Book Fourth Summer Vacation

A PLEASANT sight it was when, having clomb
The Heights of Kendal, and that dreary moor
Was crossed, at length as from a rampart's edge
I overlooked the bed of Windermere.
I bounded down the hill, shouting amain 5
A lusty summons to the farther shore
For the old ferryman; and when he came
I did not step into the well-known boat
Without a cordial welcome. Thence right forth
I took my way, now drawing towards home, 10
To that sweet valley where I had been reared;
'Twas but a short hour's walk ere, veering round,
I saw the snow-white church upon its hill
Sit like a throne`d lady, sending out
A gracious look all over its domain. 15
Glad greetings had I, and some tears perhaps,
From my old dame, so motherly and good,
While she perused me with a parent's pride.
The thoughts of gratitude shall fall like dew
Upon thy grave, good creature: while my heart 20
Can beat I never will forget thy name.
Heaven's blessing be upon thee where thou liest
After thy innocent and busy stir
In narrow cares, thy little daily growth
Of calm enjoyments, after eighty years, 25
And more than eighty, of untroubled life—
Childless, yet by the strangers to they blood
Honoured with little less than filial love.

Great joy was mine to see thee once again,
Thee and thy dwelling, and a throng of things 30
About its narrow precincts, all beloved
And many of them seeming yet my own.

Why should I speak of what a thousand hearts
Have felt, and every man alive can guess?
The rooms, the court, the garden were not left 35
Long unsaluted, and the spreading pine
And broad stone table underneath its boughs—
Our summer seat in many a festive hour—
And that unruly child of mountain birth,
The froward brook, which, soon as he was boxed 40
Within our garden, found himself at once
As if by trick insidious and unkind,
Stripped of his voice, and left to dimple down
Without an effort and without a will
A channel paved by the hand of man. 45
I looked at him and smiled, and smiled again,
And in the press of twenty thousand thoughts,
'Ha', quoth I, 'pretty prisoner, are you there!'
—And now, reviewing soberly that hour,
I marvel that a fancy did not flash 50
Upon me, and a strong desire, straitway,
At sight of such an emblem that shewed forth
So aptly my late course of even days
And all their smooth enthralment, to pen down
A satire on myself. My aged dame 55
Was with me, at my side; she guided me,
I willing, nay—nay, wishing to be led.
The face of every neighbour whom I met
Was as a volume to me; some I hailed
Far off, upon the road, or at their work— 60
Unceremonious greetings, interchanged
With half the length of a long field between.
Among my schoolfellows I scattered round
A salutation that was more constrained
Though earnest—doubtless with a little pride, 65

But with more shame, for my habiliments,
The transformation and the gay attire.

Delighted did I take my place again
At our domestic table; and, dear friend,
Relating simply as my wish hath been 70
A poet's history, can I leave untold
The joy with which I laid me down at night
In my accustomed bed, more welcome now
Perhaps than if it had been more desired,
Or been more often thought of with regret— 75
That bed whence I had heard the roaring wind
And clamorous rain, that bed where
I so oft Had lain awake on breezy nights to watch
The moon in splendour couched among the leaves
Of a tall ash that near our cottage stood, 80
Had watched her with fixed eyes, while to and fro
In the dark summit of the moving tree
She rocked with every impulse of the wind.

Among the faces which it pleased me well
To see again was one by ancient right 85
Our inmate, a rough terrier of the hills,
By birth and call of nature preordained
To hunt the badger and unearth the fox
Among the impervious crags. But having been
From youth our own adopted, he had passed 90
Into a gentler service; and when first
The boyish spirit flagged, and day by day
Along my veins I kindled with the stir,
The fermentation and the vernal heat
Of poesy, affecting private shades 95
Like a sick lover, then this dog was used
To watch me, an attendant and a friend,
Obsequious to my steps early and late,
Though often of such dilatory walk
Tired, and uneasy at the halts I made. 100
A hundred times when in these wanderings

