Volume 8 — 1802
Reading edition
“AMONG ALL LOVELY THINGS MY LOVE HAD BEEN”
Composed April 12, 1802.—Published 1807
This poem—known in the Wordsworth household as The Glowworm—was written on the 12th of April 1802, during a ride from Middleham to Barnard Castle, and was published in the edition of 1807. It was never reproduced. The “Lucy” of this and other poems was his sister Dorothy. In a letter to Coleridge, written in April 1802, he thus refers to the poem, and to the incident which gave rise to it:—“I parted from M—— on Monday afternoon, about six o’clock, a little on this side Rushyford. Soon after I missed my road in the midst of the storm.… Between the beginning of Lord Darlington’s park at Raby, and two or three miles beyond Staindrop, I composed the poem the opposite page. I reached Barnard Castle about half-past ten.… The incident of this poem took place about seven years ago between my sister and me.”
I think it probable that the “incident” occurred near Racedown, Dorsetshire, where, in the autumn of 1795 Wordsworth settled with his sister. The following is Dorothy’s account of the composition of the poem:—“Tuesday, April 20, 1802.—We sate in the orchard and repeated The Glowworm, and other poems. Just when William came to a well, or trough, which there is in Lord Darlington’s park, he began to write that poem of The Glowworm; interrupted in going through the town of Staindrop, finished it about two miles and a-half beyond Staindrop. He did not feel the jogging of the horse while he was writing; but, when he had done, he felt the effect of it.… So much for The Glowworm. It was written coming from Middleham, on Monday, April 12, 1802.”—Ed.
Among all lovely things my Love had been; Had noted well the stars, all flowers that grew About her home; but she had never seen A glow-worm, never one, and this I knew. While riding near her home one stormy night 5 A single glow-worm did I chance to espy; I gave a fervent welcome to the sight, And from my horse I leapt; great joy had I. Upon a leaf the glow-worm did I lay, To bear it with me through the stormy night: 10 And, as before, it shone without dismay; Albeit putting forth a fainter light. When to the dwelling of my Love I came, I went into the orchard quietly; And left the glow-worm, blessing it by name, 15 Laid safely by itself, beneath a tree. The whole next day I hoped, and hoped with fear; At night the glow-worm shone beneath the tree; I led my Lucy to the spot, “Look here,” Oh! joy it was for her, and joy for me! 20
“ALONG THE MAZES OF THIS SONG I GO”
This, and the next two fragments, by Wordsworth, are extracted from his sister’s Grasmere Journal.—Ed.
Along the mazes of this song I go As inward motions of the wandering thought Lead me, or outward circumstance impels. Thus do I urge a never-ending way Year after year, with many a sleep between, Through joy and sorrow; if my lot be joy More joyful if it be with sorrow sooth’d.
“THE RAINS AT LENGTH HAVE CEAS’D, THE WINDS ARE STILL’D”
The rains at length have ceas’d, the winds are still’d, The stars shine brightly between clouds at rest, And as a cavern is with darkness fill’d, The vale is by a mighty sound possess’d
“WITNESS THOU”
Witness thou The dear companion of my lonely walk, My hope, my joy, my sister, and my friend, Or something dearer still, if reason knows A dearer thought, or in the heart of love There be a dearer name.[356]
WILD-FOWL
The order’d troops In spiral circles mount aloft, and soar In prospect far above the denser air That hangs o’er the moist plain. Again they view The glorious sun, and while the light of day Still gleams upon their polish’d plumes—the bright Sonorous squadrons sing their evening hymn.
WRITTEN IN A GROTTO
Published in The Morning Post, March 9, 1802
I cannot affirm, with any certainty, that these lines were written by Wordsworth; but I agree with Mr. Ernest Coleridge in thinking that they were. He showed them to his relative—the late Chief Justice—who said that he did not know who else could have written them, at that time. Lord Coleridge said the same to myself.—Ed.
O moon! if e’er I joyed when thy soft light Danc’d to the murmuring rill on Lomond’s wave, Or sighed for thy sweet presence some dark night When thou wert hidden in thy monthly grave,[357] If e’er on wings which active fancy gave 5 I sought thy golden vale with dancing flight Then stretcht at ease in some sequestered cave Gaz’d on thy lovely Nymphs with fond delight, Thy Nymphs with more than earthly beauty bright, If e’er thy beam, as Smyrna’s shepherds tell, 10 Soft as the gentle kiss of amorous maid On the closed eye of young Endymion fell[358] That he might wake to clasp thee in the shade, Each night while I recline within this cell Guide hither, O sweet Moon, the maid I love so well. 15
The shepherds of Smyrna show a cave, where, as they say, Luna descended to Endymion, laid on a bed under a large oak which was the scene of their loves. See Chandler’s Travels in Asia Minor.
