COMPANION! by whose buoyant spirit cheered,
In whose experience trusting, day by day
Treasures I gained with zeal that neither feared
The toils nor felt the crosses of the way,
These records take, and happy should I be
Were but the gift a meet return to thee
For kindnesses that never ceased to flow,
And prompt self-sacrifice to which I owe
Far more than any heart but mine can know.
W. WORDSWORTH.
RYDAL MOUNT, Feb. 14th, 1842.
The tour of which the following poems are very inadequate remembrances was shortened by report, too well founded, of the prevalence of cholera at Naples. To make some amends for what was reluctantly left unseen in the South of Italy, we visited the Tuscan Sanctuaries among the Apennines, and the principal Italian Lakes among the Alps. Neither of those lakes, nor of Venice, is there any notice in these poems, chiefly because I have touched upon them elsewhere. See, in particular, "Descriptive Sketches," Memorials of a Tour on the Continent in 1820," and a sonnet upon the extinction of the Venetian Republic,
MUSINGS NEAR AQUAPENDENTE
YE Apennines! with all your fertile vales
Deeply embosomed, and your winding shores
Of either sea, an islander by birth,
A mountaineer by habit, would resound
Your praise, in meet accordance with your claims
Bestowed by Nature, or from man's great deeds
Inherited. Presumptuous thought! it fled
Like vapour, like a towering cloud dissolved.
Not, therefore, shall my mind give way to sadness;
Yon snow-white torrent-fall, plumb down it drops,
Yet ever hangs, or seems to hang, in air;
Lulling the leisure of that high-perched town,
AQUAPENDENTE, in her lofty site
Its neighbour and its namesake; town, and flood
Forth flashing out of its own gloomy chasm
Bright sunbeams, the fresh verdure of this lawn
Strewn with grey rocks, and on the horizon's verge,
O'er intervenient waste, through glimmering haze,
Unquestionably kenned, that cone-shaped hill
With fractured summit, no indifferent sight
To travellers, from such comforts as are thine,
Bleak Radicofani! escaped with joy,
These are before me; and the varied scene
May well suffice, till noon-tide's sultry heat
Relax, to fix and satisfy the mind
Passive yet pleased. What! with this broom in flower
Close at my side! She bids me fly to greet
Her sisters, soon like her to be attired
With golden blossoms opening at the feet
Of my own Fairfield. The glad greeting given,
Given with a voice and by a look returned
Of old companionship, time counts not minutes
Ere, from accustomed paths, familiar fields,
The local genius hurries me aloft,
Transported over that cloud-wooing hill,
Seat-Sandal, a fond suitor of the clouds,
With dream-like smoothness, to Helvellyn's top,
There to alight upon crisp moss and range,
Obtaining ampler boon, at every step,
Of visual sovereignty, hills multitudinous,
(Not Apennine can boast of fairer), hills
Pride of two nations, wood and lake and plains,
And prospect right below of deep coves shaped
By skeleton arms, that, from the mountain's trunk
Extended, clasp the winds, with mutual moan
Struggling for liberty, while undismayed
The shepherd struggles with them. Onward thence
And downward by the skirt of Greenside fell,
And by Glenridding-screes, and low Glencoign,
Places forsaken now, though loving still
The muses, as they loved them in the days
Of the old minstrels and the border bards.
But here am I fast bound; and let it pass,
The simple rapture; who that travels far
To feed his mind with watchful eyes could share
Or wish to share it? One there surely was,
"The Wizard of the North," with anxious hope
Brought to this genial climate, when disease
Preyed upon body and mind, yet not the less
Had his sunk eye kindled at those dear words
That spake of bards and minstrels; and his spirit
Had flown with mine to old Helvellyn's brow,
Where once together, in his day of strength,
We stood rejoicing, as if earth were free
From sorrow, like the sky above our heads.
Years followed years, and when, upon the eve
Of his last going from Tweed-side, thought turned,
Or by another's sympathy was led,
To this bright land, hope was for him no friend,
Knowledge no help; imagination shaped
No promise. Still, in more than ear-deep seats,
Survives for me, and cannot but survive
The tone of voice which wedded borrowed words
To sadness not their own, when, with faint smile
Forced by intent to take from speech its edge,
He said, "When I am there, although 'tis fair,
"Twill be another Yarrow." Prophecy
More than fulfilled, as gay Campania's shores
Soon witnessed, and the city of seven hills,
Her sparkling fountains, and her mouldering tombs;
And more than all, that eminence which showed
Her splendours, seen, not felt, the while he stood
A few short steps (painful they were) apart
From Tasso's convent-haven, and retired grave.
Peace to their spirits! why should poesy Yield to the lure of vain regret, and hover In gloom on wings with confidence outspread To move in sunshine? Utter thanks, my soul ! Tempered with awe, and sweetened by compassion For them who in the shades of sorrow dwell, That I, so near the term to human life Appointed by man's common heritage, Frail as the frailest, one withal (if that Deserve a thought) but little known to fameAm free to rove where Nature's loveliest looks, Art's noblest relics, history's rich bequests, Failed to reanimate and but feebly cheered The whole world's darling, free to rove at will
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