Verse > William Wordsworth > Complete Poetical Works





          FAR from our home by Grasmere's quiet Lake,
          From the Vale's peace which all her fields partake,
          Here on the bleakest point of Cumbria's shore
          We sojourn stunned by Ocean's ceaseless roar;
          While, day by day, grim neighbour! huge Black Comb
          Frowns deepening visibly his native gloom,
          Unless, perchance rejecting in despite
          What on the Plain 'we' have of warmth and light,
          In his own storms he hides himself from sight.
          Rough is the time; and thoughts, that would be free         10
          From heaviness, oft fly, dear Friend, to thee;
          Turn from a spot where neither sheltered road
          Nor hedge-row screen invites my steps abroad;
          Where one poor Plane-tree, having as it might
          Attained a stature twice a tall man's height,
          Hopeless of further growth, and brown and sere
          Through half the summer, stands with top cut sheer,
          Like an unshifting weathercock which proves
          How cold the quarter that the wind best loves,
          Or like a Centinel that, evermore                           20
          Darkening the window, ill defends the door
          Of this unfinished house--a Fortress bare,
          Where strength has been the Builder's only care;
          Whose rugged walls may still for years demand
          The final polish of the Plasterer's hand.
          --This Dwelling's Inmate more than three weeks space
          And oft a Prisoner in the cheerless place,
          I--of whose touch the fiddle would complain,
          Whose breath would labour at the flute in vain,
          In music all unversed, nor blessed with skill               30
          A bridge to copy, or to paint a mill,
          Tired of my books, a scanty company!
          And tired of listening to the boisterous sea--
          Pace between door and window muttering rhyme,
          An old resource to cheat a froward time!
          Though these dull hours (mine is it, or their shame?)
          Would tempt me to renounce that humble aim.
          --But if there be a Muse who, free to take
          Her seat upon Olympus, doth forsake
          Those heights (like Phoebus when his golden locks           40
          He veiled, attendant on Thessalian flocks)
          And, in disguise, a Milkmaid with her pail
          Trips down the pathways of some winding dale;
          Or, like a Mermaid, warbles on the shores
          To fishers mending nets beside their doors;
          Or, Pilgrim-like, on forest moss reclined,
          Gives plaintive ditties to the heedless wind,
          Or listens to its play among the boughs
          Above her head and so forgets her vows--
          If such a Visitant of Earth there be                        50
          And she would deign this day to smile on me
          And aid my verse, content with local bounds
          Of natural beauty and life's daily rounds,
          Thoughts, chances, sights, or doings, which we tell
          Without reserve to those whom we love well--
          Then haply, Beaumont! words in current clear
          Will flow, and on a welcome page appear
          Duly before thy sight, unless they perish here.
            What shall I treat of? News from Mona's Isle?
          Such have we, but unvaried in its style;                    60
          No tales of Runagates fresh landed, whence
          And wherefore fugitive or on what pretence;
          Of feasts, or scandal, eddying like the wind
          Most restlessly alive when most confined.
          Ask not of me, whose tongue can best appease
          The mighty tumults of the HOUSE OF KEYS;
          The last year's cup whose Ram or Heifer gained,
          What slopes are planted, or what mosses drained:
          An eye of fancy only can I cast
          On that proud pageant now at hand or past,                  70
          When full five hundred boats in trim array,
          With nets and sails outspread and streamers gay,
          And chanted hymns and stiller voice of prayer,
          For the old Manx-harvest to the Deep repair,
          Soon as the herring-shoals at distance shine
          Like beds of moonlight shifting on the brine.
            Mona from our Abode is daily seen,
          But with a wilderness of waves between;
          And by conjecture only can we speak
          Of aught transacted there in bay or creek;                  80
          No tidings reach us thence from town or field,
          Only faint news her mountain sunbeams yield,
          And some we gather from the misty air,
          And some the hovering clouds, our telegraph, declare.
          But these poetic mysteries I withhold;
          For Fancy hath her fits both hot and cold,
          And should the colder fit with You be on
          When You might read, my credit would be gone.