HOME AT GRASMERE
The canto of Wordsworth’s autobiographical poem, unpublished in The Prelude (1851), and first given to the world in 1888, is appropriately entitled “Home at Grasmere.”
The introduction to The Recluse was not only kept back by him during his lifetime, but was omitted by his representatives—with what must be regarded as true critical insight—when The Prelude was published in 1850. As a whole, it is not equal to The Prelude. Certain passages are very inferior, but there are others that posterity must cherish, and “not willingly let die.” It was probably a conviction of its inequality and inferiority that led Wordsworth to give only one or two selected extracts from this canto to the world, in his own lifetime. Two passages were printed in his Guide to the District of the Lakes; another—a description of the flight and movement of birds—was published in 1827, and subsequent editions, under the title of Water-Fowl; while the Bishop of Lincoln published other two passages in the Memoirs of his uncle, beginning respectively—
On Nature’s invitation do I come,
and
Bleak season was it, turbulent and bleak.
Internal evidence (see the numerous allusions to Dorothy, and the reference to John Wordsworth) shows that this canto of The Recluse was written at Grasmere, not long after Wordsworth’s arrival there, and certainly before his marriage. The text, as now printed, has been carefully compared with the original MS. by Mr. Gordon Wordsworth. The MS. heading is—THE RECLUSE. BOOK FIRST, PART FIRST.
HOME AT GRASMERE Once to the verge of yon steep barrier came A roving school-boy; what the Adventurer’s age Hath now escaped his memory—but the hour, One of a golden summer holiday, He well remembers, though the year be gone. 5 Alone and devious from afar he came; And, with a sudden influx overpowered At sight of this seclusion, he forgot His haste, for hasty had his footsteps been As boyish his pursuits; and, sighing said, 10 “What happy fortune were it here to live! And, (if a thought of dying, if a thought Of mortal separation, could intrude With paradise before him), here to die!” No prophet was he, had not even a hope, 15 Scarcely a wish, but one bright pleasing thought, A fancy in the heart of what might be The lot of others, never could be his. The station whence he looked was soft and green, Not giddy yet aerial, with a depth 20 Of vale below, a height of hills above. For rest of body, perfect was the spot, All that luxurious nature could desire, But stirring to the spirit. Who could gaze And not feel motions there? He thought of clouds 25 That sail on winds, of breezes that delight To play on water, or in endless chase Pursue each other through the yielding plain Of grass or corn, over and through and through, In billow after billow, evermore 30 Disporting. Nor unmindful was the Boy Of sunbeams, shadows, butterflies and birds, Of fluttering Sylphs, and softly-gliding Fays, Genii, and winged Angels that are Lords Without restraint of all which they behold. 35 The illusion strengthening as he gazed, he felt That such unfettered liberty was his, Such power and joy; but only for this end, To flit from field to rock, from rock to field, From shore to island, and from isle to shore, 40 From open ground to covert, from a bed Of meadow-flowers into a tuft of wood, From high to low, from low to high, yet still Within the bound of this high concave; here Must be his home, this Valley be his world. 45 Since that day forth the place to him—to me (For I who live to register the truth Was that same young and happy being) became As beautiful to thought, as it had been, When present, to the bodily sense; a haunt 50 Of pure affections, shedding upon joy A brighter joy; and through such damp and gloom Of the gay mind, as ofttimes splenetic youth Mistakes for sorrow darting beams of light That no self-cherished sadness could withstand: 55 And now ’tis mine, perchance for life, dear Vale, Beloved Grasmere (let the Wandering Streams Take up, the cloud-capped hills repeat, the Name), One of thy lowly dwellings is my Home. And was the cost so great? and could it seem 60 An act of courage, and the thing itself A conquest? who must bear the blame? sage man Thy prudence, thy experience—thy desires; Thy apprehensions—blush thou for them all. Yes, the realities of life so cold, 65 So cowardly, so ready to betray, So stinted in the measure of their grace As we pronounce them, doing them much wrong, Have been to me more bountiful than hope, Less timid than desire—but that is passed. 