The Excursion/Book 3

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London: Longman, Hurst, Rees, Orme, and Brown, pages 95–140

BOOK THE THIRD.





DESPONDENCY.

A humming Bee—a little tinkling Rill—
A pair of Falcons, wheeling on the wing,
In clamorous agitation, round the crest
Of a tall rock, their airy Citadel—
By each and all of these the pensive ear
Was greeted, in the silence that ensued,
When through the Cottage-threshold we had passed,
And, deep within that lonesome Valley, stood
Once more, beneath the concave of the blue
And cloudless sky.—Anon! exclaimed our Host,
Triumphantly dispersing with the taunt
The shade of discontent which on his brow
Had gathered,—"Ye have left my Cell,—but see
How Nature hems you in with friendly arms!
And by her help ye are my Prisoners still.
But which way shall I lead you?—how contrive,
In Spot so parsimoniously endowed,
That the brief hours, which yet remain, may reap
Some recompence of knowledge or delight?"
So saying, round he looked, as if perplexed;
And, to remove those doubts, my grey-haired Friend
Said—"Shall we take this pathway for our guide?—
Upwards it winds, as if, in summer heats,
Its line had first been fashioned by the flock
A place of refuge seeking at the root
Of yon black yew-tree; whose protruded boughs
Darken the silver bosom of the crag,
From which it draws its meagre sustenance.
There in commodious shelter may we rest.
Or let us trace this Streamlet to its source;
Feebly it tinkles with an earthy sound,
And a few steps may bring us to the spot
Where, haply, crowned with flowerets and green herbs,
The mountain Infant to the sun comes forth,
Like human Life from darkness."—At the word
We followed where he led:—a sudden turn
Through a strait passage of encumbered ground,
Proved that such hope was vain:—for now we stood
Shut out from prospect of the open Vale,
And saw the water, that composed this Rill,
Descending, disembodied, and diffused
O'er the smooth surface of an ample Crag,
Lofty, and steep, and naked as a Tower.
All further progress here was barred;—And who,
Thought I, if master of a vacant hour,
Here would not linger, willingly detained?
Whether to such wild objects he were led
When copious rains have magnified the stream
Into a loud and white-robed Waterfall,
Or introduced at this more quiet time.


Upon a semicirque of turf-clad ground,
The hidden nook discovered to our view
A Mass of rock, resembling, as it lay
Right at the foot of that moist precipice,
A stranded Ship, with keel upturned,—that rests
Fearless of winds and waves. Three several Stones
Stood near, of smaller size, and not unlike
To monumental pillars: and, from these
Some little space disjoined, a pair were seen,
That, with united shoulders bore aloft
A Fragment, like an Altar, flat and smooth.
Barren the tablet, yet thereon appeared,
Conspicuously stationed, one fair Plant,
A tall and shining Holly, which had found
A hospitable chink, and stood upright,
As if inserted by some human hand,
In mockery, to wither in the sun,
Or lay its beauty flat before a breeze,
The first that entered. But no breeze did now
Find entrance;—high, or low, appeared no trace
Of motion, save the Water that descended,
Diffused adown that Barrier of steep rock,
And softly creeping, like a breath of air,
Such as is sometimes seen, and hardly seen,
To brush the still breast of a chrystal Lake.


"Behold a Cabinet for Sages built,
Which Kings might envy!"—Praise to this effect
Broke from the happy Old Man's reverend lip;
Who to the Solitary turned, and said,
"In sooth, with love's familiar privilege,
You have decried, in no unseemly terms
Of modesty, that wealth which is your own.
Among these Rocks and Stones, methinks, I see
More than the heedless impress that belongs
To lonely Nature's casual work: they bear
A semblance strange of power intelligent,
And of design not wholly worn away.
Boldest of plants that ever faced the wind,
How gracefully that slender Shrub looks forth
From its fantastic birth-place! And I own,
Some shadowy intimations haunt me here,
I cannot but incline to a belief
That in these shows a chronicle survives
Of purposes akin to those of Man,
But wrought with mightier arm than now prevails.
—Voiceless the Stream descends into the gulph
With timid lapse;—and lo! while in this Strait
I stand—the chasm of sky above my head
Is heaven's profoundest azure; no domain
For fickle, short-lived clouds to occupy,
Or to pass through, but rather an Abyss
In which the everlasting Stars abide;
And whose soft gloom, and boundless depth, might tempt
The curious eye to look for them by day.
—Hail Contemplation! from the stately towers.
Reared by the industrious hand of human Art
To lift thee high above the misty air,
And turbulence, of murmuring cities vast;
From academic groves, that have for thee
Been planted, hither come and find a Lodge
To which thou mayest resort for holier peace,—
From whose calm centre Thou, through height or depth,
Mayest penetrate, wherever Truth shall lead;
Measuring through all degrees, until the scale
Of time and conscious Nature disappear,
Lost in unsearchable Eternity!"


