BOOK SEVENTH

Six changeful years have vanished since I first

Poured out ( saluted by that quickening breeze

Which met me issuing from the City's walls )

A glad preamble to this Verse: I sang

Aloud, with fervour irresistible

Of short-lived transport, like a torrent bursting,

From a black thunder-cloud, down Scafell's side

To rush and disappear. But soon broke forth

( So willed the Muse ) a less impetuous stream,

That flowed awhile with unabating strength,

Then stopped for years; not audible again

Before last primrose-time, Beloved Friend!

The assurance which then cheered some heavy thoughts

On thy departure to a foreign land

Has failed; too slowly moves the promised work.

Through the whole summer have I been at rest,

Partly from voluntary holiday,

And part through outward hindrance. But I heard,

After the hour of sunset yester-even,

Sitting within doors between light and dark,

A choir of redbreasts gathered somewhere near

My threshold,— minstrels from the distant woods

Sent in on Winter's service, to announce,

With preparation artful and benign,

That the rough lord had left the surly North

On his accustomed journey. The delight,

Due to this timely notice, unawares

Smote me, and, listening, I in whispers said,

“Ye heartsome Choristers, ye and I will be

Associates, and, unscared by blustering winds,

Will chant together.” Thereafter, as the shades

Of twilight deepened, going forth, I spied

A glow-worm underneath a dusky plume

Or canopy of yet unwithered fern,

Clear-shining, like a hermit's taper seen

Through a thick forest. Silence touched me here

No less than sound had done before; the child

Of Summer, lingering, shining, by herself,

The voiceless worm on the unfrequented hills,

Seemed sent on the same errand with the choir

Of Winter that had warbled at my door,

And the whole year breathed tenderness and love.

The last night's genial feeling overflowed

Upon this morning, and my favourite grove,

Tossing in sunshine its dark boughs aloft,

As if to make the strong wind visible,

Wakes in me agitations like its own,

A spirit friendly to the Poet's task,

Which we will now resume with lively hope,

Nor checked by aught of tamer argument

That lies before us, needful to be told.

Returned from that excursion, soon I bade

Farewell for ever to the sheltered seats

Of gownèd students, quitted hall and bower,

And every comfort of that privileged ground,

Well pleased to pitch a vagrant tent among

The unfenced regions of society.

Yet, undetermined to what course of life

I should adhere, and seeming to possess

A little space of intermediate time

At full command, to London first I turned,

In no disturbance of excessive hope,

By personal ambition unenslaved,

Frugal as there was need, and, though self-willed,

From dangerous passions free. Three years had flown

Since I had felt in heart and soul the shock

Of the huge town's first presence, and had paced

Her endless streets, a transient visitant:

Now, fixed amid that concourse of mankind

Where Pleasure whirls about incessantly,

And life and labour seem but one, I filled

An idler's place; an idler well content

To have a house ( what matter for a home? )

That owned him; living cheerfully abroad

With unchecked fancy ever on the stir,

And all my young affections out of doors.

There was a time when whatsoe'er is feigned

Of airy palaces, and gardens built

By Genii of romance; or hath in grave

Authentic history been set forth of Rome,

Alcairo, Babylon, or Persepolis;

Or given upon report by pilgrim friars,

Of golden cities ten months’ journey deep

Among Tartarian wilds — fell short, far short,

Of what my fond simplicity believed

And thought of London — held me by a chain

Less strong of wonder and obscure delight.

Whether the bolt of childhood's Fancy shot

For me beyond its ordinary mark,

‘ Twere vain to ask; but in our flock of boys

Was One, a cripple from his birth, whom chance

Summoned from school to London; fortunate

And envied traveller! When the Boy returned,

After short absence, curiously I scanned

His mien and person, nor was free, in sooth,

From disappointment, not to find some change

In look and air, from that new region brought,

As if from Fairy-land. Much I questioned him;

And every word he uttered, on my ears

Fell flatter than a cagèd parrot's note,

That answers unexpectedly awry,

And mocks the prompter's listening. Marvellous things

Had vanity ( quick Spirit that appears

Almost as deeply seated and as strong

In a Child's heart as fear itself ) conceived

For my enjoyment. Would that I could now

Recal what then I pictured to myself,

Of mitred Prelates, Lords in ermine clad,

The King, and the King's Palace, and, not last,

Nor least, Heaven bless him! the renowned Lord Mayor:

Dreams not unlike to those which once begat

A change of purpose in young Whittington,

When he, a friendless and a drooping boy,

Sate on a stone, and heard the bells speak out

Articulate music. Above all, one thought

Baffled my understanding: how men lived

Even next-door neighbours, as we say, yet still

Strangers, not knowing each the other's name.