70 On Nature’s invitation do I come,[359] By reason sanctioned—Can the choice mislead, That made the calmest, fairest spot of earth, With all its unappropriated good, My own; and not mine only, for with me 75 Entrenched, say rather peacefully embowered, Under yon orchard, in yon humble cot, A younger orphan of a home extinct, The only daughter of my parents, dwells. Aye, think on that, my heart, and cease to stir, 80 Pause upon that, and let the breathing frame No longer breathe, but all be satisfied. —Oh if such silence be not thanks to God For what hath been bestowed, then where, where then Shall gratitude find rest? Mine eyes did ne’er 85 Fix on a lovely object, nor my mind Take pleasure in the midst of happy thoughts, But either She whom now I have, who now Divides with me this loved abode, was there, Or not far off. Where’er my footsteps turned, 90 Her Voice was like a hidden Bird that sang, The thought of her was like a flash of light, Or an unseen companionship, a breath, Or fragrance independent of the wind. In all my goings, in the new and old 95 Of all my meditations, and in this Favourite of all, in this the most of all. —What Being, therefore, since the birth of man Had ever more abundant cause to speak Thanks, and if favours of the heavenly Muse 100 Make him more thankful, then to call on verse To aid him, and in Song resound his joy. The boon is absolute; surpassing grace To me hath been vouchsafed; among the bowers Of blissful Eden this was neither given, 105 Nor could be given, possession of the good Which had been sighed for, ancient thought fulfilled And dear Imaginations realized Up to their highest measure, yea and more. Embrace me then, ye Hills, and close me in, 110 Now in the clear and open day I feel Your guardianship; I take it to my heart; ’Tis like the solemn shelter of the night. But I would call thee beautiful, for mild And soft, and gay, and beautiful thou art, 115 Dear Valley, having in thy face a smile Though peaceful, full of gladness. Thou art pleased, Pleased with thy crags, and woody steeps, thy Lake, Its one green Island and its winding shores; The multitude of little rocky hills, 120 Thy Church and cottages of mountain stone Clustered like stars some few, but single most, And lurking dimly in their shy retreats, Or glancing at[360] each other cheerful looks, Like separated stars with clouds between. 125 What want we? have we not perpetual streams, Warm woods, and sunny hills, and fresh green fields, And mountains not less green, and flocks, and herds, And thickets full of songsters, and the voice Of lordly birds, an unexpected sound 130 Heard now and then from morn till latest eve, Admonishing the man who walks below Of solitude, and silence in the sky? These have we, and a thousand nooks of earth Have also these, but no where else is found, 135 No where (or is it fancy?) can be found The one sensation that is here; ’tis here, Here as it found its way into my heart In childhood, here as it abides by day, By night, here only; or in chosen minds 140 That take it with them hence, where’er they go. ’Tis, but I cannot name it, ’tis the sense Of majesty, and beauty, and repose, A blended holiness of earth and sky, Something that makes this individual Spot, 145 This small abiding-place of many men, A termination, and a last retreat, A centre, come from wheresoe’er you will, A whole without dependence or defect, Made for itself; and happy in itself, 150 Perfect Contentment, Unity entire. Bleak season was it, turbulent and bleak,[361] When hitherward we journeyed, side by side, Through bursts of sunshine and through flying showers, Paced the long Vales—how long they were—and yet 155 How fast that length of way was left behind, Wensley’s rich Vale and Sedbergh’s naked heights. The frosty wind, as if to make amends For its keen breath, was aiding to our steps, And drove us onward like two ships at sea, 160 Or like two birds, companions in mid air, Parted and re-united by the blast. Stern was the face of Nature. We rejoiced In that stern countenance, for our souls thence drew A feeling of their strength. The naked trees, 165 The icy brooks, as on we passed, appeared To question us. “Whence come ye? to what end?” They seemed to say; “What would ye,” said the shower, “Wild wanderers, whither through my dark domain?” The sunbeam said, “Be happy.” When this Vale 170 We entered, bright and solemn was the sky That faced us with a passionate welcoming, And led us to our threshold. Daylight failed Insensibly, and round us gently fell Composing darkness, with a quiet load 175 Of full contentment, in a little shed Disturbed, uneasy in itself as seemed, And wondering at its new inhabitants. It loves us now, this Vale so beautiful Begins to love us! By a sullen storm, 180 Two months unwearied of severest storm, It put the temper of our minds to proof, And found us faithful through the gloom, and heard The Poet mutter his prelusive songs With cheerful heart, an unknown voice of joy, 185 Among the silence of the woods and hills; Silent to any gladsomeness of sound With all their Shepherds. But the gates of Spring Are opened. Churlish Winter hath given leave That she should entertain for this one day, 190 Perhaps for many genial days to come, His guests, and make them jocund. They are pleased, But most of all the Birds that haunt the flood With the mild summons; inmates though they