Book Fourth: Summer Vacation

Bright was the summer's noon when quickening stepsFollowed each other till a dreary moorWas crossed, a bare ridge clomb, upon whose topStanding alone, as from a rampart's edge,I overlooked the bed of Windermere,Like a vast river, stretching in the sun.With exultation, at my feet I sawLake, islands, promontories, gleaming bays,A universe of Nature's fairest formsProudly revealed with instantaneous burst,Magnificent, and beautiful, and gay.I bounded down the hill shouting amainFor the old Ferryman; to the shout the rocksReplied, and when the Charon of the floodHad staid his oars, and touched the jutting pier,I did not step into the well-known boatWithout a cordial greeting. Thence with speedUp the familiar hill I took my wayTowards that sweet Valley where I had been reared;'Twas but a short hour's walk, ere veering roundI saw the snow-white church upon her hillSit like a thronèd Lady, sending outA gracious look all over her domain.Yon azure smoke betrays the lurking town;With eager footsteps I advance and reachThe cottage threshold where my journey closed.Glad welcome had I, with some tears, perhaps,From my old Dame, so kind and motherly,While she perused me with a parent's pride.The thoughts of gratitude shall fall like dewUpon thy grave, good creature! While my heartCan beat never will I forget thy name.Heaven's blessing be upon thee where thou liestAfter thy innocent and busy stirIn narrow cares, thy little daily growthOf calm enjoyments, after eighty years,And more than eighty, of untroubled life,Childless, yet by the strangers to thy bloodHonoured with little less than filial love.What joy was mine to see thee once again,Thee and thy dwelling, and a crowd of thingsAbout its narrow precincts all beloved,And many of them seeming yet my own!Why should I speak of what a thousand heartsHave felt, and every man alive can guess?The rooms, the court, the garden were not leftLong unsaluted, nor the sunny seatRound the stone table under the dark pine,Friendly to studious or to festive hours;Nor that unruly child of mountain birth,The famous brook, who, soon as he was boxedWithin 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 man's officious care.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!"Well might sarcastic Fancy then have whispered,"An emblem here behold of thy own life;In its late course of even days with allTheir smooth enthralment;" but the heart was full,Too full for that reproach. My aged DameWalked proudly at my side: she guided me;I willing, nay--nay, wishing to be led.--The face of every neighbour whom I metWas like a volume to me; some were hailedUpon the road, some busy at their work,Unceremonious greetings interchangedWith half the length of a long field between.Among my schoolfellows I scattered roundLike recognitions, but with some constraintAttended, doubtless, with a little pride,But with more shame, for my habiliments,The transformation wrought by gay attire.Not less delighted did I take my placeAt our domestic table: and, dear FriendIn this endeavour simply to relateA Poet's history, may I leave untoldThe thankfulness with which I laid me downIn my accustomed bed, more welcome nowPerhaps than if it had been more desiredOr been more often thought of with regret;That lowly bed whence I had heard the windRoar and the rain beat hard, where I so oftHad lain awake on summer nights to watchThe moon in splendour couched among the leavesOf a tall ash, that near our cottage stood;Had watched her with fixed eyes while to and froIn the dark summit of the waving treeShe rocked with every impulse of the breeze.

Among the favourites whom it pleased me wellTo see again, was one by ancient rightOur inmate, a rough terrier of the hills;By birth and call of nature pre-ordainedTo hunt the badger and unearth the foxAmong the impervious crags, but having beenFrom youth our own adopted, he had passedInto a gentler service. And when firstThe boyish spirit flagged, and day by dayAlong my veins I kindled with the stir,The fermentation, and the vernal heatOf poesy, affecting private shadesLike a sick Lover, then this dog was usedTo watch me, an attendant and a friend,Obsequious to my steps early and late,Though often of such dilatory walkTired, and uneasy at the halts I made.A hundred times when, roving high and lowI have been harassed with the toil of verse,Much pains and little progress, and at onceSome lovely Image in the song rose upFull-formed, like Venus rising from the sea;Then have I darted forwards to letMy hand upon his back with stormy joy,Caressing him again and yet again.And when at evening on the public wayI sauntered, like a river murmuringAnd talking to itself when all thingsAre still, the creature trotted on before;Such was his custom; but whene'er he metA passenger approaching, he would turnTo give me timely notice, and straightway,Grateful for that admonishment, IMy voice, composed my gait, and, with the airAnd mien of one whose thoughts are free, advancedTo give and take a greeting that might saveMy name from piteous rumours, such as waitOn men suspected to be crazed in brain.