A pause ensued; and with minuter care
We scanned the various features of the scene:
And soon the Tenant of that lonely Vale
With courteous voice thus spake—
"I should have grieved
Hereafter, should perhaps have blamed myself,
If from my poor Retirement ye had gone
Leaving this Nook unvisited: but, in sooth,
Your unexpected presence had so roused
My spirits, that they were bent on enterprize;
And, like an ardent Hunter, I forgot,
Or, shall I say?—disdained, the game that lurked
At my own door. The shapes before our eyes,
And their arrangement, doubtless must be deemed
The sport of Nature, aided by blind Chance
Rudely to mock the works of toiling Man.
And hence, this upright Shaft of unhewn stone,
From Fancy, willing to set off her stores
By sounding Titles, hath acquired the name
Of Pompey's Pillar; that I gravely style
My Theban Obelisk; and, there, behold
A Druid Cromlech!—thus I entertain
The antiquarian humour, and am pleased
To skim along the surfaces of things,
Beguiling harmlessly the listless hours.
But, if the spirit be oppressed by sense
Of instability, revolt, decay,
And change, and emptiness, these freaks of Nature
And her blind helper Chance, do then suffice
To quicken, and to aggravate, to feed
Pity and scorn, and melancholy pride,
Not less than that huge Pile (from some abyss
Of mortal power unquestionably sprung)
Whose hoary Diadem of pendant rocks
Confines the shrill-voiced whirlwind, round and round
Eddying within its vast circumference,
On Sarum's naked plain;—than Pyramid
Of Egypt, unsubverted, undissolved;
Or Syria's marble Ruins towering high
Above the sandy Desart, in the light
Of sun or moon.—Forgive me, if I say
That an appearance, which hath raised your minds
To an exalted pitch, (the self-same cause
Different effect producing) is for me
Fraught rather with depression than delight,
Though shame it were, could I not look around me,
By the reflection of your pleasure, pleased.
Yet happier, in my judgment, even than you,
With your bright transports, fairly may be deemed,
Is He (if such have ever entered here)
The wandering Herbalist,—who, clear alike
From vain, and, that worse evil, vexing thoughts,
Casts on these uncouth Forms a slight regard
Of transitory interest, and peeps round
For some rare Floweret of the hills, or Plant
Of craggy fountain; what he hopes for wins,
Or learns, at least, that 'tis not to be won:
Then, keen and eager, as a fine-nosed Hound
By soul-engrossing instinct driven along
Through wood or open field, the harmless Man
Departs, intent upon his onward quest!
Nor is that Fellow-wanderer, so deem I,
Less to be envied (you may trace him oft
By scars which his activity has left
Beside our roads and pathways, though, thank heav'en!
This covert nook reports not of his hand)
He, who with pocket hammer smites the edge
Of every luckless rock or stone that stands
Before his sight, by weather-stains disguised,
Or crusted o'er with vegetation thin,
Nature's first growth, detaching by the stroke
A chip, or splinter,—to resolve his doubts;
And, with that ready answer satisfied,
Doth to the substance give some barbarous name,
Then hurries on; or from the fragments picks
His specimen, if haply interveined
With sparkling mineral, or should chrystal tube
Be lodged therein—and thinks himself enriched,
Wealthier, and doubtless wiser, than before!
Entrusted safely—each to his pursuit,
This earnest Pair may range from hill to hill,
And, if it please them, speed from clime to clime;
The mind is full—no pain is in their sport."


"Then," said I, interposing, "One is near
Who cannot but possess in your esteem
Place worthier still of envy. May I name,
Without offence, that fair-faced Cottage-boy?
Dame Nature's Pupil of the lowest Form,
Youngest Apprentice in the School of Art!
Him, as we entered from the open Glen,
You might have noticed, busily engaged,
Heart, soul, and hands,—in mending the defects
Left in the fabric of a leaky dam,
Framed for enabling this penurious stream
To turn a slender mill (that new-made plaything)
For his delight—the happiest he of all!"


"Far happiest," answered the desponding Man,
"If, such as now he is, he might remain!
Ah! what avails Imagination high
Or Question deep? what profits all that Earth,
Or Heaven's blue Vault, is suffered to put forth
Of impulse or allurement, for the Soul
To quit the beaten track of life, and soar
Far as she finds a yielding element
In past or future; far as she can go
Through time or space; if neither in the one
Nor in the other region, nor in aught
That Fancy, dreaming o'er the map of things,
Hath placed beyond these penetrable bounds,
Words of assurance can be heard; if no where
A habitation, for consummate good,
Or for progressive virtue, by the search
Can be attained, a better sanctuary
From doubt and sorrow, than the senseless grave?"