I have been busy with the toil of verse—
Great pains and little progress—and at once
Some fair enchanting image in my mind
Rose up, full-formed like Venus from the sea, 105
Have I sprung forth towards him and let loose
My hand upon his back with stormy joy,
Caressing him again and yet again.
And when in the public roads at eventide
I sauntered, like a river murmuring 110
And talking to itself, at such a season
It was his custom to jog on before;
But, duly whensoever he had met
A passenger approaching, would he turn
To give me timely notice, and straitway, 115
Punctual to such admonishment, I hushed
My voice, composed my gait, and shaped myself
To give and take a greeting that might save
My name from piteous rumours, such as wait
On men suspected to be crazed in brain. 120

Those walks, well worthy to be prized and loved—
Regretted, that word too was on my tongue,
But they were richly laden with all good,
And cannot be remembered but with thanks
And gratitude and perfect joy of heart— 125
Those walks did now like a returning spring
Come back on me again. When first I made
Once more the circuit of our little lake
If ever happiness hath lodged with man
That day consummate happiness was mine— 130
Wide-spreading, steady, calm, contemplative.
The sun was set, or setting, when I left
Our cottage door, and evening soon brought on
A sober hour, not winning or serene,
For cold and raw the air was, and untuned; 135
But as a face we love is sweetest then
When sorrow damps it, or, whatever look
It chance to wear, is sweetest if the heart

Have fulness in itself, even so with me
It fared that evening. Gently did my soul 140
Put off her veil, and, self-transmuted, stood
Naked as in the presence of her God.
As on I walked, a comfort seemed to touch
A heart that had not been disconsolate,
Strength came where weakness was not known to be, 145
At least not felt; and restoration came
Like an intruder knocking at the door
Of unacknowledged weariness. I took
The balance in my hand and weighed myself:
I saw but little, and thereat was pleased; 150
Little did I remember, and even this
Still pleased me more—but I had hopes and peace
And swellings of the spirits, was rapt and soothed,
Conversed with promises, had glimmering views
How life pervades the undecaying mind, 155
How the immortal soul with godlike power
Informs, creates, and thaws the deepest sleep
That time can lay upon her, how on earth
Man if he do but live within the light
Of high endeavours, daily spreads abroad 160
His being with a strength that cannot fail.
Nor was there want of milder thoughts, of love,
Of innocence, and holiday repose,
And more than pastoral quiet in the heart
Of amplest projects, and a peaceful end 165
At last, or glorious, by endurance won.
Thus musing, in a wood I sate me down
Alone, continuing there to muse. Meanwhile
The mountain heights were slowly overspread
With darkness, and before a rippling breeze 170
The long lake lengthened out its hoary line,
And in the sheltered coppice where I sate,
Around me, from among the hazel leaves—
Now here, now there, stirred by the straggling wind—
Came intermittingly a breath-like sound, 175
A respiration short and quick, which oft,

Yea, might I say, again and yet again,
Mistaking for the panting of my dog,
The off-and-on companion of my walk,
I turned my head to look if he were there. 180

A freshness also found I at this time
In human life, the life I mean of those
Whose occupations really I loved.
The prospect often touched me with surprize:
Crowded and full, and changed, as seemed to me, 185
Even as a garden in the heat of spring
After an eight-days' absence. For—to omit
The things which were the same and yet appeared
So different—amid this solitude,
The little vale where was my chief abode, 190
'Twas not indifferent to a youthful mind
To note, perhaps some sheltered seat in which
An old man had been used to sun himself,
Now empty; pale-faced babes whom I had left
In arms, known children of the neighbourhood, 195
Now rosy prattlers, tottering up and down;
And growing girls whose beauty, filched away
With all its pleasant promises, was gone
To deck some slighted playmate's homely cheek.