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 thanksAnd gratitude, and perfect joy of heart--135Those walks in all their freshness now came backLike a returning Spring. When first I madeOnce more the circuit of our little lake,If ever happiness hath lodged with man,That day consummate happiness was mine,Wide-spreading, steady, calm, contemplative.The sun was set, or setting, when I leftOur cottage door, and evening soon brought onA sober hour, not winning or serene,For cold and raw the air was, and untuned;But as a face we love is sweetest thenWhen sorrow damps it, or, whatever lookIt chance to wear, is sweetest if the heartHave fulness in herself; even so with meIt fared that evening. Gently did my soulPut off her veil, and, self-transmuted, stoodNaked, as in the presence of her God.While on I walked, a comfort seemed to touchA heart that had not been disconsolate:Strength came where weakness was not known to be,At least not felt; and restoration cameLike an intruder knocking at the doorOf unacknowledged weariness. I tookThe balance, and with firm hand weighed myself.--Of that external scene which round me lay,Little, in this abstraction, did I see;Remembered less; but I had inward hopesAnd swellings of the spirit, was rapt and soothed,Conversed with promises, had glimmering viewsHow life pervades the undecaying mind;How the immortal soul with God-like powerInforms, creates, and thaws the deepest sleepThat time can lay upon her; how on earth,Man, if he do but live within the lightOf high endeavours, daily spreads abroadHis being armed with strength that cannot fail.Nor was there want of milder thoughts, of loveOf innocence, and holiday repose;And more than pastoral quiet, 'mid the stirOf boldest projects, and a peaceful endAt last, or glorious, by endurance won.Thus musing, in a wood I sate me downAlone, continuing there to muse: the slopesAnd heights meanwhile were slowly overspreadWith darkness, and before a rippling breezeThe 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, moved by the straggling wind,Came ever and anon a breath-like sound,Quick as the pantings of the faithful dog,The off and on companion of my walk;And such, at times, believing them to be,I turned my head to look if he were there;Then into solemn thought I passed once more.

A freshness also found I at this timeIn human Life, the daily life of thoseWhose occupations really I loved;The peaceful scene oft filled me with surpriseChanged like a garden in the heat of springAfter an eight-days' absence. For (to omitThe things which were the same and yet appearedFair otherwise) amid this rural solitude,A narrow Vale where each was known to all,'Twas not indifferent to a youthful mindTo mark some sheltering bower or sunny nook,Where an old man had used to sit alone,Now vacant; pale-faced babes whom I had leftIn arms, now rosy prattlers at the feetOf a pleased grandame tottering up and down;And growing girls whose beauty, filched awayWith all its pleasant promises, was goneTo deck some slighted playmate's homely cheek.

Yes, I had something of a subtler sense,And often looking round was moved to smilesSuch as a delicate work of humour breeds;I read, without design, the opinions, thoughts,Of those plain-living people now observedWith clearer knowledge; with another eyeI saw the quiet woodman in the woods,The shepherd roam the hills. With new delight,This chiefly, did I note my grey-haired Dame;Saw her go forth to church or other workOf state, equipped in monumental trim;Short velvet cloak, (her bonnet of the like),A mantle such as Spanish CavaliersWore in old time. Her smooth domestic life,Affectionate without disquietude,Her talk, her business, pleased me; and no lessHer clear though shallow stream of pietyThat ran on Sabbath days a fresher course;With thoughts unfelt till now I saw her readHer Bible on hot Sunday afternoons,And loved the book, when she had dropped asleepAnd made of it a pillow for her head.

Nor less do I remember to have felt,Distinctly manifested at this time,A human-heartedness about my loveFor objects hitherto the absolute wealthOf my own private being and no more:Which I had loved, even as a blessed spiritOr Angel, if he were to dwell on earth,Might love in individual happiness.But now there opened on me other thoughtsOf change, congratulation or regret,A pensive 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--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,Whatever imports from the world of deathHad come among these objects heretofore,Were, in the main, of mood less tender: strong,Deep, gloomy were they, and severe; the scatteringsOf awe or tremulous dread, that had given wayIn later youth to yearnings of a loveEnthusiastic, to delight and hope.