O, wond'rous power of words, by simple faith

Licensed to take the meaning that we love!

Vauxhall and Ranelagh! I then had heard

Of your green groves, and wilderness of lamps

Dimming the stars, and fireworks magical,

And gorgeous ladies, under splendid domes,

Floating in dance, or warbling high in air

The songs of spirits! Nor had Fancy fed

With less delight upon that other class

Of marvels, broad-day wonders permanent:

The River proudly bridged; the dizzy top

And Whispering Gallery of St. Paul's; the tombs

Of Westminster; the Giants of Guildhall;

Bedlam, and those carved maniacs at the gates,

Perpetually recumbent; Statues — man,

And the horse under him — in gilded pomp

Adorning flowery gardens,‘ mid vast squares;

The Monument, and that Chamber of the Tower

Where England's sovereigns sit in long array,

Their steeds bestriding,— every mimic shape

Cased in the gleaming mail the monarch wore,

Whether for gorgeous tournament addressed,

Or life or death upon the battle-field.

Those bold imaginations in due time

Had vanished, leaving others in their stead:

And now I looked upon the living scene;

Familiarly perused it; oftentimes,

In spite of strongest disappointment, pleased

Through courteous self-submission, as a tax

Paid to the object by prescriptive right.

Rise up, thou monstrous ant-hill on the plain

Of a too busy world! Before me flow,

Thou endless stream of men and moving things!

Thy every-day appearance, as it strikes —

With wonder heightened, or sublimed by awe —

On strangers, of all ages; the quick dance

Of colours, lights, and forms; the deafening din;

The comers and the goers face to face,

Face after face; the string of dazzling wares,

Shop after shop, with symbols, blazoned names,

And all the tradesman's honours overhead:

Here, fronts of houses, like a title-page,

With letters huge inscribed from top to toe,

Stationed above the door, like guardian saints;

There, allegoric shapes, female or male,

Or physiognomies of real men,

Land-warriors, kings, or admirals of the sea,

Boyle, Shakespeare, Newton, or the attractive head

Of some quack-doctor, famous in his day.

Meanwhile the roar continues, till at length,

Escaped as from an enemy, we turn

Abruptly into some sequestered nook,

Still as a sheltered place when winds blow loud!

At leisure, thence, through tracts of thin resort,

And sights and sounds that come at intervals,

We take our way. A raree-show is here,

With children gathered round; another street

Presents a company of dancing dogs,

Or dromedary, with an antic pair

Of monkeys on his back; a minstrel band

Of Savoyards; or, single and alone,

An English ballad-singer. Private courts,

Gloomy as coffins, and unsightly lanes

Thrilled by some female vendor's scream, belike

The very shrillest of all London cries,

May then entangle our impatient steps;

Conducted through those labyrinths, unawares,

To privileged regions and inviolate,

Where from their airy lodges studious lawyers

Look out on waters, walks, and gardens green.

Thence back into the throng, until we reach,

Following the tide that slackens by degrees,

Some half-frequented scene, where wider streets

Bring straggling breezes of suburban air.

Here files of ballads dangle from dead walls;

Advertisements, of giant-size, from high

Press forward, in all colours, on the sight;

These, bold in conscious merit, lower down;

That, fronted with a most imposing word,

Is, peradventure, one in masquerade.

As on the broadening causeway we advance,

Behold, turned upwards, a face hard and strong

In lineaments, and red with over-toil.

‘ Tis one encountered here and everywhere;

A travelling cripple, by the trunk cut short,

And stumping on his arms. In sailor's garb

Another lies at length, beside a range

Of well-formed characters, with chalk inscribed

Upon the smooth flat stones: the Nurse is here,

The Bachelor, that loves to sun himself,

The military Idler, and the Dame,

That field-ward takes her walk with decent steps.

Now homeward through the thickening hubbub, where

See, among less distinguishable shapes,

The begging scavenger, with hat in hand;

The Italian, as he thrids his way with care,

Steadying, far-seen, a frame of images

Upon his head; with basket at his breast

The Jew; the stately and slow-moving Turk,

With freight of slippers piled beneath his arm!

