I play the loiterer:  ’tis enough to note
  That here in dwarf proportions were expressed
  The limbs of the great world; its eager strifes
  Collaterally pourtrayed, as in mock fight, 585
  A tournament of blows, some hardly dealt
  Though short of mortal combat; and whate’er
  Might in this pageant be supposed to hit
  An artless rustic’s notice, this way less,
  More that way, was not wasted upon me—­590
  And yet the spectacle may well demand
  A more substantial name, no mimic show,
  Itself a living part of a live whole,
  A creek in the vast sea; for, all degrees
  And shapes of spurious fame and short-lived praise 595
  Here sate in state, and fed with daily alms
  Retainers won away from solid good;
  And here was Labour, his own bond-slave; Hope,
  That never set the pains against the prize;
  Idleness halting with his weary clog, 600
  And poor misguided Shame, and witless Fear,
  And simple Pleasure foraging for Death;
  Honour misplaced, and Dignity astray;
  Feuds, factions, flatteries, enmity, and guile
  Murmuring submission, and bald government, 605
  (The idol weak as the idolater),
  And Decency and Custom starving Truth,
  And blind Authority beating with his staff
  The child that might have led him; Emptiness
  Followed as of good omen, and meek Worth 610
  Left to herself unheard of and unknown.

    Of these and other kindred notices
  I cannot say what portion is in truth
  The naked recollection of that time,
  And what may rather have been called to life 615
  By after-meditation.  But delight
  That, in an easy temper lulled asleep,
  Is still with Innocence its own reward,
  This was not wanting.  Carelessly I roamed
  As through a wide museum from whose stores 620
  A casual rarity is singled out
  And has its brief perusal, then gives way
  To others, all supplanted in their turn;
  Till ’mid this crowded neighbourhood of things
  That are by nature most unneighbourly, 625
  The head turns round and cannot right itself;
  And though an aching and a barren sense
  Of gay confusion still be uppermost,
  With few wise longings and but little love,
  Yet to the memory something cleaves at last, 630
  Whence profit may be drawn in times to come.

    Thus in submissive idleness, my Friend! 
  The labouring time of autumn, winter, spring,
  Eight months! rolled pleasingly away; the ninth
  Came and returned me to my native hills. 635

* * * * *

FOOTNOTES ON THE TEXT