I
THERE
was a time when meadow, grove, and stream,
The
earth, and every common sight,
To
me did seem
Apparelled
in celestial light,
The
glory and the freshness of a dream.
It
is not now as it hath been of yore;--
Turn
wheresoe'er I may,
By
night or day,
The
things which I have seen I now can see no more.
II
The
Rainbow comes and goes,
And
lovely is the Rose,
The
Moon doth with delight
Look
round her when the heavens are bare,
Waters
on a starry night
Are
beautiful and fair;
The
sunshine is a glorious birth;
But
yet I know, where'er I go,
That
there hath past away a glory from the earth.
III
Now,
while the birds thus sing a joyous song,
And
while the young lambs bound
As
to the tabor's sound,
To
me alone there came a thought of grief:
A
timely utterance gave that thought relief,
And
I again am strong:
The
cataracts blow their trumpets from the steep;
No
more shall grief of mine the season wrong;
I
hear the Echoes through the mountains throng,
The
Winds come to me from the fields of sleep,
And
all the earth is gay;
Land
and sea
Give
themselves up to jollity,
And
with the heart of May
Doth
every Beast keep holiday;--
Thou
Child of Joy,
Shout
round me, let me hear thy shouts, thou happy
Shepherd-boy!
IV
Ye
blessed Creatures, I have heard the call
Ye
to each other make; I see
The
heavens laugh with you in your jubilee;
My
heart is at your festival,
My
head hath its coronal,
The
fulness of your bliss, I feel--I feel it all.
Oh
evil day! if I were sullen
While
Earth herself is adorning,
This
sweet May-morning,
And
the Children are culling
On
every side,
In
a thousand valleys far and wide,
Fresh
flowers; while the sun shines warm,
And
the Babe leaps up on his Mother's arm:--
I
hear, I hear, with joy I hear!
--But
there's a Tree, of many, one,
A
single Field which I have looked upon,
Both
of them speak of something that is gone:
The
Pansy at my feet
Doth
the same tale repeat:
Whither
is fled the visionary gleam?
Where
is it now, the glory and the dream?
V
Our
birth is but a sleep and a forgetting:
The
Soul that rises with us, our life's Star,
Hath
had elsewhere its setting,
And
cometh from afar:
Not
in entire forgetfulness,
And
not in utter nakedness,
But
trailing clouds of glory do we come
From
God, who is our home:
Heaven
lies about us in our infancy!
Shades
of the prison-house begin to close
Upon
the growing Boy,
But
He beholds the light, and whence it flows,
He
sees it in his joy;
The
Youth, who daily farther from the east
Must
travel, still is Nature's Priest,
And
by the vision splendid
Is
on his way attended;
At
length the Man perceives it die away,
And
fade into the light of common day.
VI
Earth
fills her lap with pleasures of her own;
Yearnings
she hath in her own natural kind,
And,
even with something of a Mother's mind,
And
no unworthy aim,
The
homely Nurse doth all she can
To
make her Foster-child, her Inmate Man,
Forget
the glories he hath known,
And
that imperial palace whence he came.
VII
Behold
the Child among his new-born blisses,
A
six years' Darling of a pigmy size!
See,
where 'mid work of his own hand he lies,
Fretted
by sallies of his mother's kisses,
With
light upon him from his father's eyes!
See,
at his feet, some little plan or chart,
Some
fragment from his dream of human life,
Shaped
by himself with newly-learned art;
A
wedding or a festival,
A
mourning or a funeral;
And
this hath now his heart,
And
unto this he frames his song:
Then
will he fit his tongue
To
dialogues of business, love, or strife;
But
it will not be long
Ere
this be thrown aside,
And
with new joy and pride
The
little Actor cons another part;
Filling
from time to time his "humorous stage"
With
all the Persons, down to palsied Age,
That
Life brings with her in her equipage;
As
if his whole vocation
Were
endless imitation.
VIII
Thou,
whose exterior semblance doth belie
Thy
Soul's immensity;
Thou
best Philosopher, who yet dost keep
Thy
heritage, thou Eye among the blind,
That,
deaf and silent, read'st the eternal deep,
Haunted
for ever by the eternal mind,--
Mighty
Prophet! Seer blest!
On
whom those truths do rest,
Which
we are toiling all our lives to find,
In
darkness lost, the darkness of the grave;
Thou,
over whom thy Immortality
Broods
like the Day, a Master o'er a Slave,
A
Presence which is not to be put by;
Thou
little Child, yet glorious in the might
Of
heaven-born freedom on thy being's height,
Why
with such earnest pains dost thou provoke
The
years to bring the inevitable yoke,
Thus
blindly with thy blessedness at strife?
Full
soon thy Soul shall have her earthly freight,
And
custom lie upon thee with a weight
Heavy
as frost, and deep almost as life!
IX
O
joy! that in our embers
Is
something that doth live,
That
nature yet remembers
What
was so fugitive!
The
thought of our past years in me doth breed
Perpetual
benediction: not indeed
For
that which is most worthy to be blest--
Delight
and liberty, the simple creed
Of
Childhood, whether busy or at rest,
With
new-fledged hope still fluttering in his breast:--
Not
for these I raise
The
song of thanks and praise;
But
for those obstinate questionings
Of
sense and outward things,
Fallings
from us, vanishings;
Blank
misgivings of a Creature
Moving
about in worlds not realised,
High
instincts before which our mortal Nature
Did
tremble like a guilty Thing surprised:
But
for those first affections,
Those
shadowy recollections,
Which,
be they what they may,
Are
yet the fountain light of all our day,
Are
yet a master light of all our seeing;
Uphold
us, cherish, and have power to make
Our
noisy years seem moments in the being
Of
the eternal Silence: truths that wake,
To
perish never;
Which
neither listlessness, nor mad endeavour,
Nor
Man nor Boy,
Nor
all that is at enmity with joy,
Can
utterly abolish or destroy!
Hence
in a season of calm weather
Though
inland far we be,
Our
Souls have sight of that immortal sea
Which
brought us hither,
Can
in a moment travel thither,
And
see the Children sport upon the shore,
And
hear the mighty waters rolling evermore.
X
Then
sing, ye Birds, sing, sing a joyous song!
And
let the young Lambs bound
As
to the tabor's sound!
We
in thought will join your throng,
Ye
that pipe and ye that play,
Ye
that through your hearts to-day
Feel
the gladness of the May!
What
though the radiance which was once so bright
Be
now for ever taken from my sight,
Though
nothing can bring back the hour
Of
splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower;
We
will grieve not, rather find
Strength
in what remains behind;
In
the primal sympathy
Which
having been must ever be;
In
the soothing thoughts that spring
Out
of human suffering;
In
the faith that looks through death,
In
years that bring the philosophic mind.
XI
And
O, ye Fountains, Meadows, Hills, and Groves,
Forebode
not any severing of our loves!
Yet
in my heart of hearts I feel your might;
I
only have relinquished one delight
To
live beneath your more habitual sway.
I
love the Brooks which down their channels fret,
Even
more than when I tripped lightly as they;
The
innocent brightness of a new-born Day
Is
lovely yet;
The
Clouds that gather round the setting sun
Do
take a sober colouring from an eye
That
hath kept watch o'er man's mortality;
Another
race hath been, and other palms are won.
Thanks
to the human heart by which we live,
Thanks
to its tenderness, its joys, and fears,
To
me the meanest flower that blows can give
Thoughts
that do often lie too deep for tears.
