, And currents self-determin'd, as might seem, 15 Or by some inner power! Of moments awful, Now in thy hidden life, and now abroad, When power stream'd from thee, and thy soul receiv'd The light reflected, as a light bestow'd! Of fancies fair, and milder hours of youth, 20 Hybloean murmurs of poetic thought Industrious in its joy, in vales and glens Native or outland, Lakes and famous Hills; Or on the lonely high-road, when the stars Were rising; or by secret mountain streams, 25 The guides and the companions of thy way! Of more than Fancy--of the SOCIAL SENSE Distending, and of Man belov'd as Man, Where France in all her Towns lay vibrating, Even as a Bark becalm'd on sultry seas 30 Quivers beneath the voice from Heaven, the burst Of Heaven's immediate thunder, when no cloud Is visible, or shadow on the main! For thou wert there, thy own brows garlanded, Amid the tremor of a Realm aglow! 35 Amid a mighty nation jubilant! When from the general Heart of Human Kind Hope sprang forth, like an armed Deity! Of that dear Hope afflicted and struck down, So summon'd homeward; thenceforth calm and sure, 40 As from the Watch-tower of Man's absolute Self, With light unwaning on her eyes, to look Far on--herself a Glory to behold, The Angel of the Vision! Then (last strain) Of Duty, chosen Laws controlling choice, 45 Action and Joy!--an Orphic Tale indeed, A Tale divine of high and passionate Thoughts, To their own Music chaunted!--

A great Bard! Ere yet the last strain dying awed the air, With steadfast eyes I saw thee in the choir 50 Of ever-enduring men. The truly Great Have all one age, and from one visible space Shed influence: for they, both power and act, Are permanent, and Time is not with them, Save as it worketh for them, they in it. 55 Nor less a sacred Roll, than those of old, And to be plac'd, as they, with gradual fame Among the Archives of Mankind, thy Work Makes audible a linked Song of Truth, Of Truth profound a sweet continuous Song 60 Not learnt, but native, her own natural notes! Dear shall it be to every human heart, To me how more than dearest! Me, on whom Comfort from thee, and utterance of thy Love, Come with such Heights and Depths of Harmony 65 Such sense of Wings uplifting, that its might Scatter'd and quell'd me, till my Thoughts became A bodily Tumult; and thy faithful Hopes, Thy Hopes of me, dear Friend! by me unfelt! Were troublous to me, almost as a Voice 70 Familiar once and more than musical; As a dear Woman's Voice to one cast forth, [A] A Wanderer with a worn-out heart forlorn, Mid Strangers pining with untended wounds.

O Friend! too well thou know'st, of what sad years 75 The long suppression had benumbed my soul, That, even as Life returns upon the Drown'd, The unusual Joy awoke a throng of Pains-- Keen Pangs of LOVE, awakening, as a Babe, Turbulent, with an outcry in the Heart! 80 And Fears self-will'd, that shunn'd the eye of Hope, And Hope, that scarce would know itself from Fear; Sense of past youth, and manhood come in vain, And Genius given and Knowledge won in vain; And all, which I had cull'd in wood-walks wild, 85 And all, which patient Toil had rear'd, and all, Commune with THEE had open'd out--but Flowers Strew'd on my Corse, and borne upon my Bier, In the same Coffin, for the self-same Grave!

That way no more! and ill beseems it me, 90 Who came a Welcomer, in Herald's Guise, Singing of Glory and Futurity, To wander back on such unhealthful road Plucking the Poisons of Self-harm! And ill Such intertwine beseems triumphal wreaths 95 Strew'd before thy advancing! Thou too, Friend! Impair thou not the memory of that hour Of thy Communion with my nobler mind By pity or grief, already felt too long! Nor let my words import more blame than needs. 100 The tumult rose and ceas'd: for Peace is nigh Where Wisdom's voice has found a list'ning Heart. Amid the howl of more than wintry storms The Halcyon hears the Voice of vernal Hours, Already on the wing!

Eve following Eve 105 Dear tranquil Time, when the sweet sense of Home Is sweetest! Moments, for their own sake hail'd, And more desired, more precious for thy Song! In silence listening, like a devout child, My soul lay passive, by the various strain 110 Driven as in surges now, beneath the stars With momentary [B] stars of her [C] own birth, Fair constellated Foam, still darting off Into the Darkness; now a tranquil Sea, Outspread and bright, yet swelling to the Moon. 115

And when--O Friend! my Comforter! my [D] Guide! Strong in thyself and powerful to give strength!-- Thy long sustained Song finally clos'd, And thy deep voice had ceas'd--yet thou thyself Wert still before mine eyes, and round us both 120 That happy Vision of beloved Faces-- (All whom, I deepliest love--in one room all!) Scarce conscious and yet conscious of its close I sate, my Being blended in one Thought, (Thought was it? or aspiration? or resolve?) 125 Absorb'd; yet hanging still upon the Sound-- And when I rose, I found myself in Prayer.