"Is this," the grey-haired Wanderer mildly said,
"The voice, which we so lately overheard,
To that same Child, addressing tenderly
The Consolations of a hopeful mind?
'His body is at rest, his soul in heaven.'
These were your words; and, verily, methinks
Wisdom is oft-times nearer when we stoop
Than when we soar."—
The Other, not displeased,
Promptly replied—"My notion is the same.
And I, without reluctance, could decline
All act of inquisition whence we rise,
And what, when breath hath ceased, we may become.
Here are we, in a bright and breathing World!
Our origin, what matters it? In lack
Of worthier explanation, say at once
With the American (a thought which suits
The place where now we stand) that certain Men
Leapt out together from a rocky Cave;
And these were the first Parents of Mankind!
Or, if a different image be recalled
By the warm sunshine, and the jocund voice
Of insects—chirping out their careless lives
On these soft beds of thyme-besprinkled turf,
Chuse, with the gay Athenian, a conceit
As sound; with that blithe race who wore ere-while
Their golden Grasshoppers, in sign that they
Had sprung from out the soil whereon they dwelt.
But stop!—these theoretic fancies jar
On serious minds; for doubtless, in one sense,
The theme is serious; then, as Hindoos draw
Their holy Ganges from a skiey fount,
Even so deduce the Stream of human Life
From seats of Power divine; and hope, or trust,
That our Existence winds its stately course
Beneath the Sun, like Ganges, to make part
Of a living Ocean: or, if such may seem
Its tendency to be engulphed and lost
Like Niger, in impenetrable sands
And utter darkness: thought which may be faced,
Though comfortless!—Not of myself I speak;
Such acquiescence neither doth imply,
In me, a meekly-bending spirit—soothed
By natural piety; nor a lofty mind,
By philosophic discipline prepared
For calm subjection to acknowledged law;
Pleased to have been, contented not to be.
Such palms I boast not:—no! to me, who find,
Reviewing my past way, much to condemn,
Little to praise, and nothing to regret
(Save some remembrances of dream-like joys
That scarcely seem to have belonged to me)
If I must take my choice between the pair
That rule alternately the weary hours,
Night is than day more acceptable;—sleep
Doth, in my estimate of good, appear
A better state than waking; death than sleep:
Feelingly sweet is stillness after storm,
Though under covert of the wormy ground!


Yet be it said, in justice to myself,
That in more genial times, when I was free
To explore the destiny of human kind;
Not as an intellectual game pursued
With curious subtilty, thereby to cheat
Irksome sensations; but by love of truth
Urged on, or haply by intense delight
In feeding thought, wherever thought could feed;
I did not rank with those (too dull or nice,
For to my judgment such they then appeared,
Or too aspiring, thankless at the best)
Who, in this frame of human life, perceive
An object whereunto their souls are tied
In discontented wedlock; nor did e'er,
From me, those dark, impervious shades, that hang
Upon the region whither we are bound,
Exclude a power to enjoy the vital beams
Of present sunshine.—Deities that float
On wings, angelic Spirits, I could muse
O'er what from eldest time we have been told
Of your bright forms and glorious faculties,
And with the imagination be content,
Not wishing more; repining not to tread
The little sinuous path of earthly care,
By flowers embellished, and by springs refreshed.
—"Blow winds of Autumn!—let your chilling breath
"Take the live herbage from the mead, and strip
"The shady forest of its green attire,—
"And let the bursting Clouds to fury rouse
"The gentle Brooks!—Your desolating sway,"
Thus I exclaimed, "no sadness sheds on me,
"And no disorder in your rage I find.
"What dignity, what beauty, in this change
"From mild to angry, and from sad to gay,
"Alternate and revolving! How benign,
"How rich in animation and delight,
"How bountiful these elements—compared
"With aught, as more desirable and fair,
"Devised by Fancy for the Golden Age;
"Or the perpetual warbling that prevails
"In Arcady, beneath unaltered skies,
"Through the long year in constant quiet bound,
"Night hush'd as night, and day serene as day!"
—But why this tedious record?—Age we know
Is garrulous; and solitude is apt
To anticipate the privilege of Age.
From far ye come; and surely with a hope
Of better entertainment—let us hence!"


Loth to forsake the spot, and still more loth
To be diverted from our present theme,
I said, "My thoughts, agreeing, Sir, with yours,
Would push this censure farther;—for, if smiles
Of scornful pity be the just reward
Of Poesy, thus courteously employed
In framing models to improve the scheme
Of Man's existence, and recast the world,
Why should not grave Philosophy be stiled,
Herself, a Dreamer of a kindred stock,
A Dreamer yet more spiritless and dull?
Yes," said I, "shall the immunities to which
She doth lay claim, the precepts she bestows,
Establish sounder titles of esteem
For Her, who (all too timid and reserved
For onset, for resistance too inert,
Too weak for suffering, and for hope too tame)
Did place, in flowery Gardens curtained round
With world-excluding groves, the Brotherhood
Of soft Epicureans, taught—if they
The ends of being would secure, and win
The crown of wisdom—to yield up their souls
To a voluptuous unconcern, preferring
Tranquillity to all things. Or is She,"
I cried, "more worthy of regard, the Power,
Who, for the sake of sterner quiet, closed
The Stoic's heart against the vain approach
Of admiration, and all sense of joy?"