be Of winter’s household, they keep festival 195 This day, who drooped, or seemed to droop, so long; They shew their pleasure, and shall I do less? Happiest of happy though I be, like them I cannot take possession of the sky, Mount with a thoughtless impulse, and wheel there, 200 One of a mighty multitude, whose way Is a perpetual harmony, and dance Magnificent. Behold, how with a grace Of ceaseless motion,[362] that might scarcely seem Inferior to angelical, they prolong 205 Their curious pastime, shaping in mid air, And sometimes with ambitious wing that soars High as the level of the mountain tops, A circuit ampler than the lake beneath, Their own domain;—but ever, while intent 210 On tracing and retracing that large round, Their jubilant activity evolves Hundreds of curves and circlets, to and fro, Upwards and downwards, progress intricate Yet unperplexed, as if one spirit swayed 215 Their indefatigable flight. ’Tis done— Ten times and more, I fancied it had ceased; But lo! the vanished company again Ascending, they approach—I hear their wings Faint, faint at first; and then an eager sound 220 Passed in a moment—and as faint again! They tempt the sun to sport among[363] their plumes; Tempt the smooth water,[364] or the gleaming ice, To show them a fair image; ’tis themselves, Their own fair forms, upon the glimmering plain, 225 Painted more soft and fair as they descend, Almost to touch;—then up again aloft, Up with a sally, and a flash of speed, As if they scorned both resting-place and rest![365] This day is a thanksgiving, ’tis a day 230 Of glad emotion and deep quietness; Not upon me alone hath been bestowed, Me rich in many onward-looking thoughts, The penetrating bliss; oh surely these Have felt it, not the happy Quires of Spring, 235 Her own peculiar family of love That sport among green leaves, a blither train. But two are missing—two, a lonely pair Of milk-white Swans, wherefore are they not seen Partaking this day’s pleasure? From afar 240 They came, to sojourn here in solitude, Choosing this Valley, they who had the choice Of the whole world.[366] We saw them day by day, Through these two months of unrelenting storm, Conspicuous at the centre of the Lake, 245 Their safe retreat. We knew them well, I guess That the whole Valley knew them; but to us They were more dear than may be well believed, Not only for their beauty, and their still And placid way of life, and constant love 250 Inseparable, not for these alone, But that their state so much resembled ours, They having also chosen this abode; They strangers, and we strangers; they a pair, And we a solitary pair like them. 255 They should not have departed; many days Did I look forth in vain, nor on the wing Could see them, nor in that small open space Of blue unfrozen water, where they lodged, And lived so long in quiet, side by side. 260 Shall we behold them, consecrated friends, Faithful companions, yet another year Surviving—they for us, and we for them— And neither pair be broken? Nay perchance It is too late already for such hope, 265 The Dalesmen may have aimed the deadly tube, And parted them; or haply both are gone One death, and that were mercy given to both. Recal my song the ungenerous thought; forgive, Thrice favoured Region, the conjecture harsh 270 Of such inhospitable penalty, Inflicted upon confidence so pure. Ah, if I wished to follow where the sight Of all that is before mine eyes, the voice Which speaks from a presiding Spirit here, 275 Would lead me, I should whisper to myself; They who are dwellers in this holy place Must needs themselves be hallowed, they require No benediction from the stranger’s lips, For they are blest already. None would give 280 The greeting “peace be with you” unto them, For peace they have, it cannot but be theirs, And mercy, and forbearance. Nay—not these, Their healing offices a pure goodwill Precludes, and charity beyond the bounds 285 Of charity—an overflowing love, Not for the creature only, but for all That is around them, love for every thing Which in this happy region they behold! Thus do we soothe ourselves, and when the thought 290 Is past we blame it not for having come. What, if I floated down a pleasant Stream And now am landed, and the motion gone, Shall I reprove myself? Ah no, the stream Is flowing, and will never cease to flow,[367] 295 And I shall float upon that stream again. By such forgetfulness the soul becomes, Words cannot say, how beautiful. Then hail, Hail to the visible Presence, hail to thee, Delightful Valley, habitation fair! 300 And to whatever else of outward form Can give us inward help, can purify, And elevate, and harmonise, and soothe, And steal away, and for a while deceive And lap in pleasing rest, and bear us on 305 Without desire in full complacency, Contemplating perfection absolute And entertained as in a placid sleep. But not betrayed by tenderness of mind That feared, or wholly overlooked the truth, 310 Did we come hither, with romantic hope To find, in midst of so much loveliness, Love, perfect love; of so much majesty A like majestic frame of mind in those Who here abide, the persons like the place. 