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On Revisiting
the Banks of the Wye during a Tour, July 13, 1798
Five years have past; five summers, with the length
Of five long winters! and again I hear
These waters,
rolling from their mountain-springs
With a soft
inland murmur. Once again
Do I behold these steep and
lofty cliffs,
That on a wild secluded scene impress
Thoughts of more deep seclusion; and connect
The
landscape with the quiet of the sky.
The day is come
when I again repose
Here, under this dark sycamore,
and view
These plots of cottage ground, these orchard
tufts,
Which at this season, with their unripe
fruits,
Are clad in one green hue, and lose
themselves
'Mid groves and copses. Once again I see
These hedgerows, hardly hedgerows, little lines
Of
sportive wood run wild; these pastoral farms,
Green
to the very door; and wreaths of smoke
Sent up, in
silence, from among the trees!
With some uncertain
notice, as might seem
Of vagrant dwellers in the
houseless woods,
Or of some Hermit's cave, where by
his fire
The Hermit sits alone.
These
beauteous forms,
Through a long absence, have not
been to me
As is a landscape to a blind man's eye;
But oft, in lonely rooms, and 'mid the din
Of towns
and cities, I have owed to them,
In hours of
weariness, sensations sweet,
Felt in the blood, and
felt along the heart;
And passing even into my purer
mind,
With tranquil restoration: -feelings too
Of
unremembered pleasure; such, perhaps,
As have no
slight or trivial influence
On that best portion
of a good man's life,
His little, nameless,
unremembered, acts
Of kindness and of love. Nor less,
I trust,
To them I may have owed another gift,
Of
aspect more sublime; that blessed mood,
In which the
burthen of the mystery,
In which the heavy and the
weary weight
Of all this unintelligible world,
Is
lightened: -that serene and blessed mood,
In which
the affections gently lead us on -
Until, the breath
of this corporeal frame
And even the motion of our
human blood
Almost suspended, we are laid asleep
In body, and become a living soul;
While with an eye
made quiet by the power
Of harmony, and the deep
power of joy,
We see into the life of things.
If this
Be but a vain belief, yet, oh! how oft -
In darkness and amid the many shapes
Of joyless
daylight; when the fretful stir
Unprofitable, and the
fever of the world,
Have hung upon the beatings of my
heart -
How oft, in spirit, have I turned to thee,
O sylvan Wye! thou wanderer through the woods,
How often has my spirit turned to thee!
And now, with
gleams of half-extinguished though
With many
recognitions dim and faint,
And somewhat of a sad
perplexity,
The picture of the mind revives again:
While here I stand, not only with the sense
Of
present pleasure, but with pleasing thoughts
That in
this moment there is life and food
For future years.
And so I dare to hope,
Though changed, no doubt, from
what I was when first
I came among these hills; when
like a roe
I bounded o'er the mountains, by the sides
Of the deep rivers, and the lonely streams,
Wherever
nature led -more like a man
Flying from something
that he dreads than one
Who sought the thing he
loved. For nature then
(The coarser pleasures of my
boyish days,
And their glad animal movements all gone
by)
To me was all in all. -I cannot paint
What
then I was. The sounding cataract
Haunted me like a
passion; the tall rock,
The mountain, and the deep
and gloomy wood,
Their colours and their forms, were
then to me
An appetite; a feeling and a love,
That
had no need of a remoter charm,
By thought supplied,
nor any interest
Unborrowed from the eye. -That time
is past,
And all its aching joys are now no more,
And all its dizzy raptures. Not for this
Faint I, nor
mourn nor murmur; other gifts
Have followed; for such
loss, I would believe,
Abundant recompense. For I
have learned
To look on nature, not as in the hour
Of thoughtless youth; but hearing oftentimes
The
still, sad music of humanity,
Nor harsh nor grating,
though of ample power
To chasten and subdue. And I
have felt
A presence that disturbs me with the joy
Of elevated thoughts; a sense sublime
Of something
far more deeply interfused,
Whose dwelling is the
light of setting suns,
And the round ocean and the
living air,
And the blue sky, and in the mind of man:
A motion and a spirit, that impels
All thinking
things, all objects of all thought,
And rolls through
all things. Therefore am I still
A lover of the
meadows and the woods,
And mountains; and of all that
we behold
From this green earth; of all the mighty
world
Of eye, and ear -both what they half create,
And what perceive; well pleased to recognise
In
nature and the language of the sense
The anchor of my
purest thoughts, the nurse,
The guide, the guardian
of my heart, and soul
Of all my moral being.
Nor perchance,
If I were not thus taught, should I
the more
Suffer my genial spirits to decay:
For
thou art with me here upon the banks
Of this fair
river; thou my dearest Friend,
My dear, dear Friend;
and in thy voice I catch
The language of my former
heart, and read
My former pleasures in the shooting
lights
Of thy wild eyes. Oh! yet a little while
May I behold in thee what I was once,
My dear, dear
Sister! and this prayer I make,
Knowing that Nature
never did betray
The heart that loved her; 'tis her
privilege,
Through all the years of this our life, to
lead
From joy to joy: for she can so inform
The
mind that is within us, so impress
With quietness and
beauty, and so feed
With lofty thoughts, that neither
evil tongues,
Rash judgments, nor the sneers of
selfish men,
Nor greetings where no kindness is, nor
all
The dreary intercourse of daily life,
Shall
e'er prevail against us, or disturb
Our cheerful
faith, that all which we behold
Is full of blessings.
Therefore let the moon
Shine on thee in thy solitary
walk;
And let the misty mountain winds be free
To
blow against thee; and, in after years,
When these
wild ecstasies shall be matured
Into a sober
pleasure; when thy mind
Shall be a mansion for all
lovely forms,
Thy memory be as a dwelling place
For all sweet sounds and harmonies; oh! then,
If
solitude, or fear, or pain, or grief,
Should be thy
portion, with what healing thoughts
Of tender joy
wilt thou remember me,
And these my exhortations!
Nor, perchance -
If I should be where I no more can
hear
Thy voice, nor catch from thy wild eyes these
gleams
Of past existence -wilt thou then forget
That on the banks of this delightful stream
We stood
together; and that I, so long
A worshipper of Nature,
hither came
Unwearied in that service; rather say
With warmer love -oh! with far deeper zeal
Of holier
love. Nor wilt thou then forget,
That after many
wanderings, many years
Of absence, these steep woods
and lofty cliffs,
And this green pastoral landscape,
were to me
More dear, both for themselves and for thy
sake!
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