His Countenance gave notice that my zeal
Accorded little with his present mind;
I ceased, and he resumed.—"Ah! gentle Sir,
Slight, if you will, the means; but spare to slight
The end of those, who did, by system, rank,
As the prime object of a wise Man's aim,
Security from shock of accident,
Release from fear; and cherished peaceful days
For their own sakes, as mortal life's chief good,
And only reasonable felicity.
What motive drew, what impulse, I would ask,
Through a long course of later ages, drove
The Hermit to his Cell in forest wide;
Or what detained him, till his closing eyes
Took their last farewell of the sun and stars,
Fast anchored in the desart?—Not alone
Dread of the persecuting sword—remorse,
Wrongs unredressed, or insults unavenged
And unavengable, defeated pride,
Prosperity subverted, maddening want,
Friendship betrayed, affection unreturned,
Love with despair, or grief in agony:—
Not always from intolerable pangs
He fled; but, compassed round by pleasure, sighed
For independent happiness; craving peace,
The central feeling of all happiness,
Not as a refuge from distress or pain,
A breathing-time, vacation, or a truce,
But for its absolute self; a life of peace,
Stability without regret or fear;
That hath been, is, and shall be evermore!
Such the reward he sought; and wore out Life,
There, where on few external things his heart
Was set, and those his own; or, if not his,
Subsisting under Nature's steadfast law.


What other yearning was the master tie
Of the monastic Brotherhood; upon Rock
Aerial, or in green secluded Vale,
One after one, collected from afar,
An undissolving Fellowship?—What but this,
The universal instinct of repose,
The longing for confirmed tranquillity,
Inward and outward; humble, yet sublime:—
The life where hope and memory are as one;
Earth quiet and unchanged; the human Soul
Consistent in self-rule; and heaven revealed
To meditation, in that quietness!
Such was their scheme:—thrice happy he who gained
The end proposed! And,—though the same were missed
By multitudes, perhaps obtained by none,—
They, for the attempt, and for the pains employed,
Do, in my present censure, stand redeemed
From the unqualified disdain, that once
Would have been cast upon them, by my Voice
Delivering its decisions from the seat
Of forward Youth:—that scruples not to solve
Doubts, and determine questions, by the rules
Of inexperienced judgment, ever prone
To overweening faith; and is inflamed,
By courage, to demand from real life
The test of act and suffering—to provoke
Hostility, how dreadful when it comes,
Whether affliction be the foe, or guilt!


A Child of earth, I rested, in that stage
Of my past course to which these thoughts advert,
Upon earth's native energies; forgetting
That mine was a condition which required
Nor energy, nor fortitude—a calm
Without vicissitude; which, if the like
Had been presented to my view elsewhere,
I might have even been tempted to despise.
But that which was serene was also bright;
Enlivened happiness with joy o'erflowing,
With joy, and—oh! that memory should survive
To speak the word—with rapture! Nature's boon,
Life's genuine inspiration, happiness
Above what rules can teach, or fancy feign;
Abused, as all possessions are abused
That are not prized according to their worth.
And yet, what worth? what good is given to Men,
More solid than the gilded clouds of heaven,
What joy more lasting than a vernal flower?
None! 'tis the general plaint of human kind
In solitude, and mutually addressed
From each to all, for wisdom's sake:—This truth
The Priest announces from his holy seat;
And, crowned with garlands in the summer grove,
The Poet fits it to his pensive Lyre.
Yet, ere that final resting-place be gained,
Sharp contradictions hourly shall arise
To cross the way; and we, perchance, by doom
Of this same life, shall be compelled to grieve
That the prosperities of love and joy
Should be permitted, oft-times, to endure
So long, and be at once cast down for ever.
Oh! tremble Ye to whom hath been assigned
A course of days composing happy months,
And they as happy years; the present still
So like the past, and both, so firm a pledge
Of a congenial future, that the wheels
Of pleasure move without the aid of hope.
For Mutability is Nature's bane;
And slighted Hope will be avenged; and, when
Ye need her favours, Ye shall find her not;
But, in her stead—fear—doubt—and agony!"


This was the bitter language of the heart;
But, while he spake, look, gesture, tone of voice,
Though discomposed and vehement, were such
As skill and graceful Nature might suggest
To a Proficient of the tragic scene,
Standing before the multitude, beset
With sorrowful events; and we, who heard
And saw, were moved. Desirous to divert,
Or stem, the current of the Speaker's thoughts,
We signified a wish to leave that Place
Of stillness and close privacy, which seemed
A nook for self-examination framed,
Or, for confession, in the sinner's need,
Hidden from all Men's view. To our attempt
He yielded not; but, pointing to a slope
Of mossy turf, defended from the sun;
And, on that couch inviting us to rest,
Towards that tender-hearted Man he turned
A serious eye, and thus his speech renewed.