315 Not from such hope, or aught of such belief Hath issued any portion of the joy Which I have felt this day. An awful voice, ’Tis true, hath in my walks been often heard, Sent from the mountains or the sheltered fields; 320 Shout after shout—reiterated whoop In manner of a bird that takes delight In answering to itself; or like a hound Single at chase among the lonely woods, His yell repeating;[368] yet it was in truth 325 A human voice—a Spirit of coming night, How solemn when the sky is dark, and earth Not dark, nor yet enlightened, but by snow Made visible, amid a noise of winds And bleatings manifold of mountain sheep, 330 Which in that iteration recognise Their summons, and are gathering round for food, Devoured with keenness ere to grove or bank Or rocky bield with patience they retire. That very voice, which, in some timid mood 335 Of superstitious fancy, might have seemed Awful as ever stray Demoniac uttered, His steps to govern in the Wilderness; Or as the Norman Curfew’s regular beat, To hearths when first they darkened at the knell: 340 That Shepherd’s voice, it may have reached mine ear Debased and under profanation, made The ready Organ of articulate sounds From ribaldry, impiety, or wrath Issuing when shame hath ceased to check the brawls 345 Of some abused Festivity—so be it. I came not dreaming of unruffled life, Untainted manners; born among the hills, Bred also there, I wanted not a scale To regulate my hopes. Pleased with the good, 350 I shrink not from the evil with disgust, Or with immoderate pain. I look for Man, The common creature of the brotherhood, Differing but little from the Man elsewhere, For selfishness, and envy, and revenge, 355 Ill neighbourhood—pity that this should be— Flattery and double-dealing, strife and wrong. Yet is it something gained, it is in truth A mighty gain, that Labour here preserves His rosy face, a servant only here 360 Of the fire-side, or of the open field, A freeman, therefore, sound and unimpaired; That extreme penury is here unknown, And cold and hunger’s abject wretchedness, Mortal to body, and the heaven-born mind; 365 That they who want, are not too great a weight For those who can relieve. Here may the heart Breathe in the air of fellow-suffering Dreadless, as in a kind of fresher breeze Of her own native element, the hand 370 Be ready and unwearied without plea From tasks too frequent, or beyond its power For languor, or indifference, or despair. And as these lofty barriers break the force Of winds, this deep Vale,—as it doth in part 375 Conceal us from the storm,—so here abides A power and a protection for the mind, Dispensed indeed to other solitudes, Favoured by noble privilege like this, Where kindred independence of estate 380 Is prevalent, where he who tills the field, He, happy man! is master of the field,[369] And treads the mountains which his fathers trod. Not less than half-way up yon Mountain’s side Behold a dusky spot, a grove of Firs, 385 That seems still smaller than it is. This grove Is haunted—by what ghost? a gentle spirit Of memory faithful to the call of love; For, as reports the dame, whose fire sends up Yon curling smoke from the grey cot below, 390 The trees (her first-born child being then a babe) Were planted by her husband and herself, That ranging o’er the high and houseless ground Their sheep might neither want (from perilous storms Of winter, nor from summer’s sultry heat) 395 A friendly covert. “And they knew it well,” Said she, “for thither as the trees grew up, We to the patient creatures carried food In times of heavy snow.” She then began In fond obedience to her private thoughts 400 To speak of her dead husband. Is there not An art, a music, and a strain of words That shall be like the acknowledged voice of life, Shall speak of what is done among the fields, Done truly there, or felt, of solid good 405 And real evil, yet be sweet withal, More grateful, more harmonious than the breath, The idle breath of softest pipe attuned To pastoral fancies? Is there such a stream, Pure and unsullied, flowing from the heart 410 With motions of true dignity and grace? Or must we seek that stream where Man is not? Methinks I could repeat in tuneful verse, Delicious as the gentlest breeze that sounds Through that aerial fir-grove, could preserve 415 Some portion of its human history As gathered from the Matron’s lips, and tell Of tears that have been shed at sight of it, And moving dialogues between this pair, Who in their prime of wedlock, with joint hands 420 Did plant the grove, now flourishing, while they No longer flourish, he entirely gone, She withering in her loneliness. Be this A task above my skill; the silent mind Has her own treasures, and I think of these, 425 Love what I see, and honour