            Let more substantial themes the pen engage,
          And nearer interests culled from the opening stage          90
          Of our migration.--Ere the welcome dawn
          Had from the east her silver star withdrawn,
          The Wain stood ready, at our Cottage-door,
          Thoughtfully freighted with a various store;
          And long or ere the uprising of the Sun
          O'er dew-damped dust our journey was begun,
          A needful journey, under favouring skies,
          Through peopled Vales; yet something in the guise
          Of those old Patriarchs when from well to well
          They roamed through Wastes where now the tented Arabs
              dwell.                                                 100
            Say first, to whom did we the charge confide,
          Who promptly undertook the Wain to guide
          Up many a sharply-twining road and down,
          And over many a wide hill's craggy crown,
          Through the quick turns of many a hollow nook,
          And the rough bed of many an unbridged brook?
          A blooming Lass--who in her better hand
          Bore a light switch, her sceptre of command
          When, yet a slender Girl, she often led,
          Skilful and bold, the horse and burthened 'sled'           110
          From the peat-yielding Moss on Gowdar's head.
          What could go wrong with such a Charioteer
          For goods and chattels, or those Infants dear,
          A Pair who smilingly sate side by side,
          Our hope confirming that the salt-sea tide
          Whose free embraces we were bound to seek,
          Would their lost strength restore and freshen the pale cheek?
          Such hope did either Parent entertain
          Pacing behind along the silent lane.
            Blithe hopes and happy musings soon took flight,         120
          For lo! an uncouth melancholy sight--
          On a green bank a creature stood forlorn
          Just half protruded to the light of morn,
          Its hinder part concealed by hedge-row thorn
          The Figure called to mind a beast of prey
          Stript of its frightful powers by slow decay,
          And, though no longer upon rapine bent,
          Dim memory keeping of its old intent.
          We started, looked again with anxious eyes,
          And in that griesly object recognise                       130
          The Curate's Dog--his long-tried friend, for they,
          As well we knew, together had grown grey.
          The Master died, his drooping servant's grief
          Found at the Widow's feet some sad relief;
          Yet still he lived in pining discontent,
          Sadness which no indulgence could prevent;
          Hence whole day wanderings, broken nightly sleeps
          And lonesome watch that out of doors he keeps;
          Not oftentimes, I trust, as we, poor brute!
          Espied him on his legs sustained, blank, mute,             140
          And of all visible motion destitute,
          So that the very heaving of his breath
          Seemed stopt, though by some other power than death.
          Long as we gazed upon the form and face,
          A mild domestic pity kept its place,
          Unscared by thronging fancies of strange hue
          That haunted us in spite of what we knew.
          Even now I sometimes think of him as lost
          In second-sight appearances, or crost
          By spectral shapes of guilt, or to the ground,             150
          On which he stood, by spells unnatural bound,
          Like a gaunt shaggy Porter forced to wait
          In days of old romance at Archimago's gate.
            Advancing Summer, Nature's law fulfilled,
          The choristers in every grove had stilled;
          But we, we lacked not music of our own,
          For lightsome Fanny had thus early thrown,
          Mid the gay prattle of those infant tongues,
          Some notes prelusive, from the round of songs
          With which, more zealous than the liveliest bird           160
          That in wild Arden's brakes was ever heard,
          Her work and her work's partners she can cheer,
          The whole day long, and all days of the year.
            Thus gladdened from our own dear Vale we pass
          And soon approach Diana's Looking-glass!
          To Loughrigg-tarn, round clear and bright as heaven,
          Such name Italian fancy would have given,
          Ere on its banks the few grey cabins rose
          That yet disturb not its concealed repose
          More than the feeblest wind that idly blows.               170
            Ah, Beaumont! when an opening in the road
          Stopped me at once by charm of what it showed,
          The encircling region vividly exprest
          Within the mirror's depth, a world at rest--
          Sky streaked with purple, grove and craggy 'bield',
          And the smooth green of many a pendent field,
          And, quieted and soothed, a torrent small,
          A little daring would-be waterfall,
          One chimney smoking and its azure wreath,
          Associate all in the calm Pool beneath,                    180
          With here and there a faint imperfect gleam
          Of water-lilies veiled in misty steam--
          What wonder at this hour of stillness deep,
          A shadowy link 'tween wakefulness and sleep,
          When Nature's self, amid such blending, seems
          To render visible her own soft dreams,
          If, mixed with what appeared of rock, lawn, wood,
          Fondly embosomed in the tranquil flood,
          A glimpse I caught of that Abode, by Thee
          Designed to rise in humble privacy,                        190
          A lowly Dwelling, here to be outspread,
          Like a small Hamlet, with its bashful head
          Half hid in native trees. Alas 'tis not,
          Nor ever was; I sighed, and left the spot
          Unconscious of its own untoward lot,
          And thought in silence, with regret too keen,
          Of unexperienced joys that might have been;
          Of neighbourhood and intermingling arts,
          And golden summer days uniting cheerful hearts.
