Samuel Coleridge - The Complete Works of Samuel Taylor Coleridge (Illustrated Edition)

The Vicar from his gloomy house hard by

Came forth to greet me, and when he had ask’d,

”How fares Joanna, that wild-hearted Maid!

And when will she return to us?” he paus’d,

And after short exchange of village news,

He with grave looks demanded, for what cause,

Reviving obsolete Idolatry,

I like a Runic Priest, in characters

Of formidable size, had chisel’d out

Some uncouth name upon the native rock,

Above the Rotha, by the forest side.

— Now, by those dear immunities of heart

Engender’d betwixt malice and true love,

I was not both to be so catechiz’d,

And this was my reply.—”As it befel,

One summer morning we had walk’d abroad

At break of day, Joanna and myself.

—’Twas that delightful season, when the broom,

Full flower’d, and visible on every steep,

Along the copses runs in veins of gold.”

Our pathway led us on to Rotha’s banks,

And when we came in front of that tall rock

Which looks towards the East, I there stopp’d short,

And trac’d the lofty barrier with my eye

From base to summit; such delight I found

To note in shrub and tree, in stone and flower,

That intermixture of delicious hues,

Along so vast a surface, all at once,

In one impression, by connecting force

Of their own beauty, imag’d in the heart.

— When I had gaz’d perhaps two minutes’ space,

Joanna, looking in my eyes, beheld

That ravishment of mine, and laugh’d aloud.

The rock, like something starting from a sleep,

Took up the Lady’s voice, and laugh’d again:

That ancient Woman seated on Helm-crag

Was ready with her cavern; Hammar-Scar,

And the tall Steep of Silver-How sent forth

A noise of laughter; southern Loughrigg heard,

And Fairfield answer’d with a mountain tone:

Helvellyn far into the clear blue sky

Carried the Lady’s voice, — old Skiddaw blew

His speaking trumpet; — back out of the clouds

Of Glaramara southward came the voice;

And Kirkstone toss’d it from his misty head.

Now whether, (said I to our cordial Friend

Who in the hey-day of astonishment

Smil’d in my face) this were in simple truth

A work accomplish’d by the brotherhood

Of ancient mountains, or my ear was touch’d

With dreams and visionary impulses,

Is not for me to tell; but sure I am

That there was a loud uproar in the hills.

And, while we both were listening, to my side

The fair Joanna drew, is if she wish’d

To shelter from some object of her fear.

— And hence, long afterwards, when eighteen moons

Were wasted, as I chanc’d to walk alone

Beneath this rock, at sunrise, on a calm

And silent morning, I sate down, and there,

In memory of affections old and true,

I chissel’d out in those rude characters

Joanna’s name upon the living stone.

And I, and all who dwell by my fireside

Have call’d the lovely rock, Joanna’s Rock.

III.

There is an Eminence, — of these our hills

The last that parleys with the setting sun.

We can behold it from our Orchard seat.

And, when at evening we pursue our walk

Along the public way, this Cliff, so high

Above us, and so distant in its height,

Is visible, and often seems to send

Its own deep quiet to restore our hearts.

The meteors make of it a favorite haunt:

The star of Jove, so beautiful and large

In the mid heav’ns, is never half so fair

As when he shines above it. ‘Tis in truth

The loneliest place we have among the clouds.

And She who dwells with me, whom I have lov’d

With such communion, that no place on earth

Can ever be a solitude to me,

Hath said, this lonesome Peak shall bear my Name.

IV.

A narrow girdle of rough stones and crags,

A rude and natural causeway, interpos’d

Between the water and a winding slope

Of copse and thicket, leaves the eastern shore

Of Grasmere safe in its own privacy.

And there, myself and two beloved Friends,

One calm September morning, ere the mist

Had altogether yielded to the sun,

Saunter’d on this retir’d and difficult way.

— Ill suits the road with one in haste, but we

Play’d with our time; and, as we stroll’d along,

It was our occupation to observe

Such objects as the waves had toss’d ashore,

Feather, or leaf, or weed, or wither’d bough,

Each on the other heap’d along the line

Of the dry wreck. And in our vacant mood,

Not seldom did we stop to watch some tuft

Of dandelion seed or thistle’s beard,

Which, seeming lifeless half, and half impell’d

By some internal feeling, skimm’d along

Close to the surface of the lake that lay

Asleep in a dead calm, ran closely on

Along the dead calm lake, now here, now there,

In all its sportive wanderings all the while

Making report of an invisible breeze

That was its wings, its chariot, and its horse,

Its very playmate, and its moving soul.

— And often, trifling with a privilege

Alike indulg’d to all, we paus’d, one now,

And now the other, to point out, perchance

To pluck, some flower or water-weed, too fair

Either to be divided from the place

On which it grew, or to be left alone

To its own beauty. Many such there are,

Fair ferns and flowers, and chiefly that tall plant

So stately, of the Queen Osmunda nam’d,

Plant lovelier in its own retir’d abode

On Grasmere’s beach, than Naid by the side

Of Grecian brook, or Lady of the Mere

Sole-sitting by the shores of old Romance.

— So fared we that sweet morning: from the fields

Meanwhile, a noise was heard, the busy mirth

Of Reapers, Men and Women, Boys and Girls.

Delighted much to listen to those sounds,

And in the fashion which I have describ’d,

Feeding unthinking fancies, we advanc’d

Along the indented shore; when suddenly,

Through a thin veil of glittering haze, we saw

Before us on a point of jutting land

The tall and upright figure of a Man

Attir’d in peasant’s garb, who stood alone

Angling beside the margin of the lake.

That way we turn’d our steps: nor was it long,

Ere making ready comments on the sight

Which then we saw, with one and the same voice

We all cried out, that he must be indeed

An idle man, who thus could lose a day

Of the mid harvest, when the labourer’s hire

Is ample, and some little might be stor’d

Wherewith to chear him in the winter time.

Thus talking of that Peasant we approach’d

Close to the spot where with his rod and line

He stood alone; whereat he turn’d his head

To greet us — and we saw a man worn down

By sickness, gaunt and lean, with sunken cheeks

And wasted limbs, his legs so long and lean

That for my single self I look’d at them,

Forgetful of the body they sustain’d. —

Too weak to labour in the harvest field,

The man was using his best skill to gain

A pittance from the dead unfeeling lake

That knew not of his wants. I will not say

What thoughts immediately were ours, nor how

The happy idleness of that sweet morn,

With all its lovely images, was chang’d

To serious musing and to self-reproach.

Nor did we fail to see within ourselves

What need there is to be reserv’d in speech,

And temper all our thoughts with charity.

— Therefore, unwilling to forget that day,

My Friend, Myself, and She who then receiv’d

The same admonishment, have call’d the plate