Book Seventh: Residence in London

Six changeful years have vanished since I firstPoured out (saluted by that quickening breezeWhich met me issuing from the City's walls)A glad preamble to this Verse: I sangAloud, with fervour irresistibleOf short-lived transport, like a torrent bursting,From a black thunder-cloud, down Scafell's sideTo rush and disappear. But soon broke forth(So willed the Muse) a less impetuous stream,That flowed awhile with unabating strength,Then stopped for years; not audible againBefore last primrose-time, Beloved Friend!The assurance which then cheered some heavy thoughtsOn thy departure to a foreign landHas failed; too slowly moves the promised work.Through the whole summer have I been at rest,Partly from voluntary holiday,And part through outward hindrance. But I heard,After the hour of sunset yester-even,Sitting within doors between light and dark,A choir of redbreasts gathered somewhere nearMy threshold,--minstrels from the distant woodsSent in on Winter's service, to announce,With preparation artful and benign,That the rough lord had left the surly NorthOn his accustomed journey. The delight,Due to this timely notice, unawaresSmote me, and, listening, I in whispers said,"Ye heartsome Choristers, ye and I will beAssociates, and, unscared by blustering winds,Will chant together." Thereafter, as the shadesOf twilight deepened, going forth, I spiedA glow-worm underneath a dusky plumeOr canopy of yet unwithered fern,Clear-shining, like a hermit's taper seenThrough a thick forest. Silence touched me hereNo less than sound had done before; the childOf Summer, lingering, shining, by herself,The voiceless worm on the unfrequented hills,Seemed sent on the same errand with the choirOf Winter that had warbled at my door,And the whole year breathed tenderness and love.

The last night's genial feeling overflowedUpon this morning, and my favourite grove,Tossing in sunshine its dark boughs aloft,As if to make the strong wind visible,Wakes in me agitations like its own,A spirit friendly to the Poet's task,Which we will now resume with lively hope,Nor checked by aught of tamer argumentThat lies before us, needful to be told.

Returned from that excursion, soon I badeFarewell for ever to the sheltered seatsOf gownèd students, quitted hall and bower,And every comfort of that privileged ground,Well pleased to pitch a vagrant tent amongThe unfenced regions of society.

Yet, undetermined to what course of lifeI should adhere, and seeming to possessA little space of intermediate timeAt full command, to London first I turned,In no disturbance of excessive hope,By personal ambition unenslaved,Frugal as there was need, and, though self-willed,From dangerous passions free. Three years had flownSince I had felt in heart and soul the shockOf the huge town's first presence, and had pacedHer endless streets, a transient visitant:Now, fixed amid that concourse of mankindWhere Pleasure whirls about incessantly,And life and labour seem but one, I filledAn idler's place; an idler well contentTo have a house (what matter for a home?)That owned him; living cheerfully abroadWith unchecked fancy ever on the stir,And all my young affections out of doors.

There was a time when whatsoe'er is feignedOf airy palaces, and gardens builtBy Genii of romance; or hath in graveAuthentic history been set forth of Rome,Alcairo, Babylon, or Persepolis;Or given upon report by pilgrim friars,Of golden cities ten months' journey deepAmong Tartarian wilds--fell short, far short,Of what my fond simplicity believedAnd thought of London--held me by a chainLess strong of wonder and obscure delight.Whether the bolt of childhood's Fancy shotFor me beyond its ordinary mark,'Twere vain to ask; but in our flock of boysWas One, a cripple from his birth, whom chanceSummoned from school to London; fortunateAnd envied traveller! When the Boy returned,After short absence, curiously I scannedHis mien and person, nor was free, in sooth,From disappointment, not to find some changeIn look and air, from that new region brought,As if from Fairy-land. Much I questioned him;And every word he uttered, on my earsFell flatter than a cagèd parrot's note,That answers unexpectedly awry,And mocks the prompter's listening. Marvellous thingsHad vanity (quick Spirit that appearsAlmost as deeply seated and as strongIn a Child's heart as fear itself) conceivedFor my enjoyment. Would that I could nowRecal what then I pictured to myself,Of mitred Prelates, Lords in ermine clad,The King, and the King's Palace, and, not last,Nor least, Heaven bless him! the renowned Lord Mayor:Dreams not unlike to those which once begatA change of purpose in young Whittington,When he, a friendless and a drooping boy,Sate on a stone, and heard the bells speak outArticulate music. Above all, one thoughtBaffled my understanding: how men livedEven next-door neighbours, as we say, yet stillStrangers, not knowing each the other's name.