humankind. No, we are not alone, we do not stand, My Sister, here misplaced and desolate, Loving what no one cares for but ourselves; We shall not scatter through the plains and rocks 430 Of this fair Vale, and o’er its spacious heights Unprofitable kindliness, bestowed On objects unaccustomed to the gifts Of feeling, which were cheerless and forlorn But few weeks past, and would be so again 435 Were we not here; we do not tend a lamp Whose lustre we alone participate, Which shines dependent upon us alone, Mortal though bright, a dying, dying flame. Look where we will, some human hand has been 440 Before us with its offering; not a tree Sprinkles these little pastures but the same Hath furnished matter for a thought; perchance, For some one, serves as a familiar friend. Joy spreads, and sorrow spreads; and this whole Vale, 445 Home of untutored shepherds as it is, Swarms with sensation, as with gleams of sunshine, Shadows or breezes, scents or sounds. Nor deem These feelings, though subservient more than ours To every day’s demand for daily bread, 450 And borrowing more their spirit, and their shape From self-respecting interests, deem them not Unworthy therefore, and unhallowed: no, They lift the animal being, do themselves By Nature’s kind and ever-present aid 455 Refine the selfishness from which they spring, Redeem by love the individual sense Of anxiousness with which they are combined. And thus it is that fitly they become Associates in the joy of purest minds, 460 They blend therewith congenially: meanwhile, Calmly they breathe their own undying life Through this their mountain sanctuary. Long, Oh long may it remain inviolate, Diffusing health and sober cheerfulness, 465 And giving to the moments as they pass Their little boons of animating thought That sweeten labour, make it seen and felt To be no arbitrary weight imposed, But a glad function natural to man. 470 Fair proof of this, newcomer though I be, Already have I gained. The inward frame Though slowly opening, opens every day With process not unlike to that which cheers A pensive stranger, journeying at his leisure 475 Through some Helvetian dell, when low-hung mists Break up, and are beginning to recede; How pleased he is where thin and thinner grows The veil, or where it parts at once, to spy The dark pines thrusting forth their spiky heads; 480 To watch the spreading lawns with cattle grazed, Then to be greeted by the scattered huts, As they shine out; and see the streams whose murmur Had soothed his ear while they were hidden: how pleased To have about him, which way e’er he goes, 485 Something on every side concealed from view, In every quarter something visible, Half-seen or wholly, lost and found again, Alternate progress and impediment, And yet a growing prospect in the main. 490 Such pleasure now is mine, albeit forced, Herein less happy than the Traveller To cast from time to time a painful look Upon unwelcome things, which unawares Reveal themselves; not therefore is my heart 495 Depressed, nor does it fear what is to come, But confident, enriched at every glance. The more I see the more delight my mind Receives, or by reflexion can create. Truth justifies herself, and as she dwells 500 With Hope, who would not follow where she leads? Nor let me pass unheeded other loves Where no fear is, and humbler sympathies. Already hath sprung up within my heart A liking for the small grey horse that bears 505 The paralytic man, and for the brute— In Scripture sanctified—the patient brute, On which the cripple, in the quarry maimed, Rides to and fro: I know them and their ways.[370] The famous sheep-dog, first in all the Vale, 510 Though yet to me a stranger, will not be A stranger long; nor will the blind man’s guide, Meek and neglected thing, of no renown! Soon will peep forth the primrose; ere it fades Friends shall I have at dawn, blackbird and thrush 515 To rouse me, and a hundred warblers more; And if those eagles to their ancient hold Return, Helvellyn’s eagles! with the pair From my own door I shall be free to claim Acquaintance as they sweep from cloud to cloud. 520 The owl that gives the name to Owlet-Crag Have I heard whooping, and he soon will be A chosen one of my regards. See there The heifer in yon little croft belongs To one who holds it dear; with duteous care 525 She reared it, and in speaking of her charge I heard her scatter some endearing words Domestic, and in spirit motherly She being herself a Mother, happy Beast If the caresses of a human voice 530 Can make it so, and care of human hands. And ye as happy under Nature’s care, Strangers to me, and all men, or at least Strangers to all particular amity, All intercourse of knowledge or of love 535 That parts the individual from his kind, Whether in large communities ye keep From year to year, not shunning Man’s abode, A settled residence, or be from far, Wild creatures, and of many homes, that come 540 The gift of winds, and whom the winds again Take