Enough;— the mighty concourse I surveyed

With no unthinking mind, well pleased to note

Among the crowd all specimens of man,

Through all the colours which the sun bestows,

And every character of form and face:

The Swede, the Russian; from the genial south,

The Frenchman and the Spaniard; from remote

America, the Hunter-Indian; Moors,

Malays, Lascars, the Tartar, the Chinese,

And Negro Ladies in white muslin gowns.

At leisure, then, I viewed, from day to day,

The spectacles within doors,— birds and beasts

Of every nature, and strange plants convened

From every clime; and, next, those sights that ape

The absolute presence of reality,

Expressing, as in mirror, sea and land,

And what earth is, and what she has to shew.

I do not here allude to subtlest craft,

By means refined attaining purest ends,

But imitations, fondly made in plain

Confession of man's weakness and his loves.

Whether the Painter, whose ambitious skill

Submits to nothing less than taking in

A whole horizon's circuit, do with power,

Like that of angels or commissioned spirits,

Fix us upon some lofty pinnacle,

Or in a ship on waters, with a world

Of life, and life-like mockery beneath,

Above, behind, far stretching and before;

Or more mechanic artist represent

By scale exact, in model, wood or clay,

From blended colours also borrowing help,

Some miniature of famous spots or things,—

St. Peter's Church; or, more aspiring aim,

In microscopic vision, Rome herself;

Or, haply, some choice rural haunt,— the Falls

Of Tivoli; and, high upon that steep,

The Sibyl's mouldering Temple! every tree,

Villa, or cottage, lurking among rocks

Throughout the landscape; tuft, stone scratch minute —

All that the traveller sees when he is there.

Add to these exhibitions, mute and still,

Others of wider scope, where living men,

Music, and shifting pantomimic scenes,

Diversified the allurement. Need I fear

To mention by its name, as in degree,

Lowest of these and humblest in attempt,

Yet richly graced with honours of her own,

Half-rural Sadler's Wells? Though at that time

Intolerant, as is the way of youth

Unless itself be pleased, here more than once

Taking my seat, I saw ( nor blush to add,

With ample recompense ) giants and dwarfs,

Clowns, conjurors, posture-masters, harlequins,

Amid the uproar of the rabblement,

Perform their feats. Nor was it mean delight

To watch crude Nature work in untaught minds;

To note the laws and progress of belief;

Though obstinate on this way, yet on that

How willingly we travel, and how far!

To have, for instance, brought upon the scene

The champion, Jack the Giant-killer: Lo!

He dons his coat of darkness; on the stage

Walks, and achieves his wonders, from the eye

Of living Mortal covert, “as the moon

Hid in her vacant interlunar cave.”

Delusion bold! and how can it be wrought?

The garb he wears is black as death, the word

“Invisible” flames forth upon his chest.

Here, too, were “forms and pressures of the time,”

Rough, bold, as Grecian comedy displayed

When Art was young; dramas of living men,

And recent things yet warm with life; a sea-fight,

Shipwreck, or some domestic incident

Divulged by Truth and magnified by Fame,

Such as the daring brotherhood of late

Set forth, too serious theme for that light place —

I mean, O distant Friend! a story drawn

From our own ground,— the Maid of Buttermere,—

And how, unfaithful to a virtuous wife

Deserted and deceived, the spoiler came

And wooed the artless daughter of the hills,

And wedded her, in cruel mockery

Of love and marriage bonds. These words to thee

Must needs bring back the moment when we first,

Ere the broad world rang with the maiden's name,

Beheld her serving at the cottage inn,

Both stricken, as she entered or withdrew,

With admiration of her modest mien

And carriage, marked by unexampled grace.

We since that time not unfamiliarly

Have seen her,— her discretion have observed,

Her just opinions, delicate reserve,

Her patience, and humility of mind

Unspoiled by commendation and the excess

Of public notice — an offensive light

To a meek spirit suffering inwardly.

From this memorial tribute to my theme

I was returning, when, with sundry forms

Commingled — shapes which met me in the way

That we must tread — thy image rose again,

Maiden of Buttermere! She lives in peace

Upon the spot where she was born and reared;

Without contamination doth she live

In quietness, without anxiety:

Beside the mountain chapel, sleeps in earth

Her new-born infant, fearless as a lamb

That, thither driven from some unsheltered place,

Rests underneath the little rock-like pile

When storms are raging. Happy are they both —

Mother and child!— These feelings, in themselves

Trite, do yet scarcely seem so when I think

On those ingenuous moments of our youth

Ere we have learnt by use to slight the crimes

And sorrows of the world. Those simple days

Are now my theme; and, foremost of the scenes,

Which yet survive in memory, appears

One, at whose centre sate a lovely Boy,

A sportive infant, who, for six months’ space,

Not more, had been of age to deal about

Articulate prattle — Child as beautiful

As ever clung around a mother's neck,

Or father fondly gazed upon with pride.

