 | Desultory Thoughts in London |  |
226
STANZAS
Written 10th, 11th, and 12th November, 1819.
“In truth, the prison, unto which we doom
Ourselves, no prison is—
Wordsworth, duodecimo edit. vol. 3, p. 129.
Ourselves, no prison is—
Wordsworth, duodecimo edit. vol. 3, p. 129.
1
My God! I once was young, and once was blestWith all the hopes that soaring youth attend:
I had romantic visions which possess'd
My spirit, and to all I seem'd a friend;
And in all did a friend expect; now send,
Thou roamer, through the earth thy looks forlorn,
Say, from what quarter dost thou apprehend
Thou could'st claim hopes, such as in life's blest morn,
If offer'd to thy choice, thou wouldst reject with scorn.
2
No! like a spirit with the universeAt war, a jarring spirit I appear:
Of man rejected;—and of God—still worse—
227
I ask but for a little refuge, where
I on the present, future, and the past,
May ruminate. With many a wistful tear
I ask a place, where my poor heart, at last,
As miser o'er his hoard, my sum of woes may cast!—
3
Children I've had, and I have known the gushOf love, allotted to the parent's tie;
Oft on my cheek I've felt affection's flush,
And revell'd o'er my stores of sympathy.
As I have watch'd the sports of infancy,
The name of children seem'd to me a spell
To conjure up whate'er of ecstasy
In an imagin'd paradise could dwell.—
A childless sire now seems to me a sire in hell.
4
Oh God! Thou must be merciful and kind!Thou the Artificer of such rare bliss,
As waits on him whom human ties do bind!
Oh! to my sense, there is in childhood's kiss,
And in its trust that, in a world like this,
Each that surrounds it is its genuine friend!
Their little pranks, that which with emphasis
Speaks of the heavens! 'Tis to condescend,
From converse with a child, with aught on earth to blend.
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5
In a child's voice—is there not melody?In a child's eye—is there not rapture seen?
And rapture not of passion's revelry?
Calm, though impassion'd! durable, though keen!
It is all fresh like the young Spring's first green!
Children seem spirits from above descended,
To whom still cleaves Heaven's atmosphere serene;
Their very wildnesses with truth are blended:
Fresh from their skiey mould, they cannot be amended!
6
Warm, and uncalculating, they're more wise—More sense that ecstasy of theirs denotes—
More of the stuff have they of Paradise—
And more the music of the warbling throats
Of choirs, whose anthem round th' Eternal floats—
Than all that bards e'er feign'd; or tuneful skill
Has e'er struck forth from artificial notes:—
Theirs is that language, ignorant of ill,
Born from a perfect harmony of power and will.
7
Some, some, have painted all the joys that waitOn beings intelligential, from a source
Within, prolific to originate
Imaginatively, the mighty course
Of passion: whence its energy and force
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The bard of Avon such! We must divorce
Our very nature from intrinsic wit,
If dubious in his scenes truth's impress to admit.
8
But what have I done that I'm thus forsaken?Whom have I injur'd that I'm thus neglected?
Oh! would I not, the pulse of love to waken
E'en in a being by the world rejected,
Stoop to compliances the least connected
With aught could flatter self? Ah, was not this,
What of himself, when he himself depicted,
Frankly confess'd the paradox-loving Swiss,
“To meet a second self is the sublime of bliss?”
9
Ah! was not this my wish? My hope supreme.Cannot a being, or in earth, or heaven,
Be met with—from the stigma of a dream—
To rescue him who has with much toil striven
For such communion? Like a spirit driven
From comprehension by connatural things,
I, from the extremest ardour, ever given
To man, for human sympathy, my wings
Now flag, and glad would be to drink lethæan springs.
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10
Yes! I'm a mystery to myself;—to all;—Save to my God: thence is it that I feel
Such a propensity on heaven to call:
Since he who comprehends alone can heal.
Oh, Saviour of the world! Do not thou steel
Thyself against my pleading; call to mind
When e'en thy will with agony did reel:—
And though by hope supported, and resign'd
From thought that on thyself the destinies of mankind
11
Hung;—Thou cried'st,—“Father, let it pass away,This cup from me!”—Yet on thy bidding waited
Legions of angels:—and eternal sway,
And endless triumphs, and delights unsated,
Claim'd thy acceptance when the pang abated.
Oh, think on me! I am friendless! I am poor!
I with importunate distress am mated!
Nor have I hope, however I endure,
That any chance awaits my agonies to cure.
12
Oh being most compassionate! for such,Crush me to atoms, I will think thou art!
Do not, I pray thee, let it seem too much
To mitigate the anguish of my heart.
Life is of comfort such a copious mart;
So many sources there exist for man
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In the world's coil contentment find still can.
'Tis no mean post to watch so marvellous a plan!
