William Wordsworth

To The Same

John Dyer

ENOUGH of climbing toil!--Ambition treads Here, as 'mid busier scenes, ground steep and rough, Or slippery even to peril! and each step, As we for most uncertain recompence Mount toward the empire of the fickle clouds, Each weary step, dwarfing the world below, Induces, for its old familiar sights, Unacceptable feelings of contempt, With wonder mixed--that Man could e'er be tied, In anxious bondage, to such nice array And formal fellowship of petty things! --Oh! 'tis the 'heart' that magnifies this life, Making a truth and beauty of her own; And moss-grown alleys, circumscribing shades, And gurgling rills, assist her in the work More efficaciously than realms outspread, As in a map, before the adventurer's gaze-- Ocean and Earth contending for regard. The umbrageous woods are left--how far beneath! But lo! where darkness seems to guard the mouth Of yon wild cave, whose jagged brows are fringed With flaccid threads of ivy, in the still And sultry air, depending motionless. Yet cool the space within, and not uncheered (As whoso enters shall ere long perceive) By stealthy influx of the timid day Mingling with night, such twilight to compose As Numa loved; when, in the Egerian grot, From the sage Nymph appearing at his wish, He gained whate'er a regal mind might ask, Or need, of counsel breathed through lips divine. Long as the heat shall rage, let that dim cave Protect us, there deciphering as we may Diluvian records; or the sighs of Earth Interpreting; or counting for old Time His minutes, by reiterated drops, Audible tears, from some invisible source That deepens upon fancy--more and more Drawn toward the centre whence those sighs creep forth To awe the lightness of humanity: Or, shutting up thyself within thyself, There let me see thee sink into a mood Of gentler thought, protracted till thine eye Be calm as water when the winds are gone, And no one can tell whither. Dearest Friend! We two have known such happy hours together That, were power granted to replace them (fetched From out the pensive shadows where they lie) In the first warmth of their original sunshine, Loth should I be to use it: passing sweet Are the domains of tender memory!

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