ELEGIAC STANZAS
SUGGESTED BY A PICTURE OF PEELE CASTLE, IN A STORM, PAINTED BY SIR GEORGE BEAUMONT

          I was thy neighbour once, thou rugged Pile!
          Four summer weeks I dwelt in sight of thee:
          I saw thee every day; and all the while
          Thy Form was sleeping on a glassy sea.

          So pure the sky, so quiet was the air!
          So like, so very like, was day to day!
          Whene'er I looked, thy Image still was there;
          It trembled, but it never passed away.

          How perfect was the calm! it seemed no sleep;
          No mood, which season takes away, or brings:                10
          I could have fancied that the mighty Deep
          Was even the gentlest of all gentle Things.

          Ah! THEN, if mine had been the Painter's hand,
          To express what then I saw; and add the gleam,
          The light that never was, on sea or land,
          The consecration, and the Poet's dream;

          I would have planted thee, thou hoary Pile
          Amid a world how different from this!
          Beside a sea that could not cease to smile;
          On tranquil land, beneath a sky of bliss.                   20

          Thou shouldst have seemed a treasure-house divine
          Of peaceful years; a chronicle of heaven;--
          Of all the sunbeams that did ever shine
          The very sweetest had to thee been given.

          A Picture had it been of lasting ease,
          Elysian quiet, without toil or strife;
          No motion but the moving tide, a breeze,
          Or merely silent Nature's breathing life.

          Such, in the fond illusion of my heart,
          Such Picture would I at that time have made:                30
          And seen the soul of truth in every part,
          A stedfast peace that might not be betrayed.

          So once it would have been,--'tis so no more;
          I have submitted to a new control:
          A power is gone, which nothing can restore;
          A deep distress hath humanised my Soul.

          Not for a moment could I now behold
          A smiling sea, and be what I have been:
          The feeling of my loss will ne'er be old;
          This, which I know, I speak with mind serene.               40

          Then, Beaumont, Friend! who would have been the Friend,
          If he had lived, of Him whom I deplore,
          This work of thine I blame not, but commend;
          This sea in anger, and that dismal shore.

          O 'tis a passionate Work!--yet wise and well,
          Well chosen is the spirit that is here;
          That Hulk which labours in the deadly swell,
          This rueful sky, this pageantry of fear!

          And this huge Castle, standing here sublime,
          I love to see the look with which it braves,                50
          Cased in the unfeeling armour of old time,
          The lightning, the fierce wind, and trampling waves.

          Farewell, farewell the heart that lives alone,
          Housed in a dream, at distance from the Kind!
          Such happiness, wherever it be known,
          Is to be pitied; for 'tis surely blind.

          But welcome fortitude, and patient cheer,
          And frequent sights of what is to be borne!
          Such sights, or worse, as are before me here.--
          Not without hope we suffer and we mourn.                    60
                                                              1805.

ELEGIAC STANZAS
IN MEMORY OF MY BROTHER, JOHN WORDSWORTH,
COMMANDER OF THE E. I. COMPANY'S SHIP THE EARL OF ABERGAVENNY IN WHICH HE PERISHED BY CALAMITOUS SHIPWRECK, FEB. 6, 1805.

                                   I

          The Sheep-boy whistled loud, and lo!
          That instant, startled by the shock,
          The Buzzard mounted from the rock
          Deliberate and slow:
          Lord of the air, he took his flight;
          Oh! could he on that woeful night
          Have lent his wing, my Brother dear,
          For one poor moment's space to Thee,
          And all who struggled with the Sea,
          When safety was so near.

                                   II

          Thus in the weakness of my heart
          I spoke (but let that pang be still)
          When rising from the rock at will,
          I saw the Bird depart.
          And let me calmly bless the Power
          That meets me in this unknown Flower.
          Affecting type of him I mourn!
          With calmness suffer and believe,
          And grieve, and know that I must grieve,
          Not cheerless, though forlorn.

                                  III

          Here did we stop; and here looked round
          While each into himself descends,
          For that last thought of parting Friends
          That is not to be found.
          Hidden was Grasmere Vale from sight,
          Our home and his, his heart's delight,
          His quiet heart's selected home.
          But time before him melts away,
          And he hath feeling of a day
          Of blessedness to come.

                                   IV

          Full soon in sorrow did I weep,
          Taught that the mutual hope was dust,
          In sorrow, but for higher trust,
          How miserably deep!
          All vanished in a single word,
          A breath, a sound, and scarcely heard:
          Sea--Ship--drowned--Shipwreck--so it came,
          The meek, the brave, the good, was gone;
          He who had been our living John
          Was nothing but a name.

                                   V

          That was indeed a parting! oh,
          Glad am I, glad that it is past;
          For there were some on whom it cast
          Unutterable woe.
          But they as well as I have gains;--
          From many a humble source, to pains
          Like these, there comes a mild release;
          Even here I feel it, even this Plant
          Is in its beauty ministrant
          To comfort and to peace.

                                   VI

          He would have loved thy modest grace,
          Meek Flower! To Him I would have said,
          "It grows upon its native bed
          Beside our Parting-place;
          There, cleaving to the ground, it lies
          With multitude of purple eyes,
          Spangling a cushion green like moss;
          But we will see it, joyful tide!
          Some day, to see it in its pride,
          The mountain will we cross."

                                  VII

          --Brother and Friend, if verse of mine
          Have power to make thy virtues known,
          Here let a monumental Stone
          Stand--sacred as a Shrine;
          And to the few who pass this way,
          Traveller or Shepherd, let it say,
          Long as these mighty rocks endure,--
          Oh do not Thou too fondly brood,
          Although deserving of all good,
          On any earthly hope, however pure!
                                                                   1805.

"WHEN TO THE ATTRACTIONS OF THE BUSY WORLD."

          When, to the attractions of the busy world,
          Preferring studious leisure, I had chosen
          A habitation in this peaceful Vale,
          Sharp season followed of continual storm
          In deepest winter; and, from week to week,
          Pathway, and lane, and public road, were clogged
          With frequent showers of snow. Upon a hill
          At a short distance from my cottage, stands
          A stately Fir-grove, whither I was wont
          To hasten, for I found, beneath the roof                    10
          Of that perennial shade, a cloistral place
          Of refuge, with an unincumbered floor.
          Here, in safe covert, on the shallow snow,
          And, sometimes, on a speck of visible earth,
          The redbreast near me hopped; nor was I loth
          To sympathise with vulgar coppice birds
          That, for protection from the nipping blast,
          Hither repaired.--A single beech-tree grew
          Within this grove of firs! and, on the fork
          Of that one beech, appeared a thrush's nest;                20
          A last year's nest, conspicuously built
          At such small elevation from the ground
          As gave sure sign that they, who in that house
          Of nature and of love had made their home
          Amid the fir-trees, all the summer long
          Dwelt in a tranquil spot. And oftentimes,
          A few sheep, stragglers from some mountain-flock,
          Would watch my motions with suspicious stare,
          From the remotest outskirts of the grove,--
          Some nook where they had made their final stand,            30
          Huddling together from two fears--the fear
          Of me and of the storm. Full many an hour
          Here did I lose. But in this grove the trees
          Had been so thickly planted, and had thriven
          In such perplexed and intricate array;
          That vainly did I seek, beneath their stems
          A length of open space, where to and fro
          My feet might move without concern or care;
          And, baffled thus, though earth from day to day
          Was fettered, and the air by storm disturbed,               40
          I ceased the shelter to frequent,--and prized,
          Less than I wished to prize, that calm recess.
            The snows dissolved, and genial Spring returned
          To clothe the fields with verdure. Other haunts
          Meanwhile were mine; till, one bright April day,
          By chance retiring from the glare of noon
          To this forsaken covert, there I found
          A hoary pathway traced between the trees,
          And winding on with such an easy line
          Along a natural opening, that I stood                       50
          Much wondering how I could have sought in vain
          For what was now so obvious. To abide,
          For an allotted interval of ease,
          Under my cottage-roof, had gladly come
          From the wild sea a cherished Visitant;
          And with the sight of this same path--begun,
          Begun and ended, in the shady grove,
          Pleasant conviction flashed upon my mind
          That, to this opportune recess allured,
          He had surveyed it with a finer eye,                        60
          A heart more wakeful; and had worn the track
          By pacing here, unwearied and alone,
          In that habitual restlessness of foot
          That haunts the Sailor measuring o'er and o'er
          His short domain upon the vessel's deck,
          While she pursues her course through the dreary sea.
            When thou hadst quitted Esthwaite's pleasant shore,
          And taken thy first leave of those green hills
          And rocks that were the play-ground of thy youth,
          Year followed year, my Brother! and we two,                 70
          Conversing not, knew little in what mould
          Each other's mind was fashioned; and at length,
          When once again we met in Grasmere Vale,
          Between us there was little other bond
          Than common feelings of fraternal love.
          But thou, a Schoolboy, to the sea hadst carried
          Undying recollections! Nature there
          Was with thee; she, who loved us both, she still
          Was with thee; and even so didst thou become
          A 'silent' Poet; from the solitude                          80
          Of the vast sea didst bring a watchful heart
          Still couchant, an inevitable ear,
          And an eye practised like a blind man's touch.
          --Back to the joyless Ocean thou art gone;
          Nor from this vestige of thy musing hours
          Could I withhold thy honoured name,--and now
          I love the fir-grove with a perfect love.
          Thither do I withdraw when cloudless suns
          Shine hot, or wind blows troublesome and strong;
          And there I sit at evening, when the steep                  90
          Of Silver-how, and Grasmere's peaceful lake,
          And one green island, gleam between the stems
          Of the dark firs, a visionary scene!
          And, while I gaze upon the spectacle
          Of clouded splendour, on this dream-like sight
          Of solemn loveliness, I think on thee,
          My Brother, and on all which thou hast lost.
          Nor seldom, if I rightly guess, while Thou,
          Muttering the verses which I muttered first
          Among the mountains, through the midnight watch            100
          Art pacing thoughtfully the vessel's deck
          In some far region, here, while o'er my head,
          At every impulse of the moving breeze,
          The fir-grove murmurs with a sea-like sound,
          Alone I tread this path;--for aught I know,
          Timing my steps to thine; and, with a store
          Of undistinguishable sympathies,
          Mingling most earnest wishes for the day
          When we, and others whom we love, shall meet
          A second time, in Grasmere's happy Vale.                   110
                                                              1805.