There, too, conspicuous for stature tall

And large dark eyes, beside her infant stood

The mother; but, upon her cheeks diffused,

False tints too well accorded with the glare

From play-house lustres thrown without reserve

On every object near. The Boy had been

The pride and pleasure of all lookers-on

In whatsoever place, but seemed in this

A sort of alien scattered from the clouds.

Of lusty vigour, more than infantine

He was in limb, in cheek a summer rose

Just three parts blown — a cottage-child — if e'er,

By cottage-door on breezy mountain side,

Or in some sheltering vale, was seen a babe

By Nature's gifts so favoured. Upon a board

Decked with refreshments had this child been placed,

His little stage in the vast theatre,

And there he sate surrounded with a throng

Of chance spectators, chiefly dissolute men

And shameless women, treated and caressed;

Ate, drank, and with the fruit and glasses played,

While oaths and laughter and indecent speech

Were rife about him as the songs of birds

Contending after showers. The mother now

Is fading out of memory, but I see

The lovely Boy as I beheld him then

Among the wretched and the falsely gay,

Like one of those who walked with hair unsinged

Amid the fiery furnace. Charms and spells

Muttered on black and spiteful instigation

Have stopped, as some believe, the kindliest growths.

Ah, with how different spirit might a prayer

Have been preferred, that this fair creature, checked

By special privilege of Nature's love,

Should in his childhood be detained for ever!

But with its universal freight the tide

Hath rolled along, and this bright innocent,

Mary! may now have lived till he could look

With envy on thy nameless babe that sleeps,

Beside the mountain chapel, undisturbed.

Four rapid years had scarcely then been told

Since, travelling southward from our pastoral hills,

I heard, and for the first time in my life,

The voice of woman utter blasphemy —

Saw woman as she is, to open shame

Abandoned, and the pride of public vice;

I shuddered, for a barrier seemed at once

Thrown in, that from humanity divorced

Humanity, splitting the race of man

In twain, yet leaving the same outward form.

Distress of mind ensued upon the sight

And ardent meditation. Later years

Brought to such spectacle a milder sadness.

Feelings of pure commiseration, grief

For the individual and the overthrow

Of her soul's beauty; farther I was then

But seldom led, or wished to go; in truth

The sorrow of the passion stopped me there.

But let me now, less moved, in order take

Our argument. Enough is said to show

How casual incidents of real life,

Observed where pastime only had been sought,

Outweighed, or put to flight, the set events

And measured passions of the stage, albeit

By Siddons trod in the fulness of her power.

Yet was the theatre my dear delight;

The very gilding, lamps and painted scrolls,

And all the mean upholstery of the place,

Wanted not animation, when the tide

Of pleasure ebbed but to return as fast

With the ever-shifting figures of the scene,

Solemn or gay: whether some beauteous dame

Advanced in radiance through a deep recess

Of thick entangled forest, like the moon

Opening the clouds; or sovereign king, announced

With flourishing trumpet, came in full-blown state

Of the world's greatness, winding round with train

Of courtiers, banners, and a length of guards;

Or captive led in abject weeds, and jingling

His slender manacles; or romping girl

Bounced, leapt, and pawed the air; or mumbling sire,

A scare-crow pattern of old age dressed up

In all the tatters of infirmity

All loosely put together, hobbled in,

Stumping upon a cane with which he smites,

From time to time, the solid boards, and makes them

Prate somewhat loudly of the whereabout

Of one so overloaded with his years.

But what of this! the laugh, the grin, grimace,

The antics striving to outstrip each other,

Were all received, the least of them not lost,

With an unmeasured welcome. Through the night,

Between the show, and many-headed mass

Of the spectators, and each several nook

Filled with its fray or brawl, how eagerly

And with what flashes, as it were, the mind

Turned this way — that way! sportive and alert

And watchful, as a kitten when at play,

While winds are eddying round her, among straws

And rustling leaves. Enchanting age and sweet!