from us at your pleasure—yet shall ye Not want, for this, your own subordinate place In my affections. Witness the delight With which erewhile I saw that multitude 545 Wheel through the sky, and see them now at rest, Yet not at rest, upon the glassy lake. They cannot rest, they gambol like young whelps; Active as lambs, and overcome with joy. They try all frolic motions; flutter, plunge, 550 And beat the passive water with their wings. Too distant are they for plain view, but lo! Those little fountains, sparkling in the sun, Betray their occupation, rising up, First one and then another silver spout, 555 As one or other takes the fit of glee, Fountains and spouts, yet somewhat in the guise Of play-thing fire-works, that on festal nights Sparkle about the feet of wanton boys. —How vast the compass of this theatre, 560 Yet nothing to be seen but lovely pomp And silent majesty; the birch-tree woods Are hung with thousand thousand diamond drops Of melted hoar-frost, every tiny knot In the bare twigs, each little budding place 565 Cased with its several beads, what myriads there Upon one tree, while all the distant grove That rises to the summit of the steep Shows like a mountain built of silver light. See yonder the same pageant, and again 570 Behold the universal imagery Inverted, all its sun-bright features touched As with the varnish, and the gloss of dreams; Dreamlike the blending also of the whole Harmonious landscape; all along the shore 575 The boundary lost, the line invisible That parts the image from reality; And the clear hills, as high as they ascend Heavenward, so piercing deep the lake below. Admonished of the days of love to come 580 The raven croaks, and fills the upper air With a strange sound of genial harmony;[371] And in and all about that playful band, Incapable although they be of rest, And in their fashion very rioters, 585 There is a stillness, and they seem to make Calm revelry in that their calm abode. Them leaving to their joyous hours I pass, Pass with a thought the life of the whole year That is to come, the throng of woodland flowers, 590 And lilies that will dance upon the waves. Say boldly then that solitude is not Where these things are. He truly is alone, He of the multitude whose eyes are doomed To hold a vacant commerce day by day 595 With objects wanting life, repelling love; He by the vast Metropolis immured, Where pity shrinks from unremitting calls, Where numbers overwhelm humanity, And neighbourhood serves rather to divide 600 Than to unite. What sighs more deep than his, Whose nobler will hath long been sacrificed; Who must inhabit, under a black sky, A City where, if indifference to disgust Yield not, to scorn, or sorrow, living men 605 Are ofttimes to their fellow-men no more Than to the forest hermit are the leaves That hang aloft in myriads—nay, far less, For they protect his walk from sun and shower, Swell his devotion with their voice in storms, 610 And whisper while the stars twinkle among them His lullaby. From crowded streets remote, Far from the living and dead wilderness Of the thronged world, Society is here[372] A true Community, a genuine frame 615 Of many into one incorporate. That must be looked for here, paternal sway, One household under God for high and low, One family, and one mansion; to themselves Appropriate, and divided from the world 620 As if it were a cave, a multitude Human and brute, possessors undisturbed Of this recess, their legislative hall, Their Temple, and their glorious dwelling-place. Dismissing therefore, all Arcadian dreams, 625 All golden fancies of the golden age, The bright array of shadowy thoughts from times That were before all time, or is to be Ere time expire, the pageantry that stirs And will be stirring when our eyes are fixed 630 On lovely objects, and we wish to part With all remembrance of a jarring world, —Take we at once this one sufficient hope, What need of more? that we shall neither droop, Nor pine for want of pleasure in the life 635 Scattered about us, nor through dearth of aught That keeps in health the insatiable mind; That we shall have for knowledge and for love Abundance; and that, feeling as we do How goodly, how exceeding fair, how pure 640 From all reproach is yon ethereal vault, And this deep vale its earthly counterpart, By which, and under which, we are enclosed To breathe in peace, we shall moreover find (If sound, and what we ought to be ourselves, 645 If rightly we observe and justly weigh) The inmates not unworthy of their home The dwellers of their dwelling. And if this Were otherwise, we have within ourselves Enough to fill the present day with joy, 650 And overspread the future years with hope, Our beautiful and quiet home, enriched Already with a stranger whom we love Deeply, a stranger of our father’s house, A never-resting Pilgrim of the Sea,[373] 655 Who finds at last an hour to his content Beneath our roof. And others whom we love Will seek us also, sisters