"You never saw, your eyes did never look
On the bright Form of Her whom once I loved.—
Her silver voice was heard upon the earth,
A sound unknown to you; else, honored Friend,
Your heart had borne a pitiable share
Of what I suffered, when I wept that loss,
And suffer now, not seldom, from the thought
That I remember, and can weep no more.—
Stripped as I am of all the golden fruit
Of self-esteem; and by the cutting blasts
Of self-reproach familiarly assailed;
I would not yet be of such wintry bareness,
But that some leaf of your regard should hang
Upon my naked branches:—lively thoughts
Give birth, full often, to unguarded words;
I grieve that, in your presence, from my tongue
Too much of frailty hath already dropped;
But that too much demands still more.
You know,
Revered Compatriot;—and to you, kind Sir
(Not to be deemed a Stranger as you come
Following the guidance of these welcome feet
To our secluded Vale) it may be told,
That my demerits did not sue in vain
To One, on whose mild radiance many gazed
With hope, and all, with pleasure. This fair Bride—
In the devotedness of youthful Love
Preferring me to Parents, and the choir
Of gay companions, to the natal roof,
And all known places and familiar sights,
(Resigned with sadness gently weighing down
Her trembling expectations, but no more
Than did to her due honour, and to me
Yielded, that day, a confidence sublime
In what I had to build upon)—this Bride,
Young, modest, meek, and beautiful, I led
To a low Cottage in a sunny Bay,
Where the salt sea innocuously breaks,
And the sea breeze as innocently breathes,
On Devon's leafy shores;—a sheltered Hold,
In a soft clime encouraging the soil
To a luxuriant bounty!—As our steps
Approach the embowered Abode, our chosen Seat,
See, rooted in the earth, its kindly bed,
The unendangered Myrtle, decked with flowers,
Before the threshold stands to welcome us!
While, in the flowering Myrtle's neighbourhood,
Not overlooked but courting no regard
Those native plants, the Holly and the Yew,
Gave modest intimation to the mind
Of willingness with which they would unite
With the green Myrtle, to endear the hours
Of winter, and protect that pleasant place.
—Wild were the walks upon those lonely Downs,
Track leading into track, how marked, how worn
Into bright verdure, among fern and gorse
Winding away its never-ending line,
On their smooth surface, evidence was none:
But, there, lay open to our daily haunt,
A range of unappropriated earth,
Where youth's ambitious feet might move at large;
Whence, unmolested Wanderers, we beheld
The shining Giver of the Day diffuse
His brightness, o'er a tract of sea and land
Gay as our spirits, free as our desires,
As our enjoyments boundless.—From these Heights
We dropped, at pleasure, into sylvan Combs;
Where arbours of impenetrable shade,
And mossy seats detained us side by side,
With hearts at ease, and knowledge in our hearts
"That all the grove and all the day was ours."


But in due season Nature interfered,
And called my Partner to resign her share
In the pure freedom of that wedded life,
Enjoyed by us in common.—To my hope,
To my heart's wish, my tender Mate became
The thankful captive of maternal bonds;
And those wild paths were left to me alone.
There, could I meditate on follies past;
And, like a weary Voyager escaped
From risk and hardship, inwardly retrace
A course of vain delights and thoughtless guilt,
And self-indulgence—without shame pursued.
There, undisturbed, could think of, and could thank
Her—whose submissive spirit was to me
Rule and restraint, my Guardian;—shall I say
That earthly Providence, whose guiding love
Within a port of rest had lodged me safe;
Safe from temptation, and from danger far?
Strains followed of acknowledgment addressed
To an Authority enthroned above
The reach of sight; from whom, as from their source,
Proceed all visible ministers of good
That walk the earth—Father of heaven and earth,
Father and king, and judge, adored and feared!
These acts of mind, and memory, and heart,
And spirit,—interrupted and relieved
By observations—transient as the glance
Of flying sunbeams, or to the outward form
Cleaving with power inherent and intense,
As the mute insect fixed upon the plant
On whose soft leaves it hangs, and from whose cup
Draws imperceptibly its nourishment,—
Endeared my wanderings; and the Mother's kiss,
And Infant's smile, awaited my return.


In privacy we dwelt—a wedded pair
Companions daily, often all day long;
Not placed by fortune within easy reach
Of various intercourse, nor wishing aught
Beyond the allowance of our own fire-side,
The Twain within our happy cottage born,
Inmates, and heirs of our united love;
Graced mutually by difference of sex,
By the endearing names of nature bound,
And with no wider interval of time
Between their several births than served for One
To establish something of a leader's sway;
Yet left them joined by sympathy in age;
Equals in pleasure, fellows in pursuit.
On these two pillars rested as in air
Our solitude.
It soothes me to perceive,
Your courtesy withholds not from my words
Attentive audience. But oh! gentle Friends,
As times of quiet and unbroken peace
Though for a Nation times of blessedness,
Give back faint echoes from the Historian's page;
So, in the imperfect sounds of this discourse,
Depressed I hear, how faithless is the voice
Which those most blissful days reverberate.
What special record can, or need be given
To rules and habits, whereby much was done
But all within the sphere of little things?
Of humble, though, to us, important cares,
And precious interests! Smoothly did our life
Advance, not swerving from the path prescribed;
Her annual, her diurnal round alike
Maintained with faithful care. And you divine
The worst effects which our condition saw
If you imagine changes slowly wrought,
And in their progress imperceptible,
Not wished for, sometimes noticed with a sigh,
(Whate'er of good or lovely they might bring)
Sighs of regret, for the familiar good,
And loveliness endeared—which they removed.