LOUISA
AFTER ACCOMPANYING HER ON A MOUNTAIN EXCURSION

          I met Louisa in the shade,
          And, having seen that lovely Maid,
          Why should I fear to say
          That, nymph-like, she is fleet and strong,
          And down the rocks can leap along
          Like rivulets in May?

          She loves her fire, her cottage-home;
          Yet o'er the moorland will she roam
          In weather rough and bleak;
          And, when against the wind she strains,                     10
          Oh! might I kiss the mountain rains
          That sparkle on her cheek.

          Take all that's mine "beneath the moon,"
          If I with her but half a noon
          May sit beneath the walls
          Of some old cave, or mossy nook,
          When up she winds along the brook
          To hunt the waterfalls.
                                                              1805.

TO A YOUNG LADY
WHO HAD BEEN REPROACHED FOR TAKING LONG WALKS IN THE COUNTRY

          Dear Child of Nature, let them rail!
          --There is a nest in a green dale,
          A harbour and a hold;
          Where thou, a Wife and Friend, shalt see
          Thy own heart-stirring days, and be
          A light to young and old.

          There, healthy as a shepherd boy,
          And treading among flowers of joy
          Which at no season fade,
          Thou, while thy babes around thee cling,                    10
          Shalt show us how divine a thing
          A Woman may be made.

          Thy thoughts and feelings shall not die,
          Nor leave thee, when grey hairs are nigh,
          A melancholy slave;
          But an old age serene and bright,
          And lovely as a Lapland night,
          Shall lead thee to thy grave.
                                                              1805.

VAUDRACOUR AND JULIA

          O happy time of youthful lovers (thus
          My story may begin) O balmy time,
          In which a love-knot on a lady's brow
          Is fairer than the fairest star in heaven!
          To such inheritance of blessed fancy
          (Fancy that sports more desperately with minds
          Than ever fortune hath been known to do)
          The high-born Vaudracour was brought, by years
          Whose progress had a little overstepped
          His stripling prime. A town of small repute,                10
          Among the vine-clad mountains of Auvergne,
          Was the Youth's birth-place. There he wooed a Maid
          Who heard the heart-felt music of his suit
          With answering vows. Plebeian was the stock,
          Plebeian, though ingenuous, the stock,
          From which her graces and her honours sprung:
          And hence the father of the enamoured Youth,
          With haughty indignation, spurned the thought
          Of such alliance.--From their cradles up,
          With but a step between their several homes,                20
          Twins had they been in pleasure; after strife
          And petty quarrels, had grown fond again;
          Each other's advocate, each other's stay;
          And, in their happiest moments, not content,
          If more divided than a sportive pair
          Of sea-fowl, conscious both that they are hovering
          Within the eddy of a common blast,
          Or hidden only by the concave depth
          Of neighbouring billows from each other's sight.
            Thus, not without concurrence of an age                   30
          Unknown to memory, was an earnest given
          By ready nature for a life of love,
          For endless constancy, and placid truth;
          But whatsoe'er of such rare treasure lay
          Reserved, had fate permitted, for support
          Of their maturer years, his present mind
          Was under fascination;--he beheld
          A vision, and adored the thing he saw.
          Arabian fiction never filled the world
          With half the wonders that were wrought for him.            40
          Earth breathed in one great presence of the spring;
          Life turned the meanest of her implements,
          Before his eyes, to price above all gold;
          The house she dwelt in was a sainted shrine;
          Her chamber-window did surpass in glory
          The portals of the dawn; all paradise
          Could, by the simple opening of a door,
          Let itself in upon him:--pathways, walks,
          Swarmed with enchantment, till his spirit sank,
          Surcharged, within him, overblest to move                   50
          Beneath a sun that wakes a weary world
          To its dull round of ordinary cares;
          A man too happy for mortality!
            So passed the time, till whether through effect
          Of some unguarded moment that dissolved
          Virtuous restraint--ah, speak it, think it, not!
          Deem rather that the fervent Youth, who saw
          So many bars between his present state
          And the dear haven where he wished to be
          In honourable wedlock with his Love,                        60
          Was in his judgment tempted to decline
          To perilous weakness, and entrust his cause
          To nature for a happy end of all;
          Deem that by such fond hope the Youth was swayed,
          And bear with their transgression, when I add
          That Julia, wanting yet the name of wife,
          Carried about her for a secret grief
          The promise of a mother.
                                    To conceal
          The threatened shame, the parents of the Maid
          Found means to hurry her away by night,                     70
          And unforewarned, that in some distant spot
          She might remain shrouded in privacy,
          Until the babe was born. When morning came
          The Lover, thus bereft, stung with his loss,
          And all uncertain whither he should turn,
          Chafed like a wild beast in the toils; but soon
          Discovering traces of the fugitives,
          Their steps he followed to the Maid's retreat.
          Easily may the sequel be divined--
          Walks to and fro--watchings at every hour;                  80
          And the fair Captive, who, whene'er she may,
          Is busy at her casement as the swallow
          Fluttering its pinions, almost within reach,
          About the pendent nest, did thus espy
          Her Lover!--thence a stolen interview,
          Accomplished under friendly shade of night.
            I pass the raptures of the pair;--such theme
          Is, by innumerable poets, touched
          In more delightful verse than skill of mine
          Could fashion; chiefly by that darling bard                 90
          Who told of Juliet and her Romeo,
          And of the lark's note heard before its time,
          And of the streaks that laced the severing clouds
          In the unrelenting east.--Through all her courts
          The vacant city slept; the busy winds,
          That keep no certain intervals of rest,
          Moved not; meanwhile the galaxy displayed
          Her fires, that like mysterious pulses beat
          Aloft;--momentous but uneasy bliss!
          To their full hearts the universe seemed hung              100
          On that brief meeting's slender filament!
            They parted; and the generous Vaudracour
          Reached speedily the native threshold, bent
          On making (so the Lovers had agreed)
          A sacrifice of birthright to attain
          A final portion from his father's hand;
          Which granted, Bride and Bridegroom then would flee
          To some remote and solitary place,
          Shady as night, and beautiful as heaven,
          Where they may live, with no one to behold                 110
          Their happiness, or to disturb their love.
          But 'now' of this no whisper; not the less,
          If ever an obtrusive word were dropped
          Touching the matter of his passion, still,
          In his stern father's hearing, Vaudracour
          Persisted openly that death alone
          Should abrogate his human privilege
          Divine, of swearing everlasting truth,
          Upon the altar, to the Maid he loved.
            "You shall be baffled in your mad intent                 120
          If there be justice in the court of France,"
          Muttered the Father.--From these words the Youth
          Conceived a terror; and, by night or day,
          Stirred nowhere without weapons, that full soon
          Found dreadful provocation: for at night
          When to his chamber he retired, attempt
          Was made to seize him by three armed men,
          Acting, in furtherance of the father's will,
          Under a private signet of the State.
          One the rash Youth's ungovernable hand                     130
          Slew, and as quickly to a second gave
          A perilous wound--he shuddered to behold
          The breathless corse; then peacefully resigned
          His person to the law, was lodged in prison,
          And wore the fetters of a criminal.
            Have you observed a tuft of winged seed
          That, from the dandelion's naked stalk,
          Mounted aloft, is suffered not to use
          Its natural gifts for purposes of rest,
          Driven by the autumnal whirlwind to and fro                140
          Through the wide element? or have you marked
          The heavier substance of a leaf-clad bough,
          Within the vortex of a foaming flood,
          Tormented? by such aid you may conceive
          The perturbation that ensued;--ah, no!
          Desperate the Maid--the Youth is stained with blood;
          Unmatchable on earth is their disquiet!
          Yet as the troubled seed and tortured bough
          Is Man, subjected to despotic sway.
            For him, by private influence with the Court,            150
          Was pardon gained, and liberty procured;
          But not without exaction of a pledge,
          Which liberty and love dispersed in air.
          He flew to her from whom they would divide him--
          He clove to her who could not give him peace--
          Yea, his first word of greeting was,--"All right
          Is gone from me; my lately-towering hopes,
          To the least fibre of their lowest root,
          Are withered; thou no longer canst be mine,
          I thine--the conscience-stricken must not woo              160
          The unruffled Innocent,--I see thy face,
          Behold thee, and my misery is complete!"
            "One, are we not?" exclaimed the Maiden--"One,
          For innocence and youth, for weal and woe?"
          Then with the father's name she coupled words
          Of vehement indignation; but the Youth
          Checked her with filial meekness; for no thought
          Uncharitable crossed his mind, no sense
          Of hasty anger rising in the eclipse
          Of true domestic loyalty, did e'er                         170
          Find place within his bosom.--Once again
          The persevering wedge of tyranny
          Achieved their separation: and once more
          Were they united,--to be yet again
          Disparted, pitiable lot! But here
          A portion of the tale may well be left
          In silence, though my memory could add
          Much how the Youth, in scanty space of time,
          Was traversed from without; much, too, of thoughts
          That occupied his days in solitude                         180
          Under privation and restraint; and what,
          Through dark and shapeless fear of things to come,
          And what, through strong compunction for the past,
          He suffered--breaking down in heart and mind!
            Doomed to a third and last captivity,
          His freedom he recovered on the eve
          Of Julia's travail. When the babe was born,
          Its presence tempted him to cherish schemes
          Of future happiness. "You shall return,
          Julia," said he, "and to your father's house               190
          Go with the child.--You have been wretched; yet
          The silver shower, whose reckless burthen weighs
          Too heavily upon the lily's head,
          Oft leaves a saving moisture at its root.
          Malice, beholding you, will melt away.
          Go!--'tis a town where both of us were born;
          None will reproach you, for our truth is known;
          And if, amid those once-bright bowers, our fate
          Remain unpitied, pity is not in man.
          With ornaments--the prettiest, nature yields               200
          Or art can fashion, shall you deck our boy,
          And feed his countenance with your own sweet looks
          Till no one can resist him.--Now, even now,
          I see him sporting on the sunny lawn;
          My father from the window sees him too;
          Startled, as if some new-created thing
          Enriched the earth, or Faery of the woods
          Bounded before him;--but the unweeting Child
          Shall by his beauty win his grandsire's heart
          So that it shall be softened, and our loves                210
          End happily, as they began!"
                                        These gleams
          Appeared but seldom; oftener was he seen
          Propping a pale and melancholy face
          Upon the Mother's bosom; resting thus
          His head upon one breast, while from the other
          The Babe was drawing in its quiet food.
          --That pillow is no longer to be thine,
          Fond Youth! that mournful solace now must pass
          Into the list of things that cannot be!
          Unwedded Julia, terror-smitten, hears                      220
          The sentence, by her mother's lip pronounced,
          That dooms her to a convent.--Who shall tell,
          Who dares report, the tidings to the lord
          Of her affections? so they blindly asked
          Who knew not to what quiet depths a weight
          Of agony had pressed the Sufferer down:
          The word, by others dreaded, he can hear
          Composed and silent, without visible sign
          Of even the least emotion. Noting this,
          When the impatient object of his love                      230
          Upbraided him with slackness, he returned
          No answer, only took the mother's hand
          And kissed it; seemingly devoid of pain,
          Or care, that what so tenderly he pressed,
          Was a dependant on the obdurate heart
          Of one who came to disunite their lives
          For ever--sad alternative! preferred,
          By the unbending Parents of the Maid,
          To secret 'spousals meanly disavowed.
          --So be it!
                       In the city he remained                       240
          A season after Julia had withdrawn
          To those religious walls. He, too, departs--
          Who with him?--even the senseless Little-one.
          With that sole charge he passed the city-gates,
          For the last time, attendant by the side
          Of a close chair, a litter, or sedan,
          In which the Babe was carried. To a hill,
          That rose a brief league distant from the town,
          The dwellers in that house where he had lodged
          Accompanied his steps, by anxious love                     250
          Impelled;--they parted from him there, and stood
          Watching below till he had disappeared
          On the hill top. His eyes he scarcely took,
          Throughout that journey, from the vehicle
          (Slow-moving ark of all his hopes!) that veiled
          The tender infant: and, at every inn,
          And under every hospitable tree
          At which the bearers halted or reposed,
          Laid him with timid care upon his knees,
          And looked, as mothers ne'er were known to look,           260
          Upon the nursling which his arms embraced.
            This was the manner in which Vaudracour
          Departed with his infant; and thus reached
          His father's house, where to the innocent child
          Admittance was denied. The young man spake
          No word of indignation or reproof,
          But of his father begged, a last request,
          That a retreat might be assigned to him
          Where in forgotten quiet he might dwell,
          With such allowance as his wants required;                 270
          For wishes he had none. To a lodge that stood
          Deep in a forest, with leave given, at the age
          Of four-and-twenty summers he withdrew;
          And thither took with him his motherless Babe,
          And one domestic for their common needs,
          An aged woman. It consoled him here
          To attend upon the orphan, and perform
          Obsequious service to the precious child,
          Which, after a short time, by some mistake
          Or indiscretion of the Father, died.--                     280
          The Tale I follow to its last recess
          Of suffering or of peace, I know not which:
          Theirs be the blame who caused the woe, not mine!
            From this time forth he never shared a smile
          With mortal creature. An Inhabitant
          Of that same town, in which the pair had left
          So lively a remembrance of their griefs,
          By chance of business, coming within reach
          Of his retirement, to the forest lodge
          Repaired, but only found the matron there,                 290
          Who told him that his pains were thrown away,
          For that her Master never uttered word
          To living thing--not even to her.--Behold!
          While they were speaking, Vaudracour approached;
          But, seeing some one near, as on the latch
          Of the garden-gate his hand was laid, he shrunk--
          And, like a shadow, glided out of view.
          Shocked at his savage aspect, from the place
          The visitor retired.
                                Thus lived the Youth
          Cut off from all intelligence with man,                    300
          And shunning even the light of common day;
          Nor could the voice of Freedom, which through France
          Full speedily resounded, public hope,
          Or personal memory of his own deep wrongs,
          Rouse him: but in those solitary shades
          His days he wasted, an imbecile mind!
                                                              1805.