O, wond'rous power of words, by simple faithLicensed to take the meaning that we love!Vauxhall and Ranelagh! I then had heardOf your green groves, and wilderness of lampsDimming the stars, and fireworks magical,And gorgeous ladies, under splendid domes,Floating in dance, or warbling high in airThe songs of spirits! Nor had Fancy fedWith less delight upon that other classOf marvels, broad-day wonders permanent:The River proudly bridged; the dizzy topAnd Whispering Gallery of St. Paul's; the tombsOf Westminster; the Giants of Guildhall;Bedlam, and those carved maniacs at the gates,Perpetually recumbent; Statues--man,And the horse under him--in gilded pompAdorning flowery gardens, 'mid vast squares;The Monument, and that Chamber of the TowerWhere England's sovereigns sit in long array,Their steeds bestriding,--every mimic shapeCased in the gleaming mail the monarch wore,Whether for gorgeous tournament addressed,Or life or death upon the battle-field.Those bold imaginations in due timeHad vanished, leaving others in their stead:And now I looked upon the living scene;Familiarly perused it; oftentimes,In spite of strongest disappointment, pleasedThrough courteous self-submission, as a taxPaid to the object by prescriptive right.

Rise up, thou monstrous ant-hill on the plainOf a too busy world! Before me flow,Thou endless stream of men and moving things!Thy every-day appearance, as it strikes--With wonder heightened, or sublimed by awe--On strangers, of all ages; the quick danceOf colours, lights, and forms; the deafening din;The comers and the goers face to face,Face after face; the string of dazzling wares,Shop after shop, with symbols, blazoned names,And all the tradesman's honours overhead:Here, fronts of houses, like a title-page,With letters huge inscribed from top to toe,Stationed above the door, like guardian saints;There, allegoric shapes, female or male,Or physiognomies of real men,Land-warriors, kings, or admirals of the sea,Boyle, Shakespeare, Newton, or the attractive headOf some quack-doctor, famous in his day.

Meanwhile the roar continues, till at length,Escaped as from an enemy, we turnAbruptly into some sequestered nook,Still as a sheltered place when winds blow loud!At leisure, thence, through tracts of thin resort,And sights and sounds that come at intervals,We take our way. A raree-show is here,With children gathered round; another streetPresents a company of dancing dogs,Or dromedary, with an antic pairOf monkeys on his back; a minstrel bandOf Savoyards; or, single and alone,An English ballad-singer. Private courts,Gloomy as coffins, and unsightly lanesThrilled by some female vendor's scream, belikeThe very shrillest of all London cries,May then entangle our impatient steps;Conducted through those labyrinths, unawares,To privileged regions and inviolate,Where from their airy lodges studious lawyersLook out on waters, walks, and gardens green.

Thence back into the throng, until we reach,Following the tide that slackens by degrees,Some half-frequented scene, where wider streetsBring straggling breezes of suburban air.Here files of ballads dangle from dead walls;Advertisements, of giant-size, from highPress forward, in all colours, on the sight;These, bold in conscious merit, lower down;That, fronted with a most imposing word,Is, peradventure, one in masquerade.As on the broadening causeway we advance,Behold, turned upwards, a face hard and strongIn lineaments, and red with over-toil.'Tis one encountered here and everywhere;A travelling cripple, by the trunk cut short,And stumping on his arms. In sailor's garbAnother lies at length, beside a rangeOf well-formed characters, with chalk inscribedUpon the smooth flat stones: the Nurse is here,The Bachelor, that loves to sun himself,The military Idler, and the Dame,That field-ward takes her walk with decent steps.

Now homeward through the thickening hubbub, whereSee, among less distinguishable shapes,The begging scavenger, with hat in hand;The Italian, as he thrids his way with care,Steadying, far-seen, a frame of imagesUpon his head; with basket at his breastThe Jew; the stately and slow-moving Turk,With freight of slippers piled beneath his arm!