As one who hangs down-bending from the sideOf a slow-moving boat, upon the breastOf a still water, solacing himselfWith such discoveries as his eye can makeBeneath him in the bottom of the deep,Sees many beauteous sights--weeds, fishes, flowers.Grots, pebbles, roots of trees, and fancies more,Yet often is perplexed and cannot partThe shadow from the substance, rocks and sky,Mountains and clouds, reflected in the depthOf the clear flood, from things which there abideIn their true dwelling; now is crossed by gleamOf his own image, by a sun-beam now,And wavering motions sent he knows not whence,Impediments that make his task more sweet;Such pleasant office have we long pursuedIncumbent o'er the surface of past timeWith like success, nor often have appearedShapes fairer or less doubtfully discernedThan these to which the Tale, indulgent Friend!Would now direct thy notice. Yet in spiteOf pleasure won, and knowledge not withheld,There was an inner falling off--I loved,Loved deeply all that had been loved before,More deeply even than ever: but a swarmOf heady schemes jostling each other, gawds,And feast and dance, and public revelry,And sports and games (too grateful in themselves,Yet in themselves less grateful, I believe,Than as they were a badge glossy and freshOf manliness and freedom) all conspiredTo lure my mind from firm habitual questOf feeding pleasures, to depress the zealAnd damp those yearnings which had once been mine--A wild, unworldly-minded youth, given upTo his own eager thoughts. It would demandSome skill, and longer time than may be spared,To paint these vanities, and how they wroughtIn haunts where they, till now, had been unknown.It seemed the very garments that I worePreyed on my strength, and stopped the quiet streamOf self-forgetfulness.Yes, that heartless chaseOf trivial pleasures was a poor exchangeFor books and nature at that early age.'Tis true, some casual knowledge might be gainedOf character or life; but at that time,Of manners put to school I took small note,And all my deeper passions lay elsewhere.Far better had it been to exalt the mindBy solitary study, to upholdIntense desire through meditative peace;And yet, for chastisement of these regrets,The memory of one particular hourDoth here rise up against me. 'Mid a throngOf maids and youths, old men, and matrons staid,A medley of all tempers, I had passedThe 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 thereSlight shocks of young love-liking interspersed,Whose transient pleasure mounted to the head,And tingled through the veins. Ere we retired,The cock had crowed, and now the eastern skyWas kindling, not unseen, from humble copseAnd open field, through which the pathway wound,And homeward led my steps. MagnificentThe morning rose, in memorable pomp,Glorious as e'er I had beheld--in front,The sea lay laughing at a distance; near,The solid mountains shone, bright as the clouds,Grain-tinctured, drenched in empyrean light;And in the meadows and the lower groundsWas all the sweetness of a common dawn--330Dews, vapours, and the melody of birds,And labourers going forth to till the fields.Ah! need I say, dear Friend! that to the brimMy heart was full; I made no vows, but vowsWere then made for me; bond unknown to meWas given, that I should be, else sinning greatly,A dedicated Spirit. On I walkedIn thankful blessedness, which yet survives.

Strange rendezvous! My mind was at that timeA parti-coloured show of grave and gay,Solid and light, short-sighted and profound;Of inconsiderate habits and sedate,Consorting in one mansion unreproved.The worth I knew of powers that I possessed,Though slighted and too oft misused. Besides,That summer, swarming as it did with thoughtsTransient and idle, lacked not intervalsWhen Folly from the frown of fleeting TimeShrunk, and the mind experienced in herselfConformity as just as that of oldTo the end and written spirit of God's works,Whether held forth in Nature or in Man,Through pregnant vision, separate or conjoined.

