The eagle soars high in the element, There doth the reaper bind the yellow sheaf, The maiden spread the haycock in the sun, While Winter like a well-tamed lion walks, Descending from the mountain to make sport Among the cottages by beds of flowers. Whate'er in this wide circuit we beheld, Or heard, was fitted to our unripe state Of intellect and heart. With such a book Before our eyes, we could not choose but read Lessons of genuine brotherhood, the plain And universal reason of mankind, The truths of young and old. Nor, side by side Pacing, two social pilgrims, or alone Each with his humor, could we fail to abound 541 And sober posies of funereal flowers, Gathered among those solitudes sublime From formal gardens of the lady Sorrow, Did sweeten many a meditative hour. Yet still in me with those soft luxuries Mixed something of stern mood, an underthirst Of vigor seldom utterly allayed: And from that source how different a sadness Would issue, let one incident make known. When from the Vallais we had turned, and clomb Along the Simplon's steep and rugged road, Following a band of muleteers, we reached' A halting-place, where all together took Their noon-tide meal. Hastily rose our guide, Leaving us at the board; awhile we lingered, Then paced the beaten downward way that led Right to a rough stream's edge, and there broke off; The only track now visible was one That from the torrent's further brink held forth Conspicuous invitation to ascend A lofty mountain. After brief delay Crossing the unbridged stream, that road we took, And clomb with eagerness, till anxious fears Intruded, for we failed to overtake Our comrades gone before. By fortunate While every moment added doubt to doubt, chance, A peasant met us, from whose mouth we That to the spot which had perplexed us learned first, We must descend, and there should find the road, Which in the stony channel of the stream Lay a few steps, and then along its banks: And that our future course, all plain to sight. Was downwards, with the current of that stream. Loth to believe what we so grieved to hear, For still we had hopes that pointed to the clouds, We questioned him again, and yet again; But every word that from the peasant's lips Came in reply, translated by our feelings, Ended in this,-that we had crossed the Alps. Imagination-here the Power so-called Through sad incompetence of human speech, That awful Power rose from the mind's Of the same face, blossoms upon one tree; abyss Like an unfathered vapor that enwraps, At once, some lonely traveller. I was lost; Halted without an effort to break through; But to my conscious soul I now can say"I recognize thy glory;" in such strength Of usurpation, when the light of sense Goes out, but with a flash that has revealed The invisible world, doth greatness make abode, There harbors; whether we be young or old, That are their own perfection and reward, That hides her, like the mighty flood of Nile And, with the half-shaped road which we had missed, Entered a narrow chasm. The brook and road Were fellow-travellers in this gloomy strait, The torrents shooting from the clear blue sky, The rocks that muttered close upon our ears, Black drizzling crags that spake by the wayside As if a voice were in them, the sick sight And giddy prospect of the raving stream, The unfettered clouds and region of the Heavens, Tumult and peace, the darkness and the light Were all like workings of one mind, the features Characters of the great Apocalypse, Of first, and last, and midst, and without end. That night our lodging was a house that Alone within the valley, at a point By noise of waters, making innocent sleep Uprisen betimes, our journey we renewed, Of distant mountains and their snowy tops, Of thee, thy chestnut woods, and garden plots Of Indian corn tended by dark-eyed maids; Thy lofty steeps, and pathways roofed with vines, Winding from house to house, from town to town, Sole link that binds them to each other; walks, League after league, and cloistral avenues, Where silence dwells if music be not there: While yet a youth undisciplined in verse, Through fond ambition of that hour I strove To chant your praise; nor can approach you now Ungreeted by a more melodious Song, May flow in lasting current. Like a breeze Oh, most beloved Friend! a glorious time, A happy time that was; triumphant looks Were then the common language of all eyes; As if awaked from sleep, the Nations hailed Their great expectancy: the fife of war Was then a spirit-stirring sound indeed, A blackbird's whistle in a budding grove. We left the Swiss exulting in the fate Of their near neighbors; and, when shortening fast Our pilgrimage, nor distant far from home, A stripling, scarcely of the household then Was touched, but with no intimate concern; And the independent spirit of pure youth Called forth, at every season, new delights I wanted not that joy, I did not need green fields. BOOK SEVENTH. RESIDENCE IN LONDON. 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 Of short-lived transport, like a torrent burst. ing, 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 Which we will now resume with lively hope, I heard. After the hour of sunset yester-even, Sitting within doors between light and dark, A choir of red-breasts 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 On his accustomed journey. The delight, "Ye heartsome Choristers, ye and I will be The City of Goslar, in Lower Saxony. Nor checked by aught of tamer argument That lies before us, needful to be told. Returned from that excursion, soon I bade Farewell forever to the sheltered seats Of gowned students, quitted hall and bower, And every comfort of that privileged ground, Well pleased to pitch a vagrant tent among I should adhere, and seeming to possess Frugal as there was need, and, though self- In a Child's heart as fear itself) conceived willed, From dangerous passions free. Three years had flown Since I had felt in heart and soul the shock Her endless streets, a transient visitant: There was a time when whatsoe'er is Of airy palaces, and gardens built By Genii of romance: or hath in grave Or given upon report by pilgrim friars, Of what my fond simplicity believed Less strong of wonder and obscure delight. Was One, a cripple from his birth, whom chance For my enjoyment. Would that I could now Recall what then I pictured to myself, Nor least, Heaven bless him! the renowned Dreams not unlike to those which once be- A change of purpose in young Whittington, out Articulate music. Above all, one thought Strangers, not knowing each the other's name. O, wondrous power of words, by simple Licensed to take the meaning that we love! Dimming the stars, and fireworks magical, tombs |