          But time, irrevocable time, is flown.                      200
          And let us utter thanks for blessings sown
          And reaped--what hath been, and what is, our own.
            Not far we travelled ere a shout of glee,
          Startling us all, dispersed my reverie;
          Such shout as many a sportive echo meeting
          Oft-times from Alpine 'chalets' sends a greeting.
          Whence the blithe hail? behold a Peasant stand
          On high, a kerchief waving in her hand!
          Not unexpectant that by early day
          Our little Band would thrid this mountain way,             210
          Before her cottage on the bright hill side
          She hath advanced with hope to be descried.
          Right gladly answering signals we displayed,
          Moving along a tract of morning shade,
          And vocal wishes sent of like good will
          To our kind Friend high on the sunny hill--
          Luminous region, fair as if the prime
          Were tempting all astir to look aloft or climb;
          Only the centre of the shining cot
          With door left open makes a gloomy spot,                   220
          Emblem of those dark corners sometimes found
          Within the happiest breast on earthly ground.
            Rich prospect left behind of stream and vale,
          And mountain-tops, a barren ridge we scale;
          Descend, and reach, in Yewdale's depths, a plain
          With haycocks studded, striped with yellowing grain--
          An area level as a Lake and spread
          Under a rock too steep for man to tread,
          Where sheltered from the north and bleak northwest
          Aloft the Raven hangs a visible nest,                      230
          Fearless of all assaults that would her brood molest.
          Hot sunbeams fill the steaming vale; but hark,
          At our approach, a jealous watch-dog's bark,
          Noise that brings forth no liveried Page of state,
          But the whole household, that our coming wait.
          With Young and Old warm greetings we exchange,
          And jocund smiles, and toward the lowly Grange
          Press forward by the teasing dogs unscared.
          Entering, we find the morning meal prepared:
          So down we sit, though not till each had cast              240
          Pleased looks around the delicate repast--
          Rich cream, and snow-white eggs fresh from the nest,
          With amber honey from the mountain's breast;
          Strawberries from lane or woodland, offering wild
          Of children's industry, in hillocks piled;
          Cakes for the nonce, and butter fit to lie
          Upon a lordly dish; frank hospitality
          Where simple art with bounteous nature vied,
          And cottage comfort shuned not seemly pride.
            Kind Hostess! Handmaid also of the feast,                250
          If thou be lovelier than the kindling East,
          Words by thy presence unrestrained may speak
          Of a perpetual dawn from brow and cheek
          Instinct with light whose sweetest promise lies,
          Never retiring, in thy large dark eyes,
          Dark but to every gentle feeling true,
          As if their lustre flowed from ether's purest blue.
            Let me not ask what tears may have been wept
          By those bright eyes, what weary vigils kept,
          Beside that hearth what sighs may have been heaved         260
          For wounds inflicted, nor what toil relieved
          By fortitude and patience, and the grace
          Of heaven in pity visiting the place.
          Not unadvisedly those secret springs
          I leave unsearched: enough that memory clings,
          Here as elsewhere, to notices that make
          Their own significance for hearts awake,
          To rural incidents, whose genial powers
          Filled with delight three summer morning hours.
            More cold my pen report of grave or gay                  270
          That through our gipsy travel cheered the way;
          But, bursting forth above the waves, the Sun
          Laughs at my pains, and seems to say, "Be done."
          Yet, Beaumont, thou wilt not, I trust, reprove
          This humble offering made by Truth to Love,
          Nor chide the Muse that stooped to break a spell
          Which might have else been on me yet:--



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