Enough;--the mighty concourse I surveyedWith no unthinking mind, well pleased to noteAmong the crowd all specimens of man,Through all the colours which the sun bestows,And every character of form and face:The Swede, the Russian; from the genial south,The Frenchman and the Spaniard; from remoteAmerica, the Hunter-Indian; Moors,Malays, Lascars, the Tartar, the Chinese,And Negro Ladies in white muslin gowns.

At leisure, then, I viewed, from day to day,The spectacles within doors,--birds and beastsOf every nature, and strange plants convenedFrom every clime; and, next, those sights that apeThe absolute presence of reality,Expressing, as in mirror, sea and land,And what earth is, and what she has to shew.I do not here allude to subtlest craft,By means refined attaining purest ends,But imitations, fondly made in plainConfession of man's weakness and his loves.Whether the Painter, whose ambitious skillSubmits to nothing less than taking inA whole horizon's circuit, do with power,Like that of angels or commissioned spirits,Fix us upon some lofty pinnacle,Or in a ship on waters, with a worldOf life, and life-like mockery beneath,Above, behind, far stretching and before;Or more mechanic artist representBy scale exact, in model, wood or clay,From blended colours also borrowing help,Some miniature of famous spots or things,--St. Peter's Church; or, more aspiring aim,In microscopic vision, Rome herself;Or, haply, some choice rural haunt,--the FallsOf Tivoli; and, high upon that steep,The Sibyl's mouldering Temple! every tree,Villa, or cottage, lurking among rocksThroughout the landscape; tuft, stone scratch minute--All that the traveller sees when he is there.

Add to these exhibitions, mute and still,Others of wider scope, where living men,Music, and shifting pantomimic scenes,Diversified the allurement. Need I fearTo mention by its name, as in degree,Lowest of these and humblest in attempt,Yet richly graced with honours of her own,Half-rural Sadler's Wells? Though at that timeIntolerant, as is the way of youthUnless itself be pleased, here more than onceTaking my seat, I saw (nor blush to add,With ample recompense) giants and dwarfs,Clowns, conjurors, posture-masters, harlequins,Amid the uproar of the rabblement,Perform their feats. Nor was it mean delightTo watch crude Nature work in untaught minds;To note the laws and progress of belief;Though obstinate on this way, yet on thatHow willingly we travel, and how far!To have, for instance, brought upon the sceneThe champion, Jack the Giant-killer: Lo!He dons his coat of darkness; on the stageWalks, and achieves his wonders, from the eyeOf living Mortal covert, "as the moonHid in her vacant interlunar cave."Delusion bold! and how can it be wrought?The garb he wears is black as death, the word"Invisible" flames forth upon his chest.

Here, too, were "forms and pressures of the time,"Rough, bold, as Grecian comedy displayedWhen Art was young; dramas of living men,And recent things yet warm with life; a sea-fight,Shipwreck, or some domestic incidentDivulged by Truth and magnified by Fame,Such as the daring brotherhood of lateSet forth, too serious theme for that light place--I mean, O distant Friend! a story drawnFrom our own ground,--the Maid of Buttermere,--And how, unfaithful to a virtuous wifeDeserted and deceived, the spoiler cameAnd wooed the artless daughter of the hills,And wedded her, in cruel mockeryOf love and marriage bonds. These words to theeMust needs bring back the moment when we first,Ere the broad world rang with the maiden's name,Beheld her serving at the cottage inn,Both stricken, as she entered or withdrew,With admiration of her modest mienAnd carriage, marked by unexampled grace.We since that time not unfamiliarlyHave seen her,--her discretion have observed,Her just opinions, delicate reserve,Her patience, and humility of mindUnspoiled by commendation and the excessOf public notice--an offensive lightTo a meek spirit suffering inwardly.

