BOOK THIRTEENTH

From Nature doth emotion come, and moods

Of calmness equally are Nature's gift:

This is her glory; these two attributes

Are sister horns that constitute her strength.

Hence Genius, born to thrive by interchange

Of peace and excitation, finds in her

His best and purest friend; from her receives

That energy by which he seeks the truth,

From her that happy stillness of the mind

Which fits him to receive it when unsought.

Such benefit the humblest intellects

Partake of, each in their degree;‘ tis mine

To speak, what I myself have known and felt;

Smooth task! for words find easy way, inspired

By gratitude, and confidence in truth.

Long time in search of knowledge did I range

The field of human life, in heart and mind

Benighted; but, the dawn beginning now

To re-appear,‘ twas proved that not in vain

I had been taught to reverence a Power

That is the visible quality and shape

And image of right reason; that matures

Her processes by steadfast laws; gives birth

To no impatient or fallacious hopes,

No heat of passion or excessive zeal,

No vain conceits; provokes to no quick turns

Of self-applauding intellect; but trains

To meekness, and exalts by humble faith;

Holds up before the mind intoxicate

With present objects, and the busy dance

Of things that pass away, a temperate show

Of objects that endure; and by this course

Disposes her, when over-fondly set

On throwing off incumbrances, to seek

In man, and in the frame of social life,

Whate'er there is desirable and good

Of kindred permanence, unchanged in form

And function, or, through strict vicissitude

Of life and death, revolving. Above all

Were re-established now those watchful thoughts

Which, seeing little worthy or sublime

In what the Historian's pen so much delights

To blazon — power and energy detached

From moral purpose — early tutored me

To look with feelings of fraternal love

Upon the unassuming things that hold

A silent station in this beauteous world.

Thus moderated, thus composed, I found

Once more in Man an object of delight,

Of pure imagination, and of love;

And, as the horizon of my mind enlarged,

Again I took the intellectual eye

For my instructor, studious more to see

Great truths, than touch and handle little ones.

Knowledge was given accordingly; my trust

Became more firm in feelings that had stood

The test of such a trial; clearer far

My sense of excellence — of right and wrong:

The promise of the present time retired

Into its true proportion; sanguine schemes,

Ambitious projects, pleased me less; I sought

For present good in life's familiar face,

And built thereon my hopes of good to come.

With settling judgments now of what would last

And what would disappear; prepared to find

Presumption, folly, madness, in the men

Who thrust themselves upon the passive world

As Rulers of the world; to see in these,

Even when the public welfare is their aim,

Plans without thought, or built on theories

Vague and unsound; and having brought the books

Of modern statists to their proper test,

Life, human life, with all its sacred claims

Of sex and age, and heaven-descended rights,

Mortal, or those beyond the reach of death;

And having thus discerned how dire a thing

Is worshipped in that idol proudly named

“The Wealth of Nations,” where alone that wealth

Is lodged, and how increased; and having gained

A more judicious knowledge of the worth

And dignity of individual man,

No composition of the brain, but man

Of whom we read, the man whom we behold

With our own eyes — I could not but inquire —

Not with less interest than heretofore,

But greater, though in spirit more subdued —

Why is this glorious creature to be found

One only in ten thousand? What one is,

Why may not millions be? What bars are thrown

By Nature in the way of such a hope?

Our animal appetites and daily wants,

Are these obstructions insurmountable?

If not, then others vanish into air.

“Inspect the basis of the social pile:

Inquire,” said I, “how much of mental power

And genuine virtue they possess who live

By bodily toil, labour exceeding far

Their due proportion, under all the weight

Of that injustice which upon ourselves

Ourselves entail.” Such estimate to frame

I chiefly looked ( what need to look beyond? )

Among the natural abodes of men,

Fields with their rural works; recalled to mind

My earliest notices; with these compared

The observations made in later youth,

And to that day continued.— For, the time

Had never been when throes of mighty Nations

And the world's tumult unto me could yield,

How far soe'er transported and possessed,

Full measure of content; but still I craved

An intermingling of distinct regards

And truths of individual sympathy

Nearer ourselves. Such often might be gleaned

From the great City, else it must have proved

To me a heart-depressing wilderness;

But much was wanting: therefore did I turn

To you, ye pathways, and ye lonely roads;

Sought you enriched with everything I prized,

With human kindnesses and simple joys.