S. T. COLERIDGE.

'Jany'. 1807.

* * * * *

FOOTNOTES ON THE TEXT

[Footnote A: Different reading on same MS.:

'To one cast forth, whose Hope had seem'd to die.'

Ed.]

[Footnote B: Compare, as an illustrative note, the descriptive passage in Satyrane's first Letter in 'Biographia Literaria', beginning, "A beautiful white cloud of foam," etc.--S.T.C.]

[Footnote C: Different reading on same MS., "'my'."--Ed.]

[Footnote D: Different reading on same MS., "'and'."--Ed.]

In a MS. copy of 'Dejection, An Ode', transcribed for Sir George Beaumont on the 4th of April 1802--and sent to him, when living with Lord Lowther at Lowther Hall--there is evidence that the poem was originally addressed to Wordsworth.

The following lines in this copy can be compared with those finally adopted:

'O dearest William! in this heartless mood, To other thoughts by yonder throstle woo'd All this long eve so balmy and serene Have I been gazing on the western sky,'

...

'O William, we _receive_ but what we _give_: And in our life alone does Nature live.'

...

'Yes, dearest William! Yes! There was a time when though my Path was rough This Joy within me dallied with distress.'

The MS. copy is described by Coleridge as "imperfect"; and it breaks off abruptly at the lines:

'Suspends what Nature gave me at my birth My shaping spirit of Imagination.'

And he continues:

'I am so weary of this doleful poem, that I must leave off....'

Another MS. copy of this poem, amongst the Coleorton papers, is signed "S. T. Coleridge to William Wordsworth." Ed.

* * * * *

NOTE VII.--GENERAL BEAUPUY

(See pp. 297 and 302, 'The Prelude', book ix.)

Professor Emile Legouis of Lyons--a thorough student, and a very competent expounder, of our modern English Literature--supplied me, some years ago, with numerous facts in reference to Wordsworth's friend General Beaupuy, and his family, from which I extract the following:

'The Prelude' gives us very little precise information about the republican officer with whom Wordsworth became acquainted in France, and on whom he bestowed more praise than on almost any other of his contemporaries. We only gather the following facts:--That his name was 'Beaupuy', that he was quartered at Orleans, with royalist officers, sometime between November 1791 and the spring of 1792, and that

'He perished fighting, _in supreme command_, Upon the borders of the unhappy Loire, For liberty, against deluded men, His fellow-countrymen....'

Though it seems very easy to identify a general even with such scanty data, the task is rendered more difficult by two inaccuracies in Wordsworth's statement, which, however, can be explained and redressed without much difficulty.

The first inaccuracy is in the spelling of the name, which is 'Beaupuy' and not 'Beaupuis'--a slight mistake considering that Wordsworth was a foreigner, and, besides, wrote down his friend's name ten years and perhaps more after losing sight of him. Moreover, the name of the general who, I think, was meant by Wordsworth, I have found spelt 'Beaupuy' in one instance, viz. the signature of a letter of his, as printed in 'Vie et Correspondance de Merlin de Thionville', publiée par Jean Reynaud, Paris, 1860 (2'e partie p. 241).

The spelling of proper names was not so fixed then as it is nowadays, and this irregularity is not to be wondered at.

The second inaccuracy consists in stating that General Beaupuy died on the banks of the Loire during the Vendean war. Indeed, he was grievously wounded at the Battle of Château-Gonthier, on the 26th of October 1793, and reported as dead. His soldiers thought he had been killed, and the rumour must have spread abroad, as it was recorded by A. Thiers himself in his 'Histoire de la Révolution', and by A. Challemel in his 'Histoire Musée de la République Française'.

It is no wonder that Wordsworth, who was then in England, and could only read imperfect accounts of what took place in France, should have been mistaken too.

No other General Beaupuy is recorded in the history of the Revolution, so far as I have been able to ascertain. The moral character of the officer, whose life I shall relate, answers to Wordsworth's description, and is worthy of his high estimate.