Yes, I had something of another eye, 200
And often looking round was moved to smiles
Such as a delicate work of humour breeds.
I read, without design, the opinions, thoughts,
Of those plain-living people, in a sense
Of love and knowledge: with another eye 205
I saw the quiet woodman in the woods,
The shepherd on the hills. With new delight,
This chiefly, did I view my grey-haired dame,
Saw her go forth to church, or other work
Of state, equipped in monumental trim— 210
Short velvet cloak, her bonnet of the like,
A mantle such as Spanish cavaliers

Wore in old time. Her smooth domestic life—
Affectionate without uneasiness—
Her talk, her business, pleased me; and no less 215
Her clear though shallow stream of piety,
That ran on sabbath days a fresher course.
With thoughts unfelt till now I saw her read
Her bible on the Sunday afternoons,
And loved the book when she had dropped asleep 220
And made of it a pillow for her head.

Nor less do I remember to have felt
Distinctly manifested at this time,
A dawning, even as of another sense,
A human-heartedness about my love 225
For objects hitherto the gladsome air
Of my own private being, and no more—
Which I had loved, even as a blesse`d spirit
Or angel, if he were to dwell on earth,
Might love in individual happiness. 230
But now there opened on me other thoughts,
Of change, congratulation and regret,
A new-born feeling. It spread far and wide:
The trees, the mountains shared it, and the brooks,
The stars of heaven, now seen in their old haunts— 235
White Sirius glittering o'er the southern crags,
Orion with his belt, and those fair Seven,
Acquaintances of every little child,
And Jupiter, my own beloved star.
Whatever shadings of mortality 240
Had fallen upon these objects heretofore
Were different in kind: not tender—strong,
Deep, gloomy were they, and severe, the scatterings
Of childhood, and moreover, had given way
In later youth to beauty and to love 245
Enthusiastic, to delight and joy.

As one who hangs down-bending from the side
Of a slow-moving boat upon the breast

Of a still water, solacing himself
With such discoveries as his eye can make 250
Beneath him in the bottom of the deeps,
Sees many beauteous sights—weeds, fishes, flowers,
Grots, pebbles, roots of trees—and fancies more,
Yet often is perplexed, and cannot part
The shadow from the substance, rocks and sky, 255
Mountains and clouds, from that which is indeed
The region, and the things which there abide
In their true dwelling; now is crossed by gleam
Of his own image, by a sunbeam now,
And motions that are sent he knows not whence, 260
Impediments that make his task more sweet;
Such pleasant office have we long pursued
Incumbent o'er the surface of past time—
With like success. Nor have we often looked
On more alluring shows—to me at least— 265
More soft, or less ambiguously descried,
Than those which now we have been passing by,
And where we still are lingering. Yet in spite
Of all these new employments of the mind
There was an inner falling off. I loved, 270
Loved deeply, all that I had loved before,
More deeply even than ever; but a swarm
Of heady thoughts jostling each other, gawds
And feast and dance and public revelry
And sports and games—less pleasing in themselves 275
Than as they were a badge, glossy and fresh,
Of manliness and freedom—these did now
Seduce me from the firm habitual quest
Of feeding pleasures, from that eager zeal,
Those yearnings which had every day been mine, 280
A wild, unworldly-minded youth, given up
To Nature and to books, or, at the most,
From time to time by inclination shipped
One among many, in societies
That were, or seemed, as simple as myself. 285
But now was come a change—it would demand