Oh! next to one dear state of bliss, vouchsafed

Alas! to few in this untoward world,

The bliss of walking daily in life's prime

Through field or forest with the maid we love,

While yet our hearts are young, while yet we breathe

Nothing but happiness, in some lone nook,

Deep vale, or any where, the home of both,

From which it would be misery to stir:

Oh! next to such enjoyment of our youth,

In my esteem, next to such dear delight,

Was that of wandering on from day to day

Where I could meditate in peace, and cull

Knowledge that step by step might lead me on

To wisdom; or, as lightsome as a bird

Wafted upon the wind from distant lands,

Sing notes of greeting to strange fields or groves,

Which lacked not voice to welcome me in turn:

And, when that pleasant toil had ceased to please,

Converse with men, where if we meet a face

We almost meet a friend, on naked heaths

With long long ways before, by cottage bench,

Or well-spring where the weary traveller rests.

Who doth not love to follow with his eye

The windings of a public way? the sight,

Familiar object as it is, hath wrought

On my imagination since the morn

Of childhood, when a disappearing line,

One daily present to my eyes, that crossed

The naked summit of a far-off hill

Beyond the limits that my feet had trod,

Was like an invitation into space

Boundless, or guide into eternity.

Yes, something of the grandeur which invests

The mariner who sails the roaring sea

Through storm and darkness, early in my mind

Surrounded, too, the wanderers of the earth;

Grandeur as much, and loveliness far more.

Awed have I been by strolling Bedlamites;

From many other uncouth vagrants ( passed

In fear ) have walked with quicker step; but why

Take note of this? When I began to enquire,

To watch and question those I met, and speak

Without reserve to them, the lonely roads

Were open schools in which I daily read

With most delight the passions of mankind,

Whether by words, looks, sighs, or tears, revealed;

There saw into the depth of human souls,

Souls that appear to have no depth at all

To careless eyes. And-now convinced at heart

How little those formalities, to which

With overweening trust alone we give

The name of Education, have to do

With real feeling and just sense; how vain

A correspondence with the talking world

Proves to the most; and called to make good search

If man's estate, by doom of Nature yoked

With toil, be therefore yoked with ignorance;

If virtue be indeed so hard to rear,

And intellectual strength so rare a boon —

I prized such walks still more, for there I found

Hope to my hope, and to my pleasure peace

And steadiness, and healing and repose

To every angry passion. There I heard,

From mouths of men obscure and lowly, truths

Replete with honour; sounds in unison

With loftiest promises of good and fair.

There are who think that strong affection, love

Known by whatever name, is falsely deemed

A gift, to use a term which they would use,

Of vulgar nature; that its growth requires

Retirement, leisure, language purified

By manners studied and elaborate;

That whoso feels such passion in its strength

Must live within the very light and air

Of courteous usages refined by art.

True is it, where oppression worse than death

Salutes the being at his birth, where grace

Of culture hath been utterly unknown,

And poverty and labour in excess

From day to day pre-occupy the ground

Of the affections, and to Nature's self

Oppose a deeper nature; there, indeed,

Love cannot be; nor does it thrive with ease

Among the close and overcrowded haunts

Of cities, where the human heart is sick,

And the eye feeds it not, and cannot feed.

— Yes, in those wanderings deeply did I feel

How we mislead each other; above all,

How books mislead us, seeking their reward

From judgments of the wealthy Few, who see

By artificial lights; how they debase

The Many for the pleasure of those Few;

Effeminately level down the truth

To certain general notions, for the sake

Of being understood at once, or else

Through want of better knowledge in the heads

That framed them; nattering self-conceit with words,

That, while they most ambitiously set forth

Extrinsic differences, the outward marks

Whereby society has parted man

From man, neglect the universal heart.

Here, calling up to mind what then I saw,

A youthful traveller, and see daily now

In the familiar circuit of my home,

Here might I pause, and bend in reverence

To Nature, and the power of human minds,

To men as they are men within themselves.

How oft high service is performed within,

When all the external man is rude in show,—

Not like a temple rich with pomp and gold,

But a mere mountain chapel, that protects

Its simple worshippers from sun and shower.

Of these, said I, shall be my song; of these,

If future years mature me for the task,

Will I record the praises, making verse

Deal boldly with substantial things; in truth

And sanctity of passion, speak of these,

That justice may be done, obeisance paid

Where it is due: thus haply shall I teach,

Inspire, through unadulterated ears

Pour rapture, tenderness, and hope,— my theme

No other than the very heart of man,

As found among the best of those who live,

Not unexalted by religious faith,

Nor uninformed by books, good books, though few,

In Nature's presence: thence may I select

Sorrow, that is not sorrow, but delight;

And miserable love, that is not pain

To hear of, for the glory that redounds

Therefrom to human kind, and what we are.

Be mine to follow with no timid step

Where knowledge leads me: it shall be my pride

That I have dared to tread this holy ground,

Speaking no dream, but things oracular;

Matter not lightly to be heard by those

Who to the letter of the outward promise

Do read the invisible soul; by men adroit

In speech, and for communion with the world

Accomplished; minds whose faculties are then

Most active when they are most eloquent,

And elevated most when most admired.