Seven years of occupation undisturbed
Established seemingly a right to hold
That happiness; and use and habit gave
To what an alien spirit had acquired
A patrimonial sanctity. And thus,
With thoughts and wishes bounded to this world,
I lived and breathed; most grateful, if to enjoy
Without repining or desire for more,
For different lot, or change to higher sphere,
(Only except some impulses of pride
With no determined object, though upheld
By theories with suitable support)
Most grateful, if in such wise to enjoy
Be proof of gratitude for what we have;
Else, I allow, most thankless.—But at once
From some dark seat of fatal Power was urged
A claim that shattered all.—Our blooming Girl,
Caught in the gripe of Death, with such brief time
To struggle in as scarcely would allow
Her cheek to change its colour, was conveyed
From us, to regions inaccessible;
Where height, or depth, admits not the approach
Of living Man, though longing to pursue.
—With even as brief a warning—and how soon
With what short interval of time between
I tremble yet to think of—our last prop,
Our happy life's only remaining stay—
The Brother followed; and was seen no more!


Calm as a frozen Lake when ruthless Winds
Blow fiercely, agitating earth and sky,
The Mother now remained; as if in her,
Who, to the lowest region of the soul,
Had been erewhile unsettled and disturbed,
This second visitation had no power
To shake; but only to bind up and seal;
And to establish thankfulness of heart
In Heaven's determinations, ever just.
The eminence on which her spirit stood,
Mine was unable to attain. Immense
The space that severed us! But, as the sight
Communicates with heaven's etherial orbs
Incalculably distant; so, I felt
That consolation may descend from far;
(And that is intercourse, and union, too,)
While, overcome with speechless gratitude,
And with a holier love inspired, I looked
On her—at once superior to my woes
And Partner of my loss.—O heavy change!
Dimness o'er this clear Luminary crept
Insensibly;—the immortal and divine
Yielded to mortal reflux; her pure Glory,
As from the pinnacle of worldly state
Wretched Ambition drops astounded, fell
Into a gulph obscure of silent grief,
And keen heart-anguish—of itself ashamed,
Yet obstinately cherishing itself:
And, so consumed, She melted from my arms;
And left me, on this earth, disconsolate.


What followed cannot be reviewed in thought;
Much less, retraced in words. If She, of life
Blameless; so intimate with love and joy,
And all the tender motions of the Soul,
Had been supplanted, could I hope to stand?
Infirm, dependant, and now destitute!
I called on dreams and visions, to disclose
That which is veiled from waking thought; conjured
Eternity, as men constrain a Ghost
To appear and answer; to the Grave I spake
Imploringly;—looked up, and asked the Heavens
If Angels traversed their cerulean floors,
If fixed or wandering Star could tidings yield
Of the departed Spirit—what Abode
It occupies—what consciousness retains
Of former loves and interests. Then my Soul
Turned inward,—to examine of what stuff
Time's fetters are composed; and Life was put
To inquisition, long and profitless!
By pain of heart—now checked—and now impelled—
The intellectual Power, through words and things,
Went sounding on, a dim and perilous way!
And from those transports, and these toils abstruse,
Some trace am I enabled to retain
Of time, else lost;—existing unto me
Only by records in myself not found.


From that abstraction I was rouzed,—and how?
Even as a thoughtful Shepherd by a flash
Of lightening startled in a gloomy cave
Of these wild hills. For, lo! the dread Bastile,
With all the chambers in its horrid Towers,
Fell to the ground:—by violence o'erthrown
Of indignation; and with shouts that drowned
The crash it made in falling! From the wreck
A golden Palace rose, or seemed to rise,
The appointed Seat of equitable Law
And mild paternal Sway. The potent shock
I felt; the transformation I perceived,
As marvellously seized as in that moment
When, from the blind mist issuing, I beheld
Glory—beyond all glory ever seen,
Confusion infinite of heaven and earth,
Dazzling the soul! Meanwhile, prophetic harps
In every grove were ringing, "War shall cease;
"Did ye not hear that conquest is abjured?
"Bring garlands, bring forth choicest flowers, to deck
"The Tree of Liberty."—My heart rebounded;
My melancholy Voice the chorus joined;
—"Be joyful all ye Nations, in all Lands,
"Ye that are capable of joy be glad!
"Henceforth, whate'er is wanting to yourselves
"In others ye shall promptly find;—and all
"Be rich by mutual and reflected wealth."