13
This feel I with conviction so intense,That e'en the very meanest flower that blows
Might to the mind, to meditate propense,
Afford a scope to thoughts of deep repose.
So much am I convinc'd that poorest shews
Above, beneath, around us, all involve
(To him, to trace their character, who knows)
Infinity, that e'en forms which dissolve
In nothingness, administer to high resolve.
14
Yes, there's a mystery in the very air;“Tongues in the trees, books in the running brooks,”
“Sermons in stones,” and blessings every where!
So much am I convinc'd, that poorest nooks
Have loop-holes, whence the gifted spirit looks,
To an illimitable universe;
That, could I once dislodge the crabbed hooks
Entangling me in matter's primal curse,
No lot would me appal for better and for worse.
15
Freedom, thou best of benefits, in whatDost thou essentially consist? In this
That sickness palsies, bars confine thee not?
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Of that which constitutes ideal bliss!
No! Freedom this is not. 'Tis to be free,
To have thy will in consentaneousness
With the Almighty will: to seem, and be,
That which, for bliss or bale, that will doth thee decree.
16
'Tis not the bird, who, in the narrowest cageIs prison'd, that is most in bondage there;
But 'tis that bird who feels the most blind rage
Against the bars his freedom that impair.
Man never calls it thraldom, since the air
He cannot cleave with wings. Thus could a bird
Once be so happy in his wiry snare;
That still no feeling of restraint occurr'd,
To call that bondage were to mis-apply the word.
17
Just as that very commoner of the skyThat winged creature is at liberty;
Thus if by truth's criterion we try
What constitutes man's worst captivity,
It is to have more passions than can be
Indulg'd consistent with the good of all;—
I say not, to be chain'd is to be free:
But though we be releas'd from bodily thrall,
The thraldom of the mind far deadlier I call.
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18
It is not Freedom to be what thou willest,But 'tis to will that which thou ought'st to be,
And that man, whose volition is the stillest,
That man whose will moves in accordancy
With His who “dwelleth in eternity,”
He is the Freeman! And well call'd the bard
All “Slaves” but those who bend to this decree;
And with devoutly-passionate regard
Witness this truth sublime to be its own reward.
19
Therefore, no puling sentimentalistAm I: and when I mourn my agonies,
'Tis not for this or that cause, I'm distress'd.
In my creed there is to the man that's wise
But one legitimate source of smiles and sighs:
And that's involv'd in question, on his path
Whether, “the Son of Righteousness arise
With healing on his wings;” or whether scath
He feel, or think he feel, of the Everlasting's wrath.
20
I have no sickly feeling of the heart;No mawkish love-tale, vast wrongs to declare;
No pangs arthritic, spasm, or cancerous smart,
234
These—'tis my trust—I could with patience bear:
No loss of wealth; no friend's departed face;
No tricks of fortune, whose romantic air
Might give my well-wov'n tale bewitching grace:—
My ills have nought to do with person, time, or place!
21
“Since God is ever present, ever felt,In the void waste as in the city full,
And joy is where He vitally hath dwelt;”
So when he ceases to be merciful,
And takes away his presence, then we pull,
And tug in vain against our destiny.
Life is a waste where we no more can cull
A single flower of happiness, when He,
The very soul of bliss, to us has ceas'd to be.
22
Oh God! So deeply the conviction's wroughtIn me, that thou to man art all in all;
And that the forms most exquisitely fraught
With means of joy—e'en the gay festival;
The choral song; the trophy-blazon'd hall;
The dance; the appurtenants of courtesy;
Without the attraction of thy blessing, pall;
That the mind's state seems every thing to me!
Without a thankful heart, vain were all social glee!
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23
If this be held as truth, with those ycleptJoys artificial; how much more do those
Call'd natural, ask a spirit that has kept
The pow'rs that God has giv'n him, in repose,
All unassailable by passion's throes?
Say, can the green fields, can the azure sky,
The waving forest, or the day's dim close,
When to the night-dew each bud shuts its eye,
Please him that not partakes his God's serenity?
24
“There is a pleasure in the pathless woods,”—But 'tis to him whose moral path is clear:
“There is a rapture in the roaring floods,”—
But 'tis to him who plays with forms of fear.
“There is society where no one's near,”
But 'tis to him whose dreams ebullient rise:
“There is a transport in the falling tear,”—
But 'tis to him whose ever lifted eyes
Shed sparkling drops which tell their source is of the skies!
25
I cannot ever, ever feel again,That which, oh Nature! I have felt for thee.
'Twas in God's presence ever to remain
The marvels of thy boundless reign to see.
No pressures then of cold propriety,
236
Into the breeze transfus'd, I seem'd to flee
Upon its wings, and all my being resign
To influence of eye, ear, touch, and thought divine!
26
Thy mountains!—They to me were types of pow'r,Of glory, vastness, and magnificence!—
Thy clouds!—As on the “wings of winds” did lour
Obscure imaginations, yet intense,
On them; and shapings of creative sense
Rode as in triumph! Thy far-gleaming lakes!
