The Poetical Works of William Wordsworth — Volume 6 (of 8)

by William Wordsworth

Nor to her was the dance of soft pleasure unknown;

Her banners for festal enjoyment did wave

While the thrill of her fifes thro' the mountains was blown:

Now gads the wild vine o'er the pathless ascent;—

O silence of Nature, how deep is thy sway,

When the whirlwind of human destruction is spent,

Our tumults appeased, and our strifes passed away!

"Wed., Sept. 6.—... Crossed the plain of Colico to Fuentes, a ruined Fort on the summit of a group of Rocks, abruptly rising from the plain, and overlooking the head of the Lake towards Chiavenna; up the nearer and larger valley, whence comes the Adda, a river bearing the same name as that which flows out of the Lake at Lecco; and into the clefts and recesses among the savage Rocks; over the plain; upon the Lake. Wm. had gone on before D. and myself, and had gained the top of this picturesque eminence, by a rough and difficult way. We had determined to be satisfied with what we had seen below, when two civil peasants joined us, and kindly led us by an easy path to Wm. on the summit. He pointed out to us where he had been lost, and separated from Jones; we were enchanted by the mountain scenery. The whole spot excited the deepest interest; and, from the very point where we were, this rocky station, with its ruined fort, church, dwellings, all desolated by those barbarians the French, it was very affecting to see vines—which no doubt had heretofore been carefully supported by trellises upon these terraces—now running wild, and gadding about among the underwood that clothed the banks. Lumps and masses of marble—architectural ravages—strewn about. Apart from the path, and at a considerable distance from the grassy glade where the church had stood, lay the beautiful statue of a Child, in pure white marble. It seemed strange that this had not been removed; yet scarcely less strange than that, among the grass should be left an inscription upon marble, together with richly carved ornaments, expressing that the Fort had been erected by a Spanish Count Fuentes, in the time of Philip the third...." (Mrs. Wordsworth's Journal.)

"Wednesday, 5th September. Cadenabbia.—Bent our course toward Fuentes—and after a wearisome walk through damp and breathless heat (a full league or more) over a perfect level, we reached the foot of the eminence, which from the lake had appeared to be at a small distance, but it seemed to have retreated as we advanced. We had left the high road, and trudged over the swampy plain, through which the road must have been made with great expense and labour, as it is raised considerably all the way. The picturesque ruins of the Castle of Fuentes are at the top of the eminence—wild vines, the bramble and the clematis cling to the bushes; and beautiful flowers grow in the chinks of the rocks, and on every bed of grass. A tempting though rugged ascent—yet (with the towers in sight above our heads, and two-thirds of the labour accomplished) Mary and I (Wm. having gone before to discover the nearest and least difficult way for us) sate down determined not to go a step further. We had a grand prospect; and, being exhausted by the damp heat, were willing for once to leave our final object unattained. However, while seated on the ground, two stout hard-laboured peasants chancing to come close to us on the path, invited us forward, and we could not resist—they led the way—two rough creatures.

"I said to Mary when we were climbing up among the rocks and bushes in that wild and lonely place, 'What, you have no fear of trusting yourself to a pair of Italian Banditti?' I knew not their occupation, but an accurate description of their persons would have fitted a novel-writer with ready-made attendants for a tribe of robbers—good-natured and kind, however they were, nay, even polite in their rustic way as others tutored to city civility. Cultivated vines grew upon the top of the hill; and they took pains to pluck for us the ripest grapes. We now had a complete view up the great vale of the Adda, to which, the road that we had left conducts the Traveller. Below us, on the other side, lay a wide green marshy plain, between the hill of Fuentes and the shores of the lake; which plain, spreading upwards, divides the lake; the upper small reach being called Chiavenna. The path which my Brother had travelled, when bewildered in the night thirty years ago, was traceable through some parts of the forest on the opposite side:—and the very passage through which he had gone down to the shore of the lake—then most dismal with thunder, lightning, and rain. I hardly can conceive a place of more solitary aspect than the lake of Chiavenna: and the whole of the prospect on that direction is characterized by melancholy sublimity. We rejoiced, after our toil, at being favoured with a distinct view of those sublime heights, not, it is true, steeped in celestial hues of sunny glory, yet in communion with clouds, floating or stationary:—scatterings from heaven. The Ruin itself is very interesting, both in the mass and in detail—an inscription is lying on the ground which records that the Castle was built by the Count of Fuentes in the year 1600, and the Chapel about twenty years after by one of his descendants. Some of the gateways are yet standing with their marble pillars, and a considerable part of the walls of the Chapel. A smooth green turf has taken the place of the pavement; and we could see no trace of altar or sacred image, but everywhere something to remind one of former grandeur and of destruction and tumult, while there was, in contrast with the imaginations so excited, a melancholy pleasure in contemplating the wild quietness of the present day. The vines, near the ruin, though ill tended, grow willingly, and rock, turf, and fragments of the stately pile are alike covered or adorned with a variety of flowers, among which the rose-coloured pink was in great beauty. In our descent we found a fair white cherub, uninjured by the explosion which had driven it a great way down the hill. It lay bedded like an infant in its cradle among low green bushes.—W. said to us, 'Could we but carry this pretty Image to our moss summer-house at Rydal Mount!' yet it seemed as if it would have been a pity that any one should remove it from its couch in the wilderness, which may be its own for hundreds of years." (From Dorothy Wordsworth's Journal, vol. ii.)