THE COTTAGER TO HER INFANT
BY MY SISTER

          The days are cold, the nights are long,
          The north-wind sings a doleful song;
          Then hush again upon my breast;
          All merry things are now at rest,
                Save thee, my pretty Love!

          The kitten sleeps upon the hearth,
          The crickets long have ceased their mirth;
          There's nothing stirring in the house
          Save one 'wee', hungry, nibbling mouse,
                Then why so busy thou?                                10

          Nay! start not at that sparkling light;
          'Tis but the moon that shines so bright
          On the window pane bedropped with rain:
          Then, little Darling! sleep again,
                And wake when it is day.
                                                              1805.

THE WAGGONER

                              CANTO FIRST

          'Tis spent--this burning day of June!
          Soft darkness o'er its latest gleams is stealing;
          The buzzing dor-hawk, round and round, is wheeling,--
          That solitary bird
          Is all that can be heard
          In silence deeper far than that of deepest noon!
            Confiding Glow-worms, 'tis a night
          Propitious to your earth-born light!
          But, where the scattered stars are seen
          In hazy straits the clouds between,                         10
          Each, in his station twinkling not,
          Seems changed into a pallid spot.
          The mountains against heaven's grave weight
          Rise up, and grow to wondrous height.
          The air, as in a lion's den,
          Is close and hot;--and now and then
          Comes a tired and sultry breeze
          With a haunting and a panting,
          Like the stifling of disease;
          But the dews allay the heat,                                20
          And the silence makes it sweet.
          Hush, there is some one on the stir!
          'Tis Benjamin the Waggoner;
          Who long hath trod this toilsome way,
          Companion of the night and day.
          That far-off tinkling's drowsy cheer,
          Mixed with a faint yet grating sound
          In a moment lost and found,
          The Wain announces--by whose side
          Along the banks of Rydal Mere                               30
          He paces on, a trusty Guide,--
          Listen! you can scarcely hear!
          Hither he his course is bending;--
          Now he leaves the lower ground,
          And up the craggy hill ascending
          Many a stop and stay he makes,
          Many a breathing-fit he takes;--
          Steep the way and wearisome,
          Yet all the while his whip is dumb!
            The Horses have worked with right good-will,              40
          And so have gained the top of the hill;
          He was patient, they were strong,
          And now they smoothly glide along,
          Recovering breath, and pleased to win
          The praises of mild Benjamin.
          Heaven shield him from mishap and snare!
          But why so early with this prayer?--
          Is it for threatenings in the sky?
          Or for some other danger nigh?
          No; none is near him yet, though he                         50
          Be one of much infirmity;
          For at the bottom of the brow,
          Where once the DOVE and OLIVE-BOUGH
          Offered a greeting of good ale
          To all who entered Grasmere Vale;
          And called on him who must depart
          To leave it with a jovial heart;
          There, where the DOVE and OLIVE-BOUGH
          Once hung, a Poet harbours now,
          A simple water-drinking Bard;                               60
          Why need our Hero then (though frail
          His best resolves) be on his guard?
          He marches by, secure and bold;
          Yet while he thinks on times of old,
          It seems that all looks wondrous cold;
          He shrugs his shoulders, shakes his head,
          And, for the honest folk within,
          It is a doubt with Benjamin
          Whether they be alive or dead!
            'Here' is no danger,--none at all!                        70
          Beyond his wish he walks secure;
          But pass a mile--and 'then' for trial,---
          Then for the pride of self-denial;
          If he resist that tempting door,
          Which with such friendly voice will call;
          If he resist those casement panes,
          And that bright gleam which thence will fall
          Upon his Leaders' bells and manes,
          Inviting him with cheerful lure:
          For still, though all be dark elsewhere,                    80
          Some shining notice will be 'there',
          Of open house and ready fare.
            The place to Benjamin right well
          Is known, and by as strong a spell
          As used to be that sign of love
          And hope--the OLIVE-BOUGH and DOVE;
          He knows it to his cost, good Man!
          Who does not know the famous SWAN?
          Object uncouth! and yet our boast,
          For it was painted by the Host;                             90
          His own conceit the figure planned,
          'Twas coloured all by his own hand;
          And that frail Child of thirsty clay,
          Of whom I sing this rustic lay,
          Could tell with self-dissatisfaction
          Quaint stories of the bird's attraction!
            Well! that is past--and in despite
          Of open door and shining light.
          And now the conqueror essays
          The long ascent of Dunmail-raise;                          100
          And with his team is gentle here
          As when he clomb from Rydal Mere;
          His whip they do not dread--his voice
          They only hear it to rejoice.
          To stand or go is at 'their' pleasure;
          Their efforts and their time they measure
          By generous pride within the breast;
          And, while they strain, and while they rest,
          He thus pursues his thoughts at leisure.
            Now am I fairly safe to-night--                          110
          And with proud cause my heart is light:
          I trespassed lately worse than ever--
          But Heaven has blest a good endeavour;
          And, to my soul's content, I find
          The evil One is left behind.
          Yes, let my master fume and fret,
          Here am I--with my horses yet!
          My jolly team, he finds that ye
          Will work for nobody but me!
          Full proof of this the Country gained;                     120
          It knows how ye were vexed and strained,
          And forced unworthy stripes to bear,
          When trusted to another's care.
          Here was it--on this rugged slope,
          Which now ye climb with heart and hope,
          I saw you, between rage and fear,
          Plunge, and fling back a spiteful ear,
          And ever more and more confused,
          As ye were more and more abused:
          As chance would have it, passing by                        130
          I saw you in that jeopardy:
          A word from me was like a charm;
          Ye pulled together with one mind;
          And your huge burthen, safe from harm,
          Moved like a vessel in the wind!
          --Yes, without me, up hills so high
          'Tis vain to strive for mastery.
          Then grieve not, jolly team! though tough
          The road we travel, steep, and rough;
          Though Rydal-heights and Dunmail-raise,                    140
          And all their fellow banks and braes,
          Full often make you stretch and strain,
          And halt for breath and halt again,
          Yet to their sturdiness 'tis owing
          That side by side we still are going!
            While Benjamin in earnest mood
          His meditations thus pursued,
          A storm, which had been smothered long,
          Was growing inwardly more strong;
          And, in its struggles to get free,                         150
          Was busily employed as he.
          The thunder had begun to growl--
          He heard not, too intent of soul;
          The air was now without a breath--
          He marked not that 'twas still as death.
          But soon large rain-drops on his head
          Fell with the weight of drops of lead;--
          He starts--and takes, at the admonition,
          A sage survey of his condition.
          The road is black before his eyes,                         160
          Glimmering faintly where it lies;
          Black is the sky--and every hill,
          Up to the sky, is blacker still--
          Sky, hill, and dale, one dismal room,
          Hung round and overhung with gloom;
          Save that above a single height
          Is to be seen a lurid light,
          Above Helm-crag--a streak half dead,
          A burning of portentous red;
          And near that lurid light, full well                       170
          The ASTROLOGER, sage Sidrophel,
          Where at his desk and book he sits,
          Puzzling aloft his curious wits;
          He whose domain is held in common
          With no one but the ANCIENT WOMAN,
          Cowering beside her rifted cell,
          As if intent on magic spell;--
          Dread pair, that, spite of wind and weather,
          Still sit upon Helm-crag together!
            The ASTROLOGER was not unseen                            180
          By solitary Benjamin;
          But total darkness came anon,
          And he and everything was gone:
          And suddenly a ruffling breeze,
          (That would have rocked the sounding trees
          Had aught of sylvan growth been there)
          Swept through the Hollow long and bare:
          The rain rushed down--the road was battered,
          As with the force of billows shattered;
          The horses are dismayed, nor know                          190
          Whether they should stand or go;
          And Benjamin is groping near them
          Sees nothing, and can scarcely hear them.
          He is astounded,--wonder not,--
          With such a charge in such a spot;
          Astounded in the mountain gap
          With thunder-peals, clap after clap,
          Close-treading on the silent flashes--
          And somewhere, as he thinks, by crashes
          Among the rocks; with weight of rain,                      200
          And sullen motions long and slow,
          That to a dreary distance go--
          Till, breaking in upon the dying strain,
          A rending o'er his head begins the fray again.
            Meanwhile, uncertain what to do,
          And oftentimes compelled to halt,
          The horses cautiously pursue
          Their way, without mishap or fault;
          And now have reached that pile of stones,
          Heaped over brave King Dunmail's bones;                    210
          His who had once supreme command,
          Last king of rocky Cumberland;
          His bones, and those of all his Power
          Slain here in a disastrous hour!
            When, passing through this narrow strait,
          Stony, and dark, and desolate,
          Benjamin can faintly hear
          A voice that comes from some one near,
          A female voice--Whoe'er you be,
          Stop," it exclaimed, "and pity me!"                        220
          And, less in pity than in wonder,
          Amid the darkness and the thunder,
          The Waggoner, with prompt command,
          Summons his horses to a stand.
            While, with increasing agitation,
          The Woman urged her supplication,
          In rueful words, with sobs between--
          The voice of tears that fell unseen;
          There came a flash--a startling glare,
          And all Seat-Sandal was laid bare!                         230
          'Tis not a time for nice suggestion,
          And Benjamin, without a question,
          Taking her for some way-worn rover,
          Said, "Mount, and get you under cover!"
            Another voice, in tone as hoarse
          As a swoln brook with rugged course,
          Cried out, "Good brother, why so fast?
          I've had a glimpse of you--'avast!'
          Or, since it suits you to be civil,
          Take her at once--for good and evil!"                      240
            "It is my Husband," softly said
          The Woman, as if half afraid:
          By this time she was snug within,
          Through help of honest Benjamin;
          She and her Babe, which to her breast
          With thankfulness the Mother pressed;
          And now the same strong voice more near
          Said cordially, "My Friend, what cheer?
          Rough doings these! as God's my judge,
          The sky owes somebody a grudge!                            250
          We've had in half an hour or less
          A twelvemonth's terror and distress!"
            Then Benjamin entreats the Man
          Would mount, too, quickly as he can:
          The Sailor--Sailor now no more,
          But such he had been heretofore--
          To courteous Benjamin replied,
          "Go you your way, and mind not me;
          For I must have, whate'er betide,
          My Ass and fifty things beside,--                          260
          Go, and I'll follow speedily!"
            The Waggon moves--and with its load
          Descends along the sloping road;
          And the rough Sailor instantly
          Turns to a little tent hard by:
          For when, at closing-in of day,
          The family had come that way,
          Green pasture and the soft warm air
          Tempted them to settle there.--
          Green is the grass for beast to graze,                     270
          Around the stones of Dunmail-raise!
            The Sailor gathers up his bed,
          Takes down the canvas overhead;
          And, after farewell to the place,
          A parting word--though not of grace,
          Pursues, with Ass and all his store,
          The way the Waggon went before.