Romantic almost, looked at through a space,

How small, of intervening years! For then,

Though surely no mean progress had been made

In meditations holy and sublime,

Yet something of a girlish child-like gloss

Of novelty survived for scenes like these;

Enjoyment haply handed down from times

When at a country-playhouse, some rude barn

Tricked out for that proud use, if I perchance

Caught, on a summer evening through a chink

In the old wall, an unexpected glimpse

Of daylight, the bare thought of where I was

Gladdened me more than if I had been led

Into a dazzling cavern of romance,

Crowded with Genii busy among works

Not to be looked at by the common sun.

The matter that detains us now may seem,

To many, neither dignified enough

Nor arduous, yet will not be scorned by them,

Who, looking inward, have observed the ties

That bind the perishable hours of life

Each to the other, and the curious props

By which the world of memory and thought

Exists and is sustained. More lofty themes,

Such as at least do wear a prouder face,

Solicit our regard; but when I think

Of these, I feel the imaginative power

Languish within me; even then it slept,

When, pressed by tragic sufferings, the heart

Was more than full; amid my sobs and tears

It slept, even in the pregnant season of youth.

For though I was most passionately moved

And yielded to all changes of the scene

With an obsequious promptness, yet the storm

Passed not beyond the suburbs of the mind;

Save when realities of act and mien,

The incarnation of the spirits that move

In harmony amid the Poet's world,

Rose to ideal grandeur, or, called forth

By power of contrast, made me recognise,

As at a glance, the things which I had shaped,

And yet not shaped, had seen and scarcely seen,

When, having closed the mighty Shakespeare's page,

I mused, and thought, and felt, in solitude.

Pass we from entertainments, that are such

Professedly, to others titled higher,

Yet, in the estimate of youth at least,

More near akin to those than names imply,—

I mean the brawls of lawyers in their courts

Before the ermined judge, or that great stage

Where senators, tongue-favoured men, perform,

Admired and envied. Oh! the beating heart,

When one among the prime of these rose up,—

One, of whose name from childhood we had heard

Familiarly, a household term, like those,

The Bedfords, Glosters, Salsburys, of old

Whom the fifth Harry talks of. Silence! hush!

This is no trifler, no short-flighted wit,

No stammerer of a minute, painfully

Delivered. No! the Orator hath yoked

The Hours, like young Aurora, to his car:

Thrice welcome Presence! how can patience e'er

Grow weary of attending on a track

That kindles with such glory! All are charmed,

Astonished; like a hero in romance,

He winds away his never-ending horn;

Words follow words, sense seems to follow sense:

What memory and what logic! till the strain

Transcendent, superhuman as it seemed,

Grows tedious even in a young man's ear.

Genius of Burke! forgive the pen seduced

By specious wonders, and too slow to tell

Of what the ingenuous, what bewildered men,

Beginning to mistrust their boastful guides,

And wise men, willing to grow wiser, caught,

Rapt auditors! from thy most eloquent tongue —

Now mute, for ever mute in the cold grave.

I see him,— old, but Vigorous in age,—

Stand like an oak whose stag-horn branches start

Out of its leafy brow, the more to awe

The younger brethren of the grove. But some —

While he forewarns, denounces, launches forth,

Against all systems built on abstract rights,

Keen ridicule; the majesty proclaims

Of Institutes and Laws, hallowed by time;

Declares the vital power of social ties

Endeared by Custom; and with high disdain,

Exploding upstart Theory, insists

Upon the allegiance to which men are born —

Some — say at once a froward multitude —

Murmur ( for truth is hated, where not loved )

As the winds fret within the Æolian cave,

Galled by their monarch's chain. The times were big

With ominous change, which, night by night, provoked

Keen struggles, and black clouds of passion raised;

But memorable moments intervened,

When Wisdom, like the Goddess from Jove's brain,

Broke forth in armour of resplendent words,

Startling the Synod. Could a youth, and one

In ancient story versed, whose breast had heaved

Under the weight of classic eloquence,

Sit, see, and hear, unthankful, uninspired?

Nor did the Pulpit's oratory fail

To achieve its higher triumph. Not unfelt

Were its admonishments, nor lightly heard

The awful truths delivered thence by tongues

Endowed with various power to search the soul;

Yet ostentation, domineering, oft

Poured forth harangues, how sadly out of place!—

There have I seen a comely bachelor,

Fresh from a toilette of two hours, ascend

His rostrum, with seraphic glance look up,

And, in a tone elaborately low

Beginning, lead his voice through many a maze

A minuet course; and, winding up his mouth,

From time to time, into an orifice

Most delicate, a lurking eyelet, small,

And only not invisible, again

Open it out, diffusing thence a smile

Of rapt irradiation, exquisite.