of our hearts,[374] And one, like them, a brother of our hearts, Philosopher and Poet,[375] in whose sight 660 These mountains will rejoice with open joy. —Such is our wealth; O Vale of Peace, we are And must be, with God’s will, a happy band. Yet ’tis not to enjoy that we exist, For that end only; something must be done. 665 I must not walk in unreproved delight These narrow bounds, and think of nothing more, No duty that looks further, and no care. Each being has his office, lowly some And common, yet all worthy if fulfilled 670 With zeal, acknowledgment that with the gift Keeps pace, a harvest answering to the seed— Of ill-advised Ambition and of Pride I would stand clear, but yet to me I feel That an internal brightness is vouchsafed 675 That must not die, that must not pass away. Why does this inward lustre fondly seek, And gladly blend with outward fellowship? Why do they shine around me whom I love? Why do they teach me whom I thus revere? 680 Strange question, yet it answers not itself. That humble roof embowered among the trees, That calm fire-side, it is not even in them, —Blest as they are—to furnish a reply, That satisfies and ends in perfect rest. 685 Possessions have I that are solely mine, Something within which yet is shared by none, Not even the nearest to me and most dear, Something which power and effort may impart, I would impart it, I would spread it wide, 690 Immortal in the world which is to come. Forgive me if I add another claim, And would not wholly perish even in this, Lie down and be forgotten in the dust, I and the modest partners of my days 695 Making a silent company in death; Love, knowledge, all my manifold delights All buried with me without monument Or profit unto any but ourselves. It must not be, if I, divinely taught, 700 Be privileged to speak as I have felt Of what in man is human or divine. While yet an innocent little-one, with a heart That doubtless wanted not its tender moods, I breathed (for this I better recollect) 705 Among wild appetites and blind desires, Motions of savage instinct, my delight And exaltation. Nothing at that time So welcome, no temptation half so dear As that which urged me to a daring feat. 710 Deep pools, tall trees, black chasms, and dizzy crags, And tottering towers; I loved to stand and read Their looks forbidding, read and disobey, Sometimes in act, and evermore in thought. With impulses that scarcely were by these 715 Surpassed in strength, I heard of danger, met Or sought with courage; enterprize forlorn By one, sole keeper of his own intent, Or by a resolute few who for the sake Of glory, fronted multitudes in arms. 720 Yea to this hour I cannot read a tale Of two brave vessels matched in deadly fight, And fighting to the death, but I am pleased More than a wise man ought to be. I wish, Fret, burn, and struggle, and in soul am there; 725 But me hath Nature tamed, and bade to seek For other agitations, or be calm; Hath dealt with me as with a turbulent stream, Some nursling of the mountains, which she leads Through quiet meadows, after he has learnt 730 His strength, and had his triumph and his joy, His desperate course of tumult and of glee. That which in stealth by Nature was performed Hath Reason sanctioned. Her deliberate voice Hath said, “Be mild and cleave to gentle things, 735 Thy glory and thy happiness be there. Nor fear, though thou confide in me, a want Of aspirations that have been, of foes To wrestle with, and victory to complete, Bounds to be leapt, darkness to be explored, 740 All that inflamed thy infant heart, the love, The longing, the contempt, the undaunted quest, All shall survive—though changed their office, all Shall live,—it is not in their power to die.” Then farewell to the Warrior’s schemes, farewell 745 The forwardness of soul which looks that way Upon a less incitement than the cause Of Liberty endangered, and farewell That other hope, long mine, the hope to fill The heroic trumpet with the Muse’s breath! 750 Yet in this peaceful Vale we will not spend Unheard-of days, though loving peaceful thoughts. A voice shall speak, and what will be the theme?[18]
“SHALL HE WHO GIVES HIS DAYS TO LOW PURSUITS”
The following lines occur in the experimental efforts made by Wordsworth to write an autobiographical poem. They occur in one of his sister’s Journals, entitled “May to December, 1802”; and were probably either dictated to her in that year, or were copied by her from some earlier fragment. They stand related to passages in The Prelude. (See vol. iii. p. 269.)—Ed.
Shall he who gives his days to low pursuits Amid the undistinguishable crowd Of cities, ’mid the same eternal flow Of the same objects, melted and reduced To one identity, by differences 5 That have no law, no meaning, and no end, Shall he feel yearning to those lifeless forms, And shall we think that Nature is less kind To those, who all day long, through a busy life, Have walked within her sight? It cannot be. 10