Some skill, and longer time than may be spared,
To paint even to myself these vanities,
And how they wrought—but sure it is that now
Contagious air did oft environ me, 290
Unknown among these haunts in former days.
The very garments that I wore appeared
To prey upon my strength, and stopped the course
And quiet stream of self-forgetfulness.
Something there was about me that perplexed 295
Th' authentic sight of reason, pressed too closely
On that religious dignity of mind
That is the very faculty of truth,
Which wanting—either, from the very first
A function never lighted up, or else 300
Extinguished—man, a creature great and good,
Seems but a pageant plaything with vile claws,
And this great frame of breathing elements
A senseless idol. This vague heartless chace 305
Of trivial pleasures was a poor exchange
For books and Nature at that early age.
'Tis true, some casual knowledge might be gained
Of character or life; but at that time,
Of manners put to school I took small note, 310
And all my deeper passions lay elsewhere—
Far better had it been to exalt the mind
By solitary study, to uphold
Intense desire by thought and quietness.
And yet, in chastisement of these regrets, 315
The memory of one particular hour
Doth here rise up against me. In a throng,
A festal company of maids and youths,
Old men and matrons, staid, promiscuous rout,
A medley of all tempers, I had passed 320
The night in dancing, gaiety and mirth—
With din of instruments, and shuffling feet,
And glancing forms, and tapers glittering,

And unaimed prattle flying up and down,
Spirits upon the stretch, and here and there 325
Slight shocks of young love-liking interspersed
That mounted up like joy into the head,
And tingled through the veins. Ere we retired
The cock had crowed, the sky was bright with day;
Two miles I had to walk along the fields 330
Before I reached my home. Magnificent
The morning was, a memorable pomp,
More glorious than I ever had beheld.
The sea was laughing at a distance; all
The solid montains were as bright as clouds, 335
Grain-tinctured, drenched in empyrean light;
And in the meadows and the lower grounds
Was all the sweetness of a common dawn—
Dews, vapours, and the melody of birds,
And labourers going forth into the fields. 340
Ah, need I say, dear friend, that to the brim
My heart was full? I made no vows, but vows
Were then made for me; bond unknown to me
Was given, that I should be—else sinning greatly—
A dedicated spirit. On I walked 345
In blessedness, which even yet remains.

Strange rendezvous my mind was at that time,
A party-coloured shew of grave and gay,
Solid and light, short-sighted and profound,
Of considerate habits and sedate, 350
Consorting in one mansion unreproved.
I knew the worth of that which I possessed,
Though slighted and misused. Besides in truth
That summer, swarming as it did with thoughts
Transient and loose, yet wanted not a store 355
Of primitive hours, when—by these hindrances
Unthwarted—I experienced in myself
Conformity as just as that of old
To the end and written spirit of God's works,
Whether held forth in Nature or in man. 360

From many wanderings that have left behind
Remembrances not lifeless, I will here
Single out one, then pass to other themes.
A favorite pleasure hath it been with me
From time of earliest youth to walk alone 365
Along the public way, when, for the night
Deserted, in its silence it assumes
A character of deeper quietness
Than pathless solitudes. At such an hour
Once, ere these summer months were passed away, 370
I slowly mounted up a steep ascent
Where the road's wat'ry surface, to the ridge
Of that sharp rising, glittered in the moon
And seemed before my eyes another stream
Creeping with silent lapse to join the brook 375
That murmured in the valley. On I went
Tranquil, receiving in my own despite
Amusement, as I slowly passed along,
From such near objects as from time to time
Perforce intruded on the listless sense, 380
Quiescent and disposed to sympathy,
With an exhausted mind worn out by toil
And all unworthy of the deeper joy
Which waits on distant prospect—cliff or sea,
The dark blue vault and universe of stars. 385
Thus did I steal along that silent road,
My body from the stillness drinking in
A restoration like the calm of sleep,
But sweeter far. Above, before, behind,
Around me, all was peace and solitude; 390
I looked not round, nor did the solitude
Speak to my eye, but it was heard and felt,
O happy state! what beauteous pictures now
Rose in harmonious imagery; they rose
As from some distant region of my soul 395
And came along like dreams—yet such as left
Obscurely mingled with their passing forms
A consciousness of animal delight,