Meanwhile the Evangelists, Isaiah, Job,

Moses, and he who penned, the other day,

The Death of Abel, Shakespeare, and the Bard

Whose genius spangled o'er a gloomy theme

With fancies thick as his inspiring stars,

And Ossian ( doubt not,‘ tis the naked truth )

Summoned from streamy Morven — each and all

Would, in their turns, lend ornaments and flowers

To entwine the crook of eloquence that helped

This pretty Shepherd, pride of all the plains,

To rule and guide his captivated flock.

I glance but at a few conspicuous marks,

Leaving a thousand others, that, in hall,

Court, theatre, conventicle, or shop,

In public room or private, park or street,

Each fondly reared on his own pedestal,

Looked out for admiration. Folly, vice,

Extravagance in gesture, mien, and dress,

And all the strife of singularity,

Lies to the ear, and lies to every sense —

Of these, and of the living shapes they wear,

There is no end. Such candidates for regard,

Although well pleased to be where they were found,

I did not hunt after, nor greatly prize,

Nor made unto myself a secret boast

Of reading them with quick and curious eye;

But, as a common produce, things that are

To-day, to-morrow will be, took of them

Such willing note, as, on some errand bound

That asks not speed, a Traveller might bestow

On sea-shells that bestrew the sandy beach,

Or daisies swarming through the fields of June.

But foolishness and madness in parade,

Though most at home in this their dear domain,

Are scattered everywhere, no rarities,

Even to the rudest novice of the Schools.

Me, rather, it employed, to note, and keep

In memory, those individual sights

Of courage, or integrity, or truth,

Or tenderness, which there, set off by foil,

Appeared more touching. One will I select;

A Father — for he bore that sacred name —

Him saw I, sitting in an open square,

Upon a corner-stone of that low wall,

Wherein were fixed the iron pales that fenced

A spacious grass-plot; there, in silence, sate

This One Man, with a sickly babe outstretched

Upon his knee, whom he had thither brought

For sunshine, and to breathe the fresher air.

Of those who passed, and me who looked at him,

He took no heed; but in his brawny arms

( The Artificer was to the elbow bare,

And from his work this moment had been stolen )

He held the child, and, bending over it,

As if he were afraid both of the sun

And of the air, which he had come to seek,

Eyed the poor babe with love unutterable.

As the black storm upon the mountain top

Sets off the sunbeam in the valley, so

That huge fermenting mass of human-kind

Serves as a solemn back-ground, or relief,

To single forms and objects, whence they draw,

For feeling and contemplative regard,

More than inherent liveliness and power.

How oft, amid those overflowing streets,

Have I gone forward with the crowd, and said

Unto myself, “The face of every one

That passes by me is a mystery!”

Thus have I looked, nor ceased to look, oppressed

By thoughts of what and whither, when and how,

Until the shapes before my eyes became

A second-sight procession, such as glides

Over still mountains, or appears in dreams;

And once, far-travelled in such mood, beyond

The reach of common indication, lost

Amid the moving pageant, I was smitten

Abruptly, with the view ( a sight not rare )

Of a blind Beggar, who, with upright face,

Stood, propped against a wall, upon his chest

Wearing a written paper, to explain

His story, whence he came, and who he was.

Caught by the spectacle my mind turned round

As with the might of waters; an apt type

This label seemed of the utmost we can know,

Both of ourselves and of the universe;

And, on the shape of that unmoving man,

His steadfast face and sightless eyes, I gazed,

As if admonished from another world.

Though reared upon the base of outward things,

Structures like these the excited spirit mainly

Builds for herself; scenes different there are,

Full-formed, that take, with small internal help,

Possession of the faculties,— the peace

That comes with night; the deep solemnity

Of nature's intermediate hours of rest,

When the great tide of human life stands still;

The business of the day to come, unborn,

Of that gone by, locked up, as in the grave;

The blended calmness of the heavens and earth,

Moonlight and stars, and empty streets, and sounds

Unfrequent as in deserts; at late hours

Of winter evenings, when unwholesome rains

Are falling hard, with people yet astir,

The feeble salutation from the voice

Of some unhappy woman, now and then

Heard as we pass, when no one looks about,

Nothing is listened to. But these, I fear,

Are falsely catalogued; things that are, are not,

As the mind answers to them, or the heart

Is prompt, or slow, to feel. What say you, then,

To times, when half the city shall break out

Full of one passion, vengeance, rage, or fear?