From this memorial tribute to my themeI was returning, when, with sundry formsCommingled--shapes which met me in the wayThat we must tread--thy image rose again,Maiden of Buttermere! She lives in peaceUpon the spot where she was born and reared;Without contamination doth she liveIn quietness, without anxiety:Beside the mountain chapel, sleeps in earthHer new-born infant, fearless as a lambThat, thither driven from some unsheltered place,Rests underneath the little rock-like pileWhen storms are raging. Happy are they both--Mother and child!--These feelings, in themselvesTrite, do yet scarcely seem so when I thinkOn those ingenuous moments of our youthEre we have learnt by use to slight the crimesAnd sorrows of the world. Those simple daysAre now my theme; and, foremost of the scenes,Which yet survive in memory, appearsOne, at whose centre sate a lovely Boy,A sportive infant, who, for six months' space,Not more, had been of age to deal aboutArticulate prattle--Child as beautifulAs ever clung around a mother's neck,Or father fondly gazed upon with pride.There, too, conspicuous for stature tallAnd large dark eyes, beside her infant stoodThe mother; but, upon her cheeks diffused,False tints too well accorded with the glareFrom play-house lustres thrown without reserveOn every object near. The Boy had beenThe pride and pleasure of all lookers-onIn whatsoever place, but seemed in thisA sort of alien scattered from the clouds.Of lusty vigour, more than infantineHe was in limb, in cheek a summer roseJust three parts blown--a cottage-child--if e'er,By cottage-door on breezy mountain side,Or in some sheltering vale, was seen a babeBy Nature's gifts so favoured. Upon a boardDecked with refreshments had this child been placed,His little stage in the vast theatre,And there he sate surrounded with a throngOf chance spectators, chiefly dissolute menAnd shameless women, treated and caressed;Ate, drank, and with the fruit and glasses played,While oaths and laughter and indecent speechWere rife about him as the songs of birdsContending after showers. The mother nowIs fading out of memory, but I seeThe lovely Boy as I beheld him thenAmong the wretched and the falsely gay,Like one of those who walked with hair unsingedAmid the fiery furnace. Charms and spellsMuttered on black and spiteful instigationHave stopped, as some believe, the kindliest growths.Ah, with how different spirit might a prayerHave been preferred, that this fair creature, checkedBy special privilege of Nature's love,Should in his childhood be detained for ever!But with its universal freight the tideHath rolled along, and this bright innocent,Mary! may now have lived till he could lookWith envy on thy nameless babe that sleeps,Beside the mountain chapel, undisturbed.

Four rapid years had scarcely then been toldSince, travelling southward from our pastoral hills,I heard, and for the first time in my life,The voice of woman utter blasphemy--Saw woman as she is, to open shameAbandoned, and the pride of public vice;I shuddered, for a barrier seemed at onceThrown in, that from humanity divorcedHumanity, splitting the race of manIn twain, yet leaving the same outward form.Distress of mind ensued upon the sightAnd ardent meditation. Later yearsBrought to such spectacle a milder sadness.Feelings of pure commiseration, griefFor the individual and the overthrowOf her soul's beauty; farther I was thenBut seldom led, or wished to go; in truthThe sorrow of the passion stopped me there.

But let me now, less moved, in order takeOur argument. Enough is said to showHow casual incidents of real life,Observed where pastime only had been sought,Outweighed, or put to flight, the set eventsAnd measured passions of the stage, albeitBy Siddons trod in the fulness of her power.Yet was the theatre my dear delight;The very gilding, lamps and painted scrolls,And all the mean upholstery of the place,Wanted not animation, when the tideOf pleasure ebbed but to return as fastWith the ever-shifting figures of the scene,Solemn or gay: whether some beauteous dameAdvanced in radiance through a deep recessOf thick entangled forest, like the moonOpening the clouds; or sovereign king, announcedWith flourishing trumpet, came in full-blown stateOf the world's greatness, winding round with trainOf courtiers, banners, and a length of guards;Or captive led in abject weeds, and jinglingHis slender manacles; or romping girlBounced, leapt, and pawed the air; or mumbling sire,A scare-crow pattern of old age dressed upIn all the tatters of infirmityAll loosely put together, hobbled in,Stumping upon a cane with which he smites,From time to time, the solid boards, and makes themPrate somewhat loudly of the whereaboutOf one so overloaded with his years.But what of this! the laugh, the grin, grimace,The antics striving to outstrip each other,Were all received, the least of them not lost,With an unmeasured welcome. Through the night,Between the show, and many-headed massOf the spectators, and each several nookFilled with its fray or brawl, how eagerlyAnd with what flashes, as it were, the mindTurned this way--that way! sportive and alertAnd watchful, as a kitten when at play,While winds are eddying round her, among strawsAnd rustling leaves. Enchanting age and sweet!Romantic almost, looked at through a space,How small, of intervening years! For then,Though surely no mean progress had been madeIn meditations holy and sublime,Yet something of a girlish child-like glossOf novelty survived for scenes like these;Enjoyment haply handed down from timesWhen at a country-playhouse, some rude barnTricked out for that proud use, if I perchanceCaught, on a summer evening through a chinkIn the old wall, an unexpected glimpseOf daylight, the bare thought of where I wasGladdened me more than if I had been ledInto a dazzling cavern of romance,Crowded with Genii busy among worksNot to be looked at by the common sun.