A self-possession felt in every pause
And every gentle movement of my frame. 400

While thus I wandered, step by step led on,
It chanced a sudden turning of the road
Presented to my view an uncouth shape,
So near that, slipping back into the shade
Of a thick hawthorn, I could mark him well, 405
Myself unseen. He was of stature tall,
A foot above man's common measure tall,
Stiff in his form, and upright, lank and lean—
A man more meagre, as it seemed to me,
Was never seen abroad by night or day. 410
His arms were long, and bare his hands; his mouth
Shewed ghastly in the moonlight; from behind,
A milestone propped him, and his figure seemed
Half sitting, and half standing. I could mark
That he was clad in military garb, 415
Though faded yet entire. He was alone,
Had no attendant, neither dog, nor staff,
Nor knapsack; in his very dress appeared
A desolation, a simplicity
That seemed akin to solitude. Long time 420
Did I peruse him with a mingled sense
Of fear and sorrow. From his lips meanwhile
There issued murmuring sounds, as if of pain
Or of uneasy thought; yet still his form
Kept the same steadiness, and at his feet 425
His shadow lay, and moved not. In a glen
Hard by, a village stood, whose roofs and doors
Were visible among the scattered trees,
Scarce distant from the spot an arrow's flight.
I wished to see him move, but he remained 430
Fixed to his place, and still from time to time
Sent forth a murmuring voice of dead complaint,
Groans scarcely audible. Without self-blame
I had not thus prolonged my watch; and now,
Subduing my heart's specious cowardise, 435

I left the shady nook where I had stood
And hailed him. Slowly from his resting-place
He rose, and with a lean and wasted arm
In measured gesture lifted to his head
Returned my salutation, then resumed 440
His station as before. And when erelong
I asked his history, he in reply
Was neither slow nor eager, but, unmoved,
And with a quiet uncomplaining voice,
A stately air of mild indifference, 445
He told in simple words a soldier's tale:
That in the tropic islands he had served,
Whence he had landed scarcely ten days past—
That on his landing he had been dismissed,
And now was travelling to his native home. 450
At this I turned and looked towards the village,
But all were gone to rest, the fires all out,
And every silent window to the moon
Shone with a yellow glitter. 'No one there',
Said I, 'is waking; we must measure back 455
The way which we have come. Behind yon wood
A labourer dwells, and, take it on my word,
He will not murmur should we break his rest,
And with a ready heart will give you food
And lodging for the night.' At this he stooped, 460
And from the ground took up an oaken staff
By me yet unobserved, a traveller's staff
Which I suppose from his slack hand had dropped,
And lain till now neglected in the grass.

Towards the cottage without more delay 465
We shaped our course. As it appeared to me
He travelled without pain, and I beheld
With ill-suppressed astonishment his tall
And ghastly figure moving at my side;
Nor while we journeyed thus could I forbear 470
To question him of what he had endured
From hardship, battle, or the pestilence.

He all the while was in demeanor calm,
Concise in answer. Solemn and sublime
He might have seemed, but that in all he said 475
There was a strange half-absence, and a tone
Of weakness and indifference, as of one
Remembering the importance of his theme
But feeling it no longer. We advanced
Slowly, and ere we to the wood were come 480
Discourse had ceased. Together on we passed
In silence through the shades, gloomy and dark;
Then, turning up along an open field,
We gained the cottage. At the door I knocked,
Calling aloud, 'My friend, here is a man 485
By sickness overcome. Beneath your roof
This night let him find rest, and give him food
If food he need, for he is faint and tired.'
Assured that now my comrade would repose
In comfort, I entreated that henceforth 490
He would not linger in the public ways,
But ask for timely furtherance, and help
Such as his state required. At this reproof,
With the same ghastly mildness in his look,
He said, 'My trust is in the God of Heaven, 495
And in the eye of him that passes me.'
The cottage door was speedily unlocked,
And now the soldier touched his hat again
With his lean hand, and in a voice that seemed
To speak with a reviving interest, 500
'Till then unfelt, he thanked me; I returned
The blessing of the poor unhappy man,
And so we parted. Back I cast a look,
And lingered near the door a little space,
Then sought with quiet heart my distant home. 505