To executions, to a street on fire,

Mobs, riots, or rejoicings? From these sights

Take one,— that ancient festival, the Fair,

Holden where martyrs suffered in past time,

And named of St. Bartholomew; there, see

A work completed to our hands, that lays,

If any spectacle on earth can do,

The whole creative powers of man asleep!—

For once, the Muse's help will we implore,

And she shall lodge us, wafted on her wings,

Above the press and danger of the crowd,

Upon some showman's platform. What a shock

For eyes and ears! what anarchy and din,

Barbarian and infernal,— a phantasma,

Monstrous in colour, motion, shape, sight, sound!

Below, the open space, through every nook

Of the wide area, twinkles, is alive

With heads; the midway region, and above,

Is thronged with staring pictures and huge scrolls,

Dumb proclamations of the Prodigies;

With chattering monkeys dangling from their poles,

And children whirling in their roundabouts;

With those that stretch the neck and strain the eyes,

And crack the voice in rivalship, the crowd

Inviting; with buffoons against buffoons

Grimacing, writhing, screaming,— him who grinds

The hurdy-gurdy, at the fiddle weaves,

Rattles the salt-box, thumps the kettle-drum,

And him who at the trumpet puffs his cheeks,

The silver-collared Negro with his timbrel,

Equestrians, tumblers, women, girls, and boys,

Blue-breeched, pink-vested, with high-towering plumes.—

All moveables of wonder, from all parts,

Are here — Albinos, painted Indians, Dwarfs,

The Horse of knowledge, and the learned Pig,

The Stone-eater, the man that swallows fire,

Giants, Ventriloquists, the Invisible Girl,

The Bust that speaks and moves its goggling eyes,

The Wax-work, Clock-work, all the marvellous craft

Of modern Merlins, Wild Beasts, Puppet-shows,

All out-o’ - the-way, far-fetched, perverted things,

All freaks of nature, all Promethean thoughts

Of man, his dullness, madness, and their feats

All jumbled up together, to compose

A Parliament of Monsters. Tents and Booths

Meanwhile, as if the whole were one vast mill,

Are vomiting, receiving on all sides,

Men, Women, three-years’ Children, Babes in arms.

Oh, blank confusion! true epitome

Of what the mighty City is herself,

To thousands upon thousands of her sons,

Living amid the same perpetual whirl

Of trivial objects, melted and reduced

To one identity, by differences

That have no law, no meaning, and no end —

Oppression, under which even highest minds

Must labour, whence the strongest are not free.

But though the picture weary out the eye,

By nature an unmanageable sight,

It is not wholly so to him who looks

In steadiness, who hath among least things

An under-sense of greatest; sees the parts

As parts, but with a feeling of the whole.

This, of all acquisitions, first awaits

On sundry and most widely different modes

Of education, nor with least delight

On that through which I passed. Attention springs,

And comprehensiveness and memory flow,

From early converse with the works of God

Among all regions; chiefly where appear

Most obviously simplicity and power.

Think, how the everlasting streams and woods,

Stretched and still stretching far and wide, exalt

The roving Indian, on his desert sands:

What grandeur not unfelt, what pregnant show

Of beauty, meets the sun-burnt Arab's eye:

And, as the sea propels, from zone to zone,

Its currents; magnifies its shoals of life

Beyond all compass; spreads, and sends aloft

Armies of clouds,— even so, its powers and aspects

Shape for mankind, by principles as fixed,

The views and aspirations of the soul

To majesty. Like virtue have the forms

Perennial of the ancient hills; nor less

The changeful language of their countenances

Quickens the slumbering mind, and aids the thoughts,

However multitudinous, to move

With order and relation. This, if still,

As hitherto, in freedom I may speak,

Not violating any just restraint,

As may be hoped, of real modesty,—

This did I feel, in London's vast domain.

The Spirit of Nature was upon me there;

The soul of Beauty and enduring Life

Vouchsafed her inspiration, and diffused,

Through meagre lines and colours, and the press

Of self-destroying, transitory things,

Composure, and ennobling Harmony.