The matter that detains us now may seem,To many, neither dignified enoughNor arduous, yet will not be scorned by them,Who, looking inward, have observed the tiesThat bind the perishable hours of lifeEach to the other, and the curious propsBy which the world of memory and thoughtExists and is sustained. More lofty themes,Such as at least do wear a prouder face,Solicit our regard; but when I thinkOf these, I feel the imaginative powerLanguish within me; even then it slept,When, pressed by tragic sufferings, the heartWas more than full; amid my sobs and tearsIt slept, even in the pregnant season of youth.For though I was most passionately movedAnd yielded to all changes of the sceneWith an obsequious promptness, yet the stormPassed not beyond the suburbs of the mind;Save when realities of act and mien,The incarnation of the spirits that moveIn harmony amid the Poet's world,Rose to ideal grandeur, or, called forthBy power of contrast, made me recognise,As at a glance, the things which I had shaped,And yet not shaped, had seen and scarcely seen,When, having closed the mighty Shakespeare's page,I mused, and thought, and felt, in solitude.

Pass we from entertainments, that are suchProfessedly, to others titled higher,Yet, in the estimate of youth at least,More near akin to those than names imply,--I mean the brawls of lawyers in their courtsBefore the ermined judge, or that great stageWhere senators, tongue-favoured men, perform,Admired and envied. Oh! the beating heart,When one among the prime of these rose up,--One, of whose name from childhood we had heardFamiliarly, a household term, like those,The Bedfords, Glosters, Salsburys, of oldWhom the fifth Harry talks of. Silence! hush!This is no trifler, no short-flighted wit,No stammerer of a minute, painfullyDelivered. No! the Orator hath yokedThe Hours, like young Aurora, to his car:Thrice welcome Presence! how can patience e'erGrow weary of attending on a trackThat kindles with such glory! All are charmed,Astonished; like a hero in romance,He winds away his never-ending horn;Words follow words, sense seems to follow sense:What memory and what logic! till the strainTranscendent, superhuman as it seemed,Grows tedious even in a young man's ear.

Genius of Burke! forgive the pen seducedBy specious wonders, and too slow to tellOf what the ingenuous, what bewildered men,Beginning to mistrust their boastful guides,And wise men, willing to grow wiser, caught,Rapt auditors! from thy most eloquent tongue--Now mute, for ever mute in the cold grave.I see him,--old, but Vigorous in age,--Stand like an oak whose stag-horn branches startOut of its leafy brow, the more to aweThe younger brethren of the grove. But some--While he forewarns, denounces, launches forth,Against all systems built on abstract rights,Keen ridicule; the majesty proclaimsOf Institutes and Laws, hallowed by time;Declares the vital power of social tiesEndeared by Custom; and with high disdain,Exploding upstart Theory, insistsUpon the allegiance to which men are born--Some--say at once a froward multitude--Murmur (for truth is hated, where not loved)As the winds fret within the Æolian cave,Galled by their monarch's chain. The times were bigWith ominous change, which, night by night, provokedKeen struggles, and black clouds of passion raised;But memorable moments intervened,When Wisdom, like the Goddess from Jove's brain,Broke forth in armour of resplendent words,Startling the Synod. Could a youth, and oneIn ancient story versed, whose breast had heavedUnder the weight of classic eloquence,Sit, see, and hear, unthankful, uninspired?