                              CANTO SECOND

          IF Wytheburn's modest House of prayer,
          As lowly as the lowliest dwelling,
          Had, with its belfry's humble stock,                       280
          A little pair that hang in air,
          Been mistress also of a clock,
          (And one, too, not in crazy plight)
          Twelve strokes that clock would have been telling
          Under the brow of old Helvellyn--
          Its bead-roll of midnight,
          Then, when the Hero of my tale
          Was passing by, and, down the vale
          (The vale now silent, hushed I ween
          As if a storm had never been)                              290
          Proceeding with a mind at ease;
          While the old Familiar of the seas,
          Intent to use his utmost haste,
          Gained ground upon the Waggon fast,
          And gives another lusty cheer;
          For spite of rumbling of the wheels,
          A welcome greeting he can hear;--
          It is a fiddle in its glee
          Dinning from the CHERRY TREE!
            Thence the sound--the light is there--                   300
          As Benjamin is now aware,
          Who, to his inward thoughts confined,
          Had almost reached the festive door,
          When, startled by the Sailor's roar,
          He hears a sound and sees a light,
          And in a moment calls to mind
          That 'tis the village MERRY-NIGHT!
            Although before in no dejection,
          At this insidious recollection
          His heart with sudden joy is filled,--                     310
          His ears are by the music thrilled,
          His eyes take pleasure in the road
          Glittering before him bright and broad;
          And Benjamin is wet and cold,
          And there are reasons manifold
          That make the good, tow'rds which he's yearning,
          Look fairly like a lawful earning.
            Nor has thought time to come and go,
          To vibrate between yes and no;
          For, cries the Sailor, "Glorious chance                    320
          That blew us hither!--let him dance,
          Who can or will!--my honest soul,
          Our treat shall be a friendly bowl!"
          He draws him to the door--"Come in,
          Come, come," cries he to Benjamin!
          And Benjamin--ah, woe is me!
          Gave the word--the horses heard
          And halted, though reluctantly.
            "Blithe souls and lightsome hearts have we,
          Feasting at the CHERRY TREE!"                              330
          This was the outside proclamation,
          This was the inside salutation;
          What bustling--jostling--high and low!
          A universal overflow!
          What tankards foaming from the tap!
          What store of cakes in every lap!
          What thumping--stumping--overhead!
          The thunder had not been more busy:
          With such a stir you would have said,
          This little place may well be dizzy!                       340
          'Tis who can dance with greatest vigour--
          'Tis what can be most prompt and eager;
          As if it heard the fiddle's call,
          The pewter clatters on the wall;
          The very bacon shows its feeling,
          Swinging from the smoky ceiling!
            A steaming bowl, a blazing fire,
          What greater good can heart desire?
          'Twere worth a wise man's while to try
          The utmost anger of the sky:                               350
          To 'seek' for thoughts of a gloomy cast,
          If such the bright amends at last.
          Now should you say I judge amiss,
          The CHERRY TREE shows proof of this;
          For soon of all the happy there,
          Our Travellers are the happiest pair;
          All care with Benjamin is gone--
          A Caesar past the Rubicon!
          He thinks not of his long, long strife;--
          The Sailor, Man by nature gay,                             360
          Hath no resolves to throw away;
          And he hath now forgot his Wife,
          Hath quite forgotten her--or may be
          Thinks her the luckiest soul on earth,
          Within that warm and peaceful berth,
                Under cover,
                Terror over,
          Sleeping by her sleeping Baby,
            With bowl that sped from hand to hand,
          The gladdest of the gladsome band,                         370
          Amid their own delight and fun,
          They hear--when every dance is done,
          When every whirling bout is o'er--
          The fiddle's 'squeak'--that call to bliss,
          Ever followed by a kiss;
          They envy not the happy lot,
          But enjoy their own the more!
            While thus our jocund Travellers fare,
          Up springs the Sailor from his chair--
          Limps (for I might have told before                        380
          That he was lame) across the floor--
          Is gone--returns--and with a prize;
          With what?--a Ship of lusty size;
          A gallant stately Man-of-war,
          Fixed on a smoothly-sliding car.
          Surprise to all, but most surprise
          To Benjamin, who rubs his eyes,
          Not knowing that he had befriended
          A Man so gloriously attended!
            "This," cries the Sailor, "a Third-rate is--             390
          Stand back, and you shall see her gratis!
          This was the Flag-ship at the Nile,
          The Vanguard--you may smirk and smile,
          But, pretty Maid, if you look near,
          You'll find you've much in little here!
          A nobler ship did never swim,
          And you shall see her in full trim:
          I'll set, my friends, to do you honour,
          Set every inch of sail upon her."
          So said, so done; and masts, sails, yards,                 400
          He names them all; and interlards
          His speech with uncouth terms of art,
          Accomplished in the showman's part;
          And then, as from a sudden check,
          Cries out--"'Tis there, the quarter-deck
          On which brave Admiral Nelson stood--
          A sight that would have roused your blood!
          One eye he had, which, bright as ten,
          Burned like a fire among his men;
          Let this be land, and that be sea,                         410
          Here lay the French--and 'thus' came we!"
            Hushed was by this the fiddle's sound,
          The dancers all were gathered round,
          And, such the stillness of the house,
          You might have heard a nibbling mouse;
          While, borrowing helps where'er he may,
          The Sailor through the story runs
          Of ships to ships and guns to guns;
          And does his utmost to display
          The dismal conflict, and the might                         420
          And terror of that marvellous night!
          "A bowl, a bowl of double measure,"
          Cries Benjamin, "a draught of length,
          To Nelson, England's pride and treasure,
          Her bulwark and her tower of strength!"
          When Benjamin had seized the bowl,
          The mastiff, from beneath the waggon,
          Where he lay, watchful as a dragon,
          Rattled his chain;--'twas all in vain,
          For Benjamin, triumphant soul!                             430
          He heard the monitory growl;
          Heard--and in opposition quaffed
          A deep, determined, desperate draught!
          Nor did the battered Tar forget,
          Or flinch from what he deemed his debt:
          Then, like a hero crowned with laurel,
          Back to her place the ship he led;
          Wheeled her back in full apparel;
          And so, flag flying at mast head,
          Re-yoked her to the Ass:--anon,                            440
          Cries Benjamin, "We must be gone.
          Thus, after two hours' hearty stay,
          Again behold them on their way!

