Deep-and, aloft ascending, breathe in worlds To which the heaven of heavens is but a veil All strength-all terror, single or in bands, That ever was put forth in personal form; Jehovah, with his thunder, and the choir Of shouting angels, and the empyreal thrones, I pass them, unalarmed. Not Chaos, not The darkest pit of lowest Erebus,
Nor aught of blinder vacancy-scooped
By help of dreams, can breed such fear and awe As fall upon us often when we look
Into our minds-into the mind of man
My haunt, and the main region of my song. -Beauty-a living presence of the earth, Surpassing the most fair ideal forms Which craft of delicate spirits hath composed From earth's materials-waits upon my steps; Pitches her tents before me as I move,
An hourly neighbour. Paradise, and groves Elysian, Fortunate Fields-like those of old Bought in the Atlantic main, why should they be A history only of departed things,
Or a mere fiction of what never was? For the discerning intellect of man, When wedded to this goodly universe In love and holy passion, shall find these A simple produce of the common day.
I, long before the blissful hour arrives, Would chant, in lonely peace, the spousal verse Of this great consummation ;-and, by words Which speak of nothing more than what we are, Would I arouse the sensual from their sleep Of death, and win the vacant and the vain To noble raptures; while my voice proclaims How exquisitely the individual Mind (And the progressive powers perhaps no less Of the whole species) to the external world Is fitted :-and how exquisitely, too,
(Theme this but little heard of among men), The external world is fitted to the mind; And the creation (by no lower name
Can it be called) which they with blended might Accomplish:-this is our high argument.
Such grateful haunts foregoing, if I oft Must turn elsewhere-to travel near the tribes And fellowships of men, and see ill sights Of madding passions mutually inflamed; Must hear Humanity in fields and groves Pipe solitary anguish; or must hang Brooding above the fierce confederate storm Of sorrow, barricadoed evermore
Within the walls of cities; may these sounds Have their authentic comment that, even these Hearing, I be not downcast or forlorn !
Come thou, prophetic Spirit, that inspirest The human Soul of universal earth,
Dreaming on things to come; and dost possess A metropolitan temple in the hearts
Of mighty poets: upon me bestow
A gift of genuine insight; that my song With star-like virtue in its place may shine; Shedding benignant influence,-and secure, Itself, from all malevolent effect
Of those mutations that extend their sway Throughout the nether sphere! And if with this I mix more lowly matter; with the thing Contemplated, describe the mind and man Contemplating; and who, and what he was, The transitory being that beheld
This vision; when and where, and how he lived;
Be not this labour useless. If such theme
May sort with highest objects, then, dread Power, Whose gracious favour is the primal source Of all illumination, may my life
Express the image of a better time,
More wise desires, and simpler manners; nurse My Leart in genuine freedom: all pure thoughts
Be with me; so shall Thy unfailing love Guide, and support, and cheer me to the end !"
A summer forenoon-The Author reaches a ruined cottage upon a common, and there meets with a reverend friend, the Wanderer, of whom he gives an account-The Wanderer, while resting under the shade of the trees that surround the cottage, relates the history of its last inhabitant.
'TWAS summer, and the sun had mounted high: Southward, the landscape indistinctly glared Through a pale steam; but all the northern downs, In clearest air ascending, showed far off A surface dappled o'er with shadows, flung From many a brooding cloud; far as the sight Could reach, those many shadows lay in spots Determined and unmoved, with steady beams Of bright and pleasant sunshine interposed; Pleasant to him who on the soft cool moss Extends his careless limbs along the front Of some huge cave, whose rocky ceiling casts A twilight of its own, an ample shade,
Where the wren warbles; while the dreaming man, Half conscious of the soothing melody, With sidelong eye looks out upon the scene, By that impending covert made more soft, More low and distant! Other lot was mine; Yet with good hope that soon I should obtain As grateful resting-place, and livelier joy. Across a bare, wide common I was toiling With languid feet, which by the slippery ground Were baffled; nor could my weak arm disperse The host of insects gathering round my face, And ever with me as I paced along.