Nor did the Pulpit's oratory failTo achieve its higher triumph. Not unfeltWere its admonishments, nor lightly heardThe awful truths delivered thence by tonguesEndowed with various power to search the soul;Yet ostentation, domineering, oftPoured forth harangues, how sadly out of place!--There have I seen a comely bachelor,Fresh from a toilette of two hours, ascendHis rostrum, with seraphic glance look up,And, in a tone elaborately lowBeginning, lead his voice through many a mazeA minuet course; and, winding up his mouth,From time to time, into an orificeMost delicate, a lurking eyelet, small,And only not invisible, againOpen it out, diffusing thence a smileOf rapt irradiation, exquisite.Meanwhile the Evangelists, Isaiah, Job,Moses, and he who penned, the other day,The Death of Abel, Shakespeare, and the BardWhose genius spangled o'er a gloomy themeWith fancies thick as his inspiring stars, aAnd Ossian (doubt not, 'tis the naked truth)Summoned from streamy Morven b--each and allWould, in their turns, lend ornaments and flowersTo entwine the crook of eloquence that helpedThis pretty Shepherd, pride of all the plains,To rule and guide his captivated flock.

I glance but at a few conspicuous marks,Leaving a thousand others, that, in hall,Court, theatre, conventicle, or shop,In public room or private, park or street,Each fondly reared on his own pedestal,Looked out for admiration. Folly, vice,Extravagance in gesture, mien, and dress,And all the strife of singularity,Lies to the ear, and lies to every sense--Of these, and of the living shapes they wear,There is no end. Such candidates for regard,Although well pleased to be where they were found,I did not hunt after, nor greatly prize,Nor made unto myself a secret boastOf reading them with quick and curious eye;But, as a common produce, things that areTo-day, to-morrow will be, took of themSuch willing note, as, on some errand boundThat asks not speed, a Traveller might bestowOn sea-shells that bestrew the sandy beach,Or daisies swarming through the fields of June.

But foolishness and madness in parade,Though most at home in this their dear domain,Are scattered everywhere, no rarities,Even to the rudest novice of the Schools.Me, rather, it employed, to note, and keepIn memory, those individual sightsOf courage, or integrity, or truth,Or tenderness, which there, set off by foil,Appeared more touching. One will I select;A Father--for he bore that sacred name--Him saw I, sitting in an open square,Upon a corner-stone of that low wall,Wherein were fixed the iron pales that fencedA spacious grass-plot; there, in silence, sateThis One Man, with a sickly babe outstretchedUpon his knee, whom he had thither broughtFor sunshine, and to breathe the fresher air.Of those who passed, and me who looked at him,He took no heed; but in his brawny arms(The Artificer was to the elbow bare,And from his work this moment had been stolen)He held the child, and, bending over it,As if he were afraid both of the sunAnd of the air, which he had come to seek,Eyed the poor babe with love unutterable.

As the black storm upon the mountain topSets off the sunbeam in the valley, soThat huge fermenting mass of human-kindServes as a solemn back-ground, or relief,To single forms and objects, whence they draw,For feeling and contemplative regard,More than inherent liveliness and power.How oft, amid those overflowing streets,Have I gone forward with the crowd, and saidUnto myself, "The face of every oneThat passes by me is a mystery!"Thus have I looked, nor ceased to look, oppressedBy thoughts of what and whither, when and how,Until the shapes before my eyes becameA second-sight procession, such as glidesOver still mountains, or appears in dreams;And once, far-travelled in such mood, beyondThe reach of common indication, lostAmid the moving pageant, I was smittenAbruptly, with the view (a sight not rare)Of a blind Beggar, who, with upright face,Stood, propped against a wall, upon his chestWearing a written paper, to explainHis story, whence he came, and who he was.Caught by the spectacle my mind turned roundAs with the might of waters; an apt typeThis label seemed of the utmost we can know,Both of ourselves and of the universe;And, on the shape of that unmoving man,His steadfast face and sightless eyes, I gazed,As if admonished from another world.

