So pilgrims, bound for Mecca, prayed At burning noon; so warriors said, Scarfed with the cross, who watched the miles Of dust which wreathed their struggling files Down Lydian mountains; so, when snows Round Alpine summits, eddying, rose, The Goth, bound Rome-wards; so the Hun, Crouched on his saddle, while the sun Went lurid down o’er flooded plains Through which the groaning Danube strains To the drear Euxine: so pray all, Whom labors, self-ordained, inthrall; Because they to themselves propose On this side the all-common close A goal which, gained, may give repose. So pray they; and to stand again Where they stood once, to them were pain; Pain to thread back and to renew Past straits, and currents long steered through. But milder natures, and more free,-- Whom an unblamed serenity Hath freed from passions, and the state Of struggle these necessitate; Whom schooling of the stubborn mind Hath made, or birth hath found, resigned,-- These mourn not, that their goings pay Obedience to the passing day. These claim not every laughing hour For handmaid to their striding power; Each in her turn, with torch upreared, To await their march; and when appeared, Through the cold gloom, with measured race, To usher for a destined space (Her own sweet errands all foregone) The too imperious traveller on. These, Fausta, ask not this; nor thou, Time’s chafing prisoner, ask it now! We left just ten years since, you say, That wayside inn we left to-day.[4] Our jovial host, as forth we fare, Shouts greeting from his easy-chair. High on a bank our leader stands, Reviews and ranks his motley bands, Makes clear our goal to every eye,-- The valley’s western boundary. A gate swings to! our tide hath flowed Already from the silent road. The valley-pastures, one by one, Are threaded, quiet in the sun; And now, beyond the rude stone bridge, Slopes gracious up the western ridge. Its woody border, and the last Of its dark upland farms, is past; Cool farms, with open-lying stores, Under their burnished sycamores,-- All past! and through the trees we glide Emerging on the green hillside. There climbing hangs, a far-seen sign, Our wavering, many-colored line; There winds, up-streaming slowly still Over the summit of the hill. And now, in front, behold outspread Those upper regions we must tread,-- Mild hollows, and clear heathy swells, The cheerful silence of the fells.