Upon that open level stood a grove,
The wished-for port to which my steps were bound. Thither I came, and there-amid the gloom
Spread by a brotherhood of lofty elms
Appeared a roofless hut; four naked walls
That stared upon each other! I looked round. And to my wish and to my hope espied
Him whom I sought; a man of reverend age,
But stout and bale, for travel unimpaired. There was he seen upon the cottage bench, Recumbent in the shade, as if asleep: An iron-pointed staff lay at his side.
Him had I marked the day before—alone And in the middle of the public way Stationed, as if to rest himself, with face Turned towards the sun then setting, while that staff Afforded to his figure, as he stood, Detained for contemplation or repose,
Graceful support; the countenance of the man Was hidden from my view, and he himself Unrecognised; but, stricken by the sight, With slackened footsteps I advanced, and soon A glad congratulation we exchanged
At such unthought-of meeting. For the night We parted, nothing willingly; and now He by appointment waited for me here, Beneath the shelter of these clustering elms.
We were tried friends: I from my childhood up Had known him. In a little town obscure, A market-village, seated in a tract
Of mountains, where my school-day time was passed, One room he owned, the fifth part of a house, A place to which he drew, from time to time, And found a kind of home or harbour there.
He loved me; from a swarm of rosy boys Singled out me, as he in sport would say, For my grave looks-too thoughtful for my years. As I grew up, it was my best delight
To be his chosen comrade. Many a time, On holidays, we wandered through the woods,
A pair of random travellers we sate
We walked; he pleased me with his sweet discourse Of things which he had seen; and often touched Abstrusest matter, reasonings of the mind Turned inward; or at my request he sang Old songs-the product of his native hills; A skilful distribution of sweet sounds, Feeding the soul, and eagerly imbibed As cool refreshing water, by the care Of the industrious husbandman diffused
Through a parched meadow-ground in time of drought Still deeper welcome found his pure discourse: How precious when in riper days I learned To weigh with care his words, and to rejoice In the plain presence of his dignity!
O many are the poets that are sown
By Nature! men endowed with highest gifts- The vision, and the faculty divine- Yet wanting the accomplishment of verse
(Which in the docile season of their youth It was denied them to acquire, through lack Of culture and the inspiring aid of books; Or haply by a temper too severe;
Or a nice backwardness afraid of shame), Nor having e'er, as life advanced, been led By circumstance to take unto the height The measure of themselves, these favoured beings, All but a scattered few, live out their time, Husbanding that which they possess within, And go to the grave unthought of. Strongest minds Are often those of whom the noisy world Hears least; else surely this man had not left His graces unrevealed and unproclaimed. But, as the mind was filled with inward light, So not without distinction had he lived, Beloved and honoured-far as he was known. And some small portion of his eloquent speech, And something that may serve to set in view The feeling pleasures of his loneliness, The doings, observations, which his mind Had dealt with-I will here record in verse; Which, if with truth it correspond, and sink Or rise, as venerable Nature leads, The high and tender Muses shall accept With gracious smile, deliberately pleased, And listening Time reward with sacred praise.
Among the hills of Athol he was born: There, on a small hereditary farm, An unproductive slip of rugged ground, His father dwelt; and died in poverty; While he, whose lowly fortune I retrace, The youngest of three sons, was yet a babe, A little one, unconscious of their loss. But ere he had outgrown his infant days, His widowed mother, for a second mate, Espoused the teacher of the village school; Who on her offspring zealously bestowed Needful instruction; not alone in arts Which to his humble duties appertained, But in the lore of right and wrong, the rule Of human kindness, in the peaceful ways Of honesty, and holiness severe.
A virtuous household, though exceeding poor : Poor livers were they all, austere and grave, And fearing God; the very children taught Stern self-respect, a reverence for God's word, And an habitual piety, maintained
With strictness scarcely known on English ground.
From his sixth year, the boy of whom I speak In summer tended cattle on the hills;
But, through the inclement and the perilous days Of long-continuing winter, he repaired
To his stepfather's school, that stood alone, Sole building on a mountain's dreary edge, Far from the sight of city, spire, or sound Of minster clock! From that bleak tenement He, many an evening, to his distant home
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