Thus was I reconverted to the world;
Society became my glittering Bride,
And airy hopes my Children.—From the depths
Of natural passion, seemingly escaped,
My soul diffused itself in wide embrace
Of institutions, and the forms of things;
As they exist, in mutable array,
Upon life's surface. What, though in my veins
There flowed no Gallic blood, nor had I breathed
The air of France, not less than Gallic zeal
Kindled and burnt among the sapless twigs
Of my exhausted heart. If busy Men
In sober conclave met, to weave a web
Of amity, whose living threads should stretch
Beyond the seas, and to the farthest pole,
There did I sit, assisting. If, with noise
And acclamation, crowds in open air
Expressed the tumult of their minds, my voice
There mingled, heard or not. The powers of song
I left not uninvoked; and, in still groves,
Where mild Enthusiasts tuned a pensive lay
Of thanks and expectation, in accord
With their belief, I sang Saturnian Rule
Returned,—a progeny of golden years
Permitted to descend, and bless mankind.
—With promises the Hebrew Scriptures teem:
I felt the invitation; and resumed
A long-suspended office in the House
Of public worship, where, the glowing phrase
Of ancient Inspiration serving me,
I promised also,—with undaunted trust
Foretold; and added prayer to prophecy;
The admiration winning of the crowd,
The help desiring of the pure devout.


Scorn and contempt forbid me to proceed!
But History, Time's slavish Scribe, will tell
How rapidly the Zealots of the cause
Disbanded—or in hostile ranks appeared;
Some, tired of honest service; these, outdone,
Disgusted, therefore, or appalled, by aims
Of fiercer Zealots—so Confusion reigned,
And the more faithful were compelled to exclaim,
As Brutus did to Virtue, "Liberty,
"I worshipped Thee, and find thee but a Shade!"


Such recantation had for me no charm,
Nor would I bend to it; who should have grieved
At aught, however fair, which bore the mien
Of a conclusion, or catastrophe.
Why then conceal, that, when the simple good
In timid selfishness withdrew, I sought
Other support, not scrupulous whence it came,
And by what compromise it stood, not nice?
Enough if notions seemed to be high-pitched,
And qualities determined.—Ruling such,
And with such herding, I maintained a strife
Hopeless, and still more hopeless every hour;
But, in the process, I began to feel
That, if the emancipation of the world
Were missed, I should at least secure my own,
And be in part compensated. For rights,
Widely—inveterately usurped upon,
I spake with vehemence; and promptly seized
Whate'er Abstraction furnished for my needs
Or purposes; nor scrupled to proclaim,
And propagate, by liberty of life,
Those new persuasions. Not that I rejoiced,
Or even found pleasure, in such vagrant course,
For its own sake; but farthest from the walk
Which I had trod in happiness and peace,
Was most inviting to a troubled mind;
That, in a struggling and distempered world,
Beheld a cherished image of itself.
Yet, mark the contradictions of which Man
Is still the sport! Here Nature Mas my guide,
The Nature of the dissolute; but Thee,
O fostering Nature! I rejected, smiled
At others' tears in pity; and in scorn
At those, which thy soft influence sometimes drew
From my unguarded heart.—The tranquil shores
Of Britain circumscribed me; else, perhaps,
I might have been entangled among deeds,
Which, now, as infamous, I should abhor—
Despise, as senseless: for I strangely relished
The exasperated spirit of that Land,
Which turned an angry beak against the down
Of its own breast; as if it hoped, thereby,
To disencumber its impatient wings.
—But all was quieted by iron bonds
Of military sway. The shifting aims,
The moral interests, the creative might,
The varied functions and high attributes
Of civil Action, yielded to a Power
Formal, and odious, and contemptible.
—In Britain, ruled a panic dread of change;
The weak were praised, rewarded, and advanced;
And, from the impulse of a just disdain,
Once more did I retire into myself.
There feeling no contentment, I resolved
To fly, for safeguard, to some foreign shore,
Remote from Europe; from her blasted hopes;
Her fields of carnage, and polluted air.


Fresh blew the wind, when o'er the Atlantic Main
The Ship went gliding with her thoughtless crew:
And who among them but an Exile, freed
From discontent, indifferent, pleased to sit
Among the busily-employed, not more
With obligation charged, with service taxed,
Than the loose pendant—to the idle wind
Upon the tall mast, streaming! But, ye Powers
Of soul and sense—mysteriously allied,
O, never let the Wretched, if a choice
Be left him, trust the freight of his distress
To a long voyage on the silent deep!
For, like a Plague, will Memory break out,
And, in the blank and solitude of things,
Upon his Spirit, with a fever's strength,
Will Conscience prey.—Feebly must They have felt
Who, in old time, attired with snakes and whips
The vengeful Furies. Beautiful regards
Were turned on me—the face of her I loved;
The Wife and Mother, pitifully fixing
Tender reproaches, insupportable!
Where now that boasted liberty? No welcome
From unknown Objects I received; and those,
Known and familiar, which the vaulted sky
Did, in the placid clearness of the night,
Disclose, had accusations to prefer
Against my peace. Within the cabin stood
That Volume—as a compass for the soul—
Revered among the Nations. I implored
Its guidance; but the infallible support
Of faith was wanting. Tell me, why refused
To One by storms annoyed and adverse winds,
Perplexed with currents, of his weakness sick,
Of vain endeavours tired, and by his own,
And by his Nature's ignorance, dismayed.


