Wordsworth (5 page)

Oh there is blessing in this gentle breeze

That blows from the green fields and from the clouds

And from the sky: it beats against my cheek,

And seems half-conscious of the joy it gives.

5      
O welcome Messenger! O welcome Friend!

A captive greets thee, coming from a house

Of bondage, from you City’s walls set free,

A prison where he hath been long immured.

Now I am free, enfranchis’d and at large,

10    
May fix my habitation where I will.

What dwelling shall receive me? In what Vale Shall be my harbour? Underneath what grove

Shall I take up my home, and what sweet stream

Shall with its murmurs lull me to my rest?

15    
The earth is all before me: with a heart

Joyous, nor scar’d at its own liberty,

I look about, and should the guide I chuse

Be nothing better than a wandering cloud,

I cannot miss my way. I breathe again;

20    
Trances of thought and mountings of the mind

Come fast upon me: it is shaken off,

As by miraculous gift ’tis shaken off,

That burthen of my own unnatural self,

The heavy weight of many a weary day

25    
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 undisturb’d delight

Are mine in prospect; whither shall I turn

30    
By road or pathway or through open field,

Or shall a twig or any floating thing

Upon the river, point me out my course?

    Enough that I am free; for months to come

May dedicate myself to chosen tasks;

35    
May quit the tiresome sea and dwell on shore,

If not a Settler on the soil, at least

To drink wild water, and to pluck green herbs,

And gather fruits fresh from their native tree.

Nay more, if I may trust myself, this hour

40    
Hath brought a gift that consecrates my joy;

For I, methought, while the sweet breath of Heaven

Was blowing on my body, felt within

A corresponding mild creative breeze,

A vital breeze which travell’d gently on

45    
O’er things which it had made, and is become

A tempest, a redundant energy

Vexing its own creation. ’Tis a power

That does not come unrecogniz’d, a storm,

Which, breaking up a long-continued frost

50    
Brings with it vernal promises, the hope

Of active days, of dignity and thought,

Of prowess in an honorable field,

Pure passions, virtue, knowledge, and delight,

The holy life of music and of verse.

55    
    Thus far, O Friend! did I, not used to make

A present joy the matter of my Song,

Pour out, that day, my soul in measur’d strains,

Even in the very words which I have here

Recorded: to the open fields I told

60    
A prophecy: poetic numbers came

Spontaneously, and cloth’d in priestly robe

My spirit, thus singled out, as it might seem,

For holy services: great hopes were mine;

My own voice chear’d me, and, far more, the mind’s

65    
Internal echo of the imperfect sound;

To both I listen’d, drawing from them both

A chearful confidence in things to come.

    Whereat, being not unwilling now to give

A respite to this passion, I paced on

70    
Gently, with careless steps; and came, erelong,

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 calm and placid day,

75    
With warmth as much as needed from a sun

Two hours declin’d towards the west, a day

With silver clouds, and sunshine on the grass,

And, in the shelter’d grove where I was couch’d

A perfect stillness. On the ground I lay

80    
Passing through many thoughts, yet mainly such

As to myself pertain’d. I made a choice

Of one sweet Vale whither my steps should turn

And saw, methought, the very house and field

Present before my eyes: nor did I fail

85    
To add, meanwhile, assurance of some work

Of glory, there forthwith to be begun,

Perhaps, too, there perform’d. Thus long I lay

Chear’d by the genial pillow of the earth

Beneath my head, sooth’d by a sense of touch

90    
From the warm ground, that balanced me, else lost

Entirely, seeing nought, nought hearing, save

When here and there, about the grove of Oaks

Where was my bed, an acorn from the trees

Fell audibly, and with a startling sound.

95    
    Thus occupied in mind, I linger’d here

Contented, nor rose up until the sun

Had almost touch’d the horizon, bidding then

A farewell to the City left behind,

Even with the chance equipment of that hour

100  
I journey’d towards the Vale that I had chosen.

It was a splendid evening; and my soul

Did once again make trial of the strength

Restored to her afresh; nor did she want

Eolian visitations; but the harp

105  
Was soon defrauded, and the banded host

Of harmony dispers’d in straggling sounds

And, lastly, utter silence. ‘Be it so,

It is an injury,’ said I, ‘to this day

To think of any thing but present joy.’

110  
So like a Peasant I pursued my road

Beneath the evening sun, nor had one wish

Again to bend the sabbath of that time

To a servile yoke. What need of many words?

A pleasant loitering journey, through two days

115  
Continued, brought me to my hermitage.

    I spare to speak, my Friend, of what ensued,

The admiration and the love, the life

In common things; the endless store of things

Rare, or at least so seeming, every day

120  
Found all about me in one neighbourhood,

The self-congratulation, the complete

Composure, and the happiness entire.

But speedily a longing in me rose

To brace myself to some determin’d aim,

125  
Reading or thinking, either to lay up

New stores, or rescue from decay the old

By timely interference, I had hopes

Still higher, that with a frame of outward life,

I might endue, might fix in a visible home

130  
Some portion of those phantoms of conceit

That had been floating loose about so long,

And to such Beings temperately deal forth

The many feelings that oppress’d my heart.

But I have been discouraged; gleams of light

135  
Flash often from the East, then disappear

And mock me with a sky that ripens not

Into a steady morning: if my mind,

Remembering the sweet promise of the past,

Would gladly grapple with some noble theme,

140  
Vain is her wish; where’er she turns she finds

Impediments from day to day renew’d.