Their shores of faery masque the residence!
Thy breezes, murmuring through thy sedgy brakes;
It seem'd bless'd spirits might quit Heav'n's harmony for their sakes!
27
Oh, could the dreams that nature gives but last,This being they would seem to immortalize:
Think what it is to live in ages past?
And have all characters before you rise,
All manners, and impressive ceremonies;
To see all pageants that have long gone by,
In lone bower hear the captive lady's sighs,
The long procession once more to espy,
And, flouted by the winds, rich banners wave on high?
28
To hear the winding horn among the fells,To see the quarry thrid the forest's maze,
237
Bring back all revelries of parted days?
Oh, Nature! this is but thy faintest praise;
In hallow'd haunts so much can'st thou procure!
To those, who, in traditionary lays
Well vers'd, and learn'd in chronicles obscure,
Thy lore, to midnight lamp, oh chivalry, could allure!
29
Thanks! and much gratitude to him we owe,The Bard of Yarrow! From his living
song
How do our pulses beat, our bosoms glow,
Forming acquaintance with the dazzling throng
Of warriors, dames, and elves, that dance along,
As in a gay procession, subtly wrought,
The web of his romantic tales, among;
The sense aches with o'er-stimulated thought,
As through its gorgeous crowd of images 'tis brought.
30
So, perhaps more appropriately to thee,Thou Bard of rocky Morven, to thy heath,
Thy mists, thy mountain-torrents, much are we
Indebted; to thy thistles, with the breath
Of night-winds, waving; to thy spirits of death,
Gibbering snow-white, 'mid “mists and moonlight drear!”
Oh, 'tis a blest time when we hold beneath
238
They e'en with sweetness pall, 'till pungent made by fear!
31
Yes, I remember, when the dreariest waste;The heathery moorland with its mossy stones;
Where, here and there, with gelid dew o'ercast,
The hart's-tongue, or the flagging grass, atones
For the wide barrenness: where plaintive moans
Of chilling breeze perpetually are heard:
Yes, I remember well, (e'en though with groans
Of wailing sprite that chilling breeze had stirr'd)
When I to brightest scenes, such prospect had preferr'd!
32
I had a store of joy within me then;—An inexhaustible and salient spring;
And e'en whate'er I felt of bodily pain,
Or of that deeper which the heart doth wring,
Seem'd, in profound subserviency, to bring
New zest to pleasure; pampering its caprice:
'Twas like a man wilfully shuddering;
Giving, by warlock tales, to wassail bliss
And Christmas blithe fire-side, a spect'ral emphasis!
33
As in that divine, philosophic lore,Suggesting that all objects of each sense
Are, on the human mind,—and nothing more,—
Modifications of God's influence:
So, in the boiling of the turbulence,
239
Sound, hue, and form, at once, with such intense,
And such capricious, shifting, seem'd to play:
My soul was like a harp responsive to their sway.
34
Immortal were my thoughts! For where no fearExists, there's virtual immortality:—
Since, were the “be-all, end-all” this state here,
Yet, if no thought arose that so 't might be;
To man, thus not so being painfully,
In any reference 'twould not be so
That he might wish it otherwise: to me
Thus so predominating was the glow,
Oh Nature, caught from thee, methought 'twould never go.
35
Yet, is it not, oh God, in part to holdWith Thee, communion thus thy works to feel?
And can those souls be of an earthly mould
Thus, rapt above mortality, that steal,
When Thou thy natural wonders dost reveal?
Is it not, in novitiate of learning
To gain a 'vantage post in Fortune's wheel?
Is not there promise in this nature yearning,
Which always doth imply from art a scornful turning?
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36
Then why should I be to all pleasure deadTo such an inexpressible degree?
I? Though I grant, as wiser men have said,
That 'tis a world in ruin which we see.—
Why should I, that have felt such ecstasy,
Be sunken now so low? Is it t' enforce
The doctrine that each project which can be
Content with aught save wisdom's primal source,
Is like a pile on sand, which storms will soon disperse?
37
So seems it! What with all my dreams am I?It was on real objects that I gaz'd;
Yet have they ended more in vanity,
Than the most doting visions of the craz'd;
Or all the structures by fanatics rais'd;
Now had I rather mope where Penury
In rags, filth, smoke, and sickness, is emblaz'd;
Screams in the ballad's rude discordancy,
The howl of curs, coarse oaths, and the scold's ribaldry,
38
So that new feelings might at least be mine!Than live in some contemplative recess,
Where mountains, forests, rocks, lakes, streams, combine,
With human beings, deeply to impress.
241
Of fairest hopes of man? How soon the stream
(Most copious and most promising to bless)
Exhausted, if from earth alone it teem?
Thus, when I thought to drink, I drank but in a dream!
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