Long-wished-for sight, the Western World appeared;
And, when the Ship was moored, I leapt ashore
Indignantly—resolved to be a Man,
Who, having o'er the past no power, would live
No longer in subjection to the past,
With abject mind—from a tyrannic Lord
Inviting penance, fruitlessly endured.
So like a Fugitive, whose feet have cleared
Some boundary, which his Followers may not cross
In prosecution of their deadly chace,
Respiring I looked round.—How bright the Sun,
How promising the Breeze! Can aught produced
In the old World compare, thought I, for power
And majesty with this gigantic Stream,
Sprung from the Desart? And behold, a City
Fresh, youthful, and aspiring! What are these
To me, or I to them? As much at least
As He desires that they should be, whom winds
And waves have wafted to this distant shore,
In the condition of a damaged seed,
Whose fibres cannot, if they would, take root.
Here may I roam at large;—my business is,
Roaming at large, to observe, and not to feel;
And, therefore, not to act—convinced that all
Which bears the name of action, howsoe'er
Beginning, ends in servitude—still painful,
And mostly profitless. And, sooth to say,
On nearer view, a motley spectacle
Appeared, of high pretensions—unreproved
But by the obstreperous voice of higher still;
Big Passions strutting on a petty stage;
Which a detached Spectator may regard
Not unamused.—But ridicule demands
Quick change of objects; and, to laugh alone,
In woods and wilds, or any lonely place,
At a composing distance from the haunts
Of strife and folly,—though it be a treat
As choice as musing Leisure can bestow;
Yet, in the very centre of the crowd
To keep the secret of a poignant scorn,
May suit an airy Demon; but, of all
Unsocial courses, 'tis the one least fit
For the gross spirit of Mankind,—the one
That soonest fails to please, and quickliest turns
Into vexation.—Let us, then, I said,
Leave this unknit Republic to the scourge
Of its own passions; and to Regions haste,
Whose shades have never felt the encroaching axe,
Or soil endured a transfer in the mart
Of dire rapacity. There, Man abides,
Primeval Nature's Child. A Creature weak
In combination (wherefore else driven back
So far, and of his old inheritance
So easily deprived?) but, for that cause,
More dignified, and stronger in himself,
Whether to act, judge, suffer, or enjoy.
True, the Intelligence of social Art
Hath overpowered his Forefathers, and soon
Will sweep the remnant of his line away;
But contemplations, worthier, nobler far
Than her destructive energies, attend
His Independence, when along the side
Of Mississippi, or that Northern Stream
Which spreads into successive seas, he walks;
Pleased to perceive his own unshackled life,
And his innate capacities of soul,
There imaged: or, when having gained the top
Of some commanding Eminence, which yet
Intruder ne'er beheld, he thence surveys
Regions of wood and wide Savannah, vast
Expanse of unappropriated earth,
With mind that sheds a light on what he sees;
Free as the Sun, and lonely as the Sun,
Pouring above his head its radiance down
Upon a living, and rejoicing World!


So, westward, tow'rd the unviolated Woods
I bent my way; and, roaming far and wide,
Failed not to greet the merry Mocking-bird;
And while the melancholy Muccawiss
(The sportive Bird's companion in the Grove)
Repeated, o'er and o'er, his plaintive cry,
I sympathized at leisure with the sound;
But that pure Archetype of human greatness,
I found him not. There, in his stead, appeared
A Creature, squalid, vengeful, and impure;
Remorseless, and submissive to no law
But superstitious fear, and abject sloth.
—Enough is told! Here am I—Ye have heard
What evidence I seek, and vainly seek;
What from my Fellow-beings I require,
And cannot find; what I myself have lost,
Nor can regain; how languidly I look
Upon this visible fabric of the World,
May be divined—perhaps it hath been said:—
But spare your pity, if there be in me
Aught that deserves respect: for I exist—
Within myself—not comfortless.—The tenor
Which my life holds, he readily may conceive
Whoe'er hath stood to watch a mountain Brook
In some still passage of its course, and seen,
Within the depths of its capacious breast,
Inverted trees, and rocks, and azure sky;
And, on its glassy surface, specks of foam,
And conglobated bubbles undissolved,
Numerous as stars; that, by their onward lapse,
Betray to sight the motion of the stream,
Else imperceptible; meanwhile, is heard
Perchance, a roar or murmur; and the sound
Though soothing, and the little floating isles
Though beautiful, are both by Nature charged
With the same pensive office; and make known
Through what perplexing labyrinths, abrupt
Precipitations, and untoward straits,
The earth-born wanderer hath passed; and quickly,
That respite o'er, like traverses and toils
Must be again encountered.—Such a stream
Is human Life; and so the Spirit fares
In the best quiet to its course allow'd:
And such is mine,—save only for a hope
That my particular current soon will reach
The unfathomable gulph, where all is still!"



END OF THE THIRD BOOK.