                              CANTO THIRD

          RIGHT gladly had the horses stirred,
          When they the wished-for greeting heard,
          The whip's loud notice from the door,
          That they were free to move once more.
          You think, those doings must have bred
          In them disheartening doubts and dread;
          No, not a horse of all the eight,                          450
          Although it be a moonless night,
          Fears either for himself or freight;
          For this they know (and let it hide,
          In part, the offences of their guide)
          That Benjamin, with clouded brains,
          Is worth the best with all their pains;
          And, if they had a prayer to make,
          The prayer would be that they may take
          With him whatever comes in course,
          The better fortune or the worse;                           460
          That no one else may have business near them,
          And, drunk or sober, he may steer them.
            So, forth in dauntless mood they fare,
          And with them goes the guardian pair.
            Now, heroes, for the true commotion,
          The triumph of your late devotion
          Can aught on earth impede delight,
          Still mounting to a higher height;
          And higher still--a greedy flight!
          Can any low-born care pursue her,                          470
          Can any mortal clog come to her?
          No notion have they--not a thought,
          That is from joyless regions brought!
          And, while they coast the silent lake,
          Their inspiration I partake;
          Share their empyreal spirits--yea,
          With their enraptured vision, see--
          O fancy--what a jubilee!
          What shifting pictures--clad in gleams
          Of colour bright as feverish dreams!                       480
          Earth, spangled sky, and lake serene,
          Involved and restless all--a scene
          Pregnant with mutual exaltation,
          Rich change, and multiplied creation!
          This sight to me the Muse imparts;--
          And then, what kindness in their hearts!
          What tears of rapture, what vow-making,
          Profound entreaties, and hand-shaking!
          What solemn, vacant, interlacing,
          As if they'd fall asleep embracing!                        490
          Then, in the turbulence of glee,
          And in the excess of amity,
          Says Benjamin, "That Ass of thine,
          He spoils thy sport, and hinders mine:
          If he were tethered to the waggon,
          He'd drag as well what he is dragging,
          And we, as brother should with brother,
          Might trudge it alongside each other!"
            Forthwith, obedient to command,
          The horses made a quiet stand;                             500
          And to the waggon's skirts was tied
          The Creature, by the Mastiff's side,
          The Mastiff wondering, and perplext
          With dread of what will happen next;
          And thinking it but sorry cheer,
          To have such company so near!
            This new arrangement made, the Wain
          Through the still night proceeds again;
          No Moon hath risen her light to lend;
          But indistinctly may be kenned                             510
          The VANGUARD, following close behind,
          Sails spread, as if to catch the wind!
            "Thy wife and child are snug and warm,
          Thy ship will travel without harm;
          I like," said Benjamin, "her shape and stature:
          And this of mine--this bulky creature
          Of which I have the steering--this,
          Seen fairly, is not much amiss!
          We want your streamers, friend, you know;
          But, altogether as we go,                                  520
          We make a kind of handsome show!
          Among these hills, from first to last,
          We've weathered many a furious blast;
          Hard passage forcing on, with head
          Against the storm, and canvas spread.
          I hate a boaster; but to thee
          Will say't, who know'st both land and sea,
          The unluckiest hulk that stems the brine
          Is hardly worse beset than mine,
          When cross-winds on her quarter beat;                      530
          And, fairly lifted from my feet,
          I stagger onward--heaven knows how;
          But not so pleasantly as now:
          Poor pilot I, by snows confounded,
          And many a foundrous pit surrounded!
          Yet here we are, by night and day
          Grinding through rough and smooth our way;
          Through foul and fair our task fulfilling;
          And long shall be so yet--God willing!"
            "Ay," said the Tar, "through fair and foul--             540
          But save us from yon screeching owl!"
          That instant was begun a fray
          Which called their thoughts another way:
          The mastiff, ill-conditioned carl!
          What must he do but growl and snarl,
          Still more and more dissatisfied
          With the meek comrade at his side!
          Till, not incensed though put to proof,
          The Ass, uplifting a hind hoof,
          Salutes the Mastiff on the head;                           550
          And so were better manners bred,
          And all was calmed and quieted.
            "Yon screech-owl," says the Sailor, turning
          Back to his former cause of mourning,
          "Yon owl!--pray God that all be well!
          'Tis worse than any funeral bell;
          As sure as I've the gift of sight,
          We shall be meeting ghosts to-night!"
          --Said Benjamin, "This whip shall lay
          A thousand, if they cross our way.                         560
          I know that Wanton's noisy station,
          I know him and his occupation;
          The jolly bird hath learned his cheer
          Upon the banks of Windermere;
          Where a tribe of them make merry,
          Mocking the Man that keeps the ferry;
          Hallooing from an open throat,
          Like travellers shouting for a boat.
          --The tricks he learned at Windermere
          This vagrant owl is playing here--                         570
          That is the worst of his employment:
          He's at the top of his enjoyment!"
            This explanation stilled the alarm,
          Cured the foreboder like a charm;
          This, and the manner, and the voice,
          Summoned the Sailor to rejoice;
          His heart is up--he fears no evil
          From life or death, from man or devil;
          He wheels--and, making many stops,
          Brandished his crutch against the mountain tops;           580
          And, while he talked of blows and scars,
          Benjamin, among the stars,
          Beheld a dancing--and a glancing;
          Such retreating and advancing
          As, I ween, was never seen
          In bloodiest battle since the days of Mars!

                              CANTO FOURTH

          THUS they, with freaks of proud delight,
          Beguile the remnant of the night;
          And many a snatch of jovial song
          Regales them as they wind along;                           590
          While to the music, from on high,
          The echoes make a glad reply.--
          But the sage Muse the revel heeds
          No farther than her story needs;
          Nor will she servilely attend
          The loitering journey to its end.
          --Blithe spirits of her own impel
          The Muse, who scents the morning air,
          To take of this transported pair
          A brief and unreproved farewell;                           600
          To quit the slow-paced waggon's side,
          And wander down yon hawthorn dell,
          With murmuring Greta for her guide.
          --There doth she ken the awful form
          Of Raven-crag--black as a storm--
          Glimmering through the twilight pale;
          And Ghimmer-crag, his tall twin brother,
          Each peering forth to meet the other:--
          And, while she roves through St. John's Vale,
          Along the smooth unpathwayed plain,                        610
          By sheep-track or through cottage lane,
          Where no disturbance comes to intrude
          Upon the pensive solitude,
          Her unsuspecting eye, perchance,
          With the rude shepherd's favoured glance,
          Beholds the faeries in array,
          Whose party-coloured garments gay
          The silent company betray:
          Red, green, and blue; a moment's sight!
          For Skiddaw-top with rosy light                            620
          Is touched--and all the band take flight.
          --Fly also, Muse! and from the dell
          Mount to the ridge of Nathdale Fell;
          Thence, look thou forth o'er wood and lawn
          Hoar with the frost-like dews of dawn;
          Across yon meadowy bottom look,
          Where close fogs hide their parent brook;
          And see, beyond that hamlet small,
          The ruined towers of Threlkeld-hall,
          Lurking in a double shade,                                 630
          By trees and lingering twilight made!
          There, at Blencathara's rugged feet,
          Sir Lancelot gave a safe retreat
          To noble Clifford; from annoy
          Concealed the persecuted boy,
          Well pleased in rustic garb to feed
          His flock, and pipe on shepherd's reed
          Among this multitude of hills,
          Crags, woodlands, waterfalls, and rills;
          Which soon the morning shall enfold,                       640
          From east to west, in ample vest
          Of massy gloom and radiance bold.
            The mists, that o'er the streamlet's bed
          Hung low, begin to rise and spread;
          Even while I speak, their skirts of grey
          Are smitten by a silver ray;
          And lo!--up Castrigg's naked steep
          (Where, smoothly urged, the vapours sweep
          Along--and scatter and divide,
          Like fleecy clouds self-multiplied)                        650
          The stately waggon is ascending,
          With faithful Benjamin attending,
          Apparent now beside his team--
          Now lost amid a glittering steam:
          And with him goes his Sailor-friend,
          By this time near their journey's end;
          And, after their high-minded riot,
          Sickening into thoughtful quiet;
          As if the morning's pleasant hour
          Had for their joys a killing power.                        660
          And, sooth, for Benjamin a vein
          Is opened of still deeper pain
          As if his heart by notes were stung
          From out the lowly hedge-rows flung;
          As if the Warbler lost in light
          Reproved his soarings of the night,
          In strains of rapture pure and holy
          Upbraided his distempered folly.
            Drooping is he, his step is dull;
          But the horses stretch and pull;                           670
          With increasing vigour climb,
          Eager to repair lost time;
          Whether, by their own desert,
          Knowing what cause there is for shame,
          They are labouring to avert
          As much as may be of the blame,
          Which, they foresee, must soon alight
          Upon 'his' head, whom, in despite
          Of all his failings, they love best;
          Whether for him they are distrest,                         680
          Or, by length of fasting roused,
          Are impatient to be housed:
          Up against the hill they strain
          Tugging at the iron chain,
          Tugging all with might and main,
          Last and foremost, every horse
          To the utmost of his force!
          And the smoke and respiration,
          Rising like an exhalation,
          Blend with the mist--a moving shroud                       690
          To form, an undissolving cloud;
          Which, with slant ray, the merry sun
          Takes delight to play upon.
          Never golden-haired Apollo,
          Pleased some favourite chief to follow
          Through accidents of peace or war,
          In a perilous moment threw
          Around the object of his care
          Veil of such celestial hue;
          Interposed so bright a screen--                            700
          Him and his enemies between!
            Alas! what boots it?--who can hide,
          When the malicious Fates are bent
          On working out an ill intent?
          Can destiny be turned aside?
          No--sad progress of my story!
          Benjamin, this outward glory
          Cannot shield thee from thy Master,
          Who from Keswick has pricked forth,
          Sour and surly as the north;                               710
          And, in fear of some disaster,
          Comes to give what help he may,
          And to hear what thou canst say;
          If, as needs he must forebode,
          Thou hast been loitering on the road!
          His fears, his doubts, may now take flight--
          The wished-for object is in sight;
          Yet, trust the Muse, it rather hath
          Stirred him up to livelier wrath;
          Which he stifles, moody man!                               720
          With all the patience that he can;
          To the end that, at your meeting,
          He may give thee decent greeting.
            There he is--resolved to stop,
          Till the waggon gains the top;
          But stop he cannot--must advance:
          Him Benjamin, with lucky glance,
          Espies--and instantly is ready,
          Self-collected, poised, and steady:
          And, to be the better seen,                                730
          Issues from his radiant shroud,
          From his close-attending cloud,
          With careless air and open mien.
          Erect his port, and firm his going;
          So struts yon cock that now is crowing;
          And the morning light in grace
          Strikes upon his lifted face,
          Hurrying the pallid hue away
          That might his trespasses betray.
          But what can all avail to clear him,                       740
          Or what need of explanation,
          Parley or interrogation?
          For the Master sees, alas!
          That unhappy Figure near him,
          Limping o'er the dewy grass,
          Where the road it fringes, sweet,
          Soft and cool to way-worn feet;
          And, O indignity! an Ass,
          By his noble Mastiff's side,
          Tethered to the waggon's tail:                             750
          And the ship, in all her pride,
          Following after in full sail!
          Not to speak of babe and mother;
          Who, contented with each other,
          And snug as birds in leafy arbour,
          Find, within, a blessed harbour!
            With eager eyes the Master pries;
          Looks in and out, and through and through;
          Says nothing--till at last he spies
          A wound upon the Mastiff's head,                           760
          A wound, where plainly might be read
          What feats an Ass's hoof can do!
          But

