AND now 't is mine, perchance for life, dear Vale, Beloved Grasmere, (let the wandering streams Take up, the cloud-capped hills repeat, the Name) One of thy lowly dwellings is my home.
On Nature's invitation do I come,
By reason sanctioned. Can the choice mislead, That made the calmest, fairest spot of earth With all its unappropriated good
My own; and not mine only, for with me Entrenched, say rather peacefully embowered, Under yon orchard, in yon humble cot, A younger Orphan of a home extinct, The only Daughter of my Parents dwells.
Ay, think on that, my heart, and cease to stir, Pause upon that and let the breathing frame
No longer breathe, but all be satisfied.
Oh, if such silence be not thanks to God
For what hath been bestowed, then where, where then Shall gratitude find rest? Mine eyes did ne'er Fix on a lovely object, nor my mind
Take pleasure in the midst of happy thoughts, But either She whom now I have, who now Divides with me this loved abode, was there Or not far off. Where'er my footsteps turned,
Her voice was like a hidden Bird that sang. The thought of her was like a flash of light, Or an unseen companionship, a breath Of fragrance independent of the Wind. In all my goings, in the new and old Of all my meditations, and in this Favourite of all, in this the most of all.
-What being, therefore, since the birth of Man Had ever more abundant cause to speak Thanks, and if favours of the Heavenly Muse Make him more thankful, then to call on Verse To aid him and in song resound his joy? The boon is absolute; surpassing grace
To me hath been vouchsafed; among the bowers Of blissful Eden this was neither given
Nor could be given, possession of the good Which had been sighed for, ancient thought fulfilled, And dear Imaginations realised,
Up to their highest measure, yea and more.1 Embrace me then, ye Hills, and close me in; Now in the clear and open day I feel Your guardianship; I take it to my heart; "Tis like the solemn shelter of the night. But I would call thee beautiful, for mild, And soft and gay, and beautiful thou art, Dear Valley, having in thy face a smile,
Though peaceful, full of gladness. Thou art pleased,
1 "Not Laura with Petrarch, not Beatrice with Dante are more really connected than Wordsworth with his sister Dorothy."-PAXTON HOOD.
Pleased with thy crags and woody steeps, thy Lake, Its one green island and its winding shores; The multitude of little rocky hills,
Thy Church and cottages of mountain stone Clustered like stars some few, but single most, And lurking dimly in their shy retreats, Or glancing at each other cheerful looks Like separated stars with clouds between. What want we? have we not perpetual streams, Warm woods, and sunny hills, and fresh green fields, And mountains not less green, and flocks and herds, And thickets full of songsters, and the voice Of lordly birds, an unexpected sound
Heard now and then from morn to latest eve, Admonishing the man who walks below Of solitude and silence in the sky?
These have we, and a thousand nooks of earth Have also these, but nowhere else is found, Nowhere (or is it fancy ?) can be found The one sensation that is here; 't is here, Here as it found its way into my heart In childhood, here as it abides by day, By night, here only; or in chosen minds That take it with them hence, where'er they go. "T is, but I cannot name it, 't is the sense Of majesty, and beauty, and repose, A blended holiness of earth and sky, Something that makes this individual spot, This small abiding-place of many men,
A termination, and a last retreat,
A centre, come from wheresoe'er you will, A whole without dependence or defect, Made for itself, and happy in itself, Perfect contentment, Unity entire.
Bleak season was it, turbulent and bleak, When hitherward we journeyed side by side
Through burst of sunshine and through flying showers Paced the long vales - how long they were- and yet How fast that length of way was left behind, Wensley's rich Vale, and Sedbergh's naked heights. The frosty wind, as if to make amends
For its keen breath, was aiding to our steps, And drove us onward like two ships at sea, Or like two birds, companions in mid-air, Parted and reunited by the blast.1
Stern was the face of nature; we rejoiced In that stern countenance, for our souls thence drew A feeling of their strength. The naked trees, The icy brooks, as on we passed, appeared
To question us. "Whence come ye, to what end?” They seemed to say. "What would ye," said the shower, "Wild Wanderers, whither through my dark domain ?” The sunbeam said, "Be happy." When this vale We entered, bright and solemn was the sky That faced us with a passionate welcoming, And led us to our threshold. Daylight failed Insensibly, and round us gently fell Composing darkness, with a quiet load
1 A prose description of the journey is given in the letter following,
"Dear Valley, having in thy face a smile
Pleased with thy crags and woody steeps, thy Lake, Its one green island and its winding shores."
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