    And now it would content me to yield up

Those lofty hopes awhile for present gifts

Of humbler industry. But, O dear Friend!

145  
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. The mind itself

150  
The meditative mind, best pleased, perhaps,

While she, as duteous as the Mother Dove,

Sits brooding, lives not always to that end,

But hath less quiet instincts, goadings on

That drive her as in trouble through the groves.

155  
With me is now such passion, which I blame

No otherwise than as it lasts too long.

    When, as becomes a man who would prepare

For such a glorious work, I through myself

Make rigorous inquisition, the report

160  
Is often chearing; for I neither seem

To lack, that first great gift! the vital soul,

Nor general truths which are themselves a sort

Of Elements and Agents, Under-Powers,

Subordinate helpers of the living mind.

165  
Nor am I naked in 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; these I seek, and these

170  
I find in plenteous store; but nowhere such

As may be singled out with steady choice;

No little Band of yet remember’d names

Whom I, in perfect confidence, might hope

To summon back from lonesome banishment

175  
And make them inmates in the hearts of men

Now living, or to live in times to come.

Sometimes, mistaking vainly, as I fear,

Proud spring-tide swellings for a regular sea,

I settle on some British theme, some old

180  
Romantic tale, by Milton left unsung;

More often resting at some gentle place

Within the groves of Chivalry, I pipe

Among the Shepherds, with reposing Knights

Sit by a Fountain-side, and hear their tales.

185  
Sometimes, more sternly mov’d, I would relate

How vanquish’d Mithridates northward pass’d,

And, hidden in the cloud of years, became

That Odin, Father of a Race, by whom

Perish’d 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

195  
Starved in those narrow bounds: but not the Soul

Of Liberty, which fifteen hundred years

Surviv’d, and, when the European came

With skill and power that could 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 unknown man,

Unheard of in the Chronicles of Kings,

Suffer’d in silence for the love of truth;

205  
How that one Frenchman, through continued force

Of meditation on the inhuman deeds

Of the first Conquerors of the Indian Isles,

Went single in his ministry across

The Ocean, not to comfort the Oppress’d,

210  
But, like a thirsty wind, to roam about,

Withering the Oppressor: how Gustavus found

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,

215  
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 shape out

Some Tale from my own heart, more near akin

To my own passions and habitual thoughts,

Some variegated story, in the main

Lofty, with interchange of gentler things.

225  
But deadening admonitions will succeed

And the whole beauteous Fabric seems to lack

Foundation, and, withal, appears throughout

Shadowy and unsubstantial. Then, last wish,

My last and favourite aspiration! then

230  
I yearn towards some philosophic Song

Of Truth that cherishes our daily life;

With meditations passionate from deep

Recesses in man’s heart, immortal verse

Thoughtfully fitted to the Orphean lyre;

235  
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 from day to day

I live, a mockery of the brotherhood

240  
Of vice and virtue, with no skill to part

Vague longing that is bred by want of power

From paramount impulse not to be withstood,

A timorous capacity from prudence;

From circumspection, infinite delay.

245  
Humility and modest awe themselves

Betray me, serving often for a cloak

To a more subtle selfishness, that now

Doth lock my functions up in blank reserve,

Now dupes me by an over-anxious eye

250  
That with a false activity beats off

Simplicity and self-presented truth.

– Ah! better far than this, to stray about

Voluptuously through fields and rural walks,

And ask no record of the hours, given up

255  
To vacant musing, unreprov’d neglect

Of all things, and deliberate holiday;

Far better never to have heard the name

Of zeal and just ambition, than to live

Thus baffled by a mind that every hour

260  
Turns recreant to her task, takes heart again,

Then feels immediately some hollow thought

Hang like an interdict upon her hopes.

This is my lot; for either still I find

Some imperfection in the chosen theme,

265  
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 towards the grave,

270  
Like a false steward who hath much received

And renders nothing back. – Was it for this

That one, the fairest of all Rivers, lov’d

To blend his murmurs with my Nurse’s song,

And from his alder shades and rocky falls,

275  
And from his fords and shallows, sent a voice

That flow’d along my dreams? For this, didst Thou,

O Derwent! travelling over the green Plains

Near my ‘sweet Birthplace’, didst thou, beauteous Stream,

Make ceaseless music through the night and day

280  
Which with its steady cadence, tempering

Our human waywardness, compos’d my thoughts

To more than infant softness, giving me,

Among the fretful dwellings of mankind,

A knowledge, a dim earnest, of the calm

285  
Which Nature breathes among the hills and groves.

When, having left his Mountains, to the Towers

Of Cockermouth that beauteous River came,

Behind my Father’s House he pass’d, close by,

Along the margin of our Terrace Walk.

290  
He was a Playmate whom we dearly lov’d.

Oh! many a time have I, a five years’ Child,

A naked Boy, in one delightful Rill,

A little Mill-race sever’d from his stream,

Made one long bathing of a summer’s day,

295  
Bask’d in the sun, and plunged, and bask’d again

Alternate all a summer’s day, or cours’d

Over the sandy fields, leaping through groves

Of yellow grunsel, or when crag and hill,

The woods, and distant Skiddaw’s lofty height,

300  
Were bronz’d with a deep radiance, stood alone

Beneath the sky, as if I had been born

On Indian Plains, and from my Mother’s but

Had run abroad in wantonness, to sport,

A naked Savage, in the thunder shower.