FRENCH REVOLUTION
AS IT APPEARED TO ENTHUSIASTS AT ITS COMMENCEMENT. REPRINTED FROM "THE FRIEND"

          Oh! pleasant exercise of hope and joy!
          For mighty were the auxiliars which then stood
          Upon our side, we who were strong in love!
          Bliss was it in that dawn to be alive,
          But to be young was very heaven!--Oh! times,
          In which the meagre, stale, forbidding ways
          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                       10
          A prime Enchantress--to assist the work,
          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 moment might not be unfelt
          Among the bowers of paradise itself)
          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!                  20
          They who had fed their childhood upon dreams,
          The playfellows 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
          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,          30
          And in the region of their peaceful selves;--
          Now was it that both found, the meek and lofty
          Did both find, helpers to their heart's desire,
          And stuff at hand, plastic as they could wish;
          Were called upon to exercise their skill,
          Not in Utopia, subterranean fields,
          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!                       40
                                                              1805.

THE PRELUDE
BOOK FIRST
INTRODUCTION--CHILDHOOD AND SCHOOL-TIME

          OH there is blessing in this gentle breeze,
          A visitant that while it fans my cheek
          Doth seem half-conscious of the joy it brings
          From the green fields, and from yon azure sky.
          Whate'er its mission, the soft breeze can come
          To none more grateful than to me; escaped
          From the vast city, where I long had pined
          A discontented sojourner: now free,
          Free as a bird to settle where I will.
          What dwelling shall receive me? in what vale                10
          Shall be my harbour? underneath what grove
          Shall I take up my home? and what clear stream
          Shall with its murmur lull me into rest?
          The earth is all before me. With a heart
          Joyous, nor scared at its own liberty,
          I look about; and should the chosen guide
          Be nothing better than a wandering cloud,
          I cannot miss my way. I breathe again!
          Trances of thought and mountings of the mind
          Come fast upon me: it is shaken off,                        20
          That burthen of my own unnatural self,
          The heavy weight of many a weary day
          Not mine, and such as were not made for me.
          Long months of peace (if such bold word accord
          With any promises of human life),
          Long months of ease and undisturbed delight
          Are mine in prospect; whither shall I turn,
          By road or pathway, or through trackless field,
          Up hill or down, or shall some floating thing
          Upon the river point me out my course?                      30

            Dear Liberty! Yet what would it avail
          But for a gift that consecrates the joy?
          For I, methought, while the sweet breath of heaven
          Was blowing on my body, felt within
          A correspondent breeze, that gently moved
          With quickening virtue, but is now become
          A tempest, a redundant energy,
          Vexing its own creation. Thanks to both,
          And their congenial powers, that, while they join
          In breaking up a long-continued frost,                      40
          Bring with them vernal promises, the hope
          Of active days urged on by flying hours,--
          Days of sweet leisure, taxed with patient thought
          Abstruse, nor wanting punctual service high,
          Matins and vespers of harmonious verse!

            Thus far, O Friend! did I, not used to make
          A present joy the matter of a song,
          Pour forth that day my soul in measured strains
          That would not be forgotten, and are here
          Recorded: to the open fields I told                         50
          A prophecy: poetic numbers came
          Spontaneously to clothe in priestly robe
          A renovated spirit singled out,
          Such hope was mine, for holy services.
          My own voice cheered me, and, far more, the mind's
          Internal echo of the imperfect sound;
          To both I listened, drawing from them both
          A cheerful confidence in things to come.

            Content and not unwilling now to give
          A respite to this passion, I paced on                       60
          With brisk and eager steps; and came, at length,
          To a green shady place, where down I sate
          Beneath a tree, slackening my thoughts by choice
          And settling into gentler happiness.
          'Twas autumn, and a clear and placid day,
          With warmth, as much as needed, from a sun
          Two hours declined towards the west; a day
          With silver clouds, and sunshine on the grass,
          And in the sheltered and the sheltering grove
          A perfect stillness. Many were the thoughts                 70
          Encouraged and dismissed, till choice was made
          Of a known Vale, whither my feet should turn,
          Nor rest till they had reached the very door
          Of the one cottage which methought I saw.
          No picture of mere memory ever looked
          So fair; and while upon the fancied scene
          I gazed with growing love, a higher power
          Than Fancy gave assurance of some work
          Of glory there forthwith to be begun,
          Perhaps too there performed. Thus long I mused,             80
          Nor e'er lost sight of what I mused upon,
          Save when, amid the stately grove of oaks,
          Now here, now there, an acorn, from its cup
          Dislodged, through sere leaves rustled, or at once
          To the bare earth dropped with a startling sound.
          From that soft couch I rose not, till the sun
          Had almost touched the horizon; casting then
          A backward glance upon the curling cloud
          Of city smoke, by distance ruralised;
          Keen as a Truant or a Fugitive,                             90
          But as a Pilgrim resolute, I took,
          Even with the chance equipment of that hour,
          The road that pointed toward the chosen Vale.
          It was a splendid evening, and my soul
          Once more made trial of her strength, nor lacked
          Aeolian visitations; but the harp
          Was soon defrauded, and the banded host
          Of harmony dispersed in straggling sounds,
          And lastly utter silence! "Be it so;
          Why think of anything but present good?"                   100
          So, like a home-bound labourer, I pursued
          My way beneath the mellowing sun, that shed
          Mild influence; nor left in me one wish
          Again to bend the Sabbath of that time
          To a servile yoke. What need of many words?
          A pleasant loitering journey, through three days
          Continued, brought me to my hermitage.
          I spare to tell of what ensued, the life
          In common things--the endless store of things,
          Rare, or at least so seeming, every day                    110
          Found all about me in one neighbourhood--
          The self-congratulation, and, from morn
          To night, unbroken cheerfulness serene.
          But speedily an earnest longing rose
          To brace myself to some determined aim,
          Reading or thinking; either to lay up
          New stores, or rescue from decay the old
          By timely interference: and therewith
          Came hopes still higher, that with outward life
          I might endue some airy phantasies                         120
          That had been floating loose about for years,
          And to such beings temperately deal forth
          The many feelings that oppressed my heart.
          That hope hath been discouraged; welcome light
          Dawns from the east, but dawns to disappear
          And mock me with a sky that ripens not
          Into a steady morning: if my mind,
          Remembering the bold promise of the past,
          Would gladly grapple with some noble theme,
          Vain is her wish; where'er she turns she finds             130
          Impediments from day to day renewed.

            And now it would content me to yield up
          Those lofty hopes awhile, for present gifts
          Of humbler industry. But, oh, dear Friend!
          The Poet, gentle creature as he is,
          Hath, like the Lover, his unruly times;
          His fits when he is neither sick nor well,
          Though no distress be near him but his own
          Unmanageable thoughts: his mind, best pleased
          While she as duteous as the mother dove                    140
          Sits brooding, lives not always to that end,
          But like the innocent bird, hath goadings on
          That drive her as in trouble through the groves;
          With me is now such passion, to be blamed
          No otherwise than as it lasts too long.