Armand Michel de Bachelier, Chevalier de Beaupuy, was born at Mussidan, in Perigord, on the 15th of July 1757. He belonged to a noble family, less proud of its antiquity than of the blood it had shed for France on many battlefields. On his mother's side (Mlle. de Villars), he reckoned Montaigne, the celebrated essayist, among his ancestors. His parents having imbibed the philanthropic ideas of the time, educated him according to their principles.

He had four brothers, who were all destined to turn republicans and do good service to the new cause, though their interest certainly lay in the opposite direction.

...

He was made sub-lieutenant in the regiment of Bassigny (33rd division of foot) on the 2nd of March 1773, and lieutenant of grenadiers on the 1st of October of the same year.

In 1791 he was first lieutenant in the same regiment. Having sided with the Revolution, he was appointed commander of a battalion of national volunteers in the department of Dordogne. I have not found the exact date of this appointment, but it must have taken place immediately after his stay at Orléans with Wordsworth.

I have found no further mention of his name till September 1792, when he is known to have served in the "Armée du Rhin," under General Custine, and contributed to the taking of Spire.

He took an important part in the taking of Worms, 4th October; of Mayence (Maenz) 21st October. He was among the garrison of Mayence when this place was besieged by the Prussians, and obliged to capitulate after a long and famous siege (from 6th April 1793 to 22nd July 1793). [A]

During the siege he wrote a journal of all the operations. Unfortunately, this journal is very short, and purely military. It has been handed down to us, and is found in the Bibliothèque Nationale of Paris in the 'Papiers de Merlin de Thionville', n. acq. fr. Nos. 244-252, 8 vol. in-8°. Beaupuy's journal is in the 3rd volume, fol. 213-228.

...

In the Vendean war, the "Mayençais," or soldiers returned from Mayence, made themselves conspicuous, and bore almost all the brunt of the campaign. But none of them distinguished himself more than Beaupuy, then a General of Brigade.

The Mayençais arrived in Vendée at the end of August or beginning of September 1793. To Beaupuy's skill the victory of Chollet (Oct. 17, 1793) is attributed by Jomini. In this battle he fought hand to hand with and overcame a Vendean cavalier. He himself had three horses killed, and had a very narrow escape. On the battlefield he was made 'general of division' by the "Represéntants du peuple." It was after Chollet that the Vendeans made the memorable crossing of the Loire at St. Florent.

At Laval and Château-Gonthier (Oct. 26) a terrible defeat was inflicted on the Republicans, owing to the incapacity of their commander-in-chief, Léchelle. The whole corps commanded by General Beaupuy was crushed by a terrible fire, He himself, after withstanding for two or three hours with 2000 or 3000 men all the attacks of the royalists, was disabled by a shot, and fell, crying out, "'Laissez-moi là, et portez à mes grenadiers ma chemise sanglante'." His soldiers thought he was dead, and then the error was spread, which was repeated by Wordsworth, Thiers, and Challamel. Wordsworth's mistake is so far interesting, as it seems to prove that very little or no correspondence passed between the two friends after they had parted. Beaupuy, moreover, had too much work upon his hands to give much of his time to letter-writing.

Though severely wounded, Beaupuy lived on, and less than six weeks after the battle of Château-Gonthier, he was seen on the ramparts of Angers, where he required himself to be carried to animate his soldiers and head the defenders of the place, from which the Vendeans were driven after a severe contest (Dec. 5 and 6).

On the 22nd of December 1793 he shared in the victory of Savenay with his celebrated friends, Marceau, Kleber, and Westermann. After this battle, which put an end to the great Vendean war, he wrote the following letter to his friend Merlin de Thionville, the celebrated "représentant du peuple."

"SAVENAY, le 4 Nivôse au 2'e (25 Dec. 73).

"Enfin, enfin, mon cher Merlin, elle n'est plus cette armée royale ou catholique, comme tu voudras! J'en ai vu, avec tes braves collegues Prieur et Eurreau, les débris, consistant en 150 cavaliers battant l'eau dans le marais de Montaire; et comme tu connais ma veracité tu peux dire avec assurance que les deux combats de Savenay ont mis fin à la guerre de la nouvelle Vendée et aux chimériques espérances des royalists.

L'histoire ne vous presente point de combat dont le suites aient été plus décisives. Ah! mon brave, comme tu aurais joui! quelle attaque! mais quelle déroute aussi! Il fallait les voir ces soldats de Jesus et de Louis XVII, se jetant dans les marais ou obligés de se rendre par 5 ou 600 à la fois; et Langrénière pris et les autres generaux dispersés et aux abois!