Men may be found of other mould than these,

Who are their own upholders, to themselves

Encouragement, and energy, and will,

Expressing liveliest thoughts in lively words

As native passion dictates. Others, too,

There are among the walks of homely life

Still higher, men for contemplation framed,

Shy, and unpractised in the strife of phrase;

Meek men, whose very souls perhaps would sink

Beneath them, summoned to such intercourse:

Theirs is the language of the heavens, the power,

The thought, the image, and the silent joy:

Words are but under-agents in their souls;

When they are grasping with their greatest strength,

They do not breathe among them: this I speak

In gratitude to God, Who feeds our hearts

For His own service; knoweth, loveth us,

When we are unregarded by the world.

Also, about this time did I receive

Convictions still more strong than heretofore,

Not only that the inner frame is good,

And graciously composed, but that, no less,

Nature for all conditions wants not power

To consecrate, if we have eyes to see,

The outside of her creatures, and to breathe

Grandeur upon the very humblest face

Of human life. I felt that the array

Of act and circumstance, and visible form,

Is mainly to the pleasure of the mind

What passion makes them; that meanwhile the forms

Of Nature have a passion in themselves,

That intermingles with those works of man

To which she summons him; although the works

Be mean, have nothing lofty of their own;

And that the Genius of the Poet hence

May boldly take his way among mankind

Wherever Nature leads; that he hath stood

By Nature's side among the men of old,

And so shall stand for ever. Dearest Friend!

If thou partake the animating faith

That Poets, even as Prophets, each with each

Connected in a mighty scheme of truth,

Have each his own peculiar faculty,

Heaven's gift, a sense that fits him to perceive

Objects unseen before, thou wilt not blame

The humblest of this band who dares to hope

That unto him hath also been vouchsafed

An insight that in some sort he possesses,

A privilege whereby a work of his,

Proceeding from a source of untaught things,

Creative and enduring, may become

A power like one of Nature's. To a hope

Not less ambitious once among the wilds

Of Sarum's Plain, my youthful spirit was raised;

There, as I ranged at will the pastoral downs

Trackless and smooth, or paced the bare white roads

Lengthening in solitude their dreary line,

Time with his retinue of ages fled

Backwards, nor checked his flight until I saw

Our dim ancestral Past in vision clear;

Saw multitudes of men, and, here and there,

A single Briton clothed in wolf-skin vest,

With shield and stone-axe, stride across the wold;

The voice of spears was heard, the rattling spear

Shaken by arms of mighty bone, in strength,

Long mouldered, of barbaric majesty.

I called on Darkness — but before the word

Was uttered, midnight darkness seemed to take

All objects from my sight; and lo! again

The Desert visible by dismal flames;

It is the sacrificial altar, fed

With living men — how deep the groans! the voice

Of those that crowd the giant wicker thrills

The monumental hillocks, and the pomp

Is for both worlds, the living and the dead.

At other moments ( for through that wide waste

Three summer days I roamed ) where'er the Plain

Was figured o'er with circles, lines, or mounds,

That yet survive, a work, as some divine,

Shaped by the Druids, so to represent

Their knowledge of the heavens, and image forth

The constellations; gently was I charmed

Into a waking dream, a reverie

That, with believing eyes, where'er I turned,

Beheld long-bearded teachers, with white wands

Uplifted, pointing to the starry sky,

Alternately, and plain below, while breath

Of music swayed their motions, and the waste

Rejoiced with them and me in those sweet sounds.

This for the past, and things that may be viewed

Or fancied in the obscurity of years

From monumental hints: and thou, O Friend!

Pleased with some unpremeditated strains

That served those wanderings to beguile, hast said

That then and there my mind had exercised

Upon the vulgar forms of present things,

The actual world of our familiar days,

Yet higher power; had caught from them a tone,

An image, and a character, by books

Not hitherto reflected. Call we this

A partial judgment — and yet why? for then

We were as strangers; and I may not speak

Thus wrongfully of verse, however rude,

Which on thy young imagination, trained

In the great City, broke like light from far.

Moreover, each man's Mind is to herself

Witness and judge; and I remember well

That in life's every-day appearances

I seemed about this time to gain clear sight

Of a new world — a world, too, that was fit

To be transmitted, and to other eyes

Made visible; as ruled by those fixed laws

Whence spiritual dignity originates,

Which do both give it being and maintain

A balance, an ennobling interchange

Of action from without and from within;

The excellence, pure function, and best power

Both of the object seen, and eye that sees.