            When, as becomes a man who would prepare
          For such an arduous work, I through myself
          Make rigorous inquisition, the report
          Is often cheering; for I neither seem
          To lack that first great gift, the vital soul,             150
          Nor general Truths, which are themselves a sort
          Of Elements and Agents, Under-powers,
          Subordinate helpers of the living mind:
          Nor am I naked of external things,
          Forms, images, nor numerous other aids
          Of less regard, though won perhaps with toil
          And needful to build up a Poet's praise.
          Time, place, and manners do I seek, and these
          Are found in plenteous store, but nowhere such
          As may be singled out with steady choice;                  160
          No little band of yet remembered names
          Whom I, in perfect confidence, might hope
          To summon back from lonesome banishment,
          And make them dwellers in the hearts of men
          Now living, or to live in future years.
          Sometimes the ambitious Power of choice, mistaking
          Proud spring-tide swellings for a regular sea,
          Will settle on some British theme, some old
          Romantic tale by Milton left unsung;
          More often turning to some gentle place                    170
          Within the groves of Chivalry, I pipe
          To shepherd swains, or seated harp in hand,
          Amid reposing knights by a river side
          Or fountain, listen to the grave reports
          Of dire enchantments faced and overcome
          By the strong mind, and tales of warlike feats,
          Where spear encountered spear, and sword with sword
          Fought, as if conscious of the blazonry
          That the shield bore, so glorious was the strife;
          Whence inspiration for a song that winds                   180
          Through ever-changing scenes of votive quest
          Wrongs to redress, harmonious tribute paid
          To patient courage and unblemished truth,
          To firm devotion, zeal unquenchable,
          And Christian meekness hallowing faithful loves.
          Sometimes, more sternly moved, I would relate
          How vanquished Mithridates northward passed,
          And, hidden in the cloud of years, became
          Odin, the Father of a race by whom
          Perished the Roman Empire: how the friends                 190
          And followers of Sertorius, out of Spain
          Flying, found shelter in the Fortunate Isles,
          And left their usages, their arts and laws,
          To disappear by a slow gradual death,
          To dwindle and to perish one by one,
          Starved in those narrow bounds: but not the soul
          Of Liberty, which fifteen hundred years
          Survived, and, when the European came
          With skill and power that might not be withstood,
          Did, like a pestilence, maintain its hold                  200
          And wasted down by glorious death that race
          Of natural heroes: or I would record
          How, in tyrannic times, some high-souled man,
          Unnamed among the chronicles of kings,
          Suffered in silence for Truth's sake: or tell,
          How that one Frenchman, through continued force
          Of meditation on the inhuman deeds
          Of those who conquered first the Indian Isles,
          Went single in his ministry across
          The Ocean; not to comfort the oppressed,                   210
          But, like a thirsty wind, to roam about
          Withering the Oppressor: how Gustavus sought
          Help at his need in Dalecarlia's mines:
          How Wallace fought for Scotland; left the name
          Of Wallace to be found, like a wild flower,
          All over his dear Country; left the deeds
          Of Wallace, like a family of Ghosts,
          To people the steep rocks and river banks,
          Her natural sanctuaries, with a local soul
          Of independence and stern liberty.                         220
          Sometimes it suits me better to invent
          A tale from my own heart, more near akin
          To my own passions and habitual thoughts;
          Some variegated story, in the main
          Lofty, but the unsubstantial structure melts
          Before the very sun that brightens it,
          Mist into air dissolving! Then a wish,
          My last and favourite aspiration, mounts
          With yearning toward some philosophic song
          Of Truth that cherishes our daily life;                    230
          With meditations passionate from deep
          Recesses in man's heart, immortal verse
          Thoughtfully fitted to the Orphean lyre;
          But from this awful burthen I full soon
          Take refuge and beguile myself with trust
          That mellower years will bring a riper mind
          And clearer insight. Thus my days are past
          In contradiction; with no skill to part
          Vague longing, haply bred by want of power,
          From paramount impulse not to be withstood,                240
          A timorous capacity, from prudence,
          From circumspection, infinite delay.
          Humility and modest awe, themselves
          Betray me, serving often for a cloak
          To a more subtle selfishness; that now
          Locks every function up in blank reserve,
          Now dupes me, trusting to an anxious eye
          That with intrusive restlessness beats off
          Simplicity and self-presented truth.
          Ah! better far than this, to stray about                   250
          Voluptuously through fields and rural walks,
          And ask no record of the hours, resigned
          To vacant musing, unreproved neglect
          Of all things, and deliberate holiday.
          Far better never to have heard the name
          Of zeal and just ambition, than to live
          Baffled and plagued by a mind that every hour
          Turns recreant to her task; takes heart again,
          Then feels immediately some hollow thought
          Hang like an interdict upon her hopes.                     260
          This is my lot; for either still I find
          Some imperfection in the chosen theme,
          Or see of absolute accomplishment
          Much wanting, so much wanting, in myself,
          That I recoil and droop, and seek repose
          In listlessness from vain perplexity,
          Unprofitably travelling toward the grave,
          Like a false steward who hath much received
          And renders nothing back.
                                     Was it for this
          That one, the fairest of all rivers, loved                 270
          To blend his murmurs with my nurse's song,
          And, from his alder shades and rocky falls,
          And from his fords and shallows, sent a voice
          That flowed along my dreams? For this, didst thou,
          O Derwent! winding among grassy holms
          Where I was looking on, a babe in arms,
          Make ceaseless music that composed my thoughts
          To more than infant softness, giving me
          Amid the fretful dwellings of mankind
          A foretaste, a dim earnest, of the calm                    280
          That Nature breathes among the hills and groves.

            When he had left the mountains and received
          On his smooth breast the shadow of those towers
          That yet survive, a shattered monument
          Of feudal sway, the bright blue river passed
          Along the margin of our terrace walk;
          A tempting playmate whom we dearly loved.
          Oh, many a time have I, a five years' child,
          In a small mill-race severed from his stream,
          Made one long bathing of a summer's day;                   290
          Basked in the sun, and plunged and basked again
          Alternate, all a summer's day, or scoured
          The sandy fields, leaping through flowery groves
          Of yellow ragwort; or, when rock and hill,
          The woods, and distant Skiddaw's lofty height,
          Were bronzed with deepest radiance, stood alone
          Beneath the sky, as if I had been born
          On Indian plains, and from my mother's hut
          Had run abroad in wantonness, to sport
          A naked savage, in the thunder shower.                     300

            Fair seed-time had my soul, and I grew up
          Fostered alike by beauty and by fear:
          Much favoured in my birth-place, and no less
          In that beloved Vale to which erelong
          We were transplanted;--there were we let loose
          For sports of wider range. Ere I had told
          Ten birth-days, when among the mountain slopes
          Frost, and the breath of frosty wind, had snapped
          The last autumnal crocus, 'twas my joy
          With store of springes o'er my shoulder hung               310
          To range the open heights where woodcocks run
          Along the smooth green turf. Through half the night,
          Scudding away from snare to snare, I plied
          That anxious visitation;--moon and stars
          Were shining o'er my head. I was alone,
          And seemed to be a trouble to the peace
          That dwelt among them. Sometimes it befell
          In these night wanderings, that a strong desire
          O'erpowered my better reason, and the bird
          Which was the captive of another's toil                    320
          Became my prey; and when the deed was done
          I heard among the solitary hills
          Low breathings coming after me, and sounds
          Of undistinguishable motion, steps
          Almost as silent as the turf they trod.

            Nor less, when spring had warmed the cultured Vale,
          Moved we as plunderers where the mother-bird
          Had in high places built her lodge; though mean
          Our object and inglorious, yet the end
          Was not ignoble. Oh! when I have hung                      330
          Above the raven's nest, by knots of grass
          And half-inch fissures in the slippery rock
          But ill sustained, and almost (so it seemed)
          Suspended by the blast that blew amain,
          Shouldering the naked crag, oh, at that time
          While on the perilous ridge I hung alone,
          With what strange utterance did the loud dry wind
          Blow through my ear! the sky seemed not a sky
          Of earth--and with what motion moved the clouds!

            Dust as we are, the immortal spirit grows                340
          Like harmony in music; there is a dark
          Inscrutable workmanship that reconciles
          Discordant elements, makes them cling together
          In one society. How strange, that all
          The terrors, pains, and early miseries,
          Regrets, vexations, lassitudes interfused
          Within my mind, should e'er have borne a part,
          And that a needful part, in making up
          The calm existence that is mine when I
          Am worthy of myself! Praise to the end!                    350
          Thanks to the means which Nature deigned to employ;
          Whether her fearless visitings, or those
          That came with soft alarm, like hurtless light
          Opening the peaceful clouds; or she would use
          Severer interventions, ministry
          More palpable, as best might suit her aim.

            One summer evening (led by her) I found
          A little boat tied to a willow tree
          Within a rocky cave, its usual home.
          Straight I unloosed her chain, and stepping in             360
          Pushed from the shore. It was an act of stealth
          And troubled pleasure, nor without the voice
          Of mountain-echoes did my boat move on;
          Leaving behind her still, on either side,
          Small circles glittering idly in the moon,
          Until they melted all into one track
          Of sparkling light. But now, like one who rows,
          Proud of his skill, to reach a chosen point
          With an unswerving line, I fixed my view
          Upon the summit of a craggy ridge,                         370
          The horizon's utmost boundary; far above
          Was nothing but the stars and the grey sky.
          She was an elfin pinnace; lustily
          I dipped my oars into the silent lake,
          And, as I rose upon the stroke, my boat
          Went heaving through the water like a swan;
          When, from behind that craggy steep till then
          The horizon's bound, a huge peak, black and huge,
          As if with voluntary power instinct,
          Upreared its head. I struck and struck again,              380
          And growing still in stature the grim shape
          Towered up between me and the stars, and still,
          For so it seemed, with purpose of its own
          And measured motion like a living thing,
          Strode after me. With trembling oars I turned,
          And through the silent water stole my way
          Back to the covert of the willow tree;
          There in her mooring-place I left my bark,--
          And through the meadows homeward went, in grave
          And serious mood; but after I had seen                     390
          That spectacle, for many days, my brain
          Worked with a dim and undetermined sense
          Of unknown modes of being; o'er my thoughts
          There hung a darkness, call it solitude
          Or blank desertion. No familiar shapes
          Remained, no pleasant images of trees,
          Of sea or sky, no colours of green fields;
          But huge and mighty forms, that do not live
          Like living men, moved slowly through the mind
          By day, and were a trouble to my dreams.                   400

            Wisdom and Spirit of the universe!
          Thou Soul that art the eternity of thought
          That givest to forms and images a breath
          And everlasting motion, not in vain
          By day or star-light thus from my first dawn
          Of childhood didst thou intertwine for me
          The passions that build up our human soul;
          Not with the mean and vulgar works of man,
          But with high objects, with enduring things--
          With life and nature--purifying thus                       410
          The elements of feeling and of thought,
          And sanctifying, by such discipline,
          Both pain and fear, until we recognise
          A grandeur in the beatings of the heart.
          Nor was this fellowship vouchsafed to me
          With stinted kindness. In November days,
          When vapours rolling down the valley made
          A lonely scene more lonesome, among woods,
          At noon and 'mid the calm of summer nights,
          When, by the margin of the trembling lake,                 420
          Beneath the gloomy hills homeward I went
          In solitude, such intercourse was mine;
          Mine was it in the fields both day and night,
          And by the waters, all the summer long.