Cette armée, dont tu avais vu les restes de la terrasse de St. Florent, était redevenue formidable par son recrutement dans les départements envahis. Je les ai bien vus, bien examinés, j'ai reconnu même de mes figures de Chollet et de Laval, et à leur contenance et à leur mine, je l'assure qu'il ne leur manquait du soldat que l'habit. Des troupes qui ont battu de tels Français peuvent se flatter ainsi de vainere des peuples assez lâaches pour se réunir centre un seul et encore pour la cause des rois! Enfin, je ne sais si je me trompe, mais cette guerre de brigands, de paysans, sur laquelle on a jeté tant de ridicule, que l'on dédaignait, que l'on affectait de regarder comme méprisable, m'a toujours paru, pour la république, la grande partie, et il me semble a present qu'avec nos autres ennemis, nous ne ferrons plus que peloter.

Adieu, brave montagnard, adieu! Actuellement que cette exécrable guerre est terminée, que les mânes de nos freres sont satisfaits, je vais guerir. J'ai obtenu de tes confreres un congé qui finira au moment où la guerre recommencera.

LE GÉNERAL DE BRIGADE BEAUPUY.

I think I can recognize in this letter some traits of Beaupuy's character as pointed out by Wordsworth, not excepting the half-suppressed criticism:

'... somewhat vain he was, Or seemed so, yet it was not vanity, But fondness, and a kind of radiant joy Diffused around him ...'

Passing over numerous military incidents, on the 26th of June 1796 Beaupuy received seven or eight sabre-cuts at Jorich-Wildstadt. But on the 8th of July he was already back at his post.

He again greatly distinguished himself on the 1st of September 1796 at Greisenfeld and Langenbruck, where the victory of the French was owing to a timely attack made by Desaix and himself.

He was one of the generals under Moreau when the latter achieved his well-known retreat through the Black Forest, begun on the 15th of September 1796, and during which many battles were fought. In one of the actions on the banks of the Elz, Beaupuy was killed by a cannon-ball, while opposing General Latour on the heights of Malterdingen. His soldiers, who loved him passionately, fought desperately to avenge his death (Oct. 19, 1796).

One of Beaupuy's colleagues, General Duhem, in his account of the battle to the Government, thus expressed himself on General Beaupuy:

"Ecrivains patriotes, orateurs chaleureux, je vous propose un noble sujet, l'éloge du Géneral Beaupuy, de Beaupuy, le Nestor et l'Achille de notre armée. Vous n'avez pas de récherches à faire; interrogez le premier soldat de l'armée du Rhin-et-Moselle, ses larmes exciteront les vôtres. Ecrivez alors ce que est vous en dira, et vous peindrez le Bayard de la République Française."

Such bombastic style was then common, but what we have seen of Beaupuy in this sketch shows that he had through his career united Nestor's prudence [B] with Achilles' bodily courage and Bayard's chivalric spirit,--to use the language of the time.

General Moreau had Beaupuy's remains transported to Brisach, where a monument was erected to his memory in 1802, after the peace of Lunéville.

In short, Beaupuy seems to have always remained worthy of the high praise bestowed on him by Wordsworth. His name is to be remembered along with those of the unspotted generals of the first years of the Revolution--Hoche, Marceau, etc.--before the craving for conquest had developed, and the love of liberty yielded to a fond admiration of Bonaparte as it did in the case of Kleber, Desaix, and so many others. [C]

N. B.--The great influence which Beaupuy exercised at that time on Wordsworth will be easily understood, if we take into account not only his real qualities, but also his age. When they met, Wordsworth was only twenty-one, Beaupuy nearly thirty-five. The grown-up man could impart much of his knowledge of life, and of the favourite authors of the time, to a youth fresh from the University--though that youth was Wordsworth.

EMILE LEGOUIS.

* * * * *

FOOTNOTES ON THE TEXT

[Footnote A: His bravery shone forth at Coethen, where he was left alone in a group of Prussians. He fought with their chief and disarmed him. A few days after he was named General of Brigade.--8th March 1793.]

[Footnote B: The pacification of Vendée was for a great part owing to his valour and prudence.]

[Footnote C: Beaupuy is said to have united civic virtues with military talents. A good son and a good brother, he showed in many a circumstance that true valour does not exclude humanity, and that the soul can be both strong and full of feeling.]

These notes (B and C) are taken from 'Biographic Nouvelle de Contemporains'.