Though reared upon the base of outward things,Structures like these the excited spirit mainlyBuilds for herself; scenes different there are,Full-formed, that take, with small internal help,Possession of the faculties,--the peaceThat comes with night; the deep solemnityOf nature's intermediate hours of rest,When the great tide of human life stands still;The business of the day to come, unborn,Of that gone by, locked up, as in the grave;The blended calmness of the heavens and earth,Moonlight and stars, and empty streets, and soundsUnfrequent as in deserts; at late hoursOf winter evenings, when unwholesome rainsAre falling hard, with people yet astir,The feeble salutation from the voiceOf some unhappy woman, now and thenHeard as we pass, when no one looks about,Nothing is listened to. But these, I fear,Are falsely catalogued; things that are, are not,As the mind answers to them, or the heartIs prompt, or slow, to feel. What say you, then,To times, when half the city shall break outFull of one passion, vengeance, rage, or fear?To executions, to a street on fire,Mobs, riots, or rejoicings? From these sightsTake one,--that ancient festival, the Fair,Holden where martyrs suffered in past time,And named of St. Bartholomew; c there, seeA work completed to our hands, that lays,If any spectacle on earth can do,The whole creative powers of man asleep!--For once, the Muse's help will we implore,And she shall lodge us, wafted on her wings,Above the press and danger of the crowd,Upon some showman's platform. What a shockFor eyes and ears! what anarchy and din,Barbarian and infernal,--a phantasma,Monstrous in colour, motion, shape, sight, sound!Below, the open space, through every nookOf the wide area, twinkles, is aliveWith heads; the midway region, and above,Is thronged with staring pictures and huge scrolls,Dumb proclamations of the Prodigies;With chattering monkeys dangling from their poles,And children whirling in their roundabouts;With those that stretch the neck and strain the eyes,And crack the voice in rivalship, the crowdInviting; with buffoons against buffoonsGrimacing, writhing, screaming,--him who grindsThe hurdy-gurdy, at the fiddle weaves,Rattles the salt-box, thumps the kettle-drum,And him who at the trumpet puffs his cheeks,The silver-collared Negro with his timbrel,Equestrians, tumblers, women, girls, and boys,Blue-breeched, pink-vested, with high-towering plumes.--All moveables of wonder, from all parts,Are here--Albinos, painted Indians, Dwarfs,The Horse of knowledge, and the learned Pig,The Stone-eater, the man that swallows fire,Giants, Ventriloquists, the Invisible Girl,The Bust that speaks and moves its goggling eyes,The Wax-work, Clock-work, all the marvellous craftOf modern Merlins, Wild Beasts, Puppet-shows,All out-o'-the-way, far-fetched, perverted things,All freaks of nature, all Promethean thoughtsOf man, his dullness, madness, and their featsAll jumbled up together, to composeA Parliament of Monsters. Tents and BoothsMeanwhile, as if the whole were one vast mill,Are vomiting, receiving on all sides,Men, Women, three-years' Children, Babes in arms.

Oh, blank confusion! true epitomeOf what the mighty City is herself,To thousands upon thousands of her sons,Living amid the same perpetual whirlOf trivial objects, melted and reducedTo one identity, by differencesThat have no law, no meaning, and no end--Oppression, under which even highest mindsMust labour, whence the strongest are not free. dBut though the picture weary out the eye,By nature an unmanageable sight,It is not wholly so to him who looksIn steadiness, who hath among least thingsAn under-sense of greatest; sees the partsAs parts, but with a feeling of the whole.This, of all acquisitions, first awaitsOn sundry and most widely different modesOf education, nor with least delightOn that through which I passed. Attention springs,And comprehensiveness and memory flow,From early converse with the works of GodAmong all regions; chiefly where appearMost obviously simplicity and power.Think, how the everlasting streams and woods,Stretched and still stretching far and wide, exaltThe roving Indian, on his desert sands:What grandeur not unfelt, what pregnant showOf beauty, meets the sun-burnt Arab's eye:And, as the sea propels, from zone to zone,Its currents; magnifies its shoals of lifeBeyond all compass; spreads, and sends aloftArmies of clouds,--even so, its powers and aspectsShape for mankind, by principles as fixed,The views and aspirations of the soulTo majesty. Like virtue have the formsPerennial of the ancient hills; nor lessThe changeful language of their countenancesQuickens the slumbering mind, and aids the thoughts,However multitudinous, to moveWith order and relation. This, if still,As hitherto, in freedom I may speak,Not violating any just restraint,As may be hoped, of real modesty,--This did I feel, in London's vast domain.The Spirit of Nature was upon me there;The soul of Beauty and enduring LifeVouchsafed her inspiration, and diffused,Through meagre lines and colours, and the pressOf self-destroying, transitory things,Composure, and ennobling Harmony.