When from our better selves we have too longBeen parted by the hurrying world, and droop,Sick of its business, of its pleasures tired,How gracious, how benign, is Solitude;How potent a mere image of her sway;Most potent when impressed upon the mindWith an appropriate human centre--hermit,Deep in the bosom of the wilderness;Votary (in vast cathedral, where no footIs treading, where no other face is seen)Kneeling at prayers; or watchman on the topOf lighthouse, beaten by Atlantic waves;Or as the soul of that great Power is metSometimes embodied on a public road,When, for the night deserted, it assumesA character of quiet more profoundThan pathless wastes.Once, when those summer monthsWere flown, and autumn brought its annual showOf oars with oars contending, sails with sails,Upon Winander's spacious breast, it chancedThat--after I had left a flower-decked room(Whose in-door pastime, lighted up, survivedTo a late hour), and spirits overwroughtWere making night do penance for a daySpent in a round of strenuous idleness--My homeward course led up a long ascent,Where the road's watery surface, to the topOf that sharp rising, glittered to the moonAnd bore the semblance of another streamStealing with silent lapse to join the brookThat murmured in the vale. All else was still;No living thing appeared in earth or air,And, save the flowing water's peaceful voice,Sound there was none--but, lo! an uncouth shape,Shown by a sudden turning of the road,So near that, slipping back into the shadeOf a thick hawthorn, I could mark him well,Myself unseen. He was of stature tall,A span above man's common measure, tall,Stiff, lank, and upright; a more meagre manWas never seen before by night or day.Long were his arms, pallid his hands; his mouthLooked ghastly in the moonlight: from behind,A mile-stone propped him; I could also kenThat he was clothed in military garb,Though faded, yet entire. Companionless,No dog attending, by no staff sustained,He stood, and in his very dress appearedA desolation, a simplicity,To which the trappings of a gaudy worldMake a strange back-ground. From his lips, ere long,Issued low muttered sounds, as if of painOr some uneasy thought; yet still his formKept the same awful steadiness--at his feetHis shadow lay, and moved not. From self-blameNot wholly free, I watched him thus; at lengthSubduing my heart's specious cowardice,I left the shady nook where I had stoodAnd hailed him. Slowly from his resting-placeHe rose, and with a lean and wasted armIn measured gesture lifted to his headReturned my salutation; then resumedHis station as before; and when I askedHis history, the veteran, in reply,Was neither slow nor eager; but, unmoved,And with a quiet uncomplaining voice,A stately air of mild indifference,He told in few plain words a soldier's tale--That in the Tropic Islands he had served,Whence he had landed scarcely three weeks past:That on his landing he had been dismissed,And now was travelling towards his native home.This heard, I said, in pity, "Come with me."He stooped, and straightway from the ground took upAn oaken staff by me yet unobserved--A staff which must have dropt from his slack handAnd lay till now neglected in the grass.Though weak his step and cautious, he appearedTo travel without pain, and I beheld,With an astonishment but ill suppressed,His ghostly figure moving at my side;Nor could I, while we journeyed thus, forbearTo turn from present hardships to the past,And speak of war, battle, and pestilence,Sprinkling this talk with questions, better spared,On what he might himself have seen or felt.He all the while was in demeanour calm,Concise in answer; solemn and sublimeHe might have seemed, but that in all he saidThere was a strange half-absence, as of oneKnowing too well the importance of his theme,But feeling it no longer. Our discourseSoon ended, and together on we passedIn silence through a wood gloomy and still.Up-turning, then, along an open field,We reached a cottage. At the door I knocked,And earnestly to charitable careCommended him as a poor friendless man,Belated and by sickness overcome.Assured that now the traveller would reposeIn comfort, I entreated that henceforthHe would not linger in the public ways,But ask for timely furtherance and helpSuch 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,And in the eye of him who passes me!"

The cottage door was speedily unbarred,And now the soldier touched his hat once moreWith his lean hand, and in a faltering voice,Whose tone bespake reviving interestsTill then unfelt, he thanked me; I returnedThe farewell blessing of the patient 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.'Beloved Vale!' I said, 'when I shall conBy doubts and thousand petty fancies crost.'

There can be little doubt that it is to the "famous brook" of 'ThePrelude' that reference is made in the later sonnet, and still moresignificantly in the earlier poem 'The Fountain', vol. ii. p. 91.Coleridge's copy of the Poems:

'Down to the vale with eager speedBehold this streamlet run,From subterranean bondage freed,And glittering in the sun.'

'The famous brook, who, soon as he was boxedWithin our garden, found himself at once,Stripped of his voice and left to dimple down, etc.'