            And in the frosty season, when the sun
          Was set, and visible for many a mile
          The cottage windows blazed through twilight gloom,
          I heeded not their summons: happy time
          It was indeed for all of us--for me
          It was a time of rapture! Clear and loud                   430
          The village clock tolled six,--I wheeled about,
          Proud and exulting like an untired horse
          That cares not for his home. All shod with steel,
          We hissed along the polished ice in games
          Confederate, imitative of the chase
          And woodland pleasures,--the resounding horn,
          The pack loud chiming, and the hunted hare.
          So through the darkness and the cold we flew,
          And not a voice was idle; with the din
          Smitten, the precipices rang aloud;                        440
          The leafless trees and every icy crag
          Tinkled like iron; while far distant hills
          Into the tumult sent an alien sound
          Of melancholy not unnoticed, while the stars
          Eastward were sparkling clear, and in the west
          The orange sky of evening died away.
          Not seldom from the uproar I retired
          Into a silent bay, or sportively
          Glanced sideway, leaving the tumultuous throng,
          To cut across the reflex of a star                         450
          That fled, and, flying still before me, gleamed
          Upon the glassy plain; and oftentimes,
          When we had given our bodies to the wind,
          And all the shadowy banks on either side
          Came sweeping through the darkness, spinning still
          The rapid line of motion, then at once
          Have I, reclining back upon my heels,
          Stopped short; yet still the solitary cliffs
          Wheeled by me--even as if the earth had rolled
          With visible motion her diurnal round!                     460
          Behind me did they stretch in solemn train,
          Feebler and feebler, and I stood and watched
          Till all was tranquil as a dreamless sleep.

            Ye Presences of Nature in the sky
          And on the earth! Ye Visions of the hills!
          And Souls of lonely places! can I think
          A vulgar hope was yours when ye employed
          Such ministry, when ye, through many a year
          Haunting me thus among my boyish sports,
          On caves and trees, upon the woods and hills,              470
          Impressed, upon all forms, the characters
          Of danger or desire; and thus did make
          The surface of the universal earth,
          With triumph and delight, with hope and fear,
          Work like a sea?
                            Not uselessly employed,
          Might I pursue this theme through every change
          Of exercise and play, to which the year
          Did summon us in his delightful round.

            We were a noisy crew; the sun in heaven
          Beheld not vales more beautiful than ours;
          Nor saw a band in happiness and joy                        480
          Richer, or worthier of the ground they trod.
          I could record with no reluctant voice
          The woods of autumn, and their hazel bowers
          With milk-white clusters hung; the rod and line,
          True symbol of hope's foolishness, whose strong
          And unreproved enchantment led us on
          By rocks and pools shut out from every star,
          All the green summer, to forlorn cascades
          Among the windings hid of mountain brooks.
          --Unfading recollections! at this hour                     490
          The heart is almost mine with which I felt,
          From some hill-top on sunny afternoons,
          The paper kite high among fleecy clouds
          Pull at her rein like an impetuous courser;
          Or, from the meadows sent on gusty days,
          Beheld her breast the wind, then suddenly
          Dashed headlong, and rejected by the storm.

            Ye lowly cottages wherein we dwelt,
          A ministration of your own was yours;
          Can I forget you, being as you were                        500
          So beautiful among the pleasant fields
          In which ye stood? or can I here forget
          The plain and seemly countenance with which
          Ye dealt out your plain comforts? Yet had ye
          Delights and exultations of your own.
          Eager and never weary we pursued
          Our home-amusements by the warm peat-fire
          At evening, when with pencil, and smooth slate
          In square divisions parcelled out and all
          With crosses and with cyphers scribbled o'er,              510
          We schemed and puzzled, head opposed to head
          In strife too humble to be named in verse:
          Or round the naked table, snow-white deal,
          Cherry or maple, sate in close array,
          And to the combat, Loo or Whist, led on
          A thick-ribbed army; not, as in the world,
          Neglected and ungratefully thrown by
          Even for the very service they had wrought,
          But husbanded through many a long campaign.
          Uncouth assemblage was it, where no few                    520
          Had changed their functions: some, plebeian cards
          Which Fate, beyond the promise of their birth,
          Had dignified, and called to represent
          The persons of departed potentates.
          Oh, with what echoes on the board they fell!
          Ironic diamonds,--clubs, hearts, diamonds, spades,
          A congregation piteously akin!
          Cheap matter offered they to boyish wit,
          Those sooty knaves, precipitated down
          With scoffs and taunts, like Vulcan out of heaven:         530
          The paramount ace, a moon in her eclipse,
          Queens gleaming through their splendour's last decay,
          And monarchs surly at the wrongs sustained
          By royal visages. Meanwhile abroad
          Incessant rain was falling, or the frost
          Raged bitterly, with keen and silent tooth;
          And, interrupting oft that eager game,
          From under Esthwaite's splitting fields of ice
          The pent-up air, struggling to free itself,
          Gave out to meadow grounds and hills a loud                540
          Protracted yelling, like the noise of wolves
          Howling in troops along the Bothnic Main.

            Nor, sedulous as I have been to trace
          How Nature by extrinsic passion first
          Peopled the mind with forms sublime or fair,
          And made me love them, may I here omit
          How other pleasures have been mine, and joys
          Of subtler origin; how I have felt,
          Not seldom even in that tempestuous time,
          Those hallowed and pure motions of the sense               550
          Which seem, in their simplicity, to own
          An intellectual charm; that calm delight
          Which, if I err not, surely must belong
          To those first-born affinities that fit
          Our new existence to existing things,
          And, in our dawn of being, constitute
          The bond of union between life and joy.

            Yes, I remember when the changeful earth,
          And twice five summers on my mind had stamped
          The faces of the moving year, even then                    560
          I held unconscious intercourse with beauty
          Old as creation, drinking in a pure
          Organic pleasure from the silver wreaths
          Of curling mist, or from the level plain
          Of waters coloured by impending clouds.

            The sands of Westmoreland, the creeks and bays
          Of Cumbria's rocky limits, they can tell
          How, when the Sea threw off his evening shade,
          And to the shepherd's hut on distant hills
          Sent welcome notice of the rising moon,                    570
          How I have stood, to fancies such as these
          A stranger, linking with the spectacle
          No conscious memory of a kindred sight,
          And bringing with me no peculiar sense
          Of quietness or peace; yet have I stood,
          Even while mine eye hath moved o'er many a league
          Of shining water, gathering as it seemed,
          Through every hair-breadth in that field of light,
          New pleasure like a bee among the flowers.

            Thus oft amid those fits of vulgar joy                   580
          Which, through all seasons, on a child's pursuits
          Are prompt attendants, 'mid that giddy bliss
          Which, like a tempest, works along the blood
          And is forgotten; even then I felt
          Gleams like the flashing of a shield;--the earth
          And common face of Nature spake to me
          Rememberable things; sometimes, 'tis true,
          By chance collisions and quaint accidents
          (Like those ill-sorted unions, work supposed
          Of evil-minded fairies), yet not vain                      590
          Nor profitless, if haply they impressed
          Collateral objects and appearances,
          Albeit lifeless then, and doomed to sleep
          Until maturer seasons called them forth
          To impregnate and to elevate the mind.
          --And if the vulgar joy by its own weight
          Wearied itself out of the memory,
          The scenes which were a witness of that joy
          Remained in their substantial lineaments
          Depicted on the brain, and to the eye                      600
          Were visible, a daily sight; and thus
          By the impressive discipline of fear,
          By pleasure and repeated happiness,
          So frequently repeated, and by force
          Of obscure feelings representative
          Of things forgotten, these same scenes so bright,
          So beautiful, so majestic in themselves,
          Though yet the day was distant, did become
          Habitually dear, and all their forms
          And changeful colours by invisible links                   610
          Were fastened to the affections.
                                            I began
          My story early--not misled, I trust,
          By an infirmity of love for days
          Disowned by memory--ere the breath of spring
          Planting my snowdrops among winter snows:
          Nor will it seem to thee, O Friend! so prompt
          In sympathy, that I have lengthened out
          With fond and feeble tongue a tedious tale.
          Meanwhile, my hope has been, that I might fetch
          Invigorating thoughts from former years;                   620
          Might fix the wavering balance of my mind,
          And haply meet reproaches too, whose power
          May spur me on, in manhood now mature
          To honourable toil. Yet should these hopes
          Prove vain, and thus should neither I be taught
          To understand myself, nor thou to know
          With better knowledge how the heart was framed
          Of him thou lovest; need I dread from thee
          Harsh judgments, if the song be loth to quit
          Those recollected hours that have the charm                630
          Of visionary things, those lovely forms
          And sweet sensations that throw back our life,
          And almost make remotest infancy
          A visible scene, on which the sun is shining?

            One end at least hath been attained; my mind
          Hath been revived, and if this genial mood
          Desert me not, forthwith shall be brought down
          Through later years the story of my life.
          The road lies plain before me;--'tis a theme
          Single and of determined bounds; and hence                 640
          I choose it rather at this time, than work
          Of ampler or more varied argument,
          Where I might be discomfited and lost:
          And certain hopes are with me, that to thee
          This labour will be welcome, honoured Friend!